But the clans from the far-ice-lands were danger clans – vicious and cruel. They had strong, strange spirit powers and hearts cold as snow. Mothgirl shuddered. Had a man from the far-ice-lands stepped here where Carn Hill met the Great Plain? And if indeed he had, then was he here still?
She stood slowly, tightening her spear grip, and, for the first time since she and ByMySide had crawled from beneath the yellow-thorn bush, Mothgirl looked out across the Great Plain. She staggered backwards, gasping at what she saw.
Where once there was dusty red earth and tangle-grass and yellow-thorn, where once there was aurochs herd, and rabbit burrow and a wide slow river … now – now – the Great Plain had vanished.
She shook her head in astonishment, her legs weak as grass. For as far as she could see stretched the moon-shimmered vastness of the Big Water. That whispering wind: it was not wind at all; it was the Big Water filling the air with its own noisy breath!
And Lathrin Mountain? She blinked at its looming shadow crags, out there on the edge of everything. Lathrin Mountain was no longer itself at all. It was … an island. An impossible island.
Mothgirl felt her throat close in terror. How could this be? How could this be?
She turned slowly, weak as ash, and in the pale grey moonlight Mothgirl saw that all her world was changed.
Small lights twinkled everywhere, some moving, some still, like the very stars had tumbled from the sky.
As Mothgirl gazed back at the way she had journeyed, she felt bitter sickness rise in her throat. Because … oh … what had become of her forest? Where were all the trees? Where were the forest creatures? Where were the deer and the boar and the bears? Where were the soaring eagles and the leaping lynx? Where was her home?
A bird circled white in the dark sky above her; ACCCCKKK-ACCCCKKKK-ACCCCKKK! it called, and Mothgirl shuddered at the remembering of Vulture’s cruel laughter.
A slow-spreading tingle crept though Mothgirl’s bones; cold as fear; hot as anger. She wiped her eyes with her arm, then she started to run. Dizzy and stumbling, she ran through the sandhills, shaping the make-safe circle with her fingers at all that was bright and noisy and new. How? How could everything simply be … gone? She needed to understand.
But most of all she needed to hide.
ACCCCKKK-ACCCCKKKK-ACCCCKKK! taunted a gull wheeling in the blue-dark sky.
‘Shut up!’ mumbled Dara, rubbing roughly at his furious, disappointed tears with the back of his hand. Through the blur he saw stupid Lathrin Island, always there, just out of reach, like it mocked him. Dara turned his face away, bitter and ashamed.
He trudged back along the Wayward Way, his life-jacket straps flipping and wriggling around him like sail ropes in the wind. He stomped down the path and round the bend to the Old Boatshed and …
Dara froze.
The door of the boatshed was open. It swung in the wind on squeaky hinges. He knew he had closed it earlier. He remembered the bang of it, loud enough to frighten those birds. He was one hundred per cent certain – that door had definitely, double definitely, been closed.
An icy chill sneaked through him. So why was it open now?
He blinked. No light came from the boatshed.
He listened. No noise either. Just the surge of the waves and the whoosh of the wind.
Squinting his eyes to see better, Dara left the path and crept through the spiky grasses towards the Old Boatshed. He tiptoed closer. Alongside the building now, he peeked through the filthy salt-smeared window. Inside was darkest dark.
Dara shivered. Silly. It was silly to be afraid. He gave himself a little shake. All he had to do was pop the life jacket back, then he could head home and crawl under the covers and give up on stupid everything.
Slowly and silently he crept round to the front of the boatshed, where the door still swung like a loose tooth. Dry mouthed, he peered in through the dark gap.
All was still and dim and so silent he could hear the sound of his own breath. Silly. There was nothing in there. He had nothing to be afraid of. He glanced up towards the darkness of the owl roost; not wanting to disturb her again, he didn’t flick on his torch this time. His eyes would adjust.
Cautiously, slowly, Dara stepped inside.
Dara blinked in the darkness. It smelt like weather-worn wood and salt and night, familiar and secretive.
‘Hello?’ he whispered. ‘Is there anybody in here?’
No answer. Just the squeaky-squeak of the door in the breeze. He took another step. He held his breath, listening.
His blood froze.
From deep in the darkness of the boatshed Dara could hear the soft sound of someone breathing.
‘Who are you?’ he squeaked. ‘Who’s there?’
Mothgirl did not understand. She stayed low and still, watching the boy who stood in the moonlight at the entrance to the wooden hut, just a small spear throw ahead of her.
The boy’s hair was short as lynx fur! And, although he seemed no taller than she was, his shadow chest was puffed up, impossibly broad and strong, and from it dangled thin snakes that danced and wriggled all around him. She glanced at his feet, remembering the tracks in the sand – foot deerskins! He was wearing foot deerskins!
The strange boy spoke his strange words again, louder now. ‘OOO-WAAA-WOOO? OOO-S-AIR?’
And though the words had no meaning to her, Mothgirl made their shapes with silent lips. And suddenly Mothgirl understood what had happened; it all fell into place like fragments of a shattered rock pieced together once more.
This strange boy was an invader from the far-ice-lands! It was he who had made the Great Plain vanish and it was he who had turned Lathrin Mountain into an island! She trembled in the dark, shaping the make-safe circle with one hand and tight-grasping her spear with the other. The invader had spirit powers but, she gave silent thanks, he did not have night sight it seemed, for he had not seen her … yet.
Fear pounded in her heart as the invader took another step towards her in the dark. And another. Her mouth went dry. She needed to escape. But how?
The invader stepped forward once more, but his deer-skinned foot caught on something and he fell on to his knees with a shout and a crash of falling sticks. Mothgirl saw her chance.
All of a rush, she leaped to her feet and sped, lightning-quick, out of the dimness of the hut and into the bright moonlight. Dazzled and dizzy with fear she ran forward; away! Away! Her feet slapping the hard, damp ground, she looked back over her shoulder, and then droplets splashed and she felt the cold on her ankles and Mothgirl gasped.
No! She had run straight into the Big Water. She paused, breathless and terrified as the wind tossed her hair and stung her cheeks.
Before her were the white-froth, night-blue waves.
But behind her loomed the invader from the far-ice-lands. He waved his arms at her and shouted his dreadful words that moved waters and shrank mountains and made stars come tumbling down from the skies.
Mothgirl screamed in terror and ran forward into the dark coldness of the wild waves.
Dara’s eyes widened. He waved frantically at the girl. ‘Stop!’ he called. ‘STOP!’
But the girl in the sea didn’t listen. She ran-stumble-splashed down the slipway into the dark water.
‘STOP! PLEASE!’ he yelled, waving at her frantically. ‘YOU CAN’T SWIM HERE! IT’S DANGEROUS!’
Either the girl didn’t hear or didn’t care; she just glanced over her shoulder and hurried faster, deeper, slipping and stumbling forward until only her top half was above the waves, the pale cloak she wore across her shoulders bright in the dark water. What was she thinking?
Everyone knew the currents were fierce and unpredictable if you went too deep. Dad said that even in a boat it was almost impossible if you weren’t following the route between the buoys. Dara’s skin prickled with fear; what was he supposed to do?
He stared helplessly up the strand – but the long beach was smooth and silver and empty. He couldn’t get all the way to t
he harbour in time. Fumbling desperately in his backpack, Dara pulled out his phone. No signal at all! He flung it back into his bag and ran out on to the little jetty. Half hidden beneath it, a tired little boat bobbed in the dark.
The girl was kind of swimming now, but a weird splashy doggy-paddle, like she couldn’t even swim properly.
‘Come back!’ called Dara, his voice a weak squawk in the wind.
The girl went deeper and deeper, beyond the jetty, away from the buoys.
Dara stared in powerless horror as a big dark wave pulled itself up to enormous hugeness just in front of the girl. It was about to break! Dara couldn’t bear to watch … but he couldn’t look away either.
The wave lifted the girl high upon it, up, up, until she vanished clean over the top, then the wave broke, crashing with such force that Dara gasped.
Where was she?
As the white foam and spray slowly settled, Dara saw her small dark head come bobbing to the surface.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Swim back this way! Please! You have to get out of the water!’
If she didn’t, then another big wave like that one could push her under, or snap her clean in two. Next time she might not be that lucky.
Then Dara saw another dark shape amongst the froth and the waves – less far out; swimming ashore it seemed. Was it a seal?
But as the shape reached the slipway, Dara realised that it wasn’t a seal; it was a dog. Dara swallowed. It was the huge dog he’d seen on the dunes through the boatshed window.
The dog ran out of the sea up the slipway; he didn’t look quite so enormous now that he’d been in the water, his wet fur clumped into little hedgehog spikes. But still Dara started backing away slowly as the dog ran at him, claws skittering noisily on the slippy wood of the jetty.
Dara heard the clonk of the dog dropping something at his feet. Then the dog looked at him, expectant eyes amber like fire. Dara bent and picked up the something. He stared at it in astonishment – it was his hare, his little brass hare, the hare that he’d thought was safely tucked in his backpack.
‘What the …’ He shook his head at the huge dog in astonishment. ‘How did you get my h—’
But before he could finish, the dog had fastened his teeth on to the hem of Dara’s hoody and was tugging at him.
‘Get off!’ said Dara, shoving the hare into his pocket and trying to pull his hoody away. The dog’s teeth were bigger than any other dog’s teeth he’d ever seen – they looked like proper fangs. Dara staggered back, afraid, but the dog held on, tugging again and again at his top.
Finally the dog released him and, opening his fangy jaws wide, he made a noise which froze Dara’s bones to their very marrow: it was the wild low cry he’d heard on the strand that afternoon; it was … a howl. A howl so hollow and so wild that Dara’s helpless shudder told him the truth, clear as air.
This was not a dog; this was a wolf.
And this was not his imagination. The wolf was as real as he was; Dara could smell his wet fur and his hot breath. What was an actual wolf doing here?
The wolf made a noise deep in his throat and looked at Dara for a long blink of time, his golden eyes so heartsore and fiery that Dara could read them like a story: the wolf was asking him to help the girl. Because if he didn’t, then she was going to drown.
Mothgirl’s head sank beneath the waters.
Roar and tumble.
Writhe and thrash and shriek and howl.
Wolf howl?
ByMySide?
Mothgirl’s face broke the surface
GASP
Stinging breath
Not enough
Big water, angry, darker than a bear, tall like a mountain
How?
GASP
How could this be only water?
The wave, grew, loomed, peaked …
… crashed
… smashed
… spun her around
… pressed her down
… down
… down
… dark
… down
… deep
… down
… silent …
Make light, said Hart’s lost voice
I cannot, she answered in the dark
Mothgirl breathed out.
Her last breath,
a bubble
moonbright,
floated up …
through the dark water …
up …
up …
and was gone …
This was more than not a good idea. This was a truly terrible idea. Dara knew it already as he untied the stinking, weed-slimed rope from its mooring ring. He didn’t know how to launch a boat or row a boat or steer a boat or anything, but terrible idea or not, it was his only idea. And he had to act fast or the girl would get swallowed up by the sea and that would be the most terrible thing of all.
He felt the tug on the rope as the waves lifted the boat and dropped her again. He squinted at the faded writing on the hull of the battered old boat. ‘Peagreen!’ he said aloud. Like in that poem ‘The Owl and the Pussy-Cat’ that they’d learned off by heart in school.
But Dara didn’t have time to think about it; Peagreen seemed seaworthy … ish.
Dara left the rope looped loosely around the mooring ring while he climbed down the ladder and stepped into the boat. The bow lifted up with his weight and cold fear surged through him. Dara swallowed. Gingerly he shifted to sit on the little board bench in the middle of the boat and it all balanced up again.
He could feel the wolf watching him from the top of the ladder as he fixed the oars in their rowlocks. Dara looked up and met his golden gleaming eyes. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said to the wolf, and he pulled on the rope, tugging it free from the mooring. The rope slapped down on to the floor of the boat and almost immediately Peagreen started drifting away from the safety of the jetty, towards the wild waters beyond where the girl was –
Hang on – where was the girl?
Dara craned his neck and peered desperately into the night, scanning the rising-falling dark waves for her. But, nothing. Was he already too late?
With a sudden wood-splintering crash the boat lurched, the stern dipping dangerously low in the water. Dara screamed as he was flung forward on to the floor. Had he hit something? He turned around, dazed, and came eye to eye with the wolf.
‘What – ? How – ?’ stammered Dara, clambering back into his seat. ‘Did you just jump off the jetty?’
The wolf simply blinked and made his whining noise, which Dara now understood. His noise meant: Come on! Hurry up! Find my girl!
Dara twisted his head and fixed his gaze upon the spot where he’d last seen the girl; he grabbed the oars and he pulled. All those times he’d watched longingly from the shore as Dad and Charlie went out on fishing trips in the little dinghy – he could do it. Leaning forward, he lifted the oars clean out of the water and, leaning back, he pulled again.
The boat cut through the water; it was working – he was doing it! The sea splattered his cheeks and soaked his arms; the wind whirled his hair. The wolf was at the bow of the boat now, nose forward, like a furry, fangy figurehead. And Dara, he was actually rowing into Lathrin Strait – just like he’d always wanted to do. He plunged in the oars and heaved.
The sea was getting rougher as they moved further from the jetty; the little boat lifted up, up, up, and dipped suddenly down. Dara felt the lurch in his belly. They climbed another wave; from the summit Dara stared wildly around, searching for the girl, but he could see no trace of her – only water; only darkness. Dread prickled sickly beneath his skin. The wolf was making his desperate whimpering noise, scanning the water too … but … nothing …
Hang on – what was that? Something was floating over there in the water …
Peagreen plunged from the top of the wave with such force that the bow dipped into the swirling water. The wolf leaped back, his claws scrabbling on the floor; Dara clasped the side of the boat and dug his h
eels in to stop himself from falling. The boat righted itself, but water sloshed and rolled in a little mini-sea of its own over Dara’s feet.
Dara peered frantically into the water, looking for the dim shape he’d too-briefly seen bobbing on the moonlit surface.
‘Hey!’ he screeched into the crash of waves and the roar of wind. ‘Where are you? Hey!’
But no answer came.
Then Dara saw the shape again, floating on the surface. The wolf barked in short, harsh yarps as Dara heaved on the oars. Bringing them closer. Closer. Until they were right alongside.
But it was not the girl at all.
It was her little fur cape, the one she’d worn around her shoulders. It floated on the dark water, empty and forlorn.
‘Nononono!’ said Dara, leaning out of the boat to try and catch the bedraggled cape. But a wave snatched it from him, plunging it under. As Dara withdrew his hand he realised how much he was shaking.
Wiping sea spray from his cheeks and eyes, Dara noticed how the wolf’s front legs were trembling too as he leaned forward, peering desperately into the churning water.
From nowhere, a huge dark wave crashed into the other side of the boat; water gushed in and Dara gripped the bench as Peagreen rocked violently from side to side. Dara could see another monster of a wave building; he had to turn the boat around to face it before the wave broke. He paddled ferociously and the boat started to twist. Then from behind him the wolf suddenly began to bark.
‘It’s all right,’ gasped Dara. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve seen that wave. I’m turning! I’m turning!’
But the wolf kept barking, frenzied and urgent. Dara felt a tug on his hoody; he looked down; the wolf was pulling at him.
‘Get off me!’ He yanked his hoody away. Then his eyes met the wolf’s eyes and suddenly he understood. ‘What? Where? Where is sh—’
The Way to Impossible Island Page 7
