The baby was supposed to come three days ago. ‘D-Day,’ Dad called it.
Mum’s been counting the days off on the kitchen calendar with a big red pen; she’s not been well so the doctors put her on ‘bed rest’ last month and it’s driving her absolutely bananas. I breathe in the warm summer air, watching a flock of noisy swifts flit and swoop in the clear blue sky. I wouldn’t be able to stand it either, being stuck inside in summer, not able to do anything fun at all. It’ll be worth it in the end though. A little tingle creeps up my spine; soon I’ll have a brother or a sister, and everything will change.
The light has that golden tinge now and the shadows are stretched. I take a smooth pebble out of my pocket. Squinting up at the Spirit Stone, I move the pebble back and forward in the air, taking aim at the Spirit Stone’s pointy peak.
Beaky sits up on her elbows to watch. I fling the pebble; it arcs up and over the Spirit Stone.
‘Missed!’ calls Beaky, flopping back down.
‘Don’t eat stones, Nero!’ shouts Lamont as his dog charges off to find the pebble. Seconds later Nero’s back, crunching away.
‘Wow! He really listens to you, Lamont,’ I say, in fake admiration.
‘Shut up,’ says Lamont, wheedling the pebble out from Nero’s jaws. ‘Do you want this back? Maybe add it to your collection?’
I laugh. ‘No thanks. You can keep it, Lamont.’
‘It’s not just a collection, it’s Mandel Museum!’ says Beaky in a posh voice.
‘I haven’t called it that since we were in Year Two, Beaky!’ I protest, laughing.
She ignores me. ‘And that slobbery old stone’s not quite weird enough. What’s it going to look like next to the badger skull, and the arrowhead and the bird’s nest, and the …’ Beaky lies there and lists all the things I’ve collected from the forest since we were little. Her eyes are shut and her long red hair is spread out on the grass. Lamont balances Nero’s wet pebble on her forehead. Beaky shuts up, sits up and thumps him. I laugh again.
The evening sun is warm on my face. Shutting my eyes, I stroke Nero’s silky soft ears. I sigh. I really ought to go home. Check on Mum. See if I’ve got a brother yet … or a sister.
‘I’m off,’ I say, standing up. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘… for your birrrthdaaay!’ sings Beaky. ‘I can’t wait! D’you think you’ll finally get a phone, Charlie?’
‘Maybe,’ I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.
‘Are we still camping out tomorrow night?’ asks Lamont.
‘Of course we are,’ answers Beaky, before I even have a chance to think about it. Nero wags his tail like he’s in agreement.
I pat Nero’s black head. ‘I guess it depends on the baby.’ My shrug turns into a little shiver of excitement.
‘Maybe baby!’ grins Beaky, nudging me in the ribs.
I grin back. ‘I’d better go.’ I scramble to my feet. ‘Bye!’ I yell over my shoulder as I turn and run back down through the clearing and on to the gravel path through the forest.
Among the trees the air tastes cool and shadowy. The branches on either side of the path lean in slightly, so it’s dark like a tunnel. I can still hear the faint echo of Lamont and Beaky’s laughter. A big clumsy bird flaps out of a tree, so close to my head I duck. My foot skids out in front of me and I end up sitting on the path. The bird lands on a branch, beady eyes staring at me. It’s a wood pigeon with feathers the colours of early morning sky: grey and pink and silver.
I look down at the gravel I disturbed when I slipped. One small, pale stone catches my eye. I pick it up and rub it on my shorts to clean it. It’s whitish, smooth, about the size and shape of an almond. I stare at the dull gleam of the stone on my muddy palm, and I realise it’s not a stone at all. It’s a tooth! A little shiver tingles like a breath across my shoulder blades.
A tooth, root and all! Wow! And it’s not small either, must be from quite a decent-sized animal – a badger? A fox maybe? Or a deer? I don’t care if Beaky and Lamont tease me about it; this tooth is definitely going in my collection. I’ve never found a tooth in Mandel Forest before. I get to my feet, pressing the tooth’s pointy end into my fingertip; it leaves a little dimple there. I slide it into my pocket.
I feel the weight of someone watching me.
‘Lamont? Beaky?’ I call. It would be just like them to sneak up on me, get revenge for not winning the game.
There’s no one here.
The wood pigeon in the tree ruffles his feathers noisily and I nearly jump out of my skin. ‘You scared me!’ I say as I gaze up at him. His feathers shimmer, swirling colours of oil on water.
The wood pigeon stares back. ‘Whooo?’ he says, his head cocked to one side. ‘Whooooo? Whoooooooooo?’
I laugh.
‘I’m Charlie Merriam,’ I reply, and the wood pigeon flaps off.
Chollie. Murr. Umm, says a low voice from high in the tree behind me. A human voice. A voice I do not know.
I run. Faster than I’ve ever run before. Because this time it’s not a game.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sophie Kirtley grew up in Northern Ireland, where she spent her childhood climbing on hay bales, rolling down sand dunes and leaping the raw Atlantic waves. Nowadays she lives in Wiltshire with her husband, three children and their mini-menagerie of pets and wild things. Sophie has always loved stories; she has taught English and has worked in a theatre, a bookshop and a tiny pub where folk tell fairytales by candlelight. Sophie is also a prize-winning published poet.
BLOOMSBURY CHILDREN’S BOOKS
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First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © Sophie Kirtley, 2021
Illustrations and lettering copyright © Patrick Knowles, 2021
Map illustration copyright © Ben Mantle, 2021
Sophie Kirtley has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: PB: 978-1-5266-1630-2; eBook: 978-1-5266-1631-9
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The Way to Impossible Island Page 18
