Chapter 6 #2
I stare up at the sky. This is who Hollingsworth sent to find the wyverns? The Bletchley recruits? Why didn’t she send me with them?
‘Have you found them?’ I say. ‘The wyverns?’
Serena purses her lips. ‘Not yet. We’ve been a bit distracted by the military presence on the island, not to mention the Bulgarian dragons trying to eat us.’
Gideon raises his eyes to the sky again.
‘This is Henry, Martha and John,’ Philippa says, pointing to the other teenagers.
They nod at me in greeting but don’t smile.
‘I’d say they’ll warm up to you, but they won’t,’ Serena mutters.
‘They don’t trust outsiders,’ Gideon says. ‘Can you blame them?’
‘Viv!’
Marquis is walking into the camp, followed by Atlas and Jasper. ‘You can stay the night.’ He glances at the others. ‘But we’re to leave in the morning.’
‘How did you convince him?’ I ask with a nervous glance at Jasper.
‘Atlas saved Philippa’s life a few weeks ago,’ Marquis says quietly. ‘She’s like a sister to Jasper.’
Jasper gives me a hostile look before marching past me into the camp.
‘The dragons shouldn’t be able to see you through the trees,’ Atlas tells me as he joins us. ‘But if they do, Jasper will hold me personally responsible. So stay put, Featherswallow.’ His eyes shine playfully and I feel a swooping in my stomach.
What is going on? Atlas – my Atlas – is supposed to be buried in a churchyard of his mother’s choosing. Who is this boy marching around camp as if he was born here?
Shadows gather as we venture deeper into the forest. There are no huts here, but several campfires are burning, surrounded by an increasing number of children as they all return from various directions.
Two girls walk past us, carrying a net full of brown shells, which they toss into a huge metal pot with a clatter.
Atlas hands me a canvas sack stuffed with straw.
As he raises his arms, the sleeves of his jacket bulge.
Didn’t Serena say something about training?
‘Sit,’ he says gently.
I watch as the children move like clockwork, slicing bread and carrying water. The sun is sinking in the sky, throwing streams of golden light across their faces.
‘Who are they?’
‘Criminal kids,’ Atlas says as he lights a cigarette. ‘The ones that refused the rebels’ offer of evacuation. Only a handful left the island before Wyvernmire’s army turned up.’
I raise my eyebrows in surprise as Marquis, Serena and Gideon sit down next to us. ‘They would rather live here?’
‘Makes sense, really,’ Marquis replies, looking at the group of children and teenagers spread out in the grass. ‘No one wears a class pass here.’
‘I’d rather wear a class pass than be eaten,’ Gideon says.
He folds his arms and I realise he’s still casting frequent looks into the sky. There are bags under his eyes and his face is thinner than it used to be. He seems terrified, but now it makes sense that he’s here. He knows this island better than any of us.
A girl approaches and I recoil in disgust as she drops a pile of dead birds in front of us. ‘Jasper says you lot are to finish the plucking.’
‘Jasper can get lost,’ Marquis mutters.
Gideon pulls a small knife from his pocket and reaches for a bird.
‘Pigeon squabs,’ Atlas says as Gideon begins plucking the beautiful white feathers from the bird’s skin. ‘Full-grown they’re as tough as leather, but the squabs are fat and tender.’
My eyes meet his. ‘Atlas,’ I say. ‘Now would be a good time to tell me what the hell you’re doing here.’
Gideon lets out a snort.
‘And the rest of you, too,’ I say, looking at the others. ‘Why would the rebels send a few teenagers on such a crucial mission? Where’s your coordination team, your supplies, your weapons?’
‘We have guns,’ Serena says defensively. ‘And a radio.’
She gestures to a small radio sticking out of the pack next to her, as well as a transmitter on a wire.
‘How many Bolgoriths do you plan on killing with that?’ I say.
‘It’s for reporting back on you,’ Serena replies coldly.
‘We’re rebelling via radio these days. Haven’t you heard of Blighty Against Bolgoriths, the rebel radio programme?
They do news reports, entertainment segments, that sort of thing.
Hollingsworth thinks it’s good for morale.
Some Oxford professor does a segment too, and then there’s me.
’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Reporting on every movement of the beloved Swallow.’
‘My movement?’
‘Only the superfluous stuff, in case the channel is intercepted. Today, the Swallow is stalking across the Hebridean hills,’ she says mockingly. ‘Today, the Swallow is wearing—’
‘All right, I get it,’ I snap.
‘We’ve been on Canna for three weeks,’ Atlas says. ‘We were briefed by the Coalition to venture further inland, but we’ve spent most of our time trying to survive.’
‘We’ve been taught what the wyverns’ tracks look like, where they’re likely to nest and how to stay alive while we find them, but there’s no sign of them so far,’ Serena says. ‘Please tell me you know more, Featherswallow.’
‘I had a journal,’ I say. ‘With information on the wyverns but . . . I left it in London.’
‘London,’ Marquis repeats, plucking a lighter from Atlas’s breast pocket. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘The Hebridean Wyverns speak a language called Cannair,’ I say, a lump forming in my throat as I think of all the research I left behind. ‘I’ve been learning to speak it. Hollingsworth thinks I can convince them to join the war.’
Marquis sucks the smoke through his teeth. ‘In London. Did you go home?’
Our gazes meet and I catch the longing in his eyes.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I lived in a safehouse.’
I glance at Atlas. His brown eyes are framed with thick lashes that sweep down on to his face.
I take a breath. ‘Why did you let me believe you were dead?’
Marquis shifts awkwardly.
‘We were told,’ Atlas says slowly, ‘that you were on a crucial mission. Hollingsworth gave strict orders for you not to be distracted.’
‘I was told your body had been sent back to your mother,’ I say.
The four of them stare at me with stricken faces.
All I can think of is Rita Hollingsworth’s lipsticked, lying mouth.
Philippa appears behind us, holding several deep-fried squabs on sticks. She hands one to me, slick with oil. Suddenly, I’m ravenous. I take a bite, burning my lips as my teeth pull at the succulent, savoury meat and my tongue bursts with flavour.
‘We can finish this later,’ Atlas says.
Fifty or so children are dining around the campfires, devouring squabs and slurping hot white clams from an assortment of chipped plates and teacups.
Jasper dips a slice of bread into a cracked china bowl, watching the camp with wary eyes.
He’s scared, I realise. And who can blame him, with dragons above and Wyvernmire’s most wanted rebel in his camp?
What crime did he commit to get himself sent to Canna?
What supposedly terrible things have these children done to deserve being left on a dragon-infested island to die?
After the meal, I watch as they climb up into the trees. ‘What are they doing?’
‘What does it look like?’ Serena says, sucking the juices from a pigeon bone. ‘They sleep up there.’
‘In the trees?’
‘Apparently, a wingless dragon called a Lyndwyrm hunts these parts. It seems you either learn to sleep out of its reach, or you don’t survive the night.’
‘How are you still alive, then?’ I retort.
She glares at me and I shrug. ‘Does it surprise you that I can’t imagine Serena Serpentine sleeping in a tree?’
Philippa appears again and I’m suddenly glad of her presence.
If it wasn’t for her, we’d be out on the hill in the cold dark instead of by the fire.
Soon, she and several other children are teaching me to tie myself to one of the lower branches while inside a sleeping bag, their giggling echoing through the forest. When I finally climb down, my arms and legs aching, Atlas is waiting.
‘I thought we could go for a walk,’ he whispers.
I nod, but he lays a hand on my arm. ‘I don’t want Jasper to see us. Follow me in a few minutes, all right?’
‘All right,’ I agree.
My heart races as he turns and skulks back into the shadows. I wait, my eyes on Jasper as he sits around the fire with Gideon and some others. Then I follow.
‘Featherswallow!’ a voice whispers.
I jump as Atlas emerges from behind an oak, his eyes searching my face. I feel my body temperature rise.
Atlas King.
For the first time, I have the presence of mind to really look at him.
He’s washed since the beach: his hair is wet and curling behind his ears and he no longer smells of sweat and horse, but of something flowery.
He holds out a hand and I take it, avoiding his gaze because meeting it might just cause me to implode.
We walk through the moonlit forest until the noise of the camp begins to fade.
‘Aren’t they afraid their laughter will attract dragons?’ I whisper. ‘Bolgoriths hunt by night.’
Atlas shrugs. ‘Where the trees grow close together like this, it’s difficult for dragons to land. And the kids have designated hideout spots across the island in case of daytime attacks.’
I force myself to look at him. His eyes are on the swallow around my neck.
‘You still wear it.’
‘Of course I do.’ My stomach is doing double-flips. ‘Never took it off.’
A silence falls over us and I know we’re both remembering our last moments together: smashing the loquisonus machine, losing each other in the smoke, me holding him in my arms.
How can he be here, alive?
‘Ursa,’ I say, thinking of my sister back on Eigg. ‘How is she?’
Atlas smiles. ‘She’s well, living in a cottage with Dr Seymour and her new baby. A true little mother.’
My heart warms at the thought of Ursa safe with people who care for her. I suddenly ache to kiss her, to inhale the scent of her golden hair.
‘And Sophie? Karim?’