Wicked's Way

by Anna Fienberg

  The other children came over to look too. ‘Teach me how to draw that lizard,’ said one girl.

  ‘It’s easy,’ said Mischief. ‘Ye just gotta find one and study ’im. The more you look, the more you love the little fella. You gotta draw what you see and then when you get good, you can start makin’ it up, as well.’

  Wicked stood down from the step and rubbed his eyes. He tried looking at the fig tree nearby. Could he make out the details? The veins in the leaves, the yellowish tinge in the older ones? No, his vision was blurred. Maybe he needed glasses too …

  ‘The Librarian got them for me,’ he mimicked Mischief, scowling.

  ‘When in doubt, get thee to a library,’ said Doomsday, popping his head out for a moment.

  ‘Oh go boil your beak,’ growled Wicked. ‘I don’t want to hear any more about libraries!’

  He kicked a stone on the path. He’d made his decision. He patted the flask in his pocket. And yet … even if he never clapped eyes on the precious herb, before he left these shores he had to see this earwig of a person with his own eyes.

  A shipwrecked sailor lying under a palm tree was painted on the front door of the library. Wicked could hear children chattering inside. He knew it was risky to be standing there, but still he stood staring at the picture. He liked the way the sailor was lying on his stomach, reading a book.

  Wicked was nearly knocked over when the door opened, and three girls came out. They were too busy talking about a prince who’d climbed up some lass’s hair to a tower to notice Wicked. Maybe he hadn’t heard right. That was just stupid, no one could climb up hair, could they? Not even on Devil Island.

  He rounded the building, and at the back of the library found a large open window. He gazed inside the room and saw a rug the colour of a tomato, and books. Everywhere. The walls were covered with them and in the gaps were pictures of ships and stormy skies, maps and foreign ports. Lads and lasses sat cross-legged or sprawled on their stomachs like the sailor, reading. It was the most colourful room he’d ever seen … except for one.

  ‘Today I’m going to read from a book called The Habits of Hermits.’ A woman’s voice rang like a bell through the room. ‘Can anyone tell me what it might be about?’

  Hands shot up.

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Hermit crabs, Miss. They eat worms and weed like Hermy in that box there.’

  ‘Yes, splendid! Have you got to know Hermy yet? If you watch him for a while, you’ll see him pop his head out for food. But he’s curious, too. Likes to dig. You can talk to him, tell him anything and he won’t blink an eye.’

  ‘He can’t blink, miss, ’cause he ain’t got no eyelids.’

  The Librarian laughed, moving into Wicked’s sight, her back to him. ‘How observant of you, Hoodlum! But if you look closely, you’ll find he does have tiny little eyelashes. He’s quite hairy, in fact, but the hair rubs off with all that digging he does.’

  ‘Aye,’ called out another boy. ‘An’ I like the way his eyes pop out of his head like he’s always surprised.’

  ‘Well, isn’t the world a surprising place?’ said the Librarian. ‘One day I hope you’ll be able to travel right round it and meet more fascinating creatures like Hermy.’

  ‘How do you know when he’s asleep then?’ asked Maria.

  ‘I seen him tuck his eyes down and go right back into his shell, with just his legs hangin’ out,’ said Hoodlum. ‘I reckon that means he’s asleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Librarian. ‘I suppose we do much the same when we’re tired. But I’d rather eat watermelon than worms, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘In the bad old days Mamma used to grill worms and put ’em in me sandwiches,’ a boy called out. ‘But that was back in me old life. Now she puts curried egg in, an’ I like ’em better.’

  ‘I met a boy once who could make a hermit crab climb out of its shell at the first sound of his voice.’ The Librarian went quiet for a moment, and the class did too, as if trying to picture it.

  ‘How did he do that?’ asked Hoodlum.

  ‘He practised,’ said the Librarian. ‘Every morning he came to say hello to the crab, over and over again. He talked to it for ages each day. You can do that too, with our Hermy.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Maria.

  ‘I knew him when I was just a bit younger than you,’ the Librarian said. ‘He was so interested in the world – fascinated by every creature he saw. I wonder if he’s still like that. He’s the only person I ever met who asked as many questions as me.’ She smiled.

  ‘Is he still your friend?’

  ‘He’ll always be my friend, but I haven’t seen him in a long, long time.’ She sighed, and blinked. ‘Now, has anyone brought a new shell for our Hermy? Not yet? Well, he’s fast outgrowing this one …’

  There was a low buzz in Wicked’s head. An ache started at the pit of his stomach and spread up under his ribs. He remembered the time he’d collected worms and weed, caring for a creature just like that. And read lots of books. They’d filled him up, like the food filled that creature. His eyes prickled. He remembered the taste of something sweet … guava jam. His saliva glands tingled. He needed to sit down. But he couldn’t. What he needed more, right then, was to see the face of the dark-haired woman who sat with her back to him.

  ‘Miss, there’s a man at the window!’ cried a sudden voice.

  Wicked didn’t wait to see if the Librarian turned around. His knees collapsed beneath him and he half-crawled, half-ran through the grass, his heart thudding inside him like a kettle drum.

  At the edge of town, he didn’t slow down. He crashed through the forest, blind to the branches whipping his face. He ran until the breath ran out of him, stumbling over a root, tumbling to earth with a thump.

  Doomsday squawked with outrage. ‘Madness and mayhem!’

  Wicked lay panting on his back. ‘Oh, put a lid on it,’ he moaned.

  Doomsday crawled out from under his shirt and sat on his chest. His feathers stood on end with offence. Cocking his head to the side, he studied Wicked. The squawking became a soft warbling, like purring, in his throat. His feathers subsided and he nibbled Wicked gently with his beak.

  They lay like that until a twig snapped suddenly behind them. Wicked sat up with a start. He looked around. There was only a faint swish of leaves in the breeze. A dragonfly droned near his ear.

  ‘We better keep going,’ he said. ‘Someone might be following us.’

  He got to his feet, lifting Doomsday up to his shoulder. Now he had to find the path to the caves. He’d never been so deep inside this part of the forest. The air was throbbing with insects. He could hear the far-off boom of the ocean. He’d head that way.

  They’d been walking for ten minutes when another sound broke the quiet. A cough, or maybe a clearing of the throat. A human noise. Wicked stood still, the hair on the back of his neck tingling. Doomsday scooted down to hide in his shirt. The cough came again, louder this time. It sounded … polite.

  Wicked glanced up. Ahead was a cluster of coconut palms and beyond the trees he glimpsed the sandy path to the caves. Hovering among the bushes, half hidden by ferns, was an unmistakable, floppy-haired figure.

  Wicked ducked behind a tree, his face burning.

  ‘Hello there, Wicked. I wonder if I could have a word? Won’t take long.’

  ‘A picture can paint a thousand words,’ Doomsday called back.

  ‘Pardon? Is that you, Wicked?’

  There was silence as Wicked tried to think what to do. ‘Say no to the pesky varmint,’ he whispered to Doomsday. ‘Say no one’s here!’

  But Doomsday was silent.

  ‘Horrendo here, Wicked. How are you? A thousand words indeed – that’s so poetic of you. But you know, we can’t all be artists. Clear communication and a bit of goodwill can solve just about anything, I reckon. So, have you made a tour of the island? I bet a lot of things have changed since you were last here. Is that stomach of yours still giving you grief?’

 
‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ Doomsday cried out.

  ‘Well, yes, I couldn’t agree more … at least,’ Horrendo stuttered. He came out from the bushes. ‘Is that really you, Wicked?’ He took a few steps forward as Wicked inched out from behind the tree. ‘My, you have lost weight, but look at all that muscle! And you have quite a beard. Why, you look … different.’

  Doomsday poked his head out and hopped up to sit on Wicked’s shoulder. Wicked couldn’t help grinning at the look on Horrendo’s face.

  ‘Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes,’ Doomsday said haughtily.

  Horrendo’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

  Wicked tipped his hat to him and made to pass.

  ‘Wait, Wicked, please, I want to talk to you,’ Horrendo gasped. ‘And to you … er, Mr Bird. What a wise companion you’ve found there, Wicked. Not that you yourself aren’t wise in your own way, I’m sure, but …’

  ‘A man is known by the company he keeps,’ Doomsday declared, preening his feathers.

  ‘Indeed,’ Horrendo agreed. ‘And talking of friends, Wicked, have you seen how swimmingly your friends have got on? They’re busy and cheerful and not one incident of sword fighting or ear-slicing since we set foot here four months ago.’

  ‘They’re no friends of mine,’ growled Wicked.

  ‘Well, life at sea was full of hardships, it’s true. But if you were to come to the tavern tonight and eat with the men, exchange a story or two, you’d see how quickly they’d embrace you!’

  Wicked snorted. ‘I was just on my way home now.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, you’ll want to freshen up before dinner, what was I thinking?’ Horrendo slapped his forehead. ‘Where are you staying? The B&B is rather good, even if I do say so myself. My parents run it, and we have fresh sheets on the beds every day, hot baths …’

  ‘Will you just leave off, damn it! I’m making camp in the forest and that’s the way I like it.’

  Horrendo’s face fell. ‘Oh, well, I see. Yes, perhaps it takes time to get used to the comforts of home when you’ve been sleeping rough.’ His face cleared. ‘Jolly good then, well, tonight I’ll just tell everyone that you’re here visiting, and then tomorrow …’

  Wicked almost jumped in alarm. ‘Just hold your tongue!’ he yelled. ‘Why don’t you mind your own business, you irritating little horsefly?’ The silver flask nestled in his jacket pocket, and the day after tomorrow the Captain would be waiting in the boat. He felt afraid and angry and strange from his visit to the library this afternoon and he wanted this pest of a boy to stop nattering and let him think. Why didn’t somebody swat the lad?

  Horrendo stepped back. But squaring his jaw, he said, ‘I understand that this is difficult for you, Wicked, since you behaved so very … well, badly, before. I mean – you tried to steal treasure belonging to the lads not once, but twice. Oh, for a while there, every time I thought of you I’d get a terrible red rash on my neck, and once I came out in hives.’ He shuddered, then pulled himself up straight. ‘But everyone should be allowed a second chance, don’t you agree?’

  Wicked was already taking one, in his own way, if only the little nuisance would let him be. Horrendo had no idea of the bind Wicked was in. No idea at all.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Just give me a few more days. Please. I … er … wanna learn how to live here on the island with you all, I do. But I can’t face folk, not yet. I’m … whadyercallit … shy. Have to prepare myself. Give me three days, and I’ll be ready.’ That should give him time to deliver the potion and be back, with a wash and a haircut and maybe, a fresh start …

  Horrendo gazed at him. He scratched his neck then bit his nails. His face scrunched up with indecision. ‘Can’t I just tell … one person? I mean, it’s a huge responsibility, keeping a secret like this. Who knows what you might do. Not that I don’t trust you or anything. But just look at your past—’

  ‘I’m asking you real polite: keep a lock on your tongue. This is part of my second chance, right? You said everyone deserves one.’

  Horrendo held his gaze a fraction longer, and then gave a deep sigh. ‘All right. If you give me your word, I’ll give you mine. Three days.’ He turned to go, then turned back again. ‘Goodbye Wicked, goodbye Mr … er, Bird.’

  ‘Guts for garters,’ said Doomsday.

  Horrendo hesitated, frowning from Wicked to Doomsday and back again, then slowly walked away.

  All the way back to the cave, Wicked’s stomach churned and rumbled. ‘Feel like puking,’ he told Doomsday, who was pecking at something in his ear. Doomsday clucked sympathetically. Wicked wanted to break into a run. If he ran fast enough, he thought, he might leave behind this nagging ache in his belly.

  But nothing did any good. Run, dawdle, count coconuts or coins, he couldn’t stop the bad feeling. In the cave he lay down in the hammock and closed his eyes. Then he got up and found his bag of loot, spreading it out on the ground. He built a pile of gold coins, ran a finger over rubies, sapphires, slipped a diamond ring on his pinkie. But still he didn’t feel any better.

  He paced the floor of the cave, not daring to venture out now in case Horrendo had followed. But no, the boy had given his word.

  It was he, Wicked, who couldn’t be trusted.

  He leant against the cave wall, a sudden cramp paralysing him. Closing his eyes he saw a room filled with paintings and books and a long table strewn with brightly coloured beads. Seated at the table was a girl with dark hair. She was buttering toast, spreading jam. She put a piece on his plate. But she had her back to him. No matter how much he tried to make her, she wouldn’t turn around.

  It couldn’t be her, could it, that grown woman in the library with the voice like music? The voice that had sung him a lullaby, told him stories, showed him how fascinating the world could be. Don’t say her name, or she might disappear …

  He had to go back tomorrow. He had to make sure.

  Chapter 28

  He was dreaming. As first light filtered into the cave, a cold voice jeered, ‘Why would she want to know you? After all you’ve done; after all you are about to do?’

  Wicked sprang up in the hammock, and tipped out. He landed hard on the stone. The flask bounced from his jacket and the stopper came loose, rolling away as the precious liquid spread over the ground into a greasy pool.

  He stared at the growing stain. Trapped in sleep, his mind wouldn’t move.

  It all happened so quickly. Too quickly. He was still rubbing his eyes, trying to climb out of dreams, when Doomsday hopped over to taste the new drink.

  ‘No!’ yelled Wicked.

  Doomsday jumped in fright. He slipped then tried to right himself, but only flipped onto his back, slap in the middle of the puddle.

  From the shadows Wicked watched as the bird’s feathers faded from purple, to light blue, to a cloudy grey. Even as Wicked sprang to his knees, Doomsday gave a strangled scream, and disappeared.

  Wicked waited in the cave until the sun outside was blazing. And then he waited some more. Still on his knees, he was afraid to move. He knelt there, hardly breathing, watching the spot where he’d last seen Doomsday.

  If he moved, even just a step, he might tread on him. Where did folk go when they became invisible?

  He couldn’t stay still any longer. Gingerly, he touched the spot where Doomsday had lain. Nothing. The ground was dry now, empty. He stood up, feeling all around the walls, into cracks and crevices. His fingers traced the rough stone until they bled. He ran from one side of the cave to the other but no soft little body met his.

  Doomsday wasn’t just invisible; he had vanished.

  Wicked’s eyes stung from tears. He’d forgotten what it felt like – he mustn’t have cried, he thought, since he was ten years old. But it didn’t bring Doomsday back.

  He tried to remember everything he’d heard about the potion. Horrendo had said its effects didn’t last – why, that dog’s dinner was still hot when he reappeared!


  Wicked tried to cheer himself with the thought.

  He waited another hour.

  Oh, but why did that fool Rascal have to go and invent such a thing? Horrendo had called it an ‘invisible’ potion, but Doomsday was nowhere, melted away like a snowflake in sunlight. Wicked felt his eyes fill again. Of all the things the world didn’t need, a vanishing potion! Drat it all, why go inventing new ways to make people disappear when, in his experience, they did it regularly of their own accord?

  He checked the flask. It was still more than half full. He squeezed the stopper back on tightly and put it in his pocket. Something else was in there – the folded square of paper. He’d forgotten the Captain’s note. He didn’t want to think about that herb. Especially now …

  But the Captain didn’t give anything to anyone without a reason.

  On the paper was a black ink drawing of a leaf. Long and narrow, its veins looped together like running writing. The lines didn’t flow out from the centre to the sides, they ran from one end of the leaf to the other like … words! The blood pounded in his head. He turned the paper sideways, reading from left to right:

  Heed well, Wicked, your Captain’s advice,

  For if you fail in your task to bring me the spice

  The folk of Devil Island will be crushed by my hand

  And what you most treasure will turn into sand.

  Wicked folded the paper back up. Then he folded it again. He had to take extra care because his hands were shaking. He tried once more but the square wouldn’t bend any further.

  He needed the paper to be so small that the words didn’t exist.

  ‘He will always be my friend…’ She’d said that.

  He slipped the ball of paper back into his pocket. Fear lit a burning trail from his gut to his heart. He couldn’t think. All he knew was that this, now, changed everything.

  The Captain was not only his burden anymore.

  He remembered the lilt of her voice. That dark hair, shiny as polished wood.