Orphan Island

by Laurel Snyder

  Then Loo couldn’t take it anymore. He opened his eyes, stared into the snake’s mouth, and screamed at the top of his lungs, “YAAAAAAAAAH!”

  The snake was a whipcrack. Its head jerked sharp, the teeth sank, Loo shrieked again and shook his leg violently, so that the snake flew off, like a rope tossed into the grass.

  Quickly, Jinny fell to the ground and reached for him. “Loo? Loo? Are you okay?” But of course he wasn’t. Jinny knew from books what snakes could do, what the poison in their fangs could do. Tears were rolling down his face. “Ow-ow-ow-ow,” he cried, sounding younger than he ever had before.

  “Ben,” Jinny called as she heaved the boy up into her arms, “I’ve got him. You run ahead and find a book, if there’s a book. What do we do?” Loo’s foot was swelling already. She began to run, as fast as she could, struggling with the child in her arms and the high grass.

  Jinny ran, through the prairie and down the path, over the ridge, and home. It took forever. It took no time at all. It was all a rush of fear and guilt and the shuddering child in her arms. By the time Jinny reached the cabin, Loo wasn’t moving anymore. His eyes had rolled shut and his foot was twice its normal size. Was there anything she could do? she wondered. How long did they have?

  Ben dashed into the room. “There’s a book! The first-aid book. It says to tie a band between the bite and his chest. So the poison can’t get to his heart.”

  Jinny looked wildly around the room. A band? She pulled the drawstring from her pants, kicked them off, and reached down to tie the string as tightly as she could above Loo’s foot, around the fat strong child leg, the thick calf muscle. She turned back to Ben. “Now what? What else?”

  Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s it. That’s all there is. It just says to do that, with the band, and then to keep him as still as possible. Not to move him. Depending on the type of snake, he might need something called antivenin, medicine we don’t have. There are words I’ve never seen before. Not sure how to pronounce them, even.”

  “What?” Jinny shouted, too loudly. Everyone looked up, startled. Jinny was hot with anger, quick with rage. It made no sense. “Why would anyone send us to a place with snakes and not give us snake medicines, if there are such things? What kind of parents do we have that they shipped us off to a place like this?”

  “We don’t,” said Ben quietly, shaking his head. “We don’t have parents. Why would you even say that?”

  “Never mind,” said Jinny quickly. “Just . . . why are we here?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Ben sounded scared now. Jinny couldn’t remember him ever sounding that way. Ben was supposed to be the fine one. She counted on him being fine.

  “We’re supposed to be safe here! Aren’t we supposed to be safe?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” he said again, quieter this time.

  “So now what do we do?” asked Jinny.

  “We wait, I guess,” said Ben. “And hope. Maybe he’ll get better.”

  “Maybe he won’t,” snapped Jinny.

  Ben turned away from her. She thought he was crying. She couldn’t remember him ever crying before.

  This, she knew, was what she’d been waiting for, feeling in the world around her. This was the ominous cramp in her belly, the windless cliffs, the bleary sunrise. This was what her tugging had foretold—the world breaking to bits, the sky falling. She wasn’t crazy after all. But she was to blame. This was her fault.

  Ess pushed her way through the others, appeared at Jinny’s side, and peered up at her bedmate, so limp and pale on the blanket. “Loo?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.

  “I don’t think he can hear you, Ess,” said Jinny, shaking her head. “I don’t think he can hear anything.”

  “Poor Loo,” whispered Ess, watching.

  Suddenly, it occurred to Jinny that in all the commotion, she hadn’t helped Ess down the boulders, that she had run and stranded the girl behind after all that. “Ess? How did you get down those rocks? Who helped you?”

  Ess gave Jinny a funny look. “Me!” she said brightly. Her voice was a sharp sound in the still room. “I did. You weren’t there anymore, so I had to help me.”

  “Oh,” said Jinny. It was all she could think to say.

  “It’s okay, Jinny,” said Ess, looking proud, as she slipped a small hand into Jinny’s.

  That night, Ess wanted to stay with Jinny and Loo. And though Ben and Joon argued it was a bad idea, given what might happen in the night, Jinny shook her head. “You know what? She’s not a Care anymore. Or she’s not supposed to be, anyway. Ess is one of us. She’s her own person, and she can decide.”

  “I want to stay,” Ess insisted.

  “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do,” argued Joon.

  “I need to stay,” said Ess, as she sat down on the floor.

  In fact, Jinny did not want to stay with Loo, herself. It was hard to look at his pale face. She didn’t want to think about what might happen next either. She longed to curl up with Ess, to cuddle up and inhale the salty, dirty smell of her tangled hair as she slept, pretend that none of this was real. But Jinny didn’t get to choose anymore. That time was gone.

  After a while, Ess fell asleep, in the cushions on the floor, and Jinny sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to shake it, trying not to make things worse. Soon, she knelt down and pulled Abbie’s letter from its hiding place. The room was too dark for her to read it, but she didn’t need to. She’d memorized it by now. She whispered in the darkness.

  “Dear reader who finds this, if I am gone,

  “My name is Jinny.

  “I lived here on this island.

  “I loved it.

  “I stayed.

  “I held on.”

  Then, after a pause, Jinny added a line. She’d never be able to write it in ink, but it was there all the same, a ghost in the letter. As she slid the piece of paper into her pocket, she whispered it aloud.

  “I held on.

  “Too long. . . .”

  25

  A Direction

  Jinny sat up all that night, in the darkness. Staring at the boy in the bed. Watching for any sign of change, anything but this stillness. Loo made no sound at all. Every few minutes, Jinny forced herself to lean over, touch his lips, make sure there was still a faint stream of breath passing between them.

  The longer she sat, the more certain she became that this was the end, the very worst thing. Guilt and fear rasped inside her. Not even Ess’s whistling snore could comfort her now. Jinny had broken a rule, the rule, and nothing had been the same since.

  She had ruined the world. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean she could fix it. The mist would knit itself back together, or it wouldn’t. The winds would return to the cliffs. The snakes would settle. Or they might not. But she couldn’t change those things. They were too big for her, beyond her. She couldn’t undo them, or even understand them. She could only hope.

  She looked down at Loo, so close to what had to be death, and she knew it was her fault. Each shallow breath belonged to her. He was her burden, because she’d claimed him and then failed him.

  If Loo didn’t wake up, she was to blame. But then what . . . what would they do with him? With his . . . body? Jinny couldn’t even stand to think about it. . . . She watched Loo sleep without sleeping. Breathe without breathing. She watched him be. She watched him be less every second.

  As the sun rose, Jinny began to shake slightly. Sleepless and hungry, she quivered. She was like a husk of herself, empty, hopeless, done. Then, in the half-light of early morning, she saw something peeking out from the shadows beneath the bed. She bent down, and laughed bitterly when she recognized what it was. She reached down and picked up . . . mama. It had been there all along.

  “See, everything works out on the island,” Jinny whispered. “Lost things always seem to turn up. Or they used to, anyway.” Jinny reached over and set the grimy bracelet on the windowsill.

  Loo groaned, al
most inaudibly. He looked so small, so still. But even frail and dying this way, he made her angry. Underneath her guilt and fear, she was furious at him for coming to the island, changing everything. Even now, Jinny couldn’t love him the way she loved Ess. But that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the time for Ess anymore. This wasn’t about love, or what Jinny wanted. This was about what she owed Loo.

  Jinny stood up. She wasn’t sure what she was doing at first. Her mind couldn’t fathom what her body had planned. She felt automatic, out of control. As though her bones—or some strange force inside them, stronger than her want and her fear and her doubt—took over. Standing beside the bed, Jinny stretched herself as tall as she could and gazed around at the cabin she loved. Then she stepped over Ess, leaned down, and scooped Loo up. Without word, without hesitation, Jinny turned, crossed the small room, and kicked the door open with a bare foot and strength she had no idea she possessed.

  When Jinny stepped out into the chilly morning, she was alert. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so awake before. Her skin tingled in the crisp air. However empty and tired she’d been just a few minutes earlier, however numb and lost, her feet wanted to move, and they knew the way. Jinny felt herself cutting across the beach alone, carrying her limp bundle beneath the smudgy sky. Past Joon, rekindling the fire. Past Ben, rousing himself in the kitchen. Both of them stared at her as she passed, eyed the child in her arms, but neither said a word. They turned to follow.

  Then Jinny heard a shout. Many shouts. People were pointing up into the sky; and when Jinny looked up, she saw it herself. Something was falling, like sand. Sand from the sky. Only the sand was white and soft, and it fell slowly—landed cold on her shoulders.

  “Snow,” she murmured, and stopped walking. Jinny knew snow, from so many stories. She’d always wanted to see it. Now she felt it burn her face, her shoulders. It melted quickly on her skin, but the air was changing now too.

  In a moment they were all there—all of them—trembling on the beach beside her. Staring up in wonder.

  “Snow . . . ,” said Sam. “It never snows.” He looked amazed.

  “It’s cold,” said Oz.

  “We all know that,” said Eevie.

  Joon glared up. She said nothing.

  “But do you think . . . is it a sign?” asked Nat thoughtfully.

  Jinny spoke clearly. “It’s only a sign if we read it,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” said Nat, shaking her head. “What do you mean? What’s happening to our island?” Her face was full of fear and wonder.

  Jinny took a deep breath. “It’s broken,” she said in a clear loud voice. “I broke it.”

  The others turned to stare at her.

  “I broke it when I didn’t leave, and I’m sorry and I hope it can fix itself.” There, she’d said it, at last, out loud. Loo was broken. Just like she was broken, and the island too. Nothing was the same, and it was all her fault. Now the sky was falling, as if she needed more proof. “‘Nine on an island, orphans all . . . ,’” she whispered. Nobody finished the rhyme, but everyone was watching her.

  Jinny looked down at the boy, cold in her arms. He was still sleeping, but barely. The breathless air was still coming from between his lips, but it was even shallower now. There was no time to waste. She began to walk again, faster this time, along the beach.

  As she moved away from him, Ben called out to her. “But Jinny, we aren’t supposed to move him. The book said. It’ll hurt him.”

  Jinny didn’t stop moving this time, or turn to look at Ben. She was done with delays. She only called out, up into the cold and swirling air, “I don’t think there’s anything that won’t hurt him anymore.”

  Jinny kept walking. She was supposed to move him. For the first time in so many sleeps, she knew she was doing exactly what she was supposed to do. What she should have done all along. She did not want to do this. Not really, but it was her job. She would take him back, return Loo to the people who had sent him away, the other people who’d let him down. The people who had cast them all off. She’d take him back to his mama if he had one. To anyone who had answers and might be able to help.

  Behind Jinny the others followed, nervous, unsure. Ess was there, Jinny knew. She could hear her crying. But she couldn’t listen, couldn’t stop. She had to keep walking now. It was only after Jinny set Loo gently in the boat that she allowed herself to turn around.

  This was not a time for sweetness, for good-byes. She’d forfeited that sort of departure. That day had passed, long ago. This was a different kind of day. She turned to Ben. “I need your help,” she said. “I can’t lift the boat alone, not with him in it. Please?”

  Ben stepped forward, and Joon did too. Together, the three of them lifted the boat, carried it to the water, and set it adrift. When the green wood hit the sea, it gave a shudder, as though it was waking.

  “Jinny?” asked Ben.

  Jinny had no time to answer him. She knew there was a world in all the things she should have told Ben by now. The Elder lessons she owed him, the feelings she’d buried, when he’d only wanted to understand. Probably apologies too. There was no time.

  “Here,” she said suddenly, reaching into her pocket. She pushed the crumple of paper into his surprised hand. “Ben, I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t explain, but maybe Abbie’s letter would help. Maybe hers would too. They belonged to him now. They were his right. His puzzle. They were all she could manage.

  Jinny turned away, to glance at Ess. When she did, she gasped. She remembered a fish, gutted on a sharp glinting knife, a small hand scooping the inside of the fish. That was how Jinny felt, staring into Ess’s big eyes. She was gutted. She could almost feel the knife, feel something scraping everything that mattered out of her onto the cold sand. She bent down, knelt in front of the girl.

  “I have to leave,” Jinny said flatly. “I don’t want to. But you’ll be fine. I know it.”

  Ess shook her head wordlessly, wrapped her arms around Jinny’s neck. “No,” she cried. “It hurts.”

  Jinny hugged her back, and whispered into her hair, “That’s what happens, Ess. Things hurt, sometimes.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” cried Ess.

  “I don’t want to go either,” said Jinny. “But . . . there are more important things than what we want. Sometimes it isn’t about us. Sometimes we aren’t the center of the story. This is about Loo, now. Please, let me go.”

  Ess let go of Jinny and looked up into the older girl’s face. Her tears were cold and her teeth were chattering. But she nodded and said, “Okay, Jinny. Okay,” as Sam stepped forward and put an arm around her shoulder, curled her into a small hug.

  Jinny stepped away, and it felt like something was tearing. Like she was tearing, and the very air was tearing around her. “Stay safe,” said Jinny. “Be happy.”

  Ess nodded and wiped her snotty face on her shivering arm.

  Jinny smiled sadly. Her last glimpse of Ess would be just like her first. Snot faced and damp. “Good girl,” said Jinny. “Good brave girl. Now go sit by the fire, get warm. Go.” She made her voice firm, hard like stone. She carved out a last word. “Now!” and Ess turned away.

  Jinny looked briefly at all the others, their serious faces trained on her, their eyes a mixture of sadness and bewilderment. This was all happening so quickly. But Jinny couldn’t help that now. She didn’t have time for each of them. She waved one hesitant arm in the air and turned her head quickly away. Then she stepped into the boat, which knew its way. Jinny envied the boat. It had only one task. One thought. To go. How simple that would be.

  And that was just what it did—it went. It sped, away. In one quick moment, the boat took Jinny with it, breathless, suddenly gone. One minute she was on the island, and the next she wasn’t. It was that easy.

  As the boat picked up speed, charged out into the chilly sea, Jinny allowed herself to look down at Loo, beside her, nearly lifeless on the plank seat. She put a hand on his cheek. He was so small, so col
d. She didn’t love him, but then, she wasn’t supposed to. He never should have been hers to begin with. Still, he needed her. And that need was a bond too, maybe even as important as love.

  Jinny looked back up, and out, into the endless sea, the distance. She was trembling. She was so afraid. But she did not look back at the island. Not even once. As the sea spray mingled with the snow and fell against her skin, Jinny let herself tremble.

  Staring out over the water, into the mist ahead, Jinny wasn’t sure whether she was headed home or away, but she guessed it didn’t matter. Either way, she was a girl in a boat, moving forward. Either way, there were waves all around her. Either way, the water on her face tasted like salt. And she was doing her best—that was all she could be sure of.

  Somewhere out there, beyond the boat, was more. Jinny couldn’t see it yet, but it had to be there. The alternative was too awful to imagine. So she decided she would believe in it. She would believe in it as hard as she could. Her future and her past were waiting. Out there were answers. She hoped she was ready for them.

  “This only feels like an ending,” Jinny said to the wind and the distance. And once she’d said it, she knew it was true.

  Acknowledgments

  Orphan Island took a long time to write and went through many drafts. As a result, a great number of people read excerpts and offered input over the years—so many that I’m afraid to attempt to name them here, for fear of leaving someone out. But I’m deeply grateful, and I hope everyone knows how appreciated they are.

  That said, two wonderful wine-fueled late-night conversations stand out in my memory, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank Christopher Rowe and Gwenda Bond, and also Brooke and John Marty, for helping me ponder world building, magic, and childhood. This would be a different book without them. Gratitude!

  Ongoing love and thanks to my Atlanta gals, Terra McVoy and Elizabeth Lenhard, who keep me working and laughing, answer ridiculous questions, and know when it’s time to break for lunch. And to Rachel Zucker, who keeps me sane from afar.