Piers Torday - The Last Wild

We march on through the Forest of the Dead, singing the pigeons’ call.

I listen out, but I don’t hear any more nasty voices, and instead –

Slowly, surely, some more animals begin to come as we sing. I record each new arrival on my watch, with flash after flash. As the path runs along the leafy bank of a little stream a toad joins us, singing out in reply and hopping along the bank. I give Polly the toad to hold in her lap, and she screams out loud. But the toad doesn’t scream out or actually do anything gross. He just sits there, cool as you like in her lap, watching the world go by. When I next turn around Polly has him cupped safely in her hands.

She is the only person not calling, because she can’t hear or make the words. But every time I glance at her, the toad sat in her lap, butterflies and bees now buzzing calmly around her hair, she smiles and I realize — animal or not — she is as much part of this wild as the rest of us.

Next a pair of otters emerge dripping out of the water and slink along behind the wolf-cub. Some more birds, calling their own names in reply, join the pigeons up in the sky as the sun begins to set — shrike and yellowhammer, redpoll and woodpecker.

The bank gives way to a sandy shore, and we all scramble down to drink from the stream trickling over a bed of flat pebbles. As the stag bends his neck to the water, Polly and I slide off, scooping handfuls up into our chapped mouths and splashing it over our heads, washing the soot of the fire clean away.

Back on the shore a red squirrel hops down to us, bringing some nuts for me and Polly. The stag lies down against the bank, and Polly and I huddle close together, leaning against his furry belly, the others lying all around.

They are not many. They are only a fraction of the names we called, but –

The forest isn’t so frightening now.

The next morning, as we begin our journey again, it feels like the dark forest will go on forever — every single one of us still calling as loud as we can — when we are suddenly pushing through the thorns and twigs into an open field. Underneath the weight of Polly and me, the stag pants for breath. He’s growing weaker by the hour. Every now and then his back shudders, or he trips, groaning in pain as he does.

But what we can all see is that beyond the hedge, at the edge of the field, there is a cliff –

And below the cliff, a road –

And at the end of the road, lying spread out beneath us — like someone whipped away the carpet of green — is a plain of buildings and bridges, signs and billboards and barriers, all leading to one place –

A forest of glass towers, rising out of the ground, like they were forced up from the earth’s crust. Towers with domed roofs and red lights, blinking like eyes through the cloud, rows of windows glittering from top to bottom. Glowing homes and offices and factories of more people than have ever lived together before on this planet. Lights that are always on, pulsing day and night, rays and beams reflecting off the glass roofs and walls, rising up into the sky above, brighter than even the stars themselves.

My head is swirling like the swollen clouds in the sky above. I don’t know if what Ma said about Dad is true. I don’t even know if we will find him here — and even if we do, whether or not he will have a cure.

I know that I am taking these animals to the most dangerous place I could.

But for now — for this one moment, looking down over the glass and lights — none of that matters because I realize that after all this time …

I’m finally coming home. To where I belong, to where everything started.

Premium. My city.

Before we go any further, I count all the animals.

1 stag (very tired)

1 wolf-cub (the least tired animal in the whole word, according to him)

1 large cockroach (in my pocket, asking why I didn’t take a roll-call before now)

1 harvest mouse (still doing the Stationary Dance of Very Long Sleep)

Ninety-nine grey pigeons (although hard to count exactly as they keep moving around all the time)

One white pigeon (who has just started singing again, on his own, now everyone else has stopped)

Other birds (nicer sounding than the pigeons, about twelve in total)

Two otters (still wet, even though we left the river hours ago. Do they ever dry off?)

1 brown hare (very old) & assorted rabbits

6 polecats

4 pine martens

A red squirrel (good for nuts)

A toad (really likes Polly)

A hedgehog (keeps himself to himself)

Lots of flies and butterflies (different kinds, haven’t had time to ask them all their names)

Not as many wasps

Various bats (who do not like flying during the day)

Beetles, earwigs, etc. (wolf-cub refuses to carry them)

.

Well over a hundred animals. Nearly as many as the wild we left at the Ring of Trees.

Not every animal died.

A breeze blows in over the top of the cliff, ruffling our hair, making me dig my hands inside my pockets for warmth. Over there, among the towers and lights, there are other people — working, living and, in the middle of it all, somewhere — Dad.

I hope.

I pull my scarf tight around me as the wind starts to grow stronger.

Together we all slide down a path zigzagging along the side of the cliff towards Premium’s outskirts.

Polly puts her hand in front of her face, against the wind. The toad waddles off her lap to take shelter behind her back. This wind has grown cold as well as strong — it feels like it is stripping the skin off your face. With every step, it gets harder and harder to walk into, but at last we reach the bottom of the cliff.

There’s no shelter down here, nothing but bare earth and chunky chips of gravel, the wind blowing clouds of dust along the top, between us and the wire fence which surrounds the city.

I look over the wasteland at the brightly lit windows of the towers. Normal people living normal lives. I can see some of them, distant figures silhouetted in window frames. Perhaps the wolf-cub can even smell them.

All the animals go very quiet.

I stroke the stag’s dripping flank. He’s so warm, even in this chill wind. Up above, the birds — old and new — are tossed about in the air. The General digs around inside my pockets, hiding from the gale. I look at the wolf-cub. He stands next to the stag and me, eyes narrowed, but the wind is pushing at his lips, pulling them back, blowing his fur and ears flat.

*I have never known wind like this. This must be the coldest wind in the world. We will defeat it though — it is only wind!*

But just as we start to see the towers close up, the shapes of the domed roofs and the gleaming walls, the stag sinks to the ground — throwing us off in a jumble. Picking myself up, I can see his legs splayed out, his horns resting on the ground.

*What’s wrong?*

He shakes his head, breathing like he’s trying to steady himself, and mumbles something hard to hear above the wind. His side and brow are boiling up.

The others crowd round, looking –

Shaking, I press the button on my watch. Squeezing out the very last of the faint light left in its battery, I shine it into his eyes.

Eyes which now burn a deep, pulsing red.

*How long have you known?* I ask the stag.

*I had it from the start, when I first called, when I summoned you,* he whispers.