The Icarus Child

By Becca Lusher

Once there was an island and on that island there lived a boy...

Britain 135 BC

Orphaned at birth and raised by his aunt on an isolated island, Icastar has led a far from normal life. His body is misshapen, his days are tormented by whispering winds and demanding ghosts, and he only has seals for friends.

But there is more to this boy than his physical hardships and lonely location. The island and his own body might try to hold him down, caging him inside a world of pain, but he is the Icarus Child.

One day he will fly – or die trying.

Freedom is at stake, and failure is no longer an option.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Becca Lusher
• Release date: Feb 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310866760

Becca Lusher

Having an overactive imagination hasn’t always been a good thing: I spent much of my childhood scared of the dark and terrified by the stories my older sister told me (mostly to stop her being the only one afraid of the dark). These days I find it useful. I love stories, I love fantasy, I love things with wings, stars and the world around me, and I have great fun combining them all into my stories.Born in the UK, I live in the wild south-west where I run around with my dogs and get bossed about by cats, while taking photos of gorgeous landscapes, reading lots of books and climbing rocks.I’ve also been known to write stories.

Book preview

The Boy

ONCE THERE WAS an island and on that island there lived a boy. Lonely and strange, marked out as different from the day he was born. Some might even say that he was cursed. His father fell from the stars and died in the boy’s creation; his mother belonged to the island and died at his birth. From his very first breath, the boy was alone.

Except for his aunt, a cousin of sorts, half-selkie and all strange, she loved and protected and raised the boy as her own. But they never left the island. Lonely as it was, cursed as it could be, the island was their home, isolated and safe from prying eyes.

Because the boy was strange – in more ways than his orphan state. For his first year of life he was almost silent, except when taken away from his safe shores. The moment he left the sands of the island he would cry, but the rest of the time he was peaceful, almost content.

Until he grew old enough to speak, then all he could do was sob.

And when he tried to walk, he whimpered.

In time he overcame both troubles to talk and walk as well as he was able, but deep in the night, lost in his dreams, the boy cried.

The winds and voices of the island, who had waited so long for their new Icarus, gave the boy their own name.

Crying Child, Crying Child, they sneered and whispered and mocked.

But this boy, this strange and lonely little boy, was different from the day he was born, and if the island had been paying attention, it might not have mocked so hard.

For this boy was the new Icarus, even if neither he nor the island understood yet what that meant. And in a time of trouble and change, only the strong would weather the oncoming storm.

If they lived long enough to see it.

For there was another child of the island at loose in the world. Forgotten and rejected, perhaps, but not quite beaten yet. Because one thought and goal drove her onwards – to return home to the island and kill the monster that resided there.

And all the storms in all the world would not be enough to defeat her, until the Crying Child had cried his last.

PART ONE

SUMMER

135 BC

~ ~ ~

One

ICASTAR LAY ON his back, floating beneath a sky full of stars. The sea beneath him was calm and gentle, sighing softly as it carried him along on the swell. Every so often a sleek head would slide out of the water to check on him, before the selkies went back to feeding. Icastar smiled at each appearance but didn’t speak. There was little to say. He was utterly content, with his arms stretched out on either side, paddling lazily, his legs bobbing at the surface. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to be and nothing to do except lie in the water and stare up at the distant stars.

It was late in the evening, but the sky above still clung to hints of blue, reminding everyone that summer was here and day was stronger than night. Yet the longer Icastar drifted, the more he saw. Distant points of light, glittering faintly, growing stronger as the dark slowly overcame the day, even for a short time. Icastar could stare at the stars forever, wondering what they were, how far away they might be, and if his parents were truly up there, looking down on him.

Dama Cana said that the spirits of the ancestors were always close, watching and guiding their descendants from the land beyond this one, on the other side of raindrops and inside each shadow. Sira Fox said that the stars were the nightly proof that those lost were still watching, shining lights in the deepest dark to comfort and guide.

Icastar had even heard a whisper that his own father had come from the stars and had returned to them after he died seven years ago. But he’d only heard that once, when his twin uncles, Howl and Rudh, had paid a very short visit to the island and Icastar had found them muttering together behind the house. Dama Cana had caught him eavesdropping, told all three of them off and Icastar had never heard it mentioned again.

I hope you are up there, Da, he murmured, stroking his arms in slow circles as the sea lifted him on a sigh. And that Mammik is with you. I hope you’re watching. I hope you like me.

A seal head emerged next to him, making Icastar giggle when the selkie blew froth into his ear. Uncle Simmien!

The selkie tickled his cheek with his whiskers and Icastar rolled onto his front, paddling forward into the darkness.

No, he grumbled, turning his head to avoid the slosh of a wave. I don’t want to go back in yet. It’s too soon.

The seal snorted and vanished beneath the water. Knowing what was coming, Icastar swam harder, reaching out with his arms and feeling a twinge of pain dart across his shoulders. Too little, too late. Simmien pushed up underneath him, lifting Icastar onto his back as the seal turned around and headed towards the shore.

Uncle Simmien, Icastar complained, but every time he tried to roll off another selkie was there to push him back on again. Finally, the boy sighed and looped his arms around the big seal’s neck in defeat.

He didn’t like it, but he knew the rules. If he wanted to go swimming, he had to do what the selkies told him. And if he went out at night, he had to come in when they said so. Since swimming was the only time and only way he could stargaze in comfort, he knew better than to argue too hard and lose the privilege altogether. Even if he was now seven years old and far from a baby.

Ica! a shout from the beach sealed his fate. Time to come in, Ica!

Coming, Aunt Sisi! he shouted back, as Simmien drifted into the shallows.

There you are. His aunt splashed down to meet him in the dark, careless of her skirt dragging through the surf. She paused to kiss her brother on the head before reaching a hand out to Icastar.

Kneeling in the waves, Icastar grabbed it without hesitation, letting his aunt haul him to his feet as the sea splashed into his eyes. Together, the two of them staggered beyond the reach of the tide, where Saekara handed him a blanket to wrap around his sodden body.

Did you enjoy yourself? she asked, using a different blanket to rub his hair dry.

Patiently waiting for her to finish coddling him, Icastar wiped his arms and chest as best he could before wrapping the blanket around his waist. Then, after Saekara finally stepped back and let him breathe, he shook his head to make his hair stand up.

It was peaceful, he said.

Good. She smiled and rested her arm across his shoulders, uncaring about the misshapen hump that rounded his back and pulled his whole body out of alignment. Aunt Saekara had never cared about things like that, just as she stepped in close now, allowing Icastar to put his arm around her waist so that the two of them could limp up to the house.

Crying Child, Crying Child, whispered the restless island wind, but Icastar ignored it. Just as he ignored the twinges in his shoulders that berated him for trying to out-swim Simmien, and the sharp bolts of pain the shot up his left leg from his twisted ankle every time he tried to put some weight on it. His body always hurt, in the same way that the island was always whispering. Icastar had learnt to ignore both and get on with the things he liked instead.

Which was why he hopped and hobbled with his aunt back up to the house in the midsummer darkness, pausing every so often to catch his breath and stare up at the sky. He found the night so much more soothing than the day, not least because of the bright points that sprinkled the blackness.

Are they really up there, Aunt Sisi? he asked, leaning against the wall of the home compound and making the most of their last pause before the house.

His aunt didn’t pretend not to understand, she simply rested beside him and tipped back her own head. Most like, since I can’t see where else they’d be, she replied, as she always did. So many stars, so many spirits, so much to see. Most certain your parents are up there, looking down on you, making sure I raise you right.

Crying Child, Crying Child, murmured the island, as Icastar brushed his wet hair out of his eyes.

They’re beautiful, aren’t they?

Yes, Saekara replied. They are.

But so far away.

Yes, she said again, sadly this time. They are.

Tearing his eyes away from the stars and thoughts of people he would never have a chance to meet, Icastar rested his head upon his aunt’s shoulder. I’m glad you’re here, Aunt Sisi.

Smiling, she put her arms around him and kissed his head. So am I, Ica.

They stayed together like that for a long, peaceful time, while the island wind stirred fitfully around their feet. Until, finally, they returned to the warmth and light of the house and another night of sleep.

SEVEN YEARS, SEVEN long yet wonderful years. Saekara could hardly believe that it had been so long. Most days she was so busy she forgot to even think about it, but as the early summer morning stirred over the island, Saekara made her way out to the well and breathed deeply of her freedom. No mean-tempered aunt to scold or criticise, no angry cousin to boss her about. No kindly cousins either, she remembered on a sigh. It was the downside to living alone on the island, but a price she willingly paid to be free from the rule of Michra and Icaria.

Besides, she wasn’t entirely alone. Smiling, she looped the rope firmly through the bucket holes and tied a knot before lowering it down into the darkness. Somewhere far below came a familiar splash and she waited for the weight to drag on the rope before hauling it back up again.

No, not alone. Though there had been lonely times over the last seven years, she didn’t regret a single day of it. Not when Icastar was such a bright, lively light guiding her through life. Despite his pain and disadvantages, he never complained, and considering how much right he had to, Saekara knew she had nothing to moan about herself. She was strong and healthy and whole and unharmed, while poor Icastar had lost so much and hurt so badly.

The lumps on his back, that had caused so much trouble at his birth, had only grown with him over the years, spreading across both shoulders and down his spine. There were some days when whatever the hump was pulled so tight that the child couldn’t even walk upright, yet most days he defied the pain and stood as tall and straight as he could. Then there was his ankle, his poor, twisted left ankle that had been almost crushed by Icaria’s impatience when Callirye had laboured too long and her cousin had decided it was time to end it. And it had been the end for Callirye, along with a lifelong limp for Icastar.

Gritting her teeth against the anger she still felt towards her cousin, Saekara pulled the bucket out of the well and cupped her hands for her first drink of the day. Cold and clean and clear, the island might not have been good for much, but it certainly gathered rain water well.

Ours, ours, ours, the wind whispered, stirring the hem of her dress as Saekara stood up to return to the house.

Ever since Icaria’s madness, attempted murder of the newborn Icastar and subsequent removal from the island, the voices had been subdued. They still spoke and whispered, but there were fewer storms these days and they only seemed to have a few words left to their command. The island could only mutter and grumble to itself, making it all the more easy to ignore. Which Saekara did, as she had always done.

You don’t own either of us, she replied, as she hefted the bucket and tried not to spill all the water on her way back inside.

Ours, moaned the wind. Ours.

She snorted, because it simply wasn’t true. Though both she and Icastar might have been born on the island, neither of them were entirely earthbound. Half of her belonged to the sea and always would, while Icastar seemed drawn to the sky. Perhaps the island should have been more careful about what it had whispered in Icaria’s ear, because there had never been a truer child of the island than her.

Slipping into the house, Saekara paused to listen. Soft snores and a quiet snuffle were all that greeted her. She smiled with relief and placed the bucket beside the fire, stooping to add some more fuel and make sure it stayed burning while Icastar slept on. It had been a late night for both of them, and Icastar’s sleep was always restless. If he’d dreamed in the night, Saekara hadn’t heard. Sometimes he only whispered, sometimes he screamed, mostly he cried, soft sobs of the sort he fought so hard to contain during the day.

It wrenched her heart, but there was little she could do to help him. Waking him only made the pain worse, and even comforting him didn’t change a thing. So she let him sleep while he could and slipped back outside to continue with the day’s chores. There was fishing to be done if they wanted to eat tonight, and even from the house Saekara could feel the sea calling.

Stay, stay, the wind pleaded as she stepped back out into the daylight. It tugged at her hair and stroked her face, but she had no time to talk to it now. The sea was calling and she had a growing boy to feed.

Come, come, come, whispered the sea – and Saekara went.

IT WAS ALMOST midday when Icastar finally left the house. He’d woken with a hiss as he’d tried to roll over and had landed on a sore spot across his back. The pain was always moving, never predictable. Some days he hardly felt the lumps at all, other days he could barely crawl out of bed for the pain.

Today was as normal a day as he got – there was some pain, but of the manageable sort. His shoulders felt tender and a patch the size of his palm throbbed at the base of his right ribs, pressing against his spine as though something within was trying to get out.

There were itches too, ones that travelled all across the misshapen mass of his back, but below the skin where he couldn’t reach them. On days like that, though it was temping to scratch and scratch until his skin peeled off, there was nothing he could do. So he gritted his teeth, washed himself in the warm water his aunt had left for him and enjoyed a breakfast of nuts and dried berries. Then he grabbed his walking staff and headed outside, looking for a distraction.

The sun was bright and bold, making him squint as he first emerged from the gloom of the house. It was warm too, the light and heat pouring down over him like a warmed blanket after a cold swim. Icastar stood on the step for a long moment, drinking it in, letting it smooth away his aches and itches. Before long he knew he’d be cursing the heat, his skin sweating and burning, his body dragging with weariness. But not yet. For now he would enjoy it while he could, lifting his face to smile at the perfectly blue sky.

It was hard to believe that come nightfall that empty expanse would be full of glittering wonder. Yet as much as Icastar loved and yearned for the stars, he appreciated the sunshine too, as well as the clouds that brought the rain and the wind that helped to cool away the worst of the heat.

Crying Child, Crying Child. Here it came now, swift across the gorse and grass, tugging on his hair, kissing his exposed skin. He welcomed the change of temperature, even as he wished it could have come without words. Weep for us, Crying Child.

A shudder rippled over his back, bringing with it a bone-deep cold that no amount of sunlight could warm. Icastar started walking. With his sturdy oak staff to help him, he took the westward path and hobbled around the mostly empty grainhouse, passing the carefully tended herb garden. Then he was through the gate and out onto the open island.

Here the wind was stronger and wilder, whistling through the bright-headed gorse and rippling across the soft heather. If there were words amongst its song, Icastar chose not to hear them. Instead he listened to the far off crash of the sea against the cliffs and the constant cry of the gulls and guillemots, working hard to feed their babies. Passing through the grove of gnarled oak trees, with its moss-covered rocks and weathered cairn, Icastar followed the path across the exposed top of the island, where scrubby grass ruled and any gorse growth was kept in check by the hardy, ragged flock he’d come to tend.

The small herd mixed a handful of sheep with a sprinkling of goats, jealously guarded by a one-eyed ram on one side and a three-legged billy goat on the other. They, like many others of their odd flock, were rejects and rescues from the mainland. But though they looked strange, they were still strong. Icastar felt a bond with them, and not just because he’d been tending them for almost as long as he could walk.

Heh, heh, heh! he called, cupping a hand around his mouth to help his voice carry on the wind. Come now, come!

Heads lifted from the grass, turning towards him. The three-legged billy snorted disdainfully and, one by one, the goats returned to their grazing, but old One-Eye ambled across to greet the boy with two of his ewes. While Icastar made a fuss of his three friendliest sheep, he also checked them over for injury and made sure to scratch behind One-Eye’s ear where he liked it best. Then he clicked his tongue to call in the lamb belonging to one of the ewes. It was growing well and fattening up nicely, considering the scrubby island grass.

My Sira will fetch a good price for you one day, he told the lamb. It suckled on his fingers, found nothing of interest and turned to nuzzle its mother instead. While it filled itself up, tail wiggling with the joy of feeding, Icastar lowered himself carefully beside the other ewe with his milking jug. Though the sheep cast him a disapproving look over her shoulder, she didn’t protest and went back to grazing while the boy went to work.

When that was done, Icastar heaved himself up with the help of his staff and carried the jug along the short remaining distance to the highest point of the island. The tower was waiting. Up there the wind was at its strongest, whistling over the cliff tops and humming as it blew across the open doorway. The tower seemed to hum back, its stones full of the song of the island.

Ica, Ica, Icarus, it breathed as he stepped inside to place the milk jug halfway up the stairs. The air was cold enough to make clouds from his breath, scratching at the inside of his chest with sharp claws like a beast wanting to escape. He could feel a presence watching from the shadows, which were deep and dark and seemed to creep up on him whenever his back was turned.

Ica, Ica, Icastar.

Certain that the milk was safe from greedy goat kids or clumsy sheep, Icastar scrambled back outside and onto the open grass where the sun was warm and the wind was voiceless.

Fool, he muttered to himself. It’s just a tower. Yet even looking back at it, standing tall and proud and prominent on the headland, made Icastar shiver. He rubbed his hands over his arms and turned away, lifting his face to the sky again and waiting for the sun to warm him.

A shadow fell across the island, deepening the chill inside and Icastar opened his eyes, gasping with panic.

A cloud. Just a cloud. The only one in an otherwise perfect sky. It passed over the sun, briefly veiling the warmth and light, but soon drifted on again.

The shadow lifted and summer returned, making Icastar’s skin tingle with a warning that he was close to burning again. He welcomed it, despite knowing that he would feel it come sunset. He always welcomed the warmth and the heat and the sweat and the burning, because it was alive and vibrant and chased away the shadows.

Ica, Ica, murmured the wind through the grass, making him shudder with memory, but he shoved the feeling away and lay on his belly to watch tiny bees flit from one hardy flower to the next. Until the goat kids came to butt against his legs and nibble on his hair, encouraging him to play with them. Which he did by hobbling after them, laughing and calling, while the kids kicked up their heels and pranced away across the grass. All the while the sunshine poured down over him, warming the cold spots inside and soothing his pain, until sunset came. Then it was time to retrieve the milk and return home for another night of swimming and stargazing.

Take care of them, he ordered One-Eye and Three-Legs. Neither replied, but then he hadn’t expected them to. The only voices he heard as he limped back across the island were those of the restless wind dancing across the gorse and the hungry sea singing its lonely lament as it gnawed on the cliffs. Such were the sounds of home, along with the thump and scrape of his walking staff as Icastar moved along, tired and aching from his day in the open.

The scent of cooked fish greeted him inside the house, while the warmth of his aunt’s smile soothed without burning, thawing away the last of the island’s cold.

There you are, Aunt Sisi greeted, taking the milk from his hand and returning to the fireside. Just in time, as always. How are the flock?

Good, he replied, putting his staff to one side and settling on his seat beside the flames, ready to exchange stories of the day.

And he realised it was good, all of it, his life, his family, his flock, even his chores. He might be different from every person he’d ever met, he might hurt and ache and be plagued with constant pains, but he was lucky. He felt lucky.

Later that night as he drifted in the sea, surrounded by selkies, with a roof of stars above his head, Icastar closed his eyes, smiled and gave thanks to the world for all the gifts he had been given. Then he told the selkies and the spirits of his parents all about his day, and when the seals carried him back to his aunt’s waiting arms, he crawled into bed and slept without remembering his dreams.

Two

YOUR MOVE, ICASTAR said, placing his pebble in a new square.

The seal lying opposite him huffed, rising up as far as he could to study the pattern of lines etched into the sand. Shells and pebbles of all different colours and shapes lay scattered over the grid, without any obvious rhyme or reason, but it made sense to Icastar and his uncle.

Groaning, Simmien settled down again, rocked forward a tiny pace and nudged a spiral shell the colour of dawn into a fresh square.

Ha! Icastar crowed triumphantly. I knew you’d fall for that. He skipped a black pebble across three squares, making use of the one left empty by the spiral shell and collecting another of Simmien’s pieces along the way. You make it so easy.

The selkie huffed in disgust and dropped his heavy head onto the sand. Right in the middle of the game.

Hey! Icastar protested as shells and pebbles vanished without trace. That’s cheating. But shove as he might, there was no way Icastar could move his uncle’s head unless Simmien wanted him to.

Which the selkie clearly didn’t, since he gave a lazy yawn and twitched his whiskers before shutting his eyes.

Sore loser, Icastar grumbled, poking the thick blubber roll on his uncle’s neck.

Simmien ignored him, which he could, since he was almost twice Icastar’s size and many more times heavier.

I’ll tell Aunt Sisi on you, he threatened, but the seal let out a rumbling fake-snore and Icastar gave up. He knew better than to waste his time complaining, since the only time they ever managed to finish a game was when Simmien won. Icastar considered getting angry about it, but the big selkie looked so silly laid out on the sand with his head in the middle of the grid, that the boy could only chuckle.

I will beat you one day, he warned his uncle. Fairly and without any cheating.

The seal opened an eye, groaned and rolled onto his side, the better to sunbathe.

Shaking his head, Icastar swept up the scattered shells and pebbles and scrubbed the marks out of the sand. Once a selkie started sunbathing, there was no getting them to do anything else for at least half a day. Since it was already mid-afternoon, Icastar abandoned all hopes of another game. They’d only started this one as a way to pass the time anyway.

Tonight was Moon Night and Icastar was waiting for his visitors to arrive. So while his uncle snoozed on, snoring in truth this time, the boy fidgeted on the sand to get comfortable, hugged his knees against his chest and stared north towards the mainland.

Ours, ours, whispered the wind, tugging on Icastar’s thin linen shirt and ruffling his hair. Not… come… ours… wel… not… The words fragmented as the wind grew agitated, sweeping the surf into frothy foam.

According to the stories of his aunt and grandparents, the island had once been strong enough to call up storms and vent its temper in wild tempests. Now it could barely stir the sand. Icastar was glad of it, because if the stories were true, the old island would have stopped his visitors from ever arriving, would have driven Uncle Simmien away and likely have forced Saekara to leave too.

Lonely, so lonely, hissed the sea as it stroked the sand, making Icastar shiver at what his life might have been. If not for his aunt and uncle and the stubbornness of Sira Fox and Dama Cana.

Ours, ours. Ica, Ica, Icarus.

Icastar hugged his knees and watched the sea, staring over the shimmering waves towards the distant mainland. The cliffs were red smudges in the afternoon sun, and Icastar wondered what they looked like up close, what the shadows were that gathered at the base and sprinkled the top. He wondered how tall they were and if people climbed them. He wondered about the people too, the folk of the mainland – how many there were, what they were like, whether any of them were like him.

Hopeless questions, he knew. Oh, he could get the answers easily enough by asking his family, but Icastar had heard enough stories, had experienced too much through the eyes and memories of others. He wanted to see for himself, experience it all for himself, feel and smell and taste and hear with his own senses.

But no matter how much he wanted it, he also knew he couldn’t. Not when leaving the island brought on an agony that was too much to bear. A pain that felt like shattered bones and boiling blood, that left him screaming and sobbing, as though hooks attached him to the island and