Island War

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  Maria locked her arm in mine, and we climbed a hill so steep, it made me breathless. “Thor Hill,” Maria said as we reached the top. “Not its real name; I just call it that. I like to read about old myths, and Thor had something to do with storms and thunder. Perfect for this place.”

  What would it be like to let myself go, arms out, to sail down the other side, the wind in my face? But my feet and legs were tired. I looked back toward the village. “A long walk,” I said.

  Maria grinned and waved her hand. “This is nothing. You’ll get used to walking. It’s miles to the ocean side. After a while your legs will toughen up.”

  It sounded fine; it sounded wonderful. I’d be able to walk along paths, to find my way…

  “Wait,” I began. “There was a cave…” I thought of Dad’s words. From the opening you can see kittiwakes and cormorants flying above, shrieking. “My father spent a summer here once writing a book,” I said. “He wrote about that cave.”

  She shook her head. “There are so many rocky places; it could be anywhere. There’s a place I love on the other side of Thor Hill. Just an overhang under the rocks, but cozy. We’ll go someday.”

  If only Dad were holding my hand, showing me where to go. But I’d find that cave. Miles would be nothing.

  “Don’t you love to read?” Maria asked.

  Read? The last time I’d read a book I’d been conned into it by Dad. “Read a page for me every day,” he’d said. “Just one.”

  I wished I had done that, wished I had read all of his books.

  “Did you bring books?” she asked. “We could trade back and forth. I have The Call of the Wild and A Girl of the Limberlost. Oh, and one about myths and legends.”

  I was lost! I shook my head. “I didn’t have room in my suitcase.” At least that was the truth.

  She gave my arm a shake. “Here comes that new boy.”

  He saw us, frowned, and turned back down the hill, but Maria wasn’t paying attention. She pointed. “Across the sea to the north is Russia. This island used to belong to them. And Japan is southwest,” she said. “They say we’re going to have a war, but the American army might come to evacuate us.”

  Before I could think about it, she was asking what I’d read lately.

  Outside of Dad’s book, there wasn’t one I’d ever finished. Just a title, I told myself desperately, even Dad’s, but I couldn’t even come up with that. I raised my shoulders and looked away as I saw her surprise.

  The next day I started school. School after all! It was only a few doors down, but Mom and I hugged as if I’d be gone for days.

  How strange to be in a class with only five other kids. It took only a few minutes to remember their names: Nick, Paul, Catherine, Maria, of course, and that boy: Matt.

  Outside, the wind was strong; it rattled the glass panes and sent an empty box flying across the village. My feet were restless under me. If only I were out there, arms stretched like wings, flying along like the blue herons I could see in the distance.

  In front, the teacher looked out as Mom went by, her notebook fluttering in her hand. “Long ago, there was no wind,” Mrs. Weio began, pushing back her gray hair. “A woman longed for a child, so her husband carved a wooden doll for her. One night, the doll breathed, and the next, he was gone.”

  Maria whispered, “Mrs. Weio loves old legends.”

  Mrs. Weio raised her thin arms. “The doll punched through a hole in the sky ceiling, and wind blew in, bringing birds and animals with it. Happy, the doll went home to live.”

  The teacher smiled, lines deepening across her forehead. “And so we have wind, williwaws!”

  I could imagine it: dogs, and cats, and bears, tumbling down to earth.

  But outside at recess, no one talked about legends; they talked about war.

  “It won’t happen,” Maria said.

  The ship boy, Matt, stared at her. “You’re wrong!”

  I couldn’t resist. “You think you know everything? You’re not so perfect, you know.”

  He glared at me, then turned away.

  That night, Mom and I wrapped ourselves in blankets and sat on the couch. She talked about plovers with their dark gray neck rings as we sipped tea and ate slippery oysters that someone had left in our doorway.

  For the first time, I was uneasy. Was that miserable boy right? Was war coming?

  Would it happen here?

  It was too much to think about.

  I was back in school, a month late. How strange it was: only six of us. The fresh kid from the ship was there. I remembered seeing her at home once or twice.

  I looked around. The classroom was ordinary. The alphabet, white letters on dusty black paper, was tacked up near the ceiling, and a map was rolled down on the board. Instead of a picture of George Washington hanging in front, there was one of a man with a fat face and a moustache. The teacher liked to talk about him: Vitus Bering, who had explored some of the islands.

  I stared out the window. The sky was a sheet of gray. I tried not to think about home, the Sound sparkling in the fall sun and the leaves turning red and orange.

  Home.

  I bit my lip. How would I ever get used to this desolate place? And how would I get used to missing Mom? We’d talk about races, swimming, rowing, while we ate dinner. It was what we thought about all the time.

  Izzy, the girl from the ship, sat near the window. Behind her thick glasses, her eyes looked like a pair of fish swimming in a bowl. She never sat still, feet moving, hands tapping.

  I still had a bruise on my foot from where she’d dug into me on the ship.

  Someone to stay away from!

  After school, an older boy from the village waited outside for me. A teenager, I guessed. “You’re Matt?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m Michael. Your father asked me to show you a baidarka.”

  Now what!

  Pop had been a little better since we left. Not so irritable. Quiet, though. We’d eat at the table, neither of us talking. I reminded myself a dozen times that Mom had said he’d been a soldier, disciplined and mostly silent: a job he loved, until he hurt his knee and that life was over.

  There was something else about him. Something he was doing here. Studying weather, was what he said. But why? All you had to do was look out the window to see mist, and fog, and sometimes a rain squall.

  I followed Michael down to the harbor. The surf boomed; huge waves smashed up against the pier. It was really cold, with the wind coming in from the sea.

  “Your father wanted you to have a kayak,” Michael said over his shoulder. “I’ll show you…”

  I couldn’t believe it, but there it was, long and sleek, with sea lion skin stretched across the frame.

  “One cockpit, just enough room for you,” Michael said. “The opening is covered by a spray deck so water won’t get in when you turn over. You’ll right yourself in a moment.”

  Turn over?

  I glanced out at the waves fighting each other. He was out of his mind. And he wasn’t worried about my drowning. He grinned at me.

  “A boy has to build a kayak before he can marry,” he said. “I made my first one when I was sixteen.”

  He handed me a paddle. “Go ahead, try it.”

  I’d probably be floating in that water in a few minutes: choking, drowning.

  I slid down into the opening, pushed off, and turned; a wave high over my head rushed toward me.

  The kayak rose up, tilted, and I was underneath a wall of water; it filled my mouth, my nose. I couldn’t breathe. I dug with the paddle, a green world around me. Swallowing water. Tasting salt.

  I spun through a dark world, then up, alive. Freezing. Grabbing the paddle floating beside me.

  I was furious at Pop. At Michael. At everyone.

  I spent most of one day with Maria. “You’ll be able to make a basket like the rest of us,” she said. Maria’s mother nodded. “You’ll see, Izzy.”

  Outside Maria and I gathered long stra
nds of grass. She bowed her head, then looking down at the field. “Thank you,” she said, “for letting us have some of your grass.”

  So I bowed my head too, and echoed thank you. But from the corner of my eye, I saw the boy, Matt, staring at us. I frowned, trying to ignore him. He was always there when I didn’t want to see him.

  Back at Maria’s we laid the grass on the table, and her mother brought in a glass of water. I raised it to my mouth. Thirsty or not, I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t grateful.

  But Maria laughed. “We have to wet the grasses as we work. It’s too hard to work with it dry.”

  We started to work then, twisting, braiding. I was amazed to see it working. I could picture the basket finished, the grass a warm, tan color by then. Maybe I’d bring it home to Gram one day.

  Gram. It was the end of November. She’d be cooking turkey for Thanksgiving, but Mom and I would have salmon instead. I felt a quick pain in my chest thinking of Gram so far away. But then I shook my head. She wanted us to be here.

  I awoke on an early December morning to a world of snow. It covered the gravel path and blew in clumps against the window. I nudged Mom, who was still asleep. “I have to go out there.”

  She opened her eyes. “No birds for me today, honey. I think I’ll stay in bed for just another…” Her eyes closed.

  I pulled on boots, my jacket, and the blue beret Maria had given me, and I was out the door. The dog was there too, chasing his tail, then shaking the snow off his back. I wanted to pet him, but already he was galloping across the field, sending up a shower of white behind him.

  Raising my face to the sky, I felt flakes on my cheeks and coating my glasses. The mountains were shadows in the distance now. Where would Dad’s cave be?

  I realized I wasn’t alone. Mrs. Weio stood in front of the school. When she saw me, she came closer. “Don’t you love the winter?” she called.

  I nodded, feeling a little shy. I hadn’t really talked to her in all the weeks we’d been on the island. She was kind, though, and didn’t seem to mind my feet tapping under the table, or my wandering to the window to sharpen my pencil.

  “We haven’t gotten to know each other yet,” she said, “but you remind me of your father.”

  I wiped my glasses and stared at her. She knew Dad? My words tripped over each other. “He was here, I know that. He wrote about a cave.”

  Mrs. Weio nodded. “I remember. He always had a book under his arm.”

  I didn’t want to talk about that. She must know by now that I didn’t like to read. “Did you know about the cave?” I asked.

  “I did,” she said. “It was deep, and there was a stream inside.”

  “But where?”

  “I saw it once,” she said. “I went there with him. He wanted to learn about the island, and we became friends.”

  I took it all in. “Could you tell me more?”

  “The cave,” she said. “I could see the beach, the surf, so it was along the ocean, high up, though. You’ll find it if you keep looking. Yes, you’ll find it. You’re filled with energy.”

  She frowned, thinking. “There are two large rocks in the water, almost shaped like people. It’s easier to see them when it’s calm. It seems as if they’re bowing to each other.” She broke off. “You may have to hurry. I think we’ll be at war and maybe…”

  I didn’t find out what she meant about maybe, because Matt was trudging up the path toward us. I gave her a quick wave and scurried away.

  I didn’t want to see him; I didn’t want to think about him. We’d almost had a huge to-do, as Gram might say, after school yesterday. I’d been coming down the steps outside, and he just wouldn’t get out of my way. He stood there, back toward me, talking to someone, and took a step to one side to block my path.

  “Get out of my way,” I said, hands raised. To give him a push? Not really, but he deserved it.

  He turned and saw my hands. He stepped back then. “Ooh, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “You should be!”

  The boy he’d been talking to laughed, and Matt laughed too.

  I’d never met anyone so mean.

  But right now, I wasn’t going to get involved in another fight. I shook the snow off my shoulders and went back inside to have breakfast with Mom.

  I stamped around my bedroom, finding boots, sweaters, a leather jacket. An icy rain slashed across the village, making it hard to see. It was starting out to be a horrible December.

  At home, Mom would be getting ready for winter too, swimming at the Y, but not a winter like this. I shook my head. It was hard to think about Mom so far away.

  But the baidarka!

  “The sea is the sea,” Pop had said. “No matter where you are.”

  It was true. I’d become good at speeding along in the kayak. I wasn’t bad at navigating in these icy waters, the ins and outs of the coast that led to the beach, and the rocks above. I even knew how to right the boat quickly after a few tumbles.

  I remembered Dad’s irritable words: Things aren’t always the way you think they are. Sometimes he might be right.

  It was Sunday. I’d have all day out on the sea.

  I passed Pop’s bedroom door and called in. “Going in the kayak.”

  “Wait,” he said.

  I opened the door, just a crack, for the first time. His room was much neater than mine, the blanket stretched tight across the bed, his clothes hung on the hooks instead of lumped over the chair.

  He turned, covering something in front of him. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “You can’t go out on the water today.”

  It was always something with Pop. What did he think I was going to do? Hang around here all day?

  “War,” he said. “The Japanese bombed an island in the Pacific a little while ago.”

  “Here?”

  Pop shook his head. “No, it was in Hawaii. The damage was terrible, our American ships sunk, half our fleet maybe, a lot of lives lost.”

  “But not us,” I said again, reassuring myself. “So I’ll go out—”

  “Outside, all right. But stay out of that kayak today. Let’s see what’s going to happen.”

  I grabbed the door and slammed it shut again.

  THE day after the bombing in Hawaii, people stood in front of the school talking, worrying. Someone said, “But it’s more than two thousand miles away.”

  The village chief came out of his house. “I’ve just heard,” he said, his voice strained. “The president has declared war on Japan.”

  Mrs. Weio frowned. “We’ll be evacuated by the American army before the war comes to us. We’ll have to be ready to move fast.”

  The old grandmother from next door raised her arms in the air. Her face was filled with deep lines. Her dark eyes flashed. “You think the army will come here for us? They’ll have more important problems.” She pulled a woolen scarf over her head and stamped up the path and into her house.

  I felt a catch in my throat. How terrible it all was.

  I had to move away from them. I looked at Mom and pointed toward Maria’s Thor Hill.

  I ran, climbing, stopping to throw my arms around that gray-and-white dog sitting on a rock.

  I could hardly see everybody below. Snow came down, faster every minute, covering my head. I could imagine, though: Mom standing there, still with her notebook in her hand, probably feeling guilty that she’d brought me here to the island.

  But I didn’t want to be evacuated. I didn’t want to go back to Connecticut, back to Mrs. Dane.

  I loved Mrs. Weio, who read to us and told us stories. And once she’d said, “Everyone has to find the right book to fall in love with reading.” It was hard to believe that, but I was glad she’d said it.

  I wasn’t going to think about the bombing anymore. I raised my arms in the air.

  But suppose…just suppose it came here!

  WHAT would Mom have said about this Christmas? At home she always strung lights
on an evergreen tree that smelled of winter. She covered it with ornaments and tinsel. Presents were piled up underneath!

  I gritted my teeth. There was no tree, of course, not a tree on the whole island. No presents. Pop didn’t even seem to realize it was Christmas Day.

  He spent most of it holed up in his bedroom, the door shut tight.

  Shrugging on my jacket and hood, still damp from the icy waves yesterday, I felt anger rise up in my throat. No, more than that: it was fury!

  I went to his door and yelled in, “Merry Christmas!” and then I slammed out the front door, listening with satisfaction to the noise it made.

  I stopped on the gravel path. What was he doing in there, anyway?

  I pulled off my gloves and reached down for a handful of gravel. The pieces were sharp and freezing cold against my palms. The pain of it actually felt good, I was that furious.

  I trudged around the back to look in his window. He’d hung a blanket across the glass, tight all around.

  Almost all around.

  I stood there, looking carefully at the blanket’s hem. One corner was frayed, the wool in narrow strips.

  I moved closer to peer inside. I couldn’t see much: the bottom of the bed, a chair he’d pulled in from the other room, his feet against the rungs.

  But that was all.

  What was he staring at?

  No matter how I angled my head, I couldn’t tell.

  I clenched the gravel with my fingers, standing there in this miserable place…

  And threw it against the wall of the house as hard as I could, then began to run.

  He came outside, calling my name.

  I didn’t turn. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  I just wanted to escape from this day, even though I couldn’t escape from the island.

  EXCEPT for missing Dad, I’d never been so happy. Christmas morning, Mom had surprised me with a charm bracelet hung with tiny silver birds, and a pair of rolled-up gloves with furry insides.