Featherlight

by Peter Bunzl

“You’re a phoenix, Tan,” I say in my dream. “A firebird!”

  Tan nods, and the light from her feathers seems to pulse with the brightness of that truth.

  Then someone cries, “Wake up!”

  *

  Grandma is shaking me. The walls of my room are shaking too. And the bookshelf. And the glass of water on my bedside table. Rain clatters on the roof, and the wind howls outside my window. It feels like the storm in Grandma’s story. Or like a wolf the size of the world is trying to blow our house down.

  “The lantern, Deryn!” Grandma cries. “The lighthouse lantern’s gone out! There’s no more oil in the tank! There’s a fishing boat out there in the gale, getting pulled towards the rocks! We have to warn it! We have to re-light the lamp! Is there any spare oil anywhere?”

  Grandma picks up the lamp by my bedside and shakes it, but its reservoir is empty. She puts it back down in despair. “Think, Deryn!” Grandma says. “We need to make light!”

  Then I remember my dream. I look around for Tan, but she’s gone.

  “Oh no!” I say. “I’ve lost Tan!”

  “The little bird?” Grandma asks. “Don’t worry about her just now. We have to find a way to get the lamp lit.”

  I nod. But I have a horrible feeling that I know exactly where Tan is.

  “I think my bird might be able to help us, Grandma,” I say.

  “How?” she asks, confused.

  “Trust me.”

  Grandma grumbles, but she lets me take her hand and we rush down to the cellar.

  There is Tan, sitting on the edge of the empty oil tank. She’s shining as bright as day, just like in my dream. My mouth drops open. The dream was true.

  “Tan,” I say. “You really are a firebird!”

  Grandma looks at Tan and then at me, utterly shocked. “How on earth?” she says.

  “Remember the story, Grandma?” I say. “About the firebirds who would drink the oil and light up the route for lost sailors?”

  “That’s just a fairy tale, Deryn,” Grandma says. “It can’t possibly be true!”

  “It is!” I say.

  I hold out my hands for Tan, and she flaps over to them.

  I cup her in my palms. Tan is not hot, but her light is so powerful it pours over my fingers like water, making the skin of my hands glow bright orange.

  “Look!” I say. “Look how brightly Tan is shining! Maybe she can light up the lighthouse lantern?”

  Grandma looks amazed, but she is quick to regain her composure. “Do you really think Tan will be strong enough to light the way?” she asks hesitantly.

  “There’s nothing else to try,” I reply. “There’s no more oil in the house, and we have to help those people in that boat!”

  Grandma still looks unsure, but she knows that this is our only chance.

  “All right,” she agrees, finally. “I can’t believe this is happening, but I hope it works!”

  Light spills from Tan and out of my hands as Grandma and I run from the cellar up the winding spiral stairs.

  On each floor we pass, I see the fishing boat out of the window, struggling in the wild storm. It is being dragged closer and closer to the rocks.

  “We must hurry!” Grandma says. “We need to warn them off before their boat gets broken apart!”

  13

  A BRIGHT HOPE

  By the time we get to the top of the tower, the fire in Tan’s feathers has died away somewhat. She almost looks like a normal small bird again. But she is still glowing softly, so that we can see the room.

  Rain clatters on the tin roof of the lighthouse as Grandma and I open the glass door to the lantern and place Tan inside. I peer at Tan in the half-light. She stands on the metal surround of the lamp wick like it is a perch and blinks at us as if she’s waiting for something.

  “Please,” I say to Tan. “Light up! Light up bright enough to flood the sky. We have to save the people on that boat!”

  But Tan does nothing.

  I feel sick.

  “It’s not working, Grandma,” I say.

  “I did warn you, Deryn,” Grandma says. “The things you read in story books aren’t always true.”

  But I’m not ready to give up just yet. I look at Tan. “Please, Tan,” I beg. “There are people out there who are going to die unless we help them. Please light up and save their lives.”

  And it is as if Tan has understood me, for the light of her feathers grows stronger with each word. By the time I finish speaking, Tan is all afire, burning with the brightest blaze I have ever seen.

  I cover my eyes as the glass lenses beam Tan’s bright light out across the sea towards the distant boat. Grandma squints and shuts the glass door of the lantern. She turns the wheel beneath it to wind the clockwork, and soon the lenses begin to spin.

  We run onto the metal walkway outside the lantern room. Grandma takes the spyglass from her pocket and snaps it out into a long telescope. She peers into the eyepiece, sweeping the spyglass across the ocean, searching for the boat.

  “There they are,” Grandma calls out above the noise of the storm. “I can see them … And it looks as if they can see the light! Thank goodness! The boat is moving away from the rocks. I think they’re going to be all right.”

  “Let me see!” I cry.

  Grandma hands me the spyglass, and I focus in on the tiny fishing boat. There are three people aboard it: two fishermen and a boy. They’re all trying to hold the tiller and control the sail, but the wind is pulling them in the wrong direction. With an almighty CRASH! they smash against the rocks.

  “It’s no use,” I say. “They’re going to drown.”

  “Then we must row out and save them,” Grandma tells me as we climb back inside.

  “We don’t have a lantern to guide us,” I say.

  “We’ll take your firebird,” Grandma replies.

  I shake my head. “What about the lighthouse?” I ask. “If we take Tan, then the light will go dark again. Other boats might need it!”

  “My goodness!” Grandma wrings her hands together. “I didn’t think of that, but we must take Tan anyway. She’s the best thing to keep us safe.”

  “Wait,” I say. “I have an idea.”

  I shield my eyes from the light and open the door to the lantern. “Tan, you must come with us. There’s a boat in trouble. But I need to ask a favour of you. I need to take a feather. Will that be all right?”

  Tan nods as if to say yes. She turns and plucks a feather from her tail carefully and gives it to me.

  I take the feather by its stem. It is aflame but not hot. I place it in the centre of the lantern.

  Tan flaps from her perch and circles my head, her feathers all ablaze. She gives a loud cry that sounds like an alarm call and swoops down the spiral staircase. We follow her, leaving the single burning feather behind in the lighthouse lantern to take Tan’s place.

  14

  A RESCUE

  The rain outside is falling like a waterfall. It hisses against Tan’s bright flaming feathers as she hangs in the air, riding the air currents and lighting up the land. The raindrops batter down on my head and Grandma’s, and onto our raincoats, which we struggled into as we left the house. But we can’t stop. We have to get to the sinking boat and save the two fishermen and the boy.

  Tan circles above us, lighting our way as we cross the island.

  At the jetty, Grandma’s boat is bouncing on the wild sea, thrown this way and that by the storm.

  We climb down into the boat as high waves break over the side. I pull out the telescope and once again search for the fishermen. Tan soars up high, throwing her light out to sea. It joins the weaker beam of light from the feather in the lighthouse tower.

  Finally, I see the remains of the boat. The two fishermen and the boy are clinging to its broken hull as angry waves smash against them.

  “Fly ahead, Tan!” I cry, while Grandma releases our boat from its mooring. “We’re counting on you to light the way!”

  Tan swoops up
into the sky, cutting a path through the rain and gusts of wind.

  It is too dangerous for us to raise our sail in such a storm, so we row out into the bay towards the sinking boat. Grandma is on one oar and I have the other. We pull with all of our might, fighting against the waves and the wind and the rain, which are trying to smash us against the rocks.

  At last we get close to the overturned boat. Tan is hovering above it, marking its position. In the glow of her light, I can see the two fishermen and the boy bobbing about in the waves. They are trying desperately to keep their heads above the water. Their faces are pale with worry.

  The boy kicks towards us first. Without thinking, I reach out my hand to yank him over the side to safety.

  “No!” Grandma screams above the pounding waves. “Not that way! He’s too heavy. He’ll capsize our boat! Over the back! Pull him in over the back!”

  Grandma grabs my oar from me and sculls the boat around so the stern is facing the boy. Then she and I take a hand each and drag him into our boat.

  The boy splutters and coughs. Water is streaming down his face and clothes. He brushes his hair from his eyes and turns around, looking for the other two fishermen. They are already kicking towards us.

  The boy helps us haul them both aboard, one at a time. The older fisherman hugs the other two, then turns to us. “Thank you!” he says. “Thank you for saving my sons! And thank you for saving me! We can help you row!”

  The fisherman and his elder son take an oar each. Grandma and I and the young boy sit in the stern while the two men row. Grandma shouts instructions over the storm, and Tan hovers above us, lighting the way.

  Finally we reach the jetty. The prow of our boat smashes into it with a shudder.

  I leap out and help the others onto the island one by one. I look for Tan. Without her, we would never have found our way around the dangerous rocks.

  Tan drifts slowly down towards me. Her light is fading. She falls the last few metres to the ground. I can barely make out her dim shape in the dark. I scoop Tan up and hold her in my hands, but something has happened. The bright light that was inside her has almost gone out.

  15

  A DYING LIGHT

  Grandma and the fishermen and the boy gather round me as I hold Tan. She is pale and grey, and her feathers are burned to stumps.

  “What’s happening to her, Grandma?” I ask. It is like Tan is disappearing before my eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Grandma admits. “She must have burned out. In the fairy tale it says that when firebirds get old, or use up their flame, they turn to embers and ash.”

  “Does that mean she’s dying?” I ask. Tears fall from my eyes along with the raindrops as I peer down at Tan’s tiny fading form.

  “I’m afraid so,” Grandma says. “But maybe not for good. At the end of the story, the book says that a firebird can rise from the ashes like a phoenix. They can become like new, and in that way they are rumoured to live for ever.”

  “Will Tan be reborn like that?” I ask.

  “I hope so,” Grandma replies.

  I cup Tan’s remains in my hand. All that’s left of her now is a pile of ash. As soft as crumbled charcoal. But I don’t want to let it go. I don’t want to let Tan go. Carefully, I transfer the ash into my dad’s empty flask, which is still in my pocket.

  *

  We take the two fishermen and the boy up to the lighthouse cottage so they can wait out the storm. We get them settled in the kitchen, beside the warm stove. I find them fresh clothes to wear, and Grandma makes them tea and toast. “When the storm’s over,” she tells them. “I’ll row you back to the mainland.”

  “Thank you,” they reply, almost as one.

  Soon all three of them and Grandma are laughing together like they’ve known each other for years. I think the fishermen are just relieved to have survived the storm, and to find themselves alive and warm in a safe place.

  I am so busy rushing around I don’t hear half of what they’re saying. It is only when the young boy smiles and asks me about my bird that I realise how wet and sad and silent I am.

  Grandma and the boy and the two fishermen listen as I tell the tale of how I found Tan. When I finish speaking, I open the flask that holds Tan’s ashes and peer inside.

  I expect to see a glint in the dark interior of the flask. Some sign that Tan is springing back to life. But there is nothing.

  “Perhaps if we put her somewhere warm?” the elder fisherman suggests.

  We put the flask by the range, close to the fire.

  By now the young boy is almost asleep in his seat. Grandma carries him to my parents’ bedroom and tucks him into bed there. By the time she returns, the embers in the grate are getting low and threatening to go out. Grandma stokes the fire as best she can and makes another pot of tea for the two fishermen. Then she heads off to the lighthouse to check on the lantern once more. The two fishermen make themselves cosy in their chairs to wait out the rest of the storm. I leave them there and go to bed myself. I am so tired and shocked I can barely stay awake any longer.

  The last thing I remember as I close my eyes is Tan’s feather lighting up the lighthouse lantern. I wonder if it is still shining?

  16

  A LITTLE BROTHER

  The next morning, the sea is as flat as a pancake, and the air is still and silent. The young boy sleeps in my parents’ bedroom long after sunrise, while his father and older brother doze in the armchairs in the sitting room next door. I look in on each of them from time to time. They have slept for so long that it is as if they are in a fairy tale from my book. Some strange version of Sleeping Beauty.

  Grandma has been out seeing to the hens and milking the goat. She and I have breakfast together in the kitchen. I take the flask of Tan’s ashes from beside the range and check it again. I am hoping that there will be a tiny glow of light inside it this morning.

  But my hopes are dashed once again. There is nothing.

  “Maybe the kitchen’s not the best place for Tan’s ashes,” Grandma says, “Maybe she needs to be free, floating on the wind.”

  “Just as she did in life,” I say.

  I think of the shooting star then. How I saw it streaking across the sky that first night I was alone. It wasn’t a shooting star at all, I realise. It was Tan spreading her fiery wings and flying to our island.

  “You’re right, Grandma,” I say at last. “I think Tan needs to fly.”

  We take the flask and climb the winding steps to the top of the lighthouse.

  When we step into the lantern room, there’s still a soft glow coming from inside the lantern: the feather.

  It is hard to see the feather’s light now because of the powerful sunshine flooding the room, but it’s most definitely there. I open the lantern and take it out.

  The glow from the feather is very faint, but Grandma sees it too.

  “I’ll get some more oil when I take those fishermen over to the mainland,” she says. “Then we won’t need to use the feather tonight, Deryn. You should keep it. As a reminder of your friend.”

  I brush the feather against my cheek. It feels warm. I put it in my pocket.

  Grandma and I climb out onto the metal walkway that runs around the outside of the lantern room. Grandma hands me the flask and I unscrew its lid.

  “Goodbye, Tan,” I say. “And thank you.”

  I lean over the edge of the rail and pour the ashes out in a cloud of grey dust.

  A warm breeze whips the ashes away, and we watch as it carries them far out to sea.

  “That wind is special,” Grandma says. “It comes from the desert, but people say it carries a little stardust with it. A little magic.”

  I breathe the warm air. Grandma is right. It does smell faintly of magic.

  *

  After lunch, the two fishermen and the boy finally wake from their deep slumber and Grandma rows them over to the mainland in her boat.

  I find myself alone on the island once more. I sit in Dad’s chair in the
keeper’s office and aim his spyglass out of the window, watching the sea for Grandma’s return.

  In the late afternoon, she arrives back. She has brought a big barrel of oil with her for the lantern and fresh provisions for the cottage.

  “I checked on your mother and father and the baby while I was in town,” Grandma tells me as we roll the barrel of oil back to the lighthouse. “I spoke with the midwife too.”

  “And?” I ask. “How are they? How’s the baby?”

  “Doing a lot better,” Grandma says. “They named him Cyrus, like you suggested, Deryn. He’s a bonny lad, full of life. The midwife reckons your mum will need a couple more days to recover. Your dad’s decided to stay on with the pair of them. But as soon as your mum’s up and about they’ll all be back here to join us.”

  I don’t hear half of what Grandma’s saying, I’m just relieved that my baby brother is all right. His name is Cyrus, and he’s going to be fine!

  That night, alone in my room, I put Tan’s feather in a jam jar by my bedside. The light from it is very faint, but I can still read my book of fairy tales by it. It’s bright enough that when I want to go to sleep I have to throw a cloth over it. I call it my featherlight. When Cyrus gets home, I am going to show it to him.

  *

  Two days pass quickly. I go up to the top of the lighthouse tower with Grandma on the day Mum and Dad and Cyrus are due to arrive back, so we can see Dad’s boat bringing them across.

  I look into the spyglass, staring out to sea. Finally, I catch sight of the sail of Dad’s boat. It is weaving its way past the rocks and across the rolling blue water towards the island.

  The sun flashes on the boat’s sails, making it look as bright as a white cloud.

  I can see Mum and Dad together in the boat. Mum has something clasped to her chest. A tiny bundle of blankets. I can just make out a pink face beneath the folds of cloth.

  Cyrus. My new baby brother.

  I am about to hand the spyglass back to Grandma when I catch sight of something else in the sky. A light.