Julia Golding

Mines of the Minotaur

The front door of Number Five Shaker Row clicked open. A girl in a white nightdress walked steadily down the path, bare feet not flinching from the freezing paving stones. Pushing the gate wide, she crossed the lane to the steps leading to the beach. The tide was in, lapping at the pebbles at the high water mark. The moon hung in the sky like a circle of ice. A gentle breeze lifted long black strands of hair, teasingly wrapping them over her face.
  She flitted down the steps and crunched across the pebbles, ignoring the cut made in her heel by a shard of glass. Moving swiftly, she came to the water’s edge. Sea-foam caressed her toes as waves slapped on shore.
  She paused, absorbing the calm around her.
  Then, raising her arms above her head, the girl opened her mouth, clenched her fists, and gave out a deep, rumbling roar—a sound out of all proportion to her size. It poured from her like the onset of an avalanche, echoing across the sea. The elements were alert to her call. Wave crests formed out in the channel; the wind began to pick up strength; clouds straggled across the moon, blotting its face.
  The girl’s white nightdress now flapped against her legs. Her hair twisted and writhed in the spray whipped from the sea. A lid lifted off the rubbish bin of Number Four and rolled down the street on its rim in a crazy wobble. A door banged.
  Opening her fists, pointing her fingers at the sky, the girl called down the storm’s power. A forked lightning bolt leapt from a cloud to touch the tip of her index finger, illuminating her in a halo of crackling white light. A deafening boom of thunder rolled across the skies. Rain fell in torrents, plastering the girl’s hair against her scalp. Waves crashed about her knees, trying to pull her down, but she stood firm. The largest surges clawed at the cliff behind, working to undermine the rock.
  The storm-raiser laughed.
  Pleased with the fury of the onslaught, she sent the tempest inland, directing it with a jerk of an arm over her head.
  Unleashed upon the streets of Hescombe, the storm wound among the houses like a crowd of rampaging hooligans, up-ending bins, blowing loose tiles from roofs, uprooting trees to fall on walls and cars, crushing them like cardboard. Car alarms wailed. A ginger cat streaked across the empty roads, seeking shelter from the hail of missiles.
  On the beach, waves crashed against the cliffs as the wind howled like a wolf. Spray flung itself into the air to dash on the pebbles at the girl’s feet. Out to sea, as the breakers rolled inland, shapes appeared on the crests of the waves. Storm-tossed manes and flying hooves galloped headlong towards her, whinnying in tormented voices. Reaching the shore, the white horses of the sea converged on the girl. They danced around her, leaping, their legs arched. Foam flew as they smashed into each other in the stampede. They had not been released from their stables for many long years and rejoiced to find a new companion. She, however, was oblivious to them, wrapped up in the storm she had summoned. Spurred on to test their bond, one stallion split from the herd and cantered along the edge of a breaker. It collided with the girl, dousing her with water as it dispersed in a flurry of spray. Jolted from her tempest-dream by this fleeting encounter, she gasped for breath, let her arms fall, and crumpled to her knees. With equal suddenness the storm dropped, the waves subsided, and the remaining horses faded into shapeless foam, tossed like a white mane at the sea’s margin.

Now the storm had passed, Col Clamworthy and Skylark, his pegasus companion, emerged from their shelter to trot home along the beach. Forced to land, they had taken refuge in a sea-cave while the tempest blew itself out. They were now enjoying the return to peace in a comfortable silence, Col’s fingers wrapped in Skylark’s snowy mane. Col loved these times with Skylark — they were what he lived for — but he knew they soon had to part. The little port of Hescombe was just round the next headland and the pegasus must not be seen by other humans.
  ‘Ready to fly again?’ Col asked.
  Skylark sniffed the air. ‘Yes, the storm’s gone. It should be safe for me now.’
  ‘You’d better get going then.’ Col yawned: it must be four in the morning.
  Skylark shook his mane, trying to stay awake. ‘Trust a party organized by your father to be such a riot. My head aches from all that rock-dwarf music.’
  ‘So does mine.’ Col leant against Skylark’s neck, breathing in the familiar smells of hay and horse. ‘Thanks for coming.’ He slid from Skylark’s back to the ground.
  ‘My pleasure. It was worth it just to see your father with the Kraken,’ replied the pegasus with a whinnying laugh.
  ‘Yeah.’ Col grinned. ‘That was cool.’
  Col still hadn’t recovered from his father’s abrupt announcement the week before that he had decided to marry again. He was perhaps even more shocked that Evelyn Lionheart, a friend of Mack’s since childhood, had said ‘yes’ — she had no excuse of ignorance and must know exactly what she was taking on.
  ‘You know, Skylark, my dad has a definite wild streak,’ Col mused. ‘Just look at the party tonight.’
  ‘Yes—it’s not often that the host abandons his guests like that,’ said Skylark.
  Col’s father had celebrated his engagement with a beach barbecue for his friends in the Society for the Protection of Mythical Creatures. The evening must have felt too tame for him because, at midnight, he had on impulse run into the sea clad only in his boxer shorts. He had dived under the surface, emerging a few seconds later spouting seawater in a glistening arc. Then out of the water had emerged one of the long tentacles of the Kraken. The limb had curled around the swimmer and lifted him high into the air, Mack shouting with delight as he soared upwards. With a snap of its tentacle, the Kraken had cast him out to sea. Mack had disappeared under the water but soon popped up again,
shaking droplets from his hair.
  Col had been impressed but also frightened. He had never seen his father on the surface with the Kraken before: it was quite something. The Kraken challenged the skill of his companion with five more throws, each one calling for more difficult and extravagant dives from Mack. The competition over, apparently to the satisfaction of both, Mack had swum back, accepting the applause of the onlookers as his due. Mack thrived on the primitive challenge of man against beast—the danger excited him. He would have had no sympathy had he known his son’s fears on his behalf.
  ‘That party was my dad all over,’ Col told Skylark. ‘I just hope Evelyn knows what she’s doing.’
  Skylark snorted sceptically.
  ‘I wonder what Connie thinks of her aunt marrying him.’ Col hadn’t yet come to terms with the prospect of his father abandoning his life on the road and moving in to Shaker Row, only a few streets from where Col lived with his grandmother. It felt really weird that he and his best friend, Connie, would now in some ways be ‘sharing’ his dad. He felt a little jealous of her as there was no talk of him being invited into the household after the marriage.
  ‘Yes, it’s going to be hard for everyone,’ Skylark agreed, reading his companion’s conflicting feelings through the bond between them. ‘A Kraken, a banshee, and a universal companion under one roof: perhaps you’re better off with your gran?’
  Col laughed softly. ‘Thanks, Skylark. See you later.’
  The pegasus galloped down the strand, white wings beating for take off. Once airborne, Skylark disappeared over the cliffs in the direction of Dartmoor. Col turned and began to trudge home, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Col would never have noticed Connie if he hadn’t almost tripped over her. She was curled in a ball on the stretch of beach in front of her aunt’s house, asleep. He looked up and down the shore: it was deserted. What was she doing here?

Companions: Mines Of The Minotaur © Julia Golding, 2007.  Published by Oxford University Press.