Orphan Island Read online

  Dedication

  For Emma, my island

  Epigraph

  We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.

  —George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Chapter 1: Bell and Boat

  Chapter 2: Two Sad Shapes

  Chapter 3: Explosion of Morning

  Chapter 4: Having a Care

  Chapter 5: Lose Your Shoes

  Chapter 6: Bedtime Tales

  Chapter 7: Almost Magical

  Chapter 8: Minor Adjustments

  Chapter 9: Nice Work

  Chapter 10: Swim or Sink

  Chapter 11: The Truth Hurts

  Chapter 12: Keeping Count

  Chapter 13: Treading Water

  Chapter 14: A Good Day to Disappear

  Chapter 15: Ben’s Turn

  Chapter 16: Lemons?

  Chapter 17: Getting to Know Loo

  Chapter 18: Strange Catch

  Chapter 19: A Funny Coincidence

  Chapter 20: Something Stirred

  Chapter 21: Unfolding Wings

  Chapter 22: From the Inside

  Chapter 23: Unbreaking the World

  Chapter 24: Snake in the Grass

  Chapter 25: A Direction

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Laurel Snyder

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  1

  Bell and Boat

  Jinny heard the bell. She threw down her book, rose from the stale comfort of the old brown sofa, and scrambled for the door. When she burst from the cabin into the evening air, Jinny ran.

  Along the beach, everyone was running—bolting for the cove, summoned by the golden clatter of the bell, so bright in the dusk. Eight kids, sprinting from the fire circle or the outdoor kitchen, emerging from their cabins, racing for the bell and the tall boy ringing it by the water’s edge.

  It was like this every time the bell rang.

  At the cove, they lined up, breathless and staring out to sea, to watch the boat come in against the sunset. They stood waiting like uneven fence posts. There was Deen, who towered beside Jinny and now leaned to set the bell gently back on its hook, and little Sam, beside him. There was thin Eevie, frowning at the lapping water as though it had done something wrong, and Oz and Jak, jostling each other. Joon stood tall and straight at one end of the line, her gaze intent on the sea, and Nat waited patiently beside her, a book clutched in her hands. Then there was Ben, just a year below Jinny and almost exactly her height, smiling his easy smile as he stared out at the water patiently.

  Deen had been the one to spot the small green boat, appearing through mist that wreathed the island, cutting through the whitecapped waves. Deen had lifted the bell and rung it to summon the others. Deen had been alone, briefly, with the knowledge that it was time again for a Changing.

  Jinny didn’t think that was fair to Deen. After all, it was his turn to leave. He shouldn’t have had to ring the bell too and stand there on the beach, waiting alone. Jinny edged closer to him now. She took his cold hand, and Deen gripped her fingers tightly, laced them with his own, but didn’t turn to look down at her. He kept his dark eyes trained on the boat in the distance, so Jinny did the same. She wondered what he was thinking. He seemed strangely calm, unsurprised, almost like he’d been waiting for the boat. But his jaw was clenched firmly.

  In a handful of silent minutes, the boat slipped into the cove and nestled its green prow in the sand at their bare feet. Then came the empty before moment. The strange heartbeat of time when the nine kids on the shore peered into the boat. Before anybody said a word. They all stared.

  At the shivering child staring back.

  Jinny knew she should be the one to speak first, to reach out a hand and help the kid onto the island. This one would be hers, after all. Her Care. Jinny was oldest after Deen, and would officially become Elder the moment he stepped into his boat. But she couldn’t seem to move her feet. She didn’t feel ready. Jinny curled her toes into the damp sand and squeezed Deen’s fingers. He squeezed back but then let go. Leaving Jinny’s hand lonely. She dropped it to her side.

  Last year there had been a boy in the boat, yellow-haired Sam, who now stood on the other side of Deen, sniffling. Always sniffling. Sam had belonged to Deen, had stumbled along after him like a shadow wherever he went. Sam had shared Deen’s sleeping cabin and been always underfoot, learning the island from the tall boy who would be leaving now, so suddenly.

  This new arrival was a girl, of course. It was a girl year. Her eyes were huge in her face, stunned. Her chin trembled, and her black curls were damp with sea spray. The girl was pretty, but that didn’t matter. Really, kids all looked the same sitting in the boat. Boy or girl, fat or thin, dark or light. They looked damp, lost, and snot faced. The salt spray made their noses run.

  Now everyone was waiting. Waiting for Jinny to say something. She was taking too long and she knew it, but it was hard to speak. She was frozen in the moment she’d been dreading for hundreds of sleeps. At last she forced herself forward. Her feet stuttered in the sand as she reached one arm stiffly into the boat, hand open, palm up.

  “Hey!” she called too loudly. Her own voice rang in her ears. “What’s your name?”

  The girl stared at Jinny’s hand. She opened her mouth and looked around, out and down the beach, then back at Jinny and the line of curious kids. The new girl shook her head ever so slightly.

  “Oh, come on,” said Jinny. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Get out!” She didn’t want to have to reach in and grab. She didn’t want to scare the girl any more than she was already scared. Everything would be so much easier if she stepped out on her own.

  The new girl stared at Jinny for a few frightened breaths, a few ripples in the shallow surf. Everyone waited. At last she spoke. “Mama?” she asked, staring wide-eyed at Jinny.

  Jinny shook her head. “No,” she said. “No mama. We don’t have mamas here. But it’ll be okay. I promise. You just need to climb out. Now.” She didn’t mean to sound heartless, but the new arrivals always did this at first. Soon enough, the girl would forget about mama. She would come to understand—the island was instead. The island was better.

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut. So Jinny took a deep breath and stepped forward, leaned in. She put a foot in the boat, and the girl cried “Ah!” as the boat shifted and shook slightly with Jinny’s weight. But it didn’t drift. The boat never drifted.

  Nobody had any idea how the boat worked. It arrived at this same spot, through the thick mist. As if pulled by an invisible string. Then it left again, a few minutes later, the same way. The boat was as reliable as anything, as sure as the stars.

  Jinny reached for the girl. Gripping her under her thin arms, Jinny dragged her forcibly from her spot on the plank seat and up over the green side of the boat, and then swung the girl up onto her hip, so that she could carry her awkwardly back to the line of children, where she plunked her down heavily in the sand. Harder than she meant to, so that the kid let out a startled “Uhhf!”

  After that, Jinny pushed the girl from her thoughts, because it was time. The boat was empty. Waiting. Jinny turned to look at Deen and frowned. “Are you . . . ready?”

  Deen nodded. His lank hair shook in his face. “Guess so,” he muttered. “I guess it’s time, huh?” He stepped forward and turned around to face them. He glanced up and down the line—at all of them.

  “Well,” Deen said. “So . . .”

  Jinny heard a choking cry as Sam broke from the line and ran forward, burying his face in Deen’s belly. Deen
reached down and placed a sturdy hand on Sam’s head but kept talking. “Hey, hey—I’ll miss you, buddy. But there’s no need to cry. I’ll see you all again, on the other side. When your turn comes. Right?”

  Nobody answered him, but behind Deen, the boat rocked impatiently. Deen crouched down to hug Sam. “I have to go, Sam-man,” he said. “But you’ll be okay. The others will take care of you.” He looked back over his shoulder at Jinny, as if for help. But his voice was flat, as it had been so often lately. As though he was reciting the words. They didn’t feel true, exactly. They didn’t feel like he meant them, not the way he should.

  Before Jinny could react, Ben stepped forward. He walked surely down the line of kids, lifted Sam in a hug, and carried him wordlessly away. Even as Sam sobbed, Ben didn’t stumble. He walked steadily back toward the path and the cabins. It was wonderful, Jinny thought, how Ben always seemed to know just what to do. Ben was so good. She wondered what it felt like to be always so good.

  Anyway, it was just as well Sam left, thought Jinny. Nothing would make the next few moments any easier for him. And how many times could a person say good-bye? Eventually the sun would slip into the sea. Deen had to climb into the boat before it got too dark. Everyone knew that.

  One by one, the other kids followed Ben’s lead. They hugged Deen good-bye and choked back their tears, or didn’t, and straggled back to their cabins. To eat or read or climb under their covers and sleep heavily. It would be a silent night. It always was. Deen didn’t cry, so Jinny willed herself not to.

  At last the others were gone, and Jinny and Deen stood alone together, beside the new girl, a tiny heap of person in the sand. So silent she almost wasn’t there. Deen was still frozen, rigid and staring out, so Jinny reached up to hug him for the last time, wishing he’d soften, melt into his old self. She buried her face in his neck. She set her cheek against the sharp angle of his collarbone, so that his hair tickled her cheek. She waited for him to speak first. Her best friend. Her brother. But he didn’t speak. He only pulled away, backed out of her hug.

  “Oh,” said Jinny.

  Deen was the only person left in her world who’d been here when Jinny had arrived. She couldn’t remember that day, and she doubted he could either, but it still meant something. For as far back as she could recall there had been Deen, exactly a head above her. Her constant companion. Now he was leaving, and she would become Elder, the tallest tree, with the longest memory. She didn’t feel ready.

  The mercy of a Changing was that the little ones never remembered their own arrivals. Often they even forgot their Elders as the years slipped by, all the hours spent, all the lessons learned together. The memories floated away with the sleeps.

  Jinny could barely recall Emma, her own Elder. She only remembered a blur of red hair and freckles, a soft breathy laugh. A tall person, holding her hand so tightly that her finger bones hurt when they climbed the boulders to the cliffs, side by side. In the same way, Sam might now forget Deen. It was hard to believe that could happen, but they were so young when all this took place. What they knew—all they knew—was the island itself, years of running on the beach, singing by the fire, plucking fruit from the trees and fish from the nets. Salt and sand and sun. They only knew the good of it.

  But for Jinny, this Changing would be different. This moment would never fade for her. She knew that, inside herself. She could feel it being etched into her memory. She hoped Deen felt the same. She looked at him and memorized his face—smooth skin, with the cheekbones sharp beneath them. Had he always looked like that? Jinny didn’t think of Deen as sharp. When had that happened?

  Jinny memorized the feeling of the moment too—the grit of damp sand beneath her scrunched toes, the lapping of the surf, the salt on her lips. She licked them. Deen could pretend not to care, but she refused.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” Jinny said, shaking her head.

  Deen forced a smile. “Well, for once you don’t get what you want.”

  Jinny frowned at him. “Don’t say that. It’s not funny.”

  “It’ll only be a year,” Deen said. “Then I’ll see you again.” He glanced down now, made eye contact.

  But something in what he’d said bothered Jinny, and she spit out a mouthful of words that surprised them both. “You don’t know that. You don’t know where the boat goes. Nobody does. It could take you over the edge of the earth. Or into the jaws of some ravening sea creature, like in a book. It’s nice to be cheerful in front of the littles, but really you could just sail off into the sea forever, until you wasted away from hunger. Couldn’t you?”

  Deen stared at her now, as though he didn’t quite recognize her. “Well, that’s a happy thought,” he said tightly.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that,” said Jinny. “But you know it’s the truth, and you don’t seem to care. It’s almost like you want to go away. Or like you’re already gone. Like you’ve been gone. Why?”

  “Cut it out,” said Deen. He kicked at the side of the boat. “It’s not that simple, Jinny. I can’t explain . . . how this feels. Not even to you. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me,” said Jinny.

  Deen shook his head. “I don’t know how. Anyway, I have to get into the boat. Why do you want to go and make it harder for me? Why do you want to fight now?”

  Jinny’s mouth snapped shut, and her eyes darted to the sand. Was that what she was doing? She hadn’t meant to. She had only wanted him to care. . . . “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I’ll just miss you is all. A lot.”

  “Of course you will,” said Deen. “And me too. But it’s not like I have a choice in this. You know?”

  Jinny bit her lip, trying not to say the wrong thing again. But she couldn’t keep silent. “Well, maybe you do have a choice. I mean, you could . . . stay.”

  “Stay?” Deen squinted.

  Jinny nodded, glancing back up at him.

  “You know I can’t do that, Jinny,” said Deen.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” Deen’s voice was gruff now, angry. “You know the words.” Then he recited:

  “Nine on an island, orphans all,

  Any more—”

  Jinny cut him off with a sharp laugh. “The sky might fall?”

  Deen shrugged. “That’s how the song goes. . . .”

  “The thing is,” said Jinny, “skies don’t actually fall. Just look at it.” She craned her neck, stared up into the reliably endless expanse overhead. “Did you ever see something so permanent? It’s just a silly little song. Who knows who even made it up? Probably some Elder years back, to entertain their Care. I could make up a song too, if I wanted. I could even rhyme if I tried.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Like this:

  “Everyone must go away,

  Except Deen. Yes, Deen should stay.”

  Jinny stopped singing. “There! How’s that? Now will you stay, since it rhymed and all?”

  Deen shook his head, exasperated. “Listen, Jinny, the island has rules for a reason. We have to follow them. Remember what happened the time Tate picked all the curlyferns, even though everyone knows you’re never supposed to pick the last of anything, ever? And then they never grew again? We were so mad at her! Remember how good those ferns were, and now they’re gone.”

  “That’s different,” said Jinny. “That rule made sense. This one doesn’t.”

  Deen wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was turned away again, staring down at the green boat. “Stop it, Jinny. This is the way it works. I have to leave. And next year it will be your turn. So you’d better get used to the idea. What would happen if we all just stayed forever?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jinny. “And neither do you. It might be fine. . . .”

  “But it might not,” argued Deen. “And what if the sky did fall? What if it broke to bits?”

  “Skies don’t break, Deen.”

  “Enough, Jinny!” Deen’s voice was loud now, and suddenly deeper than she’d ever heard it. Deen did
n’t sound like himself. He sounded harder, older. “The boat comes when the boat comes. You can’t just do whatever you feel like all the time. And anyway . . .”

  “Anyway what?” asked Jinny.

  “Anyway . . . ,” said Deen, “I might be ready . . . for something else. Did you ever think of that? That I might be curious what’s out there?” He looked at the sea beyond the boat and squinted. “Aren’t you? At least a little bit? Don’t you want to see what more there is?”

  Deen’s last sentence hung in the air between them for a long moment before Jinny said, “Oh.” She looked down at her dirty feet in the sand. “Well, if you want to go, that’s different. Don’t let me stop you.”

  “You’ll understand,” Deen said, stepping away from Jinny. “You will, when it’s your turn. It’s . . . different. You’ll change too.”

  Jinny shook her head. She didn’t say anything. What could she say to that? If she tried, she knew she’d cry. Deen had changed. He’d been odd for sleeps and sleeps, and she hated it.

  Deen waded into the surf. “I’m done talking about this,” he said as he turned to the boat. His back was to Jinny. “I’ll see you, when you come.” Without even glancing over his shoulder again, he shouted, “Bye!”

  “No, Deen, wait!” Jinny cried. Deen couldn’t leave like that. Fighting. He wouldn’t.

  But that’s exactly what he did do. Because the minute he sat down on the low plank seat, the green boat backed up into the cove and then turned and zipped away. In a true straight line, quickly out into the open water, back to wherever it came from. No different from any other year. The boat didn’t know they were fighting. The boat didn’t give them an extra minute to make up. The boat had someplace to be.

  As he sped off, Deen turned to look back at her over his shoulder. He called out something. But what? Jinny could see his mouth open and close. He threw a hand sharply into the air, but whatever he said was lost in the spray and mist as they swallowed him.

  Jinny watched the boat disappear. Until all she could see was water and distance. It happened so fast. She found herself standing, reaching out both arms, in the direction the boat had gone. Both hands with outstretched fingers, grasping. As if there was something in the air she might be able to clutch.