The Way to Impossible Island

by Sophie Kirtley

  The second enormous wave struck Peagreen, sending her spinning. Dara shouted and sprawled forward on to the deck, still clasping the oars. He looked up.

  The wolf’s forepaws were balanced on the rim of the boat as if he was about to …

  ‘Don’t!’ Dara yelled.

  But the wolf just glanced back at him and made a sharp, decisive bark. Then the wolf leaped overboard, an arced streak of grey in the dark sky.

  Dara heard the splosh of his landing; he scrambled to the edge of the boat and, gripping the rim, peered into the churning sea, just in time to watch the white tip of the wolf’s tail disappearing beneath the pale foam of the waves.

  He felt sick. No! No! No! No! Stupid wolf! Stupid girl! A choked sob came hiccuping out. Dara suddenly noticed how tight his chest was. Stupid heart – so stupidly stupidly stupid!

  Still crouching low, he tore off his backpack, yanked open the pocket, grabbed his puffer and gulped at it. Lightness for a second. Breath. Easy breath.

  Then the smack of another wave spun the boat around. Dara flung his backpack back on his shoulders and grasped the oars tightly. He peered into the water, hopeful and hopeless at the same time – but no sign, no sign at all. The girl had been gone too long, surely? And now the wolf was gone too. Dara was all alone.

  He pulled on the oars, not sure any more which way was the shore and which way was out to sea, but he had to do something; he had to go somewhere. He gazed desperately up at the swinging stars through tear-hazed eyes. Then Dara felt Peagreen tilt and he heard the huge sighing suck of the sea. He turned just in time to see a towering wall of a wave grow taller, and still taller again. Dara blinked in terrified astonishment as high, high above him the enormous wave trembled on the brink.

  Dara screamed. The wave broke with a roar.

  Beneath the Big Water

  in the dim and the still

  Mothgirl felt spirit sleep

  pulling her downwards

  gentle and soft and dark until …

  Make light!

  Make light and I will find you!

  Hart!

  She was so close to finding him.

  Hart!

  She could not give up now.

  Hart!

  She had to keep hunting.

  Mothgirl’s eyes flickered open.

  A pale glow through the dark water above her.

  Moonmoss?

  Could it be?

  Mothgirl kicked weakly

  with the last of her strength

  and she rose

  just a little

  towards the glow

  but the dark waters

  only darkened

  and turned and curled

  tighter around her

  dragging her deeper

  Hart?

  Mothgirl had to …

  Hart?

    … keep seeking …

  Hart?

    … but she was tired …

  … so tired …

  A tightness.

  A tugging.

  Someone was pulling her by the deerskin.

  Pulling her up …

      up …

  up …

  … to the surface where the wind whirled wildly and where there was moonlight and starlight and noise. Her chest screamed with pain. She gasped and choked and coughed all at once. And in all the dizziness of it Mothgirl saw the swirl of wet grey fur and the bright amber of his eyes.

  ‘ByMySide!’ she gasped.

  And from deep in her wolf’s belly came the proudest, happiest dig-find sound; the sound that meant My girl! I have found you.

  Mothgirl clung, coughing, to ByMySide. He gripped her deerskin tight-as-tight in his jaws and pulled her through the Big Water.

  Mothgirl saw the wooden boat and her tired heart leaped.

  Hart? Was it Hart? In his canoe?

  She let go of her wolf and reached up with her water-weak arms until she gripped the side of the boat; she hung there a moment while her limp body shook with the force of her coughs as water came pouring out of her mouth and she gasped, struggling to stay afloat.

  Mothgirl felt hands on her wrists and she looked up into the face of the boy. The strange boy. The invader from the far-ice-lands. No! She tried to push herself away.

  But the boy held her tightly and she was too weak to fight him and he heaved and she scrambled with her legs, and something pushed her from behind and then she slid on her belly over the side of the boat to land with a flop on the floor, helpless as a salmon caught on a bone hook. Except a salmon flipped and flapped when it got caught. Mothgirl just lay there, face down, exhausted, coughing, still spitting up water.

  Mothgirl could hear the boy speaking, but she could not understand his words.

  She felt the warmth of his touch on her arm; she rolled on to her side and looked up at him. He did not have cruel eyes. For a moment she forgot to be afraid. The boy took a strange deerskin from a bag and wrapped it around her; it crunched like fallen leaves. And Mothgirl realised that the invader in his boat had helped ByMySide to save her from spirit sleep.

  She slowly sat and hugged her knees. She was shaking. She pulled the boy’s deerskin tighter around her, rubbing her arms. The boy was talking to her, gentle-voiced. Mothgirl shook her head. No. His far-ice-lands words were like birdsong or bearvoice. She could not hear their meaning truly.

  Then the boy touched his chest; he said one word. Over and over and over again. Mothgirl screwed up her eyes as she listened hard.

  Then she pointed to him and opened her salt-dry lips and spoke his name.

  ‘DA-ra-MURR-um,’ she said, her voice still rough with coughing.

  And as she spoke his name, Mothgirl felt a small something pop deep in her ears, like when you climb so high on a mountain that your ears need to change inside themselves.

  ‘You?’ said the boy whose name was DA-ra-MURR-um. ‘What’s your name?’

  And like a fog had cleared, Mothgirl understood his words. She put her shivering hand over her fast-beating heart and spoke her very own name back to him.

  Seeing the boy’s brow furrow, she said her name again.

  ‘Moth … ga?’ said Dara, uncertainly. But as he said it he felt a little pop in the back of his ears, like when you’re on a plane. ‘Mothga?’ he tried again.

  And the girl crouching bedraggled on the floor of the boat smiled a very small smile. ‘Mothga!’ she said hoarsely, touching her chest. ‘DA-ra-MURR-um!’ she continued, pointing at him.

  ‘DA-ra-MURR-um!’ said Dara, touching his chest and smiling back. Saying his name her way made him feel less himself; stronger somehow, braver, like a warrior.

  Mothga turned her head then and looked about the boat, as if searching for something. ‘Daramurrum,’ said Mothga. Her voice was weak. ‘Daramurrum, where my wolf?’

  Dara looked over the edge of the boat into the dark water. The wolf!

  He scanned the moon-dappled choppy sea but the wolf was nowhere to be seen. Dara felt sick. He searched off the other side of the boat and dread crept through him with a coldness that chilled his bones. No! It wasn’t possible. Dogs were brilliant swimmers; some dogs even had webbed feet – he’d definitely read that somewhere; surely wolves were the same?

  Dara squinted back towards the jetty because maybe, just maybe, the wolf had swum ashore.

  But Dara could see the Old Boatshed clearly in the moonlight. A flock of seabirds stood on the slipway, carpeting its black surface white as if snow had fallen. They would never have settled if the wolf was there.

  Peagreen rocked suddenly; Mothga was trying to stand up and look over the side. She was pale and shivering, her eyes hollow as she scanned the moonlit sea.

  ‘Where my wolf?’ she said again. Her voice sounded so little and lost that Dara didn’t quite know what to say. He bit his lip.

  ‘I think he’s gone …’ he whispered.

  ‘Gone? Where gone?’

  ‘Ummmmm …’ Dara’s eyes met Mothga’s ey
es, so dark and so sad. ‘Uummm … gone to …’ He shifted awkwardly on the boat bench. Then he caught sight of the dark shape of Lathrin Island, out across the strait. ‘I think he’s gone to the island … maybe …’ He pointed uncertainly across the dark sea. As he spoke he saw in his mind the ridiculous impossibility of the Golden Hare swimming across the strait. Of a wolf swimming across. Of anything crossing that churning belt of water without a boat. And he knew he was lying.

  ‘My wolf?’ she murmured blearily, gazing out into the night to the darkest dark of Lathrin Island.

  He looked at the girl properly then. She was real, he wasn’t imagining, he wasn’t dreaming, of that he was certain. But nothing about her made sense: her wet, furry clothes; the way she spoke; her name even – Mothga – what kind of a name was that? Maybe she had hippy-dippy parents or something.

  ‘ByMySide!’ called Mothga, her voice half drowned out by the wind and the waves. ‘Where you, ByMySide? Where you?’

  ‘ByMySide …’ murmured Dara. ‘Is that your wolf’s name?’

  She nodded. Dara saw her eyes swim with tears. ‘ByMySide!’ she called again, her voice cracking.

  ‘BYMYSIDE!’ Mothgirl screamed his name into the night, so loud it made her throat burn. ‘BYMYSIDE!’

  Where was her wolf? Her own dear wolf.

  As Mothgirl searched, her tears began to fall and her calling voice faded to a whisper. The Big Water was so dark and so vast. What if ByMySide had tired and weakened and …

  ‘No!’

  Mothgirl rubbed her eyes roughly. No! ByMySide was full-brave and spirit-strong. He was her wolf; he would not let the Big Water pull him down to the depths.

  She peered across the black waves at the island, shadowy and looming. Mothgirl shivered, remembering Pa’s firestories – she knew never to go to Lathrin Mountain, but ByMySide did not fear restless spirits. Wolves and spirits could drink from the same spring and no harm would come of it. Could this boy, Daramurrum, be right?

  The boat rose and fell gently in the dark waters. Mothgirl pulled herself tall, Daramurrum’s deerskin flapping noisily about her in the wind. She was alone – no Pa, no Hart, no ByMySide. Even Voleboy’s spear and Mole’s rabbit-skin cape had been lost in the waves. All she had was her small trembling self. Narrowing her eyes, she watched the strange boy from the far-ice-lands; he watched her back with furrowed brow. He was not of her clan. He was not to be full-trusted.

  Mothgirl took a big salt-air breath and fixed her heart steady. ByMySide was on that impossible island so, spirits or no spirits, she would go there too. She would find her wolf and bring him back from Lathrin Mountain, then together they would find Hart and return home. Mothgirl nodded firmly – yes – ByMySide had saved her from spirit sleep three times over. Now it was up to her to save him.

  ‘We go Lathrin Island!’ she said to the boy.

  Daramurrum looked at her, eyes wide as the moon. ‘What? We what?’

  Mothgirl pointed across impatiently. ‘We go find ByMySide! Give me paddle.’ She held her hand out for the wooden paddle Daramurrum was holding.

  A sudden wave slammed the side of the boat, jolting them both off balance. Daramurrum clasped the paddle tight to his chest. ‘Ummm … no. We need to turn around and get back to shore, Mothga,’ he said. ‘You’re still wet and you nearly drowned and we should take you to hospital or something.’

  Mothgirl stared at him blankly.

  The boy spoke again, more slowly. ‘We should go back.’

  Mothgirl made a little snort and stared at the boy fire-eyed. ‘You say my wolf on island, Daramurrum! I not go back.’ She sprang to her feet and crouched low. The boat rocked from side to side.

  ‘Stop it! What are you doing?’ shouted Daramurrum. ‘We’ll fall in!’

  ‘Give. Paddle!’ said Mothgirl.

  ‘No!’

  She lunged at him. The boat leaned and a big whoosh of wave water sloshed in over their feet. They both yelled.

  ‘Mothga!’ The boy was breathless now. ‘You have to stop. You have to give up. We have to go back. It’s not safe – I only said your wolf was out there on the island because I didn’t want you to be sad. Nobody can swim across Lathrin Strait – it’s too dangerous. Listen to me, Mothga – I’m sorry, but I lied. ByMySide isn’t on the island. It’s just not possible. Your wolf is … he’s …’

  ‘NO!’ yelled Mothgirl at the foolish far-ice-lands boy with his foolish words. She hurled herself at him.

  Jerking away, the boy thudded off his small seat and the boat dipped wildly and Daramurrum screamed. Mothgirl grabbed the wide end of the paddle and pulled; he tugged back and the nose of the boat rose up and caught on a wave and they spun around and a huge splash of water slapped her full-face, full-throat, making her cough come again, but she did not let go. Nor did the boy. Mothgirl and Daramurrum sat panting in the belly of the boat, each gripping one end of a paddle and staring, fierce-eyed, at one another.

  ‘We. Go. Lathrin. Island,’ she said again, her voice low and dangerous.

  ‘That’s. Not. A good. Idea,’ said Daramurrum slowly, and then, to Mothgirl’s surprise, he began to laugh.

  ‘Why you laugh?’ she hissed.

  Dara laughed and laughed, but his laugh was as cold and hollow as an empty egg.

  ‘Why you laugh?’ said Mothga again, eyes narrowed.

  ‘I’m laughing because I just realised how stupidly ridiculous this is,’ wheezed Dara, shaking his head. ‘All my whole life I’ve planned to row out to Lathrin Island. On my own. And here I am, actually in a boat on Lathrin Strait.’ All his bitter laughter melted away now and he felt the hotness of tears waiting behind his eyes. ‘Here I am, and it’s not how it was when I imagined it. It’s not the way I planned at all. It’s not all brave and bold. It’s stupid – and – impossible – and –’ he tried to catch his breath – ‘and it’s dangerous – and –’

  A big wave slammed into the side of Peagreen with a crack. They were both flung off balance and Dara felt Mothga finally let go of her end of the oar.

  Dara scrambled back on to the boat bench and peered fearfully out into the blue darkness. ‘Oh,’ he breathed. ‘Oh, it’s not possible!’ Cold realisation swept through him; while they’d been arguing they’d also been drifting. The lights of the town were just pinpricks now and the jetty had vanished into the dusk. They were almost in the middle of the strait. Another wave rocked the boat. ‘We have to get back to shore!’

  This time Mothga didn’t argue.

  Dara searched the darkness desperately for the glowing buoys, the markers that showed the safe way back. Then he finally spotted one and his belly lurched; the buoy was pale and small as a bubble; so far across the waves.

  ‘We need to row to the buoys, Mothga!’ he panted, his mouth dry. ‘Help me!’

  But Mothga didn’t answer. He glanced back at her; she was curled in a ball in the stern, with his red raincoat wrapped around her shoulders like she’d just given up entirely. ‘Mothga?’ he called crossly. ‘Come on!’

  But she just ignored him, her face hidden. A thought struck him. Maybe she was actually crying. Maybe she’d realised her poor wolf was dead. Dara bit his lip. Maybe all her hopes had finally fizzled away too.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mothga,’ he mumbled. But his words seemed thin and useless as paper.

  Mothga said nothing. Dara swallowed. It was all up to him now.

  Clasping the edge of the boat, Dara peered into the depths of the sea. Where Peagreen was bobbing there were choppy waves, white and frothy in the moonlight; he could see the same if he squinted across nearer the shore of Lathrin Island. But in between was a strangely still, strangely moonless band of oil-black water. Peering in, he could see patterns within it, moving like muscle under skin; ominous silvery swirls that pulled together and apart in opposite directions.

  ‘Oh no, no, NO!’ he groaned, suddenly remembering what Dad always said when they stood looking out at Lathrin Strait from the viewpoint: There’s an invisible current in the mi
ddle there, looks peaceful as a paddling pool, but all the power is beneath the surface – it’d drag you right out to the Sea of Moyle if you let it. Dad had had a name for it too, that band of water, a sinister name; oh, what had he called it?

  ‘The Swathe,’ breathed Dara, and he shuddered.

  Breathing fast, he clumsily clonked the oars into the rowlocks. He gripped them tightly and leaned back, pulling hard. But this time Peagreen didn’t move where he wanted her to go. He tried again; it was like rowing through treacle.

  ‘Mothga!’ he called. ‘Listen, Mothga. I really need your help here! The tide is turning; if we don’t work together we’re going to get dragged into the Swathe!’

  The girl didn’t reply. Why wasn’t she answering him? ‘Mothga? Are you OK?’

  The boat leaned into a wave and Dara saw Mothga’s head loll back. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth hung loosely open. A thin trickle of blood ran down her cheek. Dara gasped. ‘Mothga!’

  A sharp rush of terror and dread leaped through him. He pulled in the oars and clumsily scrambled along the deck. Crouching next to her, he nervously felt for her pulse. Her heart was beating, strong as an engine; relief melted through him at the exact same moment as a great big wave broke against Peagreen’s side, sloshing their faces with cold water. Mothga’s eyes sprang open.

  ‘Daramurrum!’ she said groggily. ‘We go Lathrin Island!’

  Dara almost laughed at her ridiculous stubbornness, but he didn’t have time to laugh or speak or anything before he was flung on to his side in the sudden lurch as Peagreen swung round in a semicircle, like she was a toy. Sickness swirled fearfully in Dara’s belly as, gripping on to the rim of the spinning boat, he peered nervously over the edge.

  The water was black and flat as an off TV. Ominously still. But beneath the surface Dara saw the writhing shapes of secret currents pulling and pushing against one another.

  The Swathe.

  It was too late to turn back to the harbour now. Much too late. Dara plunged the oars into the swirling water and heaved with all his might. They were going to have to make for Lathrin Island.