Wicked's Way

by Anna Fienberg

  And he understood, finally, what he had done. The weight of it dropped like a cannonball inside him, breaking his heart. He knew now what he had to do. No more doubt, no more chances. He had to get the Captain what he wanted.

  But he’d have one glimpse of her. He had to see her face. He’d take that one last thing for himself, and see, just for a moment, what might have been.

  It was midday by the time he stepped onto the path. He didn’t notice the spicy whiff of nutmeg on the air or the sandpiper’s call. He was lost in his regrets, and his feet trudged on as if walking through clay.

  He arrived in the square at lunchtime. It was noisy with people selling and buying, eating fried calamari and pineapple slices from paper cones. They stood in groups, chatting, or sitting on benches, their faces lifted to the sunshine. He wove through the crowd, his hat lowered, and made his way to the library. Through the window he saw only a few lasses curled on the cushions reading, and a lad – Hoodlum – was whispering to Hermy.

  Outside, Wicked kicked a stone. How long would he have to wait? If she didn’t come soon he’d lose his nerve. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He dragged his hat further down over his eyes and sidled back into town.

  The smell of food made his mouth water. He’d eaten nothing since the afternoon before. With a pang he remembered Horrendo’s careful preparations in the galley, his encouragement just yesterday for Wicked’s return. Horrendo had trusted him. The only one who cared. In his mind he watched the worried way the lad had bitten his nails, the way he kept trying. Wicked felt worse. But he couldn’t change things now.

  At the tavern, he bought a tin of biscuits and wolfed down the fish pie. It would be a jolly place if you weren’t about to lose everything. He liked the sparkly fish nets draped from the windows and the swordfish skeleton hanging from the ceiling. The pie was magnificent.

  ‘Enjoy that, did ye sir?’

  Wicked whipped around at that gravelly voice. The man wiping his hands on an apron was … the First Mate!

  ‘Arrumph … er … aye,’ stammered Wicked.

  ‘That’s the day’s special, what you consumed just now. Had the devil’s own job gettin’ the pastry right though. Did you find it light yet satisfying, crisp not chewy?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Wicked again, getting up from his stool.

  The First Mate nodded. ‘I’m standin’ in for Chef today. I’m his assistant, like. Been a challenge, an’ no mistake.’ He rubbed his hands together, beaming. ‘But I’m not doin’ too badly from all reports.’

  ‘In a hurry,’ mumbled Wicked, and fled out the door.

  He sped down to the harbour, to clear his head. Pacing the sand, he tried to make a plan. But he’d never made one before – or at least, never one that worked. Life usually just washed over him, and he took what was left on the shore.

  A sudden thought made him tremble. Would she look very different? Would he recognise her? Even in his mind he still couldn’t say her name. She was grown up now, like him. Only she sounded more grown up. A warm feeling like melting toffee trickled through him. Hadn’t it been like that from her very first hello?

  He checked the angle of the sun. He’d go now. This time he’d take off his hat before he popped up his head. He’d make sure they were all busy before he inched his eyes above the windowsill. He’d take one look, then when no one was about, come back for the Captain’s precious herbs. That was the plan.

  He hurried up the sand, tingles of excitement bursting inside him. It was crazy; he could never even talk to her now. But he couldn’t help the fluttery wings of his breath rushing him along.

  Something sharp underfoot made him stop suddenly. He bent down to pick up a cone-shaped shell. He turned it over in his palm. The blue-green whorls rising to the point at the top were like the tidal marks on the shore. It would be just the right size for Hermy. He put it in his pocket and turned to walk back up to town.

  The pumpkin vine under the library window made a good hiding place. He was just in time. From the deep green shade he heard the children’s chatter as they trooped back into the room. A boy called out ‘Story time!’ and another child told him to ‘Shoosh’, and to ‘Get off her cushion!’

  A hush fell then, as sudden as a curtain dropping, and with a lurch of the heart, Wicked knew that she had walked into the room. It was so tempting to stand up and see. But he sat on his hands. Not yet.

  ‘Now, whereabouts in the story were we?’ the Librarian said. ‘Does anyone remember?’

  ‘The wife wanted the husband to get more of that sweet lettuce for her,’ a girl called out. ‘But it grew in the neighbour’s garden. The husband loved his wife—’

  ‘Aye,’ called out a boy, ‘but she was sad because she wanted to have a baby, an’ couldn’t. The husband wanted to make her happy, so he crept into the garden next door to steal the lettuce. Only when he was diggin’ it up, the neighbour appeared. She was a beautiful witch, and she told ’im off for trying to steal her lettuce. The husband said he was real sorry, like, but his beloved wife was cravin’ it. He said she was goin’ mad for that lettuce …’

  ‘I’m like that with buttered crabs,’ another lad put in. ‘No matter how much dinner I ate, if crabs are on the menu, I gotta have ’em!’

  ‘Sssh, let’s get on with the story,’ a girl said. ‘Who cares about you and your buttered crabs?’

  ‘Well, the witch’s heart softened when she heard the husband’s story …’

  Wicked almost leapt up and jumped right through the window at the sound of that voice. But he clenched his sweaty hands into fists under his legs. He wouldn’t get up to see yet. Not yet.

  ‘And the witch said he could have the delicious salad from her garden if he promised her one thing.’

  ‘What, what?’ the children cried.

  ‘He must deliver to her his firstborn child. She said she would care for it like a mother, and tend to its every need. But he and his wife would never, ever, see it again.’

  A quiet fell over the room then, and even Wicked under the pumpkin vine felt a terrible dread. Don’t promise, don’t promise what you can’t deliver, he wanted to cry.

  ‘The husband could only think about his wife waiting at home for her special treat and so the next night the husband tiptoed into the garden. He began pulling up the lettuce but it cried out as if it were in pain.’

  The stillness in the room lengthened. What was happening in there? Why did the lettuce scream? Without warning his legs unfolded and he stood up. He peeped through the window.

  The Librarian was sitting on a cushion with her legs tucked beneath her. Her long dark braid hung down her back. He could just see the tilt of her chin. She had her finger in the book, keeping her place. But she wasn’t looking at the book. She was facing the door. Someone was coming through, and with an ‘Excuse me,’ she got up to meet him. As she turned, Wicked saw her face.

  It was enough.

  It was her.

  Once, during a dark storm at sea, he’d stared at a candle for minutes on end. It had seemed like the only light the world had to offer. Afterwards, when he closed his eyes, everything behind his lids was lit up around it. He’d tried to hang on to the light but slowly it had disappeared.

  He thought of that now and a tremendous happiness fanned up from his feet to his head. She lit up the world like that. He wanted to shout out loud, dance, and leap as high as a tree. The world tilted for a moment, dazzling him. There was her heart-shaped face, the little point of her chin, dark eyes shining. Her cheeks were thinner than he remembered, her body rounder. But it was her.

  As soon as she gets rid of that person at the door, he told himself, I’ll speak to her. As soon as the class has gone. His fingers raked through his beard. Maybe I should go and wash, he thought feverishly. I could get a trim at the barber. He looked at his nails, broken and black. He imagined picking up her hand, holding it in his.

  His legs felt weak, as if they were filled with water. No, what was he thinking? It was impossible now. He
was pinned against the wall by a memory. She was sitting on the couch, reading to him. ‘I’ll teach you,’ she said. ‘We’ll be all right.’ She had made him tea and they’d sat out on the porch outside, watching the hill roll away beneath them as the shadows gathered at their feet. And he’d never said thank you. He’d been nine years old, and she wasn’t much older, and he’d left before he could tell her.

  But now her voice was closer. She was right on the other side of the wall.

  Bring me that herb, the Captain whispered to him.

  She was talking with the person who had entered the room.

  ‘Tell me, what is it, Horrendo?’

  Oh, he should have known. Did that confounded wretch always have to be underfoot? Wicked wanted to stomp on him. But the boy’s next words turned his anger into alarm.

  ‘I hate to interrupt your lesson like this, Miss, but could you tell me something? If a person knew someone had come to the island who might do harm, and then the person doesn’t tell anyone, is that like a lie? I mean, should a person tell the truth always? And what if he’s given his word to the someone not to tell? His promise would be broken. So either way he’s doing the wrong thing, is that right? Oh, I just can’t seem to get things straight in my head.’

  There was a groan, and an answering murmur, like a hug. Wicked ground his teeth.

  ‘I liked it better, almost, when I was cursed,’ Horrendo went on. ‘At least back then, even if I’d wanted to, I didn’t have to make decisions. The curse made them for me. But now, well, what would you do, do you think?’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘I’d consult the person who put the curse on me. From what I hear, she is wise, even if her methods are … hard to fathom.’

  ‘You mean Gretel?’ Horrendo wailed again. ‘She’s gone away – she has some business on the Mainland. Why she had to go now of all times, I don’t know! Curse the catfish, she makes me so …’ and he kicked something that fell over.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me about it then.’

  Wicked slid down the wall. He could hardly bear to listen. He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t close his ears. And sure enough, Horrendo recited the long list of Wicked’s sins; it was like being at sea and hearing the judgement read before he walked the plank. All his stealing and lying, his allegiance to the Captain, his unhelpful attitude. It was all there, flapping and gasping like a trail of stinking fish, all at the feet of her.

  ‘Wicked said he wanted to come back and live peacefully, but … should we believe him? I was prepared to, but then Rascal told me this morning that the invisibility potion was missing. I mean, who else on the island would take it? I can’t help thinking it was Wicked. You know, I shouldn’t have trusted him, I’m hopeless that way, always believing people to be their best selves, instead of seeing the truth. But I wanted him to have another chance. He was kidnapped earlier than the rest of us. And on top of that, did you know, Miss, he’d lost his mother? I mean, our mothers were waiting for us when we got back. But not Wicked’s.’

  ‘His mother? How?’

  ‘One day she just vanished into thin air. I heard it from Gretel. It must have been terrible.’

  ‘Do you know where he lived before he was taken?’

  ‘No. Somewhere far from here. But Miss, what do you think we should do?’

  Wicked’s heart was thundering in the silence. From inside the room he could hear Maria’s voice burbling along, reading the story to the class, and outside, in the bushes, the crickets were starting.

  ‘We’ll have to go and find him,’ the Librarian said. ‘Before it’s too late – for him and for …’

  But Wicked didn’t hear her last words. A deafening BOOM! tore the air, blasting out every other sound.

  Wicked fell back in shock. He gasped as his elbow caught a sharp stone, the roar still shuddering through his body.

  What was that? He watched a plume of smoke rise over the rooftops. Like the silence after lightning, the air stood still until a thunder of shouts filled the sky. Children came running out of the classrooms, and people streamed onto the grass and into the square.

  ‘There’s been an explosion!’ a villager cried. ‘The laboratory has vanished! And so has Rascal!’

  Chapter 29

  Behind the pumpkin vine, Wicked tried to steady his breathing. His mind raced with questions. He’d thought Rascal had everything under control … but then, how could anyone be in control in a world where dreams always turn into disaster?

  A pang shot through him. He saw Rascal shivering up the ratlines. Spluttering his lungs out … Well, he couldn’t think about that now, or anything else. This was his chance, and he had to be quick.

  He waited until the last child had gone. Then he stole into the empty library. He crept like a cat over the cushions, listening for the whisper of returning feet. Even though he had to hurry, he couldn’t resist pulling off his old boots to feel the soft red rug under his toes.

  Oh, he almost wept for the pleasure of it! As soft and springy as fresh-cut grass. He remembered Treasure’s lawn so neatly kept at the front, the verandah at the back where he’d slept. ‘He’ll catch the breeze out there,’ Honey had said. ‘The poor child’s exhausted.’ He could see that house clear as day. He hadn’t remembered it like that for years.

  The shelves of the library were bright with books and he trailed a finger over the spines. Pulling out one, he opened it and put his nose right into the middle. He took a great sniff and another. The smell of stories. She had touched these books. Most likely she’d read every one. He shut the book and put it back where it belonged.

  But the Reference section … that’s what he had to find now.

  He didn’t know the word. So many books, hundreds, just like Horrendo had said. How would he find the right one?

  His eyes swept the room. On the low table near the Librarian’s desk perched Hermy’s little house. Wicked lifted up the glass lid. Taking the shell out of his pocket, he placed it carefully at the back of the box.

  He stood for a moment looking at Hermy snuggled up to a rock. Most of him was tucked into his shell, but a single leg drooped out. He was asleep, as Hoodlum had described. What a grand surprise the little hermit would get when he saw his new home.

  Wicked took the quilled pen from the desk and dipped it into the little jar of ink. Then he hesitated. It had been so long since he’d read or written. For Hermy, he wrote finally. From … he hesitated again. A blot of black ink dropped on the paper … W, he finished. He slipped the note under the shell and replaced the lid.

  As he looked up, he saw, to his left, a yellow sign above the bookshelves.

  Fiction. And to his right, Non Fiction.

  Wicked scratched his head. One was the opposite of the other, but how did that help if you didn’t know what animal it was in the first place? He grunted in frustration. Far-off children were calling, and then came deeper, warning voices.

  Little clay sculptures of people and dogs, model ships and books dotted the room. There were more signs he didn’t understand. A faint perfume hung in the air … roses? Was it her scent? A vase of red roses on her desk … Think! His eyes darted like fish in a bowl until there, straight ahead at the other end of the room, hanging on a door, was the sign he was looking for.

  Through the little window, he saw a smaller room with shelves stacked with books, each as thick as his wrist. Reference books.

  He tried the handle. Locked. He tried again. It wouldn’t budge. Weren’t those voices getting closer? There was no time to do anything else. He clenched the muscles in his arms. He took a step back. Then he sprang at the door, his shoulder shoving into the lock with all the weight of his body behind it.

  The door crashed open.

  Inside, he stood for a moment, nursing his arm. The door was still on its hinges. But his stomach churned. This felt worse than anything he’d ever done. He might have fought and lied and stolen but … this. He eyed the shiny lacquered table where the Librarian must work, and her jar of
freshly sharpened pencils.

  He bit down the bile rising in his throat and ran his hand over the books. Assyria … Battle Ships … Spain … Somewhere inside these thousands of pages was a packet of dried herbs.

  Blusta’s password. What was it?

  His mind went blank.

  He wriggled his feet. The fresh-lawn feel of the carpet. It came back to him.

  The Librarian’s mother! At the Wise Woman’s garden, he’d thought he would never guess her name.

  A strange jolt of joy lit up inside him. This awful thing he was doing … it was for Honey, and her daughter. It was the only way to protect them from the Captain.

  His fingers flew along the titles now until he came to Habitats, Heiroglyphics, Houses … He went back and started again. He pulled out books and flung them open. He riffled through pages … Was Blusta wrong? Was there some other trick?

  He tried to think, staring at these big thick books. They must be concerned with big thick topics. Was the subject of honey enough to fill one of these?

  Well, what made honey? Battles, Bridges … he needed Bees.

  The door at the other end of the library creaked open.

  ‘But Miss, I just wanted to borrow that dragonfly book,’ a voice called. ‘The one what told us they have three pairs of legs—’

  ‘All insects have that many, Mischief.’

  ‘Aye, but that book has big drawings you can copy. In real life a dragonfly won’t stay still long enough for you to draw its—’

  Insects! Insects deserved a big thick book – there must be millions of the pesky creatures. Frantically Wicked searched along the shelves.

  ‘Mischief, you mightn’t have noticed the explosion,’ the voice sounded exasperated, ‘but we’re all in a hurry now looking for Rascal.’

  ‘Yeah, I seen him running out of the lab just a minute before it exploded. He was going this brilliant shade of blue, fading into a sort of woolly grey …’

  Insects of the World… yes! Ants, Aphids … Bees … An envelope fell out at page eighty-nine. Quickly Wicked grabbed it and tore it open. A marvellous scent rose up, spicy, delicious, mouth-watering.