by Jo Cotterill
She walked towards the horizon, not really with any plan in mind, just wanting to put as much distance between herself and her mother as possible. Usually when she wanted to be alone she crept into one of the storage cupboards, but she was far too angry to want to sit still. She needed to move – to wear herself out. Perhaps she could make it to the hills? That would really annoy her mum. They were visible as a purple smudge in the distance, perhaps two or three hours’ walk away.
But after only five minutes she was breathing hard. She had been raised in low gravity so having to wear heavy boots was a nuisance. Mia changed direction and stomped over to the old, useless relay station. She had only been here once before, years ago, and it looked even worse now. Nothing rusted on the Moon, but it was all constantly bombarded by space rubble. The abandoned machinery was pockmarked and dusty, but it didn’t matter - there was no use for it, not now.
Mia sat down gingerly on a low wall. The walk out had exhausted her, and for a moment she understood her mother's constant nagging about exercise.
Suddenly the loudspeaker in her helmet crackled, making her jump, and her mother’s voice invaded her thoughts.
“Mia, I know you can hear me.”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m switching you off.”
“You can’t, I’m using the emergency channel. It overrides everything.”
“Huh! I still don’t have to talk.”
Her mum sighed. “That’s true, but you can listen.”
There was a pause. She could hear her mum breathing, almost as if she were in the spacesuit too. Mia clenched her fists in the unwieldy gloves but kept quiet.
“OK Mia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say what I did about your poem. It’s just a . . . a normal reaction to yet another thing running out. It’s happening more and more.”
That’s hardly my fault, thought Mia, chewing her lip to stop herself from speaking.
“I know that’s not your fault,” her mum carried on, making Mia wonder for a second if she was telepathic, “but as leader here I have to worry about these things.”
She stopped and Mia let the silence settle. Her mum hated silence.
“Look,” she started again with a little cough, “you know all this. You’re a big girl now, and I’ve made no secret of our situation. Until things change on Earth, until someone remembers that we’re up here, we have to do our best to survive. If we’re careful we can live here indefinitely but we have to waste nothing.”
“What’s the point?” Mia snapped back, forgetting to keep quiet.
“The point? Don’t you want to live? Don’t you want to go home?”
“But here IS home! I’ve never lived anywhere else.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mum said sharply. “Earth is home to us all.”
Mia snorted. “It’s your fault for coming up here pregnant. It’s a stupid place to have a baby.”
When her mum answered her voice was quiet again. “I didn’t know; it was so early that all the tests missed it. Missed you,” she corrected herself after the tiniest of pauses. But Mia spotted it.
“You didn’t want me then and no-one wants me now!”
“That is not true. I just didn’t want you up here. Your father would have been delighted to know about you.”
Mia caught her breath, shocked. Her father was rarely mentioned.
“Why didn’t you go back as soon as you knew – go back to him?”
“I hadn’t realised before the strike, and after that, no-one was going anywhere.”
The strike – when the meteor hit Earth. Mia knew the story as well as anybody there, despite being the only person not to have seen it first hand. She could picture the explosions and feel the panic as the lights of Earth snuffed out, continent by continent. Then they were alone. No-one was going to call them from Earth again.
Mia took a deep breath of the metallic-tasting oxygen, just as a bell went off in her ear.
“Is that the oxygen? You checked the levels, didn’t you?” demanded her mum.
Mia hadn’t, but she wasn’t going to admit that. She shook the battered gauge on her arm and the needle shot back up to full. The beeping stopped immediately.
“It’s fine. It’s just this rubbish suit, that’s all.”
Her mum exhaled loudly. “Don’t scare me like that. Now come on, come back in.”
“I like it out here. It helps me see things more clearly.”
“Like what?”
There was something Mia had never dared to ask before, but she desperately wanted to know.
“You said that we can live here forever,” she started.
“Yes - with care, the Eco dome and the protein labs can feed us all.”
“But there are no more children. Why don’t you have more babies?”
The silence stretched again, and Mia was relieved that she wasn’t able to see the look in her mum’s eyes. She didn’t like Mia asking difficult questions.
“OK,” she said eventually. “Maybe you do deserve the truth. The women had hormone implants before we left, and we can’t get them out – we tried. I was already pregnant when I got mine. Somehow I managed to keep you.”
“So there’ll never be more kids?”
“No.”
Mia leaned back, controlling her breathing carefully. As she moved the wide blue arc of Earth came into view. She meant what she had said. Home was here - all she knew of Earth was in the films which had been included in the recreation set-up. And her home wasn’t going to survive as she knew it, no matter how careful they were. Everyone was getting older. One day, she would be the only person left.
Her mum was talking again, but Mia tuned her out. She was suddenly feeling really tired, her eyes struggling to focus.
What am I going to do now? she asked herself. There was absolutely nowhere else to go.
Her mum was droning on about responsibility and teamwork but Mia continued to ignore her. She reached with the cumbersome glove into the sleeve pocket of her suit, pulling out the crumpled poem. The words conjured up for her a world she would never know, and as she reached the end she looked up at the blue planet. It was Christmas on Earth too. Were Saint Nicholas and his team of reindeer doing their rounds, or had the meteor destroyed everyone who believed in him? Was she the only person looking out for him tonight?
To the side there was a sudden flash of red. Were her eyes were playing tricks? Was Saint Nicholas coming for her after all? She shook her head to try and understand. The red flashed again. With a struggle she focussed her eyes. Why was it so hard to see? And why was her mum shouting so insistently? Her head felt fuzzy as she concentrated hard.
The light on the mast of the relay station was blinking. Someone was trying to contact them. After all these years, someone from Earth was calling.
“What? No way!” she cried, jumping up. There was hope after all! Unnoticed, the poem drifted slowly to the ground.
Her mum’s voice sounded odd, sharp and wrong somehow. More like an alarm . . . Mia looked down at the cylinder gauge. The oxygen level was back at zero. She shook it hard, but this time it didn’t budge. It was empty. She tried to walk but a strange blackness was creeping in on her. She breathed in deeply, but it didn’t help. Was the reserve empty too? How could that happen? The clamouring alarm drowned out every other sound.
“No, not now, we’re not alone! I must get back . . .” She was too dizzy to stand, unable to find any more air. She had just moments left, nothing like enough time to get back to the station.
“Mum . . .” She didn’t have enough breath to say what she had seen, and could only sink to her knees, terrified. Was this it? As her brain began to fog for the final time, she found the familiar words circling her mind:
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse . . .
Her lungs were burning, desperate for air. This was how she would die, never having touched Earth, never getting another hug from her mum.
/> “No!” She twisted, reaching out toward her home, suddenly frantic to see her mother. And as she stretched out the decrepit old spacesuit there was a hiss. Was she imagining the touch of air on her cheek? The kink in the oxygen pipe finally straightened out, and she gulped the musty but precious air greedily.
After a few moments she felt the blackness creep away, then slowly got to her feet, savouring every breath. Finally she turned to go back, taking one last look up at the blue crescent. The red light on the relay mast flashed again, and Mia could have sworn she saw something move in the dark sky, a shadow which looked strangely like a line of tiny reindeer.
The Little Drummer Girl
by Deirdre Sullivan
Babies are so ugly. They look like you put a proper human through the wash on the wrong setting. Brian’s lurid pink. There was a bright red sock in Brian’s wash. Who calls a baby Brian anyway? You’re basically asking for trouble. He’ll grow up to be a tax consultant. Or a murderer.
Brian is Dad’s new son and I am Dad’s old daughter and I hate him.
“I hate you, Brian,” I tell him, and he screams. He’s always screaming. Jacinta (Dad’s new wife) keeps telling everyone to “shh” all the time. It’s annoying. This is their Christmas. The last one was my Mum’s. But Mum’s in Spain with Victor (Mum’s new boyfriend). And I’m here. Seething at a baby.
Mature.
*
I haven’t told my friends at school about the baby. They don’t know about him. If he, like, died then none of them would care. Dad would care. And Jacinta. Probably. I don’t know if I would.
In History Mrs. Lewis told us about Roisín Dubh, who is like this beautiful woman who is also a symbol for Ireland. And I kind of feel like Brian’s a bit like that. A symbol of Mum and Dad not being a thing anymore. Only not beautiful.
*
When I was small, and not even very small, like only a little smaller than I am now, they did get on quite well. They took me places and held hands and did kissing and it was sometimes weird but things were better than they are now.
When Dad holds hands with Jacinta it makes my tummy hurt. And I think about throwing a bucket of water over her and watching her melt away like I’m Dorothy Gale and she’s the Wicked Witch of the West.
*
Dad got me a drum kit for Christmas. He helped me set it up and everything. Only I’m not allowed to use it. Because of stupid Brian and his stupid baby feelings. “He’s going to cry anyway,” I told them. “That’s all he does.”
“It isn’t all he does,” said Dad “He drinks milk too.”
“Yeah, gross Jacinta milk.”
I am eleven years old and should not have to see my father’s idiot wife exposing herself like that. It’s totally going to damage me. I’m not sure how. But urgh.
I love drumming. This guy called Adam came in and taught us in school this term. Adam looked like somebody’s uncle, but he was actually really cool. He told me I should keep it up and that I had talent. And he didn’t say that to anyone else, just me. So I’ve been going to private lessons on the weekends. Not with Adam, he only does workshops, but with this girl called Kim with purple hair.
Jacinta’s hair is the colour of sunflower oil. She blow-dries it every morning. Or she used to. Before Brian. Brian hates the sound of the hairdryer. It makes him cry. The hoover too, but I kind of get that more. I hate doing the hoovering. It makes me want to cry too.
My mum’s hair is the same colour as mine. Like really dark brown where sometimes people call it black but it actually isn’t. I’d have to bleach my hair if I wanted it to go purple like Kim’s. I don’t know if I’d like that though. I think I’d rather red, or blue, or green. Purple’s a bit girly.
*
Kim’s got really strong arms. She wears sleeveless tops a lot and her muscles are really defined. I’d like to be that strong. Maybe when I’ve been drumming for a while.
The kit Dad got me’s pretty cool. There’s a bass drum, a floor tom, a snare drum, two hanging toms and cymbals. There’s eight drum-sticks as well. The kit is black and white, the sticks are wooden. Obviously.
“Ho-ho-ho,” he said, “this one isn’t from Santa, now, it’s from me.” Like, I got you this expensive thing, Kate. Behave yourself.
“Thanks, Dad!” I said. Like, that’s a great present but I still wish you hadn’t run off with Jacinta who is dreadful.
“Aren’t you going to thank me as well?” asked Jacinta, like I am confirming that I am dreadful. I am the worst person the world has ever known. And I have spawned a tiny human who will one day destroy you.
“Thanks,” I muttered, like this is completely forced and I still hate you. Happy Christmas.
Brian started to cry, like enough of this nonsense. Brian! Brian! Brian!
*
I go into my room and run my fingers over the drum kit. Three days till Mum comes home and I go back to my normal house. It feels like forever. It’s midnight, and there isn’t any snow, and Brian is crying. Brian is always crying.
Sometimes Dad puts him in the car seat and drives and drives and drives till he’s asleep. Brian likes the car. It is probably the only thing he likes in the whole world. He doesn’t like me yet. He doesn’t like anyone. Other babies do cute things and smile at people, but Brian is either crying or grumbling with his mouth full. And he pulls hair.
He has the meanest little fists. They curl around your fingers or a stray curl and clamp. And you don’t want to tussle with a baby. It would feel wrong somehow. He’d need a looser grip to play the drums.
*
Jacinta’s snapping at Dad. I can’t hear what they’re saying but the hum of it is cruel through the walls and I wonder if it’s about me and how I’m not helping. Jacinta keeps asking me to do jobs this year, like housework and nappy-changing. I do it, but I hate it. I feel like I’m her slave now. You shouldn’t have to do things for your enemies. There should be a rule. I had to wash up after Christmas dinner. And it took ages.
I look down at my hands. The sticks are in them. I sit behind the kit and begin playing really quietly, keeping time with music in my head. One, two, one-one two. One, two, one-one two. It’s soothing and I feel it getting louder and it’s like when Brian grabs your little finger. Just a reflex. Something I can’t help. And there it is.
One, Two.
I don’t care if they’re angry.
One-one Two.
I’m angry too. I’m angry.
One, Two.
I keep going. I don’t know how long I’ve been doing it. Then I look up. Jacinta’s in the doorway, holding Brian. And I stop.
“Keep playing,” she says. “Look at him. Keep playing.”
Brian’s little face is pale and calm. His eyes are closed. He’s sleeping. The little man has taste. She leaves him on a little baby carrier on my bed, and goes to have a shower.
I beat the drums until my arms are sore, and while there’s noise he only wakes to smile. It’s really weird. He doesn’t smile at all, not normally. A bit like me when I am in this house. I feel a little like a magician, filling ears with noise until he’s happy. He’s cuter when he smiles. It’s really big, almost like he’s shouting, silent, happy. His hot pink face a little paler, he chews on air until his blue eyes close. Normally when drumming, I don’t think about anything at all, it all fades out and noise is all that’s left.
Tonight though, I keep looking at him. Wondering what he’s doing, seeing, thinking.
*
I have a little brother, and it’s Christmas.
The Keys to the Ice Palace
by Lynda Waterhouse
“Pearl, I’m leaving.”
Her mother’s voice floated up the metal staircase. Pearl put her hands over her ears, closed her eyes and continued to enjoy her late morning snooze.
“Pearl!”
Her leg must be hurting. That is why her voice sounds so harsh. Pearl sighed. It was over two months now since the hunting accident and the bite was taking its time to
heal. Everyone knew that carrying an injury made you vulnerable. Besides, her mum was worried about grandmother. Yesterday Tomos had brought the news that she was sick again and running low on supplies.
“Come down and collect the keys!”
The voice was higher and louder this time. But Pearl only snuggled down deeper into her blanket. She needed a few more moments to savour the warmth and to delight in some private thoughts. Tomos had sneaked a sweet cake into her pocket when he had delivered the firewood and the bad news. ‘I will come back to keep you company,’ he had whispered.
Her mother trained her to notice the way that animals move so that you could pick out the weakest and the easiest to kill and avoid the young impetuous ones. When Tomos had first pitched up at the trading post she had been struck by his purposeful stride and the effortless way he carried his pack as if he didn’t care whether he lost it or not. It was only when he had removed one of his outer coats that she realised he was not much older than she was. And those green eyes!
“PEARL!”
The metal ladder creaked.
If only her Mum would trust her a bit more. She was thirteen and tall and strong for her age. She could hunt and since her mother’s accident she had even ventured out to fish alone. She was not a child who needed to be protected from the past. She was a woman with a bright future. One day she would leave the Ice Palace and set out to explore. She dreamed of travelling to The Carrib.
Her mother never spoke about the past and would dismiss all Pearl’s questions with a shake of her head,
‘The past can make you snow-blind. When your head’s looking backwards you don’t see what’s in front of your nose. No dreaming of the future either. Stay focussed in the present. That is the only way to survive,’
But Pearl liked to think about the past and clung on to her one precious relic: an ancient image called a photograph. When her mother wasn’t looking she liked to take out the relic and look at the girl with skin that was the same warm brown tone as hers. The girl who licked a curl of white snow and smiled into the sunshine. The very first Pearl.
