Piers Torday - The Last Wild

‘Hold still, you wretched beast, damn you!’ Fat Man yells.

*What do I do now?* I ask the stag, barely getting the words out, trembling with fear.

His head jerks back and forth like a puppet on a string and I actually hear the horns flex and crack under the pressure. But his reply to me is as steady as the flames in the fire.

*Is it true, what I heard her say?*

I don’t know how to answer.

And he screams again in pain, as his head is yanked back by Fat Man.

Ma puts her hand over my hand holding the knife, and squeezes it so tight that I gasp in pain. She whispers in my ear, ‘We’ll hold him, don’t be frightened.’ As if. Of the stag — never. ‘Aim for a clean cut across the throat, that’s the proper way.’ She steps back, waiting, gesturing me to cut whenever I’m ready. ‘We shall all dine well tonight, thanks to you. Dine like we haven’t dined for years.’

How could I be so wrong? The stag was right — we can’t trust any other humans. How can you ever trust someone who wants to eat you?

The girls at the front start on the drums again. The crowd begin to stamp their feet, banging cups, impatient now –

‘FEAST! FEAST!’

‘CUT! CUT!’

I know these people are only hungry. They haven’t eaten properly for months. We’re all hungry. I look again at the stag, his rolling brown eyes, his heart beating visibly under his chest, his great crown of horns — and try to answer his question.

*I don’t know —*

*Then there is only one way to find out. Do what you must,* he says, gritting his teeth. *A great stag always faces his fate. Just save the wild.*

I look down at the knife in my shaking hand, and again at the stag. In his eyes there is only encouragement, nothing else. My brain is racing, thinking of everything he has taught me, but this time we’re surrounded. There are no varmints here to come out of the ground or fishroad to save us.

And as if it can sense my thoughts, as if it was wired into my head rather than strapped round my wrist, my watch buzzes angrily. I don’t want to take my eyes off Ma or the stag, but I glance quickly down at the flashing pale square –

One word.

DON’T

Then it’s gone, as quickly as it came, the screen black as before. There’s no time to think –

‘Come on, boy — don’t be shy,’ says Ma, giving me a shove. ‘Don’t pretend you aren’t hungry too.’

Don’t? Don’t? No, I won’t.

I fling down the knife, which bounces and shines on the ground, resting at Ma’s feet.

There’s a gasp from the crowd. Ma isn’t having that though. She picks up the knife, takes my arm and squeezes my hand around the handle, lifting it up, so the knife — its point glittering — is poised just above a plump vein running across the stag’s throat, pumping faster and faster.

*Make it quick,* says the stag. *For I am ready.*

*But I can’t,* I say. *I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want you to go—*

*I made a promise,* is all he says.

Ma puts her hands over mine again, and the blade –

‘There, lad, I’ll guide you’ –

I close my eyes –

When the voice comes, it is loud and strong.

‘Stop!’

It’s Polly.

She’s stood up, and the crowd’s gaze — like a shower of arrows — has shot her way. She doesn’t seem bothered. Her face set, she steps forward.

I look at her as if to say, ‘What are you doing? Sit down!’

She shakes her head. Everyone’s looking at her, but she doesn’t care.

‘Kester. You always try to do everything on your own.’

That’s not true. I let her help me at Wind’s Edge, but—

‘It’s my turn now. My turn to help you, don’t you see?’

There’s confusion among the crowd now. Ma has paused, a frown on her face, but Polly is quite calm, stepping forward into the light.

‘It’s OK. It’s my turn to be brave now.’

People are asking each other questions, calling out, ‘Who is she?’ and, ‘What you on about, girl?’

She’s not listening to them. It’s like a force field, an invisible bubble that only she can see, has closed up around her. She picks her away towards us between all the sitting and lying bodies, like they were just logs or rocks. She sweeps a loose curl of hair back behind her ear. Everything is careful, thought through. She jabs at her chest, with a passion that surprises me. ‘I can talk, Kester. You can’t. Let me speak for you.’

‘All right, lass — but after we’ve eaten, all right?’ calls Ma.

She can’t see the force field. Polly shakes her head, like nothing in the world will change her mind, and steps closer towards the fire. Standing right in front of the flames — everyone watching — arms folded, immovable. When she speaks, it is loud and clear, so everyone can hear.

But she only says one thing:

‘You can’t kill that stag.’

Dead simple. Just like that.

There’s a stunned silence at first. Even from Ma. Then — right at the back, from the smoke-filled shadows, a shout –

‘Don’t be dumb! It’s only an animal!’

Followed by a laugh, a nasty dirty laugh. Then some people near the voice begin to chuckle as well — and then everyone begins to laugh, a ripple spreading through the crowd, like the fire itself, catching everyone it touches. Repeating Polly’s words back to her — ‘ You can’t kill that stag’ — like she’d just said the world was flat and the moon was made of cheese.

Laughs and words, thrown at her from every side. Even Ma’s face crinkles up with laughter, and not the nice kind. Everyone roars and screams, slapping their thighs, heads thrown back, eyes watering, shoulders shaking — proper, proper laughing; you could probably hear it from a mile off.

Everyone laughing but Polly and me.

Ma’s face hardens again. As it does, and everyone sees Polly not blushing or backing down, the laughter fades away to a blanket of silence that flattens everything. Ma turns to face her at last, her voice rough and angry.

‘Why not, lass?’

When Polly replies she looks so pale, so tired and hungry like the rest of us, and yet so strong and brave at the same time. Her voice doesn’t waver.

‘Two reasons. One, because he’s the last one ever. We’re taking him, and the others, to Premium, whether you like it or not.’ Polly points at me. ‘And his father’s going to find a cure for them.’

There’s a cry of disbelief from the crowd and Ma explodes with rage.

‘I don’t bloody care what you think, little missy! Take them to the man Facto says started the thing in the first place — I don’t think so. And besides, what does it matter anyhow?’ She slaps the stag on the flank as if he was just a rock standing there, not a living, breathing thing. ‘In the end, they’re only bloody animals.’

But that is where she is so very wrong.

‘And the second reason,’ says Polly, ‘is this.’ She digs into her pocket, and pulls something out of it. Something small and pale, a ball of wax, squashed and misshapen by the journey, sitting in her outstretched hand.

The pine resin Polly collected by the fish-road.

‘It might come in useful, you never know.’

She glances at me, like I’m meant to be doing something — and Ma squints from the other side of the circle to see what she’s holding and then shakes her head with irritation, leaving the knife in my hand and striding round to Polly. ‘What on earth …? Right, I’ve had enough of these children’s games.’