No, try and move.
I obey and smile. “I can’t. It’s as if I’m belted in.”
He nods.You shall not fall, so be at ease. Are you ready?
“Yes.” I reach out and daringly stroke his great scaly head. He makes a sound of pleasure, and then his wings rise on either side of me. They’re huge and a mottled pink and gold colour with a shading of midnight blue. “Beautiful,” I say again softly, and a shudder runs through him.
Sparks run over his back suddenly, and I jerk in surprise before I realise it’s his magic. Almost instantly, I feel warmth surround me like a big hug.
It is cold up there amongst the clouds. I wish you to be warm and comfortable, Cary.
I’m already toasty warm. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”
The great wings flap, and the breeze from them is strong enough to blow my hair back. And then we’re lifting into the air. It isn’t like flying in a plane. There’s none of the jerkiness or heavy propulsion to get into the air. Instead, we lift as smoothly as silk. Within seconds, we’re high above Porthcurno Beach. The sand is white in the moonlight.
He hovers for a second, and then he turns and glides forward. The weather is wild, and the waves are surging towards the beach. They’re tipped with white froth and I give a loud gasp as I realise that I’m actually seeing white horses. They ride the wavesproudly, their bodies translucent, glowing as if they’re harnessed by starlight. One of them looks up, and I hear a whinny.
“Is that real?” I ask.
His voice sounds in my head. ’Tis magic.
His powerful body surges forward, his wings propelling us onwards. Rain sloshes down, but I’m still warm and dry atop him. I lean over, looking down at the Cornish coast spread below me, the small villages of cottages and little roads. Sigurd veers left, and I see what looks like a castle on the water. Realisation dawns as he flies close to the turrets, the lights in the windows golden in the moonlight.
“St Michael’s Mount?” I ask, and his great head dips in agreement.
It was a priory in Norman times. I well remember the old prioress there. They brewed the best beer, and I would stop off and exchange gossip with her.
I blink. “Did you know William the Conqueror?” I say in disbelief.
Aye. A canny man. Not always a good one, but he had brains and a fine line in sarcasm.
I shake my head. I’ve always gone for older men, but someone who knew William the Conqueror is taking that proclivity a bit far.
The rain stops. Sigurd rides the wind, soaring and dipping, and seagulls join us, gliding alongside him, calling out raucously as if mocking us.
Finally, we come to a huge cliff. Below it is a dark opening where the tide smashes into a cave, making a booming sound. Atop the cliff is a castle. “Is that?—?”
’Tis Tintagel.
“Oh my god,” I say, enchanted. “I always wanted to visit here. My father told me so many stories.”
Then you shall, he says simply.
His massive wings flap, and he takes us effortlessly over the cliff’s ledge and across land where I can see stone ruins and grass that's grey in the stark light.
He descends in ever-decreasing circles and finally lands on a grassy, open space on the headland. His wings slow and stop, and I tumble off him, leaning against him for a second as I get my balance. Then I step back and watch as the heat haze shimmers. I hear the rocket pop, and there he is. For a few seconds, he stands naked—a glorious sight. And then he makes a hand gesture, and he’s once more dressed in his old jeans that cling to his long legs and the ancient jumper. His hair is a tangled mess, and his eyes are full of tiny flames. He looks jubilant and wild. Sparks fly from him, travelling down his arms until he makes an exasperated sound and clicks his fingers, and they vanish.
He glances at me. Our gazes cling and hold, and then I’m running.
I fling myself into his arms, feeling them band tight around me. Then his lips are on mine, and I lose track of time as we kiss hungrily, our mouths eating at each other, and our hands wandering.
Finally, he pulls back. He lowers his head to rest on mine and sighs. It’s a sound full of happiness and contentment, and it makes my chest hot. “My Cary,” he says. “Did you enjoy that?”
I pull back, staring up at him. “Enjoy? That’s too mild a word. Oh, it waswonderful. Thank you.”
He brushes one of my curls back. “There is no need for thanks.” He looks around. “Let me show you Tintagel.”
I fall into step beside him as he takes a gravelled path, his steps sure and certain.
