Featherlight

by Peter Bunzl

  I look everywhere, but there’s nothing to be found.

  By the time I am done it is late in the afternoon. Mum and Dad still aren’t back from the mainland with my baby brother or sister. I realise then with a shiver that I will be spending another night on the island alone.

  7

  LIGHTING THE LANTERN

  It is almost evening when I fill Dad’s flask with warm milky tea. I cut off another big hunk of bread from the loaf for dinner and put it in my pocket. After that, I take a hot water bottle, an oil lamp, matches and a blanket up to the keeper’s office in preparation for the night watch.

  In the office, I lay out my provisions on the desk. Then I climb the stairs to the lantern room, where I open the glass door of the lantern and light the lamp wick so the flame will already be burning when it gets dark.

  I close the glass door and pump the pump handle beneath the lantern to fill the oil reservoir, just like I did last night. Once that’s done I turn the big wheel on the far wall to wind the clockwork. When I’ve finished, the machinery beneath the lantern begins to tick and the lenses on their frame start to spin in front of the light.

  Soon, when it’s dark, the turning beam of light will reach far out to sea once more, warning ships away from the rocks. Not that they will need it tonight, for the sea is once again calm and clear.

  I step onto the metal walkway outside the lantern room and stare at the distant mainland. I wonder how Mum and Dad are doing over there. I hope they’re all right. I hope Mum’s had the baby.

  THUD!

  Something smacks against the glass beside me.

  The noise is so loud it makes me jump. And again …

  THUD!

  I turn to see a bird about the size of a sparrow battering against the window.

  Birds do that sometimes – hit the glass of the lantern room.

  But this is unlike any bird I’ve seen before. Its chest is scarlet, like a robin’s, and its wings are dirty red. It has a bright orange crest on top of its head that looks like the flames of a fire.

  To tell the truth, this bird doesn’t look well. A bit mangy. And it’s small – it must have only recently been a chick. Perhaps it has only just learned to fly? If so, it isn’t very good at it.

  THUD!

  The bird throws itself against the glass for a third time. It seems to be attracted to the light. Finally, it gives up and drops to the floor of the walkway, tired.

  I crouch beside it. The bird shifts and tries to flap away from me. Then it opens its mouth to give a desperate cry.

  “Hello!” I whisper to it. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

  The bird licks its pale-grey beak with a darting tongue. It watches me with intelligent eyes that are as dark as wet pebbles. It seems to know exactly what I am thinking. The bird flaps its wings again and a warm breeze wafts off them like a ray of desert sunshine.

  Close now, I notice some of the bird’s feathers are damaged. Maybe it has been in a fire? It needs my help to get better. I can see that. Gulls scream above us in the evening sky. If I don’t take the bird inside soon, they will be down here to eat it.

  I wonder what the bird eats. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, I will show it our garden and try to find out. That’s if I can get it to come with me now.

  Making myself brave, I hold out my hands to the bird, hoping it won’t try to peck my fingers off. When it doesn’t flinch, I bend forward slowly and scoop the bird up.

  I put the bird in the pocket of my cardigan, where it will be warm and safe, and then I climb back into the lantern room of the lighthouse.

  8

  A LOST BIRD

  Back in the lighthouse keeper’s office, I fold up my blanket to make a little nest for the bird. Huddled in the blanket, it looks tiny and helpless.

  I tear off a corner of my bread and offer it to the bird.

  The bird doesn’t take any.

  I pour some tea from my flask into an empty saucer on Dad’s desk and push that towards the bird instead.

  “Go on,” I say. “Try the tea. It’s good. Nice and milky. I put in three teaspoons of sugar. It’s more than I’m allowed when Mum and Dad are here.”

  I dip the bread in the saucer of tea, but the bird turns its beak up at that too. I’ve never met such a fussy creature.

  “What kind of bird are you?” I wonder aloud. I take Dad’s bird book down off the shelf and flick through the pages to see if I can find out.

  It is a beautiful book, full of colourful birds of all kinds: puffins, terns, seagulls, cormorants, crows. Males, females and chicks. But nothing looks like my bird. I can’t find it anywhere.

  “If you’re an undiscovered species,” I tell the bird, “they’ll have to name you after me. You’ll be the Deryn Bird, and so will all of your kind!”

  The bird looks at me sternly from its nest.

  “Never mind,” I tell it. “I shall give you a name that’s just for you.”

  I have thought a lot about names recently, because Mum and Dad keep making lists of names for the baby. If it’s a boy, they want to name him Albert, after my grandfather. If it’s a girl, they want to name her Ida, after my great aunt. I suggested Cyrus for a boy and Grace for a girl, but they weren’t sure about either of those. Names are hard. It took me ages to name the chickens.

  The bird is pretty small. I think it might be a girl. I shall give it a girl’s name.

  “I shall call you Tan,” I tell the bird. “Do you like that?”

  She looks concerned.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not a name I suggested for the baby, so there’s no chance you’ll both have it.”

  Tan makes a tiny chirrup at this. She seems happy with her name. I realise I haven’t told her about the baby. Or anyone else, really. There’s been no one to tell. I’ve had to keep my worries and hopes all to myself.

  9

  AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

  Despite how tired I am, I manage to stay up for the whole watch that night. Somehow, having Tan there keeps me awake. I do doze off a couple of times, but when I wake I always remember to check on the lantern.

  Twice during the night, I have to fill the oil reserve with the pump and wind the wheel to keep the lenses turning. It’s only when the sun rises that I sit in Dad’s chair and finally fall properly asleep.

  I dream I am snoozing in my own bed with Tan beside me on my pillow.

  For some reason in my dream the room is on fire. Soon the whole cottage is burning. Flames leap around me until Mum and Dad appear. They are ghostly figures, floating in the grey smoke as if they are underwater.

  Dad shakes me, trying to wake me from my slumber, but I’m so tired I can’t get out of bed. “Deryn!” Dad cries. “Wake up! You’re on fire!”

  “You’re burning!” Mum adds, flapping her arms in the air like wings as she tries to put out the flames.

  Mum and Dad make several loud CAWING noises, like seagulls, and Dad sweeps the lamp from the bedside table with a CRASH!

  I wake in the keeper’s office.

  It is midday and the CAWS are coming from the seagulls outside the window.

  But something is burning … for real! I can smell it!

  Part of Tan’s nest is on fire. She has knocked over the oil lamp. The last dribble of burning oil must have flooded on to her blanket and set it alight.

  I use my cardigan as a glove and quickly set the oil lamp upright. Luckily its glass chimney isn’t broken. Then I pour the rest of the flask of cold milky tea over the flames to put them out.

  A horrible smoky smell fills the room. Tan opens her mouth and gives a low cough. But she is all right. She was tucked up on the other side of the nest, unharmed. The lump of bread is still beside her. Tan hasn’t eaten any of it in the night, which can’t be a good thing. But, anyway, somehow this morning her feathers seem brighter.

  With relief I pick Tan up and put her back in my cardigan pocket. She curls up comfortably in there, warming my side.
>
  Now that I am properly awake I climb the stairs to the lantern room and put out the flame of the big lantern also. When I’ve finished, I go down to see Brenda, Bertha and Bella in their hutch and Gertrude in her shed.

  Between them, the three hens have laid only one egg today. Gertrude headbutts me angrily and refuses to be milked, so I decide to leave her until later.

  Provisions are getting low. I hope that Dad returns today with more food. Otherwise I will have to forage for cockles and mussels along the coast.

  Before I have my breakfast, I decide I will try to find something for Tan to eat. I wander out into the walled allotment garden, where we grow all our vegetables. I take Tan from my pocket and put her down beside a large orange pumpkin that has yet to ripen. Then I find a spade and start to dig in the raised bed. The earth is damp and soft. I turn it over, looking for worms and grubs. Part of this is to teach Tan to feed herself.

  Each time I find a worm, I put it down next to her.

  “Here you go!” I whisper. “Juicy worms!”

  Tan doesn’t seem interested. She ignores the long slimy creatures.

  I stare at her, frustrated. “Worms are what you’re supposed to eat, you stupid bird!”

  Why doesn’t Tan want them? Is she still unwell?

  I glance up for a second, thinking. Then, all of a sudden, I see something in the distance.

  A figure.

  Someone is walking slowly up the path from the jetty and across the island towards the lighthouse. Even at this distance I can tell it isn’t Mum or Dad.

  “Deryn!” the figure calls out as it gets closer.

  It’s Grandma. As soon as she gets near enough, she grabs me and hugs me tight.

  “There’s good news and bad news,” Grandma says, and my heart twists in my chest like a fish on a line.

  10

  GRANDMA DARLING

  I sit at the kitchen table, beside the stove. Tan is curled up once again in my cardigan pocket. I check on her intermittently.

  Grandma potters about the kitchen. She spoons tea leaves into the teapot and pours in hot water from the kettle on the stove. She is making herself busy, preparing to speak. She knows the house well from the years she used to live here when Grandpa was alive. Back then she was the assistant lighthouse keeper.

  Soon the tea is ready. Grandma pours out two cups of tea from the pot, then sits beside me and clears her throat. I place my hands around my tea cup, letting the warm feel of it comfort me while I wait warily for the news.

  “Your mother’s had the baby,” Grandma says. “It’s a little boy. But there were complications. And your brother, he’s not very well.”

  I don’t really know what that means. It sounds scary.

  “Have you seen him?” I ask, my heart beating a bit too fast.

  Grandma doesn’t answer at first. Then she says, “I don’t want to worry you, Deryn. Everything’s going to be fine, I’m sure.”

  “But where are they?” I ask.

  “Safely tucked away at my house,” Grandma says. “The midwife’s keeping an eye on them. Your dad’s staying too. He asked me to sail over here and look in on you. I can stay for as long as you need me.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and put my hand in the pocket of my cardigan to stroke Tan’s soft feathers. Somehow the warm feel of them soothes the worry away. Maybe if I can look after Tan and make her well again that will mean the midwife can help my baby brother.

  “What have you got there?” Grandma asks. She has seen me fidgeting.

  “A little bird that crashed into the lighthouse,” I say, opening my pocket to show her. “I named her Tan. I’m looking after her until she’s better.”

  “How nice.” Grandma smiles. “I used to tell your father when he was small: ‘A lighthouse keeper is not just here to tend the light and save ships. We’re here to take care of the birds and beasts of the island too.’ You’re doing a fine job at that, Deryn.”

  *

  The rest of the morning, Grandma and I clean the lighthouse together. Grandma says it’s to get it ready for my parents’ return, but I think it’s because she feels it’s got a bit scruffy since she lived here.

  “When you’re worried and waiting,” Grandma says, “it’s best to find things to take your mind off your troubles. Like your bird, Deryn, and tidying the lighthouse. It will be nice for your parents to come back and find everything here spick and span and shipshape!”

  While we work, Grandma tells me stories about when she and Grandpa used to live at the lighthouse with Dad. “Your dad was such a naughty boy,” she says. “He was always chasing Gertrude into the kitchen.”

  “You had the same goat?” I ask, shocked. “Gertrude doesn’t look that old.”

  “It was a different goat,” Grandma explains. “It just … well … our goats have always been called Gertrude. Your father continued that tradition.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I see.”

  Names again. I think of Tan, and then of the baby.

  “Have they named my brother yet?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” Grandma says. “There’s so much else going on that I don’t think your mum and dad have decided …” She trails off, looking worried once more, then changes the subject. “I’ll tell you something, my bunions are itching like billy-o today. That means there’s bad weather on the way. Now autumn’s here, the storms will be coming more often.”

  After we’ve cleaned the cottage, the last thing we do is polish the panes of glass in the lantern room. I forgot to do it this morning. As we clean them, I explain to Tan how the light works. Grandma listens. She finishes buffing the panes on her side of the lantern first, and comes over to inspect how I am doing.

  “You’ve missed a spot,” Grandma says, pointing out a cloudy section. “You’re talking too much to that bird.”

  I crouch down and clean away the last of the soot. As I do, I realise I have barely said anything to Grandma. Not for the whole afternoon. Not since she first arrived and told me how ill my brother was.

  11

  BEDTIME STORIES

  That night, Grandma and I set the lighthouse light going together. Afterwards, Grandma brings me down to bed and, when I’m in my pyjamas, she tucks me in.

  “I’ll take the night watch tonight, Deryn,” Grandma says as Tan settles beside me on the pillow. “But you can take the tea.” She puts Dad’s flask on my bedside table.

  “Thank you, Grandma,” I say.

  “Do you want me to read to you?” Grandma asks. “I know your mum normally does.” She takes the book of myths and fairy tales from my bedside and flicks through it. She finds a story near the back that I have never seen before. “Ooh, this is good one,” Grandma says. “It was your father’s favourite. I used to read it to him when he was a boy.”

  “What’s it called?” I ask.

  “The Firebird.” Grandma reads the opening paragraph. “Tales are told of lost sailors who befriend firebirds. The firebirds would drink the oil from the sailors’ lamps and then fly above their ships, lighting the way for them. Nowadays, no one has ever seen a real firebird. They disappeared thousands of years ago and only exist in ancient legends—”

  “Stop,” I say, and shake my head. “I don’t think I can listen to a fairy tale tonight. There’s too much to worry about.”

  “All right.” Grandma closes the book and puts it aside. “Maybe I could tell you a story about something else instead?” she suggests.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Did you ever hear about the storm of ’53 when a fishing trawler smashed against the Featherstone Rocks?”

  I shake my head.

  “It was the worst storm I ever saw,” Grandma says. “The gale was so bad that the whole lighthouse shook. The floors moved, and the shelves rattled. And your grandpa and I had to go out in the dark in his rowing boat and save a whole host of sailors from that trawler before it sank.”

  “Were you scared?” I ask.

  “A little bit,” Grandma
says. “But I knew we were their only hope, and if we could rescue the sailors and get them back to the lighthouse, then they’d be fine.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, we did,” Grandma tells me.

  “And did they survive?”

  “Every last one of them. They were safe here.” Grandma leans in close to me. “This lighthouse is wise in many ways, Deryn. The walls are thick, and the stones know the weather as well as we do. They know when to be strong, and when to bend and shift to survive a storm. And the walls know the wind could never blow this house down, no matter how much it huffs and puffs.”

  Grandma kisses my forehead. “Time to go to sleep now. I’ll be up in the tower, keeping an eye on the light. But if you need me, just come and find me.”

  “Goodnight, Grandma,” I tell her as she’s leaving. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “That you will,” she says, and she leaves the door ajar on her way out.

  When she’s gone, I say goodnight to Tan, but the little bird is already asleep.

  12

  A WILD STORM

  That night I dream that Tan escapes from my room and flies through the cottage.

  Grandma has left the door to the lighthouse open, and Tan flaps inside and flies down to the cellar. I chase after her, and she lands on the oil tank. The lid of the oil tank is open, and Tan dips her head in and takes a drink, guzzling down the oil as if it’s water.

  “Tan!” I cry. “What are you doing? That will kill you!”

  But Tan ignores me and keeps on drinking. As she does, her feathers get glossier, her coal-black eyes glisten and her plumage starts to glow. Soon Tan has turned a radiant golden red. She is shining like a tiny dot of pure light, like she might burst into flame. Suddenly, I realise what she is.