Piers Torday - The Last Wild

‘Come on, Kidnapper,’ says a voice behind me. ‘What are you waiting for?’

I turn around to see Polly standing at the entrance to the lab in her clean clothes, with Wolf-Cub, his bandage wrapped tight around his middle. He is still limping, but some of the old glow has returned to his green eyes. He has grown too. He is beginning to change from a wolf-cub — but not in all ways.

*Am I the best in the world at recovering from a firestick wound?* he asks quietly.

I want to laugh, but Polly’s serious expression stops me.

I pick up a tray from the worktop, and they follow me down the steps and out into the garden, where the pigeons fly down from the tree to meet us, lining up on a low wall.

I look at them, every single one in turn — grey and white, because I know this is possibly the last time I will ever see them. I place the tray carefully down on the ground, and with Polly kneeling next to me, we begin to unpack its contents. Bound bags of gel batons, each one packed with a slow-release version of Laura II.

One by one, we take out the bags and fasten one to each bird, tying them on tightly with ribbons. I explain carefully to them how all they need to do is pull the ribbon to release and open the bag. The gel sticks can be chewed, licked, pecked or even swallowed whole — the effect will be the same. They all nod their understanding, apart from the white one, who says thoughtfully, *Stick the bag and chew the ribbon.*

Loaded with their cargo, the pigeons turn to say goodbye, first to the General, who has appeared from nowhere — on Polly’s shoulder this time. And she doesn’t seem to mind at all.

*If we should meet again one day, brave comrades,* he says, nervously feeling their sharp beaks with his antennae, *be so good as to remember that we once fought together on the same side.*

*We shall try,* say the grey pigeons.

*Remember, one day we shall fight together on the same side,* adds the white pigeon wisely, before joining the rest of his flock, who are already waddling down to where the stag lies on the lawn.

*Goodbye, great Stag,* the pigeons say. They move to leave, before turning back awkwardly. *Will we see you again at the Ring of Trees?*

He nods at them sleepily, through half-closed eyes.

*You will see me again, I’m sure of it.*

*Yes, we’re sure we won’t see you again,* says the white pigeon cheerily, before being nearly pecked to death by the others. They then shuffle down to the mouse, who performs a traditional Farewell Dance, that seems to involve flicking every one of their heads with her tail. But as soon as she’s finished she abruptly declares, *Well, I don’t much like goodbyes. I’ve said enough in my time,* and scurries away under a bush. So the birds flock up and land on the wolf-cub’s back, pecking busily at his fur, until he shakes them off with a growl.

And finally, they come to me.

I pick the white pigeon up in my hands, while Polly looks on.

*Pigeons,* I say, *you’ve got a hard journey ahead. You might not all make it. And who knows how many animals you will still find living at the Ring.* And I stroke the bird’s beak and feathers for perhaps the last time. I don’t want to let them go, not on their own. But they will be faster than we could ever be. *Maybe there will be enough left for you to start again. You know my father’s magic is not perfect yet — but it’s better than no magic at all.*

*Better than no magic at all,* repeats the white pigeon softly to himself, like he is understanding something for the very first time.

I kiss him gently on the top of his head, before throwing my hands up, releasing him into the air. The others follow him, flying in formation up above the trees, off into the endless sky beyond. We wait until the last pigeon is nothing more than a distant dot over the horizon, until there is nothing to stare at but the clouds floating by, and then I feel Polly’s hand softly taking mine and leading me back up the garden, to where Dad is now knelt by the stag, stroking his flank.

‘Kester,’ she says, as we walk up towards them, ‘now that the pigeons have gone home with a cure, do you think we can go and find my —’

She doesn’t finish her sentence, as I freeze, and drop her hand.

Because I can hear voices. Talking.

An animal voice. Talking to a human voice.

Except it isn’t mine.

I race up the garden towards Dad and the stag. They both turn to me, the stag still looking woozy from the drug, his eyelids drooping low, Dad looking startled, turning round — as he says — as my dad says to the stag —

*Tell me, great Stag — is this in the dream?*

The stag nods slowly, and weak as he is, he staggers to his feet. The wolf-cub comes to him, in his shadow. The mouse and the General on his horns. I have never seen them look so serious.

My dad can talk to animals too –

Is this what Mum meant when she said, ‘He has to tell you’?

I’m looking at Dad. At the stag. Furious –

*I’m sorry,* he says. *I know I should have … you know, chip off the old … but they took you away before I could …*

*Yes,* interrupts the stag. *Yes, this was in the dream.* He turns to me, half his head dark in the shadow of the old apple tree, his horns sharp against the sky. *Wildness, the dream said the son of the man who talked would lead us over earth and rock, through water and fire, to save a wild. This you have done and we thank you for it.* He touches my hair with his nose. *But I am afraid the dream did not end there.*

There are so many questions bouncing around my head that I don’t know which one to choose first, and then –

A noise makes us all turn around.

The noise coming from a distant dot in the sky, high above the glass towers. A dot that at first I think is one of the pigeons, perhaps the white one losing his way again — but if it is a bird, it’s a very big metal one. Making a whupwhup noise, with whirring rotor blades instead of wings. A metal bird with purple sides, a large F painted across the front.

A metal bird heading straight for us.

But Dad isn’t frightened. He puts his arm around my shoulder as we watch it, and grips me tight.

*You didn’t think he’d, you know, let us get away with it …?* he murmurs.

The Factorium helicopter slices through the air, its windows dark and closed, the steel blades spinning circles of shadow across the river, as the sun disappears behind the horizon.

*Soldier!* whispers a voice from my shoulder. I look down to see the General, the cockroach who first talked to me in the Yard. *The rest of the dream begins. Are you ready?* he hisses.

I’m not sure. There’s so much that I don’t—

But then I look again at the brave insect on my shoulder. I think of the pigeons flying on past the glass towers. I think of the wild we’re going to save. I turn round to look at the animals we already rescued. The Dad I found again. The new friends I made.

The journey we took together. Everything we did.

The roar of the helicopter engines grows deafening, the trees sway in the rush of air, the downdraught pulls at our faces—

I reach out for Dad’s hand, and Polly’s. The stag stands behind me, the wolf-cub at my side.

*Yes, General,* I whisper back. *We’re ready.*

Don’t miss the next part of Kester’s incredible story …

Available from Spring 2014!

One of the reasons I began writing The Last Wild was my deep sadness at the rate the wildlife around us was — and still is — disappearing. A recent study showed that sixty per cent of UK wild animal species and wild plants have declined in numbers since 1962 and that one in ten are threatened with extinction.