On the Isle of Sound and Wonder (13 page)

He sat up slowly, propping his back against the nearest tree trunk, letting himself adjust to the greenery, the sunshine, the strange sounds around him. After a few moments, he thought he heard music—some sort of reedy instrument—from somewhere far off, but it faded quickly. The birdsong in the canopy and the peeping of unseen frogs in the underbrush drowned out even the sound of his own breath. It was enchanting, how warm and golden everything looked, how relaxing the sounds were. The solitude of the moment was overpowering, and Ferran let his eyes close again for a moment, relishing the sudden feeling of peace with the world around him.

In his mind’s eye, he remembered the flash of lightning, an explosion; he saw rain and storm and choppy waves; he felt the cold slap of the water, the darkness that swallowed him, and the bleak loss that followed.

Ferran gasped and his eyes shot open, startled by his own memory.
I’m dead
, he realized.
How could anyone have survived that? We are all dead.
He thought about the disapproving looks his father had given him at dinner that night, before the ship went down. Ferran’s stomach lurched and he dropped forward onto all fours, retching, though nothing came up.

Something shifted in the trees nearby, and his head snapped up. The pace was too decisive to be an animal wandering through the green. Ferran sat still in the leafy undergrowth, looking around for the source of the sound.

A girl came walking up the gentle hill through the trees, and she was entirely unlike any girl Ferran had ever seen. He could not see her face very well, her eyes hidden as they were by strange, boxy goggles. She had strong shoulders, and from the look of her long legs, stood some inches taller than himself. Her skin was a warm, golden olive—darker than his own skin. There was a softer, more feminine shape to her firm mouth and sharp chin than found in the lines of her arms. There was something womanly beginning in the curve of her hips, but she did not saunter or stride the way the courtiers did back home; she carried herself the way an animal does, without sense of age or gender, and no pretense.

She stopped several yards off and stood still, as if in a moment of reflection, looking down at something she held in one hand. Her other hand was clasped around a stick—no, a spear—almost as tall as her. Her wild and untethered appearance was more than a little intimidating, her hair a ratted, tangled plait of brown and gold that seemed to have never known a comb or brush. She wore a ragged, sun-bleached man’s shirt and strange scraps of leather, all of it bound up with rope in the most peculiar but utilitarian sort of way.
I’ll be damned,
Ferran thought to himself.
I’m not dead after all, and the island has natives!

A bright, strange beetle flew buzzing past his nose, and Ferran recoiled sharply in surprise. The shrubs around him rustled and shifted, and the girl looked up sharply in his direction. Ferran froze, unsure what to do. The girl began to move again, taking long strides toward his hiding place.
I could run, but where to? This is her home, she’d find me out sooner or later.

The girl was nearly upon him, spear hoisted, when Ferran leapt to his feet, hands in the air to show empty palms and nothing to hide. “Please! Don’t, don’t do that, I’m unarmed!”

He must have startled her, for she made a terrible noise and stumbled mid-stride, dropping the small thing in her right palm to take the spear with both hands now, her body crouched uncertainly in wary defense. The spear point was level with his sternum, steady and well-aimed.

“I’m sorry, sorry to startle you,” he went on, his voice suddenly dry and ragged. “I didn’t mean to. I’m rather lost. Wondering if you could help me . . .” He swallowed helplessly as she continued to aim her homemade weapon at his chest.
I’m no threat,
he thought, hoping she at least understood his body language. She didn’t move. “I only speak Italesh, I’m sorry . . . I don’t know your language. Whatever it is,” Ferran added miserably.

“You assume much,” the girl said, her voice rough and bemused. Ferran felt his eyebrows shoot upward as she relaxed her stance, planting the butt of her spear into the soil and peeling back her dark mask of steel and glass. “I speak your tongue.”

“You . . . do?” Ferran felt disoriented. This indigenous girl had a face that was more the shape of one from his own country than any foreign stranger, and her eyes were an utterly strange and brilliant bluish-green.

“Yes, clearly.” Her gaze narrowed in study of him. “How do you feel? You seem much improved.”

“I . . . how so, improved?” His head felt fuzzy from standing up too quickly. The sun bore down on him now that he was not hidden by shady trees and close to the damp ground.

“Who do you think pulled you onto the beach?” She leaned on her spear, peering into his face. “Or do you not remember? We spoke then, though briefly, and you were much exhausted from the waves and sun.”

Ferran felt his head begin to throb. “Who are you?”

“I wanted to ask you that myself,” said the girl, and grinned at him. “I’m called Mira. And you?”

“Ferran,” he answered, leaving out the titles and surnames for now. He did, however, offer her a slight bow, and his hand. She did not take it right away, and he looked up, already feeling foolish for having done so out of habit. She squinted at him. “It’s a handshake,” he told her.
I must sound pathetic,
he realized.
First contact with a stranger on a desert island and I expect her to know a courtly gesture? Stupid.

“Handshake?” echoed Mira, staring at his upturned palm. “You aren’t shaking it.”

“No, you have to clasp it with your own, and then we both shake them,” he explained. “Here, like this—” He reached for her hand to press it against his own.

Before he knew what had happened, Mira snatched her hand away and checked him upwards on the jaw with her elbow before backing up several paces into a ready stance, the spear held aloft with the unsharpened end pointing down at his pate. Ferran’s hands flew to his jaw and face, and he blinked several times.

“Ow!” he groaned. “What was that for?” Ferran stepped back to look warily at her.

Mira stared back at him a moment, then appeared to relax bit by bit. She lowered and righted the spear. She seemed to have a hard time choosing the right words, her expression growing more frustrated as her jaw worked in silence.

 “I am sorry if I startled you again,” he said more gently. “I ought not to have tried to touch you. I’m sorry.”

His guess had been right; Mira’s expression cleared and became neutral, and then, after a moment, softened again altogether. She nodded, her mouth a thin line. “Fine,” she replied. “You are thirsty and hungry, I’m sure. Come with me.”

Ferran watched her turn to go, hesitating before taking a step after her. His shoe hit something hard, and he looked down. The small item she’d dropped lay in the dirt.
A pocket knife?
He picked it up carefully, and as soon as its weight hit his palm, he recognized it.

“Are you coming?” asked Mira, turning to look at him. “Or do you have somewhere else to be?”

Ferran held up the closed pocket knife. “Where did you get this?” His heart flopped in his chest like a dying fish on the sand.

Mira tilted her head, birdlike. “I found it. Give it back.” She reached for it.

“Where did you find it?” He held it tightly, out of her reach. “I need to know where.”

            “On the bottom of the bay,” she replied. “Give it to me.” There was a childlike insistence to the pucker of her chin, though by her height and voice, Ferran would have placed her closer to his own age.

“Was it . . . Did you find it on a body?” Ferran felt his throat begin to close up.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

She looked at him with confusion. “I’m sure. It caught my eye. There were a lot of other things . . . silver things. Sharp things. I liked this one, so I took it.”

Ferran felt his fear subside a little. “But there was no body?”

“No,” she insisted, lifting her chin. “Yours is the only body I have found.” She paused to study him. “What is it?”

“It’s just . . . it belonged to my father. I can only imagine it came from his cabin on the ship. If there’d been a body . . .” He trailed off.

“No,” Mira insisted. “What is it?”

“It’s a pocket knife.” He held it up, then worked the hidden mechanism to produce a three-inch steel blade from one end. The light caught it and illuminated her face for a brief moment; she recoiled a little and shut her eyes at the brightness of it. “See?” Ferran turned it this way and that.

“A pocket knife?” she repeated thoughtfully.

“Yes, you keep it in your pocket. It’s handy for when you need to open something, or cut something, and you haven’t got a real dagger on you.”

“Hmph.” Her grunt was noncommittal. “If it was your father’s, then I suppose it’s yours, now. I saw no bodies but yours.” Her eyes gleamed like the scales of a snake. Ferran folded the blade away and slid it into his pocket, though his hand remained clamped tightly around it. “Come, I’ll take you where you can rest and eat, and we’ll talk more.”

Ferran followed her further into the forest, his brow knit in a whirling cycle of thoughts.
Maybe they washed up elsewhere on the island. Or maybe they drowned. My mother will notice we’ve not been in contact. What’s she going to do when she hears that we never arrived home? How could anyone find me way out here? I’m just glad that I’m not alone here.
He was grateful that Mira did not speak again until they had reached their destination.

Finally, they came upon a clear spring with a pool deep enough to submerge in and a steady little creek wandering off into the woods from there. The trees and flora grew thick and lush around it, the ground soft with springy moss and lichens. As they approached, Ferran saw some kind of furry, small mammal dart away from the pool into the safety of the underbrush, while a large, colorful bird sat preening on a rock.

Mira gave a low whistle call, and the bird stopped its preening to whistle back, cocking its head at her. Then it ruffled itself all over and took to the air, gliding to Mira’s outstretched arm.

“Water! Is it . . . ?” Ferran’s voice caught in his throat, suddenly overwhelmed by thirst.

“Safe to drink? Yes. I imagine you’re thirsty.”

He was on his knees by the pool before he could thank her, his hands cupping the cool, clear water. Much of it dribbled down his arms as he tried to drink it up, until, after a moment, Mira appeared beside him, offering him what looked like a bowl with a brown and hairy texture to the outside of it.
A coconut shell?
Ferran had never seen one up close before.

Ferran filled the shell with water several times and drank so deeply that he inhaled as he swallowed, making himself cough riotously for a minute. The bird squawked and startled but did not fly off. Mira sat down on the soft ground several feet away, the bird moving up to her shoulder to pick affectionately at her tangled hair.

“Thank you,” Ferran mumbled at last, still somewhat dumbfounded to have been rescued by her. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Mira did not reply, her intense green eyes fixed on him with something like doubt. Ferran stared back, unsure still of what she was thinking, still wondering who she was and where she’d come from. They sat in silence a moment while the bird clucked and muttered, ruffling its tail feathers as it fussed over Mira’s hair.

“Is that bird your pet?” Ferran blurted out. He felt scrutinized somehow, and did not know how to broach the subject.

“Pet,” repeated his strange-eyed rescuer. She narrowed her eyes a little. “What’s pet?”

Ferran swallowed. “A pet. You know. You take care of it. It belongs to you?”

Mira’s eyes widened and her expression shifted to one of confusion. “No!” Her tone was somewhat bemused. “How can I own something that flies and is free?” She nudged her hand under the bird’s large, dark gray talons and it climbed onto her wrist obligingly. It was so many more colors than Ferran had seen on most birds: red and blue and yellow and green, with dazzling speckles of gold hidden in some feathers’ sheen. It looked around with dark, intelligent eyes and had the curved smile of a beak meant for tearing and cracking things open.

“It’s beautiful. What kind of bird is it? Is it some sort of tropical eagle? It’s large enough to be a raptor, but the beak isn’t quite right.”

Mira stared at him.

Ferran fidgeted.
Am I going to have to explain animal taxonomy to her?
“Look, never mind, I’m sorry,” he babbled. “I just don’t . . . Who are you? How did you find me? Have you always lived alone on this island?”

The bird ruffled its feathers as Mira shifted it back to her shoulder. “I’m Mira,” she answered calmly, “and I found you floating on a piece of wreckage out near the other debris, in the bay. I pulled you to shore.”

Ferran furrowed his brow at her. “You pulled me to shore? All by yourself?”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m a good swimmer.”

Suddenly Ferran remembered the raft, the hot, bright sun beating mercilessly down, the squawking of birds. He remembered panicking, splashing—and a girl’s voice yelling for him to stop—vomiting seawater, and the shimmering mirage of his savior’s face with her bright green eyes and serious expression, and—

“You were naked,” he realized aloud, and flushed as pink as his mother’s rose garden.

“Ah, you do remember.” Mira’s tone was approving, not apologetic. “That’s better. It means you probably don’t have any serious damage up here,” she added, tapping her own head.

Ferran’s eyes dropped to his hands, his skin hot with discomfort and uncertainty. “I . . . thank you for pulling me to shore, I . . . apologize for . . .”

“For nothing,” insisted Mira with apparent bravado, though there was a hint of shyness there too, Ferran thought. “There is nothing to be sorry about.”

“It’s not proper,” muttered Ferran, even as he realized how silly it must seem to her.

Mira stood up abruptly, causing the bird to shuffle and flap its wings, taking off for another, more stable, perch in the trees. “It’s my skin,” she replied, with a touch of defiance. “I have nothing to hide.” She moved to take the coconut shell from him and fill it with water from the spring. She drank deeply and then tossed the shell back to him; he caught it awkwardly. Then she dropped to a squat before him, quite close, and peered into his face the way a predatory animal confronts a smaller member of its pack. “Now. Ferran. You will tell me the answers to my questions.”