The Island at the End of Everything

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  I jump up. ‘I’ll go. You left your stick.’

  She blinks around her as if she has just noticed, and then nods slowly. I know what she wants to say next but is embarrassed to because she shouted at me. So I say it for her.

  ‘I won’t go near any of those people. I promise.’

  She nods again. ‘Careful of the oil. It may still be hot.’

  That is her way of saying, ‘Be careful of everything’.

  THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE

  W

  hen I get home Sister Margaritte is with Nanay, and they both rise from the floor when I walk in. ‘There you are, Amihan,’ says Nanay briskly, wiping her eyes with one hand and taking her stick with the other. ‘I was just about to come and find you.’

  ‘Hello, Ami,’ says Sister Margaritte. ‘I’m sorry for interrupting your day with your mother, but there were some important details I had to tell her. I’m sure she will fill you in.’

  She reaches out her hand and I put down the basin to take it. ‘God bless you, child. I am sure Coron will be a wonderful adventure.’

  Her hand is warm and dry, her fingernails spotless as usual, small and pink as shells. My own hand looks dirty and clumsy in her grasp. I wonder if it is prayers that make her hands like that.

  ‘Thank you, Sister Margaritte,’ I say. She nods her head and leaves.

  Nanay beckons me over. I sit on her crossed legs and she wraps her arms around me, my spine pressing against her chest so I am cocooned between her chin and lap. I try to still the moment in my mind. I will be bigger when I see her next time – I want to remember being held like this.

  ‘Sister Margaritte was sent to fetch you,’ she says in a quiet voice. ‘Segregation is starting tomorrow, and Mr Zamora wanted all the Untouched children taken to Coron tonight. But Sister Margaritte argued with him and he agreed you could all go tomorrow instead.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ My body jerks involuntarily but Nanay holds me tightly.

  ‘We mustn’t think of it as only a day left, but rather a day extra,’ she continues, and I can tell Sister Margaritte has told her what to say. ‘We will be able to write to each other, and I will write to you every day until we see each other again.’

  ‘But that is six years!’

  ‘Not quite,’ she says, speaking faster. ‘Your birthday is in four months so really it is only five years and four months. That’s . . .’ She scrunches up her face, and I know the numbers in her head are flicking. Nanay is good at numbers, says she can see them, clear as if she were writing them out. ‘One thousand, nine hundred and forty-five days, or thereabouts. So I will write you one thousand, nine hundred and forty-five – or thereabouts – letters.’

  I think she thinks these numbers make it feel easier for me, but they don’t have the same comfort as they do for her. So many days have to pass, starting sooner than I ever guessed. Starting tomorrow.

  ‘I know it sounds like a lot, but Sister Margaritte says it’s fewer than the number of steps we take to the beach and back – that isn’t so far, is it?’

  ‘So each day is a step?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Her voice is calm again. She kisses the back of my head. ‘A step bringing us closer together.’

  Though they aren’t her words – Nanay would never put things like this, so sweetly and softly, so like Sister Margaritte – they do help. I print one thousand, nine hundred and forty-five into my brain alongside all the other important numbers: mine and Nanay’s birthdays, the number of brass lights in church, Nanay’s identification number.

  ‘I’ll write to you too,’ I say. Though I’ve never sent anyone a letter before, I’m sure I will work it out. Maybe people in the orphanage will help me. We sit thinking our separate thoughts for a while. I am mainly wondering what Nanay is thinking, and about how tomorrow is sooner than I know what to do with.

  ‘Do you want some dinner?’ Nanay says eventually. I shake my head. ‘Want to catch some stars?’

  The wall opposite is dim and I hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Yes.’

  We unfurl ourselves stiffly and I help Nanay to her feet. She fetches the sheet from our bed and we go outside. Noise from the new street and the tavern is carrying on the wind, but I take her to my sun patch and the trees muffle the sound. She spreads the sheet on the ground and we both lie down.

  ‘What’s it like, crossing the sea?’ I have only ever been out on Bondoc’s boat, barely past the reef that circles the island.

  ‘It is a long time since I came,’ says Nanay thoughtfully. ‘But it felt a bit like being rocked in a cradle. Everything is unsteady at sea.’

  ‘But I’ll be safe?’

  ‘Yes, the sea channel here is calm. All the currents pull towards land in both directions – I remember when I arrived the boat seemed to bring itself in.’

  ‘So if I fell out, I’d float back to Culion?’

  ‘Don’t get ideas,’ laughs Nanay softly.

  The stars are set gently against their spread of deep, dark blue. I try to section off the sky and count them, but every time I focus on one star to start counting outwards from it, my eye gets drawn to another and I lose my place. Every so often one falls across the sky and Nanay or I point and say ‘Catch!’ The person who says it first wins the star. I am much better than Nanay normally, but this time I only win by three.

  When it gets cold we go inside. I don’t want to fall asleep because when I wake up it will be tomorrow, and Nanay seems to feel the same because she suggests we tell stories.

  She tells me about an island with black sands and white forests where giants live and shake the earth, and that is where the tsunamis start. It is a good story and I have to think hard of one that will be as good. So I tell her about a place where the ground is upside-down and people walk around attached by their feet, the sky opening like a mouth below them. They can never sleep because they will lose their grip on the ground and fall into the clouds.

  ‘That’s very clever,’ she says. ‘May I tell you one more?’

  She shuffles on to her side and props herself up on her elbow. ‘Once there was a girl, and she was in love with a boy. He was in love with her too, but he was very sick and told her they could not be together. He moved to a small hut many miles away, but the girl followed him. She told him she would look after him. They wanted to be married but were too young and he was too sick. So they lived together anyway, and he began to get better.

  ‘They were very happy for many years. They made the hut beautiful by painting the roof blue and training red gumamela flowers to climb the walls. They’re beautiful open flowers with thin tongues trumpeting from the centre. Once a year the butterflies came and made them flicker like fire. You could see their house from the top of the surrounding hills, because of the blue roof and red flowers. That’s how they were found.

  ‘Eventually the girl’s family went looking for her. When they saw the hut from the top of the hill, they waited until it was dark. Then they crept down, overpowered the boy and took the girl back home. She was very sad and the sadness crept into her blood. Soon she was as sick as the boy. Her family blamed him, but she knew it was because she was heartbroken. They sent her to an island where all the heart-broken people live, and she thought she would die without ever being happy again. But she was wrong.

  ‘The boy had given her a gift before she was taken, and now she found it growing inside her. Her belly grew round and soon the gift was ready. From her body came a beautiful and wondrous breeze, smelling sweet as rain. She named it Amihan, after the winds that bring the monsoon, and so are life-giving. The breeze gave the girl new life, and made her happy for many years, until it was time for it to move on. Even after the breeze went out into the wide world of the Places Outside, it left enough love for a lifetime.’

  I wait the right amount of silence before speaking. ‘But Nanay, you won’t have to wait a lifetime. I’ll be back in one thousand, nine hundred and forty-five days. Or thereabouts.’

  Nanay laughs sadly.

 
; ‘Was the house yours and Ama’s? The butterfly house.’

  ‘Yes. It was beautiful.’

  I can see it clearly from above, like a bird might. The blue roof, the fiery walls. ‘Is Ama all right now?’

  Nanay rolls on to her back so I can’t see her face any more. ‘I don’t know if he stayed better.’

  It clicks into place. ‘He was Touched?’

  Nanay puts her arm across her eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  Nanay hesitates. ‘I don’t know how to sum him up. It’s hard, isn’t it? Describing a person in only words, when they can hold whole worlds in them.’ She swallows. ‘He was short. He always cut his hair wonky on one side. His hands were rough. He was the kindest man I’ve ever known.’

  ‘I wish I had met him.’

  ‘You are so like him – your smile, your eyes. Your kindness. You are my world now.’

  I find her hand. We breathe together in the darkness.

  THE GOING

  W

  hen I wake there is a small bundle beside me, and with a pang I realize Nanay has packed for me. I sit on my bed for a long time, looking at the room I have spent every night in since I was born. Notches in the door frame mark my height, from when I was just able to stand, to last year’s birthday. I wonder how tall I will be when Nanay next measures me. Probably bigger than her – she is not very high.

  Nanay sticks her head into the room.

  ‘There you are,’ she says in a too-bright voice that means she is Putting On A Brave Face. ‘I made breakfast.’

  We eat fruit in our scrubby garden, but it is hard to swallow. I want this part to be over, though I don’t want to leave. I don’t think the being gone will be as bad as the going.

  Sister Margaritte arrives just as we are finishing our mango halves. Nanay goes rigid and says, ‘Wipe your face, Ami.’

  I bite my lip so hard I taste the tang of blood. There must be a way of staying. I wish I had thought harder about it, knew what to do. Nanay hands me my bundle. I can feel hard edges inside and she says, ‘Your present is in there, like I promised. Habilin, for safekeeping until we see each other again.’

  The parting words are coming, and she is drawing out the sentences to delay it, the way she does when she goes to see friends in the hospital who will not be going home. Sister Margaritte leads us outside.

  I keep my back straight and my eyes facing forwards. There is an open cart outside with a driver – another stranger – and five other children in it, seated along the sides. They all have bundles with them too. Datu is there, and two girls from school, but most of our class are not. Diwa’s baby is not there either.

  ‘A cart?’ says Nanay. ‘Are we not walking them to the harbour?’

  ‘They are to be taken to the new port. The . . .’ Sister Margaritte wrinkles her nose. ‘The Sano port. It’s north from here, through the forest.’

  ‘I see.’ Nanay chokes on the words. Then she clears her throat and bends to hold me.

  ‘Be good. Be polite. Make yourself useful.’

  ‘I will, Nanay.’

  She bends and hugs me tightly. ‘Make me proud. Make friends. I’ll write to you.’

  She nods at Sister Margaritte, who looks as sad as I feel.

  ‘See you in one thousand, nine hundred and forty-five days,’ I say.

  ‘One thousand, nine hundred and forty-four days,’ she corrects. ‘Or thereabouts.’

  I climb up and Sister Margaritte sits beside the driver. The mules start walking.

  ‘Wait!’

  Bondoc is thundering down the road, Capuno hurrying behind. I move to the back of the cart and each of the brothers reaches up in turn to hug me.

  Bondoc whispers into my ear, ‘I will take care of her, Ami. Segregation or no, I’ll visit as much as possible. And I will take care of you, as best I can. I will write to check on you, and visit when you are settled.’

  He lets go and jumps from the cart.

  As the mules start again, Nanay kisses both hands and blows the kisses to me. I catch them fast as falling stars and pocket them. Bondoc puts his arm over Nanay’s shoulder and I know he will keep his promise, even if he can only rarely come from the Sano area. This should make it better, a little. It should.

  They wave until the cart turns off the street. My arms and legs feel heavy, blood is roaring in my ears. My fingers tingle and I clench them into the bundle. I can feel from the size and weight that it’s Nanay’s metal cooking basin. I know it is the most precious thing she had, and all because I gave her a dried up berry.

  The littlest boy, Kidlat, is sniffling. He can barely be older than five, and no one goes to comfort him, so I shuffle carefully towards him and put my arms around him until he stops crying. His small warmth anchors me. We collect three more children: Tekla and two Igmes (one tall, one short), all girls I know from school but who don’t talk to me. At every door there is a mother or father or both, crying and kissing them goodbye. It is hard to watch so I keep my eyes closed until the cart starts moving again.

  Our final stop is at Doctor Tomas’ house. The doctor is standing outside looking tired, surrounded by boxy suitcases. Sister Margaritte climbs down to greet him, and for a moment I think the doctor is coming instead of Mr Zamora. But then the butterfly collector looms out of the house wearing a white straw hat and holding a glass case a bit smaller than a suitcase. The sun glints off it, throwing sharp points of light that make stars shoot across my eyes, but as Mr Zamora carefully slides it on to the front seat of the cart next to the driver we all crane to look.

  Inside are rows and rows of wooden sticks, set horizontally through holes in the glass like the rungs of a ladder. Dangling from each of these sticks are what look like dried leaves, ten or more on each. They sway as Mr Zamora sets it down, as though they may drop.

  ‘Back!’ barks Mr Zamora, and Kidlat starts to whimper again. ‘Don’t touch it!’

  ‘What is it?’ asks Lilay, one of the older girls.

  ‘They are chrysalises,’ says Mr Zamora.

  ‘Chrisa-what?’

  ‘Caterpillar cases,’ says Sister Margaritte. ‘Where they go to change into butterflies.’

  ‘Indeed. And they are very delicate. If you touch them . . .’ Mr Zamora drags his gaze over each of us. I look down. ‘You will be punished. It is not ideal having to transport them in this . . . rustic manner.’

  ‘You could use the harbour here,’ says the driver. ‘Be kinder to allow the parents to wave their children off. Most of them have never been in a boat before.’

  ‘That is a Leproso port now,’ snaps Mr Zamora. ‘The north-easterly harbour will be where Sano transportation is organized.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like more time?’ says Sister Margaritte, half sharply, half hopefully. ‘Wait until the roads are laid, and a less rustic form of transport can be brought from the Places Outside?’

  ‘And spend another day in Culion Leper Colony?’ He smiles as she flinches. ‘I think I made my feelings on that quite clear, Sister.’ He wheels around to Doctor Tomas. ‘When you’re ready, Doctor!’

  Doctor Tomas jumps and begins loading the rest of the boxes and suitcases into the cart. There are five brown boxes in all, two up front with Mr Zamora and three at the back, each with holes pricked in the top to let in air. I bring my head down to listen but there is no sound.

  Mr Zamora oversees the loading as if the doctor is a servant. When the luggage is loaded and the floor of cart is so tightly packed we can barely move our feet, Mr Zamora pulls a spotless white handkerchief from his pocket and covers the handrail he uses to pull himself on to the front seat. He lets the handkerchief drop into the dust and slowly lifts the glass case on to his lap, setting the chrysalises swinging.

  Sister Margaritte goes to climb up next to him but Mr Zamora holds his hand up, right in her face. ‘No need, Sister. I’ll take them from here.’

  Sister Margaritte draws herself up to her fullest height. ‘I have cared for these children for years.
I’m not about to let them go with someone they barely know.’

  ‘You have no choice, Sister,’ says Mr Zamora in a not-sorry voice. ‘Your new charges will be arriving soon. You’ll have a whole school of leper children to worry about. And besides, I know what I am doing.’ Mr Zamora twists around in his seat. ‘The government has put me in charge of seeing to it that all you bright young people get a good start in your new lives. I’ll be running the orphanage.’

  His lips peel back from his teeth in an attempt at a comforting smile. Kidlat’s mouth quivers and he nuzzles closer to me. Sister Margaritte hesitates, and steps back. She looks as if she has lost a tug of war, her shoulders drooping. She climbs into the back of the cart and hugs each of us.

  ‘You should be there by sunset,’ she sniffs. ‘I’ve been to Coron. It’s a friendly place, I am sure you will be happy there.’

  I search her face but she seems to be telling the truth. Maybe we will be happy there, even without our families. Nanay once told me a story about a town run by children. They stayed young for ever and it was a fun place.

  I hold on to this shining thought as Mr Zamora says, ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

  I watch Sister Margaritte watching us go. She has one hand on Doctor Tomas’ shoulder and they are both perfectly still. As we round a corner she is as small as my forearm, a doll dressed in black. The horses pull us out of Culion, past all the houses, the hospital and church, out underneath a new sign set high over the road between two poles:

  CULION LEPER COLONY

  RESTRICTED AREA

  Mr Zamora doffs his hat at it, lets out a long breath and inhales an even longer one.

  ‘Free, children! Fresh air from here on.’

  THE ESCAPE

  W

  e only stop when someone needs the toilet. I feel sick from the sadness and the swaying of the cart, so I have to concentrate very hard on shrinking the sickness inside me, as I have done to the tears. Nobody is talking. I try to catch the eye of Tekla, the girl sitting in front of me, but she has her arms crossed and her face is set hard in a frown. Kidlat falls asleep on my lap and I focus on being very still for him, which is easy after all my practice waiting for butterflies.