Changeling's Island - eARC (17 page)

Tim saw his grandmother reach up and squeeze her hand. “It’s all right, child. Yer didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just…I used to make tins of them. Post them to my John in Vietnam. Even sent him salted muttonbirds like that. I haven’t had an anzac since…since he died. I didn’t want to remember that.”

“I’m so sorry…” It looked like Molly might start blubbing herself any minute.

“Yer weren’t to know.” She took a deep breath. “Tim, you’d better make yerself an’ Molly a cuppa. Sorry, I don’t have any of that cordial…and then we’ll have one of those biscuits. And all of us in the kitchen with our boots on!”

Personally, Tim thought Molly had overcooked the anzacs a little, but his nan did seem to enjoy them and told Molly what a great cook she was. And then she told the two of them to go off and do something because she needed to clean the kitchen now. And she said that Molly was welcome to come down any time, even without anzacs.

CHAPTER 16

Molly told her mother about it…which reduced her mother to sniffles, too. “Imagine that…it must be forty years or more. I think she must have been terribly lonely.”

“She’s pretty strange, Mum. She puts down beer for the fairies.” So Molly had to tell that story too. Over the next month or so, she found her parents had obviously decided to adopt Tim’s grandmother and just hadn’t told Tim about it yet. Like they needed any more expenses. Or more vegetables. Still, Molly had carte blanche to go down there, anyway. It was company, and made being on the island more than just something her parents wanted to do. Tim and his grandmother, they did stuff. Went spearing flounder at night. Went fishing, netting, and even trying to teach Bunce to herd sheep. So far that was not a success. At least he didn’t want to kill them, but to play with them was another matter, and the sheep didn’t get it.

Tim had tried to hold her hand a couple of times. She’d shoved him away with a laugh. She wasn’t too sure how to handle that, or if she really wanted to, or, well, anyway…He was a bit younger than she was, and the girls at school said…

Still, she was kind of glad to be able to go over, right now. Things were just a bit tense at home. There weren’t that many out-of-holiday-time bookings for the B&B or even the self-catering cottage, and not only were the insurers still arguing about paying for the new hot-water service and the repairs, but money her mother had been expecting from an inheritance had been held up, and was possibly never going to be paid out, because a distant cousin—a lawyer and therefore able to cause maximum trouble at minimum expense, her mother said, was causing all sorts of strife. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it would have helped right then, and they’d expected it. Counted on it.

Running around over on the Ryan place, she could mostly forget that sort of thing. Not worry too much about all the grown-up stuff.

* * *

Just when life seemed to be settling into some kind of normal, Tim’s mother called from Melbourne. She sounded…harassed. Upset. “Tim. I’ve got a Mr. Scranson here. He’s an insurance assessor. He wants to…to talk to you. To ask about that fire.”

Tim’s heart sank down into his new trainers. “Mum, I didn’t do anything. I was there with two men, all the time.”

“Just talk to him, Tim. He’s…he keeps coming around here. He’s come in to work. I…I don’t want to have talk there. Things are going so well now that…”

She didn’t finish. But Tim knew it was “now that you’re not here to cause trouble anymore.”

He hadn’t meant to. Well, he sort of had. He’d wanted to have something go wrong. Sometimes. But he hadn’t
done
anything. And if he’d known that he could cause it…he’d, he’d…have not done some of it. And not been where they could blame him.

A man’s voice came down the telephone. “Timothy Ryan? I just want to confirm a few details about the possible arson incident at Merlba Stores, on the day of the twenty-third.”

Tim’s mind was sort of numb with anger. “I didn’t start any fires.” He said sullenly. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I just need to confirm a few details. Now when security officers Belsen and Marx left you in the office…”

“I was never left anywhere! They were there all the time. They’re lying!”

“They say…”

“They’re lying! Now leave me alone!” He slammed the phone down, stormed outside, wanting to burst into tears, hit something, just, just…leave it all behind. Jogging down the track to the beach, he did feel a bit better. Let them try and make it all his fault. He could hide…Couldn’t they just leave him alone? He could run away, live on fish…but he liked…people. Some of them, anyway. He didn’t want to leave the kids at school, and Molly and Jon and…yeah. Well, the only person who knew he was in trouble was his nan. And she seemed to know what could have caused it. She’d hide him, Tim was pretty sure. But then she’d be in trouble. And though he’d resented being there, been angry that she made him work, that there was no TV, no Internet…he didn’t want his nan to have any more trouble. It wasn’t fair. Just look at what had been done to her with the cows. And he knew she was worried about them finding out she couldn’t see too well, making her leave the farm. It wasn’t right. She did fine. Better than Jon at gardening. Better than anyone at cooking, really.

The only answer was for him to leave, quietly and cleanly, before any more came out of this. He sat down at the side of the track and took out his pouch from around his neck, and counted the money. It had been coming in. Jon paid a bit over minimum wage, and there was the nautilus money. And he’d helped plant garlic for one of the teachers at the school, cleaned out the gutters for Mrs. Hallam, and she’d given him ten dollars…He hadn’t added it up for a while, not since he’d worked out how much the trip to Ireland would cost. He piled the notes, carefully, bringing each pile to a hundred dollars. He bit his lip. It was more than he’d thought, but still a long way short. Once, a thousand, three hundred and twenty-four dollars would have seemed a fortune. Now he’d just have to earn some more. Soon. Before this guy went to the police or something. He was troubled and angry, and the wild rushes of wind made the she-oak branches above him shiver and dance like spears.

He gathered up the money and walked down to the beach to look for nautilus shells. The seal-woman always saw to it that he found a few. Maybe the shop would take a few more. And he’d ask around if anyone else needed jobs done. But it sat on him like a lump of lead. He’d forget it sometimes, when he was out at sea watching that diver air-line, or catching a fish, or when Molly was there with Bunce, and they were trying to teach the wolfhound to herd sheep.

But it always came back, especially when he learned the man had phoned his nan too. Nan had phoned his mother and told her off about it. Tim hadn’t heard what his grandmother had said to the insurance assessor guy, whatever that job meant, but he certainly heard his nan giving his mother fifteen kinds of hell for giving “that feller” the phone number, or telling him anything all. It made Tim feel much better for about a week.

And then it came back to him that the assessor had pestered his mum at work. What if, instead of calling the farm, he phoned the school?

Just when you thought it couldn’t be worse, it was.

Cnoc Meadha it would have to be. They didn’t have telephones, or let in coppers, or whatever this “assessor” was. He wanted to make trouble, that Tim knew.

* * *

Áed knew the master was uncomfortable and worried about something that he did not fully understand. He knew too that the selkie had, at least for now, cried truce. Like all of the greater Fae, you could trust her just so far with that. She’d keep her word…to the letter, but not to the intent.

Still, he had less to fear from her now, and when the master was out on the land, and the land and the old spirits there were around this distant ancestor, well, the lesser spirit felt he was quite safe.

It had lulled him into a false security on this glorious May day. May still had its magic even here when it was the breath of winter, and not the start of the warm heady days of summer.

Today you could be forgiven for thinking winter far off. The air was almost warm, just a touch of chill in the breeze. The master had taken the ute down to the long forty paddock with some fencing wire. The girl and the great Cu joined him there.

And the snake, awake in the warmth, driven by body-knowing that cold was coming, hunted. A little slow with the coming of winter, and irritable. Áed found out from the magic marks, later, that Maeve had set it to watching, and it did, between hunting. That meant it was on the path by the fence line.

* * *

Bunce, one moment trotting along the path in front of them, yelped and backed up, crashing into Tim’s legs. He then flailed in a circle, as Tim, to his horror, saw the raised cold-eyed copperhead, its mouth still open, on the path.

“Snake!” he screamed, pulling Bunce away by the fur.

Too late.

The huge dog was whining, trying to bite at his foreleg.

“He’s been bitten!” screamed Molly, falling to her knees, arms around the wolfhound’s neck, ignoring the snake. “Buncy! Oh, help!”

Tim flung the heavy coil of wire at the snake, then dropped to his haunches next to Molly. The puncture wound oozed a drop of red blood. The big dog whined piteously. “Oh, Buncy! Don’t die!” said Molly clinging to her dog. “What do we do, Tim?”

For an answer, Tim picked the dog up. Bunce was nearly bigger than he was, but lighter. “To the ute, my gran…”

“The vet. I’ll call Dad!” Fumbling, nearly dropping her mobile, Molly called as Tim walked toward the ute thirty meters away. He’d have run, but walking was hard enough. Normally, Bunce would not have put up with being carried, but now…Tim thought he must be dying.

Molly came flying up. “We’ll meet Dad at the road; he’s coming up as fast as he can,” she panted. She helped Tim to get Bunce onto the tray and jumped up next to her dog, pulling his head into her lap. “Drive, Tim! Drive fast!”

Tim did. He was used to driving on the farm now. Not fast, usually, and he didn’t want to crash or have them fall off, but he gave it his best. They skidded to a halt at the gate onto the public road. Molly’s father was racing toward them in a cloud of dust. Tim opened the gate, and ran back as Molly was trying to lift her dog down. He took the big panting wolfhound in his arms—he had had enough practice with sheep—and carried him across to where Mr. Symons was opening the back door. It was easier just to get in with the dog on his lap than to try and put him in. Molly had run to get in the other rear door, taking the dog’s big head onto her lap. “Dad! Get us to the vet! Quickly!” she said, her voice tight with panic.

“Quick as possible, Molly,” said her father, jumping into the driving seat and pulling away. “What kind of snake was it?”

“Copperhead, Sir,” said Tim. “I saw it, but too late.”

“Oh, Daddy, will Bunce be all right?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. We’ll do our best. Mum’s phoned the vet.”

Molly didn’t say anything. She just sniffed and buried her face in the dog’s fur.

Tim didn’t really know what to say. Didn’t really know why he was here, except, well, it had been easier getting in with Bunce. He reached tentatively for Molly’s hand clutching the wiry hair, intending to do no more than give it an encouraging squeeze. She felt it there, turned her hand and took it. Held it tight. Gave him a brief, watery smile before burying her face in the dog’s fur again.

The vet was waiting as they skidded to a halt outside his doors. Tim got out, still holding the panting, whimpering dog. Molly’s dad came to his rescue. “My word. You’re a strong lad!” he exclaimed, taking Bunce.

“Take him into the surgery, first door to the left,” said the vet. “Was it definitely a snake bite?”

“Yes,” said Tim. “On his foreleg. A big copperhead.” He gestured with his arms.

“Good thing he’s a big dog. Shock usually kills the smaller ones.”

“Will he be all right?” asked Molly. “Please say he’ll be all right?”

“Well,” said the vet, “I can give him antivenin, but look, it is only fair to tell you, it’s very expensive. For people, it’s free, but it’s going to cost about fifteen hundred dollars to treat the dog, and there is no guarantee…”

Tim saw Molly’s dad go whiter than a sheet. Take his daughter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Molly…we just…don’t have the money right now.”

“But, Dad…I’ll earn it. I’ll work. I’ll earn it back.”

“Darling, we just don’t have it. The credit card is maxed out, the bank is giving us a hard time. We simply don’t have it. We…we’ll just have to make it quick.”

With a sob, Molly thrust away from him and dived down next to Bunce, burying her face in his fur.

Tim heard a voice, quite unlike his own, but coming out of
his
mouth, say gruffly, “Give Bunce the antivenin. I’ll pay for it.” He pulled the neck pouch out and spilled its contents onto the countertop. “That’s a thousand four hundred and forty dollars. And…a couple old coins, I don’t know if they’re worth anything now. I’m working for Jon McKay—the diver—tomorrow and you can have the rest on Monday. Just help him. Now. Please!”

They all stared at him, even the vet. “You can’t do that, Tim,” said Molly’s father.

“I just did. Now will you get on with it, please, Mr. Vet? He needs help right now. Do it! Do it now!” Tim commanded.

The vet smiled at him. “Got my orders,” he said to Molly’s father as he took a razor, knelt, and started shaving a patch of the fur away. “We’ll have it into him soon, son.”

Molly still held onto Bunce, but the look she gave Tim was worth every cent, twice over.

“Look, Tim,” said Molly’s father. “We can’t take your money. You…your grandmother needs it, and…”

“I’ll earn more,” said Tim, trying to be as light about all that saving as possible. “And Bunce and I are friends, see. If he didn’t get that injection, he’d die.”

“And anyway,” said Molly in a hard little voice, “he’s my dog, Dad. I’ll pay Tim back, every cent. It’ll…it’ll just take me a little time.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Tim said awkwardly. “I…I don’t need it.”

“But I will!” she colored as she smiled at him, tear-tracks still on her cheeks, not hiding the braces on her teeth for once. “Thank you. Thank you so very much.”

“I did it for me mate,” said Tim, awkwardly, leaning down and patting the hairy hound. He actually got a tail thump for that. “And let’s hope he’ll be all right.”

The next few minutes were an anxious period, time passing slowly. Tim wanted to hold Molly’s hand, she looked so stressed out, but he couldn’t with her dad and the vet there. So he just stood there, feeling awkward. After a time, the vet said, in a tone of some relief, “Well, I think we’ve won this time. He’ll have to stay in for at least a couple of days, just to keep an eye on him, but I think he only got one fang of venom.”

“Can I stay with him?” begged Molly. “I won’t be in the way. I’ll just sit with him.”

The vet shook his head. “You can come in tomorrow. I’ll phone if there are any other developments, but he’s a big, young strong dog. He’ll be fine. You can go home.”