Isla's Inheritance

by Cassandra Page

It was lunchtime when my friends and I emerged from the school building. The dark lenses of my sunglasses cut the midday sun’s glare and the air was warm in my lungs. A smile tugged at my lips. No more assessments!

  When I turned towards the car park rather than the trees where the four of us usually ate lunch, Kim looked surprised. “You’re heading off?” Beside her, Natalie, a blond-haired, blue-eyed china doll with all the subtlety of a brick to the head, was busy checking something on her phone.

  “Yeah, I’m meeting Dad for lunch,” I said.

  “Want me to come?” Sarah asked. Kim gave her a quizzical look, tipping her head to the side. Her glossy black hair gleamed.

  “Nah, this is a daddy-daughter date.” I tried to smile, but it felt strained. The butterflies in my stomach were undermining me. Stupid butterflies.

  “Will you be back?”

  “Not sure.” Our computer science teacher, Mr Holbrook, had threatened our class with a failing grade if we didn’t attend, even after exams, and we had his class during fourth period.

  Now Natalie was looking at me strangely too. “Are you nuts? You can see your dad any time.”

  “I haven’t missed any of Holbrook’s classes this term. I’ve got a couple of absences up my sleeve, and Dad and I have some catching up to do. I’ll get him to write me a note.”

  Kim patted me on the shoulder. “If there’s anything you want to talk about, you know where we are,” she said, shushing Natalie when she opened her mouth to object.

  “Thanks,” I said, although the idea of sharing the embarrassing details of last night with even these, my closest friends, made me cringe inwardly. Still, I was grateful they’d offered.

  Sarah extracted a promise that I’d talk to her tonight before letting me walk to my car. I felt her eyes on me until I pulled out of the car park.

  The drive home was short but gave me enough time to build up a knot of nerves before I pulled into my spot out in front of my aunt’s house. The knot twisted tighter when I saw Dad’s ute wasn’t in the driveway. I grabbed my bags from the boot and let myself into the house, keys jingling.

  “Dad?” I manoeuvred the gym bag and backpack into the house and left them in the hallway. Hamish ran up to sniff my legs, nose twitching as he tried to figure out where I’d been. Could he smell Casper on me?

  “He’s not here,” Ryan called from the lounge room. I poked my head in and saw him sitting on the couch, watching daytime television in his pyjamas. He shrugged at my raised eyebrow. “Mum insisted I have a day off work to recover. I didn’t think I needed it, but you know her.”

  “Did Dad come back here after nine or so this morning?”

  “He popped in, yeah. He went out to the shed. Then he told me he was going back to his place to get something, but that he’d be back here by lunchtime. He’ll be back soon, I guess.”

  Disappointed, I sent Dad a quick text to let him know I was home. Then I stuffed my phone in my pocket; Dad never answered right away, if he answered at all. The mobile phone reception at the farm was bad, so if he was still there he might not receive it.

  He’d almost certainly gone out to the shed to see the painting. Was that why he’d decided to drive back to the farm? He’d have enough time to get there and back in a morning, but it’d be a rush.

  To keep myself busy, I unpacked the gym bags and put my washing in the machine, dumped my school things on the desk in my room, then made myself a salami, cheese and tomato sandwich. Ryan started hovering when he heard me in the kitchen, so I rolled my eyes and made him one too. He poured us a couple of glasses of apple juice and sat at the dining table, waiting.

  When he’d had a couple of mouthfuls I asked casually, “So, you know how you said that painting was based on a dream?” He grimaced, which I took as assent. “What was the dream about?”

  He didn’t answer at first, taking a couple of extra mouthfuls of sandwich. I scowled.

  “I don’t remember much of it.” He sighed. “I woke up in a cold sweat, like I’d had a fever during the night, and all that stayed with me was that image. I painted it as best I could. I don’t know if I did it justice.”

  “Don’t be silly. That’s the best painting you’ve ever done.”

  “I know,” he said, ducking his head with embarrassment as he accepted the praise. The red roots were showing beneath the black dye of his hair. “But the way she shimmered and sort of glowed? I don’t think I captured that at all. She was like a firefly.”

  His words sunk into the depths of my soul. Like a firefly. Was that how she’d looked in my dream?

  “I’ve never seen a photo of her, you know,” he told me, pushing a bit of crust around his plate with a finger. “I know that’s what Mum thinks happened, but it didn’t. I know it sounds freaky, but…”

  “I believe you,” I said. “Sarah does too.”

  “You do?” He was surprised. “I mean, I figured Sarah might. She’s always loved mystical stuff: ghost stories and dreams that come true. Whatever. But you’re Sensible Isla.” He smiled. “I remember you telling Sarah Santa wasn’t real.”

  “I made her cry.”

  “Yeah.” He punched me on the shoulder, trying to look stern. His sparkling eyes gave him away. “Don’t you know that’s the big brother’s job?”

  “Sorry.”

  I was, too. I remembered the lecture I’d gotten from Dad afterwards: about how sometimes it was better to let someone believe in something we knew wasn’t real, so long as their belief wasn’t hurting them and made them happy. “Even if it’s a lie?” I’d demanded of him with a five-year-old’s righteous indignation.

  “Yes, even then,” Dad had told me.

  Was that what he’d been telling himself all these years?

  “So why do you?” Ryan asked me. I gave him a blank look. “Believe me, I mean?”

  “It’s been a weird couple of days,” I sighed. “Right now I’d believe it if you told me the sky was pink.”

  “Would you believe me if I said you owe me twenty dollars?” He sat up straight, expression hopeful.

  I laughed. “Not likely.”

  After we ate, I spent some time cleaning the house, burning off restless energy. My phone remained in my pocket, where I’d feel it vibrating even if I didn’t hear it over the vacuum cleaner or while I was emptying the bins.

  By midafternoon I still hadn’t heard from Dad, and my anxiety about our promised conversation—and irritation that he’d stood me up after I skipped school to be here—turned to worry. What if he’d had a car accident? I rang his mobile phone and the phone at the farm, but there was no answer at either one. I left messages at both numbers, trying not to sound shrill.

  I considered driving out to the farm to look for him, but what if he arrived here after I left and I missed him?

  Ryan, who had finally showered and dressed, eyed me with a frown. “You’re worried.” It wasn’t hard for him to tell; he had eyes. “Do you want me to drive out there for you?”

  “You can’t,” I protested. “You’re sick.”

  “I am not!”

  “You passed out from heat exhaustion after not eating and having weird dreams. What if you have another dizzy spell and crash your car?”

  “I’m neither hot nor hungry,” he pointed out, his tone sharp.

  “What if it’s more, though?”

  “Like what?” He stared at me. “Do you think I’ve got a brain tumour or something?”

  Before I could answer, someone came in the front door. My heart skipped a beat, but it was Sarah, not my father, who came into the lounge where Ryan and I were glaring at each other. “Who’s got a brain tumour?”

  “Me, according to Isla,” Ryan said.

  “I never said that. I meant what if you have a virus or something? You should take it easy.”

  “Now you sound like Mum,” Ryan said.

  “You do,” Sarah agreed. She looked around. “Where’s Uncle David?”

  “He never showed.” I grumbled. Sarah gave me a hu
g.

  “That’s what we were arguing about,” Ryan told his sister. “He was here not long after you left for school, but he left to go to the farm. He said he’d be back here a couple of hours ago, and Isla can’t reach him on the phone. I was going to drive out there to make sure he’s okay.”

  “I appreciate it, but—”

  “Yeah, I know; I have a brain tumour and shouldn’t be driving.”

  “Why don’t you call Mrs Wilson and ask her to see if he’s home?” Sarah asked.

  Lily Wilson was a widow who lived on the farm across from Dad’s place. Her husband had died of a heart attack fifteen years ago, but she still called herself “Mrs”. She said she was too old to be a Miss. She kept alpacas and horses and bred Russian Blues. She’d babysat me occasionally when I was little, before I’d moved in with my aunt and cousins.

  “You, Sarah, are a freaking genius.” I kissed her cheek.

  “I know.” She buffed her nails against her shirt, a twinkle in her eye.

  I didn’t have Mrs Wilson’s number. Fortunately she was listed in the White Pages online.

  The phone rang a few times before she answered. It felt like at least an hour. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mrs Wilson, it’s Isla Blackman. How are you?”

  “Very well. One of my queens, Bluebelle, had her babies four weeks ago, so I’m up to my neck in kittens. You should come out and visit, dear. See if any of them take your fancy.”

  “You’re very kind,” I said quickly, before she started giving me a rundown on the names and personalities of each kitten. She’d done it before. “I was wondering for now if you could do me a favour?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dad isn’t answering his phone, and he’s running late for an appointment. I was wondering if you could—”

  “Go over and check on him for you? Of course, dear. We single farm folk need to look out for each other.” I’d often wondered if she was interested in my father, but nothing had ever come of it. He might not thank me for sending her over there, but screw it. He was either in some kind of trouble or ignoring me—which would still get him in trouble, only with me. “Let me get my boots on and I’ll head right over,” she continued. “What number shall I call you back on if he’s not home?”

  I gave her the numbers for the house phone and my mobile. We hung up after a round of polite goodbyes.

  I hated waiting at the best of times. These weren’t the best of times. I stared out the front window, biting my lip.

  “This isn’t how it’s meant to work,” Sarah told me, perching on the arm of the couch.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the teenager. He’s meant to worry about you, not the other way around.”

  “I’ll make sure to tell him when I see him.”

  “He was worrying plenty last night,” Ryan added.

  “Shush, you,” Sarah scolded, chasing him from the room. I heard her tell him off in a low voice before she came back alone. “Sorry. He’s a doofus.”

  “It’s okay. He’s right. Maybe this is Dad paying me back.”

  “As if he’d do that.” She was right, but I shrugged anyway. Sarah decided to change the subject. “Class this afternoon was a total waste of time. Holbrook didn’t do anything except mark the roll. Then he sat at his desk and read the paper. So rude.”

  “Was he angry I wasn’t there?”

  “I told him you’d gone home sick, but he didn’t say anything. Half the class was missing, so you weren’t alone. The rest of us spent the time surfing the net or chatting.” She grinned. “It was kind of fun. Best class he’s run all semester. And no homework.”

  I smiled absently, twirling a lock of hair around my finger and clutching my mobile phone in my other hand. After a long moment, Sarah stood. “I’m going to make a coffee. Want one?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had way too much caffeine this afternoon.” If I had anymore I’d start climbing the walls like Spider-Man.

  Cabinets slammed, water ran and soon the house filled with the sound and rich aroma of percolating coffee. I stared out the window. Across the road, at the park, a couple of kids were going up and down endlessly on a seesaw while a woman in shorts and a white shirt sat on the nearby bench, watching them. Jack had said if I wanted to find him I should go to the park. Did that mean he was somewhere nearby, watching? How else would he know I was there? Some sort of fae trick?

  Jack could do any number of strange things. Would he be able to tell me where my father was?

  When, a couple of minutes later, the woman herded the kids home, I went into the kitchen. Sarah was on a stool at the counter, sipping her coffee and flicking through a trashy magazine. Hamish was curled up underneath the stool, asleep.

  “I’m going to get some fresh air,” I told her. “I’ll be across the road. If Mrs Wilson calls on the landline, can you come get me?”

  “Sure,” she said. “You’re taking your phone, just in case?”

  I nodded, holding it up.

  Across the road, the park was still deserted. I looked around, trying to spot Jack, but he was nowhere to be seen. After a moment I sat on one of the two swings, moving back and forth in a small arc, scuffing the tanbark under the swing with one toe. Soon my sneakers were powdered with fine brown dust.

  This was silly. As if Jack was going to show up.

  “Are you okay, Isla?”

  I jumped, nearly dropping my phone. Jack came around the climbing frame beyond the seesaw, walking towards me. He wore the same soft grey jumper and loose-fitting jeans as he had the night before, although they didn’t look any dirtier. The hood was up, covering his long ears, but a golden-blond lock of hair had escaped to fall down the side of his face. His skin seemed smoother than it had: the wrinkles were extremely fine, barely noticeable.

  “Jack,” I gasped. “Do you live around here?” The park was in the middle of an open, grassy space ringed with footpaths and tall shrubs. Beyond that were the back fences of several houses. I hadn’t seen him coming. And I should have.

  He shrugged, smiling, and sat sideways on a plastic bouncy frog near the swing set. I twisted on my seat to look at him. “In a manner of speaking,” he said, eyes sparkling. They were a deep blue, like a pair of sapphires: almost black except where the direct light struck them. Then they lit up with brilliant flecks of light.

  “How’s your hand?”

  He held it up, palm towards me. A faint pink line gleamed where the burn had been the night before. “Almost healed. By tomorrow that mark will be gone.”

  “Wow. You weren’t kidding when you said you heal quickly.”

  “No,” he said, smiling a little. “I was trying to find out more about your mother. So far all I have determined is that she is from the Old World, a mid-ranking aosidhe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She is, among our kind, nobility. A ruler of the duinesidhe people more broadly.” The latter term must describe all of the fae. And my French teacher had claimed I would never be able to learn a foreign language. Take that, Mr Fournier. “But we already knew she would be aosidhe,” Jack continued.

  “We did?”

  “Well, yes.” He blinked those strange, wonderful eyes. I tried not to stare. “I am sorry, I forgot. I should say I already knew she would be aosidhe.” He gestured at me as though that would be explanation enough.

  The fact my mother was some sort of fairy princess made me want to laugh out loud at the absurdity. It felt like I’d stepped into the pages of Cinderella or something. And if faeries were real, what about other supernatural creatures? Was it possible Dominic had seen a ghost all those years ago? Had the séance at the Halloween party genuinely contacted a spirit guide named Daniel? Would Dracula be annoyed Sarah had dressed up as him for a party? My mind whirled as Jack continued.

  “So I asked around for rumours of an aosidhe woman who had birthed a child to a human. There was such a one, in the Old World. She sought her child for many years.”

&nb
sp; She wants to find me? I felt the tiniest stirrings of something inside my heart, something I’d never imagined was worth dwelling on—a hope, or a desire, for a real mother. Someone who’d look at me with the same loving pride as Aunt Elizabeth did her children.

  Jack watched the emotions play across my face and stood, stepping over to brush my hand with his fingertips. His expression was sympathetic. “Isla. Do not dream too wildly, not yet. Let me find out more first.”

  “But you said—”

  “We do not know why she is seeking you.” His soft voice contained a warning. I shuddered, feeling as though a cloud had passed in front of the sun despite the empty azure sky.

  “You think she might want to … hurt me?”

  “It is too early to say. But yes, it is possible. My people are not always, or even often, known for their kindness. That is true twice over for the aosidhe. They are powerful and often cruel. Do not leap to conclusions either way yet.”

  “Oh.” Well, that was sobering. If I were going to step into the pages of Cinderella, I would prefer it be the sanitised Disney story rather than the Brothers Grimm version, with its self-mutilation and angry doves pecking people’s eyes out. The Brothers Grimm had based their stories on old folk tales rather than film rating systems; the hair standing up on the back of my neck told me which version my gut thought more credible.

  I guess I’d stick to just having a father. At least until Jack could find out more.

  Speaking of which. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about him, even for a moment. I was the worst half-human daughter in the world. “I was wondering if you could help me with something,” I asked.

  “If it is in my power,” he nodded, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

  “Dad was meant to meet me at lunchtime. He never arrived, and now I can’t get in touch with him. Do you have some way to track him down or make sure he’s okay?”

  “I could, but it would take time.”

  “How much time?”

  “That would depend where he is. At least several hours.”

  “You found me.” I indicated the park with a nod of my head.

  “I did. But you are duinesidhe, and I knew you might come here. Your father is not. And he surrounds himself with iron, which makes him even more difficult to sense.”

  I paused. “You know about that?”

  “I have been watching you since the night you tried to summon your mother.” He meant the séance. “That was unwise, by the way. It drew attention to you as clearly as if you had lit a signal fire atop a cliff.”

  I nibbled my lip, looking past Jack to Aunt Elizabeth’s house. There was no sign of movement over there, except for a tree swaying in the breeze. “You know, saying you’ve been watching me makes you sound pretty stalkerish.”

  “I am not sure what you mean.” He frowned.

  “Like a crazy person. Or a Peeping Tom. You say your people aren’t known for kindness. How do I know you don’t plan to hurt me?”

  His expressive mouth thinned. “Because I gave you my word I meant you no harm.”

  “No offence, Jack, but how do I know you’re the sort of person that keeps your promises?”

  “Because I am duinesidhe,” he said solemnly. “And duinesidhe that break a sworn oath grow sick and die, aosidhe or otherwise.”

  I searched his face for a lie, fingers tightening on the swing’s chains, but couldn’t find one. “You’re serious, aren’t you.” A statement, not a question.

  “Yes. It can take hours or months, depending on the strength of the oath and the seriousness of the violation. The only way to prevent it is if the person the fae swore to releases them from the oath, or if they somehow make amends to that person.”

  I swallowed hard. “Would the same thing happen to me?”

  “It might,” Jack said, voice gentle.

  “But I… Don’t think I’m a bad person for this, but I’ve broken promises to people before, sometimes, and nothing like that has happened.”

  “Agreeing to something is not the same as swearing to something,” Jack said. “To swear an oath requires a formal statement, like I swear or I promise.”

  “Even so…” I could think of a couple of awkward high school moments where I’d promised to do something and hadn’t—not always through any fault of my own, but it had still happened.

  “It may be…” He trailed off, eyes growing distant as he thought. “You also used to touch your father’s ironwork before and not suffer ill effects, did you not?” I nodded. “You celebrated your coming of age this month, Isla. It was after that time the iron burned you. It is not a duinesidhe thing, for the power to manifest itself after a coming of age, but I think in your case that may be what has happened.”

  “So if I break a promise to someone now, I could die?” Goosebumps shivered along my arms.

  “You may merely grow ill,” he said. “Your reaction to the touch of iron was less than mine would have been.”

  It was macabre, but I couldn’t help but ask. “What would’ve happened to you?”

  “My skin would have blackened and burned and, if the contact was prolonged, the bone would have turned to ash and crumbled away.” He said it like it was a straightforward thing. I stared up at him, horrified. He tried to smile reassuringly, but he looked uncomfortable, as if he’d seen someone burned away by the touch of iron. “Do not worry,” he continued. “Real iron is rare now, and steel does not hurt as much. It scalds, that is all—similar to the way the iron affected you.”

  “Oh, is that all?” My tone was sarcastic.

  His smile was real then, lighting up his eyes. “Indeed.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, though. Isn’t steel made of iron?”

  “Yes. Something about the process dilutes the—”

  The screen door across the road bang closed. Sarah was heading down the stairs, Ryan behind her. Jack bowed to me, a slight incline of the head and shoulders. “I will see you later, Isla.” He strode away.

  Sarah was holding the phone in her hand. Had Mrs Wilson called? I leapt up, the swing swaying wildly, and rushed across the street to meet her.

  She looked upset. So did Ryan. “Did she call?” I asked, heart in my throat.

  “Yes, just now.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “She found him on his driveway, near the gate. She said it looked like he got out of his ute to close the gate on the way out. She called for an ambulance before she rang us.”

  “Is he…?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

  “He’s alive. But she couldn’t wake him. They’re taking him to Canberra Hospital.”

  I was running for my car before the words finished leaving her lips.

  Chapter Nine