The Island That Couldn’t Decide Where It Belonged

More about The Island That Couldn’t Decide Where It Belonged

The Island That Couldn’t Decide Where It Belonged – Part 1: The Forty-Three-Year Circle

Merra had lived on the same island for forty-three years and had not travelled once. This was technically true. The island, however, had travelled considerably. “Mountains again,” Merra announced, lowering her telescope. Pipkin unfolded his map. “Snowy mountains?” “Yes.” The little mouse sighed. “We had those eleven days ago.” Tumble, Merra’s small dark companion, pointed east. “Those had wolves.” “True. These have goats.” Their island floated above a silver lake while waterfalls poured from its rocky underside into mist. Merra’s cottage stood beneath two enormous trees, flowers surrounded the path and the windmill turned lazily. It was an ordinary home except for its inability to remain anywhere. Every night Merra went to bed in one place and woke somewhere else. She had stopped being surprised around year twelve. Pipkin had not. “One day I would like to know where breakfast is geographically.” “Breakfast is in the kitchen.” “That is not what geographically means.” That night the island trembled. Pipkin ran outside with his map. “We’re moving!” “We usually do.” “East!” “Wake me if we fall off the world.” The next morning they floated above a tropical sea. Merra drank tea while Pipkin studied his maps. Suddenly he stopped. “Merra. We are not wandering.” “We have been wandering for forty-three years.” “No.” Pipkin returned from the cottage with a bundle of maps and spread them across the grass: mountains, forests, deserts, lakes and coastlines. Each contained a red mark showing where the island had appeared. Tumble placed stones on the corners. Pipkin arranged the pages until their edges overlapped. Slowly the red marks formed a vast circle. “That could be coincidence,” Merra said. “A forty-three-year coincidence?” “The world is very talented.” Tumble pointed toward a gap between two maps. Only one point was missing. Pipkin measured it. “If the island moves the same distance tonight, tomorrow completes the circle.” Merra looked toward the horizon. “What is there?” he asked. “Probably ocean.” “You know.” “I know many things.” “Name three.” “Tea. Gardening. Avoiding questions.” She gathered the maps. “Lunch.” For the rest of the day Merra kept unusually busy. She repaired a shutter that was not broken and polished her telescope twice. Pipkin watched silently. At sunset the island passed a chain of green islands. Merra stood staring east. “Have you been there before?” Pipkin asked. “Not on this island.” At midnight the ground trembled. Merra was already awake. The familiar hum of travelling continued much longer than usual. Pipkin appeared wearing a nightcap and carrying his map. “We’re moving faster.” “Go back to bed.” “You are wearing boots.” Merra looked down. “Coincidence.” Tumble appeared behind him with his backpack fastened. “Traitor,” she muttered. Shortly before dawn the humming stopped. Pipkin opened the cottage door. Across a calm sea stood a city of narrow towers and silver roofs. Bridges curved between them, and at the centre rose a castle with seven pointed spires. Merra froze. Her telescope slipped from her fingers. Tumble caught it. Pipkin looked from the city to Merra. “The missing point.” Merra said nothing. “You know it.” “No.” “You dropped your telescope.” “I was testing Tumble’s reflexes.” Merra sighed. “The city is called Asterhaven.” “How do you know?” “Because I was born there.” Merra had left Asterhaven forty-three years earlier in a small sailing boat carrying one suitcase, a telescope and enough anger to last longer than her provisions. She had never returned. “Why?” Pipkin asked. “My father and I disagreed. He wanted me to stay. I wanted to see what existed beyond the horizon.” Tumble looked around at their travelling island. “Won.” “Apparently.” A deep sound interrupted them. Knock. Knock. It came from beneath their feet. Pipkin’s ears rose. “Was that the island?” “Islands do not knock.” Knock. Tumble peered over the cliff edge and pointed. Beneath the island, half hidden behind a waterfall, was a narrow wooden door set into the rock. A tiny staircase descended toward it. Pipkin stared. “That was not there yesterday.” “Certain?” “I inspect the underside every morning.” “Why?” “We live on a travelling island. I developed unusual habits.” They fetched a lantern and descended. The door had no handle, only a circular hollow.