An antler symbol was carved here in the rock. She traced its familiar branching shape with her finger.
‘What is it?’ asked Daramurrum, staring at the wall too. ‘Is it writing?’
‘My brother,’ said Mothgirl quietly. ‘My brother was here.’ She peered closer at Hart’s waymarker. It was strangely weather-worn and faded, but she was certain that it was his. She grinned, her own heart soaring. ‘Hart is near!’
‘Where is he?’ whispered Daramurrum, peering around.
‘I not know yet …’ Mothgirl slowly walked deeper into the cave, shining the light over the gleaming wet walls, looking for more of Hart’s symbols so that she could track his path.
Daramurrum followed, looking where she looked.
Sudden as fish-splash she saw it. Another waymarker. There on the cave wall, right at the back where the dark was deepest and the roof was low. ‘Look! Look!’ She moved swiftly, standing on toe tips to see properly.
Cold horror seized her. The water-poo-tosh slid from her hand and fell with an echoing clonk upon the rocky floor. Darkness. Complete and heavy as a cloak.
Daramurrum’s sharp shriek. Mothgirl’s own shout. Silence. The drip drip drip of cave water. The rushing whispers of waves on the shore.
‘Mothga?’ Daramurrum’s whisper, warm in the darkness. ‘Mothga? Are you OK?’
‘I oak-ee.’ Her own voice, small and unsteady.
‘What’s wrong? Where are you?’
‘I here.’
She heard his footsteps coming closer, slow and shuffly in the dark. She held her arms out in front of her. Their fingers touched. They both yelped.
‘What is it? What did you see?’ whispered Daramurrum.
Wordless, Mothgirl took his hand and guided his fingers through the dark towards the symbol carved on the cold cave wall. Shuddering, she traced her finger and Daramurrum’s finger together over the lines. It was the same symbol as before – the branching shape of the antler – Hart’s waymarker.
But above it was another symbol; a conquering symbol.
She traced their fingers together down the down-slope; up the up-slope. The symbol was in the shape of flying wings.
‘What does it mean, Mothga?’ breathed Daramurrum.
‘Vulture,’ she whispered, her voice trembling in the dark. ‘This Vulture’s waymarker. Vulture is here.’
Dara’s eyes widened. ‘Who … or what … is Vulture?’
Then he heard a sound that frightened him more than screams or shouts. The sound of Mothga softly sobbing in the dark.
‘What’s wrong?’ He reached towards her, and finding her hand, he wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he patted it awkwardly.
She put her other hand on his other hand and patted his hand in return. Dara felt a little frightened giggle pop out. He heard Mothga make a gigglish snort through her sobs.
‘Who’s Vulture?’ he asked again. And this time Mothga answered. They sat in the velvet-thick darkness and they patted each other’s invisible hands and she told him her story.
Dara didn’t understand every word, but she told him a story of clans and of land and of promises and bargains and of her pa who had lost his strength and of her brother who had gone and of the night when a cruel and powerful man came to take her away.
‘Vulture!’ she said, and she spat when she said his name. Like speaking it had left a revolting taste in her mouth.
‘Vulture!’ said Dara, and he spat too.
Mothga gave his hand a squeeze and continued. ‘So I run and I run and I run with my wolf. We run to find Hart. Hart is big man. Hart is strong man. Hart make safe. We run all the way to here … to Lathrin Mountain. But …’ Her voice shook. ‘But … I not find Hart … I not find ByMySide. I all alone.’
‘I’m here,’ whispered Dara, squeezing her hand back.
‘But you not big, Daramurrum. You not strong,’ she said.
Dara flinched.
‘You have breath-sickness like Pa, Daramurrum. You cannot fight Vulture! You cannot help me.’ Her tone was warm and kind, but her words stung Dara, sharp as hornets, cold as ice. He snatched his hands away from her.
‘Daramurrum?’ she said.
‘Don’t you Daramurrum me!’ he snapped crossly. ‘You don’t even know me, Mothga. You don’t even know what I can or can’t do! I’ve spent my whole life with other people making my choices for me – telling me what’s possible and what’s not. Well, I’m sick of it! Yeah, so, fine, I’m not exactly going to beat Vulture or your big strong brother in an arm-wrestling competition, but it’s not all just who can beat who in a fight. There are other ways to win battles, you know? There are cleverer ways, better ways, like in “The Porpoise Road” or “The Secret Smuggler” …’
Mothga said nothing. Dara sighed impatiently in the silent dark. ‘Oh, never mind! Right, come on, Mothga! Let’s find the torch and go down the tunnel. It’s our only way out of h—’
‘No, Daramurrum!’ Mothga’s voice was high and panicky. ‘Vulture! Vulture’s waymarker! Vulture follow Hart here. That tunnel is Vulture’s way …’
Dara’s crossness fizzed. She was so sure she was right, but he was sure she was wrong. Her story was just a story. He felt again for the V shape on the wall; it was worn and weathered and ancient. ‘Listen, Mothga, if Vulture ever did go down this tunnel, it was probably thousands of years ago. He’s hardly still going to be waiting in there, is he? Let’s just go.’
‘No,’ said Mothga stubbornly. ‘We not go in tunnel. We go other way. You need make new path, Daramurrum!’
‘What? What d’you mean, I need to make a path?’
‘You not big! You not strong! But you have big, strong powers, Daramurrum, you from the far-ice-lands …’
Dara snorted in frustration. ‘I’m not from the Far Eyes Land – I’m from Mandel! Listen, Mothga, if you want to go and find your brother some other way, then good luck to you. I have things to do here too, you know, on my own. I never planned to come to this island with anyone, least of all a girl from the Stone Age.’
‘I not from Stonnidge,’ muttered Mothga.
Dara ignored her. ‘And I don’t want to waste my time in a smelly old cave in the dark, looking at scratches on the wall.’
He tried to march off. But the cave was so stupidly dark he had to take tiny little shuffly steps with his arms out in front of him, like a cross between an old man and a zombie. His toe touched the torch and sent it skittering noisily across the rocky floor.
‘Daramurrum?’ Mothga’s voice sounded little and lost. ‘Daramurrum? Where you go?’
‘I’m going down this tunnel.’
‘No, Daramurrum. You NOT go down tunnel. Vulture! Vulture’s waymarker! Vulture is near!’
‘Pah!’ said Dara, on his hands and knees now, feeling for the torch. ‘You’re just trying to scare me out of it. Nice try, Mothg—’
‘Shhhhhhh!’
‘You shhhhhhhh!’
‘Listen!’
Then Dara heard it too. Clear. Unmistakeable.
The crunch-crunch-crunch of footsteps. Walking over pebbles. Coming up the beach. Towards the cave.
Suddenly Dara doubted himself utterly as a horrible thought struck him: if Mothga had somehow come through to his time, and her brother had, then Vulture could too.
Crunch-crunch-crunch.
Dara’s hand found the torch. He grabbed it. Pointed it down. Flicked it on. It still worked. He blinked, bedazzled, at Mothga; her frightened eyes met his.
The crunch-crunch footsteps came closer. Then they stopped altogether.
Dara flicked off the light and held his breath. He heard another sound, harsh and rattly.
ACK-ACK-ack-ack!
‘Why Vulture laugh?’ Mothga whispered faintly.
And they reached for each other’s hands. Then Dara flicked on the torch, pointed its beam into the blackness, and they ran together through the mouth of the secret tunnel.
Mothgirl ran fast into the tunnel, her mind spinning in terror. No
! No! NO! It was too cruel a truth to bear – she had lost Pa and Hart and ByMySide and now Vulture had found her and was coming for her through the dark. Fear squeezed her breathless. She gripped Daramurrum’s hand tight as tight and their feet made slap-slap-slap sounds upon the wet stone. Ahead, the circle of light juddered and shook over the sheen of dark rock and the green glow of cave leaf and the pale points of drip stone that hung from above.
Their breath puff-puff-puffed together like por-poss-iss. And the tunnel narrowed so they ran one by one now. Mothgirl followed the shadowish shape of Daramurrum, his back bag shaking up and down as he ran, his breath huffing and catching, rough and ragged.
‘Daramurrum?’ she panted. ‘You oak-ee?’
‘I’m OK,’ puffed Daramurrum.
But Mothgirl could see how his running feet landed floppishly and how his hands that had been tight fists were now loose and flapping like chestnut leaves in wind.
Belly clenching with fear, she looked over her shoulder. Black as black as black. Like a starless moonless sky. She ran on.
But up ahead of her Daramurrum had stopped. Bending forward, his hands on his knees, he breathed noisily, each breath tearing, ripping so roughly it made Mothgirl wince. She touched his heaving shoulder gently but he shrugged her away. ‘I’m – O – K –’
The circle of light was still now, and Mothgirl saw how the tunnel had beams of wood within it, like the poles that she and Pa and Hart cut to build their huts when they made a new camp. This tunnel was not just a cave tunnel, it was people-made, and just ahead it was not just one tunnel any more either, but it forked into two separate ways.
‘Which tunnel?’ she breathed. ‘Which way?’
But the only answer was Daramurrum’s ragged breath and another further sound which filled her with ice and horror.
Echoing footsteps from the tunnel far behind them. Not running footsteps. Slow and steady footsteps. The footsteps of a hunter who knew that his prey was held tight in his trap and that there was no need to hurry.
Mothgirl swallowed. Listening. There was another sound behind the slow footsteps.
Step.
Step.
Swoosh.
Step.
Step.
Swoosh.
A remembering of that final night stirred in the dark; her home, her fireside, the giggles of Eelgirl, the sizzle of nutcakes, Pa approaching, ByMySide’s growl. The bone-flute music.
And those footsteps in the forest.
Dry mouthed, she heard them as if they were here. As if they were now.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Swoosh.
The crunch-crunch of Vulture’s feet on the leaves. Followed by the swoosh of his foolish-long bearskin cloak as it trailed behind him. Crunch. Crunch. Swoosh.
Step.
Step.
Swoosh.
‘Daramurrum!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Which way?’
But Dara didn’t know which way. He stared into the one dark tunnel and then into the other and he gasped for breath in the thin damp air and all he could hear was Mum’s voice in his head: not a good idea.
He wordlessly handed Mothga the torch and fumbled in his backpack pocket for his puffer.
Brief easiness burst gentle in his chest. Like sunlight.
Then he heard what Mothga heard. Slow, dragging footsteps from the tunnel far behind them. She hadn’t been making it up! They really were being followed, being chased.
He tried to do his breathing exercises.
… two … three … four …
‘Which way?’ hissed Mothga.
He tried to think. He tried to think. Tried to think. His head was so foggy. Clumsily he shoved the puffer back in the pocket and his fumbly fingers touched damp paper and suddenly he remembered: the map! The stupid map from his stupid made-up book of stupid made-up stories from stupid Lathrin Island.
That stupid, brilliant, wonderful map.
He pulled it out, gently unfolded the damp paper, turned it the right way up.
‘What that?’ said Mothga, sounding exasperated. ‘Which way, Daramurrum?’
‘It’s a map; it’s waymarkers. Shine the light on it, Mothga!’
He landed his finger on Smugglers’ Bay, and the Hidden Cavern, then traced the dotted line of the Secret Tunnel until it forked in two and –
‘This way!’ he hissed, pointing to the right-hand tunnel. And he folded the map into his pocket and he swung the backpack on to his shoulder. ‘You go first,’ he puffed, and Mothga ran ahead into the tunnel; Dara staggered behind her, steadying himself on the wet walls, which swayed and wobbled into and out of focus.
He swallowed. His heart felt feather-light and bass-drum-loud, all at once. Not a good sign. Not good at all. Dara knew it was one of the warning signals; but maybe if he ignored the feeling, it would just go away.
He shuffled forward, feeling his way along the dark walls. Mothga’s circle of torchlight danced along the tunnel far ahead. He wanted to call out ‘Stop! Wait for me!’ but he didn’t dare, for he could still hear Vulture’s footsteps behind him, and if he could hear Vulture, then Vulture could hear him.
Dara swayed. He gripped on to the wooden beam that ran along the rocky wall and rested his forehead on the cool stone. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and open again. Little lights were starting to swirl, like fireflies behind his eyes.
‘So stupid,’ Dara mumbled. He gasped in a big breath. He’d been so stupid. He needed to go home, to get Mum and Dad. What was he doing out here – in a tunnel – on Lathrin Island – in the middle of the night – running – escaping – what was he doing? This was all wrong. This wasn’t the plan at all …
His heart raced faster, lighter, louder; faster, lighter, louder.
‘Daramurrum …’ said a low voice that slid greasily around his whirling head.
Was it Vulture? He couldn’t make sense of anything. This was why he wasn’t allowed to go on roller coasters or watch scary films or …
Dizzy. Too dizzy.
Dara’s spinning blood went ice cold.
The world swayed
and then dipped
and then slammed itself closed
with a cold
dark
thud
Mothgirl looked over her shoulder. Only dark, dripping stillness. No footsteps. No breath. She shone the water-poo-tosh back into the tunnel. Nothing.
Where was Daramurrum?
And – she swallowed – where was Vulture?
Cautious as a rabbit she flicked off the light and crept back along the tunnel, her hand on the cold damp wall. She listened, wide-eared.
Breath. Soft. Fast breath. Daramurrum!
She flicked on the light and there he was, lying on the ground, curled in upon himself like a fern frond, moonpale, blue-lipped.
She ran to him. Lifted him to sitting. Shook his shoulders. Spoke his name.
But he did not answer. His lynx-haired head flopped soft on his neck like the head of an arrow-struck deer.
She pinched his arm. Hard.
‘Owww!’ moaned Daramurrum.
Lightness lifted her heart. ‘Waking days!’ whispered Mothgirl, and she slid her arms under his and pulled him along the tunnel. Her nose so close to his hair it tickled; she sniffed; he smelt of salt and mint leaf and apples. But behind his smell another whiff wafted, faintly, just a wisp in the tunnel air.
And that was enough. It was a familiar stink. The smell of untruth and threat and fear.
The deep red stench of blood paint.
Daramurrum took a big gaspy breath. Mothgirl heaved, staggering backwards on the slippy rock as she dragged him along the tunnel, which sloped up now. She panted as she pulled the boy, who was heavy and floppy as a sack of pebbles.
Aching with tiredness, Mothgirl hauled Daramurrum up the tunnel until … until the tunnel just … ended.
She lowered him to the ground and felt the walls with both her hands. The walls were all around, apart from the way she had come. T
he tunnel had led nowhere! They had gone the wrong way!
Tears of tiredness and anger and fear filled her eyes. She fell to her knees next to Daramurrum’s slumped body and she buried her face in her hands. It was not possible! Not possible! They had gone the wrong way!
Then her tears froze in her eyes, halfway fallen. Fear gripped her. The smell of blood paint filled the darkness. She held her breath and listened.
Step.
Step.
Swoosh.
The footsteps were close-close. Vulture was nearly upon them. So calm. So unhurried. As if he knew already that their way was blocked.
Mothgirl imagined Vulture smiling his untrue smile, out there in the dark. His teeth filed to points. And she shuddered, sickness swirling in her belly. They had nowhere left to run to. Nowhere to hide.
So Mothgirl crouched, spearless as a small small child, between her friend who lay gasping on the ground and the slow steady footsteps of cruel Vulture. And she waited in the dark, listening for his cackle to come echoing off the walls.
Dara’s eyelids flickered in the dark. He could hear rain falling. He licked his dry lips. Where was he? He reached for his bedside light switch. But his fingers touched cold rock. What the …?
Suddenly he remembered. The tunnel. He was in the tunnel.
But why – why then could he hear rain? He pushed himself up on to his elbows. The tippa-tippa-tip of raindrops pattering right above his head. It didn’t make sense.
And then suddenly he realised. ‘Mothga,’ he whispered weakly, his voice so faint he could barely hear himself. ‘Mothga!’
‘Shhhhhh!’ she hissed.
‘Mothga! Up! Up there above our heads! It’s the way out!’
He heard the crinkle of his borrowed raincoat as she stood. And he heard her grunt with the strain as she pushed up on the trapdoor. And he rolled out of the way of the shower of crumbly mud and pebbles and sand and who-knows-what that came sprinkling down, and suddenly the darkness of the tunnel was shattered with spears of hazy moonlight.
And Dara tasted air. Air so fresh and full of sea spray; wind-whipped and cool and starlit and rain-speckled. He lifted his head to gulp it all in. And he wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry but he was too weak to do anything but breathe and breathe and …
The Way to Impossible Island Page 12