Featherlight by Peter Bunzl (debian ebook reader TXT) 📕

Featherstone Island is very flat and tufted with grass. The earth is rich with seabird droppings, and the grass is straight and strong. On the side of the island closest to the mainland we grow vegetables in the sheltered patches in our walled allotment. There are pumpkins and squashes that are nearly ready for cutting, and carrots ready to lift. Sometimes we fish off the rocks with lines and nets, and other times we collect cockles and mussels to eat.

The sea and sky change all the time here. In spring the sea can be so flat and blue that you can’t tell where the water ends and the sky begins. In summer the clouds sit on the horizon like floating herds of sheep. In autumn the thunderhead clouds are as big as mountains and as black as the ink in Dad’s inkwell. In winter it rains most days and the waves get so rough they look like sheets billowing from a clothes line on a windy day.

You might imagine it would be lonely being an only child on a small island, but there are all sorts of creatures to study and play with.

As well as our goat and hens, there are wild rabbits and sea birds – cormorants, divers, gulls, terns and skimmers. Sometimes there are seals and sea lions, even dolphins. Occasionally I have seen whales surfacing to blow water far out at sea.

And there are all sorts of fish: fish for catching and fish for eating, and fish just for watching in rock pools. Plus crabs and barnacles. If you love wildlife like I do, then Featherstone Island is the perfect place to live.

Truth be told, I have never lived anywhere else. Twelve years ago, Mum went to the mainland to have me with Grandma’s help. While she was away, Grandpa came to work with Dad on the island. He had been the lighthouse keeper before, when Dad was a boy. Grandpa taught Dad everything he knows, just like Dad is teaching me.

Gulls screech and circle above my head. The sea crashes on the shore in its non-stop rhythm as I walk around the rocky edges of the island searching for my meteorite.

I look everywhere, but there’s nothing to be found.

By the time I am done it is late in the afternoon. Mum and Dad still aren’t back from the mainland with my baby brother or sister. I realise then with a shiver that I will be spending another night on the island alone.

7

LIGHTING THE LANTERN

It is almost evening when I fill Dad’s flask with warm milky tea. I cut off another big hunk of bread from the loaf for dinner and put it in my pocket. After that, I take a hot water bottle, an oil lamp, matches and a blanket up to the keeper’s office in preparation for the night watch.

In the office, I lay out my provisions on the desk. Then I climb the stairs to the lantern room, where I open the glass door of the lantern and light the lamp wick so the flame will already be burning when it gets dark.

I close the glass door and pump the pump handle beneath the lantern to fill the oil reservoir, just like I did last night. Once that’s done I turn the big wheel on the far wall to wind the clockwork. When I’ve finished, the machinery beneath the lantern begins to tick and the lenses on their frame start to spin in front of the light.

Soon, when it’s dark, the turning beam of light will reach far out to sea once more, warning ships away from the rocks. Not that they will need it tonight, for the sea is once again calm and clear.

I step onto the metal walkway outside the lantern room and stare at the distant mainland. I wonder how Mum and Dad are doing over there. I hope they’re all right. I hope Mum’s had the baby.

THUD!

Something smacks against the glass beside me.

The noise is so loud it makes me jump. And again …

THUD!

I turn to see a bird about the size of a sparrow battering against the window.

Birds do that sometimes – hit the glass of the lantern room.

But this is unlike any bird I’ve seen before. Its chest is scarlet, like a robin’s, and its wings are dirty red. It has a bright orange crest on top of its head that looks like the flames of a fire.

To tell the truth, this bird doesn’t look well. A bit mangy. And it’s small – it must have only recently been a chick. Perhaps it has only just learned to fly? If so, it isn’t very good at it.

THUD!

The bird throws itself against the glass for a third time. It seems to be attracted to the light. Finally, it gives up and drops to the floor of the walkway, tired.

I crouch beside it. The bird shifts and tries to flap away from me. Then it opens its mouth to give a desperate cry.

“Hello!” I whisper to it. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

The bird licks its pale-grey beak with a darting tongue. It watches me with intelligent eyes that are as dark as wet pebbles. It seems to know exactly what I am thinking. The bird flaps its wings again and a warm breeze wafts off them like a ray of desert sunshine.

Close now, I notice some of the bird’s feathers are damaged. Maybe it has been in a fire? It needs my help to get better. I can see that. Gulls scream above us in the evening sky. If I don’t take the bird inside soon, they