Mirrorland by Carole Johnstone (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📕

else. I can feel the give of the soft, rotting wood as I shift my weight from left foot to right foot, back and forth. I can feel the mist of warm rain against my face, the hose wrapped around the main-mast like a snake; the hard flap of the sheet sails as the fans whirr and blow – sometimes a tropical ten-knot southeasterly, sometimes a forty-knot squall from the North Atlantic. I can feel the burn of old rope running through my fingers as I hoist, trim, and furl. El behind me at the helm, whisper-shouting her orders: Come about! Heave to! All hands hoay!

God, I miss her. It comes out of nowhere, but hurts enough that I can no longer deny it. Pretend it’s not true. I miss her.

El is older than me by four minutes. We knew this because Mum mentioned it every day. It usually prefaced one of the stories that she told us almost as often: a depressing tale about the poison taster of an old Persian dynasty. The poison taster was a princess; always the eldest sister of the king. Every day, the heroic poison taster would take the first bite or sip of the king’s food or drink, and every night she would swallow a pearl touched by all the king’s subjects, and all of their murderous thoughts and plans and words would sink black and boiling into her flesh and bones, where they would fester and rot and burn. And although her life was full of pain and suffering and poor reward, her king’s was not, and that was enough to sustain her, to every day set her to her task. To Mum, this meant that the eldest must always look after the youngest, but to El, it meant that she was in charge, she had the divine right to always, always go first.

So I insisted that we have a crew. Because if El allowed me a rare turn at the wheel as captain, it wouldn’t happen again for weeks, and as first mate, I wanted to be the boss of someone too. They were an ever-changing crew of Old Salty Dogs, whichever historical pirates were in favour, the odd cowboy or Indian from Boomtown, and Clowns on sabbatical. Only three members of the crew were constant. Annie, our second mate and chief navigator: a tall, perpetually aggressive red-haired Irishwoman, named after the Caribbean pirate Anne Bonny. Belle, our gunner: young and loud with fearless fun; she wore dresses instead of breeches, hid knives in her ebony hair, and wore lipstick the colour of blood. And Mouse, timid and obedient enough that she offset the worst of El’s bossiness and spared me the worst of it too. Small and silent and pale, dressed always in black, she’d scurry fore and aft, port and starboard: our cabin girl, powder monkey, and skivvy.

Some nights, we only sailed. Searching for The Island and trying to keep ahead of the chasing spectre of Blackbeard’s Queen Anne’s Revenge. Some nights, we dropped anchor to raid for booty or look for hidden treasure. Some nights, we battled a mutinous crew, devised complicated punishments for their insurrection: keelhauling bow to stern with ropes, or walking a plank greased with lard. More often subjecting them to ever more impossible challenges in order that their lives might be spared: we believed in cruel second chances. And some nights, we battled storms and other ships: naval frigates and merchant convoys, other pirate brigantines. Our ears would ring with the screams of splintering wood and dying men, the bellows of cannon and musketoons, the roar of the squall.

Ahoy, let’s get ’em, sons of biscuit eaters!

Give no quarter! No prey, no pay!

Always, Blackbeard stayed on our tail. And always, always, we waited for Captain Henry to appear over that next horizon. To come to our aid and save the day. We knew that he would. We always knew absolutely that one day he’d come back again. For us.

I open my eyes, blink. Walk back across the deck of the Satisfaction, out the washhouse door, and back into the long narrow alleyway as if in a dream. I stop suddenly, turn to face the boundary wall. A shiver runs through me as I press my numb fingers against its rough stone. A big portrait of Captain Henry – painted by El – had once hung somewhere along it. Stern and unsmiling, the blues and yellows and greens of The Island behind him. I think of that empty rum bottle in the shoebox. Captain Henry had been our hero: the bravest and best of all pirates. The pirate king of the world.

I lean hard against the wall. So many things I’ve forgotten, which are still there – still here – in dusty, dark corners. I’m suddenly eager to leave, to feel warm, to breathe fresh air that doesn’t smell of damp and moss. At the bottom of the staircase, I pause again. Look up, without knowing why – until I see the white card taped to the underside of the wooden roof with black electrical tape:

SNOW-WHITE SAID: ‘WE WILL NOT LEAVE EACH OTHER.’

ROSE-RED ANSWERED: ‘NEVER SO LONG AS WE LIVE.’

All pirates needed to have a code, Mum said, and that was ours. And although it is – was – as much a part of Mirrorland as everything else down here, something sets it apart. This card is new.

I see red – quite literally. Blood Red. HE KNOWS. I feel it, hear it, in a hot, urgent whisper in my ear, and bat at it like a mosquito, panicked now, as if there are fingers around my throat that have begun squeezing. I hear a sound, upstairs yet close; alien yet familiar: a loud metallic echoing thud. An icy draught pulls at my hair, scratches my skin. The bare hanging bulb winks suddenly out, and when I lurch away from the wall, I feel a rush of cold air, hear a voice that might be familiar if