The Island at the End of Everything

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  The world is so big and there’s so much to see,

  Come, little one, come and go floating with me.

  I join in after the second time and we walk to the rhythm, Kidlat humming tunelessly near my ear. We sing it faster and faster, our pace increasing until we are nearly running and I have to stop and put Kidlat down because I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.

  Then Mari is pressing her hand against my mouth hard. I choke on a breath and start to cough but she pushes her wrist over her hand and shushes me urgently. I swallow down the cough and listen.

  Horses. There are horses nearby, and men talking. I can hear the low burr of their voices, and hooves scuffing the path. We flatten ourselves to the ground, trying not to rustle too much, as three sets of hooves appear through the trunks to our left. I don’t know how we have curved so close to the path without noticing. They are far enough away to stop me panicking, but still my heart thumps wildly as if it is trying to burrow into the ground.

  ‘We would’ve seen them by now, surely?’ says a man’s voice I recognize. My skin tingles. Bondoc. ‘We should turn back, Mr Zamora.’

  Kidlat lets out a tiny gasp and I pull him closer, too scared to try to catch sight of Bondoc.

  ‘Maybe we should,’ says another familiar voice. Doctor Tomas sounds tired. ‘We’ve found no trace.’

  ‘They are here somewhere!’ Mr Zamora’s voice is furious. ‘I saw them sailing out—’

  ‘How could children sail all that way?’ snaps Bondoc impatiently. ‘If this is a cover-up for something you’ve done—’

  ‘I’ve done nothing. You think I’d return to this disgusting island if I knew where—’

  There is a scuffling noise.

  ‘Let go!’ says Mr Zamora.

  ‘Bondoc—’ Doctor Tomas warns. There is a silence.

  ‘What am I meant to tell Tala?’ says Bondoc finally, his voice breaking.

  Mari grips my hand tightly. Tell. He said ‘tell’. That means she’s still alive. A huge lump rises in my throat. I want to laugh and cry all at once.

  ‘That leper woman?’ Mr Zamora’s voice is taunting, and I hear another scuffle.

  ‘Bondoc, no!’ says Doctor Tomas. ‘Mr Zamora, please refrain from saying such th—’

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ says Bondoc. ‘He must be lying.’

  ‘I am not. We should press on.’

  I press my cheek to the ground so I can see up to their waists. Bondoc’s fists are clenching and unclenching. Doctor Tomas is standing between him and Mr Zamora’s thin legs.

  Bondoc grunts. ‘Fine. Let me get some water first.’

  Beside me I feel Mari slither backwards, and Kidlat turns and crawls quickly away. I am slower, still dazed by their mention of Nanay.

  ‘Ami!’ hisses Mari, tugging my foot. I come to my senses and move to join them behind the trees but it is too late.

  Bondoc’s mouth falls open. Then he presses his lips tight and I see tears start in his eyes.

  ‘Hurry up, Bondoc!’

  We both jump, and he shouts, ‘Coming!’ his voice cracking slightly.

  He crouches down and splashes the water so it sounds like drinking as he murmurs, ‘Ami, thank goodness. Are you well?’

  I nod.

  ‘Are the other two with you?’

  Another nod.

  ‘You beautiful, brilliant girl.’ He is shaking. He reaches out across the water and we brush fingertips. ‘Did you hear? I’m with that awful man. I can’t say I’ve seen you. You’re all safe?’ Two more nods, my eyes wide.

  ‘Stay that way. I’ll tell her you’re coming. You’re not far now.’ He splashes his face to hide his tears, then takes an unfeigned gulp of water from his cupped hand. Taking a deep breath, he straightens and walks stiffly back in the direction of the others. I blink stupidly after him. Just before he reaches the path he takes two steps back. His hand comes up in a fast arc, and throws something.

  A book of matches from the tavern lands by my feet. By the time I’ve picked it up he is swinging himself into his saddle. I see feet kick the horses into action and they ride back the way they came. Mari runs to me from the shelter of the tree.

  ‘Ami!’ Her voice sounds feverish. ‘What happened? What did he say?’

  I hold up the book of matches dumbly and she stares. Kidlat comes and kneels beside us, thumb back in his mouth. I clear my throat and answer Mari’s questions.

  She blows out her cheeks. ‘You have the luck of the devil, Ami.’

  I grin, the shock fading, leaving a manic giddiness bubbling in my stomach. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in the devil.’

  She grins too. ‘I don’t believe in things I can’t see, Ami. And I met Mr Zamora same as you.’

  I snort and pull her to her feet. I go to lift Kidlat but he shakes his head and begins walking. Mari raises her eyebrows and links her arm through mine. ‘After you, sir.’ She makes a low bow, dragging me into it with her. The boy giggles.

  Something has lifted from my shoulders. Seeing Bondoc, his gift of matches, and his whispered not far now are like points of heat on my skin, driving my steps, giving me hope. We don’t talk about Nanay or Mari’s parents or anything sad. Kidlat and Mari seem to be in a better mood too, so much so that when the moon comes up Mari suggests we walk through the night.

  I want to, but I can tell Kidlat is exhausted, and I don’t think I can manage to carry him after so much walking. We stop and set Kidlat to collecting some wood for the fire while Mari and I catch and gut another fish. I manage to drop the stone myself this time, though I have to close my eyes.

  I light the small stack of twigs with one of Bondoc’s matches. Kidlat wants to try lighting a match so I let him have two, both of which snap and fall either into the fire or the river. We watch the flames grow and then shrink to a reddish, glowing heat. We pick absent-mindedly at the fish so by the time the fire is hot enough to cook it, we’ve eaten it raw. Kidlat is half-asleep, so I shift him away from the flames and Mari rinses the basin in the river.

  There’s a faint buzzing nearby, and the fire’s glow picks out a pale cone hanging in a tree across the river. I swallow hard. Wasps have always scared me, ever since Nanay smoked a nest out from our wall when I was little. It was behind my bed, and at night I could hear them buzzing. I thought I was imagining things until Nanay was stung slapping the broom against the wall outside. They all rose up in a tide and she was lucky to be stung only twice, once on her wrist and again on her neck. She pumped the wall full of smoke and then there were hundreds of dead bodies behind my bed. Rotted to dust now, probably, and all the tunnels empty.

  ‘You all right, Ami?’ asks Mari and I realize I was far away.

  ‘Sort of,’ I say after a moment’s silence.

  ‘Good enough,’ she says, and curls up next to Kidlat. I lie down on the other side of him and she reaches over the sleeping boy to squeeze my hand. I squeeze it back and she lets it rest in mine for a long moment before turning over and whispering, ‘Goodnight.’

  I think of Lihim, abandoned on the beach, the tide taking our secret and burying it in the sand. Sleep comes choppy as waves.

  THE ORCHARD

  T

  he air is so hot I am already sweating when my body wakes me up. It feels as though I’m breathing through steam. The sky is that same flat grey as yesterday, and there is no sign of the sun just yet.

  The rains are coming very soon. I hope we get to Culion Town before they arrive, but you can never tell. Sometimes they come on blue days, the cloud sweeping over like a tide and opening in a great rush of water that soaks the ground so fast our houses flood before we can build dams, or lay down sand or rushes. Other times they fill the sky so thick and heavy with clouds you think it will fall like a blanket, but instead the rain comes a little at a time, as though it might change its mind at any moment and be sucked back into the sky.

  There is no jackfruit for breakfast so Mari hands out the last of Luko’s oranges.

  ‘I never want
to eat another orange again,’ I say, pocketing mine. Mari grins and chomps hers. Her obsession with oranges is a little worrying.

  She makes a half-hearted attempt at luring another fish but they are all full from a night of feeding and wary in the morning light. We fill our bellies with water and begin walking. The trees are closing in closer to the bank, so we weave between them, Kidlat trying to skip and giggling when he stumbles. It is good to see him unafraid.

  My stomach begins cramping after a couple of hours, and after another hour Kidlat tugs on Mari’s hand, gesturing for food. Though we scan the trees for fruit and the ground for roots, all I can see is a thicket of thorny acacia that catch at our tunics and arms. We don’t break any branches though, because diwatas live in acacias. They are the trees’ guardian spirits who do harm to those who harm their home. When Nanay told me about them I imagined beautiful women a foot high, draped over branches in orange silk. Now, seeing how sharp the thorns are, all I can think is that the gods must have very thick skin.

  A strange smell fills the air as we walk: sweet, cloying and slightly rotten. If I breathe it in too deeply my head spins and my teeth ache. It is not entirely unpleasant but Mari covers her nose with her tunic. Around a long bend of the river we see something that makes both Mari and me pull up short. Kidlat, walking slightly behind by now, steps on the back of my foot but I barely notice.

  Before us is a sudden clearing, the ground covered by a thick, beautiful carpet of green and black and gold. It spreads either side of the river, which is narrower now and flowing faster, so we must be nearing its source. The threads catch the light and glisten in the high sun. The smell is stronger than ever and I feel my head spinning, my body slow, a bit like how Bondoc described being drunk. Mari swings out an arm before I can step forward.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she hisses through her tunic.

  I look down at the carpet, except it isn’t a carpet any more. I stumble backwards, gasping. Kidlat tries to move out of the way but I trip over him and we collapse in a heap.

  A tide of flies and wasps rises from the ground before us, no longer glimmering threads of black and gold, but blur-winged, bulbous-eyed and buzzing. The orange and green colours of the carpet are many fallen mangoes in various states of decay, the smell pungent and sickening. The insects flick across the clearing, disturbed by our presence, before settling again, like a net thrown over the rotting fruit. I see the scuttle of rats. The heat and smell are making me nauseous.

  Mari laughs at my stricken face. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  I feel my face prickle with embarrassment. I don’t want to tell her what I thought it was. I shrug, and laugh hollowly. Kidlat has wriggled out from under me.

  ‘Yuck.’

  We both jump and look at him.

  ‘What did you say, Kidlat?’ I ask, tentatively.

  ‘Yuck. Flies, yuck.’

  They are the first words he’s said in front of us, and Mari snorts with laughter. ‘Well said, Kidlat!’

  ‘So you can speak,’ I exclaim, but Kidlat only shrugs an of course. I shake my head wonderingly.

  ‘An excellent choice of first word.’ Mari grins and points to the edge of the clearing. ‘We’ll need to walk around. You may enjoy the feeling of rotten fruit and flies underfoot, but I don’t.’ She tosses this over her shoulder at me, already striding away.

  I take Kidlat’s hand and we follow her.

  ‘This must be the mango grove we passed on the way here,’ I say to him, the idea just occurring to me. This is near where Mr Zamora dropped the butterflies, and where Datu picked the rotten fruit. I wonder what the children back at the orphanage think of our running away. If they think of us at all. ‘We’re nearly home.’

  ‘Home,’ Kidlat says, seriously. ‘Your nanay.’

  ‘Yes.’ My face stretches in such a big smile I feel it might crack. His voice is clear and sweet. I feel a rush of warmth as he looks up at me, smiling so wide his whole face stretches. Only Nanay has ever made me feel like this before: like a person could be home and safety and everything that mattered. A universe, just like Nanay said Ama was to her.

  ‘And my nanay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ami! Kidlat!’ Mari’s voice is joyful. ‘Look!’

  She is out of sight. We fight through a thick tangle of acacia, planted – I realize now – to protect the fruit from thieves and trespassers like us. We reach her.

  ‘Look!’ she says again, and Kidlat runs forward into the lines of trees ahead of us, laughing happily. The clearing was only the start of the fruit farm. This grove is full of pitaya, dragon fruit with their bright pink and green frills only just ripening beneath the canopies of spiny green. Kidlat slices one open across the sharp leaves and runs back to us.

  ‘Hands,’ he says. We dutifully hold out our palms. He rips the dragon fruit apart and turns the skin inside out so that the fruit drops out, the flesh white and seeded. ‘Eat.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ says Mari, slipping into another low bow. He laughs and goes to fetch more. The fruit is lightly scented, a welcome change from the rotting mangoes, and tastes sweet and clean. After three more my hunger begins to fade, falling to a low ache in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘What a place,’ says Mari, lying back and stretching like a cat wanting its belly stroked.

  ‘We’re so close, Mari,’ I say, too excited to lie down. ‘This grove, we passed it on the way. A few miles, I reckon. Maybe three—’

  ‘Must’ve been abandoned a while, judging by those mangoes.’

  ‘Mmm. Did you hear me?’

  ‘It’s a shame, all this waste. And it’s so beautiful.’ She sits up suddenly. ‘Ami,’ she says in a low voice, her irises golden, her gaze fixed on me. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘What?’

  Her face is smiling but there is something uncertain in her expression, as if she is nervous or unsure. But of course Mari is never nervous, and definitely never unsure.

  ‘After we get back to Culion Town, and after whatever comes next, can we go back to the forest? Not this forest, necessarily,’ she adds, waving around her. ‘But somewhere with trees and flowers and fruit and a river?’

  ‘Why?’

  She frowns. ‘Because it’s beautiful. And I like being here – if it weren’t for why we’re here in the first place.’

  The thought drops a stone into my chest, because ‘after’ somehow seems sad, or scary. After whatever comes next. I don’t like most of the options for what is coming next. Mari lies back down.

  ‘Forget it,’ she says sharply, as though we’d argued. I open my mouth without knowing what I’m about to say when we hear Kidlat screech. Mari reacts quicker, already up and running by the time I am on my feet, disappearing out of sight through the grove.

  I round a line of trees and see Mari holding Kidlat to her.

  ‘What is it?’ I pant. ‘Not a snake?’ I scan the ground around them.

  ‘No,’ says Mari, and her voice is strange, mesmeric. ‘Ami, look up.’

  I crane my neck back. The branches are burning.

  It is just like the orphanage fire: the trees flickering gold and red and brown, but there is no heat. I blink stupidly, trying to stop my mind tricking me, like it did with the rotten fruit, trying to see this for what it really is. Some of the flames resolve themselves into flowers, but the others shift and flutter like leaves, and it takes me a long moment to make shapes I recognize out of them. The branches are not covered in flames . . .

  They’re wings.

  My mind flicks to diwatas, but then Mari claps and they lift in a great swell, not fast and angry like the flies, but like birds, swooping as if through water.

  ‘Mariposa,’ she says in the same, wondering voice.

  And now I can see them clearly for what they are: the colours patterning each wing, the black bodies, some large, some small, and all of them shifting like breath across the clearing. Butterflies. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them, coasting on the air like a visible
, fluttering wind. I wonder if Nanay and Ama’s gumamela flowers had brought so many.

  ‘I—’ I want to say it’s beautiful but the word feels silly and flimsy in my mouth. If beauty had a colour, had a shape or a taste, or a smell, it would be the colour, shape, smell and taste of this moment. Exactly this.

  Mari’s hand slides into mine and we watch as the butter-flies glide over our heads, twirling around the flowers and fruit, dipping so low I could reach out and brush their wings. Some hang in drips from branches, like oil thinking of dropping off a spoon. In the lower branches, at eye-height, are endless rows of chrysalises. Some are green, some brown, but most are transparent. Showing through some of them are wings, but most of them are empty, leaving only filmy, cylindrical twists.

  I walk away, dropping Mari’s hand. The trees, I realize now, are flame trees. Their flowers are red and splashed across the branches, showing through the coat of brown and yellow and blue. It is late for them to be flowering, so close to the rains. One miraculous thing follows another in this forest. A lump rises in my throat. Nanay loves butterflies and it’s she who brought me through this forest to this fruit farm. I want to stand there for ever, and it is beginning to feel as if we will when Mari breaks the whispering silence.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, shaking off the trance. ‘We’re so close. We shouldn’t stop now.’

  I nod. The butterflies have lifted at her voice and are swirling again. They rise off the eddy of the air like leaves shedding water, wings shining.

  We turn away slowly, my heart dropping with every step. But when we walk on through the trees, there are more, hanging from fruit and from each other, and taking flight as we walk past until a flock is beating its way above our heads. Anything else in this number would be frightening, but I am learning that it is impossible to be scared of butterflies.

  We rejoin the river on the far side of the rotten mango grove, and again the road is visible from the bank. We are so close now. With our escort of wings above us, around us, we walk through the butterfly forest. Before I’ve noticed the time passing or the distance closing, we are in front of the small, rocky escarpment that marks the outer boundary of the town. The water slides beneath it, but we have to climb.