by Charlotte Lo
“Goat!” yelled Fabien as he shoved past me.
A melon-sized head poked out from the grass, with square eyes and floppy ears. A pair of horns curved down like a funny hat. My heart sank; it definitely wasn’t a donkey.
Maaaaa, the goat yelled. Maaaaa.
Margot shook her head. “That’s all we need, a bunch of goats eating everything.”
“Look at its coat!” said Fabien. “It’s so woolly!”
Through the grass, I saw the goat was covered in tight, muddy ringlets. The sight of them made Fabien’s face glow like a Christmas tree. It was obvious that he was dreaming of scarves and bobble hats.
Margot shuddered. “I don’t like its horns.”
“It’s perfect,” said Fabien dreamily.
He inched closer, arms outstretched, but the goat bounded off.
“Wait, come back!” he called, and sped after it.
Margot rugby-tackled him. “Leave it. It’s going to be dark soon.”
“But I might never see it again,” whimpered Fabien.
“There’ll be plenty of time for sheep-shearing later,” said Margot.
“Goat-shearing,” Fabien corrected her scornfully.
“Come on,” I said, pulling Fabien by the sleeve.
We carried on towards the house, and a shiver ran down my spine. Up close, I saw the windows were black with dust, and one of them was cracked. Tangled rose bushes guarded the front of the house, and the doorstep was littered with fallen roof tiles. A crow flexed its wings on the chimney and cawed.
I yanked on the vines covering the door, but they clung tight. A spider crept across them, and a moth landed on my hand. I shuddered and shook it off.
Margot helped me tug the vines loose to uncover the door handle. I took the key from Mum and wriggled it in the lock. It clicked once, and the door creaked open.
Dust swirled up as I shoved my way inside. I covered my mouth as I choked on the stale air. The hallway was dark and narrow. Mum found the light switch and a bulb flickered on.
“It’s filthy!” exclaimed Mum.
“It’s a death trap!” corrected Margot.
“It’s not that bad,” I said.
Fabien puffed on his inhaler. “Do you think I can make dust angels?”
“Don’t you dare,” said Mum.
Dad looked even more miserable than he had in London. I bit my lip, and hoped he’d like the rest of the house better. If winning the island didn’t cheer up Dad then nothing would.
I tried not to think about it, and headed towards the stairs. “I’m going to pick my bedroom.”
“Oh no you’re not,” said Margot. “I should get first pick, seeing as you dragged me here.”
“I should get the biggest room because I’m the youngest,” announced Fabien.
The three of us locked eyes, and then bolted up the stairs in an explosion of dust. I elbowed Margot out of the way, but Fabien pirouetted around me and army-rolled into the first room. It was huge, with a grand four-poster bed in the middle. I wondered whether to fight him for it, but Margot’s footsteps were coming up quickly behind me, so I decided to cut my losses and make a dash for the next one.
The door creaked open on its old hinges, and I dived through it. The room was even bigger than the one Fabien had chosen, with a bay window that overlooked the clearing and the forest. Across the treetops, I could see all the way to the beach, and beyond the water the soft lights of the mainland. It was the perfect lookout for spotting smugglers, or donkey thieves.
“This bedroom is mi—” I began but, before I could finish, a high-pitched scream filled the house.
My tummy jolted, and I raced out of my bedroom. The noise had come from downstairs. A lump rose in my throat. Had something happened to Dad? Whatever it was, it must have been really bad to make Mum scream like that.
I hurried downstairs with Margot and Fabien, and we found our parents huddled against the wall at the far end of the corridor. As far as I could see, they still had both their arms and legs. I wondered what had happened.
“What’s going on?” called Margot.
“Bats,” said Mum. “In the kitchen. Thousands of them!”
I peered inside the room at the end of the corridor. It was a large kitchen, with big wooden worktops and a range cooker. I looked at the floor and gasped. The tiles were covered in piles of brown droppings, and a putrid smell wafted up from them.
Fabien pointed to the ceiling, and I looked up. Dozens of bats hung upside down from the swirly plaster, their wings wrapped neatly around them. It was like Mr Billionaire had forgotten to take down the Halloween decorations.
“Does this mean I can keep goats in the kitchen?” asked Fabien.
“Absolutely not!” said Mum.
I turned to Margot, half expecting her to look green with horror. Instead, her eyes were wide and her mouth was open in fascination.
“I’ve always wanted to study the aerodynamics of bats,” she said.
Dad shook his head. “This place is cursed.”
“What on earth am I going to say to my yoga-retreat guests?” asked Mum.
“We’ll get rid of them,” I replied. “I mean the bats, not the yoga people.”
Fabien stood up on his tiptoes and whispered to me, “But how, Luna?”
I stared at the sleeping ceiling, and realised I had no idea.
I woke up with my face next to a mop. Dust drifted around me, and a spider scurried past and disappeared through a crack in the floorboards. I blinked and tried to remember where I was. This wasn’t my bedroom.
There was a blanket over my shoulders. It smelled strange, like damp clothes. I pulled it off and sat up. Margot and Fabien were squished on to a sofa in the corner. Fabien’s little legs dangled off the end like string. Cobwebs mummified Margot’s hair.
I tried to remember how I’d ended up asleep on the floor. We’d been exploring the house and I remembered that, when it got dark, we’d stopped to light a fire in the living room. The embers were still a deep red. We must have fallen asleep next to it.
Margot ground her teeth, as she always did when waking up. “What time is it?” she asked.
I looked around for a clock. There was one on the coffee table, but its hands were stuck at a quarter to three. I went to check the time on the TV, but then realised there wasn’t one. There wasn’t much of anything in the living room, apart from the old furniture. Our things from home weren’t due to be delivered for another few days yet.
A handful of dead flies lined the window ledge. I brushed them off and opened the curtains. Smoke twisted past the glass, and disappeared into the bright sunshine.
I opened the window and leaned outside. Mum was bending over a barbecue in her pink pyjamas, with a set of tongs in her hand. The smell of smouldering charcoal wafted inside.
“Morning, Luna!” she called. “Come and get some breakfast.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“A feast,” she replied.
Margot wrinkled her nose. “I hope it’s not grilled seaweed.”
I ran over to Fabien and shook his feet. “Wake up, we’ve got an island to explore!”
“Go ‘way,” he mumbled, eyes squeezed shut.
“But it’s morning,” I said.
Margot elbowed me. “Let him sleep.”
“There’s no time for sleep,” I said. “Don’t you want to find your goats, Fabien?”
Fabien’s eyes sprang open. “Goats? Where?”
“Here, on the island,” I said.
His forehead furrowed with confusion, and then he leapt off the sofa. “The island! We’re on the island!”
“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I said.
Margot sighed. “Why is everyone so happy about this?”
I grabbed her and Fabien by the arm, and pulled them out to the porch. A convoy of ants shuffled past us, hauling leaves. I jumped over them and landed on the thistle-thick grass. A strong gust of wind blew my hair everywhere.
So
mething on the barbecue sizzled loudly, and I hovered over it to see what it was. A frazzled lump spat on the grill, and a pot of pale mush bubbled away. My tummy lurched.
“What’s that?” I asked Mum.
“Spam with pea soup,” she said. “It was all I had in my handbag.”
“Who carries Spam and soup in their handbag?” grumbled Margot.
I stood downwind. “Where’s Dad?”
“Asleep. He needs his rest at the moment,” replied Mum.
I sighed. The island was supposed to make him better, but it hadn’t. Dad was still broken, and I had no idea how to fix him.
Fabien tried a spoonful and choked. “I’m not hungry. Can I go and find my goat?”
“All right, but take some Spam just in case,” said Mum.
“I’m not staying here another day,” said Margot.
Fabien ignored her, and sprinted off into the distance. I grabbed Margot’s hand and dragged her along after him. Prickly seeds stuck to my T-shirt like Velcro, and a nettle stung my ankle. Our island was a tangle of weeds, colourful flowers and zippy insects. It seemed like the field stretched on for ages, but then suddenly the land tumbled away, and all I could see was the glittering water ahead.
A stitch jabbed my side. Fabien reached the edge of the cliff and skidded to a halt. I stopped beside him, and looked down over the rocky ledge. The height made me feel dizzy.
Jagged grey rocks sloped into the sea, too steep to climb down. Boulders lay at the bottom, as though part of the cliff had crumbled. I wondered how recently. Waves washed over the fallen rocks and seaweed collected at the edges. A seagull bobbed on the water like a rubber duck.
Margot waved her phone in the air.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“Trying to call for a taxi,” she replied.
“We’re on an island…” I told her, slowly.
“A boat taxi,” she said. “But I can’t find a signal.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” I replied.
Fabien turned around. “Where do you think the goat is?”
“I’m not sure, but we’ll find it,” I said.
Margot put her hands on her hips. “I’m going back.”
“Won’t you help me find my goat?” said Fabien. “Pleeeeease.”
Margot stared at him, hard, and then sighed. “Fine. But after that I’m going back to wait at the boat until you both realise how ridiculous this whole island thing is.”
I smiled at Margot and linked my arm through hers. Hopefully Fabien’s goat would stay hidden all day. The longer Margot spent on the island, the more chance there was that she’d fall in love with it, and forget all about London and its flight paths.
We walked alongside the cliff edge, up a hill and then down again. Our path forced us through the trees, until we emerged on to another beach. Fabien consulted his compass, and told us we were on the northern side of the island. The beach there was a bit smaller than the main one, but beautiful and sun drenched. I wanted to stop and splash in the waves, but Fabien made us march on in search of his goat.
A dozen rock pools seemed to cover the western shore. The water shone grey and green, like jewels. I ran over to the first and peered through its glassy surface. A shoal of silver fish darted away, and a crab scuttled into a nook.
Fabien hopped, skidded and slipped over the pools. “Look, sea snails!” he said, and plucked one off the rock.
Margot shuddered. “Don’t touch it – you don’t know where it’s been.”
“Yes, I do,” said Fabien. “It’s been in the sea.”
My stomach rumbled. “Is it edible?”
Fabien tried to lick the snail, but Margot batted it away. “We’re in Scotland, not France. Here, I’ve got some chocolate in my pocket.”
She broke the bar into three pieces, and we sat on the edge of the rocks to eat it. I slipped off my shoes and dipped my toes into the water, splashing them to keep the fish at bay. It was icy cold, despite the sun.
“I still haven’t found my goat,” said Fabien.
“He’s probably in the woods,” replied Margot.
Fabien scrambled to his feet and skipped towards the trees behind us, singing, “Here, goat, here!”
I tugged my shoes back on, and followed him into the wood. Birds called to each other from their leafy perches. It was as if they wanted to know what we were doing on their island. Perhaps they’d never seen people before.
“Goat fur!” shouted Fabien, and he stooped to examine a piece snagged on a branch.
The tree’s trunk had been stripped of bark. I ran my hand over it, and felt teeth marks on the injured wood. A blob of drool stuck to my finger. Fabien’s goat had been here, and recently.
“Look, there’s more over here,” I said, plucking a tuft of fur from another gnawed tree. The branches must have acted like a hairbrush.
“It’s a trail!” said Fabien.
We followed the fur like a trail of breadcrumbs. In the distance, a twig snapped and something rustled. I froze, and Margot held out her arm like a barrier. It was only then that I realised how dark and remote our little jungle was.
“That sounded like a footstep,” she said.
“Maybe it’s Mum?” I replied.
Fabien dropped to his hands and knees. “Shh, you’ll scare them.”
“Scare who?” whispered Margot. “What are you doing down there?”
“Being a goat,” he said.
I looked in the direction that Fabien was facing, and saw six goats halfway up a tree. They were balanced on the branches, their teeth chomping back and forth. The goats weren’t just tree eaters: they were acrobats.
Fabien crawled slowly towards them, head bowed. He bleated in his best goat voice, and pretended to eat a leaf. The goats stopped what they were doing, and stared at him. It was as if they weren’t sure exactly what he was. They weren’t the only ones.
“He could do with a tail,” I whispered to Margot.
She sighed. “My family are nuts.”
Fabien was only a few metres from the goats now. He lifted his head slightly, and the nearest goat took a step towards him. It was all going surprisingly well, but then suddenly Fabien sprang into the air, and flapped his arms around like a demented pigeon.
“Spider!” he yelled. “Up my sleeve!”
Margot rushed over to Fabien. The spider flew out of his sleeve and scuttled off into the undergrowth. I doubled over with laughter, while the goats jumped off the tree and fled.
“You scared them,” said Fabien.
“Me!” I exclaimed.
“Which way did they go?” he asked, but took off without waiting for an answer.
I ran hard to keep up with him. Fabien negotiated the tree roots with all the agility of a mountain goat, while I caught my foot in a rabbit hole and tripped. One of my shoelaces had worked its way loose, and I paused to tie it. As I stooped, something caught my eye through the trees, and my heart thudded.
It was a stable block.
“Wait!” I yelled. “Look at this!”
I abandoned my shoelace, and hurried over to the stables. There were four of them joined together in a row. I opened the first door and stepped inside. Several earwigs fell on my feet, and I shook them off with a groan. Vines crept across the ceiling, and leaves covered the stone floor. The stable was old and run down, but the walls seemed solid. It would be the perfect place to house my rescue donkeys.
There was a blanket in the next one, with something large and bulky hidden underneath. I grabbed a bamboo stick and poked the edge. The blanket fell away and I gasped. Underneath was a pair of broken aeroplane wings. The paint was chipped and speckled with rust, and the lights on their tips were smashed. Underneath them, there appeared to be an aeroplane’s tail, with a starfish painted on it in bright yellow.
“Wings!” yelled Margot, over my shoulder. She rushed over to them and traced her fingers across their surface. Her hands shook with excitement, and her mouth was open in awe. I tapped her shou
lder, but she didn’t notice. Margot was transfixed.
“What are they from?” I asked.
“Some sort of light aircraft. I need to find the serial number to confirm which,” said Margot, her voice trembling.
“Maybe there’s more of it in the next stable?” I said.
We covered the wings and tail back up, and opened the third door. Dust swirled around us like a tornado. I batted it away and blinked. An aeroplane’s nose loomed up at me. Margot screamed so loudly that I was sure everyone on the mainland could hear.
“I’ve got to find the rest of it,” she said.
“What would you do with it?” I asked.
“Rebuild it, of course,” she said.
“Do you know how?”
“No, but I’ll google it,” replied Margot.
I could tell that she was no longer thinking about London, or phone signals, or broadband. The plane parts were too big to move, so she’d have to stay on the island if she wanted to keep them. Rebuilding a plane would keep her occupied for months, or maybe even years.
Margot started to clear the junk away from the plane’s nose. I bent down to help, and picked up a stack of crispy old newspapers. A leaflet fluttered out of their pages. I picked it up and held it to the light, so I could read the faded ink.
Itchbottom Summer Festival
6th & 7th August
Music, games, stalls and sheep pageant
£10 entry
I showed the leaflet to Margot and Fabien. “Look, there’s a place called Itchbottom!”
“Don’t be silly,” said Margot.
She peered at the leaflet, and her eyebrows arched with surprise. Fabien jumped with excitement.
“There’s a sheep pageant! We’ve got to go,” he squealed.
“That leaflet’s really old,” said Margot.
“They might be doing it again this year,” he said.
“We should throw our own festival for ten pounds a ticket. We’d be rich!” said Margot.
“You know, that’s actually not a bad idea,” I told her.
“I was joking,” she said.
“Yes, but just think about it,” I replied. “Rebuilding your aeroplane is going to cost money, and so is opening my donkey sanctuary. This way, we could earn enough for both.”