The Slightly Alarming Tale of the Whispering Wars

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  FINLAY

  eah, it was like that, the voice—pleasant, shining, emerald—all those sugary words.

  Or like wisteria, as I already said.

  But this was before we’d tried to resist it.

  We all fell asleep in the motorcar, and woke up inside the Whispering Kingdom. Annoyed me, that, as I’d been looking forward to seeing the famous Whispering Gates. I planned to keep a sharp eye out and notice where they hid the keys.

  But no, we woke on a grassy bluff overlooking the sea.

  Actually, I think they Whispered us to sleep. Thing with these super-Whispers is, you can confuse them with your own thoughts. Might as well have a wee snooze now, you think, I’m that tired, and it will seem like the warmest, sensible-est thought you ever had. You get so snug with the thought you forget to even check if it’s your own.

  Also, when I say we woke up on a grassy bluff overlooking the sea, that probably puts a picture in your head.

  Long, yellow grass blowing in the wind and a crumbling cliff edge is what you see? With sounds of waves crashing onto jagged rocks way down below?

  The picture is wrong.

  Well, I mean, it’s right—the grass, cliff, waves and rocks, they were all there, right enough.

  But add a high chain-link fence, mounted on wooden posts and running along the hilltop into the distance as far as you can see. In the other direction, have the hill tumble down into a wide valley that looks a lot like a junkyard on account of it being a shambles of open mines, shaft mines, wagons, woodpiles, stables, sheds, cottages and mounds, heaps and hillocks of rocks and dirt.

  And then?

  Place about fifteen wrecked battleships onto the bluff.

  I am not messing about with you.

  That’s what was there, laid out before our eyes: fifteen big, hulking ships, resting on their sides like the larger sorts of tourists on the Beach with the Yellow Sand. They’d been salvaged from the sea or rocks, I guess: sails missing, worn and forlorn, iron rusting, wood rotting, hulls breached and torn.

  We were all pretty excited by this.

  To be fair to us, who doesn’t like a shipwreck? You try waking up in a motorcar, hopping out, and seeing fifteen wrecks just waiting to be clambered over.

  And it turned out we’d be sleeping in these! Crackerjack! There was nobody else about at this point—just the four of us kids, and the Whispering couple, William and Eleanor—and all of us still acting like this was a holiday. Rubbing our eyes, stretching, smiling at each other, pointing out beetles in the grass.

  ‘Around twenty children sleep and eat in each wreck,’ Eleanor told us.

  ‘Plenty of hijinks as you can imagine!’ William added, smiling like a good-natured dad.

  Eleanor pointed to the second wreck along. ‘Run along and choose yourselves a bed,’ she advised, ‘before the other children return.’

  We pelted up the gangplank, found the way below deck, along a narrow passageway—and there, sure enough, was the berth deck. It was patched-up, weather-proofed, in fairly good nick, and strung all along with white hammocks.

  Most of these hammocks were sort of sunken and grey, with bundles sat on them, as if already taken. But there were four bright ones near the end, so we ran up to these. Then we just stood by them. Swayed them a bit, I guess.

  Not having any sort of bundles ourselves, I wasn’t sure how Eleanor meant us to reserve one. Hamish leapt onto his and lay there with his hands propped behind his head. Which was one way, I guess, but not convenient. He’d have to stay there, wouldn’t he, from then on?

  Honey Bee placed her hat on the hammock next to Hamish’s. Next thing, Victor had taken out a penknife from his pocket and was cutting a little V into the canvas.

  That seemed a bit destructive, but I was impressed by the penknife. A likely weapon, I thought, if we ever need—

  That’s when I sort of snapped awake.

  Weapons.

  Of course we’d need a weapon.

  This wasn’t a picnic or a pyjama party. I didn’t even have my pyjamas with me. This was an undercover rescue operation. This was a military manoeuvre.

  How had I forgotten?

  Back on deck, I noticed the mast still looked good and strong. No sails, a few rotting ropes dangling from it.

  I climbed it.

  Below, the others called up, asking what I could see.

  I could see ocean stretching out, smacking into the horizon. A couple of ships lurking out there, maybe K&E Alliance. Looking back inland, dipping just below us, was the valley with its mess of mines, equipment, tiny cottages, smoke threading out of their chimneys. Beyond that, the hills carried on, little villages, more mines, and then the thick, dark green of forest. That was the Impenetrable Forest, a wide belt of it curving right around the Kingdom. I followed the green around, swivelling, until I was looking behind us, and there was the road we had travelled, winding through hills, dipping and turning until it reached the main city of the Whispering Kingdom itself. From this distance, it was just a little play-town: castle turrets, toy houses with brightly painted roofs, ponds, parks, teeny carriages rolling down narrow roads, the houses petering out into a bigger green space, then the road running on into the Impenetrable Forest and emerging on the coast, where a great sprinkling of blues and blacks suggested the Whisperer army.

  ‘Not much,’ I replied, and climbed back down.

  Back on the grass, William and Eleanor began chatting again right away. They explained our schedules. How we’d rise at dawn and have our oatmeal and then away to the mines for the day—a brisk, pleasant, thirty-minute march to get there—with a bread-and-cheese break at noon, back for dinner and sleep. Some days, as a treat, we’d get to do some weaving! They made it sound like a right lark.

  At that time, I thought they must be diamond mines—the Whispering Kingdom has a few of them—and I was quite keen to see a real live diamond in the ground. Maybe I could slip some in my pockets and use them to help with the escape somehow? Bribe a guard, say? Each wreck had a supervisor, Eleanor continued, and we should go to them with any questions.

  We nodded along as if all of this made sense.

  Eleanor waved her hand at the cliff edge. ‘Stay well away from the cliffs,’ she advised. ‘Anyone who falls over is dashed to pieces by the rocks.’

  William gestured towards the mines. ‘Beyond, the hills meet up with the Impenetrable Forest. If you did reach that, you’d only get yourself thoroughly scratched and thrown right back!’

  This time everyone chuckled as if he’d made a great joke.

  Now we all seemed to turn at once to look at the chain-link fence that cut along the hill behind us. I will not climb this fence, I thought. I will not climb this fence.

  I looked up in surprise. I climb everything, see. I’d just climbed the mast of the shipwreck! I don’t reckon I’d ever, in all my days, had the thought: I will not climb. This looked an easy fence to climb. Flimsy enough that it would shake as you jumped on it, and you’d cling to it with your fingers, find your feet, clamber up, swing your leg over the top and then—well, I’d just let myself fall to the grass on the other side. Maybe do a bit of tumble as I landed to stop the landing jarring.

  I will not climb this fence, I thought.

  But this would be the only way out! If the cliffs and rough seas stopped us that way, and the hills were cut off by the Impenetrable Forest that way, then this was how we got out of here. This was the way we’d escape, rescuing all the other stolen children. Over the fence, carry on along the road, creep through the city, then out the Whispering Gates, somehow get past the Whispering guard there—and we’d be free.

  I will not climb this fence.

  I nodded to myself. It was a good thought, it made beautiful sense. Sweet as—

  It was a Whisper.

  Of course it was.

  All right then, I decided. Time to have a go at resisting.

  Yes, I will, I thought right back at the Whisper. I AM going to climb this—

&nbs
p; Tell you what, it was nothing like wisteria then. Couldn’t even get the sentence finished.

  Honey Bee

  No, it’s not like wisteria.

  I’ve tried to resist a few times since then, and each time the Whisper stops being a flower and turns into a mighty pair of cymbals. CLANG! They come from either side of your head, these cymbals, as if a giant pair of hands is banging them together: CLANG! And all your own thoughts—all the you of you—are between these cymbals, which then begin squeezing together. It’s not just giant hands, mind, it’s a sort of device with screws, and the screws are turned and turned, and then you realise that the cymbals are made of fire, they are red-hot, like molten lava, so that the you of you is being both crushed and burned alive, and then there are sledgehammers and these are being used to beat against the cymbals, from either side, to pound and slam you—the essence of you—ever tighter, closer and closer—

  I have never felt such pain.

  Not even when—

  Well, I won’t talk about that, but I have never.

  But the moment you do as the Whisper asks? Back to wisteria. The cymbals simply dissolve. Such a beautiful relief.

  Anyway, that’s how it feels to me.

  The other children have different ways of describing it. We’ve all tried to resist at least once, but most don’t try again.

  I remember the exact moment when Finlay tried to resist the Whisper that first day. We were standing about between the motorcar and fence, chatting sunnily and Finlay’s face suddenly turned the most ghastly grey. Like when you wash a paintbrush in water and the water swirls with darkness. His hands rushed up and clutched around his head, and he staggered back a few steps, making a strange rasping sound.

  It was over so quickly that I don’t think Hamish or Victor noticed. Abruptly, Finlay had straightened up again. He was blinking quickly, and his mouth was open in shock, but his face resumed its ordinary colour. Certainly, the adults pretended nothing was going on. They carried on smiling and pointing out the sheds where we would bathe once a week.

  Once a week! I thought.

  I was actually quite pleased. Bathing can be dull.

  But oh my, what a fool I was to be pleased.

  Anyhow, after that the day became sleepy again. I think that these Whispers make you very tired: it’s part of how it works. I remember Eleanor and William driving their motorcar away through a gate in the fence. I will not follow the automobile through that gateway, I thought. Eleanor hopped out on the other side, and shut and padlocked the gate. Then she called, ‘Toodle-hoo!’ and waved and hopped back in. Off they drove, chugging along, puffs of smoke behind them.

  Next, I remember the sun setting over the ocean—and here came the children.

  Trailing up the hill from the mines, each group led by a Whispering adult, and oh my, you should have seen them.

  There was a cry of excitement and Finlay went sprinting over the hill to one of these children—and it was Jaskafar. The little boy who had given flowers to the Queen, and been taken the day of the Tournament. The one who started it all.

  Finlay lifted Jaskafar clear off the ground, spun him around in a circle, gave him a great hug and set him back down again. Then he lifted him once more. It was very touching.

  Another few children gathered around and were hugged and spun in turn. ‘Connor! Amie! Bing!’ There were other names too, of local children—Motoko-the-Chocolatier’s niece, for one—as more children gathered around Finlay.

  I was glad to see Finlay happy, but Hamish, Victor and I were staring wide-eyed from the lines of children to each other and back again. For the children—all the children—appeared to have been dunked in blackest mud. They were walking in the slow, hunched way you might walk if you had a terrible tummy ache. Their faces as they drew closer were so gaunt you could see the bones; their ankles and wrists were as thin as a stick of hard candy.

  ‘What is happening here?’ I murmured.

  Hamish, beside me, breathed in deeply. ‘Quite,’ he agreed.

  The next day, we found out.

  FINLAY

  We go to the mines and pick out these crabapple, blatherskite bits of stupid thread.

  That’s what happens here.

  Don’t believe it? I didn’t either.

  But each night, we’re locked up with the other stolen children. Kids here are from Spindrift, from other parts of the Kingdom of Storms, and from all over the Kingdoms and Empires. The youngest is a four-year-old from the Sayer Empire who won’t quit yapping on about her first wobbly tooth. The oldest is a thirteen-year-old from Carafkwa Island.

  Each morning, at dawn, we walk to the mines and work until a gong sounds. And like I said, our work is plucking strands of thread—some black, some red—that are jammed into the rock walls.

  Now, I don’t know much about yarn, but I do know that cotton and hemp grow in fields, silk is made by silkworms, and wool is sheared from the backs of sheep. And so on. But I’ve never once heard of a yarn that is mined out of the earth.

  But here it is.

  It’s often buried deep inside crevices, and you have to tweeze it with your fingertips, grazing your knuckles as you grasp at the fine end, then tug with just the right pressure.

  We’re raised back out of the mine, coated in mud, when the moon’s high.

  Once a week, we get a break from the mines. On that day, we have to go down to the shipwreck at the end, sit at a table and twist the threads together. This is supposed to be a ‘treat’, but it gives us terrible blisters.

  We’ve been here five weeks now, and every escape attempt has failed.

  Yesterday, we woke to a thunderstorm, a great commotion in the sky, and our supervisor said we should stay in. From the rainy deck, we watched the Whisperers over at the mines, little beetles running about, hands over their heads. Mudslides over there, apparently, and we’re all cheering, thinking the mines would be closed for weeks.

  But today the sun shone, and it was back to the routine. At the mine, you step onto a sort of wooden plank and you’re lowered down. A long, long, rickety ride, deep into the earth, darker and darker as you drop. I never knew the ground could go so low. It runs about the depth of two football fields straight down.

  Clunk! The plank stops. You’ve reached the bottom. And there you are in a black, muddy, dripping passage, pathways heading off in every direction. Some paths are tall enough so you can stand up in them, but most are so low you’ve got to get down on your hands and knees and crawl.

  One I went in today was so close that I had to scoot along on my stomach. Rocks above me grazed my back.

  The mines always drip with water—we’re that close to the sea—and sometimes the water splatters you. Today I kept swearing my head off, thinking someone was tipping bucketloads all over me.

  It’s mud and rock you have to crawl through, and you can’t even see your hand if you hold it up in front of you. You have a candle to start the day, but dripping water puts it out or it gets knocked against the wall and snuffed, and then you just have to feel your way.

  Most of us pick out the stupid thread, but a few of the bigger kids get harnessed to wagons and drag these along the passageways, collecting the thread. The littlest kids sit by trapdoors in the passages. They open them up when someone knocks, and close again once they’re through. Doors have to stay shut, see, to keep the air flowing. Seems like a simple job, but those kids forget how to talk. Sitting in black silence for hours each day, waiting for someone to knock.

  Evenings, everyone is tired and tetchy. We eat our bowls of sticky flummery and then we sit on the hills looking at the dark sea—sometimes staring out hopefully at the ships on the horizon—and chatting a bit. Honey Bee and I usually sneak away at some point, and take turns writing these chapters, then we hide them in the bucket of gravel behind the washhouse. And then it’s bedtime, and sleep.

  There’s a supervisor—a grown-up Whisperer—in each of the wrecks with us. They hand out rations or tell us when it’s our turn to
bathe. Ours is a young guy, Malik, who strums on a guitar each night and gives people thumbs-ups or winks, never talking much.

  Doesn’t need to talk. Sends out his orders as Whispers in our heads. All the supervisors do.

  I will eat now.

  I will stop eating now.

  I will go to the mines now.

  I will work all day in the mines.

  I will eat now.

  I will stop eating now.

  I will go to sleep now.

  I will not chat with the other children now.

  I will wake up now.

  I will line up behind this man.

  I will follow him to the mines.

  Whispers come at you from every direction. And each night, the same one: I will not climb the fence.

  I try to resist at least one Whisper a day. Each time it’s more vicious than the last. I’m always wrecked for the next hour or so. Yesterday I couldn’t get up the courage to try even once.

  The worst is that Jaskafar and the other kids from the Orphanage were excited to see me. They thought I had it sorted and would get them home.

  I thought I had it sorted too.

  I’ll be straight with you: I am that disappointed in myself.