C Fletcher - A Boy and His Dog at the End of the World

I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see his boat. I couldn’t even see where on the wide, exposed stretch of coast sweeping north to the point it might be. There was nowhere for him to hide it. Unless there was an inlet behind the point. I couldn’t see his damned dog Saga, and I couldn’t see Jess.

All I could hear was Jip’s bark getting more urgent as if he sensed what he could not possibly—from where he stood—see.

Scratched in the sand by the jetty end was a message. Big enough for me to read even a mile away, clear beneath the smoke pluming off the funeral pyre of my boat.

Six words in the sand proved that Brand could write. But I don’t think he’d read the same books as me. If he had, he still might well have stolen my dog, but he wouldn’t have burned my boat.

That’s what I think now, after all that’s happened. Then, sitting in shock at the top of the rollercoaster, watching the Sweethope burn, I just felt numb. And guilty. And scared too, of course. I had done a stupid thing—a chain of stupid things—and this was the result. I hadn’t thought it out. I’d rushed off without preparation, on my own, despite my dad trying to stop me. I hadn’t listened to him. I hadn’t listened to anything but my heart and my anger and I hadn’t used my head. Most of all I was stupid because I hadn’t used my head. And now Bar and Ferg and Dad would think I was dead for a long time because a long time is what it would take me to get back home without my boat. Even Mum would notice I was not beside her in the evenings. I was sure about that. At some level she would notice I was gone. And what if they came looking for me? How would they find me? How could we not miss each other in this huge world? They might come to harm just searching for me. Home might just fall apart. It was all my fault. Dad had been right, all the times he called me wilful and headstrong. Brand had just stolen a dog and some fish. Brand was just one of those bad things that life throws at you, like a storm or a sickness. A Brand was just something you toughened up and coped with. You couldn’t argue with a storm or a fever. It didn’t know any better. It just was.

Me? I knew better. And I’d betrayed everything.

If there was ever a moment to cry, that was it. And I wanted to. I felt the sharp spike of tears wanting to come. My throat was tight with the sobs waiting to be set free. No one would ever know. The old lady on the floor beside me wouldn’t. She wouldn’t hear. She wouldn’t see. She was just bones, eyes and ears long gone. But I didn’t cry. Maybe because I would have known. Maybe because Dad was right and I am too stubborn for sense. But mainly I think because it wouldn’t have done any good. The milk was already spilt.

I took less care clattering down the steps of the rollercoaster than I had going up, but still enough not to run and risk tripping and injuring myself. When I got to the bottom, Jip pretended he was more interested in eating the rabbit he’d caught until I hoisted my pack and picked up my bow, and then he picked it up and ran with me as I headed back to the jetty. Maybe I should have been more careful. Maybe I should have worried that Brand might have set the fire to lure me back so he could ambush me or something. But the thing about maybes is that you can get lost in them and end up going nowhere. I needed to be doing.

And I knew, though I don’t know how, that he was gone. If he’d been setting a trap, he wouldn’t have needed to write the words he had left for me to find. Still, I kept scanning the scene ahead for a glimpse of his red hair as I thumped my way up the mile of hardpack back towards the jetty. But he was long gone. He’d left the message. He didn’t need to stick around to tell it to me himself.

He’d also left my kayak.

That surprised me. That stopped me short when I got up to it. That almost undid the whole not crying thing. That kayak was as much part of me and home as the Sweethope had been. It was lying on the sand below the words he’d written, and the mended paddle was leaning across it.

It was another message. He was saying he wasn’t a monster. That always seemed important to him. And maybe in his own mind he wasn’t. I guess no one’s the monster in their own story. Monsters are just a matter of perspective.

The Sweethope was burned to the waterline but still belching black smoke, a dead boat still floating. Sails torched, rigging gone. Unsalvageable. The fire had burned the ropes mooring it to the jetty but it had swung in and got snarled up in the great melted tangle of the fallen wheel. He must have used something to set the fire in the cabin and then just walked away. From the burned rubber smell and the persistent black smoke, maybe a tyre. We burned brittle old rubber tyres to send smoke signals in emergencies. The thought made me doubly homesick.

I sat and stared at the dead boat for a long time. I don’t know how long, and I don’t remember what I thought of, not precisely. I do remember what I felt, which was hollowed out and rubber-legged. I felt like I’d better stay sitting and watching in case I stood up and the wind just blew me over.

Jip sat on the ground and looked at me, the remains of his rabbit still in his mouth. He always loved rabbits after he’d killed them and would carry them around for ages as if he was as proud of them as he was for having caught them. He’d lick them, like he was grooming them. Sometimes it could get a bit macabre.

Eventually he whined at me. Or maybe he’d been whining, trying to get my attention for a while. Shock had put me in a sort of stunned cone of temporary deafness. He wagged his tail and nudged the rabbit with his nose.

Good dog, I said. We’re going to have to do a lot of hunting from now on.

Something had eaten the day without me noticing the passing of time. The threatened rain had never arrived and the sun had swung across the sky and was dropping into some new ominous looking clouds towards the horizon.

All my dried meat and fish and oatmeal was burned away with the rest of the boat. I had enough food for a couple of days in my pack, and of course I had the hare.

Watching Jip with his rabbit reminded me of this, and that made me get up on legs that were no longer rubbery but now stiff and unhappy to be moving after such a long time spent sitting still. I made myself go across to the smooth roof of one of the buried cars and use it as a table to spread out the contents of my rucksack so I could take stock of what provisions and tools we had for whatever was ahead of us.

I had the map and my notebook—the one I’m writing in right now. And I had the picture of you, of course. And I had more food than I’d expected as there were some oatcakes at the bottom I’d forgotten about. I had a waterproof and a folding knife, fire steel, binoculars, extra socks and a sweater. I didn’t have my bedroll and I would definitely miss that. I would also miss the big compass on the boat, but I had the small brass walking-compass that was always pinned to the flap of the pack instead, so that was fine. North is north, no matter what size your compass is. And I had my first aid kit. So I had the map, a compass, provisions, tools, dry clothes and, with you and Jip, a couple of friendly faces. I told myself things could be worse.

Things could be worse, I repeated for Jip’s benefit. He thumped his tail on the sand and kept licking away at the rabbit.

I looked around. The new incoming rain clouds. Still no sign of Brand. No sign of a red-sailed boat. I looked up at the tower.

Come on, boy, I said. Let’s get some perspective.

Before we went into the red-brick palace to try and find the way up the tower, I thought I should pull the kayak further up the beach in case the tide took it while we were exploring.