The Way to Impossible Island

by Sophie Kirtley

  Then he gave himself a shake. It’d all be different soon though; after the Big Op he’d be bouncing everywhere like a puppy!

  Tap-tap-tap. Mum knocked ever so lightly on his door with just her nails.

  Dara lifted Darth and breathed the real air; it tasted thin, like too-weak squash. ‘I’m awake!’ he said, slipping in his nose tubes. ‘Come in!’

  The door opened slowly; Mum came in and sat on his bed. Dad sat under the eaves, on the bed that used to be Charlie’s back when Charlie was younger and still came on family holidays. Mum checked Dara’s oxygen levels. ‘Surprisingly fine,’ she said, with a weak little smile.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad,’ said Dara, voice still croaky. He looked down, traced his finger along the paths of the checked pattern on the duvet. ‘It was a stupid thing to do.’

  Mum was probably thinking, Yes, utterly stupid, Dara, you total nitwit, but she didn’t say it. She just rubbed his arm and did that strange sad smile again. He’d kind of rather she simply told him off and got it over with.

  But she didn’t tell him off. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Dad.

  The room was so quiet that Dara heard a gull land on the roof, walk a few scrabbly steps, then take off again. He looked out the window, following the gull’s flight with his eyes as she glided off through the grey sky towards Lathrin Island.

  Dad followed his gaze. ‘We were thinking of maybe taking you there tomorrow,’ he said. ‘See if we can find that golden rabbit.’ He gave Dara a little wink, like he always did when he made that daft joke.

  ‘Golden Hare, Dad!’ corrected Dara, like he always did too.

  Dad smiled, but his smile wasn’t right; it was all watery like Mum’s. Hang on. Mum and Dad knew perfectly well he had his heart set on going to Lathrin Island all by himself after the Big Op. They knew about his plan. Why were they suddenly saying they’d bring him out there? Dara looked from Dad to Mum and back again. Something was wrong.

  ‘Mum, Dad, I don’t know what to say. I’m really, really sorry,’ said Dara, throwing his arms in the air. ‘I just got it wrong. I know it was not a good idea. I usually stick to everything you say and everything Dr Da Silva says and I know what to do and what not to do but for some reason I just – I just didn’t.’

  ‘Dara, love. Stop. Calm down.’ Mum was looking anxiously at the numbers on the machine screen. ‘We’re not cross, love. We’re just …’ She glanced at Dad out of the corner of her eye.

  Dad was biting his lip. Like how he did when he was trying really hard not to say something. Something secret.

  ‘What is it?’ said Dara quietly.

  Mum and Dad looked at each other. A complicated look that Dara didn’t understand. Mum was biting her lip now too; Dara could see tears swimming in her eyes.

  ‘Mum?’ he gasped. Mum didn’t cry!

  ‘We weren’t going to tell you. Not yet. We didn’t want to spoil …’ Mum’s voice was all squeaky.

  ‘… we didn’t want to spoil your holiday.’ Dad came over and sat on Dara’s bed too. He put his arm around Mum and reached for Dara’s hand.

  ‘What’s going to spoil my holiday?’ whispered Dara, his voice moth-quiet.

  Suddenly Dara realised. ‘No …’ he whispered quietly under his breath.

  In the dark of the hut Mothgirl’s heart clenched. Vulture’s words clasped her tight. ‘No!’ she gasped. Airless with shock. Like a fish ripped from the water by an eagle’s beak.

  ‘Vulture wants your daughter.’

  She could not breathe. ‘NO!’ she yelled, bursting out from her hiding place in the hut. ‘NO! You NOT take me, Vulture! NO!’

  Vulture; the bone-flute boy; the painted clansmen; Owlboy in his hiding place; Pa by the fireside: they all stared at her, open-mouthed.

  Standing there with all these eyes upon her, Mothgirl felt suddenly small and weak and alone, like that young deer down by the riverbank. ‘No!’ Mothgirl said again, but this time her voice trembled.

  ‘ACCK-ACCK-ACCK-AACCCCCK!’ It was Vulture; he was bent double. ‘ACCK-ACCK-ACCK-AACCCCK!’ What was wrong? Was he choking? Pa leaned towards him with a steadying hand.

  But Vulture straightened. ‘ACCK-ACCK-ACCK.’ His lips were drawn back, showing his sharpened teeth, and Mothgirl realised that he was not choking; he was laughing.

  All around the camp, Vulture’s men began laughing too, thin imitations of their leader’s crow-voiced cackle. ‘Ack-ack,’ they chortled, nudging one another. ‘Ack-ack-ack.’

  Their fools’ laughter prickled Mothgirl, made her feel hot with anger and cold with shame. ‘Why you laugh?’ she said.

  The men laughed more loudly, all but the bone-flute boy, who just stared silently at the ground and twisted at his deertooth necklace with his painted fingers. And Vulture, Vulture laughed louder than them all. ‘ACCK-ACCK-ACCK!’

  Mothgirl looked desperately to Pa. Pa was not laughing. He was solemn-eyed. He beckoned her to him and Mothgirl stood by Pa’s side. Although she could feel how her knees shook with rage and shame and fear, she held her face rock-firm and stone-steady. Pa raised his hand, palm open, asking silence, in the way it was done.

  One by one, Vulture’s men ceased their noise, until only Vulture’s laugh remained. He shook his head, sighing, like all this mirth had made him weary. ‘Ahh, Eagle, the girl gives you much trouble, I see! Vulture will take your trouble. Kind Vulture will mend the ways of this trouble girl. NO! she speaks. To her own good father. NO, indeed! She will quick learn – the girls of Vulture’s clan do not speak NO!’ His cold eyes pierced Mothgirl’s, sharp as a speartip.

  She looked quick away, straight-staring beyond him to where the evening sky rippled red like fire, amber like tree sap, yellow like lynx eye. Up on the hilltop she saw shadow shapes that made her heart pang – there was Eelgirl crouched behind the Spirit Stone, and next to her stood ByMySide, ears alert, watchful and ready. She was deep glad her wolf knew to be wary and to keep away; not all men could be trusted.

  ‘Vulture,’ said Pa. ‘I give thanks. Your gifts are good. But I ask you this: Why you want my daughter; why you want my Mothgirl? She is but twelve summers old. She is young, Vulture. She is too young to leave our clan.’

  Mothgirl felt relief pour through her like nectar. Then, to her surprise, Vulture laughed, this time louder than ever. His men, of course, joined with his laughter. She saw Pa’s brow furrow slightly.

  ‘Why you laugh, Vulture?’

  ‘ACCK-ACCK! Ah, Eagle! Ah, I laugh! That a good question indeed, Eagle. Why Vulture want this girl?’ Vulture pointed a painted finger at Mothgirl. Mothgirl winced. ‘This girl. Your daughter. This girl is trouble girl. Look her!’

  Mothgirl felt the sharp pinch of all eyes upon her once more; she watched her feet and wished herself small as a pebble.

  ‘Look this girl! Look her man spear! Look her man deerskin! This girl not know woman ways, she know man ways! This girl hunt, Eagle! This girl speak “No!” Eagle, hear me. It is not the way!’

  Mothgirl saw Pa’s fist tighten. Some things are done and some things are simply not the way. That was what Pa himself always said. She winced, knowing how much Pa hated not doing things the way they ought be done.

  ‘Now, listen, Eagle; Vulture need to tell you some hard truth. Vulture knows your son is gone. Hart is gone now. Vulture saw Hart’s waymarker out beyond the Great Plain. Hart is gone, Eagle. It is a hard truth.’

  NO! screamed Mothgirl’s mind-voice, but she did not let it out. She saw the muscle line in Pa’s neck tighten like a pulled vine.

  Vulture’s words oozed on, smooth and sweet as honey. ‘Vulture comes in kindness. Vulture want help you, Eagle. Vulture will help you find dear lost Hart. Vulture will bring your son to you.’

  ‘Ack-ack-ack,’ came the quiet, under-breath laughter of Vulture’s men.

  Vulture came close now, like a spider with a fly in his sticky web. ‘Oh, Eagle, how it pains Vulture to speak hard truth to you, but all the clans … they laugh at you, Eagle. All the clans
they laugh at you and they laugh at your daughter. They tell of your daughter in their firestories. Ha! they tell. Ha! Eagle’s girl is half girl, half wolf! Ha! they tell. Eagle’s girl hunt like man. Ha! they tell, Eagle’s girl grow a big fine beard one day!’

  ‘Ack-ack-ack,’ laughed one of Vulture’s men. Vulture’s eyes proudened.

  Mothgirl felt sickness swirl in her belly; she squeezed back the tears that prickled in her eyes. Untrue! Untrue! she longed to shout, but she dared not, for fear of shaming Pa, for fear of being the trouble girl cruel Vulture spoke of. If Hart was here Hart would have shouted the words she longed to yell. Hart would have chased Vulture from here with one wave of his proud spear. ‘Speak on,’ said Pa. His voice heavy. ‘I listen.’

  Mothgirl’s stomach lurched. She could not bear to hear more.

  ‘Good, Eagle. Good,’ said Vulture, honey-voiced. ‘Vulture speak with full kindness. Vulture come here to help you. Eagle, it is not yet too late! Your daughter, she is still young enough to learn. Vulture will take this trouble girl from you and Vulture will tame her.’

  Mothgirl winced.

  Vulture flashed his sharpened teeth, scooping a handful of clay from the ground. ‘Daughters are clay, Eagle. We shape them how we choose – that is the way. Vulture will take your trouble girl and –’ he squeezed the clay hard between his hands, pinching and prodding and rolling roughly – ‘Vulture will shape your trouble girl until she learns better ways, until all trouble gone.’ He held up a tight ball of clay, round as a dropping. ‘And when she is good, I will give your daughter to my son.’

  For a tiny second Pa and Mothgirl’s eyes met, a spinning, confused look.

  ‘Your son?’ said Pa.

  ‘Come, Vole, show yourself!’ said Vulture, gesturing impatiently with his spear.

  The bone-flute boy shuffled forward, his eyes low. He stood next to his father.

  ‘Behold Vole, son of great Vulture, son of proud Lynx of the Sky Plains!’ bellowed Vulture. ‘Behold!’

  Mothgirl beheld. She beheld how Vole was a head smaller than she was. She beheld how his spear hand trembled and how his throat apple was not yet grown. Vole? she thought to herself. This not Vole; this Voleboy!

  Pa clearly had the same thinkings. ‘Your son, Vulture,’ said Pa slowly, almost kindly. ‘Your son is young, is he not? Too young also perhaps?’

  Mothgirl saw Vulture’s eyes darken in the depths of his blood-paint mask. All laughter gone. ‘You think I know not my own son, Eagle?’ He spat on the ground and turned to the boy. ‘Vole! Speak me – how many summers you have?’

  The boy’s eyes remained low. ‘Twelve summers,’ he mumbled.

  Vulture pressed the point of his spear to his son’s throat. ‘You man? You Vole?’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I man. I Vole.’ The boy’s voice squeaked in terror.

  Vulture lowered his spear and nodded solemnly. ‘Man!’ he declared.

  Mothgirl narrowed her eyes and stared at the boy: how pale his face was beneath the streaks of blood paint; how thin his arms; how trembling his hands. Voleboy. Not Vole. Of that she was certain. And she pitied him.

  The boy’s frightened eyes flicked up and met hers. She shot him a look of venom and lightning. Swift, he looked back at the ground.

  She pitied this boy, but she did not want to be his. She did not want to be anybody’s.

  Mothgirl held her chin proudly in the air as Voleboy backed away from the fireside and into the shadows. Ha! she thought to herself, and she turned back to Pa, not noticing the boy who had slid silently into the forest.

  ‘What say you, oh Eagle?’ hissed Vulture.

  Pa rubbed his chin and stared into the fire.

  Mothgirl held her breath. She closed her eyes and wished, from her toes to her hair roots, that Hart would come home right at that very moment; she imagined Hart laughing in the face of foolish Voleboy and spitting in the face of cruel Vulture and throwing sand in the faces of all the blood-stink, untrue, painted men. Hart did not care, like Pa did, for the old ways, for doing what should be done. Oh, Hart!

  But Hart did not come. She opened her eyes and stared up at the first stars.

  ‘Speak, Eagle,’ said Vulture, his voice twisted and snake-like. ‘What say you?’

  Pa was silent. He did not look at Mothgirl. He did not look at Vulture. He stared into the fire like his mind was heavy with thoughts.

  Mothgirl watched, dry-tongued, as Pa held yes in one hand and no in the other hand, and weighed each against the other. She bit her lip. ‘What say you, Pa?’ she whispered under her breath.

  Pa lifted his eyes from the flames. He cleared his throat, preparing to speak.

  Dad cleared his throat, preparing to speak.

  But Dara could feel the news already. Heavy as a storm cloud in the bedroom air.

  ‘While you were asleep, we called the hospital and spoke to Dr Da Silva,’ said Mum.

  ‘We explained to her what happened today, down on the beach,’ said Dad.

  The rain pattered on the windowpane. Dara sighed. He knew what was coming. He hadn’t had a really bad episode like this in years, not since that time when he was ten at Nisha Caro’s party; Dara cringed at the memory of waking up lying on the trampoline with everyone from school peering in through the netting at him, like he was a creature in a zoo. Trampolines were not a good idea.

  Dara bit his lip. ‘We have to go to the hospital, don’t we?’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go in for tests. I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined our holid—’

  ‘No, love,’ said Dad, with that watery weak smile. ‘No, love, our holiday’s fine. You don’t have to go to hospital. It’s …’

  Dad looked at Mum. Mum looked at Dad. They both looked at Dara.

  ‘It’s the Big Op,’ said Mum. ‘Dr Da Silva thinks that it’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Not just yet – ’

  ‘Maybe in a month or two – ’

  ‘Best let everything settle back down again – ’

  ‘And then – ’

  ‘We’ll see – ’

  Their voices faded away, like words underwater. Dara closed his eyes. Tight. Like knots. He squeezed his fingers to fists and curled up his toes under the duvet and inside himself he clasped every single muscle he could reach.

  But still the tears got out. He could taste them, salty as seawater, on his bitten-tight lips.

  ‘Oh, Dara,’ said Mum. And she was cuddling him. And Dad was cuddling him too.

  But he didn’t cuddle them back, he wanted to push them away. He wanted to burst out of their cuddle like a firework and soar up into the rain-dark sky and explode like dragon breath into firedust and sparks and roaring screaming fury.

  But he didn’t burst. He curled everything tighter, shrinking himself away.

  Around him Mum talked and Dad talked. Their words fell like leaves. Like snowflakes. Like blossom. Dara didn’t even try to catch them. Because he knew it would be pointless. All that mattered was what he knew already.

  The Big Op wasn’t going to happen.

  Two weeks tomorrow. The day he’d circled in gold on the calendar, brighter than his birthday, brighter than Christmas. The day that had been so fixed and so bright and so certain, the day that would change everything. It would just be an ordinary day. On that day nothing was going to happen.

  And perhaps nothing was ever going to change. Maybe this was all there was, all he was, all he’d ever be.

  The beep of the oxygen machine cut through the underwater rise and fall of Mum’s and Dad’s voices. Automatically, Dara flicked the switch and took out his nose tubes.

  He’d stopped crying. He felt cold and still as ice.

  ‘Dara?’ said Mum, softly.

  Dara blinked at her for a second. ‘Sorry? What did you say?’

  ‘Here, take these.’ She was holding a pharmacy packet towards him. ‘Dr Da Silva sent through an emergency prescription; Dad went to pick them up from the chemist while you were sleeping. You’re to take one at bedtime and one in the morning.’
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  Blearily Dara opened the box. Pink tablets. More stupid medicine to take. ‘What do these ones do?’ he said flatly.

  Mum squeezed his hand. ‘They’re new ones, strong ones. They should prevent any reactions like you had today.’

  ‘The Pink Pills of Power!’ said Dad, flexing his pretend muscles. Trying to be funny.

  Dara rolled his eyes; he wasn’t in the mood for funny. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. His voice felt empty like he was a robot, made of metal. He slid down under the covers and closed his eyes, pulling the duvet around his ears.

  Mum’s and Dad’s voices came and went around him, until he felt the softness of their kisses on his hair and heard Dad whisper ‘See you in the morning, son-shine’ like he always did. Then the gentle click of the door closing behind them.

  And Dara was alone.

  He reached over the side of the bed and pulled up his backpack; unzipping the pocket, he took out his brass hare. Dara stared at the hare just sitting there on the palm of his hand; heavy and gleaming, watchful and waiting, ears alert, paws ready.

  Totally and utterly useless, just a lump of stupid metal too. There was no such thing as luck.

  Dara shoved the pointless, ridiculous hare back in his bag and he buried his face in his soft pillow and he opened his mouth and he screamed, silently at the top of his voice, for minutes and minutes until his throat was raw.

  Mothgirl wanted to scream, to bite, to fight, to run. She did not dare look at Vulture. She did not dare look at Pa. She stared into the leaping flames of the fire that crackled and sparked. In the darkening forest a hunted creature shrieked. Mothgirl squeezed her fists so tight she felt her bones would crack. She knew that nothing she could do would make any difference. She had no choice. No power. She was caught like a hare in a trap.