The Island at the End of Everything

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  Mr Zamora folds his insect legs up in front of him, his arms a protective cage around the glass case, and puts his white straw hat over his face. Soon he is snoring loudly and there is nothing to do but watch the passing trees.

  The track we are following is well worn, but I don’t know who by. I have never talked to anyone who has left our town or come from this side of the island. The forest is a thick mat of bamboo and tree ferns. Whenever Mr Zamora snores especially loudly, it sends green birds fleeing the trees. Their calls sound like cats fighting.

  The path splits and the one we take gets narrower and narrower, and soon leaves are brushing our heads. Everywhere I look, gumamela flowers dot the forest, and I remember Nanay’s story about the house in the valley, the boy she was taken from. My ama. Maybe he will be sent to her now that all the Touched are coming to Culion. Maybe he and Nanay will find each other again. This is the happiest thought I’ve had all day.

  We pass an untended grove of mangoes and the too-sweet smell makes my mouth water. The grove has obviously been abandoned a long time. The trees have grown tangled together, and the boughs hang heavy with fruit. Datu leans out as we pass and snatches one. I laugh with the others as the skin splits in his hand, but when he turns it over the pulp is black and teeming with flies and we all stop laughing as he throws it from the cart. He sits with his dirty hand outstretched, watching it carefully as if it might try to leap on to his face.

  We are almost out of the mango grove when Tekla points and screams.

  ‘Snake! Snake!’

  I spin around, heart thumping. It is only a jade vine strangling a branch, but the horses startle at her cry and send the cart swerving. I cling on as the driver pulls them to a halt and hear a crash at the front of the cart.

  The glass case has smashed to shards in the dust. And beside it the two brown boxes have tipped over, their air-holed lids askew. Mr Zamora snatches at the nearest one, but only knocks the lid clean off.

  And suddenly, the air is full of wings.

  A patch of butterflies wafts upwards, purple and yellow and green and gleaming, shimmering like a thrown scarf. My mouth hangs open, dust tickling my throat, more dust coating my tongue as Mr Zamora kicks the road in temper.

  ‘Stop them!’ he bellows, his thin throat ballooning like a bullfrog. But no one is paying attention to him. All we can see are the butterflies, and all I can think of is Nanay. There are maybe two dozen of them, twisting towards the mango grove as if they are one body, or a flame, or ash from a flame. And like ash, they scatter as a long, thin hand snatches at them.

  ‘No!’ I shout as one, large-bodied and purple-winged, is knocked from its current of air, its colours suddenly snuffed out in the dark cage of Mr Zamora’s hand. The rest snap away like a tail. I try to follow their trail but it is like the stars all over again. The shadows shift and change their moorings, impossible to catch.

  It is as if someone has let a clock tick again. We all slump as the butterflies disappear, and Mr Zamora brings his hand up to his eye and squints inside. He sighs heavily and clenches it into a fist. I hear a faint, brittle sound, like the shell of a nut cracking. He takes a deep breath before he speaks, his voice low and dangerous.

  ‘I damaged the wing,’ he says to no one in particular, brushing the fragmented body on to the ground. ‘No use to anyone.’

  He rounds suddenly on us. ‘Who was it who screamed?’ No one looks at the girl who cried ‘snake’. I focus on a point just beyond his left ear.

  ‘Whoever it was, you lost me thirty of my finest specimens. If any of you make so much as a squeak from now on, I will make you walk the rest of the way.’

  He stares us all out for a few more moments, then bends, pulling a clean kerchief from his pocket. He uses it to carefully sift through the broken glass, and picks up three sticks, the chrysalises dangling. He rests them across his long forearms, and climbs back up beside the driver. We move on.

  After a couple of hours of silence, the trees start pressing close to the cart. The driver has to stop a few times to hack at the foliage with a machete.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ says Mr Zamora. ‘I was assured the path had been prepared.’

  The driver shrugs. ‘I have never come this way before. They’re sending a workforce next week to broaden it.’

  The sun is sinking and the forest seems even more impenetrable than before. The rainy season is coming, and the trees seem to have spread themselves out very wide in readiness to catch the water.

  A feeling rises, like a hook behind my navel. Mr Zamora and the driver aren’t looking. If I could somehow tell the others to be silent, then maybe I could slip away. Maybe some of them would come with me.

  But then the hook loosens and all the sensible thoughts come rushing in. It would not take them long to catch me up. And even if I got back to Nanay, she would only get in trouble and I would be sent back. Nothing would change.

  The driver is climbing back up and clicking his tongue, and we are pushing on through the forest.

  We do not stop again until the trees thin and suddenly end. Ahead the sea is flat as a puddle, the same purple-bruised grey as the dusk sky. We have travelled a whole day away from Culion Town. Nanay will be making dinner, or else sitting on our front step with a cup of cooling tea. Perhaps Bondoc and Capuno are with her. I see her as clearly as if I were there too. I close my eyes for a moment. I must keep this picture safe.

  The beach here is made of uneven stone slabs that turn to drums beneath the horses’ hooves. A harbour, hastily built. It curves like a necklace laid out at the edge of the forest, jewel-bright lamps lit at unsteady intervals. Unfinished though it is, it feels far too grand to be sitting here in the middle of nowhere. Mr Zamora must have ordered the Sano port to be one of the first things built. The stars are sifted through thin clouds, and the moon is just gathering strength. And sitting in the water is a boat, bigger than the one that brought the Touched.

  ‘A ship!’ says one of the boys excitedly, but it is not at all how I thought a ship would be. There are no sails, no rope ladders or masts. Just a metal column belching smoke and a grey, smooth hull, thin and pointed. It is as miserable as the reason it is here, a storm cloud offering no hope of the relief of rain.

  There are men here, with closed grey faces. They shoulder Mr Zamora’s luggage and he buzzes around them, saying, ‘Be careful, be careful!’ as they carry the boxes of butterflies into the darkness of the ship.

  We wait on the cart in huddled silence until we are unloaded much like the luggage, without speaking or smiles. Mr Zamora unfurls a piece of paper and reads out one name at a time, to check we are all here. The little boy Kidlat puts his hand up at his name and I have to answer for him.

  We cross the narrow plank and Kidlat holds my hand to steady himself as the boat rocks. We are led into a low-ceilinged cabin, where we are seated on benches along the walls. Everything is metal and bolted to the floor. The smell is metallic too, and heady. It sends queasiness spreading through my stomach.

  Mr Zamora does not follow us. He walks past the cabin along the narrow deck to the front of the boat. He keeps his face pointed forward, even when the vessel begins to move, so smoothly it takes me a moment to realize we are going, actually going.

  Everyone floods to press their hands against the large back window, to watch the hilly, jagged outline of Culion drop back to lie low on the horizon. Even the boys, who care so much about seeming tough, cry when we lose the necklace lights of the harbour to the dark distance of night.

  ‘Settle down, children,’ says one of the men, not unkindly. ‘It’s a couple of hours to Coron, I’d get some sleep.’

  Eventually the others drift away from the window and try to make themselves comfortable on the hard floor. I stay, face turned back, as if Mr Zamora and I are two opposite points on a clock face, or compass, both pushing towards and away from something.

  THE ORPHANAGE

  B

  eing on the sea is like the minutes after s
pinning around as fast as you can – walking straight is difficult when your body remembers turning. Everything tilts when it shouldn’t, even when you are sitting still. My neck aches and my eyes itch but I don’t sleep and I don’t stop looking back towards Culion even when it is only a direction somewhere across the sea. I lose track of time but it is long enough for the bruised sky to deepen into darkest blue. The moon is bright as a smile and the stars are so many and fall so often it makes my chest pang with missing Nanay.

  A few times the tall shape of Mr Zamora strides past the large window as he paces around the deck. He walks with his hands behind his back, leading with his head. He talks constantly to himself, but silently, his lips moving quickly behind the glass. He’s sick. Capuno’s words had been filled with pity, and now I feel it, briefly, as I watch the Director of Health’s authorized representative walk alone and talk to no one.

  When Mr Zamora, out of sight at the front of the boat, calls, ‘Land ahead!’ I finally face forward, rubbing my sore neck as the others stir. There are lights in the distance, much like the harbour on Culion. When we dock there is a cart with two horses waiting, as if we have done a slow circle and come back to our start. But the horses are a different colour, the driver a different man, and the harbour is backed by a town, the houses more uniform than on Culion, the roads wider. We are unloaded from the boat and reloaded on to the cart. There is no forest here, only a broad dirt street that has been well flattened and cleared of stones. Some of the houses still have lights on but shutters close sharply when we pass.

  My chest is full of a heavy ache. Every step the horses take drags me further from home and deeper into a new life. It feels nothing like an adventure.

  The road curves right and we climb a steep hill, the horses straining and blowing. When the road levels we are at a pair of wooden gates. The horses stop, snorting as the driver swings down to open them.

  After the gates there are trees again, and ahead the shape of a large building spreads across the ground. A door opens at the centre, and a figure steps out, backed by light. I see another muffled light twitch at the top right-hand window, but then the light disappears and I hear shutters closing. Perhaps the other children are watching us arrive. My chest tightens. I hope they will like us.

  The figure turns human-sized. It is a woman, her face stern, a moon floating in her grey habit. My heart leaps, but of course it is not Sister Margaritte. This woman has bigger cheeks, and her lips are pursed, a bit like how a squirrel looks when chewing.

  ‘Sister Teresa,’ says Mr Zamora expansively as he steps stiffly from the cart. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  ‘Mr Zamora.’ Sister Teresa nods. Already I can tell she doesn’t approve of him. She scans us as we step down from the cart. I don’t think she approves of any of us. My leg has gone to sleep and I have to hit it a couple of times before the blood comes tingling back. We stand in a line as if for inspection, though no one has told us to.

  ‘You are well trained,’ says Sister Teresa drily, then walks slowly along the line, asking our names.

  ‘It’s late,’ says Sister Teresa after we have introduced ourselves. ‘You must be tired.’ Kidlat yawns as if on cue, and she raises her eyebrows at him. ‘Cover your mouth next time. For now, I will show you to your beds. Tomorrow I will explain the rules. Tonight, two will suffice: no talking after bedtime, and no getting out of bed in the night unless you need the privy. Understood?’

  Everyone nods except me, who says, ‘Yes, Sister Teresa,’ in a sing-song, like in school. A couple of the girls giggle, and the nun’s eyes flash over me. I do not know if I am being praised or not.

  ‘Boys, follow Mr Zamora. Girls—’ she motions inside and to the right. ‘Follow me.’

  Mr Zamora clears his throat. ‘Sister Teresa, am I to understand I will be sleeping in the dormitory?’

  Sister Teresa had turned away but now she pivots back, very slowly and on her heels, so it looks as if the ground has moved rather than her. She is a bit terrifying.

  ‘Yes,’ she says in a clipped tone. ‘That is what you are to understand.’

  Mr Zamora is undeterred. ‘I was led to believe I would have my own quarters.’

  Sister Teresa’s lips twitch. ‘So you do.’

  She points to a shadow to the right of the building, which resolves itself into a pile of bamboo sticks. ‘You’re welcome to stay there if you wish.’

  A few of the others laugh and Mr Zamora glares around at us. ‘Why is it not ready?’

  ‘Because you were in such a rush to take these children from their families, you have arrived early. Come, girls.’

  But before she can lead us inside Mr Zamora steps in front of her. His voice is sickly sweet, but has the edge of a blade embedded in it. ‘Sister, let’s not get off to a bad start. Do I need to remind you that the funding for this place is entirely reliant on my plans to bring the Culion children here? That the government paid to build the new storey at my command?’ He gestures at the orphanage behind him.

  I notice that the top part of the building does look newer, its paintwork brighter, and there is glass in the windows whereas on the lower floor there are only shutters.

  ‘And if we cannot get along,’ continues Mr Zamora, ‘it will not be my position in jeopardy. Do we understand each other?’

  I cannot see Sister Teresa’s face, but her voice comes out just as sweet and dangerous as his. ‘Perfectly.’ With this she sweeps around him and inside as if she wore a silk cloak and not a cotton habit.

  I snatch a glance at Mr Zamora before I follow with the others. His lips are pressed together so tightly they are white. He notices me looking and a hissing sound escapes his mouth. I drop my head.

  The light comes from candles in the central room. Its details are picked out by the thin brightness – desks, chairs, a smudged blank blackboard. There is a door leading off each side of the room, another beside the board, and a set of narrow stairs disappearing up into darkness.

  We turn right and enter our dormitory, with pallets and thin blankets for beds. Someone sniffs loudly. Sister Teresa shows each of us to a bed in the gloom, and indicates the direction of the privy. A sudden scuffling comes from above our heads and I think it is mice until Sister Teresa frowns and sets off upstairs. We hear her muffled warnings, and climb into bed quickly and quietly.

  My bed is at the far end of the room. It is lumpy in all the wrong places, and smells faintly stale. There are etchings in the wall next to my head – a stick figure with long hair, and the letter ‘M’. As the night settles, I can hear waves hitting rock, as though I’m sleeping on top of the sea. The whole night feels unmoored, the strangeness sharp and uncomfortable as thorns. It is only by pressing my fingers into my ears and humming one of Nanay’s lullabies that I can begin to fall asleep.

  THE ORPHANS

  S

  ister Teresa snores. It wakes me up early, and I lie with a tangle of knots in my stomach, listening to her. Twice in the night I had reached for Nanay and found only emptiness. We are all red-eyed and reluctant when she strides up and down the room ringing a little bell. The room looks even sparser in the grey morning light. It is bigger than I realized, and there is a whole row of empty beds against the windowless back wall. The shutters on my side open on to the scrubby courtyard where we arrived.

  Sister Teresa instructs us to change out of our travel clothes. All of us fell asleep in them and we look rumpled as rags. She collects them into a pile and gives them to Tekla.

  ‘The first chore is laundry. We will organize a rota. There is soap in a box on my desk. You must ask permission before you use it, as we are not quite prepared for this number of children. I will get some more supplies today, but even then we use our resources sparingly, yes?’

  I am uncertain how to answer after being the only one to speak last time, but Sister Teresa is looking at me expectantly so I reply, ‘Yes, Sister Teresa.’

  ‘Thank you, Amihan. Girls, please follow her lead. Otherwise it sounds like I
am talking to myself.’

  Tekla nudges one of the two Igmes and they snicker quietly. ‘Goody two shoes,’ hisses Tekla. Heat rushes to my face, but Sister Teresa doesn’t hear her.

  ‘After we have made you presentable, you can meet the other children. They are anxious to make your acquaintance.’ I remember the whispers and the scuffling and hope she is telling the truth. ‘Let’s get started, then. Follow me.’

  We do so, Tekla wrinkling her nose at the dirty clothes in her arms. The door to the boy’s dormitory is closed, so Sister Teresa opens it and stands in the doorway ringing her bell until we hear them wake up.

  ‘Change into clean clothes, then join us outside,’ she says. ‘Mr Zamora?’

  His face appears suddenly around the door. By the look of his bloodshot eyes and his yesterday clothes it seems he hasn’t slept.

  ‘You will need to ensure the boys rise earlier in future. We can’t fall too far behind the day.’

  Sister Teresa does not go up the stairs, so we have to wait to meet the other children. We follow the nun outside, leaving Mr Zamora looking very much like he got out of the wrong side of bed, if he laid down at all.

  The cart is still there, the driver asleep in the back. Sister Teresa leads us quietly past and I suspect she believes he deserves a rest more than Mr Zamora does.

  When the boys join us, rubbing their eyes in the early morning light, we set off across the courtyard and down a narrow track through thick forest.

  Kidlat keeps close behind me. His brown eyes are wide and frightened, fringed with lashes starfished together from crying. He has put his tunic on back to front and I crouch to turn it the right way around. He watches me closely, whimpering when I pull his thumb from his mouth so I can manoeuvre his arm out and back into the correct sleeve. I take his pudgy hand and we run to catch up with the others.