It was strange, that’s what it was, as mysterious as a catfish with legs. Now he was the one escaping, with as much treasure as a pirate could carry, and yet he felt worse than at any time he could remember. Almost without noticing, they’d let him take his own share, steal the dinghy, and only bothered to murmur ‘good riddance’ as he’d sailed off.
‘And good riddance to you too, you rotten rubbish,’ he’d yelled back, but the wind off the sea had lifted his voice up with the spray, and thrown it away.
Heading into wide open sea, Wicked tried to concentrate on the simple stroke of his oars, the splash as they hit the water. His eyes scanned the horizon – no land, no nothing interrupted the flat gilded world ahead. It didn’t matter; right then, he didn’t care where he ended up. He’d never known what was coming, or what to do about it when it came, so what was the point of planning anything now?
You took it in the teeth, same as always.
All around, the darkening ocean spread out as empty as Wicked’s future. He could see no sign of life to the north, south, east or west. But he rowed on. For a while his arms ached, but then he stopped feeling it. The motion of the oars dipping down and up, down and up, almost sent him to sleep. He was tired, so bloomin’ tired.
But wait, up there, what was that on the horizon? A shape looming up like … like the humped back of an animal. He blinked, wondering if he was dreaming. He looked again.
Land. Definitely land.
Wicked felt a rush of relief. For hours now he’d been wondering if he was turning into the Captain, alone in an old dinghy, drifting on the seas …
As he rowed nearer, he realised that this must be Turtle Island. He remembered sailing towards it once before, his heart full of hope.
The first star rose, twinkling brightly like one of the diamonds in the sack at his feet. Wicked felt his spirits rise with it. His toes felt for the rough canvas with the lumps of treasure inside. He’d taken his share before he left, all right. Spanish gold, bars of silver, strings of pearls, diamonds, rubies the colour of burning coals. He’d worked for it like everyone else, hadn’t he? It’d buy him anything he wanted. They couldn’t take that from him, no! He just hadn’t wanted to spend his lot in that blasted place with those blasted villagers and their happy, everything’s-rosy-now faces.
Rosy for who?
Wicked wriggled uncomfortably in the boat.
How they all hated him now!
Even Horrendo. That lad was the worst. He’d only been nice to Wicked because he was under a curse – of niceness! But now the lad was roaring like the most pernicious pirate on the Cannonball Seas. No, just like everyone else, Horrendo wasn’t to be trusted.
Wicked shuddered, hearing the lad’s words again. He wished he could burn them from his mind.
Well, he thought, now there are no ratlines to climb, enemies to spot or yardarms to repair, nobody wants me. And that’s all right with me.
Turtle Island, eh? Look, he was almost there. The place where no one came to steal your gold. Coconut trees. He thought of Treasure. He could hardly remember what she looked like, or the sound of her voice. He knew her hair had been dark. She’d said something about turtles …
Never mind. She was lost now too, like everything else. Well, he didn’t care. The peace and quiet would be like medicine, wouldn’t it? No mothers clutching their long-lost sons, crying with happiness, reminding him he was an orphan.
The sea was shark-skin smooth, the breakers near the sand just a wobble. Good. So killingly tired. He took the precious sack of treasure and tied it around his waist. Then he climbed out into shallow water and hauled the boat up to the sand. His arms ached so badly, he could hardly lift it. The boat was heavy, the dark coming fast … he felt for the rope at the bow and tied it with a hasty knot to the palm tree leaning out over the beach.
As he dropped down on a patch of grass, he listened to the sighing of the sea. The tide was low, the moon rising. He stroked the canvas sack beside him like a pet. Now there’ll be time, he thought. In all this quiet it might come to him what to do next.
Right now, though, the world was too big and he was too weary.
Tomorrow.
Chapter 19
His mother was pointing up at a palm tree.
‘Breakfast,’ she said, as a coconut came loose, falling slowly through the sky.
‘Look out!’
Wicked’s eyes snapped open, his heart racing.
He rubbed his forehead where the coconut had almost landed. Waves tumbled onto the sand, louder than last night. High tide now, he supposed. The sun was blazing.
He listened for a moment. Beneath the sound of the water, such stillness. No cursing or complaining. No cruel words. No kindness, either, but when had there been? Too far back to remember.
He lay on his back, trying to remember where he was. It’d be easy to get jumpy in all that quiet. Already it began to prickle under his skin.
Wicked stood up, stretching his arms above his head. His back creaked. He thought of Rip’s nervy knuckle-cracking, how he’d hated silence, needed to break it. He gazed out to sea, and it was then that he saw it. Or rather, didn’t see it.
The boat.
It had gone.
He shut his eyes and opened them. Everything was still the same. The foamy line of breakers, the white sand, the palm tree where he’d tied the boat that was …
Gone. As if someone had just come along and cut a hole out of the world. Where was the missing piece?
He ran down to the shore. He felt along the trunk of the tree, saw where the rope had chafed the bark. There was no sign of it now.
He couldn’t believe it. What would he do without a boat? Miles from any land – why, he could be stranded here his whole life …
Alone. Only coconuts to eat. Trees to talk to.
It would be fine for a week, but for his whole miserable life?
Another sting of panic shot through him. His treasure?
He ran back to the grassy mound where he’d slept. Thank heavens, the little beauties, safe and sound! He hugged the blessed sack to his chest. He spread out the pieces of gold to count, ran his hands through the jewels.
But the tingly breathlessness he expected when he looked at the treasure didn’t come. Instead a cold sinking feeling, like an anchor dropping into the sea, settled at the bottom of his stomach. What was he going to do with the treasure, stranded here on an island? Could he eat it? Could he drink it? Could he talk to it?
Oh, hang the pirate dogs! All because of that stinking rope of theirs – old and thin as a rat’s tail. The pull must have been strong with the tide coming in but a decent rope would have held. Blast them!
He leapt up and ran back up the sand, to a higher patch of scrub. He looked out to sea, as far as he could to his left and right. He peered at the horizon. This just didn’t feel true – the foreverness of it. If he blinked, the picture might change and the boat would be back.
No.
‘Stupid old rubbishy rope!’ he burst out loud, jumping up and down with rage.
‘A bad workman always blames his tools,’ a voice cut in.
Wicked froze.
He squinted up at the trees, and behind him through the bushes. But he couldn’t see anything that looked like it could talk.
So now he’d gone mad. Hearing voices.
‘Blimey,’ he cried. ‘I can’t even trust me own mind. I’ve landed in hell!’
‘One man’s heaven is another man’s hell,’ said the voice.
Wicked dug his toes in the sand. He held his breath. To his right, from the bushes, came a rustle of leaves. Out stepped a large blue and yellow bird.
‘The devil take you!’ yelped Wicked. ‘I’m seeing things as well as hearing ’em. A talking bird, what next?’
‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,’ the bird told him. ‘Bless you, my son.’
No, it wasn’t just a bird, it was a parrot. He’d seen one like it on board the Bonny Lasses’ ship, through his telesco
pe. But he’d never met a parrot who could hold a conversation.
‘Where did you come from?’
The parrot peered at him sideways. ‘You can kill a man, but you can’t kill an idea.’
‘What?’
The parrot looked awkward. He scratched under his wing with his beak.
Wicked noticed both wings were clipped. Even though the bird was probably an illusion, he felt a sudden pang. The bird was trapped, just like him. ‘Who did that to you?’
The parrot’s feet shifted on the ground as if he were embarrassed. He cleared his throat. ‘A man with one clock knows what time it is, but a man with two clocks is never sure.’
Wicked stared at those black, yellow-ringed eyes.
Strange. This was almost the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, and by now he had a long list.
The bird was studying the grass. Every few seconds he made a little click in his throat as if about to say something, but then thought better of it.
Wicked decided to act as if the bird were making perfectly good conversation. It seemed kinder.
‘Oh, yes, I see,’ he nodded wisely. ‘Too many clocks.’
‘When all you have are lemons, make lemonade!’ screamed the parrot in response. The feathers on his head stood up with excitement and he ran around in happy circles. ‘Get me a jug of ale, ye lively lass!’
‘Never a wiser word said,’ agreed Wicked.
The bird hopped right up to Wicked. ‘A friend in need is a friend indeed.’
Well, thought Wicked, now that was sensible. The parrot seemed to be waiting for something. But it wasn’t easy talking to a … bird. Still, shouldn’t he keep up his end of the conversation? He searched for something to say. ‘Um, check your centre, keep putting one foot in front of the other—’
‘And your eyes on the prize,’ finished the bird.
Wicked gasped. ‘Where did you hear that?’
The parrot found something between its feathers and ate it. Then he gave a little hop, almost apologetically, and cleared his throat again.
Wicked waited. But the bird found something interesting in the sand.
This would drive him mad. Maybe the parrot wasn’t real after all. He reached out a finger. The blue feathers were silky. The parrot let him stroke his chest. Wicked felt the warm little heartbeat under his hand and a strange melting feeling spread over him. His stomach gurgled.
‘Ease off the grog, you dogs,’ the parrot said. ‘An army marches on its stomach.’
Food. The bird was right. He had to learn what to eat on this island, and what to drink. First things first. Even madmen had to eat. He was so thirsty he could suck the sap out of a palm tree.
‘Any fresh water round here?’ he said.
The parrot looked at him sideways. ‘Doubt is the beginning not the end of wisdom.’
Wicked sighed. He gave the bird a last little pat and stood up. ‘Better use my deadlights then and climb that hill,’ he told him. He didn’t know why he was bothering to explain, but it felt like the right thing to do. As he trudged up the sandy slope the parrot waddled after him.
Wicked had only taken a few steps when he realised the bird was having trouble keeping up. He stopped and turned around, waiting for him to catch up.
The bird hopped onto his foot and without thinking, Wicked picked him up, one hand under the leathery pronged toes, and put him carefully on his shoulder. The parrot nibbled his ear.
Wicked laughed. ‘Blimey, that tickles!’
‘Take the bitter with the sweet, Pirate Pete,’ the parrot told him.
At the top of the slope the patchy sprinkle of grass became a carpet of green. Both pirate and parrot gazed out over the view with satisfaction. The hill fell away into a small valley where a lake shimmered, surrounded by reeds. Giant ferns and coconut palms towered over the little oasis.
‘That’s my waterhole right there,’ said Wicked. ‘Maybe you’re my lucky charm.’
The parrot pecked excitedly at his ear, then ran up and down his arm. ‘There’s nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so,’ he squawked, but Wicked had stopped trying to understand.
He almost ran to the lake, the parrot clinging on firmly. He knelt down and cupped his hands, gulping the clear spring water. When he’d finished, he burped with satisfaction.
‘Better out than in,’ said the parrot, hopping off for a moment to drink with him.
Wicked sat back cross-legged and said, ‘Next thing is grub and shelter.’ His eyes travelled up the trunk of the coconut palm to his left. Fat green bunches of nuts hung amongst the leaves at the top. He’d often eaten coconuts when he was a boy, and drunk the milk inside. It would be a challenging climb – that straight trunk, no branches, no rungs. He’d have to think how best to do it …
A knife would be handy, to get at the tasty white meat inside. And how would he lop off its head? Pity he had nothing useful with him – not even a decent bit of rope to hold him as he climbed the tree. What had he been thinking when he left Devil Island?
‘And where will I sleep when it rains?’ he wondered out loud.
‘All the world’s a stage,’ said the bird.
It was going to be difficult to make shelter without any tools. He tried to remember back to the book Treasure had first read him, about the sailor shipwrecked on that island. But each time an image came, a pain crept in behind it and his mind went blank. It was the same when he tried to picture her face. Well, that was a waste of time now. He had to find some kind of shelter before night fell. The sky had been cloudless all day, but storms came before you could say curse the catfish.
In the quiet, another thought prickled: what about hurricane season? He flicked it away. With any luck he’d be rescued before that happened.
Mind who saves you, Dogfish’s words echoed in his head.
‘Damn and blast,’ said Wicked, his spirits sinking. ‘Who’d bother to come looking now?’
‘Anything that can go wrong will go wrong,’ added the bird, like doomsday.
‘Aye, thanks for reminding me,’ muttered Wicked. He put his head in his hands. Then he gave himself a shake. ‘I’m gunna call you Doomsday. Is that all right with you?’
‘A rose is the same by any other name,’ said Doomsday.
Wicked couldn’t help grinning. ‘I suppose that’s a yes. Come on, let’s go and see how bloomin’ impossible it is to find some shelter.’
It was late in the afternoon when they gave up the search. They were standing under a cliff bordering the northern side of the island. It rose sheer from the rock pools but when they followed the crag inland, towards the forest, it hollowed out into a series of caves below. The first one was deep and dark and endless; Wicked felt a shiver go through him. He’d rather not sleep in a place with a mystery at his back. They wandered in and out of hollows, startling a colony of bats, walking into curtains of cobwebs.
And then Wicked found his cave. It sat beneath a tuft of scraggly bloodwoods. As soon as he stepped in, it felt like the right one. The roof was just a few inches taller than he was – he could stand up comfortably – and in just four paces he reached the back wall. He ran his hand along the rough stone. No wet seepage, no bat dung. He could see the beginning and the end, and the space caught the last rays of afternoon light.
‘Home sweet home,’ he said. Then he clucked his tongue at the parrot. ‘Blow me down, I’m gettin’ to sound like you.’
‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ said Doomsday.
The ground was hard and rocky – he’d have to go looking for something softer to put beneath him. He was turning to go when he saw a glint in the corner. It was lit up by a shaft of low afternoon light.
‘Pickle me toes,’ he whispered. ‘Will you look at that?’
He reached down and picked up a knife with a bone handle. He slipped off the sheath and tested the point. Sharp as blazes. The blade ran the length of his hand, ideal for cutting the top off a coconut, splitting saplings for ki
ndling, scaling a fish … On his knees he sorted through the small pile of precious objects. There was a flint for fire, a long whittled spear, a satchel, an old hammock and half a coconut shell, ideal for a drinking cup.
‘I’m rich!’ he cried, jumping up so suddenly that Doomsday squawked in protest and bit his ear.
Chapter 20
Over the next few days, Wicked was busy. It surprised him that in a place where there was not one order to obey, hours could go by before he found a chance to sit down. When he did, his mind turned to the sailor who’d lived in this cave. He got to wondering how long the man might have spent there. Had he left long ago, or only the day before?
Wicked didn’t like to think about the alternative – that the poor sailor was still on the island, having dropped dead of old age or something worse, his bones lying naked and lonely under a rock fall somewhere. In a strange way, Wicked had grown fond of him. Having use of the man’s treasured possessions made him wonder what it would be like to have a father, and Wicked felt grateful for this lucky inheritance.
By now he had explored most of the island. The lake spilled out into a shallow creek that emptied into the sea. In the valleys the coconut palms clustered, and he’d spent much of the first day working out the best way to climb them.
As he had never gone up or down anything without rungs or branches, he had to try out different holds.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ the parrot agreed, watching him at the foot of a tree ripe with coconuts.
Wicked gave a little spring, and leapt up. First his hands grabbed the trunk, then his bare feet found grip and his knees hugged tight. Steadily, hands advancing first, he began to make his way up. It was a slow, hard climb. He was heavy, and his limbs weren’t as flexible as they once were. He didn’t look down. It was only when he reached the first green coconut that he realised it wasn’t going to come loose. He shook and twisted it, but it wouldn’t budge. The knife – he’d forgotten it!
Wicked didn’t waste his breath cursing. He was too exhausted.
As soon as he hit the ground, he fetched the knife and went straight back up. This time it was a little easier. Because he knew he could do it, his confidence was greater and he was able to gain a little more height each time. And when he got to the coconuts, he hacked them off with the blade.
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