The Wild Way Home

by Sophie Kirtley

  ‘Hello,’ says Dad. He goes into the living room and closes the door.

  NEWS

  I run upstairs and lie on my bed cuddling Howard Carter. He purrs and nudges my hand with his chin every time I stop stroking him. I look into his eyes and think of the lynx. I thump the rhythm of my spirit song softly on my pillow. My window’s open and outside I can hear the trees of Mandel Forest whispering gently in the breeze.

  After what feels like about a hundred years I hear Dad’s slow footsteps on the stairs. I leap to my feet. Dad puts his head around my door.

  ‘Dad,’ I say, my voice all squeaky. ‘Tell me about Dara. Is Dara OK?’ Dad puts his hands on my shoulders. He looks me straight in the eye.

  ‘Dara …’ he says, speaking my brother’s name in the wispy way. His breath catches in his throat and he swallows hard.

  I feel like I’m falling from the tallest tree, like I’m diving to the depths of a well. Down down down. My whole body tenses as I wait for the crash and the splash and the snap and the break of my own ending.

  ‘DaRA!’ I say his name how Harby said it, like he’s a warrior, like I’m a warrior too. ‘DARA!’

  ‘Charlie,’ says Dad. He’s shaking his head, over and over; tears stream down his cheeks. Then I notice that he’s smiling too. ‘It went OK, Charlie,’ Dad squeaks. ‘Dara’s operation went OK.’

  Relief surges through me. My eyes fill up with tears. Dad pulls me close and hugs me tight. I wrap my arms around him and soak his shirt with my tears. I can feel the gasp and shudder of his sobs.

  ‘So,’ I say into his chest, my voice all muffled. ‘If it’s good news, then why are we crying?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he says, pulling one arm away to blow his nose, ‘must be the onions.’

  I laugh through my own tears.

  ‘Dad, there are no stupid onions.’ I grab a tissue and blow my nose too. ‘It’s OK to cry, you know. Even cavemen cry.’

  ‘That is such a Charlie Merriam thing to say.’ He kisses the top of my head. ‘You stink of dog.’

  ‘Nero,’ I say, by way of explanation.

  Dad shrugs; he doesn’t see me shiver, remembering the wolf.

  Then Dad does a double take. ‘Charlie!’ he gasps. ‘Would you just look at the state of you!’

  Dad takes my shoulders again and holds me at arm’s length. ‘What on earth have you been up to? You’re covered in cuts, Charlie! And you’re absolutely filthy; I’ll run you a bath, love.’

  ‘No, Dad. Let’s go to the hospital right now! I want to see Dara. I want to see Mum.’

  ‘Catch yourself on, Charlie.’ Dad’s eyebrows almost hit the ceiling. ‘Do you really want to see Mum looking like that? She’d have a fit. In fact they probably wouldn’t even let you into the hospital – you’re a walking health hazard!’

  I smile, but then I notice that, even though Dad’s joking around like normal, his eyes aren’t smiling. Coldness creeps into my blood once more.

  ‘Dad,’ I say softly. ‘You’ve told me the good news. But is there any …’ I swallow. ‘… any bad news?’

  ‘Oh, the bad news?’ Dad blinks, hesitating. ‘The bad news is that little brothers are really annoying. You’ll come to realise this, Charlie; they break all your stuff, thump you and they eat a lot.’

  I smile weakly. ‘Seriously, Dad, tell me the real bad news. I want to know.’

  PROMISE

  Dad looks at me long and hard, like he’s seeing me for the first time. He sighs.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy, Charlie. Dara’s still in intensive care and he’s going to be in hospital for a while. He may have problems with his heart his whole life. He’ll need more operations when he’s bigger. And Mum …’ Dad’s voice trails away.

  He picks up the photo on my bedside table – the three of us, when I was just born. I look at it too; Dad’s grinning really goofily and Mum’s laughing, cuddling me tight.

  Real Dad, now Dad, sighs. ‘Our lives are going to be a bit different, Charlie. Mum’s really shaken up. We all are.’ Dad’s talking to me properly. Like I’m a grown-up. Like we’re in this together.

  ‘Maybe we’re all a little bit different, Dad,’ I say quietly. ‘And a bit the same. Things happen, bad things sometimes, and sometimes people get a bit broken, don’t they?’ Dad nods. ‘But we’ll look after each other, won’t we? That’s what we do.’

  I look into Dad’s eyes; he understands.

  Dad reaches out and strokes my hair. He pulls out a bit of twig and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Wild thing!’ he says. ‘I’ll go and run you that bath.’

  ‘I’ll have a shower,’ I say. ‘Then let’s go and see Mum and Dara.’

  ‘OK,’ says Dad. ‘Dara’s got a birthday present waiting in the hospital for you actually.’

  I laugh.

  Dad trots downstairs. ‘What do you want for lunch, Charlie?’

  ‘Everything!’ I call back down.

  Standing beneath the steaming water, I watch the mud and leaves and blood swirl down the plughole. The past doesn’t all wash away that easily; some things get lost or forgotten or left behind, but they’re always there, buried deep, waiting to be found. Just like I found Harby’s deertooth. With my finger I draw an invisible circle on my throat, right where a make-safe-deertooth would lie. But maybe it’s not just a deertooth that makes safe, maybe it’s people, maybe it’s us.

  In my room, I put on a fresh T-shirt, another blue one. I hear a blackbird calling from outside my open window. I kneel on my bed and look out over the garden into Mandel Forest. A wood pigeon perches on the flickering beech tree; his feathers are the colours of early morning sky, grey and pink and silver.

  ‘Whhhooooo?’ he calls.

  ‘Charlie Merriam,’ I answer.

  ‘Whhhooooooo?’ he asks again.

  And I whisper, Cholliemurrum.

  Because I am both.

  The warm smells of lunch rise up the stairs. I pick up the photo of us from twelve years ago. Today we’ll take another photo, of all of us together, our family; we’ll be different but still really the same. In today’s photo, I’ll be the one cuddling the tiny, newborn baby, I’ll have a goofy grin on my face and a heart full of love. And when I hold my little brother, Dara Merriam, for the very first time, I’ll make him a promise, the same promise that Harby made to Mothga, right here, so very very long ago.

  Make safe, I’ll whisper in Dara’s little ear. And I will.

  I GIVE THANKS …

  … To everyone at Bloomsbury Children’s – I am so lucky to have found my (wild way) home with you. To Lucy Mackay-Sim, my kind-hearted, clever, creative editor, you have given so much to me and to this book – I love working with you. To wonderful Ellen Holgate, thank you for saying YES and for asking me the questions I needed to ask my story. Also to Jessica Bellman, Michael Young, Bea Cross, Jade Westwood, Jess White, Sarah Taylor-Fergusson, the Rights team, the Sales team and all at Bloomsbury Australia too.

  … To Ben Mantle for this cover that just glimmers with adventure and shivers with danger too. To Patrick Knowles for the exquisite hand lettering and to Sarah Baldwin for weaving it all together so enchantingly.

  … To Nancy Miles, my utterly marvellous agent. You have guided me … and Charlie … so clear-sightedly through this forest. We’d be lost without you!

  … To the flock, the herd, the shoal that is the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University – I am proud and grateful to swim, run and fly alongside you all. My particular love and thanks to Julia Green who nurtured and nourished the heart of this book and to Steve Voake who first shook Hartboy’s voice awake. Also to David Almond, C. J. Skuse, Lucy Christopher, Jo Nadin and Claire Furniss. And, of course, to my dear workshop pals. Thank you, all of you, for caring for this story so gently and wisely when it was newly hatched.

  … To my treasured tribes of writing friends – Aubergines, Stroops, Swaggers, Scoobies. Most especially Hana Tooke, Nizrana Farook, Lucy Cuthew, Yasmin Rahman, Rachel Huxley and Sue Bailey �
�� thank you for reading my words so thoughtfully and for writing your own words so inspiringly. I’m proud to have such talented, kind, supportive (and ever-so-slightly mischievous) friends.

  The Wild Way Home is about the shared adventure of friendship and this story is interwoven with wisps of all the amazing real people I’ve been so lucky to adventure with. Thank you, all my friends, for sharing your wild ways with me; I hope you each spy your influence in this book. Particularly big bear hugs to Emma, Laura, Zuri, Corinne, Aynsley, Cath, Tanya, Clairey, Hannah, Jo and Claire.

  As Charlie and Hartboy could tell us, home is family. Thank you to all my Kirtley family for your love, support and encouragement, especially Sylvia and Peter. Thank you to my Logan family for a lifetime of blethering, dandering and general ligging around; Dad, Anna, Alice and Niall, this story has deep roots in you. To Amy, who has shared everything and who remembers my own memories better than I ever do. To dearest Dorrie. And of course to Mum – who has given me so so much and who is, quite simply, my hero.

  Most of all I give thanks to my very own wolf pack: to my cubs, Lyla, Arlo and Flora, and to Andrew, my mate-for-life. You are everything: you inspire me; you question me; you make me laugh; you make me think. You’ve given me time and space to become an actual author, and you’ve believed in this story (and in me) from the start. I want to howl from the hilltops how very much I love you all.

  This story is wrapped in pre-history; I owe a great debt to the late Professor Peter Woodman – the archaeologist who excavated the Mesolithic site at Mount Sandel in Northern Ireland. That place, where I played when I was a wee girl, is what inspired this story. As did the real Stone Age people, whose long-lost footprints we all walk upon every single day. I give thanks especially to them – our Stone Age ancestors; I’m sure they dreamed and wished and laughed and loved and wept and hoped just as much as we all still do.

  And finally, dear readers, thank you; without you this story would only be pages on a shelf or whispers in the wind.

  Be kind. Have adventures. Make safe.

  BLOOMSBURY CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP, UK

  BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY CHILDREN’S BOOKS and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  This electronic edition published in March 2020

  Text copyright © Sophie Kirtley, 2020

  Map illustration copyright © Ben Mantle, 2020

  Sophie Kirtley has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: PB: 978-1-5266-1628-9; eBook: 978-1-5266-1627-2

  To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters