Changeling's Island - eARC (9 page)

He took the old Spiderman II bag down from on top of the cupboard. Feeling for the CD, he found his passport instead.

He’d forgotten that he’d taken that.

He sat and stared at it for a long time.

That might be far enough, if they didn’t just send him back.

Only it would cost a fortune.

And right now he only had thirty-five dollars.

Thirty dollars he’d worked for. Five dollars Gran had taken from her tin box, and he hadn’t spent. Like she could only give him five dollars!

And now Hailey was ignoring him. And she’d probably tell everyone he was a thief. Like Gran thought he was, when she found the money in his pockets. What had she been doing in his pockets anyway? A reasonable part of his mind said,
probably emptying them before she washed your jeans
. He ignored it. If she could look in his stuff and take, he could look in hers. If she thought he was a thief, he might as well be one.

He went to her room and pulled the small old tin box from under the neatly made bed. He had a big twinge of “you shouldn’t be doing this,” but he did it anyway. The box wasn’t even locked. He put it on the bed and opened it.

Thousands of dollars did not spill out. There was a thin little sheaf, mostly of five-dollar notes, on top of a pile of slightly yellowed envelopes. During the week, in conversation, he’d fished from Molly the cost of a flight to Melbourne. Without even counting the money Tim knew that it wasn’t enough. The paper clip holding the notes together was rusty and old.

Tim picked up one of the envelopes, the top one. It was addressed to Mary Ryan, care of Whitemark Post Office. It had been carefully opened.

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable…but now that he’d come this far, Tim took out what was inside. It was just a letter, the folds cracking slightly.

In spite of himself Tim couldn’t help but read part of the first page. It was very neat, round-lettered upright writing, as if written by someone trying very hard, who hadn’t done a lot of writing:

“My Darling Mary,

Here in Saigon it is so hot and sticky it’s hard to breathe. I miss the Island and the Cuckoo’s Nest nearly as badly as I miss you and my boy, my love. I just hope you’ve got enough money for…”

Tim stopped reading, put the letter carefully back in the envelope. On the back in the same big, round hand was the sender’s address. It started with “Private JM Ryan” and a number. Shaking himself and feeling creeped out and guilty, Tim carefully put it back, and put the box under the bed again.

He went back to his room, chewing his bottom lip. That must be from, like, fifty years ago, and she still kept it.

The phone started ringing. It didn’t do that much. Tim went and answered it. It was McKay. “Hello, Tim. Sorry, not going to sea, but do you want some more work on the boat?”

Tim heard the kitchen door open. It was obviously his grandmother back, and he did stammer somewhat, thinking what could have happened if she’d come back two minutes earlier. “Uh, yes, I…I have to ask my grandmother. She’s just come in.”

“It’ll be about three hours tomorrow afternoon.”

So Tim held his hand in front of the mouthpiece, and asked. His grandmother nodded. “There’s a bit of work on the farm to do, a bit of fencing, but I can manage. I have, all these years.”

“It’s only in the afternoon. If you get me up early, I’ll do it.” Even as he said it, Tim thought he was crazy. Early? He was offering to get up early. But he was still feeling guilty.

It did get a hint of a wintery smile from the old woman. “Go. I’ll cut yer lunch.”

So Tim confirmed, arranged a time to be at the corner, as his grandmother made a pot of tea.

“So how was yer show?” she asked, pouring the tea. “I used to go every year, but I haven’t for twenty years now.”

“You should. Your veggies would win, hands down.” Tim stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the five-dollar note. “I didn’t spend it.”

She didn’t take it. “I gave it to yer to have some money to spend there. Buy some stuff.”

Tim shrugged. How could he explain that most things cost more than five dollars unless he wanted food or junk, and that anyway he had been hoarding it…and that having looked in her little tin box…he couldn’t keep it now. “I just looked at things. I…I didn’t want to waste money. And I’m earning some money.”

His grandmother took the note. “You’re a different boy to yer father. I’ll put it back with the emergency fund then. My John always said I must put a bit there for a rainy day. Money does seem a bit tight, Tim. Stock prices have been terrible.”

Tim blinked a bit at this. Several of the kids in his grade were farmers’ or farmworkers’ children, and beef prices had been mentioned. It sounded like a lot of money to him. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “We’ll manage. This is our place. Been through tough times before. Yer granddad’s family were some of the first people to farm on the island.”

“Molly’s dad asked.”

“There’s a lot of history here, some of it best forgotten,” said his grandmother, in a way that said parts of it were best not asked about. “But yer belong here. This is yer place. Now we need to move them sheep.”

No, it wasn’t his place. His place was Melbourne, thought Tim. A place where you didn’t spend hours chasing sheep through the bush. But at least the next day he’d get out, earn some more money.

Better yet, the next day after McKay had picked him up, he was sweeping out the sawdust inside the boat’s new structures, when he came across an old bag, about the size of his fist. It was a neat leather pouch with a drawstring. He’d almost swear it had just appeared among the sawdust and shavings, but it must have been lying under something. There were a couple of coins in it—black and green…but that was with age.

He showed it to McKay. “Right. I wonder how long that’s been there. It’s someone’s little change pouch, I reckon. What’s the date on the coins? Must be before the 1966 changeover.”

Tim peered. “The black one is 1945. The other…It’s quite worn. Nineteen thirty-something.”

“Right. Well, it’s been around a while! Nice little oilskin bag, too. It’s a real sailor’s thing. Quite a find for you. Wish I was that lucky.”

Tim held it out to him. “It’s your boat.”

McKay shook his head. “It’s some long dead fisherman’s lost property, and you may as well have it. You found it, after all. I was working there yesterday. If I’d cleaned up after myself, I would have found it. So, there you go. A start to your fortune. Your first piece of silver. I think it’s probably worth about five dollars by now.”

“Wow. Thanks!”

Tim hung the oilskin bag from a piece of old hand-line cord around his neck, and added the rest of the money into it, in the Ziploc.

* * *

Áed had found the old pouch and its coins between two floor planks. It had been dropped there when the board had been nailed on, and no human could reach it. He understood his master wanted money. Why he was collecting paper, though, was beyond him. Real wealth was copper, or silver, or gold.

His master was still largely unaware of the sprite of air and darkness that was loyal to him. But he’d taken to the old ways and courtesies taught by his grandmother. And sometimes he blinked as if he almost saw Áed, but refused to believe what he saw. That was quite a common problem for humans.

CHAPTER 9

During the next few weeks, as school trundled on its slow way towards the summer holidays, Tim gradually learned more about the bounds of his prison and how to use what it had. He could go online at the library. His Facebook reminded him of what a quiet desert his life was. He didn’t want to update his status, in case anyone back in Melbourne asked him why he was here. He looked to see how Matthew, the guy from junior school he’d been best buds with, before, well, before they’d moved, before Dad had gone to Oman. Before St. Dominic’s. But he didn’t comment, because he didn’t want anyone to know where he was. Or in case someone from the island friended him or something. It was like a lingering toothache that sneaked up on him when he’d almost forgotten about it.

He found the more he knew of the island kids and adults, the less they were like the zombie horde. They didn’t know anything, of course, not about real stuff in the city, but some of them were actually pretty decent. A couple of the kids said he must come fishing sometime, or on a quad-bike trail. It hadn’t actually happened yet, but they had offered. He hadn’t ever wanted them to know why he’d come here. Now he really, really didn’t.

Things people had said made him realize they thought he was here because his parents had divorced, or were getting divorced.

That story suited Tim just fine. It had a bit of truth to it.

While online, he also looked up the prices of flights. That suited him a lot less well. He’d set quite a high bar for himself, he thought, sitting on the ground, weeding. At Gran’s, there was always weeding to do. And digging his fingers in the dirt…it left him feeling stronger for some crazy reason. Well, “stronger” in “the more able to cope with all of this” sense of “strong,” not in the “picking up stupid sheep and putting them over the wonky fence” sense. That, he still struggled with. There was just such a lot of heave and carry and lift about the farm. Even the carrots he’d taken as just orange things at the supermarket took a lot of pulling out of the ground.

He’d found a shortcut across the fields, and he could walk fast and catch the bus in twelve minutes now. And he’d found his way down to sea. The day after a storm, when they’d had enough rain to make it a dripping-wet walk back through the bush from the school bus, Gran had taken them down there in the ute from the shed. The ute was a very old Ford pickup with a tub-tray, growing cobwebs. He hadn’t even known it was there for the first few weeks. Gran’s method of driving seemed to be to get into the wheel-ruts and look at the paddocks. She drove completely in first gear, so it was only mildly terrifying. She yelled out the window for directions, which was a lot worse.

“What are you doing?” he asked, clinging on to the dashboard.

“Don’t backseat drive!” she snapped, peering sideways.

“There isn’t a backseat. Mind that tree!”

She swung away from the fallen ti-tree and they scraped past several other trees and then back to the track. “Yer drive on the way back,” she said.

“But I can’t drive!”

“Yer better learn then,” she said.

“But I am not allowed to drive. I’m too young.”

“Not on the road. On the farm.”

She turned the ute at the last dune just before the sea, and faced it more or less back down the track.

Tim rapidly discovered this hadn’t merely been a scenic trip, or just to get his knuckles white clinging onto the window frame.

“The storm washed the weed up, and the rain’s washed the salt off. It’s good for the garden.”

She looked at the sea. Shook her fist at it. “And yer be off. Don’t yer be coming anywhere near here, or I’ll stick a pitchfork in you.”

“Who? Who are you talking to?” asked Tim looking at the gray angry water.

“The seal-woman. She’s nothing but trouble.” She pulled a face. “Have you got a knife?”

“No.” Knives had caused one of the boys at St. Dominic’s to get expelled only the term before. Pupils were not allowed to carry them, and while it had been tempting…It had to be something cool, not like a kitchen knife or something. Tim had never had the spare money, or really been…well, bad enough to get one. He’d wanted…sort of, to be bad, to get a bit of respect and to make up for being small and really not much good at ball sports. Now his life was too full of people who thought he was bad, and trouble, and who still didn’t give him any of that respect, back in Melbourne anyway. Did his gran think he was a mugger
and
a shoplifter? Why did she think he had a knife?

“Yer need one. Yer never to go near the sea without steel. I’m a fool. I didn’t even think of that,” muttered his grandmother. “Well, she’ll not come near while I’m here.”

They gathered armfuls and then carried loads of stinking seaweed up to the ute. Crabs scuttled away. Little bugs ran out of it. March flies bit at them if they stopped…

And then, when the ute tray was full, piled high, his grandmother said: “I hope yer can move the seat. It hasn’t bin moved since yer father was a boy.”

Tim noticed she never mentioned his father’s name. Hardly ever even talked about him. If she did talk about anyone, it was “my John,” and even that didn’t happen too often.

They wrestled with the seat and got it to move slightly. Then it stuck. “Can yer push the pedals all the way down?”

Tim tried. The ute lurched forward. “Foot off the clutch, on the brake,” said his grandmother.

He got the part about taking his foot off the pedal. “Which is the brake?” he asked in a panic.

It was rather a long trip back with the seaweed. Tim was exhausted, but quite pleased with himself. He’d found the concentration of driving a strain. He’d stared hard ahead so much that he imagined he saw all sorts of things out of the corner of his eye that just weren’t there when he looked properly: Potholes, logs, a small hairy manikin in a hat clinging to the outside mirror. That, which nearly sent them off the road and into the bog, was on second glance a bunch of weeds.

When they got home his grandmother said, “I need a pot of tea. And they deserve some beer. I don’t think we’re ready to try taking the ute into the shed yet. Just stop.”

Tim had gotten used to his grandmother’s ways by now, or at least the beer for the fairies idea. He set out the bowls. There were two of them to be put out, one in the barn, and one in the corner of the kitchen, each with a half-centimeter of beer in them. A bottle lasted a couple of weeks or more. He figured the mice or something must love it.

Only this time, he was tired enough to just sit there in the kitchen, and he happened to be looking at the bowl. The flat beer was a limpid brown pool in the bowl…and then it began to ripple, as if something was lapping at it. And then, all by itself, the bowl tipped a little. Tim blinked. Rubbed his eyes.

Looked. Rubbed them again.

The bowl was empty. Drained of the last drop.

It must have been a mouse he couldn’t see at this angle…or something. It was enough to creep him out. But Gran decided they’d sat about idle for long enough, so she said, “Come. We’ve got a ute to offload.” She hesitated for a second, went to the drawer of the kitchen dresser, and rummaged about. “Here,” she said, holding a flat, yellowed object out to him. “It was yer great-granddad’s penknife. Useful on the farm. I thought yer must have one.”

It was a solid, heavy piece of steel, with the outside casing made of a yellow, scratched…something.

“It’s supposed to be walrus tooth. Sailor’s knife, been in my family a long time. Must have come from Scotland, somewhere. We don’t have walrus here.”

Tim opened the knife warily. It had obviously been sharpened many times. Once it must have been quite a broad blade. Now it was narrow. He tested it against his finger, and cut himself. “Ouch. It’s sharp,” he said, looking at it.

“Yer keep it that way,” said his grandmother. “What use is a blunt knife? It’s not this new stainless steel, boy. It’ll rust. Yer oil it, clean it after yer use it, and keep it sharp.” She took a deep breath. “And yer keep it with yer all the time. Especially at the sea, or near it. That seal-woman doesn’t like iron. I didn’t know she was still around. Yer don’t ever go into the sea without a knife. You wash it in fresh water and oil it after, as soon as you can.”

“But…it’s dangerous. I…I’m not allowed to have a knife.” He could just imagine his mother finding it. Or someone at St. Dominic’s. Or the store where he’d been caught.

His grandmother snorted. “Townie nonsense. They got nothing they need a knife for, except to try and pretend they’re tough, and cut each other. It’s different here, Tim, working on the farm. A knife ain’t dangerous, any more than a spade. It’s laid there in that drawer for forty years and not hurt anyone. It’s what you do with it that’s dangerous, if you’re a fool or a little child. It’s a tool, not a toy. Don’t play with it. And never test it on yer thumb.”

Tim felt quite peculiar about the old knife. He wanted it. But he was scared about being in trouble because of it. “They won’t let me have it at school.”

His grandmother rubbed her chin, a sign, Tim had learned, that she was considering something. “Fair enough. It’s far from the sea. But the minute you get back here it goes in yer pocket. No going near the water without it.”

That was rather different from the warnings his mother had given him.

* * *

Áed saw the knife and, because he was a creature of air and darkness, saw those aspects to the piece of steel too. It had the marks of blood on it. Fae or half-Fae blood, which left stains that did not wash away. The marks were old and fading, but it was ironic that this knife would come to the child-of-the-child-of-the-child-of-the-child…many times of the changeling blood spilled on it. In the distant past…it had killed Finvarra’s half-human child, here. It was appropriate, a repayment of a kind, that it should now be the defense against Finvarra’s sendling. It would be effective on the selkie too, and quite possibly kill her, if the master had the sense to have it with him, and to use it.

Áed made a point to tell the selkie about it that night, while the young master slept, exhausted by his labors. “An iron tooth he carries. It’s had the lifeblood of one of the Aos Sí gush over it,” said Áed. He relished that part. “He keeps it next to his skin, seal-woman. Neither your art nor all the water in the sea will save you, if he wields it against you in fear.

The selkie smiled, showing her tricuspid teeth. “It’s first that I’ll bargain for what I want, little one. I always bargain first…after frightening them a bit. Forewarned is also forearmed, though, if bargaining fails.”

Áed knew he’d at least made her wary. He was not sure that was a good thing.

* * *

Tim found the December holidays had sneaked up on him. To the other kids, school might drag, but although he would rather have died than admit it, he quite liked going there. One was supposed to hate school, and long for the holidays. However, the holidays were a big uncertain area, and Tim knew it would be majorly uncool to admit it too, but tiny classes and fairly flexible work suited him better than the “you are just a number to pay the fees” attitude at St. Dominic’s. There, money, and how you dressed, and how good you were at ball sports counted. He didn’t drip money, couldn’t get his mother to buy the right clothes for him, and was never going to be any good at ball games. He’d been left out. Here…well, it was difficult to avoid being involved. Besides, he’d found he was good at swimming, at least by local standards. The school pool was a place where he felt a bit of a champion, and where swimming lessons back in Melbourne paid off. There was nothing like winning a race to make you feel like taking part in the other things, Tim found.

Term ended. Tim waited for the call saying he was heading back to Melbourne for the holidays.

So, plainly, did his grandmother. “Yer better call yer mother,” she said, on the second night of the holidays. It hadn’t been much of a holiday, so far. They’d been fixing the troughs and fetching in the hay. Tim was a much better driver by now, but the hay was hard work. He hurt and itched and sweated and sneezed. And Gran just kept going. “Yer’ve come on, boy,” she said at the end of it all. “Yer couldn’t have picked up a bale when yer come here.”

It was still heavy enough, like the telephone in his hand. He dialed. It rang. He tried to think of what he’d do, back in Melbourne. Who he’d go and see. Who he’d hang out with, and…and…

The phone went on ringing. Eventually the answering machine cut in, with his mother’s lilting voice. “I’m sorry, I’m not home. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.”

He hadn’t thought of what to say.

“Uh, Mum. It’s me. Tim. I was just wondering, um, about the holidays…” He realized he had no idea what the phone number was here. His grandmother hadn’t been about to give him any privacy for this. She was standing right there. He put his hand in front of the mouthpiece. “What’s our number? I’m leaving a message.”

“Our number…” Nan told him, and he had to put the phone down. He wondered where his mum was? If she was all right…What if she was dead, or in a hospital or something? Would he spend the rest of his life here? He felt the little bag hanging around his neck. Not a chance. He was 17.4 percent of the way to Melbourne already.

“Out gadding,” said his grandmother, disapprovingly. “Looking for another man, probably. We’ll try in the morning. Bet she will be in her bed when the cow is being milked.”

Tim had gotten more or less used to that by now. That would be something he could do in Melbourne. Not get up and milk the cow. The cow would just have to cope with Nan.

“I didn’t think. I could call her mobile.”

“It costs extra.”

“Please…I want to know,” he asked, worried now. “She might have had an accident or something.”

His grandmother rubbed her chin, then nodded. “Tell her to call you back on the landline.”

He dialed the number. He had to think to remember it…It had been a while. Hailey’s number, he had down pat still. Not that he would call it after the Island Show! His mother’s phone rang twice, and she answered. There was laughter and music in the background. “Tim? Is something wrong?”