Dara grinned and sighed a slow sigh. He could feel a tightness in his breath that he didn’t like but that he understood. He’d be able to take his morning tablets soon. ‘Pink Pills of Power,’ he muttered, and he bit his lip. It really was time to go home. Dara just wasn’t sure exactly how.
Small lights moved in the harbour; fishermen probably – up early. Maybe he could shout and wave and they’d see him and come out to the island and rescue him.
Then he remembered Mothga and her lost brother. ‘Make light and I will find you!’ he whispered. That was it. He rummaged in his backpack for his torch. He could signal with it from up here at Owl Rock and they’d be sure to notice –
Oh. Dara remembered that he’d traded his water-poo-tosh for Mothga’s fire stones. He took the two flints in his hand and looked at them. ‘Not a good idea,’ he muttered.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fishing boat start to edge out of the harbour, taking the route between the buoys; he had no time to lose.
He tried to remember what Mothga had done. He gathered a small tangle of dry grass and put it on the mossy ground. Then, bending close over it, he struck and struck and struck the flints together.
Nothing. Not even the tiniest spark.
Dara looked up and saw the fishing boat start to pick up speed. No!
He struck the flints together faster and more frantically than ever. Suddenly a tiny spark leaped like a fairy from the flint to the grass. ‘Yes!’ hissed Dara, remembering what to do. Picking up the little nest of grass, he blew and blew on it until it smouldered and a tiny red glow shone out from the heart of it. He laid it on the ground again and fed the fire with thicker stems of grass now, sheltering the tiny fire from the wind with his hands. Smoke billowed and Dara looked for the fishing boat. It was nearly at the headland by Owl Rock.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, waving his arms. ‘Up here! Help!’
Dara fed the little fire some more grass stems, but when he looked back to the fishing boat it was already beyond the headland, with Owl Rock behind it.
‘Come back!’ cried Dara, waving as the boat chugged further and further out into the sea beyond the island.
Dara slumped down, leaning on Owl Rock, feeling the familiar clench of his chest. He was stranded.
From over at the harbour Dara heard the church bells dong seven o’clock. He shook his head, putting another twig on the fire. He’d give it till about 8.30 before Mum and Dad went into his room and found he wasn’t there and worried themselves sick. He bit his lip guiltily.
They’d call the police. And the ambulance. And the fire brigade.
He’d have to sit out here on Lathrin Island with his stupid little fire, listening to the sirens, watching the blue lights flashing back on the mainland. What a mess!
Mum would be crying and Dad would be crying. They might even go on the news and do one of those awful interviews asking for help. The ones where when Dad watched them his eyes welled up and he said, ‘Oh, those poor people.’
Dara felt like crying too, just thinking about it. But he didn’t cry. He just sat still as still, leaning on Owl Rock, doing his breathing exercises and trying not to think about his heart that fluttered and flitted in his chest, nervous as a trapped bird.
He unzipped the pocket of his bag, had a puff of the puffer and slid it back in its place. Dara’s head was swimming. He lay curled up on the soft moss and closed his eyes.
Dara didn’t see the final wisp of smoke from his fire twist its way into the bright morning air.
Dara didn’t see the white fishing boat turn in a churning circle in the glittering water and chug into the island’s small harbour.
Dara didn’t see a black-and-white collie called Mackerel come charging up to Owl Rock or feel her lick his face.
Dara didn’t hear Mackerel bark and bark and bark until her owner caught up with her.
Dara didn’t feel the fisherman press his big trembling fingers to Dara’s wrist and feel for his pulse.
Dara didn’t hear the fisherman’s mumbled prayer as he turned and ran back like lightning to his boat and called ‘Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!’ desperately into his radio.
Mothgirl walked into the cool green dark of the trees. The familiar smell of moss and leaf rot filled her and she smiled. She stopped walking and readjusted the deer skull she carried in her arms; it was heavy and the antlers tangled themselves in the creepers. Mothgirl rolled her eyes; how did deer ever manage to walk anywhere with these foolish things on their heads?
She heard a noise. She froze to listen; it was a soft, sad cry. ByMySide growled at the sound.
‘Be still, my wolf,’ she whispered. ‘I need listen.’
The cry was coming from back on the fringes of the Great Plain; Mothgirl turned and peered back the way they had come. There, nestled in a hollow at the root of a tree, she could see a small furrish shape. She walked closer and the shape lifted its head and made its small sad cry again. It was an aurochs calf, left behind by the herd.
Mothgirl went to walk on. The aurochs calf would be too small for good eating; more bones than flesh. ByMySide pawed her leg; he made the small noise that spoke Mine, Mothgirl. Mine! Mine!
‘You find your lost voice, my wolf – now that you are hungry! Go then, ByMySide! Eat your fill.’ She tossed her head and ByMySide trotted back to where the calf lay. As she walked on, Mothgirl heard the small cry stop, and presently the footfalls of ByMySide padded along behind her once more.
But still the foolish antlers twisted themselves in vines and bracken. She paused for the eleventeenth time and glanced at ByMySide. Then she gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth.
A small laugh escaped her lips.
‘What do you do, strange wolf?’ she said, shaking her head.
ByMySide looked at Mothgirl shyly, then quick he looked away, for in his sharp white jaws was the aurochs calf. Unharmed. Asleep. ByMySide gripped him gently, as if he was a small small wolf cub.
‘ByMySide!’ smiled Mothgirl. ‘Why you want that small small calf?’ But as she asked the question she thought once more of the ows on the island and a brave new idea began to shape itself in her mind.
They walked together, following the path of the river, each carrying their own special burden. As she passed the cave where she had sheltered with Voleboy, Mothgirl peered into its darkness. ‘Voleboy,’ she hissed. But he was no longer there. A strange pang struck her and she was surprised by it. She sighed, wondering what would have become of them had she said yes to Voleboy’s request to journey with her. Being Mothgirl alone felt natural then. But now, since Daramurrum, she felt an unfamiliar longing for the company of friends.
As Mothgirl drew closer to her home, her feet felt heavier and a sick sense of dread gnawed in the pit of her belly. Terrible possibilities writhed like vipers in her mind. Cruel-eyed Vulture was capable of horrors, she had known that since always. And Pa … She had disappointed Pa; she had not behaved in the way he believed was right; Pa might turn his back to her, not welcome her with warm arms. And Hart. Oh, Hart. She could not let herself forget that no matter how hard she had looked, she had not found her own lost brother.
She passed the rapids and after the rushing racket of their fast water she heard new noises in the stillness of the evening forest. Shouts came from high on the hill by the Spirit Stone. Mothgirl listened hard for the warm lilt of familiar voices.
But her heart turned sudden-cold. ‘No!’ she breathed, her voice just a small squeak as the forest echoed with the cruel ACK-ACK-ACK of Vulture’s laughter.
Mothgirl felt her hands start to tremble. Another noise came then. The soft sad cry of the aurochs calf. ‘ByMySide,’ she whispered, stroking her wolf’s soft head. ‘This small small aurochs will fall to spirit sleep, dear wolf. He has no ma aurochs to give him milk.’
Her wolf laid the small creature down on the earth and went to drink from a river pool. Mothgirl watched as the aurochs calf followed ByMySide with his brown eyes, then stood on knobble-kneed legs and te
etered after the wolf, taking shelter between his grey legs. Mothgirl sighed; she took pity and plucked milk flowers. Lifting the small warm calf in her arms, she fed them to him, one by one, until he slept once more.
‘We need hide this calf,’ said Mothgirl. She shuddered, knowing that if Vulture found him, he would surely drain the calf’s blood to paint upon his own shrivelled face. So Mothgirl and ByMySide climbed to the clearing on the hill and tucked the aurochs calf into the hollow yew tree – a snug little nest.
Mothgirl glanced towards the Spirit Stone, to where a thin lick of smoke drifted skyward. Darkness was falling; fish were sizzling; firestories were being told.
Taking a big breath, Mothgirl made fists of her hands as she summoned every scrap of her strength and courage. She was spearless. She was small. She was afraid. But she was stubborn as stone and full-spirit-bright. She had crossed the Big Water. She had walked upon Lathrin Mountain. She had seen things that would make Vulture and his men melt with fear.
Mothgirl had an idea. All that she loved most depended on it. She trembled.
‘I oak-ee,’ she whispered to herself. Then, stealthy as a shadow, with her wolf at her heel, Mothgirl crept towards her camp.
Mothgirl entered the grove and peeped between the branches. Home did not look like home. The fire blazed unruly, and upon the ground all around it lay bones and nutshells, discarded and unkempt. Two painted men crouched upon rocks by the fireside; Mothgirl could hear only fragments of their words: boasts of whose spear was the sharpest, whose arrow had made the most kills. She recognised their voices though; these were the men who had come hunting for her when she was hidden with Voleboy in the cave. She swallowed.
Where was her family? Away from the fireside all was shadows. Mothgirl squinted into the dark. Her heart leaped as she recognised the familiar skip of Eelgirl coming fast from the berry thicket. Mischievous, meddlesome, dearest Eelgirl! Joy rushed through Mothgirl so strongly she had to stop herself from running straight to Eelgirl and wrapping her tight in her arms. Eelgirl ran to the fireside and Mothgirl suddenly noticed another figure seated there – a figure so thickly draped in furs that he resembled a bear more than a person. A shiver of fear and repulsion crept through Mothgirl’s bones.
Vulture.
Mothgirl watched as Eelgirl knelt before him, her cupped hands outstretched.
His thin wheedling voice cut sharp through the evening air. ‘What do you bring for Vulture, fool girl?’ His shadowy shape leaned forward to peer into the child’s hands.
‘Gah!’ He spoke through his teeth in small sharp stabs. ‘You – bring – Vul-ture – six – small – bit-ter – berries!’ He grasped Eelgirl’s wrist.
Mothgirl winced, hearing her cry of pain.
‘You have eaten all the sweet berries. You have feasted alone in the shadows.’ His voice rose high into the night. ‘And now you return to Vulture with THIS!’
‘No, I … No, I …’ Mothgirl’s eyes clouded at the sound of poor Eelgirl’s small small voice.
‘Silence, thief!’ Vulture flung Eelgirl away from him with such force that she fell sprawled on the dark ground, berries scattered all around.
Mothgirl had to bite her fist to stop herself from crying out in rage as Eelgirl sobbed and the painted men laughed their ack-ack laughs. Where was Pa? Why did he not stand tall and protect poor Eelgirl? Next to her ByMySide bristled, growling like thunder. ‘Wait, my wolf,’ she whispered.
‘Viper, take this thieving fool girl to the others. Tie her tight with vines.’
One of the men rose and dragged Eelgirl away towards the Spirit Stone, kicking and biting and sobbing.
Mothgirl watched where he went. In dim of twilight she could just make out the shadows of Pa and Owlboy, tied tight to the Spirit Stone. Her heart thudded with fury and with fear.
‘This night,’ said Vulture, chin raised skyward. ‘The moon is small and sharp. Let us quell the flames of our fire here so the beasts have nothing to fear. Let us lead the beasts here with blood trail. They will come. Bare-toothed. Sharp-clawed. And we shall let them come. We shall invite them to a fine feast.’
‘ACK-ACK-ACK,’ cackled the painted man, his greasy face shining red in the firelight. ‘ACK – ACK. A fine feast of … EAGLE … and EEL … and OWL! ACK-ACK-ACK.’
‘Yes,’ said Vulture slowly. Mothgirl could hear the sneer in his voice. ‘For we are cunning. And as the beasts feast we shall stick them with our spears and shoot them with our arrows.’
‘Ah – the plenty!’
‘Yes – the great plenty!’
Mothgirl could bear to hear no more. With her hand tight on ByMySide’s fur, she turned and crept silently away.
She reached the clearing and crawled into the tiny tree hollow with ByMySide and the calf. Here she wept. Trembling hopeless tears. She had no weapon. She had no clan. She had no chance. Her family had been taken and her plan had crumbled like sand. She had been a fool to believe that she could trick grown men’s spirits into terrors. Ha! She could not make these painted men fear her and flee when her very own heart was so heavy with terror.
As Mothgirl wiped her eyes with her hand she saw that ByMySide’s ears were pricked and alert. ‘What hear you?’ she whispered, quiet as breath. And then she heard it too; footfalls were creeping through the forest towards them.
The small small aurochs calf wriggled in Mothgirl’s arms. Do not wake! Do not cry out! Not this moment, please! thought Mothgirl.
But the calf’s hunger was noisier than his tiredness. His cry sailed out into the night air. The soft rustle of footfalls stopped. Mothgirl held her breath.
The small calf fell suddenly silent, like he too held his breath, like he too listened. Then with a squirmish leap he released himself from Mothgirl’s hold and he ran from the safety of the hollow tree off into the night. Before she could stop him, ByMySide followed too.
Alone in the tree hollow, Mothgirl’s heart made music in her ears as she tried to listen. For a long moment all was still: only wind and leaf whisper. Then came the sound of footfalls once more, but now they were no longer creeping and cautious but bold and ever closer. Swoosh-swoosh. Swoosh-swoosh.
Someone was standing in the clearing. Mothgirl could see him silhouetted in the moonlight. He, with the wolf and the calf at his side.
‘Voleboy?’ she whispered, emerging from her hiding place.
‘Mothgirl!’ he said. ‘Your wolf told me you were returned. I called him to me with my bone whistle.’
Voleboy shared with her his gathered vine fruits and told her of Vulture’s cruel doings while she had been gone. Heartsore, Mothgirl spoke in a trembling voice of Vulture’s blood-trail plan.
‘My father shames me,’ said Voleboy. ‘This is why I can no longer be his son. I would rather sleep alone and spearless in the rain than live within my father’s hut.’
Mothgirl blinked. She had thought of Voleboy only as small and weak. She looked at him anew with Daramurrum eyes. He was not a big, strong man in body, but Voleboy’s doings were courage-deep. It took great courage to have a strong thought and act upon it. Once Voleboy had asked if he could join her, but she had only known alone then; now she knew that the only way they could fight Vulture would be if they fought together.
Voleboy and Mothgirl together made a plan.
Mothgirl and Voleboy watched from high in the yew’s branches as Vulture’s men spread the blood trail through the trees to the camp to the Spirit Stone, where poor Pa, Eelgirl and Owlboy were twined, together and weeping. Mothgirl’s face was tight with fury as the men splashed her family’s arms and legs with blood.
The men crept with spears and arrows within the shelter of the hut. Where was Vulture? This she could not see.
But the blood trail was set; they did not have long to act. Voleboy cleaned his bone whistle. And Mothgirl made ready. If she was going to succeed she would need to banish all softness from her heart. She would need to fill herself with menace from toenail to hair tip. She would need to be the red red Sp
irit Beast, ember-hearted and empty-eyed – with powers to tear stars from the skies and flood all the land with deep black water. Mothgirl took a big fierce breath. She nodded to Voleboy and lifted the hood of Daramurrum’s red deerskin.
Together they crept through the grove, and on the fringes of the tree shadows Mothgirl raised the antler mask to her face and peered through the dark empty holes where the deer eyes had been. She felt inside the deerskin for the little pocket, and within it she flicked the switch of the water-poo-tosh. The light glowed upon her heart, red as blood through the deerskin, and Mothgirl walked out of the trees, chanting far-ice-lands words, low and ominous as thunder.
She heard the deerskins of her hut shift and she saw the frightened eyes of the men peep forth.
‘Vulture!’ came a trembling call. ‘Vulture!’
From the shadows and the gloom came the soft cruel voice of Vulture. ‘Spirit! Come! Vulture welcomes you here!’
Mothgirl’s humming faltered slightly. She had not been expecting this. What should she do?
At that very moment she heard the first scuffling from tree shadows. An eagle, pale-headed, dark-eyed, swooped down from the near moonless sky. Voleboy’s silent bone-whistle song was working! Mothgirl raised her arm and the eagle settled upon it; she had to hold back a gasp at the sheer wonder of it, although behind her antler mask she winced at the tight grip of the eagle’s yellow claws and the strong-heavy weight.
‘Welcome, oh spirit of the night.’ Vulture’s voice was higher now. Why was he not afraid? From within the hut she could hear the men’s soft sobbing.
The sky whistled once more with flight and Mothgirl steadied herself as upon one of her great antlers landed a fine snow-white owl, whose yellow eyes watched Vulture unblinkingly. He rose and walked slowly towards them, hunched in his bearskin. Mothgirl ceased her humming, fearing he would come too close and know her for what she truly was.
The Way to Impossible Island Page 16
