The Island of Wolves Read online

  The conversation lapsed into silence. It was eventually broken when the professor got up to refill our cups. As he waited for the water to boil, his gaze slid sideways to the files on his desk, then back to me.

  “So,” he said slowly. “How did your last report card work out? I hope the stress wasn’t for naught?”

  “Well, the compulsory maths wasn’t the best. It was a pass but it could have been a lot better. And the final year’s set novel had a story that flowed like molasses. I was able to put something together for the subject essay, but I still feel like I don’t quite get what Miss Barrington was trying to hammer into us.”

  “What about your cultural studies?” asked Linesley in a casual sort of tone as he returned with the fresh cups.

  “Good actually, great even. Much better than I could have hoped,” I said. “I exceeded my grade expectations for Xenozoology and Xenthropology. Religious Studies went well, and I managed to score in the nineties in World History and Culture.”

  Of course when Mother had seen my report card, her only interest had been literature and mathematics, acting as though the rest of it had been blank.

  “And how did you find the material for history and culture?” asked Linesley. “The textbooks, I mean.”

  “Limited,” I replied honestly. “We spent a whole year on the human kingdoms. We had an entire section on each of the twelve, their rise, their kings, their treaties, everything. We spent another year on our closest allies, and then the third year was, well, everyone else.” I sighed. “It was so frustrating, because I feel like I came out of it knowing almost nothing about them. I’d question my teachers after every class, but it was a dice roll to see if they knew anything more than the textbooks.”

  “That’s because the books haven’t been updated in decades.”

  “Why not?”

  It made no sense to me. With modern ships, the world was connected better now that it has ever been. It seemed to me that now more than ever should be the golden age of world cultural study.

  “Remember that all our history books are written by humans for humans,” explained Linesley. “The printing press was a human invention that spread like wildfire in the central kingdoms, and while some of the larger foreign cultures have taken it on board, it makes sense they would not only be printing books in their own languages, but wouldn’t feel the need to waste resources on human focused explanatory textbooks.

  “As far as much of the academic community back home in concerned, humans are still the only ones printing real literature.” He rolled his eyes. “Or more accurately, ‘they haven’t written a textbook I can read which answers all my questions yet, so until then I’m not interested.’ Gods forbid they have to talk to someone. You know Sam was saying…”

  The professor trailed off and was quiet for some time staring down at the soggy tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

  “What was Doctor Ebon saying?” I prompted gently.

  The professor got up and went back over to his desk. He sighed, placed his hands flat on the table and looked down at the files he’d been sent. I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but there was an air about him that suggested he was deep in thought.

  “My colleagues and I,” he began slowly, turning back to me. “We’d started, one of the most ambitious projects ever undertaken, perhaps anywhere in the kingdoms. We were going to put together an encyclopaedia, a comprehensive collection many volumes long, on the history and culture of every race on Alvis. We would publish in the common tongue and make it available to every educational institution that would take it. Then, most importantly, as more people around the world read it and contacted us about potential corrections or improvements, we would update and release new volumes. There are lots of reference books that have multiple editions that add new information but I think we’d be the first culture encyclopaedia to do it.”

  As he talked, he gestured with his hands, his excitement about the project palpable.

  “Oh, I’d love to work on something like that.” I said wistfully. “Traveling the world, writing about the things I saw and the people I met.”

  “Would you be interested in joining the project then?” he asked. “You could start an internship with the department, and your travel and necessities would be paid for by our grant budget. A paid working vacation, what do you think? Take your gap year through us?”

  “It sounds amazing,” I said my face lighting up, before falling again. “But surely there are better candidates. Your colleagues are all well-educated and aren’t they already out in the field?”

  “Yeah,” he said reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “We’ve been working on it for about six months now, though it feels like we’ve barely scratched the surface of it all. I’m supposed to be coordinating their efforts and cataloguing their reports, but…”

  “What’s happened?”

  The professor looked between me and the documents on his desk, then shook his head, and smiled. He’d looked at those files several times already since I’d arrived. I didn’t know what they were, but they were clearly important.

  “Turns out a project of this magnitude takes a lot of work. We’ve been collaborating with some other academic institutions but it all comes down to getting bodies in the field. People who really care about the project and what it could mean.”

  “You’re having trouble getting more field researchers?”

  “There have been some incidents,” said Linesley, vaguely. “I mean well, the world is a dangerous place in general and most of the people in our kinds of fields seem to prefer working behind desks rather than exploring uncharted regions of the continents.”

  “That’s the kind of adventure I’ve been dreaming of though.”

  I’d loved the book study at school, but I wanted nothing more than to get out there.

  “Well you certainly have the grades for the internship,” said Linesley. “I’ll still have to process the request of course, but with my recommendation I don’t see why they would reject your application.”

  “I can write one now if you’ve got some paper.”

  “Ah, sure,” said Linesley, looking lost for a moment in his own office as he tried to find where his typewriter had gone.

  I spent the next hour at the museum with the professor carefully crafting an internship request, talking up my academic achievements as much as I could, and even subtly mentioning Uncle’s history with the museum, as he’d been one of their biggest financial benefactors over the years.

  When we were done and satisfied with the result, the professor quickly typed a recommendation letter to go along with it.

  “That should be everything,” he said.

  “Very well, should I come back tomorrow?”

  “No, not tomorrow. It’s good to give them a couple of days.”

  “At weeksend then,” I said standing.

  “That should be fine. I’ll send you a letter if something goes wrong or they want to speak with you. Otherwise assume it all went well.”

  “Like I said, I’ll see you at weeksend.”

  Chapter 2:

  The Home for

  Lost Children

  I avoided Mother when I returned to the house, immediately sequestering myself away in my room. The stack of academy brochures was on the desk when I entered, and I took great pleasure in sweeping them off into the litter bin. It was still a few days until weeksend, so I had that much time to make preparations. Because there was no way I was going to let the professor down.

  Though it felt like I had only just recently unpacked upon my return from school, I pulled my school trunk out from under the bed. It had been a present from Uncle a number of years back, and I loved it to bits.

  Made of a medium toned wood, it had an extendable handle and a pair of little wheels. The latch on the side was made of a pearly metal which didn’t match the wood grain very well, but it had been a later addition. Keys could be lost and combinations forgotten so I had had the trunk fitt
ed with a memory latch. It opened at my touch, and would open for me and me alone. The inside of the trunk was divided into several compartments, some open, some with lids, and one that folded out into a set of little draws for smaller items.

  I’d need to pack smart and for all weather if I was going to travel the world. I threw open my closet and scrutinised my wardrobe. Mother had never skimped on clothing for her children, even encouraging me to keep up with the latest fashion and to show it off at society parties during the school holidays. Though only Uncle had inherited the lordship, the Sterling name was inexorably linked to the aristocracy, and Mother wanted everyone to know it.

  There was also the fact that I felt a little bit the ambassador for this trip. I’d be representing the academic community through the museum but as a human, my appearance and behaviour would reflect on all the kingdoms. I must look the part.

  Hours slipped by in my room as I tried on what felt like every piece of clothing I owned, separating them for season, practicality, and comfort. I wouldn’t have the luxury of changing my wardrobe every term holidays, or ordering things to be delivered from home. I had an entire year to get through, I had to get things right the first time. Trunk finally packed to my satisfaction, I collapsed onto my bed, asleep almost the moment my head hit the pillow.

  Mind still buzzing with travel plans, I ended up having the most peculiar dream. First I was riding the butterfly from the new exhibit, then I was the butterfly, being chased through my school’s exam hall by the professor with a net. A gong sounded, shaking the building from its foundations. Large square blocks of building were falling down around me, and I could hear the sound of a wolf howling in the distance just as Mother’s voice cracked through the haze of sleep and ripped me from my dream.

  My eyes snapped opened to the view of Mother standing above the bed, hands on her hips.

  “Still here, are you?”

  “Well yes,” I said. “I didn’t think you meant for me to sleep in the gutter for the year.”

  Mother pursed her lips in distaste. “Of course not,” she said. “I don’t want you out in the street. That’s precisely why I want you to sort out your priorities and get to your studies.”

  “I have sorted out my priorities,” I said plainly, getting out of bed and disappearing behind a folded wooden screen for a wash from the basin there. “In fact I’ve managed to get myself an internship.”

  Well almost. I hadn’t quite been approved yet but given the professor’s enthusiasm I had no reason to believe I’d be rejected at this stage.

  “An internship?” Mother repeated in disbelief. “Where? With who?”

  “Professor Linesley at the Museum of Natural History was quite impressed with my grades and offered me an entry position on a new project.”

  “My daughter, pushing papers in a museum office?” said Mother, sounding horrified. “If I had known your visits to that place would have led to this, I would never have allowed it!”

  “I’m not a secretary.” Though I couldn’t see the problem even if I was. “The professors are working on a comprehensive encyclopaedia of world culture. I’ll be assisting them in the field.”

  “I suppose that’s why you’ve packed your bags then?”

  “Yes. I’ll be heading out at weeksend.”

  “You will not,” said Mother and I could almost see her stamping her foot. “No daughter of mine is going to be caught dead hiking the world’s backroads so some old fuddy-duddy can write a book.”

  “You said I could go on holiday if I could pay for it myself.”

  “Only because I knew you couldn’t,” she snapped. “I am enrolling you at Oaksfield and you will be attending at the start of the new school year.”

  I was silent for a moment, then came out from behind the screen, dressed, with a hairbrush in my hand.

  “Oaksfield is the school Father and Uncle went to.”

  Mother looked momentarily surprised, but covered quickly. “Well yes. Oaksfield is a proud institution going back several hundred years. The Sterling family has been attending it almost since it first opened.”

  “Oaksfield offers cultural studies.”

  “Oaksfield offers every field of study,” she snapped again. “You will be studying business and finance, and making something of yourself.”

  “Uncle studied history,” I said stubbornly, running the brush through my hair.

  “Yes, and look where it got him!”

  She didn’t elaborate, but I already knew what she would have said. The Sterling family had been producing the royal silver going back five generations, it was the main reason we’d been titled in the first place. When James Sterling had taken the lordship, however, he’d left it behind, ‘squandered it’, Mother would often say, to go and see the world. Father had founded the Sterling Trading Company with his share of the inheritance, which salvaged some of the family’s good name and maintained our reputation in the upper social circles.

  “He and your uncle could have been an unstoppable business pair, if only that man had had any ambition,” Mother said bitterly. “I suppose it’s something you and he have in common.”

  I couldn’t remember ever seeing Mother look so disappointed in me. It hurt to watch her leave, as though the woman had completely given up on me. But I had to stay firm with my decision even if it hurt. I was going to do this, to put my name on something of real cultural significance, something that would be remembered longer than a company and I couldn’t let anyone stop me.

  In the top draw of my desk, there was a notebook. I’d had it since the start of my final years of school and it was clearly well loved, with many page markers and extra pieces of paper slotted inside. It, like many of my much-loved things, had been a gift from Uncle. The soft leather cover had been imprinted with a map of the world, and many a late sleepless night had been spent among its pages; once blank, now filled to the brim with hand-written notes of my favourite titbits taken from my cultural textbooks. In a pocket of the inside cover were the letters Uncle used to send me about his travels, along with postcards from all the places he’d visited. He hadn’t sent me anything in quite a while, though I suspected it was due to whatever new adventure he’d managed to get himself embroiled in. All in all, it was my ultimate travel plan, down to a detailed year-long itinerary.

  The letter in the inside cover was crumpled and the paper was thinning with age, but I pulled it out anyway.

  Nina,

  Be yourself.

  It was the last letter my uncle had ever sent me. I didn’t know whether he was still traveling, or if he’d found somewhere to settle down, but his words always followed me. Be yourself. I would. I had to.

  After breakfast, I went for a walk down the promenade to clear my head.

  The city of Pheras really was a beautiful place and though I’d spent most of the last twelve years away at school, I couldn’t deny how lucky I was to live here.[1] I still didn’t understand how someone, anyone, could live here all their lives, surrounded by this majesty, and think art and social studies were soft options. It had baffled me since my younger days. And yet somehow, my parents had managed it.

  The canals were long and winding, crystal clear and bordered by wide boulevards and gardens. Little pedestrian bridges dotted the length of the canals, high enough for people to row small boats under. People strolled under brightly coloured parasols that matched their clothing, the women in long dresses embroidered with elaborate patterns and designs.

  All along the boulevard were carts selling sweet treats, flavoured ices, balloons, kites, and all manner of toys and games. Local artists were everywhere, painting, drawing, playing instruments, and quoting plays and poetry. This was the beauty of Pheras that Uncle had introduced me to. Why couldn’t Mother see it as I did?

  A ways down the canal, there was a place where several of the city’s waterways met, forming a large pool. All around its edges were wading steps, shallow ledges for people to sit on and dip their feet into the cool water. Blanke
ts and parasols were dotted around, as the citizens used the canal pool as a beach. Though their beachwear was as conservative as their day wear, covering everything up to the elbows and knees, the women had no concerns about dropping their dresses and skirts to the bank, revealing their swimwear underneath, and diving in.

  Though I’d walked these streets a hundred times before, to the point they were practically my own backyard, today I felt like an outsider, emotionally lost in a place that should be my home.

  An explosion of sound made me look up. Directly across the way, a crowd of young children had rushed out from between a pair of tall buildings. Their clothes were scrappy and patched, and they too were in the process of throwing off their shoes for a swim.

  There was a man with them, tall, with ivory skin and nearly shoulder length hair the colour of spun gold. His appearance was almost dazzling, the kind of beauty one didn’t usually see outside of the catwalks. Though compared to the rest of the city dwellers, he seemed underdressed. He wore the same tight leggings, and long boots as the other men, but he’d forgone the fancy cloaks and capes for a simple loose shirt that showed off a generous amount of bare, toned chest.

  There was something unnerving about him. He was far cleaner than the children he was minding, and always seemed to be ready with ice cream whenever one approached him. Surely these children couldn't be his own. They looked nothing like him, and there were so many of them. After a while, the children finished their swim and the man gathered the group up and started leading them away, back between the tall buildings.

  I watched them go, red flags raising in my mind. The children had looked happy and relatively healthy, but there was something incredibly suspicious about the man. He may have been underdressed as far as layers were concerned, but the high quality of his clothes was undeniable. How was it he could afford high fashion for himself, when the children in his care were almost in rags?

  I looked around, but no one else at the canal cross seemed to have even noticed that he or the children had been there at all. I had no choice, the longer I waited, the further away they got, and if I was the only one to have seen them, then I was the one who needed to do something.