For Mum
and
For Dad
With love
Books by Sophie Kirtley
The Wild Way Home
The Way to Impossible Island
CONTENTS
Chapter One: Hart
Chapter Two: The Strand
Chapter Three: Hunting Days
Chapter Four: Bargain
Chapter Five: Not a Good Idea
Chapter Six: Secret
Chapter Seven: Trouble Girl
Chapter Eight: Voleboy
Chapter Nine: News
Chapter Ten: Choice
Chapter Eleven: River
Chapter Twelve: Cave
Chapter Thirteen: Danger-Boy
Chapter Fourteen: Wolfsong
Chapter Fifteen: True Legends
Chapter Sixteen: The Great Plain
Chapter Seventeen: The Wayward Way
Chapter Eighteen: Aurochs
Chapter Nineteen: Beast
Chapter Twenty: Yellow-Thorn
Chapter Twenty One: Banshee Moon
Chapter Twenty Two: Changed
Chapter Twenty Three: Door
Chapter Twenty Four: Boy
Chapter Twenty Five: Girl
Chapter Twenty Six: Dark Waters
Chapter Twenty Seven: Peagreen
Chapter Twenty Eight: Leap
Chapter Twenty Nine: Beneath
Chapter Thirty: Boat
Chapter Thirty One: Names
Chapter Thirty Two: Bymyside?
Chapter Thirty Three: The Swathe
Chapter Thirty Four: Big Water
Chapter Thirty Five: Oar
Chapter Thirty Six: Porpoises
Chapter Thirty Seven: Lighthouse
Chapter Thirty Eight: Mist
Chapter Thirty Nine: Wreck
Chapter Fourty: Waves
Chapter Fourty One: Cove
Chapter Fourty Two: Song
Chapter Fourty Three: Trapped
Chapter Fourty Four: Fire
Chapter Fourty Five: Rain Voice
Chapter Fourty Six: Big Cave
Chapter Fourty Seven: Smugglers
Chapter Fourty Eight: Waymarkers
Chapter Fourty Nine: Battles
Chapter Fifty: Tunnel
Chapter Fifty One: Fork
Chapter Fifty Two: Step-Step-Swoosh
Chapter Fifty Three: Tippa-Tippa-Tip
Chapter Fifty Four: Mothga
Chapter Fifty Five: Gloop
Chapter Fifty Six: Make Light
Chapter Fifty Seven: The Stacks
Chapter Fifty Eight: Lost and Found
Chapter Fifty Nine: Ow
Chapter Sixty: Fears
Chapter Sixty One: Home
Chapter Sixty Two: Hare
Chapter Sixty Three: Real Life
Chapter Sixty Four
Chapter Sixty Five
Chapter Sixty Six: Stranded
Chapter Sixty Seven: Calf
Chapter Sixty Eight: Beasts
Chapter Sixty Nine: Stealth
Chapter Seventy: Blood Trail
Chapter Seventy One: The Way
Chapter Seventy Two: Stories
Acknowledgements
Teaser
About the Author
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
W.B. Yeats, ‘The Stolen Child’
Mothgirl perched on a strong branch and peered out across the wide green forest, hoping for signs of her brother – a wisp of smoke perhaps; the splosh of his homeward paddle in the river water; the high cry of an arrow-struck boar …
But no. Trees were trees, as they always were. River was river. Wind was wind. ‘Where you, Hart?’ she whispered. Her brother had been gone for two moons now, and although Hart was a full-grown man, strong as a bear, brave as a wolf, still Mothgirl was afraid for him.
From high in her tree, she squinted out beyond the forest to the Great Plain; that was where Pa believed Hart had gone, to the hunting grounds where herds of aurochs roamed. ‘Your brother will return to us soon and we shall feast like never before,’ said Pa each sunfall, but as the days and nights passed, Mothgirl noticed that even Pa’s strong voice had begun to flicker with doubts. Even further off, beyond the flatlands of the Great Plain, Mothgirl could just make out the dark shape of Lathrin Mountain, jagged and bold on the shores of the Big Water.
‘Lathrin Mountain,’ she whispered. And she shuddered, pulling her white rabbit-skin close. In her mind Mothgirl heard the firestories Pa had told so many times about Lathrin Mountain and the restless spirits that roamed there.
‘Oh, Hart,’ she breathed. He had been gone too long. What if her brother had been snatched by spirits? Or what if strange clans had come, invaders, and taken her brother away with them to their far-ice-lands? Mothgirl squinted beyond that furthest, darkest place on the very edge of the land; her skin prickled.
A sharp yelp from the forest floor made Mothgirl’s heart jolt.
She glanced down to the foot of the tree. It was ByMySide; he was waiting there for her, watchful always. As his amber eyes met hers, Mothgirl’s wolf growled his soft warning signal.
Mothgirl listened full-eared; she could hear it too – the crunch and rustle of someone making their way towards them through the trees.
Swinging silently down, branch to branch, Mothgirl landed lightly next to her wolf. ByMySide nuzzled his girl softly. She nuzzled him back, then, silent as shadows, they edged towards the old yew tree by the clearing and slid together inside its hollow trunk.
The air in here smelt damp and sweetly rotten. Mothgirl crouched down low enough to peep through a little hole in the wood at whoever was coming. It had better not be one of Vulture’s clan, she thought; her eyes narrowed and her grip tightened on her spear. Resting her cheek on the soft warmth of ByMySide, she pulled the rabbit-skin cape tight around her shoulders, and she waited.
The rustling footfalls approached. Mothgirl breathed light, making ready to run … or to fight.
But as the figure moved into the circle of her peeping hole she saw that it was Pa. Only Pa!
Mothgirl breathed easy. She was about to emerge from her hiding place and walk with him, but she saw his spear was high – he was hunting. ‘Wait, my wolf,’ whispered Mothgirl, laying a steady hand on ByMySide’s neck.
Just then a brown hare lolloped into the clearing – old and slow. Mothgirl’s mouth watered at the easy meal; she felt ByMySide’s muscles tense as he shared her thinking. They waited for Pa’s swift spear to land.
But Pa’s spear hand wavered, tremblish and weak as he threw. Mothgirl’s eyes widened in astonishment; Pa’s strong spear had fallen foolishly short, like the spear of a small boy, not like the spear of a great hunter many summers old.
The hare vanished once more amongst the leaves. Mothgirl heard Pa swear under his breath.
She studied him closely: he retrieved his ill-thrown spear and walked on slowly up the hill: his breath rasped; the old hurt in his snake-bite foot made him lumber and hobble. A sudden truth hit Mothgirl, clear and sharp as ice – Pa was an old man now; his strength was fading.
A golden leaf twirled and fell. Soon the gentle green summer days would slip away and sharp winter would come; they would need to up and move their camp to the lake-lands as they did each year when the leaves started to fall. But could Pa still walk all that long long way? And what if Hart did not come back by next moon? They would need to leave for the lake-lands without him. Mothgirl’s eyes prickled with tears as she imagined Hart returning to find a cold fire, an empty camp. ByMySide sensed Mothgirl’s sadness and nuzzled her softly.
Suddenly ByMySide’s whole body stiffened;
his ears pricked and his neck fur stood on end.
A thin man ran, light-footed and shadow-fast, through the clearing. He was too quick-passing for Mothgirl to glimpse his face, but she could tell by his smell, which still hung bitter in the air, that the man had been wearing blood paint.
‘Vulture’s clan,’ she whispered in disgust.
Why was one of Vulture’s men hunting here? This was not their clan-lands! Angry now, Mothgirl slipped from the tree hollow and crept silently in the man’s wake. ByMySide kept so close to her she could feel the soft tickle of his grey fur on her bare legs; he knew stealth like she did and his wolf paws padded noiselessly in time with Mothgirl’s own feet.
They tracked Vulture’s man unseen until he had passed back, empty-handed at least, to his own clan-lands in the next valley. Mothgirl spat in the hollow of his footprint, narrowing her eyes. If Hart had been here, none of Vulture’s men would have dared to stray.
But Hart was not here.
Mothgirl swallowed; she looked towards the distant snake of smoke that rose from the trees across the next valley – Vulture’s camp. Did Vulture and his men know that Hart was gone, that only Pa and Mothgirl and Eelgirl and Owlboy were here now? Mothgirl shuddered – if they did know, then that meant danger. Big danger. ByMySide growled low and long, like coming thunder.
Dara climbed slowly up the tallest sand dune, letting the seagrass prick and tickle his bare legs. It was hard work; the sand was so powder-soft it slid down with his every up-step, but it was warm and delicious under his toes so Dara didn’t mind. Not one bit.
Reaching the top of the sand dune, he rested his palm for a moment on his thundering heart. A gust of swirling salt-fresh wind flung itself at Dara’s cheeks, like a whirl-about hug from a long-lost friend. He laughed aloud, breathless and triumphant. Flinging his arms wide, he let his T-shirt billow like a sail and he giggled again as the fast, wild air cooled his sticky skin.
Back at home the world felt all solid and real. Like it was held together with screws and nails and hinges. At home there were just the facts of things – he was Dara Merriam; he was twelve years old; he got up at 7.30 on schooldays, 8.30 at weekends; he liked bananas; he did not like pineapple; he always remembered to brush his teeth before bed and never forgot to take his pills. But here, by the sea, on holiday, all the facts of the world loosened and stretched and softened somehow. This morning he’d woken up at sunrise and gone outside in his bare feet beneath the pinkening sky, just to watch the world wake up, just because he could.
Dara grinned. Still panting, he gazed at the endless strand, a beach so big that when Dara was little they used to play that it was an actual desert; he and Charlie would trek across it pretending dogs were camels and even calling the sea a ‘mirage’. Dara stared out at the grey-green surging sea, far too vast and noisy and wild to ever be anyone’s illusion.
Squinting his eyes, Dara peered across the waves and drifting mist. On the far horizon, where grey sea met grey clouds, loomed the jagged, craggy shape of Lathrin Island. Wind-whipped; abandoned; wild.
‘Lathrin,’ whispered Dara, and even just the word made him tingle and shiver with longing.
After his operation, he was going to charge right down these dunes and run all the way to the harbour and leap straight into a rowing boat and row right out between the buoys all the way to Lathrin Island, single-handed, bold and brave. Dara had had it all planned out for as long as he could remember. He’d moor his boat on the island and explore all day, right until sunset, and then he’d set up camp and stay there all night too. Maybe, if he could keep his eyes open long enough, he’d even spot the Golden Hare. The Golden Hare – just imagine! A shiver of nervous hope and excitement danced up Dara’s spine.
Dara took a deep breath. Still a little shaky. Still a little tight. He swung his bag off his shoulders, unzipped the pocket, grabbed his inhaler and took a puff. He felt his lungs opening like blossoms. He felt his heart ease. He popped his puffer back into the pocket, quickly checking that his little brass hare was still in there. It was; he gave the hare a squeeze for luck, like he always did. Then he swung his bag back on his shoulders and half walked, half slid down the sand dune towards the water’s edge.
The damp sand was hard and cool on Dara’s bare feet. He looked behind him at his footprint trail. ‘Like a snail,’ he murmured, imagining the muddly mess that the world would be if everywhere we went we left a trail behind us. Lines on lines on lines like a spirograph picture. He thought about all the trails that would be here; all the trails of all the people who had walked here first; yesterday and last week and his own last-year footprints, and all the others too, spinning back and back through time, right back to the beginning when every grain of sand was a rock and every rock was a mountain and –
The soft splat of a raindrop hit Dara’s arm. He gazed out to sea at the ominous clouds rolling in from beyond the island. In the car on the way here Mum had said it might storm tonight. Dad had said ‘But it never rains at Carn Cottage!’ and they’d all laughed at that one.
Another raindrop landed, on Dara’s cheek this time. Dara heard Mum’s voice in his head; it was not a good idea to get soaked. He got his red raincoat out of his bag and put it on. He pulled his hood up and kept on walking. Rain pitter-pattered fast and noisy around his ears. He walked right out past where the hard sand was rippled like it still thought it was underwater.
Dara stood where the sand got sloppy and let his feet sink into the cool softness. He watched the out-to-sea waves rise up, fierce and lionish, before crashing down with a roar.
A brave little wave came rushing in, right over his sunken feet. Dara wriggled his toes and schlooped his feet out of their sand swamp. The rain was falling faster now, making tiny leaping ripples on the surface of the sea, like it was bubbling and fizzy almost.
Dara took three steps, edging deeper.
AAAAAAAAK-AAAAAAAK-AAAaaaak! taunted a pair of young herring gulls, grey as the sky and wheeling on the wind.
He stuck his tongue out at the gulls and took another step; a wave licked the hem of his shorts. He’d love to dive right in and swim. Dara looked over his shoulder; he could see Carn Cottage through the haze of the drizzle. Were Mum and Dad watching him nervously through the window? Swimming on his own was another thing that was not a good idea. Dara knew that. He sighed, wishing he could do all the daft and daring things that everybody else did, or even just the ordinary things.
Soon, he told himself. So soon. After the Big Op. Not long now.
Dara anchored himself and let the waves rush in around him. Just a bit. Not too much. He gazed out beyond the waves, to where Lathrin Island rose like a rugged dream from the wide grey sea. He bit his lip. ‘Soon,’ he whispered, and Dara almost thought he saw a tiny flash of brightness dart along the craggy summit of the island – the Golden Hare? He gasped and it was gone; quick and impossible as a shooting star.
A sound came then. From behind him. The wind and the waves and the rain whooshed and swooshed and tipple-tappled so noisily that Dara thought for a moment he was imagining it …
He blinked.
Pushing back his hood, he listened.
No. He hadn’t imagined it; there it was again:
A howl.
A howl so wild and lonely, the hairs on Dara’s neck prickled and his mouth gawped open as he peered through the mizzle along the endless empty strand looking for a dog; it must be a really big dog to howl like that.
The howl came again, from somewhere beyond the dunes.
Dara shivered; this wasn’t a dog howl. No way! This howl was different; this howl carved coldness into tunnels in his ears that he didn’t even know were there; this howl rippled itself deep in his blood and echoed in his bones.
He felt sick. He knew it was madness, but this howl was a wolf howl. Dara was sure of it.
But it didn’t make sense. There weren’t any wolves; not here; not now.
Another howl.
Dara’s heart fluttered like a moth in a jar.
He pulled his feet from the sucking sand and he ran.
Out there in the valley a lone wolf howl soared. ByMySide pricked his ears but he did not answer. Mothgirl was his family now; she laid a soft hand on ByMySide’s neck; she smoothed his fur, soothed him. But Mothgirl herself was far from soothed. Out in the forest howls answered howls answered howls and Mothgirl thought about what winter does to wild wolves when the hunger comes. Vulture was not the only danger if they did not up-camp and move to the lake-lands for the frozen months.
ByMySide licked her ankle. She ruffled his thick fur lovingly. ‘Wise wolf,’ she whispered in his ear. ByMySide knew the most important things: he knew not to think too long; he knew to be ready and to be swift. And he knew that he was Mothgirl’s and she was his.
Together they made their way to the riverbank, where Eelgirl and Owlboy played a game of jump-stones.
‘My papa come back?’ said Owlboy hopefully when he saw Mothgirl.
Mothgirl shook her head. She missed her brother, but Eelgirl and Owlboy missed Hart double-much. ‘Your papa come back soon,’ she answered in a certain-sounding voice, turning her face away in case Owlboy might see worry clouds in her eyes.
Mothgirl waded into the river to check the fish traps, but all were empty. As she stood in the cold, fast water, a leaf fell into the river and whirled off downstream … to the Great Plain … to the hunting grounds … to Lathrin Mountain … to Hart …
She wished she could go, paddle her own canoe all the way to the Big Water. Perhaps she could find her brother; perhaps she could bring him home.
‘Look me, Mothgirl! Look me!’ It was Eelgirl. As soon as she knew Mothgirl was watching, the small girl skimmed her jump-stone across the river. ‘One … two … three …’ She counted the stone’s small leaps aloud. ‘Ha!’ she declared triumphantly to her brother. ‘You throw a three-jump-stone, Owlboy?’
The little boy shrugged. ‘I not want play jump-stones,’ he said sadly, scratching a line in the mud with his toes. ‘I not throw good jump-stones. All my jump-stones broken.’
Mothgirl swallowed her smile. Poor Owlboy; he was the youngest, only four summers old. ‘Here, Owlboy,’ she called as she reached into the clear water. ‘Look this – this jump-stone not broken.’ She picked up a pebble, perfectly smooth and flat, and offered it to Owlboy. He splashed into the water and snatched it fast, solemn eyes flashing happy again.
The Way to Impossible Island Page 1
