The Last Rabbit Read online

  And right now, it was too bad for me.

  I took a breath and pulled all the courage I could manage from the bottoms of my rabbit feet all the way up through me. “About Hybrasil—” I began.

  “Albie, I found this in the depths of the blue.

  Your father would want it returned to you.”

  And with the next wave, the tarnished medal for bravery that the prime minister of Great Britain awarded my papa washed up at my feet.

  The last time I saw the blackened bronze cross medal, it was shiny and new. But September 1940 was a horrible time to be a child. And that’s what I was back then, a little girl with three sisters and two parents.

  And a war that changed everything.

  I suppose if you were far away from the war, it might not be that bad. You’d have to give up some food and fabric for clothing the soldiers needed, but you’d sleep in your bed each night feeling fairly confident that you’d wake up again.

  It didn’t feel that way if you were a child in London.

  We came to London from our home in Cork to help win the war. We loaded up, my mother, my father, and my sisters and me, and traveled right in the middle of the Blitz. Rory, Isolde, and I thought it was a grand adventure. But Caragh was old enough to know it was dangerous, and she was pretty grumpy about it.

  When the bombers would come at night, Caragh would cry and Rory would comfort her, brushing her brown curly hair until it shone like silk. It should have been the other way around, since Rory was younger, but Rory had that way about her. She mothered her dolls, the younger children in school. Even as a rabbit she was always asking if we had enough to eat and making sure our burrows were cozy.

  As for Isolde, she was ready to fight, right there and then. She was a warrior. She’d sleep at night with a pot and spatula next to her, convinced she could use them as a sword and shield if necessary. She was always the last one down into the shelter, backing in so she could face any enemy.

  I should have paid better attention to what was happening, but I was only nine. I spent my days trying to make a new slingshot. I’d left my best one, from Papa, back in Cork.

  I don’t remember much of the Blitz, being the youngest. At night in the shelter, we took turns telling stories to keep our minds from the booms that rocked the basement and sent bricks and rubble tumbling down around us. I didn’t like loud things. I still don’t.

  Why would a family take their small children to a war zone?

  For two reasons.

  The first was that my father was a pilot. He was one of only ten Irish pilots who came to help the Battle of Britain. He said that if we didn’t aid our allies, it would be worse for the world, and that meant worse for Ireland, too.

  That’s the kind of person Papa was. Always thinking about what was best.

  He flew a lot of missions, most heroically. They say that only the lucky ones survived to the end without being shot down. My father was unlucky. We lost him that November.

  The second reason we went to London was that my mother was needed, too. You see, she was good with magic. Really good. And if you think that the prime minister of Great Britain was above trying magic to win the war, you are wrong. If it would save his country, he would have tried just about anything.

  The prime minister had heard of my mum. Don’t ask me how; that isn’t part of this story. When the prime minster of Britain asks you to come over from your little house in Cork and try to save all of England (even though sometimes England wasn’t that nice to Ireland; we were taught in school not to talk about it in polite company), you go.

  And we all came with her.

  In case you think magic can keep someone from dying during the Blitz, well…

  It can’t. We lost Mum only a few days after Christmas, the same year we lost Papa.

  She helped as best as she could before she died. And she was smart and thoughtful. She had arranged a safe place for us to go if anything happened.

  Hybrasil.

  She knew where it was, of course, because she was magical. She must not have been there herself, because I don’t think she’d have chosen Hybrasil if she knew that only the old Magician lived there, or that everything was in ruins. It wasn’t the kind of place to send four young girls.

  Why couldn’t we go back to Cork? Why couldn’t we go back to when everyone was alive and happy and living in our cottage?

  I loved our home in Cork.

  We called it a cottage, but it was a biggish house with two stories, fairly grand as far as Cork went. Caragh once told me we had a big house because Mum inherited it from a relative. She never said who. But honestly, who cared as long as it wasn’t haunted by some old granny’s ghost?

  From the front, the house was white and proper looking. Four windows across the top, all with lace curtains peeping out. Across the bottom half were two windows and a big red door that stood a good two feet above my father’s head, and Papa was a tall man.

  But the back of the house was not proper at all. There were ancient vines growing up the side, nearly covering it. It looked like a gigantic faerie house, the kind I made in the summers from branches and leaves and left out in the woods with a piece of cake as an offering. In Cork, if you didn’t leave an offering for the faeries, they’d tangle your hair and sour your breakfast every day. Or so the legends went.

  We all wanted to go back to the house in Cork. Caragh was in charge because she was the oldest. Unfortunately, when she was out gathering supplies for our journey, she let it slip to some grown-ups that we were alone. A lady from the Orphan Removal Society showed up at our flat in London soon after. She was a miserable creature named Miss Bronagh, with gray hair and an even grayer personality. Her tiny blackbird eyes flashed violet when she glared, which was a lot.

  “No, girls, you simply cannot stay here without a parent. You’re too young. It’s not safe; therefore, it’s not allowed.” A small smile played on Miss Bronagh’s lips. She was enjoying disappointing us. She didn’t seem to give a fig about our loss.

  “We understand,” said Caragh. “We know we can’t stay, so we’re making other plans. We’ve a home back in Cork.” She sounded so mature.

  “A house in Cork? You’ve a house in Cork? There will be no going back to Cork. That would be…far too dangerous,” squawked Bronagh the Orphan Lady, like some sort of awful bird.

  “Then where are we supposed to go?” asked Caragh.

  Bronagh the Orphan Lady’s eyes glinted in a hideous way.

  I wished I had my slingshot.

  “Your father is gone, and your mother perished in the Blitz. I’ve done my research. Your mother made arrangements, such as they are. I’m charged with following her last wishes. I’m not saying she was in her right mind when she made them, but nonetheless—”

  I kicked her. Hard, right in the shin. How dare she question Mum’s mind, or anything else about her?

  “You’re an angry one, aren’t you, little sister?” she whispered through gritted teeth, not flinching a bit. Then she dramatically doubled over and grabbed her shin, crying out pitifully.

  Rory approached the hag. “We are ever so sorry, ma’am. We’ve been through a hard time. Please forgive our sister.”

  The hag continued to rub her shin pitifully.

  “What if we won’t go? Because WE WON’T GO!” I shouted, priming my foot for another kick. Isolde and Caragh held me back.

  With Rory’s help, Bronagh rose slowly. Caragh and Isolde released their grip on me, and I huffed off.

  The hag limped over and put her face right in my face. She whispered so that her words were only for me.

  “Of course you’ll go, you stupid little girl. You think you can just do anything you want? You’ve got a lot to learn about the world.”

  I’ll never forget her violet glare.

  Then she straightened up, adjusted her coat, and smiled at Rory, Isolde, and Caragh, as if the whole kicking thing had never happened.

  “Come, my dears,” she said. “You’ve not much t
ime to pack. Grab your things.”

  Bronagh the Orphan Lady had booked our journey, handing Caragh a sealed brown envelope for whoever met us at our destination. The boat was creaky and old, with hideous ancient-looking birds that trailed in its wake, dive-bombing us from time to time as if in battle.

  Where we were sailing, we didn’t know. Luckily, the Sea gave us easy passage.

  I can’t remember how long we sailed. None of us could. Most of the time we spent crying gently in each other’s arms, mirroring the light rain from the soft clouds overhead. Then one morning, sunlight burst through the gray. There, where nothing was but a moment before, sat Hybrasil, glimmering before us like a broken jewel upon the sapphire sea.

  Caragh delivered the brown envelope to the solitary inhabitant of the island.

  I’d never seen a more shocked look on anyone’s face.

  I didn’t give the Magician an easy time of it. It wasn’t his fault that we’d washed up on his doorstep, on his island that was supposed to be hidden and that nobody was supposed to be able to find. Our mum was good with directions, I guess. Or more likely, good with spells, even spells cast before her death.

  Those first days on Hybrasil were the worst of my life. And I made certain that everyone, especially the Magician, knew it. If there were a contest between the Magician and me to see who was the most horrible in our early days on Hybrasil, it would have been a draw. He was surely terrible and grumpy. His clothes were crumpled, and he smelled stale and dusty.

  He didn’t hug us or welcome us, really. He looked confused mostly, muttering unintelligibly and puttering off in the opposite direction. We were on our own a lot in the beginning. Caragh decided who would sleep in which room in the castle and made sure we were fed. Rory kept track of us, which was the hardest job, since that meant keeping Isolde and me out of trouble. Isolde was everywhere at once. She loved the freedom of the island. She found every hiding place and staged pretend battles.

  I, on the other hand, was only interested in making everyone feel as miserable as I did.

  Didn’t anyone else care that our mother and father were gone?

  I didn’t understand the way they played house on this stupid island, like it was just some kind of adventure and not the worst thing that ever happened to us.

  I don’t think even the Sea would have understood, but we weren’t speaking to each other yet, so I don’t know. I blamed the Magician for our situation. I put grubs in his teapot. I put gravel in his bed and soaked his socks in cabbage stew.

  He was worse, though.

  He didn’t even learn our names, or even try to. He just called each of us “girl.”

  Sometimes I’d catch him crying. I never thought to ask him why.

  If only I would have talked with him when I thought of my stupid plan. If only he’d reached out to me, or any of us, before it was too late.

  But even on an enchanted, hidden island, a person doesn’t get do-overs.

  You might be wondering why I’m not eager to leave. I’ve not painted a very friendly portrait of the island or the Magician. Why wouldn’t I be rushing onto that boat?

  Simple, really.

  On Hybrasil, I knew what to expect.

  In life, when something bad happens, there are people who say things couldn’t possibly get worse. That’s what I thought when Papa died.

  Then the war took Mum, too.

  Not knowing what was happening in the world made me want to stay on Hybrasil all the more. Besides, how was I supposed to trust the Boy when all he did was take my sisters away?

  Speaking of the Boy, I hadn’t seen him all day, which was strange. I’d expected him to hound me, nag me, beg me to get in that boat. I’d been practicing my not-listening-to-you stance. But there was no sign of him in the garden, in the hills, or by the Sea.

  That meant he was probably in the castle, which was where I wanted to go.

  Well, he could nag all he wanted. I wasn’t afraid of him. If I wanted to go to the castle, that’s what I would do. His pestering was like a little flea. Not enough to change my mind.

  So to the castle I went.

  “If you’ve come for stories, Albie, they’re not mine to tell.” The Magician was in his library alone, which was strewn with dozens of open books. He was calmly drinking tea, which meant that he was working, not just reading.

  It was impolite to interrupt his work, but I had reasons.

  The Howler wasn’t as loud tonight, but I could hear it.

  “Aaaaaaaaooooooooowwwwww.”

  I closed my eyes, buried my head in the armchair, and tried to ignore it. It got a little louder. I could feel it.

  “Aaaaaaaaoooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww.”

  I continued to pretend it wasn’t there.

  I jumped up to the table, landing on a book. The Magician put me on his shoulder so he could continue reading what looked like ingredients for a spell. Or a salad.

  Carrots.

  Radishes.

  Cabbage.

  All things he had in the garden.

  “I will miss vegetables,” he said. “I truly will.”

  I guessed he was talking about the island sinking, but I cocked my head and flicked my ear, trying to look like I didn’t understand. Communicating with non-rabbits can be difficult. Rabbits understand all manner of subtlety that is completely lost on humans. I just wished that I could speak to the Magician with words, as he sometimes let us—but then I stopped myself mid-wish.

  On Hybrasil you couldn’t go around flinging wishes to the air and not expect some sort of consequence.

  “Ah, Albie, what has become of all this?” Did he mean the library or the whole island? There was despair in his voice, like when we first arrived.

  Then he gave me the gentlest smile. “Quite a pair, we are. Neither of us wanting to let go of things here.”

  He scooped me up, moved his pile of books to the side, and gently placed me back on the table. He scratched me between my ears, which is quite a wonderful feeling.

  “Looks like I have a story for you after all, Albie. I suppose, at this point, it wouldn’t be so bad to tell you a few things. Things I’ve kept secret for so long.”

  I looked around for the Boy, to see if he was skulking about.

  “I’ve sent him on an errand. What I’m about to say is for your ears only. You’ll have to decide later if you want to tell him, or anyone else.”

  Then he sighed one of those big sighs, just like before a wave breaks, loud yet breathy at the same time.

  “I’m tired of being the keeper of secrets.” He reached over, grabbed his cane, and waved it over me once. He mumbled something, but even with my superior ears, I couldn’t make it out.

  “There, now we can actually talk for a while,” he said.

  “Okay, that’s what I thought we were doing,” but instead of just thinking it, I said it. “Ah, so that is your plan, for us to talk to each other?”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time?” he said. Then he went on, “You know the island is sinking, of course.”

  “And you’re trying to save it, right? That’s what you’re doing with your spell books and your tea.”

  “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. My magic is too weak.”

  “But is the…” I didn’t have the word here. I’d always thought of it as the Howler, but I never talked about it with anyone. Not ever. But since I could still hear it, faintly in the night, I supposed it was a good time to ask something that had been bugging me. “Is the Howler making the island sink? It if is, maybe if we destroy it, then—”

  “No, Albie. I’m not even sure what a Howler is.”

  “You can’t hear it?”

  “I don’t have rabbit ears. But sometimes things just sink into the ocean because they should and their time is done.”

  “Or,” I said, “maybe they sink because they give up, which is really kind of horrible. Shouldn’t you never give up?”

  “Maturity is knowing when to give up,” the Magician said. “And th
en it is called letting go.”

  “You can call it whatever you want, but it’s still giving up. Still cowardly.” To be a coward was the most awful thing in the world.

  The Magician shook his head sadly.

  “No. Sometimes letting go is courageous.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. That was the sort of thing that cowards told themselves so they wouldn’t feel bad.

  Bravery meant not giving up the fight. It meant doing what was needed, just like Mum and Papa.

  “My, you are an argumentative rabbit. Do you want to hear my tale or not?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, then, I suppose you’ve read of Murien?” he began.

  I wanted to say no because if I said yes, then he would know I’d been snooping.

  When I didn’t answer, he went on.

  “She was better with magic. I was simply a magician. She was…different. While I could control and use magic, she was magic.”

  He let the words sink in.

  “But of course, I couldn’t control her. No true magician can control another, nor should that be the goal.

  “I would love to tell you what she looked like, but I can’t find the words anymore. Sometimes, though, I can see her as clearly as if she was standing right in front of me.”

  The Magician reached out his hand as if to touch an invisible cheek.

  “But of course she isn’t. And yes, Albie, I did love her very much.”

  I hadn’t even asked, but when a person reaches out to touch an imaginary face, it becomes pretty clear.

  “The short of it is that we were married. The long of it was that the union wasn’t as happy as we had both hoped. When she left, she was with child, but she never told me. Never told me about our daughter.

  “We disagreed about magic, if you must know, Albie. I could tell you were about to ask but thought better of it. True, it would have been bad manners to ask, which is why I saved you the trouble.”