5 Back on Berk

5. BACK ON BERK By the time The Hopeful Puffin had stopped turning round in circles, the fog had started to lift a little. Half an hour later, the mist had vanished entirely, and they could see for miles in every direction. The Roman ship was nowhere to be seen. The water was as cold as ice again, so there was no further danger of bumping into any Sharkworms. They had not gone as far off course as Hiccup had thought. They set off towards the distant silhouette of Berk to the north. Fishlegs took the rudder because Hiccup was too depressed to do anything. Hiccup sat staring at his half of How to Speak Dragonese. All that work, all that time spent dragonwatching at the Wild Dragon Cliff, ripped in two. He was trying not to think of what might be happening to Toothless on board the Roman ship. Toothless hated the idea of being trapped so much Hiccup even had to leave the door open when

they went to bed. And now there he was, most likely locked up in that horrible iron cage. We'd just had an argument, too, thought Hiccup in total misery. And he flew to our rescue… and now I might never see him again. Horrorcow finally woke up from her deep sleep. 'Did you get that helmet?' she yawned. 'Not exactly,' replied Fishlegs grimly. 'It's a long story.' In her strange, spinning and zigzagging fashion, The Hopeful Puffin drew nearer to the little Isle of Berk. The Isle of Berk has been home to the Hooligan Tribes for so long as to seem like for ever. It is one of the smallest inhabited islands in the Barbaric Archipelago, and perhaps the best way to describe it is 'wet'. There are twenty-eight words for 'rain' in the Hooligan language. And Berk is the kind of place where the sea is always wandering up on to the land. Even at the Highest Point you can find scallop shells and dolphins' bones, thrown up by some gigantic tide or storm. So, what with the rain pouring down constantly from above, and the sea sneaking up from below, the Hooligans spend most of their lives up to their knees in muddy saltwater

As they got nearer to Berk they didn't have time to feel sorry for themselves. The Hopeful Puffin was in difficulties. Never a very sea-worthy boat, she had taken two big knocks, first when she was rammed by Snotlout's boat Sparrowhawk, then when Hiccup jumped down on to her decks from the Roman ship. She was taking on water even faster than normal. Despite Hiccup and Fishlegs bailing out the water as quickly as they could with their helmets, by the time they reached Hooligan Harbour, she sank entirely. They had to swim the last hundred metres, Hiccup holding Fishlegs up, because (unusually for a Viking) Fishlegs had never quite mastered the doggy paddle. To make matters worse, Gobber was standing on the harbour wall watching them come in, arms folded, brows as low as Thor's thunderclouds. When The Hopeful Puffin disappeared beneath the water he looked as if he might explode. 'It hasn't been a very successful day, has it?' moaned Fishlegs as they struggled out of the sea and on to the rocks. 'At least we didn't meet any Sharkworms, after all…'

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'I'm not sure there ever were any Sharkworms,' said Hiccup through gritted teeth. He looked back sadly at the three circles of ripples and bubbles that were all that remained of The Hopeful Puffin. She had never been the most beautiful of boats but to him she was the best. Slipping and sliding on the seaweedy rocks, they clambered reluctantly towards Gobber and stood before him, soaking wet, heads bowed. Fishlegs timidly offered him the Roman helmet. Gobber was not amused. 'WHAT,' he bellowed, pointing furiously at the Roman helmet, 'WHAT in the name of Woden is this?' 'A Roman helmet, sir,' admitted Fishlegs. 'We sort of accidentally boarded a Roman ship by mistake… we got lost you see, sir…' 'You got LOST?' boomed Gobber, not believing his ears. 'Vikings don't get LOST. And how could you possibly board a Roman ship by mistake? A Roman ship doesn't look anything like a Peaceable fishing boat!' 'Yes I know, sir,' stammered Fishlegs. 'But we thought there were these Sharkworms you see—' 'And WHERE,' Gobber interrupted Fishlegs, his voice dangerously calm, 'WHERE is your boat?'

'Ah, yes, well,' said Fishlegs miserably. 'The boat sort of sank, sir.' 'THE BOAT SORT OF SANK?' roared Gobber. 'YOU CALL YOURSELVES VIKINGS AND YOU SORT OF SINK YOUR OWN BOAT ON A PERFECTLY CALM DAY TWO HUNDRED METRES FROM YOUR OWN ISLAND? WHAT KIND OF HOOLIGANS ARE YOU, ANYWAY? YOU CAN'T BUILD BOATS, YOU CAN'T TRAIN DRAGONS, FISHLEGS HERE CAN'T EVEN SWIM…' 'Saltwater brings out my eczema…' mumbled Fishlegs. 'YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE A PIRATE!' howled Gobber. 'AS IT IS, YOU ARE THE MOST USELESS, MISERABLE, PATHETIC EXCUSES FOR TADPOLE POOS I HAVE EVER MET IN