ManicWorld Magazine

Morning arrives. The door is wide open, sunlight streaming in. Dyl almost expects to see a baby deer nosing around in the doorway, but it’s bare and the entire place is devoid of living beings. He struggles to fill his lungs; it’s as if the very air has ceased to breathe.

And all the roses are dead.

He blinks at the ones over his bed, mere husks of themselves. Could’ve sworn they were a gentle, full pink just yesterday. They break apart into ash when he prods them, showering all over the bed. Hastily, he kneels to brush the dirt off. The loom is empty, strung with a new, uncertain framework in simple white, but yesternight’s piece lies on the table, beside a bowl of figs. Fresh figs! He hasn’t eaten such a delicacy in ages. He’s not a complete animal; he leaves some for Ambrosia.

Her weaving depicts an image of a ship in brilliant blue, prow pointing at Dyl, with the water a deep red mixed with some blue, and whatever colour red and blue make. The very edge of the piece is mangled, though, distorted with spires and crisscrosses of thick black that frankly ruin the piece. He puts it down, feeling as if the dark threads have somehow contaminated his fingertips.

 Outside, the island lives. The sunlight, deeply gold, catches the hue of iridescent plumage as birds crest the sky. Dyl wanders here and there, climbing higher to where the horizon is clear with haze, and remembers to watch his step not a second too soon—he’s suddenly at the edge of a little cliff overlooking a different shore. No wreckage litters this one, it stretches lazily into the sea, which is gentle and unmarred except when birds plunge into it. Occasionally they flounder out with fish in their beaks.

Not a single living soul to see for miles and miles. Dyl shivers, although it grows warmer by the second. Why hasn’t Ambrosia made a raft yet? She built the hut from logs, after all, a raft is certainly not beyond her capability. Maybe she’s afraid of going back to wherever, or whoever she came from originally. He makes a mental note to ask her.

Something drifts, bobbing, in his peripheral vision. Sharp blue, edged with jagged white—a piece of the boat!
It must’ve come around the island. But as it slides across the sea and away from them, it seems to pick up speed… until it’s hurtling around the island, as if being pulled back close. It rounds the bend, past the trees. He can’t see it any longer, but he keeps his eyes fixed there in vain, which is why he almost misses the dark shape cutting through the foggy horizon.

“AHOY!” screams Dyl, almost ripping his vocal chords out. He chokes on his next shout, so he does the only other thing: he flings his top over his head and waves it frantically. Too bad it’s such a nondescript yellow-green that perfectly blends into its surroundings. The ship is passing, and he yells some more, wildly dancing and waving like a possessed kangaroo.

Hard fingers grasp his arm and snatch his shirt from his hands. “What are you doing?” demands Ambrosia, tugging it out the sky, scrunching it. Lines of anger write themselves onto her face.

The ship sails out of sight.

“Why did you do that?” Dyl explodes, yanking it back. “They were going to see me! They were going to see, and they were going to come rescue us!”

Her face gets real cold. Her eyes spark gold. “There isn’t going to be any rescue,” she snaps. “Why can’t you accept that, Dylan?”

Dyl dials it down. Not a good idea to get one’s only friend and protector overly angry. “Look, some sicko abandoned you here when you were a kid. Don’t you think it’s not fair you’re stuck here and they’re out there living their best life?”

The girl blinks at him, long and slow. For a moment it seems she’s actually considering, but then she begins to climb down. Over her shoulder, “The tomatoes need replanting.”

And so he sighs and follows her back to the garden, where he learns just how much water tomatoes need, and they start a tomato-fight with ruined fruit. And when they go inside for the night, Dyl notices the figs he left for Ambrosia. Shrivelled to blackness, bleeding dust.

The mornings and nights pass similarly. Ambrosia delights in showing him each and every part of the island, scattering wildlife as they approach, teaching him survival skills. He tells her tales of school and of his (crazy) family, and Aunt Kath, the exception. He explains all the modern slang he can think of. She teaches him how to weave, but it’s so hard to keep track of each colour that he eventually gives up. Life is fun. He doesn’t say how desperately he wants to see Aunt Kath again, to be scolded by her, to be held.

One afternoon she’s out hunting. How else would they get food?

And Dyl doesn’t mean to follow her. He’s back on the highest part of the island, where he saw the ship (many had since passed, but they never saw his flimsy shirt). Ambrosia just happens to be underneath, stalking a particular large rabbit from the bushes. It lopes around the stones tracing a giant SOS on the sand, pausing as if to consider a strand of seaweed.

An arrow flies.

And the rabbit’s gone, instantly, shot right through the eye. Dyl flinches.

Ambrosia darts onto the beach, slinging her bow back. She sinks to her knees, as if to pay homage, but instead seizes the creature and lifts it to her mouth. Impossibly, where she touches it the fur turns a deep black, and the animal begins to wither and dissolve into thin air, all while the girl gorges on it.

A squeak escapes Dyl’s throat.

She whips her head around. Her freckles and mouth are smattered with blood, and her eyes are wide.
Dyl stumbles back and runs.

“Wait!” Ambrosia calls, sending birds erupting into the sky in clouds of mourning black. No wonder they are all afraid of her; no wonder nothing lives when she does.

Dyl climbs down to one of the rocky shores, finds a huge rock and hides behind it, his back to the sea, peeking out every five seconds. She does not come. The sun begins its drop from the sky. When the sea turns an angry red and comes in to snatch his ankles, he’s forced off the shore. Trembling, he walks closer to the forest. Closer to her.

He’d known something was off for a while. The way she never eats in front of him. The way everything dies, the roses, the figs, the occasional vegetable or entire bush…

Howls dance through the forest, and he stiffens backwards, but the sea nips at his legs. Dyl has no choice but to step right up to the dark trees. He doesn’t realise until something snuffles behind—he whirls to find the entire pack on the sand, watching him, tongues lolling. Their eyes glow in the dying light.

Dyl lets out a yell and spectacularly screws up. He runs.

As one body, the wolves bay and leap forwards; they are faster, stronger. Yet they fall back a pace, and another, and another, as he nears the hut, for where else can he go? Dyl skids to a stop. He can see the candleglow through the chinks between logs, he can almost hear threads pulling tight. She’s there.

Slowly, he turns to face the wolves. They aren’t like the other island creatures. They’re bolder, more comfortable with coming right up to the hut, and so they creep forwards, bellies low. Teeth gleam white. He nearly falls over the garlic plants, and veers left, towards the door. He has no choice. The wood hits his back. He makes eye contact with the foremost one, which scrapes the ground, tossing its head. It tenses, low to the ground. It snarls and prepares to jump.

Then, the door swings open behind and the wolves shy back, yelping. They tuck their tails and slink off. He almost wants them to come back. But he’s had time to think, and he’s no longer deathly afraid, or so he’s trying to tell himself.

“Dylan,” says Ambrosia, quietly.

Dyl turns. She’s holding a candle that makes her eyes glow the colour of the flame, and where the light daren’t touch are deep shadows that make her look like some horror movie character.

She holds the door open. “I’m not going to hurt you. I would never.”

“What are you?” he asks.

“I haven’t been able to answer that question myself.”

It smells like roast fish inside. Dyl’s stomach rumbles.

She stands aside. “Let it not be said I didn’t feed and home a child. Please, Dylan.”

“Is that… the only way you can eat?”

“If there was another, I would certainly be off this cursed island.” She pronounces ‘cursed’ with a prominent ‘ed’; almost spits it.

He dares to take his eyes off her to consider the dark forest. Neither option is particularly appetising, but the whiff of fish has already made up his mind; he steps in, carefully tucking himself away from her.