* * *
With a snap of her teeth, the dog took the paper from Finn’s hands, chewed it up, and swallowed.
“What the—?” He laughed at her goofy expression, then called up to Tommy. “The dog’s crazy! It just ate paper …”
But already Finn was forgetting the words written on it, forgetting, too, where they had sailed from. Remembering all of it only as a vague, distant dream. A glorious dream. A kick-ass one.
He leaned back into his balled-up sweater pillow. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to go home just yet. They had to refit Dad’s boat with all the stuff they’d lost, for one thing. But perhaps there was more to see out here on the ocean anyway, more to find. The place where the flowers from his dream grew, for one thing. He turned his face toward the dog’s snout.
“Adder,” he whispered.
That sounded … just right. Suited her, even. And the dog licked his chin almost like confirmation. She smelled of fish, of rotting oysters, and of the wide, wild sea.
“What are we going to do together?” he said. “What would you show me?”
Then Finn was turning over, shutting his eyes, forgetting even that dog. From somewhere far away, he heard a whistle, and then a distant voice he—almost—recognized … but it was already part of his dream, part of his sleeping, part of his dropping deep-down-deep … And already, the dog was shifting away, bounding gone …
And Finn was dreaming.
Moss waited, ’til beyond the very edge of Bird Island. If they were going to forget, it would have happened by now, like how it’d been for Finn and Tommy.
But … Moss and Cal had remembered, still they did. All of it. Felt like all of it, anyway. Maybe they’d never be full-sure. They’d remembered while the two boys forgot. They’d whispered about it, heads bowed close.
The flower colors. The glow-blue water. Pa.
It was all still inside.
Maybe she’d had enough stormflowers to be an islander; maybe Cal had too. Or maybe it was Pa, after all, sending out his thoughts on the petals, ever experimenting. But she still felt that flower-buzz if she concentrated full-hard. She still felt that tiny wind.
She waited until new land appeared, one that wasn’t flickering this time. When Adder had raised her head too and looked in its direction, only then had she poked Cal in the ribs.
“Now,” she whispered. “Let’s go now.”
Moss had dived. The water had been sparkle-full with fish and sunlight, and it had moved to let her inside it. She swam fast through it, wiggling like a fish, like the mermaid from her dreamings so long past. She swam to leave sadness behind, too … the letting-go ache from leaving Pa and Aster and Jess. Leaving the island! The flint-sharp ache even from leaving Finn and Tommy and the boat called Swallow. If she let it, she could drown in sadness like that. Get taken right under and stay in those deeps.
Cal joined her. Adder would come soon, she wouldn’t forget. Adder had been born on that island, after all; she was half wild dog, half dreaming, herself. But her dog liked Finn full-deep and needed time to say good-bye. Moss let her.
Soon, bobbing on the ocean with Cal, Moss whistled for her. She smiled big as the dog raced up from the boat’s cabin, nails scratching against the wood, and leapt over the side toward them. Cal laughed as the dog took a belly slap.
“Knew you wouldn’t stay,” Moss said to her. “Wouldn’t leave me yet.”
And Moss was full-glad, ruffling her dog’s wet fur. She murmured her thanks into Adder’s silky ears.
Moss swam and swam, and swam faster again when Cal, and then Adder, moved up beside her. They swam until they were like fish in a current. Until the stingers joined them, too. She reached across to take Cal’s hand, moving her legs like a mermaid’s tail. Swam, swam, swam … from one dream to another. From color to dark. From sad to light. Who knew, really, where to?
She led them all to the land ahead. She wasn’t scared. She told herself she wasn’t, anyway. She told herself she was happy to raise her head above the water and swim toward what she once might have been, back to whatever answers lay waiting. To have Cal and Adder beside her, and a buzz inside. She told herself that she had not forgotten Pa, but she would be more than him, too. She told herself she could go back, if she wanted. Like this, she would be the happy and sad, the light and dark …
She would be the dreaming, and the real, in one.
Exit.
I wanted the process of this book to be about play and exploration. That kind of process takes time, and patience, and gentle nurture. Thank you to everyone who gave me that. In particular …
Thank you to my publisher, Chicken House, for being so long-suffering and dedicated. Thank you to Barry. Thank you to Siobhan for the careful edits. Thank you to the brilliant Scholastic team, also. Thanks, Sam, for “getting it!”
Thank you to my agent, Nicola.
Thank you to the writers in my life—those of you I write with, and those who read drafts. Special thanks to me ole spleen, Melvin Burgess, and to generous Marcus Sedgwick. Thank you to Fox Benwell for always being so positive. Thank you, Derek Niemann, for reading an early draft. Thanks to Joe Ducie for reading several drafts! Thank you, especially, to Andy D., who inspires me to “write joy” always. Thank you, also, to colleagues and students at Bath Spa University—you all inspire me, but especially Julia Green.
Thank you to friends and family. Adrian, I might not have ever started this book without you. Catherine, I couldn’t have continued it without you. And, Johanna, I wouldn’t have understood this book without you. Thank you to Lon for support and reading. Thanks, Pen-Pen, for the Scotland shenanigans. To Jennifer for original “Moss inspiration!” Thank you to “the Christopher Clan” and to Great Aunty Anne for general life inspiration! To Larch (of course!) for dog inspiration!
Thank you to Eleri and Geraint at Gwernan Hotel who stoked the fire and made sandwiches while I tried to finish a draft.
Thank you to Mum for always being so positive about the book and so willing to read it (even when it’s bad!). And thank you to Dad and Barb—I couldn’t write a book about the theater without it being for you!
Lastly, thank you, Raj. You are wonder-bright.
LUCY CHRISTOPHER’s novel Stolen was named a Printz Honor Book by the American Library Association and received England’s Branford Boase Award for best debut as well as Australia’s Golden Inky. She received her MA and PhD in creative writing at Bath Spa University, where she is now a senior lecturer in writing for young people. Lucy lives in South Wales.
Copyright © 2018 by Lucy Christopher
Cover art and design © 2018 by Christopher Stengel
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, CHICKEN HOUSE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
ISBN 978-0-545-94032-0
First edition, August 2018
e-ISBN 978-0-545-94277-5
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Pe
rmissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Lucy Christopher, Storm-Wake
(Series: # )
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