The Way to Impossible Island

by Sophie Kirtley

  Owlboy readied the jump-stone, but just as he was about to send it skimming across the river, there was a shiver in the bracken and a young deer sprang suddenly out from the trees. They all froze.

  Silently, slowly, Mothgirl raised her spear, taking aim …

  She threw true, but the sudden whoosh of the spear startled the deer, who leaped away and plunged back into the undergrowth, with ByMySide charging after. Whooping wildly, Eelgirl ran to chase the chase, and Owlboy thrust the jump-stone back at Mothgirl before he scrambled after his sister, waving his small stick-spear in the air.

  Mothgirl slid the jump-stone into her waist pouch. Heart still pounding, she retrieved her empty spear and peered into the dim. She listened hungrily; if ByMySide caught that deer he would bring her back to camp and they would all eat well tonight. She longed to charge after them and join the hunt, but Mothgirl knew the hour was growing late; she had better go home and blow the fire aflame.

  As the sun sank lower, Eelgirl and Owlboy returned to camp, but not ByMySide. Mothgirl’s cooking stone was hot; she scooped splats of nutcake mixture on to it so that they sizzled.

  Mothgirl sighed, and peered out into the long forest shadows, her heart full of longing; this was the finest hour for a hunt, the hour when day turned to night. Mothgirl’s skin tingled as she imagined running, sharp spear in hand, and returning with more meat than they could eat! ‘Ha!’ she whispered proudly under her breath. She knew that she was a fine fine hunter; Hart had taught her all he knew. But she also knew that this was not enough. Even if she were the finest hunter that had ever breathed amongst these trees it could change nothing; she was a girl, a twelve-summers-old girl, and as the seasons turned her wild, fast-hearted hunting days slipped ever faster from her. Soon Pa would say it was time to call her Moth and not Mothgirl, and her days would become woman-days only, slow and dull as mud, filled only with making nutcakes and scraping deerskins and smoking meat upon the fire.

  A wisp of sweet smoke stung her eye, she rubbed it fiercely with her fist and flipped the nutcakes. If Hart was here he would let Mothgirl hunt even in her woman-days. He would say more hunters, more meat. But Hart was not here and Pa did not think fresh thoughts like Hart did. ‘Some things are done, Mothgirl,’ she mumbled crossly in a Pa voice. ‘And some things are simply not the way.’

  Mothgirl hung her head; her anger wilted into disappointment. Perhaps her hunting days were already behind her now?

  Since last winter when dearest Mole had gone to spirit sleep it was she, Mothgirl, who had prepared the nutcakes and bubbled the broths. Mothgirl’s woman-days had come too early.

  ‘Moth,’ she whispered, trying the taste of her own unworn woman-name. She scrinkled her nose. It tasted unready, like a hard green berry.

  Heart-heavy, Mothgirl gazed into the fire glow; she thought of things that are done and things that are not the way and her world clenched tight around her, like impossible vines. The smell, smoky and sweet, drifted up into the leaves, which flickered yellow in the gentle light.

  ‘Nutcakes ready soon, Mothgirl?’ called Eelgirl from her high-up perch on an elbow-bent branch.

  ‘Ready when ready, Eelgirl!’ Mothgirl answered grumpily. ‘If you hungry, you go help Owlboy pick berries. You six summers old, Eelgirl! You go fill your own belly.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Eelgirl, and she dropped a caterpillar on Mothgirl’s head.

  Mothgirl called out angrily as Eelgirl, still giggling like a chipmunk, leaped from the tree and ran up the hill. While the nutcakes cooked, Mothgirl picked hawthorn leaves and thought of Pa; a hawthorn poultice was good for steadying the breath. Perhaps with a poultice he could walk the long way to the winter camp, when Hart returned of course. As she filled her pouch with leaves, ByMySide came running out of the shadows.

  Mothgirl crouched and held out her palm; the wolf came to her. ‘Where is she?’ asked Mothgirl. ‘Where is our eating deer?’

  ByMySide just blinked at Mothgirl.

  Yes, sometimes ByMySide ate his fill first, but he always brought something home for the rest of them to share. That was just how they all lived: leaning on each other, needing each other, providing for each other. She rubbed her hand along his muzzle to check for blood, but there was none. The deer had got away.

  Mothgirl sighed, her belly rumbling. ByMySide nudged her shoulder with his wet nose.

  All of a moment Mothgirl smelt the burnt smell of too-cooked nutcake and she heard the familiar sound of Pa’s slow, heavy footfalls approaching through the forest. Mothgirl ran to tend the cooking stone and, just in time, flipped the nutcakes again before they charred. She could hear Pa’s rough breathing now, as he climbed through the grove; nearly home. But why did ByMySide not go running to Pa as he usually did?

  Mothgirl saw his hackles prickle as ByMySide growled softly.

  ‘What is it, my wolf?’ she whispered. Then she heard the other noises too.

  There were different footsteps further off, and a hiss of whispered voices – Pa was not alone, someone else was following him here.

  Mothgirl rose from the fireside, muscles tight with danger. She could not see Eelgirl, but Owlboy was near, so she made the owl-hoot signal, and when he looked to her, she put her finger to her lips; he hid himself amongst the brambles.

  ‘Go. Find Eelgirl!’ she whispered to ByMySide, and like a shadow he bounded off up the hill.

  Gripping her spear tightly, Mothgirl lifted the skins at the entrance to the hut and slipped quietly into the dark. She hid. She waited.

  In the darkness of the hut Mothgirl steadied her breath. She listened as Pa’s uneven footsteps approached their camp, then stopped; she heard the shift and crackle as he added more wood to the fire; she heard his weary sigh. Behind Pa’s noises, though, were other sounds: snapping branches; rustling bracken; whispers coming closer.

  ‘Hoooweeeee hoooowoooooooo! Hoooooweeee hooooooowooooooo!’ The bone whistle sounded from amongst the trees.

  Mothgirl felt relief and dread swirl uncomfortably together in her belly. It was Vulture’s clan; the bone whistle was their peace sign. Mothgirl lowered her spear, but she stayed hidden. Vulture and his men made her chest feel full of stones; they had sharp eyes which looked at her in a way she did not understand and did not like.

  She heard the crunch-crunch of Vulture’s footsteps through the leaves and the swoosh of his trailing long-cloak.

  Crunch-crunch-swoosh.

  Crunch-crunch-swoosh.

  ‘HOOOOOWEEEEE HOOOOOOWOOOOOOOOOO!’ The shriek of the bone whistle was close now. Vulture’s clan had arrived.

  ‘Peace to you, oh great Eagle, son of Bear, son of Proud Elk of the Fire Mountain! Peace upon you and your children and your children’s children …’ droned Vulture’s greeting chant.

  ‘Fish guts upon you, oh stinking Vulture,’ muttered Mothgirl, wrinkling up her nose; even from the hut she could smell the fleshy stench of the blood paint Vulture and his men always wore. Breathing through her mouth, she leaned forward and peered out through the gap between the skins.

  Vulture was half the man Pa was. He was wizened and shrunken like a dried crab apple, but he made up for his tiny real self with a cloak of longest, thickest bear skin and upon his face and chest and legs he striped himself with blood paint. To his clan, he looked magnificent. To Mothgirl, he simply looked like an untruth. A stinking untruth.

  ‘Peace to you, Vulture,’ said Pa’s voice.

  Mothgirl felt the heaviness of the silence as Vulture waited for Pa to chant a long greeting like Vulture had done. But Pa did not. And Mothgirl was proud. Pa might be old now, and even though he was not strong of body, he was certainly strong of will. She knew Pa only chanted for spirit song, when his spirit was truly lifted or truly lowered.

  Vulture was all noise and paint and untruth, and Pa was … Pa was simply Pa.

  ‘Come, Vulture,’ he said. ‘Sit by the fire. You are welcome here. Rest. Eat.’

  Vulture looked at the nutcake Pa offered as if it were a steaming wolf dropp
ing; he had no choice but to take it. Mothgirl seethed as he reluctantly nibbled her nutcake; all that hard work at the cooking stone had not been for the sneering lips of this painted fool!

  Vulture laid the half-eaten nutcake upon a stone and spoke, his voice high and wheedling. ‘Vulture does not come to you, this day, oh Eagle, to rest, to eat. No! Vulture comes with a bargain to make. Yes! Vulture comes with the promise of gifts: deerskins, meats, arrowheads. Oh, the great plenty, Eagle! Oh, the plenty!’ Vulture stood up and thrust his arms wide. ‘Behold!’

  Bone-whistle music whined once more, making Mothgirl wince, but still, she was curious and she drew closer to the gap between the skins to watch as Vulture’s men displayed their promises.

  ‘Behold!’ declared Vulture. A painted man knelt and unrolled not one, not two, but three deerskins, large and well-oiled.

  ‘Behold!’ cawed Vulture, and another of his clansmen swung a boar, fresh-killed and dripping, down from his shoulders to land with a thump at Pa’s feet. Pa blinked, but his face showed nothing of his thinkings.

  ‘Behold!’ shrieked Vulture, louder still. A skin-bound bundle of cured fish.

  ‘Behold!’ Two fine spears. One carved with an eagle. One carved with a hart.

  ‘Behold!’ Twelve sharp grey arrowheads, laid one by one in a line upon a rock.

  Then Vulture himself took a small pouch from his waist, and from it he emptied something into the palm of his hand, then gave his fist a rattly shake. ‘Behold!’ Mothgirl watched as Vulture poured the deerteeth on to the rock next to the arrowheads in a little white pile.

  Still Pa just sat, motionless as a rock in a river.

  Mothgirl saw a flash of frustration in Vulture’s face. Were all these promises falling on unhearing ears, on unseeing eyes? Vulture drew himself up to his tallest, adjusting his bearskin cloak. He nodded to the painted clan boy who played the bone whistle. The boy blew harder, his face red, the sound so high and pointed it hurt Mothgirl’s ears.

  Vulture opened his arms wide, his bearskin stretched taut like wings, revealing the knife he wore around his neck as a pendant. Mothgirl gasped; it was the finest knife she had ever seen – carved from an antler, it was as long as her arm, white as a new moon, sharp as lynx claw. She longed for the knife – oh, the fine fine hunting she could do with an antler knife like that! Vulture tugged the knife and its tie gave way. He walked close close to Pa. He held the point to Pa’s chest. The painful music stopped, with a sudden shriek.

  ‘Behold!’ hissed Vulture, quiet-voiced and dangerous.

  Pa did not move. The fire shifted, shooting up sparks.

  Vulture snatched Pa’s hand and pressed the holding place of the knife into Pa’s palm. ‘Yours, oh Eagle! All yours!’ His voice dripped like honey. ‘Behold, Eagle, behold the great plenty!’

  Pa held Vulture’s gaze. Mothgirl held her breath.

  Pa laid the antler knife upon the rock. At last he spoke. ‘Yes, Vulture. I see these fine gifts. Yet you say you come to me with a bargain. I do not see what you ask of me in return.’

  Vulture gave another nod to the red-faced flute boy who took a deep breath and lifted his bone whistle once more …

  ‘No,’ said Pa. ‘No music. Enough!’

  ‘Pooooop!’ went the boy’s bone whistle as, in his surprise, he sucked air into it by mistake. Mothgirl giggled, in spite of herself, and she saw a giggle sparkle in the painted boy’s eyes too.

  Vulture’s eyes, on the other hand, flashed only with menace. ‘Very well,’ he murmured. ‘Very well, Eagle. You behold how Vulture is kind. You behold how kind, kind Vulture brings the great, great plenty. It is much, Eagle! Perhaps … too much … perhaps Vulture is too kind … perhaps …’

  ‘Speak plain, Vulture. What is it you want from me?’

  Vulture closed his eyes. Opened them again. And for the first time, he smiled; his teeth were sharpened to fine white points.

  He whispered, but Mothgirl heard his hissed words.

  ‘Vulture wants your daughter, Eagle. Vulture wants your daughter.’

  The wolf howled again.

  Dara ran faster, bare feet slapping on the hard, wet sand. In his brain, Dara knew running was not a good idea; he knew that a wolf was not possible. But his ears heard what they heard and, in the dizzy frenzy of fear, his arms and legs and muscles just did what they did.

  Rain stung his cheeks and his heart beat like thunder and wind whistled, high and flute-ish in his ears. For a tiny minute, Dara’s fear melted with the astonishment of his own quickness – he felt electric blue like an eel in dark water, fast and free and wildly alive. Fearless. Wolf-proof. Like he could run and run on this huge beach forever.

  His fear cracked like an eggshell and fell from him in fragments; he laughed aloud, a strange mad cackle; he didn’t even sound like himself.

  Then his laugh became choked, tangled, a cough. His feet got heavier. Slowed and stopped. Dara wasn’t running any more.

  He was bent double, panting. He closed his eyes as his heart stampeded in the rhythm of a hundred galloping hooves.

  Dara felt his legs go all loose like cooked spaghetti, crumpling under his weight. The sand was sugar-soft, Dara noticed, as he fell to his knees.

  The whole grey world was spinning, like he was stuck in a whirling machine full of pencil-drawn candyfloss. Dara felt the tilt of it. He was losing his balance; he tried to put his arms out to save himself, but his arms were spaghetti too. Very, very slowly Dara saw the pale sand rush towards him. He closed his eyes and mouth and heard the soft thud-crunch of his own face landing. Then, seconds later, he felt the damp grainy coolness on his cheek.

  In his brain, he knew he should move. Get up. Find his puffer. Get help. But his body wasn’t listening. Like it had lost its signal. He couldn’t even lift his hand to wipe the sand out of his eyes.

  Daaaaaraaaaa!

  A noise, far off. A howl? The wolf?

  Daaaaraaaaaa!

  Or was it … a voice?

  Daaaaraaaaaa!

  Yes … a voice. Calling his name?

  Dara squinted through his sand-dusted eyes, getting his bearings. He was lying in a little hollow by a gorse bush, right at the foot of the dunes.

  Daaaaraaaaaa!

  Dad?

  He took a big shaky breath. He could feel his heartbeat steadying, catching up with itself again.

  He wriggled his fingers.

  He wriggled his toes.

  He spat sand from his mouth.

  He was … OK …

  Was he … OK?

  Daaaaraaaaaa!

  Dad! Definitely Dad.

  Dara opened his mouth to call back, but suddenly he snapped it shut. Dad couldn’t find him like this! He’d know he’d been running; he’d be in heaps of trouble. Dara could almost imagine Dad’s voice already: disappointed, cross, worried all at once: You’ve taken it one step too far, Dara.

  Carefully, Dara pushed himself to sitting, very, very slowly like he was as delicate and fragile as a boy spun from glass. Dad would never believe that Dara was trying to run away from a wolf.

  ‘A wolf?’ whispered Dara, his voice so husky he sounded like a cartoon baddie. Suddenly Dara wondered if he believed himself. What wolf?

  Dara peered along the long, long beach. Only a distant dog walker in a yellow jacket and far off on the jetty by the Old Boatshed, a fisherman stood, just a grey silhouette, almost blended in to the waves and the drizzle.

  There was no stupid wolf. What had he been thinking?

  With shaky hands he unzipped his bag and took his puffer from its pocket. He breathed. He was fine. He was fine. Dara took another puff. He was fine.

  ‘Daaaaaraaaa!’ Dad’s voice was close now.

  Dara staggered to his feet. Trying to look casual, he brushed the sand from his face with his T-shirt but his T-shirt was sandy too. He squinted up to the top of the sand dune just as Dad’s head popped over its crest – Dad looked like a little lost meerkat. From nowhere, Dara started to giggle. But his giggle turned in
to a snort, into a breathless wheezy bent-double cough.

  ‘Daaaraaaa!’ Dad came charging down the dune towards Dara, clouds of sand rising up behind him. ‘Dara! You’re pale as a mushroom. I saw you running like your life depended on it. What happened out there? Are you all right?’

  Dara couldn’t hide it. He couldn’t pretend. He couldn’t even speak.

  ‘Oh, Dara, love.’ Dad put his arm around him.

  Somehow the warm comfort of it made Dara start to cry. Gulping, breathless sobs.

  ‘Oh, love,’ said Dad again, his eyes full of kindness and pity. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  Dara felt little. Little and pathetic. He rubbed angrily at his eyes with scratchy, sandy fingers.

  He wanted to wriggle out of Dad’s hug. He wanted to say, ‘No thanks, Dad. I’ll get myself home. I don’t need your help.’ But he still couldn’t speak. And he couldn’t walk properly either. His legs were still all wobbly.

  Reluctant and angry and sad, Dara leaned on Dad and Dad half carried him really as, slowly, slowly, they made their way through the dunes towards the cottage.

  When he woke up, Dara felt a tightness across his cheeks, strangely familiar, like a memory, like an old friend. His eyes flickered open and he remembered that he was wearing Darth, his oxygen mask; he hadn’t had to wear Darth since last winter. Dara rubbed his eyes and glanced out of the window; he couldn’t tell how long he’d been asleep, but it was still only afternoon. Dara lay back and breathed Darth’s air, it tasted cooler and bluer and fuller than ordinary air.

  Dara listened. They were arguing downstairs, Mum and Dad. The edges of their voices poked through the whirring hum of Dara’s oxygen machine, like spiky feathers through a pillow. He couldn’t hear the words but he knew they were arguing about him; he knew it was his fault.

  Years ago, when he was eight or nine even, it would’ve been fine – to run like that, just for a minute or two. But not any more. Now he needed to walk everywhere ploddishly just like Nero, the old dog who lived next door, back at Mandel. Sometimes Margot let Dara take Nero for a walk in the forest after school; they had to stick to the top path though because Nero had a bad hip so he struggled with steps now. Dara smiled bitterly; he struggled with steps too, to be honest. Like an old grey-whiskered dog! he thought to himself glumly.