The Slightly Alarming Tale of the Whispering Wars

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Honey Bee

  Yes, me too.

  I am also disappointed in myself.

  Before I go on, though, I must say, I cannot believe that Finlay tries to resist a Whisper each day!

  I’ve only tried a few times and even the memory of those times frightens me! This pencil seems to scorch my hand just to write the words! My body is cringing away from the paper! Look at me! Look! Oh, you cannot see me.

  Well.

  But my disappointment in myself is not about resisting Whispers. I always knew that would be impossible—Finlay is being too tough on himself. That’s the point of the supercharged Whispers: they’re supercharged, they’re irresistible.

  No, with me, it’s this: I’m disappointed in my Spellbinding. Remember how my toenails turned blue under the moonlight? And I decided that meant I was a Spellbinder? So I came here planning to Spellbind the whole blasted Kingdom, set the children free and possibly even win the war?

  Ha.

  Ha ha!

  I feel so silly.

  To be honest, I am no longer sure that I even am a Spellbinder.

  Maybe I imagined the blue of my nails? Or dreamed it? Rosalind was hallucinating that day and perhaps I caught one of her delusions somehow? Can that happen?

  I don’t know.

  I will now tell you everything I know about the Spellbinding of Whispers. Are you ready? Here it is:

  NOTHING.

  ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

  AND A LITTLE MORE NOTHING!

  And so on. I could go on leaving blank spaces and saying Nothing in different ways for pages! But that would be very wasteful. And boring.

  Yes, all right, I had read The Art of Spellbinding: A Beginner’s Guide. It told me I needed to weave a net. Fair enough. So I practised net-weaving, didn’t I? With my hands? At night?

  But I never got a chance to try with actual rope, did I? We got taken by Whisperers too soon!

  (Yes, yes, I know that was my fault. I chose to be taken. Idiot that I am.)

  But before you start weaving the blasted net, you need something to weave it around! Visualise the Shadow Magic, the book said.

  But what does Shadow Magic look like?!

  Every night I lie in my hammock, listening to the children muttering and snoring, the quiet crying, the wind blowing outside and the waves crashing against the cliffs. I close my eyes and try to see Shadow Magic.

  All I get is a blank.

  Or sometimes a sort of squiggly black cloud.

  I’ve tried to use my imagination! I’ve visualised as many nasty things as I can. Spiders, snakes, snails, slugs, stubbed toes, torn fingernails, sore throats (I get laryngitis a lot), Uncle Dominic’s horsewhip, the curtain that hides Carlos from me in the infirmary. Horrible thoughts like these could be a sort of gateway to the Shadow Magic, I thought. But no. The thoughts just wriggle around in my mind being nasty. And when I try to move my hands about, weaving an imaginary net to capture the nastiness?

  Nothing.

  The nastiness just wriggles through the holes in the net.

  I mean to say, nets have holes in them. Didn’t anybody notice that? That RIDICULOUS FLAW IN SPELLBINDING!!

  I am sorry. It’s just that I’m cranky. I thought I was a Spellbinder.

  I’m not.

  FINLAY

  Ha! Cheer up, Honey Bee.

  I’m sure you’re a Spellbinder. Your toenails turned blue, remember?

  You’re just a really bad one. A terrible one.

  Like, a bottom-of-the-class sort of Spellbinder. One of those people who only just scrape into the team? The sort of Spellbinder they put on the reserve bench. Or whose only job is handing out wedges of orange to the rest of the team.

  Don’t be tough on yourself, though. You can’t have known you’d be useless at it. And oranges are good!

  Well, that cheered me up for a moment. Not sure why, though. Ever since Honey Bee mentioned her blue toenails, I’ve had them in the back of my mind—she’ll sort things out if I can’t resist the Whispers! She’s a Spellbinder!

  But she can’t.

  Back into the pit of despair then. You know what this is?

  A complete and total disaster.

  Honey Bee

  One day a week, as Finlay mentioned, we go to the ship at the end and braid the thread together.

  It’s easier in a way—not so stifling and dark, not so hot and close, less dangerous. But over time, the thread begins to burn and blister our hands. The burns shoot up our wrists and circle our forearms, like the tentacles of sea stingers.

  Mostly the blisters become calluses and our hands toughen up, but sometimes they get infected. The Whispering guards treat the infections with ointment that they keep in a locked cupboard in the washhouse.

  Today, I saw a tiny child with a bright red blister on the palm of her hand. She was picking at it, and a Whispering guard shook his head at her to stop. As he crouched down to apply the ointment, I saw a glimpse of kindness in his eye. He was once kind, I realised—they were probably all kind.

  What has happened to these Whisperers?

  Tonight, there are three empty hammocks in our ship. A boy was crushed by falling rocks and debris in another mudslide today.

  And two children were suffocated after a little one fell asleep, forgetting to close the door that keeps the air flowing.

  FINLAY

  Can’t write much tonight. My head feels like it’s been thwacked by a swinging boom about seventy-five times.

  Here’s why.

  I tried resisting every single Whisper today. After those three kids died, I got a surge of fury. We have to do something. We have to get out of here. I have to learn to resist.

  So I went ahead and gave it my best shot.

  I will get up now—was the first Whisper of the day, as usual—but I didn’t let it in.

  No, I said to myself, I’m staying here in this—

  That’s where I had to stop. Couldn’t get to the word hammock before the Whisper had me. But it was a start. Here’s how it went the rest of the day:

  I will brush my teeth now—nope, skipping that tod—

  I will line up behind this man. I will follow him to the mines—actually, no, I’m heading—

  I will eat now—nah, not hung—

  I will stop eating now—no, I will carry on eating as long as I like. I’m actually starving.

  See that?!

  The first few times, the Whispers shut me down before I’d got too far. (Shut me down extra fast when I tried to resist the eat now command. I was hungry.)

  But the last one? I will stop eating now?

  I resisted long enough to finish TWO WHOLE SENTENCES. Long enough to take an extra mouthful of food. My head was being crushed and seared but I kept on thinking my own thoughts and eating that sticky flummery.

  Our supervisor Malik blinked. I saw him. We were all sitting around the campfire eating, as usual, and he was strumming his guitar—and he stopped half-strum. Blinked and looked straight at me. Fiddled with the band he wears around his wrist, then sniffed and carried on playing like nothing had happened. But I’m pretty sure he’d noticed.

  I’d surprised him, see.

  Forget what I said about being disappointed in myself.

  Oh, and they want me to do a different job tomorrow too. Someone’s noticed how fast I can run, and they want me to do some deliveries for them.

  Which means time outside the mines tomorrow. Time under the sun.

  Just exactly what I need to give me even more strength.

  I am on my way.

  I’m going to bring those Whisperers crashing down. I’m going to get us out of here. I’m winning this battle.

  Nobody tells Finlay what to do.

  Honey Bee

  Oh, I’m so excited by Finlay’s chapter! I feel like I did when they made me carry a sack of rocks on my back to clear a passage one day, at the moment when the sack was lifted clear away!

  Hooray for Finlay!!

  Just as he said
, he went off somewhere different this morning—running deliveries, apparently—and he’s still not back. I hope he doesn’t miss out on his dinner!

  I wonder how quickly he will be able to resist Whispers altogether? And how he will rescue the rest of us? Because, I mean, we can’t resist the Whispers, so we can’t climb over the fence.

  But I trust he has an idea. Soon we will all be home! Perhaps this will be the last chapter of our story?

  By the way, Finlay and I chose to start writing again on our fifth night here. That was the night when things got fiery between Finlay and Victor.

  Victor, Victor, Victor.

  Sigh.

  Now, I wouldn’t call myself Victor’s number-one fan (ha ha), but things have been rather tough for him here. He is a duke, after all, and what usually happens is that people fluff up his pillow, and ask if he needs a foot rub, and bring him chocolate-coated cherries. But here, when he explains that he requires smoked salmon and poached eggs for breakfast, please, Malik smiles at him and turns back to tuning his guitar. Victor has to eat oatmeal like the rest of us. And when Victor says he will require a lamp affixed to a helmet before he enters any mine, the mine supervisors simply wave him onto the shaft lift, and down he goes.

  You see his face crumple occasionally and I think that’s him trying to resist.

  Each evening, after dinner, Victor strolls about on the bluff. He never joins any games or conversations. Trying to look like a duke, I think, to impress the supervisors. Often I see him striking up conversation with a supervisor. He wants to wheedle his way in with them. They smile at him politely and turn away.

  Anyhow, this whole thing is a shock to all of us, but it’s a serious shock to Victor. He tried to explain this to Finlay on the fifth night here.

  There was an icy wind blowing off the ocean that night, despite the season, and it found its way into our sleeping quarters through the cracks. We were shivering and trembling in our hammocks, curling ourselves up into tight balls, trying to get warm beneath our one thin blanket.

  ‘Here now,’ Victor said suddenly. He hopped off his hammock and stood in the darkness by Finlay. ‘Give me your blanket.’

  Finlay chuckled.

  ‘It is not a joke, Finlay. I am quite serious.’

  Nobody was asleep yet and you could feel the place growing still, all the children listening.

  ‘Sure it’s a joke.’ Finlay turned over in his hammock. ‘Crackerjack joke. Go back to sleep, Victor.’

  Victor cleared his throat. He was trying to sound calm and dukely. ‘I am cold,’ he said. ‘I require an extra blanket.’

  This time Finlay laughed aloud. ‘You think the rest of us lot aren’t cold, Victor?’

  ‘You may be cold,’ Victor retorted, ‘but you are accustomed to being cold. You are an orphan. You are used to being hungry and dirty and wearing ragged clothes and just generally suffering. This is easy for you. It is far harder for me. I have never been this dirty in my life. Certainly, I have never been cold. In any case, I am a duke, and you are a mere orphan. It is only right that I take your blanket.’ He reached out and fumbled around at Finlay’s hammock.

  ‘Git off,’ Finlay growled, shoving him away.

  Victor stumbled, landed on the floor, and swore to himself. He stood up. ‘Oh very well, I’ll take this one then,’ he said, and swiped the blanket from a little girl—Sienna, six years old. She immediately began to cry.

  ‘HEY!’ came the shouts from many angry children, all beginning to rise in their hammocks. I was rising myself, or trying to—it’s tricky to get out of a hammock in a hurry. They do sway so. Nobody was going to let Victor get away with this, but Finlay had already tumbled out and was flying towards Victor, fists at the ready.

  Next thing, the two of them were going at it hammer and tongs.

  That is an expression that means they were fighting.

  It was difficult to see what was happening in the dark but there were many thuds and slaps and more than once they seemed to be rolling about on the floor.

  The door opened.

  There was Malik, holding a candle. He sleeps in a little cabin adjoining our quarters. You have to go right through it if you want to get out at night, and he always wakes. Embarrassing if you need to use the washroom.

  He did not speak, but simply stood there.

  Finlay and Victor untangled themselves and stood up, panting.

  So Malik must have Whispered them to stop fighting.

  They both approached him—I could see their shadows feeling their way across the room.

  So Malik must have Whispered them to come to him.

  It was very quiet. I was frightened for the boys.

  But Malik simply lowered the candle to study both boys’ faces. Then he spoke.

  ‘Go along to the washhouse and clean yourselves up,’ he said. ‘And then to sleep. Goodnight everyone!’

  ‘Good night, Malik,’ we all replied.

  I might go along and see if they need help, I thought. There are bandages in the locked closet in the back of the washhouse. Malik will give me the key as I pass him now.

  That thought was like wisteria. He was Whispering it to me.

  Honestly, I thought, would it hurt you to suggest things out loud now and again? I did not need a Whisper to tell me to go help!

  When I reached the washhouse, Victor had already cleaned himself up and was striding back to the wreck, scowling fiercely.

  ‘Are you all right, Victor?’ I asked. ‘I have the key to a closet, which—’ but he gave me a little shove and carried on.

  Finlay was friendlier. He was inside the washhouse, holding a towel to his bleeding nose. You couldn’t see much of his face on account of the towel, but his eyes were cheerful. I think he had enjoyed punching Victor very much.

  He didn’t need any bandages, but we unlocked the closet anyway, just to see what was in there.

  It was your regular supply closet: bandages, ointments, swabs and a pair of blunt scissors on one shelf, cleaning products on another, and curious bits and pieces—buttons, nails—on the rest. A stack of notepads sat on the bottom shelf, along with a handful of pencils.

  Finlay took the scissors. He found a bucket of gravel behind the washhouse and hid them there.

  ‘You never know,’ he said, coming back.

  Then I reached for one of the notebooks on the bottom shelf, and flicked through its blank pages. The paper was yellowing and old.

  ‘Useful?’ Finlay wondered.

  We both stared at the notepad. We were thinking the same thing: that we could send a letter, telling somebody we were here—but the Kingdoms and Empires already knew that the lost children were here. They had tried many rescue missions and failed!

  ‘If we could get a message to someone,’ I began, ‘telling them the things that are happening to the children here…?’

  ‘The mines.’

  ‘It would be a rather long message,’ I said. ‘Like a story.’

  ‘Like carrying on the story we wrote for the genie? Keep taking turns with chapters? Whose turn was it anyway?’

  I reached for another few notepads from the stack. ‘Yours,’ I said. ‘We were up to Chapter 68.’

  And that is how we agreed to carry on. In the evenings, after dinner, Finlay and I sneak away and write behind the washhouse. If a supervisor strays near, we quickly hide the book in the gravel bucket. Pretend we are playing hide- and-seek.

  Of course, I have no clue how we will get our story out of here! Finlay says we’ll figure out a way.

  But it’s not going to fit into a bottle, is it? We can hardly toss it out onto the ocean.

  Perhaps several bottles? A chapter in each? But where will we get the—

  Oh, Finlay is back! I see him walking towards me!

  He can write the next bit. There’s still enough time before bed!

  Honey Bee

  Me again.

  Sorry.

  Finlay did not want to write last night.

  Actually, he
’s done with the whole thing, he says.

  ‘No more chapters,’ he said, when I offered him the notebook again tonight. And he sort of flung it back at me. It didn’t hurt, as he was flinging in a very listless way. Fling is probably the wrong word, actually. It was more he slowly—

  Oh dear, I’m blathering, sorry.

  I’m upset.

  I’m frightened actually. Finlay does not seem like Finlay anymore.

  When he got back last night, I said, ‘Hello Finlay, how was your day? Deliver anything interesting?’ And his face crumpled up like old newspaper.

  He refused to talk.

  Simply trudged off to bed.

  He did not do his push-ups this morning. Each day since we got here, he’s done twenty push-ups first thing in the morning. Even though he must be quite worn out by working in the mines, as we all are.

  And he has stopped paying attention to the little children. Usually, he tries to jolly them up a bit, putting on funny voices, challenging them to races, pretending they are quicker than him. But today: nothing.

  Finlay, listen, I think you must have had a bad day yesterday. Maybe if you talk about it here you will feel better? Always good to talk.

  Your turn.

  Honey Bee

  Hm. That didn’t work. Still me.

  Hey, Finlay, remember that long-ago first chapter? When you promised readers that they only had to put up with me for one chapter at a time? Well, this has been three chapters of me!!

  Keep your promise! Come back! Readers will be desperate to be rid of me!

  Oh my, I am sad today.

  Do you know how much I hate the thread we pick out of the mines? Filaments and wisps get under your fingernails. They touch your lips, catch your eyelashes. You brush it away, but you always have this shuddery sensation—as if you’ve just walked through a spider’s web and no matter how much you slap at your face and body, you cannot seem to peel the web away.

  It rained last night, and the noise of it reminded me of gravel or pebbles falling, and the wind brought sounds from way across at the mines. The tarpaulins they use to cover equipment rustled like low thunder. You could even hear the voices of the Whisperers who live in the little cottages over there, and supervise us during the day, their laughter and calls.