The Island at the End of Everything

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  ‘This is the way to the river,’ Sister Teresa is explaining. ‘You can come here as often as you wish, so long as you never miss lessons, and tell someone where you are going.’

  The day is already full of a sticky, wet heat that hovers under the trees and makes their shade uncomfortable. The light dapples everybody a deep green, like lily pads. I follow behind one of the Igmes, but she seems to be interested only in being friends with the girl called Lilay. They walk close together, heads bowed and bodies turned slightly towards each other to fit down the narrow path. Nanay is the only person I ever told secrets to, and a horrible sinking feeling drags at my legs. She is my only true friend, and no one here seems interested in talking to me. Unless you count Kidlat, who doesn’t talk.

  I blink rapidly as we approach a wide, shallow river. It makes a splashing sound as it runs over rocks, and on the opposite bank the forest nudges right up to the edge, trailing branches and leaves along the surface. Flowers spread out here and there like fans.

  ‘This is where you can do laundry, past this point.’ Sister Teresa indicates a large rock, then pulls out the box of soap from her habit. ‘Take it in turns to wash. We will establish a proper rota soon. Kidlat, you first.’

  It takes an hour for all of us to get clean and dry off with the rags Sister Teresa pulls from yet another pocket. I help Tekla with the laundry until it is my turn to bathe, swilling the clothes and then scrubbing them on the large rock with soap, but she still does not smile at me. I suppose this is her way of dealing with the weight in her chest.

  Mine is to remember all the things I see and do, so I can write them in my letter to Nanay. So far I have the journey here – cart, boat, cart – the little bell Sister Teresa uses and her seemingly endless pockets. I hope the way Sister Teresa treats Mr Zamora will make Nanay laugh.

  There is no sign of him when we get back, but the cart driver has lit the firepit and is cooking a large omelette. There is a small mountain of eggshells at his feet. My mouth waters as he throws in a handful of wild chives.

  ‘This is Luko,’ says Sister Teresa. ‘I doubt he introduced himself to you, he doesn’t talk much. Luko is our cook, though soon we will have more staff arriving from the mainland.’

  Luko turns on his haunches and nods at us. He is built like Bondoc, and has hair that grows straight up and out from his head. I add the fact that we have a cook to my mind-letter.

  ‘I shall go and fetch the other children, and you can make your introductions over breakfast. Luko, can you fetch Tildie for me.’

  Luko moves the pan off the fire and heads around the side of the building. Igme and Lilay set to whispering as Sister Teresa disappears into the shade of the orphanage. In the daylight I can see that it has two floors like Doctor Tomas’ house, but it is at least six times wider and has no balconies. It is painted a muted yellow, with the newer section a richer shade, and above the door in thick black letters it says CORON ORPHANAGE. At the very top a bronze cockerel turns in the wind.

  The shutters are open at the top-right window, and I wonder if whoever had seen us arrive last night had watched us leave for the river this morning. We hear the tramping of many feet on the stairs, and Sister Teresa leads two lines of children blinking into the sunlight. They all wear worn but uncreased clothes, and their faces are clean, their hair brushed and parted perfectly. Sister Teresa stands in the middle and they separate in a straight line either side of her, boys on one side, girls on the other. It feels as though we are about to start a game, and our Culion side would lose. Kidlat slips his hand into mine.

  All of them look straight ahead, except one girl at the far end of her line. She is paler than the others, paler than any of us, her hair light and flyaway, making a halo around her head. She scans us as we scan them, and stops on me. Her eyes are huge and widely spaced. I blink and she looks away.

  ‘Children, meet your new companions. I am going to town to collect some more supplies – as you can see Luko has used all the eggs. Mr Zamora?’ Sister Teresa calls into the shade of the building. Mr Zamora comes outside in clean clothes, his tie knotted tightly and his straw hat pulled low. ‘Can you please keep an eye on the children until I return.’

  ‘I am nearly done setting out my samples—’

  ‘Please,’ Sister Teresa’s voice is careful. ‘Just while I’m away.’

  ‘No,’ snaps Mr Zamora, a ropy vein in his neck taut. ‘You can wait for me to finish.’

  Luko returns with one of the horses that collected us from the harbour. This must be Tildie. Sister Teresa purses her lips while Mr Zamora goes back inside. We wait in silence for several minutes. Sister Teresa’s foot taps impatiently. As soon as Mr Zamora re-emerges the cook leans down, making a cradle of his hands and Sister Teresa swings herself up on to the horse easily. Without another word she digs her heels into Tildie and they take off at a gallop down the long drive. Watching a nun on a horse is like watching a dog walk on its hind legs: like a trick.

  Mr Zamora hovers uncertainly outside the orphanage. It seems as if he does not want to come close to us. He drags a chair from the schoolroom and sits on the threshold, eyes flicking over us as though we could attack any moment. I think of the samples, the live butterflies somewhere inside. Nanay would have loved watching them escape back in the forest, the twisting, colourful rope of them darting beyond Mr Zamora’s fingers.

  Luko squats by the fire again, throwing in something diced that scents the air with a mouth-watering sharpness. The orphanage children are still lined up like Mr Zamora’s butterflies, neat and impenetrable. After a few more long seconds Datu steps forward and holds out his hand to the tallest boy in the line.

  ‘I’m Datu.’

  The boy wrinkles his nose and brushes past Datu. The other orphans follow him to sit in a neat circle by Luko, making the logs they sit on look like thrones. They leave no spaces for us. Datu drops his hand.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I was just introducing myself.’

  Silence from the orphans.

  Luko raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘I think he’s talking to you, San.’

  The tallest boy sniffs. ‘I don’t want to catch it.’

  ‘Catch what?’ says Luko.

  ‘The rotting disease.’ San shudders. ‘They’re from that island. They’re dirty.’

  My stomach flips. They are not going to be kind. They speak like Mr Zamora. I hear a creak as the man leans forward in his chair to watch.

  Luko cuffs the boy lightly over the head. ‘They don’t have it, that’s why they’re here.’

  ‘You can never be too careful,’ Mr Zamora says, his hands plucking at his sleeves.

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Luko, then checks himself as Mr Zamora glares. ‘No disrespect, sir, but it’s not like catching a cold.’

  ‘Anyway, we just washed,’ Datu says, and all of the orphans’ heads turn towards him. ‘Sister Teresa took us to the river.’

  ‘Great,’ says San. ‘Now we can’t use the river.’

  ‘Why not?’ one of the other orphans asks, eyes wide.

  ‘The rotting disease hides in the water,’ says San in a low voice. It is suddenly silent – even the trees stop rustling, the fire stops crackling. ‘It waits on the drying rocks, in the moss, waiting for unsuspecting victims to come and—’ Luko gives him another clip around the ear as Mr Zamora leans back in his chair, the corners of his mouth turned up. He’s enjoying this, I realize.

  ‘You’re talking nonsense, talking ghost stories,’ Luko snaps, taking the pan off the fire and sharing out the eggs.

  San laughs, but it is an unkind laugh. I don’t think he means all of what he says, but he believes it enough for his meanness to spread over us. The other orphans laugh too, but uneasily, and turn back to the meal. All except the pale girl. She takes her bowl and brings it to our huddled group. She sets it down in front of Kidlat.

  ‘Here,’ she says, and holds out a spoon. He takes it like a present.

  She goes back and gets another bowl and places it in front of Da
tu. ‘Here.’

  The girl walks back and forth until we all have bowls. The orphans watch her in silence, not eating, and we watch her too. I wonder why she only brings one bowl at a time until I notice her right hand. It is curled and hangs limp at the wrist. I try not to stare as she puts the final bowl down in front of me, then she goes back and fetches hers. She holds up a spoon and says, ‘Last one. We’ll have to share.’

  ‘You’ll catch it, Mari!’ calls one of the orphan girls.

  ‘Or they’ll catch what you’ve got,’ shouts San.

  ‘She doesn’t have it,’ says Mari, her voice carrying between our two circles. She turns to me. Her eyes are the colour of honey, a deep gold. ‘Do you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘And you can’t catch this.’ She holds up her limp hand and smiles. ‘So let’s eat.’

  THE FIRST DAY

  O

  nly Mari eats with us that first morning. Only she talks to us kindly, though the others daren’t say anything rude when Sister Teresa returns. San is the loudest among the orphans to answer ‘yes’ when the nun asks, ‘Did you make friends?’ and I notice that whenever she is looking he smiles affably in our direction. But when her back is turned, or only Mr Zamora is around, he takes a half step away from us.

  Mr Zamora speaks only to the orphans, and he seems to especially dislike me. When he was asking San what happened to his parents, San told him that his father had died in a fishing accident. Mr Zamora looked straight at me and said, ‘Better a dead parent than a dirty one.’

  I waited until Mr Zamora went inside, then approached San.

  ‘I’m sorry about your ama,’ I said.

  San looked much as I felt: like he’d been punched. He glanced at me, his eyes glazed, and walked quickly away.

  We have an hour to ‘get to know each other’, which means us staying one end of the dirt playground, and them the other. Mari circles around to me several times but I don’t feel like talking. I am not used to someone trying to make friends: at school the others ignored me and they seem content to carry on doing that here. But Mari keeps asking me about home and I know I will cry if I talk about any of it.

  I excuse myself and go inside and sit holding Nanay’s basin for a while. Mari seems kind, but she is so bold and friendly when we have just met, it makes me feel even more shy. I wipe my eyes and chew the insides of my cheeks to stop the tears coming again.

  I can’t spend years sitting inside with no one and nothing but Nanay’s basin to talk to. Nanay would tell me to try to make friends, to make an effort. I take three deep breaths and head outside.

  As I pass Sister Teresa’s office, which is through the door next to the blackboard, I hear voices. The door is slightly ajar, and I pause, though I shouldn’t.

  ‘When will my quarters be built?’ snaps Mr Zamora’s voice.

  ‘Soon. Is your bed not comfortable enough in the boys’ dormitory?’ replies the nun.

  ‘I think you underestimate my needs. I am writing a book—’

  ‘A process that takes up no space except in your head.’

  ‘A book on butterflies. And far from occupying only my thoughts, I need to have space to make more samples.’

  ‘Samples?’

  ‘And to preserve the live samples I brought with me. And for the chrysalises. They need stability and the boys keep knocking them from the windowsills when they open the shutters.’

  ‘Heaven forbid they should have fresh air.’

  ‘Need I remind you that I am the one in charge here, Sister Teresa? You would be wise not to take that tone with me. And besides, I don’t know why I have to share with the Culion children. I should be moved up to the normal ones.’

  ‘The Culion children are only here because you brought them.’ Sister Teresa’s voice is frosty.

  ‘On the government’s orders!’

  ‘Why have you stayed? Because of orders, or because you want to help them?’

  ‘The government has entrusted me with the care of these children and I will undertake it!’ Mr Zamora takes a calming breath. ‘I am the authority here, and it is time you started treating me as such.’

  When the nun speaks again, her voice is more measured. ‘You weren’t meant to arrive until next month. The men who were going to build your quarters are all working on other jobs.’

  ‘I don’t know how the Director of Health expected me to spend a whole month in that place.’

  ‘I’ll write to town and request they begin as soon as possible,’ says Sister Teresa, her polite tone cracking with impatience. I hear a floorboard creak and hurry away from the door. ‘In the meantime you may use this room.’

  There are quick footsteps but before she appears I run outside. Mari is sitting alone, as I left her. I hesitate a moment, then settle beside her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

  Make an effort, I tell myself. ‘I heard Mr Zamora and Sister Teresa arguing.’

  Mari’s eyes light up. ‘Tell me.’ I repeat the conversation as best I can.

  ‘He’s a butterfly collector?’ says Mari when I finish.

  I nod. ‘He has some butterflies in boxes in the boys’ room, and he’s growing more on the windowsills.’

  ‘What does he do with them?’

  ‘He puts them on his walls. And I suppose he’ll write about them in his book.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My nanay says it makes him feel powerful to kill things.’

  ‘He kills them?’ Mari’s wide eyes go wider still. ‘He doesn’t just wait for them to die?’ I shake my head and she sucks in her cheeks. ‘I hope he doesn’t find out my name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s Mariposa.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Butterfly. My nanay was Spanish.’

  She holds out her arms and lets her tongue loll out as if she’s dead and pinned. ‘How do I look?’

  I snort with laughter in spite of myself, just as Sister Teresa comes out, her cheeks pink. ‘Children, time to start lessons. Inside please.’

  Today is mathematics and I think of Nanay as the numbers add and subtract and multiply themselves in my head. It is soothing to be allowed to fill my mind with something that reminds me of her without having to talk about her. Sister Teresa says I am very good and asks if I will help one of the other girls, Suse, with her times tables. She moves Suse next to me and Suse sits rigid, not looking at me as I point to the numbers.

  It is only when Mari comes to sit with us at break time and says, ‘You know San’s lying, don’t you? She doesn’t have it, and it’s not in the river,’ that I feel Suse relax.

  Throughout our lessons Mr Zamora carries boxes from the boys’ dormitory to Sister Teresa’s room. The nun studiously ignores him, but Mari nudges me. ‘Are those the butterfly boxes?’ I nod.

  ‘Poor things,’ she mutters. ‘Shut in the dark like that.’

  At lunch all the orphans are wondering what is in the boxes, and Datu tells them about the butterflies that escaped in the forest on Culion. San listens open-mouthed, and he and Datu end up talking and kicking a ball around the playground together. I think San is bored of pretending to be disgusted by us, and some of the other children start asking us questions about ourselves too. By the end of the first day most of them are speaking as if it is the first day of school – cautious, but friendly. At dinner some of the boys sit with us too, though no one shares a spoon apart from Mari and me.

  ‘Why won’t he eat?’ says Mari when we have scraped our bowls clean. She nods at Mr Zamora, who is sitting in his chair next to the pile of bamboo sticks that will be his quarters. He is writing in a small leather-bound notebook, and has not touched the bowl of rice and fish Luko laid by his feet.

  ‘He thinks he’ll catch it if he eats the same food. He thinks we’re Touched, even though his own doctors say we’re not.’

  ‘Touched?’

  ‘It’s what we call it. The illness.’

  ‘We use that word too,’ says Mari. ‘But it means ill in the head
. Mad.’

  ‘I think Mr Zamora might be a bit ill in the head,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  I explain about the petition, and the cleaning. The blood on his hands. Mari puts on her listening face, her brow furrowed.

  ‘Poor thing,’ she says when I finish, just as she did about the butterflies. I follow her gaze to Mr Zamora. He is staring into the middle distance. He looks exhausted. ‘Imagine thinking dirt is so bad, and going to a place you think is dirty.’

  ‘But it’s not,’ I say hotly.

  ‘That’s not what we’re told here,’ she says gently. ‘On Coron lots of people think like San. People are scared of what is different. My hand, for example.’

  She holds it up. I have been wary of looking at it since I noticed there was something wrong.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘You can look.’ Her hand lolls, and I see some of the fingers aren’t formed.

  ‘I was born with it like this,’ Mari continues. ‘And because of it, and my skin being so pale, my parents thought I was cursed. Though since then people have thought all kinds of things. Someone in town called me a leper – sorry – Touched once.’

  ‘Is that why you’re being nice to me?’

  She blinks at me. ‘I’m nice because you’re nice. I could see it even on the first night. You were comforting that little boy even though you were sad yourself.’

  ‘Was it you at the top window, watching us arrive?’

  Mari nods.

  ‘I’m below you. My bed is at the bottom right.’

  ‘Have you seen my self-portrait?’

  I frown, then remember the stick figure and the ‘M’ etched into the wall. ‘Oh! Yes. It’s . . .’

  Mari laughs: a light, lovely sound. ‘Terrible. I did it when I first arrived. How funny that you’re in my old bed. We should pass messages!’

  I clap a hand to my forehead. ‘I said I’d write to Nanay today.’

  ‘You can do it now.’

  ‘But it won’t get to the post until Luko goes to town.’

  ‘Did you say you’d post it today, or just that you’d write it?’