The Island at the End of Everything

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  ‘Write.’

  ‘So you’re not breaking your promise. Wait here.’

  She gets up and disappears inside. I look around. Some of the others are kicking a ball of rags around, all playing together. So much can change in a day, but here and there around the pitch I see some Culion children: the shorter Igme and Kidlat and Lilay, sitting apart and alone. I wonder if they also feel as if their heads and hearts are left behind, stuck in Culion. I feel hollowed out. Kidlat sees me looking at him and walks over. He holds out a scrappy flower, a weed of some kind, and I take it. He smiles and sits next to me.

  When Mari comes back outside she sits the other side of him. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I’m Mari.’

  ‘He doesn’t speak,’ I say. ‘But his name’s Kidlat.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Mari says. Kidlat grins. ‘Now.’ She puts some paper down in front of me. ‘Here. Write.’

  ‘What shall I say?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  I scrunch up my face. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Start with the shape of your day. Then fill it in. I won’t look.’

  She lies down. The air is cooler now. Insects hum and I watch the game of football for a while. San and Datu are on the same team, and Luko is in goal. He barely has to move to block the ball. Mr Zamora is frantically scribbling in the dusk.

  I’ll tell Nanay he’s writing a book about butterflies. I’ll tell her about the journey, and Kidlat, the other children, and Sister Teresa. I’ll tell her about Luko and lessons, and I’ll start with sharing a spoon. I’ll start with Mari.

  Sister Teresa orders us all to bed early, but I lie awake, listening for the sea. It must be close by, but I still have not found it. Tomorrow I will look for it, and for Culion Island, though it will only be a low shadow smudging the distance.

  Tap. Tap.

  I jump and spin towards the window. It sounds as if someone is outside, but I can’t see anyone, no fingers pressed to the shutters. My heart thuds as I watch and see a shadow swoop against it. A bird?

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I open the shutter hesitantly. The taller Igme stirs in the bed next to me but does not wake. In front of me dangles a stick, tied to a piece of string. Looking up I see a pale hand swinging. Mari. I release the stick and notice a piece of paper tied around it.

  Sleep well, it says. I look up again but the string is gone, the shutters are closing. I trace the ‘M’ in the wall. Sleep well, I mouth. And I do.

  THE LETTER

  T

  he next day, while everyone plays during morning break, I slip away and skirt the back of the orphanage. An overgrown path stretches through a burst of trees. I follow it through the dappled shadows until they thin and stop, like soldiers coming to a sudden halt. I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. And there, glittering and infinite, is the sea.

  I squint and realize it is not quite infinite. That unmoving mark on the horizon must be Culion. My chest clenches around something sharp. Somewhere on that tiny shape is Nanay. A hand comes to rest on my back.

  Mari is there, her golden eyes wide with worry. ‘It’s all right, Ami.’

  She goes to hug me but I don’t want to be held. Instead we shuffle forward and sit side by side, legs dangling.

  After a long silence, Mari speaks.

  ‘I’m sorry I followed you. I was actually going to show you this place today. It’s my favourite part of living here. I call it Takipsilim Cliff.’

  ‘Twilight Cliff?’

  She nods. ‘The sun sets this side of the island, so in the evenings we could come and watch the world get coloured out.’

  ‘Coloured out?’

  ‘My ama used to call morning the time when the world got coloured in, so it makes sense that night is when it gets coloured out.’ She smiles at me, then points across the water. ‘That’s Culion, where you’re from.’

  It isn’t a question, but I nod anyway.

  ‘Siddy is pointing away from it.’

  ‘Siddy?’

  ‘The bronze cockerel on the roof. I checked before I followed you.’

  ‘The weathervane?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘You call it Siddy?’

  ‘He was my first friend here,’ she says seriously. ‘When they built the top floor they tried to get rid of him, but Sister Teresa made them keep him. The sound of him turning used to put me to sleep.’

  She holds her serious face just long enough for me to worry I’ve upset her, then pokes me in the ribs. ‘I’m joking. You’re my first friend here.’ I flush at that. ‘He looks like a Siddy, don’t you think? And if he’s pointing towards the front of the orphanage, that means the wind is blowing in the direction of Culion.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, if you want to send your nanay a message, now’s a good time.’

  I frown at her. ‘How?’

  ‘Whisper it to the wind. It’ll listen to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your name – you and the wind, you’re family.’ She raises her eyebrows and grins at me, but she’s not making fun. ‘Try it. It might make you feel better.’

  It feels silly, but I suppose it’s no different from praying. I’m thinking of you, Nanay. Are you thinking of me? The wind does not whisper back.

  As I open my eyes I notice a red smudge far below us in the water, like a clump of algae. ‘What’s that?’ I point.

  ‘It’s a boat. Well, it was. See that path?’ She indicates a faint scribble on the side of the cliff. ‘I went down once. The boat was more afloat then, but barely. It’s damaged. Abandoned. Like me.’

  ‘You were left here?’ I ask. Mari nods.

  ‘Sister Teresa was ordered to send me to a workhouse in Manila. Because I wasn’t an orphan, only not wanted.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ I say.

  ‘But she didn’t.’ Mari shrugs. ‘She ignored the government’s orders.’

  I think of Doctor Tomas and Father Fernan. If they had ignored Mr Zamora and the government’s orders, I would be with Nanay right now. A hot spike of anger lances though me.

  ‘I can’t believe they left you.’

  ‘They also loved me, I think. They taught me things, about trees, and fishing, and boats. Boats most of all. My father sailed, and I remember him teaching me one-handed knots, and how to hoist the canvas to catch the wind.’ She smiles dreamily. ‘His face was so brown from the sun, it was like leather.’

  ‘Then why did they—’ I don’t want to say the word ‘abandon’. ‘Why did you end up here?’

  The smile fades. ‘When I was seven, a witch doctor came to our village and said I was cursed, and that’s why I was so pale. They said I was the reason for bad harvests, for women in the village losing their babies . . .’ She tails off. ‘For every bad thing.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘At least they gave me to the orphanage instead of leaving me in the forest. That’s what some people do to cursed children.’

  ‘But you’re not cursed.’

  ‘You’re the first person who’s made me feel normal. Or at least, that you’re as strange as me.’

  ‘Strange?’

  She fixes me with her honey eyes. ‘The others don’t talk to us, do they? Apart from Kidlat, they don’t come near us. It’s as if they don’t see us. But you see me, don’t you? And I see you.’

  I look away, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. ‘We should get back.’

  Mr Zamora spends much of his time holed up in Sister Teresa’s office. Though he is meant to be director of the whole orphanage and everyone in it, including Sister Teresa, he leaves her to run things day-to-day and only occasionally comes out to loom over us all. It is strange to see her nervous around him, when she is so fierce otherwise. Sometimes, when it is noisy after dark in the boys’ dormitory, Sister Teresa only has to go and stand in the doorway and swish her habit a bit for them to fall quiet.

  She sleeps and snores in the schoolroom now, though the men who are building Mr Zamora’s h
ut will arrive soon so she will not have to for much longer. Nanay’s letters have not arrived either. It is not like Nanay to break a promise.

  Mari says she is sure Nanay has her reasons. She doesn’t know anything about Nanay or her reasons, but she is only trying to be kind so I try not to show it annoys me. Mari is still the only one who talks to me here. I would be lonely without her.

  Still, I don’t tell her everything I’m feeling. I keep that inside me, or whisper it to Nanay on the wind, which feels less and less silly. Nanay’s metal basin is now a home for my clothes. The bottom is a bit oily, and when I wear the tunic it smells slightly of garlic, but I like it.

  I keep taking paper from the schoolroom to write letters, and give them to Luko to take to town to post. At the bottom of each, instead of my name and kisses I write: One step less!

  After two weeks I wake to tapping. There is no note on the string, only a stick dancing frantically at the shutters. I open them and look up. Mari is leaning out of the window.

  What? I mouth.

  Look! she mouths back, pointing. I can’t see anything for a long time but then suddenly there is a cart coming through the trees. Five men jump out of the back. They carry wood and tools, and one has a bundle of papers under his arm. Letters.

  Mari points down to say she is coming. I dress and creep past the sleeping girls. Sister Teresa is already up and standing in the doorway, holding the letters.

  ‘Anything for me, Sister?’ I ask, trying to sound relaxed though my heart twists and leaps and gulps. Mari clatters down the stairs, and Sister Teresa turns to us.

  ‘Morning, Mari. Morning, Ami. You’re in luck.’ She holds it out, a slim fold of paper. My fingertips just brush it before it is knocked to the floor.

  ‘What’s this?’ Mr Zamora snarls. He has thrown open the office door and is panting, his shirt showing sweat patches under the arms.

  Sister Teresa gapes at him. ‘That is a letter, and it is not yours.’

  ‘For her?’ He jerks his head at me. ‘From the colony?’

  ‘From her mother, yes,’ says Sister Teresa, bending to pick it up. Mr Zamora puts his foot on it so she cannot lift it without ripping it.

  ‘Her mother is a leper. She has it badly, has no nose. I’ve seen her.’ He shudders and I shudder too, but with anger.

  ‘I am aware that all the children’s parents are Touched, Mr Zamora. Now remove your boot.’

  ‘We can’t allow this!’ he shouts. Other children are gathering now, behind Mari on the stairs and in the doorways to the boys’ and girls’ dormitories, but Mr Zamora does not seem to see anyone. ‘We must keep this area clean!’

  ‘The letters are not lepers, Mr Zamora.’ Sister Teresa’s nose is flaring. ‘I understand the government has deemed it necessary to take the children from their families, but not to remove all contact. Now, the builders have arrived. I suggest you see to them.’

  She is shaking but her voice holds firm. Mr Zamora grinds his heel into the letter, tearing it a little, but eventually he lifts his foot.

  ‘We will see about these letters.’ He goes outside.

  Sister Teresa retrieves Nanay’s letter, rumpled and boot- printed. ‘I am sorry about that, Ami.’

  She hands out letters to some of the other children too, and Mari and I leave the orphanage. Mr Zamora is talking to the men, and he glares at me as we pass.

  We wait until he is not looking, then hurry to Takipsilim Cliff. I take a deep breath and open the letter.

  My dearest Ami,

  My hand is bad so Sister Margaritte is typing this on her typewriter while I talk. I am sorry that this has taken so long. I have fallen behind on our letters already.

  There are more and more people arriving every day. You can’t imagine how busy the town is, and how confusing all the new Sano and Leproso rules are.

  The hospital is very full and people aren’t very happy. Now Mr Zamora has left, there is someone else in charge called Mr Alonso. He is not much better, but at least he isn’t so fearfully skinny.

  I have made some new friends, though. My neighbour is a nice girl called Lerma. She reminds me of me, because she was taken from her family and is only twenty. She is from Mindoro Island, which is where your ama was from.

  Bondoc and Capuno are doing all right. I see Capuno most days and Bondoc came today. It took him two days to get permission and he wasn’t allowed to touch us. I am not sure how we will live like this but we will try. Hopefully when you come back they will have realized how silly they are being.

  Apart from my hand and a small cold, I am in good health. They keep us busy with helping the arrivals, and soon the hospital is to be run only by Touched, apart from the nuns and Doctor Tomas. I am going to try to get a job there so I can send you some money.

  I have some bad news, but you would want to know. Rosita passed away. I hope this doesn’t make you too sad. Her suffering is over, and it was time for her. Her funeral was yesterday. It was in the church, unfortunately, but it was still a very lovely send-off. I have apologized to Sister Margaritte for that remark but won’t let her cross it out.

  Tell me everything. I hope it is beautiful and that you are well looked after. I will write again when Sister Margaritte can type for me. She is very busy at the moment so I can’t write every day like I promised. Know that I want to.

  I love you.

  Nanay

  ‘Well?’ says Mari eventually. ‘Is everything all right?’

  My skin prickles hot, the letter’s words burned behind my lids, like I’ve stared at the sun too long. This is not how I thought I’d feel after Nanay’s first letter. I thought it would be something warm and comforting, like a smooth river stone perfect to cup in a palm. This feeling is jagged and sharp. My whole body seems to shake with the strength of my heartbeat as I try to grasp the facts.

  ‘Our friend, Rosita. She died.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘She was very sick. Nanay says it was better this way.’

  ‘And your nanay? Is she well?’

  I stare down at the letter. ‘She has a cold.’

  ‘That’s all right, isn’t it? As long as she beats it before the rainy season?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Only . . . only a complication like that – it’s what Rosita had. When you’re Touched, it’s not the leprosy that kills you most of the time.’

  It’s complications. Doctor Tomas explained this to us at school the day he arrived from the mainland, the only volunteer to take up a post on the island of no return. I was six years old. ‘Being Touched makes your body less able to fight colds and sweats and other illnesses,’ he said. He did not have the worry lines then that he has now. We were still textbook cases to him, not families. ‘You must take proper precautions. Complications like colds are what can make you very sick.’

  ‘I’m sure she will be better soon,’ says Mari.

  ‘Yes.’ I steady my breathing. She is right. Nanay has made friends and Sister Margaritte is helping her write to me. She is all right, though the changes sound like a nuisance. I wonder what Mr Alonso looks like. Because Nanay has said he is not skinny I picture him as fat. It is funny how my mind thinks in opposites. Like when she says Culion has gone from Mr Zamora to Mr Alonso, I think of Z to A. A backwards alphabet. And I have gone from living in a place with sunrise, to a place of sunset.

  Mari is so quiet next to me I can almost forget she’s there. I like this about her, that she knows when not to talk. She is looking out over the sea, escaped wisps of her pale hair blowing around her shoulders. She is the strangest and most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  THE HATCHING

  I

  t only takes the builders four days to construct Mr Zamora’s hut. Once they install a bolt on the door, he moves in straight away. He spends his days and nights in the hut. Sometimes we hear hammering inside and I think he must be hanging his butterfly collection. He orders the men back to build him a separate workshop, which has such p
recise specifications I hear one of the builders complaining it will take them three times as long.

  Mari and I spend all our time together. We play hopscotch and hide-and-seek, and sit next to each other in class. The boys are very loud, so Kidlat comes to play with us a lot. He has stopped crying so much and even laughs sometimes. I mentioned him in my letter to Nanay, so hopefully she can tell his parents I am looking after him.

  Soon after Mr Zamora moves into his hut a quiet, cat-eyed woman called Mayumi arrives to help Sister Teresa with the housework, but Mayumi spends less time cleaning and more time helping Luko with cooking. She also stays with him in his little hut, which makes the nun suck her teeth.

  Mr Zamora only emerges from his hut to walk down to town. He does this every day, at ten in the morning. He is back just after morning lessons end – we hear him whistling tunelessly, and he goes into his hut with a box under his arm.

  ‘Food, perhaps?’ Mari wonders, but I don’t think it can be, because if anything he seems even thinner and I saw him arguing with Luko about Mayumi only yesterday.

  ‘Do you let her near the food?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Luko, already bored of the conversation. ‘She helps me make it.’

  ‘But you don’t know where she’s been! She doesn’t have papers!’

  ‘She doesn’t need them. She’s from Bagac. There are no lepers there.’

  ‘I can’t eat the food if she’s near it.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ said Luko, and closed the hut door in his face. Mr Zamora kicked the door once, then spun around. I looked away a moment too late.

  ‘You,’ he hissed, cheeks flushing. ‘You stay away from me.’ He hurried back to his hut, taking a wide circle around me, even though I was nowhere near.

  He also made us boil any clothes that came from Culion. My blue church dress lost all its dye. I can tell he wants to boil us too, just to be safe. When we go down to the river he is often there, washing his hands upstream.

  ‘He shouldn’t be around children,’ said Luko to Sister Teresa one morning, watching Mr Zamora trudge towards the river for the third time in half an hour. But Sister Teresa seems powerless to stop him because he is the government’s authorized representative. She told Luko that Mr Zamora’s brother is someone high up in government, in Manila, and that’s why no one will get rid of him.