The two boys beamed at him like healthy apples. Wicked wouldn’t have recognised them, either. It wasn’t just that they were rounder and stronger, it was more that they looked sort of glowing, as if they’d been polished with great tenderness, just like the tables.
Buzzard leant forward confidingly. ‘See, now I’m busy doin’ what I like, if ye can comprehend. An’ each project is a challenge. Back when I was a pirate, losin’ a challenge meant death. But now, see, it just means ye do it again, only better. It’s like I died and went to heaven. I mean, ye get the chance to use what ye learnt the last time, you understand me?’ He turned to the boys. ‘Isn’t that wot I’m always tellin’ ye? If ye don’t stick a piece a wood straight into the vise, it won’t come out straight, right?’
The boys rolled their eyes as if they’d heard this many times. Hoodlum idly cuffed Rowdy’s arm and Rowdy gave him a Chinese burn.
‘Lads, eh? Wotcha gunna do with ’em?’ Buzzard sighed good naturedly.
The village clock showed five o’clock when Wicked left the market. With all the different feelings swirling inside him, he felt like one of those butter churns he’d seen near the bread stall.
He peered across the square into the fading light. It was too late now to find the library. Prawns for brains! – he’d dillydallied so long it would be dark soon. The stalls were being packed up for the night and people were calling goodbye. Out past the square, the bush was already inky.
Well, there were still a couple of days. He’d find the library tomorrow, when the light was good.
Now, instead, he’d wander down to the harbour and take a peep at Squid’s Beach Bar. Who knew, he might not be back to these parts for a long time. And he had a powerful hunger to see how old Squid was shaping up to the landlubber world.
Doomsday, he could see, had had enough for the day. Sleepy, with a full stomach, he was wobbling on his perch. Wicked tucked him inside his shirt. It was a bit crowded in there, what with all the tasty packages and the little lamp in his pocket, but the bird didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t even open an eye.
By the time Wicked got down to the beach, the kerosene lamps were being lit on the tables and torches flamed along the shore. Red ribbons of light lay over the water and the beach looked dressed up for a fair. Wicked wandered down to the long wooden bar set among the tables. At one end was a row of shelves labeled with all kinds of goodies – Mango Marvel, Banana Beauty, Coconut and Honey, Blood Orange and Berry juices. Little dishes of whipped cream with a topping of nuts and chocolate dotted the bench top, with wafer biscuits that you could use to dip. Folk stood for minutes at a time, deciding what to have.
And there, behind the bar, rushing back and forth between customers, was Squid. Thin as a whip, he crackled like a piece of lightning, mixing drinks, taking silver coins with a Thank you! and Enjoy yourselves! and sometimes, if his hand was free, a slap on the back.
Well now, Wicked thought, he’d seen everything! This place must be magic. Or that herb was more powerful than even Horrendo thought. The cramp in his belly came again and he had to sit down suddenly on one of the finely carved stools at the bar.
‘What can I get ye?’ asked Squid.
‘Ah, er, nothing right now. Feeling a bit poorly.’
Squid nodded. ‘I’ve got just the thing to settle yer stomach. It’s on the house!’ And he handed Wicked a creamy gold drink that looked as if it had been poured straight from heaven. He took a sip. It tasted like that, too.
Wicked sat and watched the lamps flickering on the tables and the folk deep in conversation until a customer sat down next to him.
‘I’ll have … let’s see … a blood orange with a dash o’ lime,’ the man told Squid. ‘Or, no, citrus fruit’s bad for me stomick, Blusta said it’d give me grief. Oh, what about that sweet coconut milk, what do ye serve with that?’
‘Honey,’ said Squid, rolling his eyes. ‘Why don’t ye just ’ave what’s on the menu, ye great looby?’
‘Aye!’ said the man. ‘There’s a good idea!’
‘Dogfish Delight, coming up,’ said Squid and vanished up the bar.
Under his hat, Wicked snuck a glance. His old mate. Well, not really, but maybe the closest thing he’d had to one. Dogfish was leaner and straighter somehow, sitting with his shoulders back, not bowed, and his head held high. Wicked would wager, if he had anyone to wager with, that Dogfish had lost his Disappointment.
‘Bottoms up,’ said Squid, returning with his drink. ‘Now, if yer gunna be my assistant, then yer’ll ’ave to work at least three nights a week. Can ye square that with yer missus?’
So, Dogfish was married now, was he? That was quick work!
Dogfish nodded. His eyes were closed as he savoured his drink. ‘Bloomin’ paradise,’ he murmured. ‘But mind you, when the baby comes I’ll ’ave to take a few weeks off.’
‘What? Yer only just startin’ work and yer wanting time off? We’ll have to see about that!’
‘He’s right, though, Mr Squid,’ a voice said from the crowd waiting behind.
Wicked turned to see Blusta stride up, with Horrendo at her side. Quickly he inched his stool further down the bar, and pulled his hat down.
Dogfish shook hands with the pair. ‘See?’ he told Squid. ‘You mightn’t know everyfink about it, Squidman, seein’ as you ain’t in the family way yet.’
‘Neither are you, ye great pudding, it’s yer wife what is,’ said Squid.
But Blusta butted in. ‘Fathers are important in the family, too.’
‘Aye,’ said Dogfish. ‘My Pandy’s been readin’ a library book all about it – first thing the little fella claps eyes on, he’ll become attached. He’ll follow it around everywhere and learn all his life’s lessons, like how to quack and fly, an’ dive for fish an’ all.’
‘That’s ducks you’re talking about, fathead,’ said Squid.
‘Oh, aye.’ Dogfish finished his drink.
‘But we’re not so different,’ Blusta said. ‘My mamma says your whole life changes, Dogfish, and Pandemonium will be run off her feet …’
Wicked got up from his stool, and wandered down to the beach. He gazed out to the horizon, watching lights melt into the sea. Behind him the murmur of voices buzzed like bees around a hive. An accordion started up and the sound of clapping and happy cheers floated on the breeze.
Soon we’ll sail to the Mainland and listen to the fiddles playing, his mother whispered in his ear. He was startled by the memory, so close and vivid. He almost looked around, as if she might be there. He hadn’t thought of that in years.
He turned now to see the folk sitting at the tables, swaying with the music. One girl got up to dance, and then another. A woman was singing, but he couldn’t catch the words. He wondered if he would always be watching life from the outside, straining to hear something just out of reach.
It was late when Wicked started back on his path to the cave. His feet felt heavy, taking him to a place he didn’t want to go. Doomsday snored, tucked up under his ribs. He gave the little bundle a pat, and was comforted for a moment.
How lucky it was he’d found the lamp at market. He hadn’t imagined he’d be returning so late. Still, he had to keep his eyes fixed on that small yellow glow at his feet.
He was dreading the climb back through the tunnel. Scaling down the wall of the cave was harder than climbing up. He was afraid he’d lose his footing. If he fell, no one would know he was there. He went down slowly, with care. ‘But it’s been this way since my mother left,’ he told the sleeping Doomsday. ‘Why am I worrying now?’
Doomsday said nothing. Wicked crawled on through the endless earth.
He didn’t know what made him stop short just before he reached the last corner. The mouth of the cave, his ‘parlour’ as he called it, lay just around the bend. There was no new sound or smell, just a movement of air perhaps, something displaced. Keeping his back to the wall and sucking in his stomach, he peeped around.
Starlight streamed in, grainy with salt
from the sea. In the shadows, nothing stirred. Maybe he’d imagined it. A presence. Tiptoeing in, he saw at the foot of the eastern wall a scatter of white powder. Directly above, stripes of exposed crystal the width of a knife blade shone smooth under his fingertips.
Someone had been here. Today, while he’d been out. He crept towards the entry, following more dusty patches of white. Whoever had come had entered from the rock pools and returned that way.
He’d been right to hang his hammock further back in the tunnel. No one would have seen it. Safe for now, he thought. Still, he’d sleep even further in tonight.
Later, as he lay in the dark, he took deep breaths as he did when he swam, and imagined himself in the sea off Turtle Island. A calm dropped over him. Sleep was near. But something was nagging, something about crystals and caves, a laboratory and a dog …
He sat up suddenly, and nearly fell out of the hammock. Rascal! What Horrendo said … Rascal could make things invisible. How was that possible – that puny weakling who’d worn mittens up in the rigging!
Wicked turned the conversation over in his mind. The Captain would be interested in a potion like that, without a doubt. Wicked imagined those shark eyes lighting up at the thought of how much gold he could get for it. Maybe he’d want it even more than the herb.
Wicked turned restlessly in the hammock. Then he sat bolt upright.
Why not hand over the potion, instead? Horrendo didn’t seem to think it was important – not as important as the herb, anyway. And Rascal already had the formula; he could always make more. No one would mind if just a bit went missing, would they?
Wicked almost laughed out loud at his idea. It could work! The Captain hadn’t known the plant was practically dead … Wicked could exaggerate a little, pretend he was unaware of the dried herb store in the library … and he’d have this magic potion to give the Captain instead. For sure it would fetch a pretty price. And he’d be free of the Captain!
Wicked climbed out of the hammock and paced the ground. Blimey, how was a fellow supposed to get any sleep? He gave up and went outside.
As he stood looking out at the silvery sea, a shiver of doubt ran through him. How in all the Cannonball Seas did he really know what the Captain would think or do? And what, really, would the villagers say? It would still be a theft – a lousy, wicked kind of thing to do.
But he couldn’t stop hearing the music on the beach, remembering the laughing and limbo-dancing on the sand … He wanted more of that.
Oh, what was he going to do? Everything was muddled. He stood, frozen to the spot, as if he were stranded on a tightrope and had forgotten at which end lay the prize.
Chapter 27
The science laboratory was a big bossy building that lined up at the end of the school like an exclamation mark. Tall and made of stone, it wasn’t blessed with a friendly painting of coconut palms and steel guitars and bowls of fruit like the other classrooms. It housed fiery experiments and unpredictable explosions, and to Wicked it looked sinister, and a little bit dangerous. Hovering near, he thought he’d much rather visit the guitar room where that lively music was coming from than open this dark door.
But someone was coming up the path. A boy carrying a notebook was walking fast, followed by another puffing to keep up with him – damn the wretch, Horrendo! The boy in front must be Rascal, Wicked decided, even though he’d changed so much Wicked wouldn’t have recognised him. A head taller, colour in his cheeks, confidence to his stride … Wicked hadn’t been away for so long – how could the lad look so different?
He slipped around the corner, and peeped his head out. Rascal had stopped to scribble something while Horrendo jabbered on about folk and whether they could change.
‘You see, it’s very hard to change completely,’ Horrendo was explaining. ‘Take Wicked for example—’
‘Caterpillars do it all the time,’ Rascal said. ‘Grubs one day, butterflies the next. Did you see all those empty cocoons in the science lab? Amazing.’
‘No, but I mean,’ began Horrendo, ‘it’s very hard for humans to change. It takes a lot of work. Look how many classes in Anger Management and Household Budgeting we had to do with the pirates! Just imagine if Wicked had stayed instead of setting off alone to … well, to keep on being Wicked. I mean, if he was here with us now he could be going to Team Building classes, or working with the Librarian, or teaching the children to climb …’
Who was this librarian everyone was talking about every five minutes? An annoying bug that kept getting into your ears? An earwig!
‘I thought I saw him yesterday,’ Rascal said.
‘No! Wicked? Where?’
‘Over there’ – and he pointed to the clock in the village square. ‘He was wearing a hat. And he was thinner, scruffier than ever. But it was him all right. Something about the way he moved, sort of shifty, was familiar. But when I went over to see, there was nothing there. My mother said I must be having a flashback.’
‘Well,’ Horrendo said, ‘I hope he does come back – if he’s still alive that is. Such a bad diet he always had. He never ate anything good for him. He even refused my smoked salmon and potato cakes, remember?’
Rascal stared at Horrendo. ‘You must be the only one in the world who cares. Some people don’t change. But chemical compounds now … when added together, they do. They make a reaction. You just have to find the right combination to make a change last.’ He suddenly looked impatient to go.
But Horrendo clutched his arm, making him stop right there on the path. ‘You know, I always see his leaving our island as my fault.’
Rascal looked longingly at the big doors of the laboratory.
‘The trouble with you is you think everything is your fault. But we can’t control anyone but ourselves. You should think about that, and lighten your load.’
Horrendo’s eyebrows shot up. He nodded vigorously and let go of Rascal’s arm. ‘That’s very interesting,’ he said. ‘I will.’
Rascal grinned. ‘See you later then,’ he waved, and hurried inside the lab, the heavy doors thudding behind him.
‘Oh, it makes you want to puke,’ Wicked whispered to Doomsday. He was going to have to stay very low. And that ‘don’t blame yourself’ stuff – why, Horrendo had spewed a stream of hateful curses at him before he took off. And look at the way they talked about him now! He’d been fooling himself. How would he ever be welcomed here? All that cosy, do-gooder twaddle – it was exactly what he was rowing away from last time. Wicked shivered, and crept out from the shade into the sunshine. But a chill wind seemed to follow him wherever he went.
He waited until Horrendo stopped dithering on the steps and walked away. Then he tiptoed up to the window of the science lab.
With his nose pressed to the glass, he saw Rascal lighting a little burner on the bench. He was heating up a bowl of pale blue liquid. Next to his elbow was a tray with small containers filled with different mixtures. The boy added and stirred and wrote on his notepad, checking the time on the clock near the blackboard. Wicked stifled a sigh. His neck was hurting from straining up to see, and his fingers gripping the windowsill had gone numb. Oh, snails for brains, how long was the boy gunna be?
Wicked decided to wander down the path to get an earful of the music. In one of the classrooms a kettle drum had started up, accompanying the steel guitars, and he couldn’t help tapping his foot. A lad was singing, a high voice that hadn’t broken yet. He’d be, what, eight or nine years old? He sounded happy. Lucky mongrel won’t have to go to sea like me, Wicked thought.
When he got back to the laboratory, Rascal had blown out the flame. He poured the liquid – now a bright purple – into a pocket-sized flask and placed it in a drawer under the bench. Whistling, he packed up all the little glass bottles and vials and headed for the door.
Wicked ducked down. He watched Rascal until he’d disappeared behind the doors to the pineapple-painted room, and then he went inside.
The thick stone walls of the laboratory kept the air cool,
and goosebumps sprang up on Wicked’s arms. He went straight to the drawer. A dizzying wave rose up in him, and just for a second he closed his eyes. Then, grabbing the silver flask, he tore out of there, his breath racing as if he’d run a mile without stopping.
But Wicked found it hard to leave the shady green clearing at the edge of the school. He dawdled under the spreading fig tree, sprawled on a bench. He counted the silver coins he’d brought from his treasure store and went into the village bakery to buy a cream bun. When he’d eaten it, he strolled back to the school to take one last peek.
At the classroom labelled ART, he could perch on the step to see in. A girl was standing with a bunch of flowers, and the children were seated at tables with scrolls of paper and charcoal, drawing her. There was a hush and the sunlight streamed in, buttering the wooden floor and the lemon mats, the children’s faces and the glowing hibiscus the girl held.
‘Change!’ called the teacher, and the girl put down the flowers and resettled herself in a big armchair. The pupils took fresh sheets of paper and began drawing the new pose. They were silent, absorbed in their work as if under a spell. Wicked strained to see how they were getting on. One boy with spectacles was working intently. As he drew, Wicked watched the girl in the armchair appear. It was exactly like the model, only not. She seemed alive in the drawing as if she could get up and walk, but in among the flowers in her arms, he’d drawn mangrove roots and shells, birds, a lizard, crabs and turtles. It was as if she was holding his whole world in her hands.
‘Mischief, how interesting!’ said the teacher. ‘I love that!’ It was only when the boy looked up, his face shining, that Wicked recognised him. It was the spectacles – where had he got those?
Mischief pushed them back up his nose. ‘Thanks, sir! It’s these glasses the Librarian got for me. They’re brilliant, like the world’s suddenly jumped out at me. I never knew there were so many marvellous things to look at. Like, have ye ever truly looked at a mangrove root? It’s grand, all curly and winding like a snake.’
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