The Last Rabbit

by Shelley Moore Thomas

  The Magician read Watership Down to us because I think he just really liked it. So did we. We especially enjoyed how he made all the characters’ voices. (Though we were quite terrified that we might be related to the Black Rabbit of Inlé, which is kind of a grim reaper in the rabbit world.) The Magician assured us otherwise. We didn’t realize that it hadn’t even been written yet. The date on the inside of the book was 1972, some thirty years in the future! How could such a book even exist? Impossible! But what is more impossible, I ask you: reading a book that has yet to be thought of or becoming a rabbit (if you are not one already)? That was part of the magic of Hybrasil.

  Our island was a place of strange enchantment.

  People lived on Hybrasil, long ago, back before it disappeared the first time. They abandoned it, though, jumping in their boats as the Sea swallowed their beloved island. They left ruins just about everywhere. Lots of castle-ish structures and swirls carved into rocks. Henges and the remains of elaborate ornamental gardens strewn across the meadows. Why, if you look at any map from the 1300s, you’ll see Hybrasil—a roundish isle with a cleft across the middle (that’s where the stick bridge connects the two sides). It is really, truly there.

  But then Hybrasil vanished from the maps.

  I know this because I saw several such maps in the Magician’s library. Books and secret journals, too. (I’m very grateful I could read before becoming a rabbit, because I don’t know if a rabbit can learn to read.)

  I guess Hybrasil didn’t taste very good, for eventually, the Sea spat it back out again. Not as grand as it was before, but still magical. Who would want to face such an unstable fate, not knowing when the island might be reclaimed by the Sea? Only the bravest of the brave returned to Hybrasil.

  The first was the Magician, back when he was young and courageous.

  He took over the old castle, making it a special place for others who practiced magic. Only magical creatures could locate the island, for he placed it under a special type of enchantment.

  Sometimes the island was there. And sometimes it wasn’t.

  We, however, didn’t locate the island. We were sent here.

  But we didn’t know any of this at first, when we were still girls. We were just trying to heal our sadness. Then we became rabbits. Priorities change when you become a ball of fur. As rabbits, we just knew that we liked it when the Magician read to us from a rocking chair in front of his castle as we munched in the garden.

  I missed my rabbit sisters. All gone off with the Boy on the boat. One at a time, off to find out where they belong.

  And now it was my turn.

  “You are going to have to hide better than that, Albie.”

  I froze.

  I hadn’t expected my burrow-in-progress to be found so quickly. I could’ve run, but why bother? Even if the Boy caught me, he couldn’t take me from the island if I didn’t want to go.

  Better to pretend that I didn’t care that he found me. Let him think I planned for him to catch me. That would make his mind spin like a whirligig!

  “You know,” he said, “we don’t have to do it like this. If you come with me, you won’t be sorry.”

  In case you’re wondering, rabbits can roll their eyes. And I did.

  “I’ve word of your sisters. I can tell you about them if you come out.”

  My sisters!

  A cruel trick. Of course I wanted to know about them. Had they found each other on the mainland? What destinies did they choose?

  “Wouldn’t you like to know what happened to Caragh? The others?”

  How dare he use them to bribe me! I huffed off as angrily as a rabbit could manage.

  The truth was, I’d do anything to be with my sisters again.

  Anything.

  Except get on that boat.

  Caragh was the oldest sister—she’d be fourteen now. She was also the one who least liked being a rabbit. Not that anything much pleased her. On some days, she was such a moody creature, but on others, she would conquer the world and lay it at your feet. Mum said to get used to it—that was life with sisters.

  Isolde, strange beastie that she was, would be thirteen. She was also the most obnoxious person I knew, and I completely looked up to her. Isolde feared few things and put up with very little nonsense. I missed her keenly.

  That would make Rory twelve, just a year older than me. I hated when she left most of all. Rory was warm, fluffy, and cuddly. The burrow was especially cold and lonely when she finally took her place on the boat.

  * * *

  The whole boat thing started with Caragh. When the Boy first arrived, he had a long meeting with the Magician, which none of us were allowed to attend, or hear. (The Magician cast a spell on the room to keep all of the words in.) Then it was all decided.

  “My dears,” said the Magician as he walked out of the castle, leaning heavily on his cane. The Boy was behind him but then vanished down the path toward the beach.

  “The island is sinking, so you must go. One at a time, for that is the rule.” He saw me tapping my rabbit foot in annoyance. “What is it, Albie?”

  Of course, he knew what my problem was but smiled at me sadly anyway.

  “Alas, little one, my magic isn’t strong enough to oversee a safe voyage for four rabbits at once. I’m an old man, after all. You will have to go one by one.”

  My sisters became quite agitated. The Magician waved his cane and said some words that none of us understood, which allowed us to speak. He did this occasionally—though the times between our conversations had grown longer and longer.

  “I’m too old for this babyish nonsense,” Caragh told the Magician, placing her forepaws on her haunches. Even as a puffy bunny, she could look more annoyed than anyone I knew. “Change me back right now!”

  “It wasn’t my spell,” the Magician replied. “It’s not my magic to undo. You know that, Caragh.”

  We had probably heard that a million times.

  “You’ll have to ride the ferry and follow the rules if you want to change back,” the Magician said. “This was the best arrangement I could manage.”

  “What’s the ferry? And what are the rules?”

  “The ferry is the Boy’s boat. And the rules, well—”

  “Point me in the direction,” she said. “I’ll ride in that boat right now.”

  “But there’s a price,” said the Magician. “Magic always has a price.”

  Caragh didn’t wait to hear the rules. She just scampered down the path toward the beach.

  That was a year ago.

  And that was the last I saw of her.

  I couldn’t sleep, and not just because the burrow wasn’t finished, with roots and twigs prickling my side. So many things were crowded into my little rabbit brain, it made my head hurt. The Boy would come soon and bug me to get in the boat, and the Magician would bug me to go with him. But what bugged me most of all was that the island was going to sink, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  I thought of the many magical folk who once lived here. Those rare souls who found their way to Hybrasil and improved their magical skills tenfold under the tutelage of the Magician. Of all his students, the most powerful was Murien. She was more talented than anyone before her, even the Magician. It would have been normal to be jealous. However, if you are a true worker of magic, you don’t feel jealous or envious of those who are more powerful than you are. You simply appreciate their gift.

  The Magician sought to train Murien so that perhaps one day she would take over as caretaker of the island, for contrary to popular belief, Magicians are not immortal. There would come a day when the Magician would die. He hated the idea of no one protecting the island and letting it sink into the Sea again. At least that’s what he wrote in his secret journals.

  Yes, I read them. I am nosy by nature.

  But Murien isn’t on the island anymore. I couldn’t tell you where she is, having only met her in the pages of the Magician’s book.

  And these days,
I found myself wondering: If the Magician can’t stop the sinking, then who can? Is it even possible?

  Perhaps that sort of magic doesn’t exist.

  A soft breeze bringing the salty spray of the ocean danced across my whiskers, cooling the ache in my head.

  And that’s when I knew that maybe the only person who could tell me if the island really had to sink wasn’t a person at all.

  Swiftly I scampered out of my burrow and made my way to the Sea.

  There’s a connection between the ocean and all living things. Maybe it’s because life needs water. I don’t know, really. But people don’t seem to understand the Sea the same way animals do.

  Before I was a rabbit, I could see the ocean and hear the waves, and I liked them, of course. But I didn’t hear the poetry of the Sea, the waves, the spray.

  Gazing at the Sea always gave me time to think. Sometimes I dreamed there, even when I was awake. And when I listened well, the Sea herself spoke to me.

  What does the Sea say, when she speaks? Just ask a sailor or a mermaid, and they’ll tell you. The Sea speaks in poetry. Verses ride on her waves and melt into her foam.

  This was what she said today:

  “ ’Tis lonely and sweet

  On the island, on high

  And from a cliff watches

  The watcher.

  But there she will stay

  Not today to escape

  More twilights will greet

  The watcher.”

  I supposed that I was the watcher, and she was saying that I’d stay on the island for another day or two. Excellent news. But that wasn’t the question I’d come to ask.

  I tried to find the right words, but as I looked down at the way the waves broke restlessly upon the rocks below, only small puffs of rabbit breath came out.

  The Sea is a source of unending magic and has a temper, so it’s best not to aggravate her. She can swallow islands whole.

  That was what I came to find out. Was sinking the island something she had to do? Didn’t she have a choice about it?

  I glanced down at the violent froth below.

  I didn’t ask her.

  I couldn’t. Manners are important, and there just wasn’t a polite way to bring it up. True, she shared her verses with me, but who was I, a rabbit, to question the Sea?

  Fortunately, the Sea told me I had more time. Something I could definitely use. After I finished my burrow, I would go back and spy on the Magician.

  And the Boy.

  Clouds covered the moonrise like the cotton tail of a rabbit. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect twilight as I sneaked up to the castle. They were in the kitchen. Quick as a…well…rabbit, I jutted through a broken vent cover and ever so stealthily made my way to my listening perch.

  “Albie has never listened. Not once do I remember her listening,” said the Boy while picking at the plate of leftover colcannon. I could smell the cabbage and hear his fork pushing it around his plate.

  “Not precisely true, lad. Albie has always been an exceptional listener.”

  Why, thank you, Magician.

  “As a matter of fact, she is most likely listening to us right now.”

  Perceptive, Magician!

  The Boy looked around, peering out the window, but it was much too dark to see me, even if I’d been there. Instead, I was above in the shadowy rafters, hiding behind a large beam.

  “The trouble with Albie is what she does with what she hears. Never was there a more stubborn rabbit,” said the Magician.

  I’ll take that as a compliment.

  “I offered to tell her of her sisters,” said the Boy. “Of Caragh. All of it. But she just hopped away.”

  “All of it?” said the Magician. “I wasn’t aware there was an all of it to Caragh’s story. Don’t take me for a fool.”

  Ha! I knew it! Untrustworthy! The Magician wouldn’t stand for such nonsense.

  The conversation stopped. There was shuffling below. And pacing. It was the Boy’s even and steady steps.

  Oh, how I wish I could better see what was going on! But even the slightest move on my part might give myself away. Was the Boy shrugging? Was the Magician waving his cane maniacally at the Boy?

  Then they continued. “We’re supposed to be talking about Albie,” the Boy said.

  “Indeed. You’ll need to work more quickly, more effectively,” said the Magician. “She must make it off in time.”

  “So you have an idea, sir, of how much time we have left?”

  “It’s more of a feeling. Not a good one. Albie should have the same chance as the others.”

  But I don’t want to go. Not yet.

  “And you’ve told her of the mainland?” asked the Magician.

  “I tried, but—”

  “A poor job you did of it, then. There are many things to love on the mainland.”

  The silence seeped into my fur. I could almost feel a sigh coming from the Magician.

  The Sea would have called that sigh wistful. She uses such words.

  The Sea would have said that the Magician loves something on the mainland very, very much.

  Or someone.

  It was getting more awkward. I was deciding if I ought to shuffle a bit to make them aware that I was right overhead, but then the howling began.

  The howling came from the other side of the stick bridge.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaooooooooooowwwwwwww.”

  I didn’t know what made that sound. The Magician might have, but we didn’t talk about it.

  It was an eerie sound, the kind that begs for locked doors and latched windows.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooooooowwwwww.”

  The kind of sound that shakes bones and teeth and makes fur and whiskers stand on end.

  I couldn’t help shaking a little.

  “AAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!”

  A sound that maybe could sink an island.

  Oh, I know, creepy sounds don’t make enchanted islands sink, but the more the Magician talked, the louder and more frequent the Howler became.

  I missed my sisters so, so much at times like this. I think loneliness is the feeling of not having anyone to snuggle with.

  There was only me and whatever was howling.

  I’d pass on the Howler.

  “The Boy thinks you’re being difficult,” the Magician said to me in the garden before dawn. I was by the lettuces. Three types of lettuces!

  I stuck my nose deep in the red leaves, which were my favorite, and kept my back to him. His remark didn’t deserve a response.

  “I think you’re just being…you,” he said.

  There was a knowingness to his voice. He was trying to tell me something without actually saying it. That was the Magician’s way.

  “However, Albie, there’s the issue of you leaving the island.”

  I started chewing vigorously.

  “I cannot force you, but, Albie, you must go.”

  I stopped chewing.

  “Every day that you remain here creates more danger for your departure. I’ll not have you hurt, little one. Life out there is better than being here. There are many, many options for you.”

  I stayed put but turned my ears a smidge to hear him better.

  “Albie, you have to go.”

  I snapped my ears forward again.

  No, actually, I don’t.

  The Magician sighed. “Stubbornness will get you nowhere,” he said.

  When I looked up again, he was gone.

  I went to the shore, to hear what the Sea might say, if she was in a talking mood. (And if I was in a brave, question-asking mood.) That’s the thing about the ocean; she is always there. One hundred percent of the time. I needed to find a way to ask her about the island. But I’d let her talk first. It was only polite.

  It was a whisper, a wind over waves and spray.

  “Albie,” she said.

  “Albie, little fur queen,

  With ears aflutter

  And lucky feet.

&n
bsp; So many questions,

  In so small a form.

  Eyes overflowing,

  Never knowing.”

  Well, she knew I had questions. That was something. Then she went on.

  “Trust,” said the ocean.

  “Trust is placing your heart

  Inside of a box

  Even when you

  Yourself

  Do not

  Have a key.

  Trust is that moment

  Of finding the key,

  Opening the box,

  And giving

  It all

  Away.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, I can tell you. Why was she talking about trust and boxes and giving things away? The only person I didn’t trust was the Boy, and I’d never give him anything I couldn’t get back again. Not that I had anything—the only thing that I actually owned was…me.

  “Trust,” she said again.

  I think I got the point with the first poem, but the Sea is never one to stop when she gets going. And it is very rude to interrupt a poem. I might have done many naughty things in my day, but I have never interrupted a poem.

  “Trust is the

  Beak

  Of a tiny bird

  Pecking through

  The glassy shell,

  Not knowing

  What lurks

  On the other side.”

  I liked this one better. And she was right. Trust was about not knowing. And sometimes not knowing was good for a rabbit. And a person, too. For instance, not knowing what is on the other side of the stick bridge is probably a good thing.

  “Trust,” continued the Sea,

  “Trust is planting a cabbage seed

  In the spring

  To shelter a rabbit

  In the summer.”

  So she knew I’d been hiding and spying in the cabbages. Well, there’s not much the Sea doesn’t know.

  But she won’t tell all of her secrets.

  She’ll give you some poetry, and if you can’t figure them out, too bad for you.