Piers Torday - The Last Wild

The ripples, wave-like ropes of water dragging across the surface of the fish-road, bear down on Polly as the branch she is holding on to begins to loosen and wobble, slowly slipping over the edge.

*Quick! Quick! You have to go faster! Faster!* I yell at them, whatever they are. And then I see them, coiling through the water, just visible near the surface now, in the night light — long, dark, twisting lines.

Snakes.

Snakes that swim.

*Water snakes,* says the stag from the bank. He can see the look on my face. *Have no fear. They do not bite.*

I look over at Polly as the branch tumbles over the edge, churning in the white spray. With a little cry she lets go, scrabbling to grab a rock instead, but her hands can’t grip — and the foaming water drives her over the edge of the whiterforce.

*Polly!* I shout, even though I know she can’t hear me –

I’m running through the water, not caring about being swept away –

And a dozen long thin lines coil out of the fish-road, so fast you could easily miss them, and I just catch a flash of yellow eyes in a spear-point head, before the snakes dive under the water again, over the edge, after Polly –

Then, nothing.

I stop, bent over, heaving for breath.

They’ve all gone — the snakes, Polly and Sidney.

All that’s left to hear is the churning of the whiterforce and the sound of my heart.

I lost them.

But just as I turn back to the stag and the wolf-cub, there’s a commotion at the edge of the drop.

Black lines are appearing in the water again, pulsing strongly against the current, their yellow eyes gleaming, as they drag behind them, wrapped tightly in their coils –

A small girl who is whimpering and shaking, but alive.

Slowly but surely the water snakes pull Polly towards us. The wolf-cub and I stumble through the fish-road to help, the snakes slithering between our legs as they bring her like a ship into harbour. Polly is crying softly, and as I take her in my arms the snakes begin to disappear again.

I whip round. *Thank you!*

A single spear-point head flips out of the water, looking towards me for a second, the yellow eyes blinking. *Ommm!* he says. Then, shaking his head, the snake dives back into the depths. The chanting fades away to nothing, and the water is calm again, as if they had never been there.

I turn back to Polly. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes half shut. She turns her head stiffly and looks at me. Her voice is very low.

‘You saved me.’

I feel embarrassed all of a sudden. She needs to rest now.

As if she realizes this, she closes her eyes and snuggles up against the stag, also safely back on shore. We’re all back apart from the wolf-cub, who is still just standing in the water, staring into space. I pick up a tiny pebble and send it splashing behind him to get his attention.

But he doesn’t even notice.

He must be exhausted. I ruffle his head. He glances up at me for less than a second, before turning back to stare into the darkness. I shake him again, and he pulls away from me, snarling. So quietly I have to strain to hear him, he says, *The cat. You lost the cat.*

And then — softly at first — it begins to rain.

The pigeons wake me as soon as it’s light, settling on the stag, pulling seeds from his fur. At first I think they’re cleaning him but then I see they’re just feeding themselves. The wind has blown away the rain clouds and dried us as we slept, hidden behind the warm back of the stag. Behind us, the whiterforce tumbles down on to the rocks below as loudly as ever. Polly is still fast asleep, resting her head on her arms. The wolf-cub snores loudly at our feet, occasionally making gruff squeaks and twitching, like he’s having a bad dream.

I reach out my arm to touch Polly — but I don’t.

I didn’t save her cat.

I’m so lost in my head that the pigeons have to repeat themselves several times before I realize they’re talking to me. *Kester, Kester!*

*What?* I say crossly.

*Kester — please listen. We must continue our journey with all speed.*

I look at them, rubbing my eyes. *What’s the point?* I can only just bring myself to say the words. *We’ve lost Sidney. I can’t look after you all. I don’t know if I can save you.*

The pigeons look at one another and give a bird-like shrug. *What is the loss of one cat compared to saving the many lives of the last wild?*

*Yes, you’ve lost many lives, and one cat.* This time the white pigeon doesn’t make me smile. I explode at all of them.

*Is that what you really think? How can you?*

My voice must be only just audible above the crashing of the whiterforce, but in reply the pigeons flock together and launch straight up into the sky.

There’s no panic — just a calm power into the air, more like they’re floating up through water. Just above tree height they join up into a circle of dots far above my head. As their wing tips meet up, the circle begins to spiral slowly and they start making a noise I’ve never heard the pigeons make before. A long, low moan, which echoes all the way along the fish-road, over the roar of the whiterforce, over the rattle of the wind. And then I start to hear words, strange words I have never heard before. Words sung in a list, repeated over and over again — *O lapwing, kestrel, turtledove, cuckoo, hawfinch, redpoll, grebe, swift, pipit, whinchat and wood warbler. Corn bunting, curlew, harrier, redshank, ring ouzel, twite, willow tit and wagtail. Bittern, grouse, godwit, capercaillie, chough, corncrake, nightjar and skylark …*

Every word is a ray cutting straight through me, like a laser.

And there is nothing I can do to stop their sadness.

I put my head in my hands.

*Kester,* says the stag, standing up behind me. The pigeons’ singing must have woken him up.

I just want to get away, get away from all of them. I look down at the water in front of me, and all I can see is my own stupid, angry reflection, pink and wobbling.

*Kester, turn around,* says the stag as the pigeons continue to circle and call out above. His eyes look brighter than they did. He looks stronger, fitter than I could have imagined after what he’s been through.

*The birds are grieving, Kester. Singing a call of mourning for those they have lost. They call out the names of those they have lost from the skies. What about you?*

I remember what the pigeons told me by the First Fold about their calls. But I couldn’t feel less like singing. He comes closer, lecturing me again.

*I can see so much anger in your thoughts, behind your eyes.* He pauses, but I don’t say anything. *Is there anything you would like to tell me?*

*Stop trying to be my dad all the time, because you’re not!*

*You may rest assured, Kester, that I have no wish to be your father.*

I beat my fists against his side. *You don’t understand — none of you understand!*

Now the pigeons’ wailing is waking everyone up. The wolf-cub is murmuring now, giving himself a good stretch. And Polly is wiping her eyes and staring around in a daze, sitting in a heap on the ground.

The stag leans forward, and I start, because it looks like he’s going to butt me with his horns. Instead he leans in and nuzzles my neck. He’s soft and warm, and it tickles.

I hate him. I hate him for doing this. He tried this by the house, and I’m not falling for it again.

*Stop it. Stop it. You just want to use me, you don’t care about me—*

*I do care about you, Kester, I care about you very much—*