The Island That Couldn’t Decide Where It Belonged – Part 2

More about The Island That Couldn’t Decide Where It Belonged – Part 2

The Place the Island Called Home
“You took your time.” Merra’s hand froze on the key. Pipkin stared at the door. Tumble slowly removed his backpack. “Your father?” Pipkin whispered. “Impossible.” Her father had been old when she left Asterhaven. Forty-three years had passed. “That depends,” said the voice, “on which side of the door you are waiting.” Merra turned the key. The door opened inward. Beyond it was a small room beneath a ceiling crossed by roots. A silver lamp burned without a flame. In the centre stood a wooden chest. Nobody was there. “Father?” Merra called. Silence. Pipkin peered behind the door. “Perhaps he is very small.” Tumble pointed at the chest. On its lid were three words: FOR WHEN YOU RETURN. Merra opened it. Inside stood a perfect model of the island, no larger than a dinner plate. Tiny trees surrounded a cottage. A windmill turned without wind. Four threads of water fell from its rocky underside. Pipkin leaned closer. “That is us.” A tiny mouse stood beside the cottage, near a dark figure with a backpack. Merra stood beside the telescope. “Unpleasantly accurate.” The miniature cottage door opened and a folded paper slid out. Tumble handed it to her. Merra recognized the handwriting immediately. Merra, if the island has brought you back, then you finally gave it enough time. The letter explained that the island had belonged to her family long before Asterhaven became a city. It had never been made to carry travellers away. Its magic carried people until they understood where they wished to return. “That sounds unnecessarily complicated,” Pipkin said. Her father had known she would never return simply because he asked. So when she left, he gave the island one instruction: show her everything she believed she was missing. Mountains. Deserts. Forests. Frozen seas. Cities and forgotten villages. The island had obeyed for forty-three years. Pipkin unfolded his map. “The circle.” Merra nodded. “It was always bringing us back.” “Very slowly.” Tumble held up his fingers, apparently attempting to count forty-three, then gave up. At the bottom of the chest lay a second letter. When you return, the island must choose. It can remain where it began, or remain with the person it carried. It cannot do both. The room trembled. Dust fell from the roots. “I dislike letters that cause earthquakes,” Pipkin said. They hurried outside. Asterhaven still glittered across the water, but behind the cottage snowy mountains had appeared where the sky should have been. To the left shimmered a tropical beach. To the right stood a forest of blue trees. Places from their journeys surrounded the island like broken reflections. The island shook again. A crack appeared across the garden path. “It is choosing,” Pipkin said. Merra looked toward Asterhaven. Somewhere there had stood the house where she grew up. For forty-three years she had imagined returning and proving she had been right to leave. Now that seemed strangely unimportant. “There was something else in the letter,” she said. “My father wrote that I would misunderstand the choice.” “Did he explain?” “Of course not. He enjoyed being irritating from a distance.” Tumble pointed toward the model. The miniature island had split into two. One floated beside Asterhaven. The other travelled through clouds. Between them stood the tiny cottage. Merra understood. “It isn’t choosing where it belongs.” “Then what?” Pipkin asked. “Who decides what home means.” She placed one hand against the cottage door. “For forty-three years you carried me because my father asked you to. You showed me the world because I wanted to leave.” The island became still. “But he does not get to decide when I have returned. And neither do you.” The mountains faded. “I do.” The tropical beach vanished. Asterhaven remained. Merra smiled. “This is my home. But that does not mean it must stay in one place.” Suddenly every waterfall beneath the island crashed downward. The windmill began spinning and the crack in the path closed. Pipkin looked over the edge. “We’re descending.” The island settled gently toward Asterhaven until its wooden pier touched the harbour wall. People gathered in astonishment. An old man dropped a basket of oranges. A child immediately tried to climb aboard. “We stopped,” Pipkin whispered. “For now.” They remained until sunset. Merra found her childhood house, now belonging to someone else. The bakery still sold the same terrible honey cakes, and the castle had acquired two unnecessary towers.