Storm-Wake

by Lucy Christopher

“Look-see, Moss,” he murmured. “The words … transforming. Here is fuel. This is what it’s time for. Not for dying. For creating!”

  Petals swirled and gathered around them. And there, in the middle of the fire where it burned blue-hot, she caught a different sort of flickering. Images! Tiny ones. She remembered when Pa had told stories for her with images like this in flames. But these images—now—were jerky and she saw right through them; they disappeared and returned. She squinted and saw …

  The slick wet head of a seal bobbing.

  A girl curled tight.

  A man, wandering.

  Were these images from the books he’d thrown? Or his thoughts? What was the story he wanted to tell now? Did he even know? Pa tore and threw. Tore and threw.

  “Fuel so we can live!” Pa shouted. “Stories! To keep us safe from the rest!”

  She backed away from the fire, from where more images came. On the flames now she saw …

  Huge storms.

  People hiding, scared.

  She saw dark water, spilling over. Covering it all.

  A man with his head in his hands.

  And there were images cycloning inside her, too, whirling-tangled.

  Inside her, she saw …

  Brown boots running.

  Dust kicked up.

  A man ahead.

  She blinked them free.

  As Pa tore more pages, he whirl-danced around the fire. No! Moss would not let him whirl so full from her!

  “There is another scrapbook,” she said, making herself, as well as him, remember. “On the Swallow.” She stood in front of him so that he could not whirl past; she grabbed his arms. “You drew pictures in it that I’d never seen before.” She looked at him careful to see if he remembered, but he was staring at the fire over her shoulder, murmuring, murmuring …

  “… I will send rain … ,” he said. “… And the water increased and lifted up the ark, so that it rose above …”

  “Pa, stop!”

  But she knew this story, too—a great flood sweeping the world away, a boat with two of every animal, starting a new life … He spoke its words like a spell.

  “Just speak truth!” Moss yelled. “Not stories all time!”

  He blinked at her before adding, “… And the ark went on the face of the waters …”

  She growled. “I know you’ve seen the other land! We saw the map in the Swallow!”

  “Map?”

  That stopped him. The rocks rumbled again. Pa looked at her, frowning. For one moment—one tiny hair’s breadth—he was lucid. Calm. His eyes were clear.

  “You will kill this place, Moss,” he said, quiet. “With this thinking. This talking. Do you want that? I only try to keep it alive.”

  Hardly breathing as she watched him, she waited for his meaning. But, quick-fast, he broke from her grip and went back to whirling.

  “… Then the flood came upon the earth … and the water increased and lifted up the ark so that it rose above …”

  She felt that wind-beat of new thoughts inside her, more like whooshing now. Like she had her own flood tide inside. Pushing … pushing …

  Someone chasing her. Running so fast. Getting … away.

  She placed her hand to her chest as if to contain the thoughts, but they surged against her.

  “You knew the other land’s there!” she insisted. “The one Cal saw first. But you pretended it wasn’t! Why?”

  He paused again and Moss saw it—that glimpse of almost-remembering. Something had snagged on his mind: caught.

  “Answer me, Pa. Please …”

  And that word snagged his eyes back to hers, too.

  “I’ve seen it myself, Pa! The shipwrecked boys have!”

  “Not time, Moss. Not yet. Land can’t come back until it’s …”

  She pulled him toward the entrance of the cave. On scuff-dragging feet, he came. Once outside, Adder nipped at his ankles, nudging him forward too.

  “Look!” Moss shouted.

  Because the land was there, shadowy but there in the sea as if it had always been. She saw its skimmer-stone shape better now. Saw the birds circling above it.

  “Bird Island,” she whispered.

  But Pa was shaking his head, wasn’t looking … wasn’t seeing.

  “No land,” he said, turning back. “Not there.”

  “Look-see!”

  She took his face between her hands. Held him jaw-strong. When he tried to shut his eyes, she pried his lids open.

  “It’s there!”

  He frowned, concentrating. Was he willing himself not to see?

  “True story is … ,” he began, “… there were floods, Moss. They covered the earth. All the countries where bad things happened—smothered evil politics and unkindness, a tide of hate …”

  She relaxed her grip on his eyes, watched his face as he spoke. How could he still keep saying this? After she’d seen the Swallow? After she’d told him so?

  “You lie, Pa,” she whispered, stepping away. “Like Cal said you did.”

  He shook his head. “I tell a story.”

  And—there!—at the edge of her was another memory, one she couldn’t quite see, couldn’t quite grasp. Another story. She had another story. But … what, was it full?

  “Great floods have flown from simple sources … ,” Pa murmured, “… and great seas have dried when miracles have by the greatest been denied …”

  More story words. More make-believe!

  This time when she looked back to the land, it was gone. Once more, nothing but sea. A horizon line. Rain clouds. A sun that was nearly set. So where was it?

  She squinted, hard. Why this flickering again? Behind her, she heard Pa still mumbling about his stories. Then, finally, she thought she might understand.

  “Can you do that?” she said, still looking at where the land had been. “Is that you making it go?”

  A corner of his mouth turned up.

  “You make the land go away? Somehow, with the flowers? With your words?”

  She released her grip on him and he raised his hands toward the horizon as if about to call a storm. Stormflowers came circling, swirling. She heard their giggle-song. Now she remembered something else. The flowers had acted strange-different when she had tried the Experiment with Cal. Now they were laughing—they wanted to work for Pa in a way they hadn’t for her.

  She stepped back farther from Pa, her head reeling. But Pa kept his smile. She had understood something, sure.

  “Why, Pa?”

  She thought further—the flowers had screamed, not giggled, when she and Cal had tried to send them out. Was this because … she’d wanted the opposite from Pa? To see the land, not hide it? Could it be … they hadn’t wanted to show her? Was it possible Pa had sent flowers out not to end floods but to hide the other island … somehow? Was it possible the flowers wanted that too? She shivered, it was too big … too much to understand.

  “They do that?” she asked. “Hide things?”

  Pa’s smile grew.

  The idea wriggled inside her. Was that what the Experiment had really been about? Hiding? Strange, rough magic? A lie? Keeping things in dream? Her bleeding, Cal, that land out there …

  Lies … lies …

  Again, she felt that whooshing inside her—that tiny new wind. But it was an angry wind now. A brewing tornado.

  When the volcano rumbled next, she’d known it was coming. She stood firm when Pa stumbled; she turned him back to the sea.

  “Is the reason we’re here even anything to do with floods?” she said.

  She felt Pa tense. Again, Finn’s words, like a tide in her brain:

  Fugitive … Not right in the head … Perfect place to hide …

  “There’s a world out there, isn’t there?” she said. “A whole floodless world. And you’ve been keeping it from me all this time. Why, Pa?”

  And—there!—on her next glance to the water, it returned. Cal’s land. That rock with the birds. Flickering into life. She s
aw by Pa’s face that he’d seen it too. Had she done that? Just by thinking it real? Knowing it was there?

  Quick-fast, he turned her, pulled her away from the cliff and back into the cave.

  “No, Moss!”

  But now she was starting to understand … she was making it come. She could see the land because it was there—for her, at least. Because she wanted to see it!

  Adder barked and spun as she bounded into the cave after them. When Pa raised his hands, the flames leapt higher and more images came—Moss saw them swirl from the fire.

  Waterhorses, riding on waves.

  Mermaids swimming.

  And water, water, water, coming at them … flooding them. The huge floods Pa talked of.

  Stories … Dreamings …

  Wind rushed in from outside then too, bringing petals, thousands of them. All the different flower colors. They spun and danced, buzz-singing. Two tones, one high and one low: a bird’s trill call. Whole plants of stormflowers whooshed in next, their dirty roots waving. Toward the fire they moved, swirling. Some dived straight into the flames. High-pitched. Laughing. Singing. Screaming. Moss felt their desire. They wanted to make Pa’s images come. She steadied herself against the cave wall as the volcano rumbled. Beside her, Adder nuzzled with her damp snout.

  As the fire raged still bigger, the back of her neck went hot and she felt the tipsy spin of nausea. Too much smoke. Too much sweetness. For a moment she was floating, above the cave and the cliffs, looking down. Swirling in the airs. Swaying with those petals. Letting go. She felt the flowers inside her … ready to create mermaids and kelpies and spirits in the flames like they did for Pa. She felt the thrill of it. She breathed in a lungful of sweet smoke, wondering. Could she make images like Pa did? Or, maybe … could she make truth on the flames as easy as he made his stories? Just now, she’d made Bird Island appear … hadn’t she? She’d made something change …

  She raised her arms and swirled her fingers to spirals. Her movement made Pa turn.

  His eyes went paler, watering from the smoke. “Moss,” he said, full-warning in his voice.

  And that made her more curious still.

  What could she do, really? She opened her hand and felt petals settle on her palm. She watched the flames, concentrating on that whooshing wind inside her. When she felt its energy like water spilling over, she sent it out to the petals. They left her palm and went to the fire.

  “You’ll kill this place,” Pa said, watching. “You don’t understand.”

  The images in the fire changed. And she was making them. She could feel it.

  “Truth,” she whispered, echoing the word that was pounding inside her. “My real story.”

  What she most wanted.

  She stayed steady as the cave floor shuddered.

  Then she was the tiny figure in the flames. Her as a Small Thing. She was with Cal, holding hands tight-close. They stood on the edge of their cove, staring to the ocean. And there was Jess, eyes bright. They were all looking out. Toward the horizon? The Flicker-land? When was this, how many seasons ago?

  Her vision shivered. The cave was blurring now, fading back, and all she could see were those images in the flames. The fire burned bigger as she focused on that tiny wind inside, sending it out. Her will. Her desire. She’d made those images. She’d done this! She could whir those flowers into a frenzy. This was how Pa did it: The stormflowers latched on to his will, and they made visible what he wanted. She felt, rather than understood, the sense of it.

  In the fire, her and Cal. Small Things. On the rough raft they’d made, the day they’d almost drowned. They were bobbing out toward a skimmer-stone-shaped land. Bird Island.

  She gasped. It had been there, even then? Had she seen it, just for a moment, before it went hidden? Before that huge wave had pushed them back?

  From somewhere far away, she heard Pa take another book and throw it into the fire. Moss’s images were sudden-gone. Instead, words flew up before her.

  Fish … love you and respect you … will kill you dead …

  An image of a whale came diving from the flames. Moss flinched before it evaporated into thick syrup air. She braced as there was another tremor. Could she make her images come again? It was a battle between Pa’s stories and hers.

  “Stop it, Moss,” Pa said. “We must give the island our dreams, keep it alive!”

  But she wanted truth. Her truth.

  Dust fell as the rocks rumbled. Sent Pa stumbling. This time she caught him. This time when she turned him back to Jess, she knew he saw his dog. She willed him to. Kept him steady ’til he did. He couldn’t stop the look, this time.

  Sudden-fast, he bent to Jess, scooped her close in his arms. He had tears straightaway—she saw them full. And he was seeing, seeing, accepting, seeing … His shoulders shaking like storms.

  Had she made him? Made him come back to this moment, in this cave?

  He looked back to Moss, eyes drowning. “You destroy the island with your story.”

  When the rumbling in the rocks came again, Finn put his hand under the back of Tommy’s head to shield it from the stone floor. He swallowed the fear that was rising. Why hadn’t Moss come back yet? Since she’d left, Tommy had returned to feverish sleeping. Now Finn needed to get help for him—proper help—before he got any worse. He shivered as he looked across at the hole Moss had disappeared down and Cal had come back up from alone. Cal had said there was a boat down there. Sailing a boat from a rock cavern, without Tommy to help, was not on the top of his to-do list. But staying on an island where a volcano was erupting and his friend was getting sicker didn’t present many options.

  Finn stared at Cal across the fire. Finn didn’t think this dark-eyed boy liked him much, and why should he? Finn had seen the jealous glare in Cal’s eyes whenever he’d looked at or said anything to Moss. Either way, this boy would have to help him.

  “We need to leave,” he said firmly. “Now. Even if Moss doesn’t come back.”

  Even if it was dark outside. Even if sailing away on a strange boat might be the hardest thing he’d ever do.

  Cal glanced toward the hole too. When the tunnel shuddered again, sending down dust, Cal nodded.

  “We go. But we find her first.”

  ’Course the dark-eyed boy wouldn’t leave her. Maybe she was the only friend he’d ever had; maybe that was why they were so close. Another rumble came, tumbling shards of stone down around them. To sail out of an unknown land in the dark? From a place that’d wrecked their own boat already? It was worse than crazy; it was a death wish.

  But then, so was staying in a cave while a volcano erupted.

  Finn stood. “No point hanging around. Show me the boat and I’ll see if I can sail it.”

  “No ‘if.’ ” Cal’s eyes actually seemed to glint. “You must.”

  There were sharp points of rock—stalactites—not far above Tommy’s head. If the rumbling came again, could they fall down onto him?

  Cal nodded toward Tommy. “I can carry.” He placed his palms against the wall as if feeling for vibrations. “I done it before.”

  Finn narrowed his eyes. How much could he trust Cal? It could be a trap, leading him and Tommy into some hole. Cal might want them gone so that he could stay with Moss alone. But then, why would he have gone to so much trouble to save Tommy in the first place? And surely if there was a boat, it was worth a shot—might be their only shot. He wondered if Cal would come with them, back to his hometown … wondered how on earth he’d fit in with the guys in the pub, with his school friends, with anyone! Even thinking of Moss fitting in was hard enough to imagine.

  Tommy moaned, and Finn was at his side immediately. “You with us again, mate?”

  He’d been coming in and out of it ever since Moss had gone.

  “Don’t leave me behind,” Tommy murmured.

  Finn shook his head firmly. “I won’t.” Finn would do whatever it took.

  He lifted his friend into a sitting position, wiped his moist brow. Wh
en Tommy gasped for air, Finn kept him straight.

  “He’s getting sicker,” he told Cal.

  Cal nodded. “The island not helping him.”

  So Finn started asking—the island, and God, and Buddha, and any other deity he could think of—to keep his friend safe. He watched Cal flex his fingers in and out, frowning when the tattoolike pattern on Cal’s skin seemed to disappear again, then come back.

  “Put Tommy on your back,” Cal said. “I will help.”

  With Cal helping, he got Tommy to stand. As Tommy gripped the walls, Finn hiked him up in a fireman’s lift over his shoulder.

  “Ready to find a boat, mate?” he asked Tommy’s legs, now hanging beside him.

  “Just don’t put it on another reef.” Tommy’s voice came muffled back.

  Finn smiled to hear it. Then more shards of stone fell down, making Tommy groan.

  “Quick,” said Cal.

  Cal blew the fire out. Just like that. It extinguished in a second. Finn wanted to ask him how he did it, watch him do it again, but this was no time for party tricks. He was shaking from the weight of Tommy and with the tension of holding him still. The rumbling in the rock got worse.

  As they climbed out of the cave and onto the path leading down, Finn stumbled. He wrenched his shoulder painfully as he reached to grip the rock wall. He breathed heavily. These walls might as well collapse! Climbing down this path, like this, was impossible. He couldn’t even see where he was going!

  Cal backed up. Until Finn could feel his shoulders pressed up against him, inviting Finn to lean.

  “Am strong enough,” he said. “Trust. We carry together.”

  Finn leaned forward, trying it, and put his free hand on Cal’s shoulder. With Cal taking some of the weight, it was certainly easier. Perhaps Finn could trust him. They made their way slowly, not stumbling now.

  Soon something began to glow, hundreds of somethings, all the way down the edges of the narrow path. It was like fairy lights at a party, illuminating the way. Finn followed gladly. As they climbed down, Finn saw them properly: They weren’t actual lights, not even fireflies or glowworms. Here were hundreds, maybe thousands, of those flowers he’d seen all over the island—those stormflowers—and they were open and growing out of the dark, damp rocks, without even any sunlight. They were glinting! Like Moss said they did. Were they helping them to get down easier? Or leading them to their doom?