The Ice Maiden

The Ice Maiden slipped quietly into the mouth of the Hawk River, leaving only a gentle wake behind her. Sleek and narrow, she had been built to navigate through the ice-encrusted winter waters of the lake and her reinforced bow gave her strength as well as speed. She was an alpine goddess, painted to blend in with her surrounds. Her vibrant blue hull harmonised with the rich colour of the lake and her triangular white sail mimicked the snowy peaks of the mountains.

Clutching the tiller (the long shaft of wood attached to the boat’s rudder), Whisker steered the boat a short distance downriver until he drew level with three passengers waiting along the pebbly shore.

‘A-a-ahoy there!’ Whisker hollered, his teeth still chattering profusely.

‘About time, Ice Boy,’ Ruby called back, her cherry-red hood flapping wildly in the wind. ‘We almost froze to death waiting for you.’

Horace held up Whisker’s coat with his hook. ‘You look like you could use this.’

Whisker pulled the boat into the shallows and lowered the anchor. His companions clambered aboard.

‘A fine vessel you’ve got here, matey,’ Horace said, handing Whisker his coat.

‘It’s a pity the same couldn’t be said about your wet-weather wardrobe,’ Ruby added, pointing to the gaudy yellow fisherman’s jacket lying next to the tiller.

‘It’s not mine,’ Whisker clarified. ‘It’s for Chatterbeak.’

‘Soggy sesame seeds it is!’ the parrot screeched. ‘That thing’s got less style than a peacock with a crew cut.’

‘Let me explain, Chatterbeak,’ Whisker said, trying to calm him down. ‘The peregrine falcons will be expecting to see a badger sailing the Ice Maiden – possibly one wearing a bright yellow fisherman’s jacket. From head to tail, you’re about the same height as the badger that sold me this boat. If you wore his jacket so that only your black beak and white face were visible beneath the hood, the falcons might be fooled into thinking you were him.’

Chatterbeak crossed his wings over his chest, refusing to budge.

‘What about the rest of us?’ Horace asked, searching the deck for further disguises. ‘Do we dress up as badger cubs?’

Whisker shook his head. ‘We hide in the cabin and keep our mouths shut. Despite the presence of a large badger on board, the falcons might still attempt a mid-lake raid if they spot a tasty morsel or two scampering around.’

‘That’s all well and good in theory,’ Ruby said, inspecting the fish-shaped buttons on the oversized jacket, ‘but I doubt our fashion-conscious friend could sail the Ice Maiden on his own, even if he did decide to cooperate.’ She shrugged dramatically. ‘Oh well …’

‘Caw, caw!’ Chatterbeak squawked, snatching the jacket out of her paws. ‘I’m a pirate parrot, not a desert condor. Of course I can sail this boat!’

Ruby winked at Whisker and whispered, ‘Parrot pride. It works every time.’

‘Alright,’ Whisker said, striding towards the cabin. ‘Chatterbeak is our new helmsman. The rest of you, follow me. On the off chance the falcons aren’t so easily fooled, I’ve put a few defence strategies into place.’

‘What kind of strategies?’ Horace asked, scurrying after him.

Whisker smiled. ‘The kind that go BANG!’

Under the command of Captain Chatterbeak, the Ice Maiden began its journey north up the Hawk River towards Cloud Mountain. The wind blew fiercely from the south-east, propelling the boat rapidly through the choppy waves.

While Ruby helped Chatterbeak squeeze his wings into the large sleeves of the jacket, Whisker showed Horace what he had stashed in the cabin. Apart from the usual fishing paraphernalia, there were several blocks of chocolate, a bag of dried fruit and nuts, lanterns, matches and coils of thin rope. What caught Horace’s attention, however, was not the wilderness supplies, but the long line of signal flares stacked up against the starboard windows. Resembling fireworks, the flares had conical heads, thin fuses and long wooden safety handles. Judging by the sheer number of the rockets, it was clear that Whisker had procured the badger’s entire supply.

‘Shiver me tinder box!’ Horace exclaimed, picking up one of the red flares. ‘How much rescuing do we need?’

‘The flares aren’t for signalling,’ Whisker said, glancing through a port side window as they re-entered the waters of Lake Azure. ‘They’re for scaring. A bright flash of red and a loud explosion should be enough to keep any hungry birds at bay. And should the falcons be game enough to persist, we’ll at least have something to aim at!’

‘I like the way you’re thinking,’ Horace chuckled. ‘Out with the tremble-tailed apprentice from the Cyclone Sea and in with the cut-throat captain of the lake!’

‘I’d still feel terrible if I hit one of them,’ Whisker said, downplaying the ferocity of his plan. ‘After all, they’re simply a flock of birds hunting for their supper.’

‘And we’re a mischief of rats trying to stay alive!’ Horace argued. ‘Pick a side.’

Whisker shrugged and returned his attention to the window.

‘The falcons might not be the only obstacles we have to look out for,’ he said, watching the towering cumulus clouds filling the sky. ‘There’s a forecast for wild weather and those clouds have been building all afternoon.’

‘Bring on the rain,’ Ruby said, limping into the cabin. ‘Chatterbeak’s all set with his shiny new raincoat and a shower or two might even drive the birds away.’

‘It’s not the rain I’m worried about,’ Whisker said, pointing to the sky. ‘Have you noticed how those clouds are expanding upwards, not outwards?’

‘Not really,’ Horace shrugged, peering through a second window. ‘They’re big and white and look like cottonwool. That’s all. No offence, Whisker, but it seems you’ve inherited your mother’s weather wisdom. The rest of us don’t know the difference between a cumulostratosaurus cloud and a patch of smoke.’

Ruby rolled her eye. ‘It’s cumulonimbus, you nincompoop!’

‘My point exactly!’ Horace grunted. ‘I know nothing.’

‘Look, I’ll explain it to you,’ Whisker said. ‘At higher altitudes, the temperature gets colder – as evidenced by the snow on the mountaintops. If the moisture in a rain cloud reaches a high enough altitude it can turn into ice crystals or hail.’

‘Now that sounds like a serious weather warning,’ Horace admitted.

‘Keep an eye on the sky,’ Whisker said. ‘If those harmless cottonwool clouds develop into high-altitude storm clouds, we could be in for a bumpy ride.’

The prospect of a late afternoon storm appeared to have scared off any local fishing crews and the lake was totally deserted. Chatterbeak, who couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long, started a conversation with himself about badgers. His limited knowledge of the burrowing creatures didn’t deter him from talking non-stop until the Ice Maiden drew close to Falcon Island.

Inside the cabin, Whisker had the spyglass glued to his eye, staring out a port side window. His attention shifted constantly between the cloudy sky and the tree-covered island to the west. The place was ablaze with autumn colours. The amber and gold tones of deciduous birch leaves provided a stark contrast to the emerald-green needles of evergreen furs. Large outcrops of rock and low limestone cliffs created empty spaces between the trees. From what Chatterbeak had said about peregrine falcons, Whisker guessed the birds would be nesting on rocky ledges and plateaus.

Although there had been no sign of the falcons during their voyage, Whisker still felt uneasy as the small boat glided towards the easternmost point of the island. He pictured the birds’ powerful black eyes watching them through the trees, ready to launch in pursuit. There was no doubt he would have preferred to skirt a wider girth of the island, but the breeze had strengthened, shifting to the east, leaving Chatterbeak little hope of sailing straight into an alpine headwind.

No one spoke as the forest of green and gold slowly drifted past them. Autumn leaves, blown high into the air, took on the shapes of soaring birds, sending Whisker’s heart racing. The crash of waves breaking against the rocky shoreline echoed through the walls of the cabin. Whisker almost convinced himself that the powerful hooked beaks of the falcons were hammering through the wood of the hull and the ever-present howl of the wind was the sound of their wings.

Despite his fears, the journey continued without incident and the Ice Maiden finally rounded the northern cliffs of the island. Twilight fell as the evening sun dropped below the cottonwool clouds and shone majestically between mountain peaks, bathing the lake in rich, golden light. With only Cloud Mountain ahead of them, Chatterbeak turned the boat north-west and began the final leg of their journey.

Horace, who had been nibbling on a block of chocolate while Whisker and Ruby stared out the two port side windows, finished his last square and squeezed in beside Whisker.

‘Anything worth looking at?’ he mumbled with his mouth full.

‘Nothing bird-related, if that’s what you were wondering,’ Whisker replied. ‘And the weather appears to have held.’

‘Good,’ Horace said, staring out across the sun-drenched lake. He was quiet for a moment. ‘I know it’s a random question, but have you wondered why the water in this lake is so blue?’

Whisker lowered the spyglass and sighed. A part of him wanted to tell Horace that now wasn’t the best time for a science lesson, but the rest of him was glad to have something non-life-threatening to talk about for a change.

‘There’s a theory about the water,’ he said, shuffling aside to give Horace more room at the window. ‘My mother explained it to me during one of our many weather-related conversations. Apparently the vivid blue colour of the water is due to light reflecting off tiny silt particles.’

‘So where do these silt particles come from?’ Horace asked. ‘Fish poo?’

‘Whisker screwed up his nose. ‘No, Horace. The particles of silt are known as rock flour. They’re washed into the lake from the glacial stream of the mountain.’

‘Impressive,’ Horace whistled. ‘Your mum really knew her stuff.’

‘Knows her stuff,’ Whisker corrected him. ‘I haven’t given up on her yet …’

‘Yeah, sorry,’ Horace apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to imply –’

‘Forget it,’ Whisker said, hurriedly dropping the subject.

Horace hovered awkwardly near the window, scratching at the paintwork with his hook. Whisker stared into the distance, imagining where his mother was now. On an island … in a cabin … lying at the bottom of the ocean …

Neither rat spoke.

‘Look,’ Horace said, breaking the tense silence, ‘I can’t claim to know what you’re going through, and I’m sure to put my hook in my mouth again before this is all over, but, for what it’s worth, I’m right behind you every stumbling step of the way.’

Ruby pulled away from her window. ‘Stumbling, limping, you name it. I’m with you, too.’

‘Thanks,’ Whisker said, moved by their sincerity. ‘I know it sounds clichéd, but I couldn’t do any of this without you.’

He looked fondly through the cabin door to the newest member of the team, Chatterbeak. The parrot’s head was bent low and his pale eyes were locked on the rough water ahead. He had one yellow sleeve wrapped around the tiller, while he held on for dear life with the other. The intensifying wind swirled in wild circles, battering him from every direction.

Whisker’s joy evaporated in an instant when the yellow hood of the fisherman’s jacket suddenly filled with air and blew backwards off Chatterbeak’s head.

It only took Chatterbeak a moment to wrench the hood back over his lime-green feathers, but the damage was already done.

Directly behind him, two dozen dark shapes ascended into the sky above Falcon Island. Panic stricken, Whisker jerked the spyglass to his eye and focused on the ascending birds. They were flying in a V formation, aimed straight for the Ice Maiden.

Through the spyglass, he could see the slate-grey tips of their wings and the white of their underparts, banded with thin black lines. Their yellow feet were pulled flat against their long tails as they flew with rapid, choppy wing beats through the air. Beneath their large yellow-rimmed eyes, their pale cheeks bore the distinctive dark facial markings of peregrine falcons.

As Whisker continued to stare, Horace pushed his way to the entrance of the cabin.

‘Ratbeard save us!’ he gasped, sweeping his hook across the long line of birds. ‘I thought they hunted in pairs, not dozens.’

Whisker lowered the spyglass. ‘They do hunt in pairs, Horace. But this isn’t a hunting party, it’s an entire attack squadron.’