“Stop,” said the girl. She raised her hand. The man stopped.

“What is it?” he asked, turning his head against the wind to regard her. There was silence for a long while, and the wind blustered over the plain, ruffling the fur at their hoods and cuffs. The man lifted his chin and watched the sky, just as the girl was doing. A large bird of prey screamed overhead. The hairs on the back of the man’s neck rose and a shiver rolled down along his spine. He shrugged his shoulders.

“We should keep moving,” he said, after several minutes of silence. The girl’s head dropped and she nodded.

They returned their gazes to the blank horizon and kept walking.

*

“Cars can only take us so far,” the man had said three weeks beforehand. The girl was rolling a blanket tightly and binding it, and she didn’t reply. “We might get a few hundred miles before our fuel gives out – we didn’t have much to begin with. After that, we’ll have to walk.”

Silence from the girl, who was industriously packing her blanket into a large canvas bag. Her hands were white, dry, and chapped – weathered by waves and sun and labour. Her pale face was contorted into a grimace as she struggled with the wrappings of the canvas bag, and the man crouched beside her.

“Here,” he said. “Let me help.” The girl huffed and fell back on her heels, crossing her arms over her knees and watching him quietly. “We’ll need to pack light. Canned food can come with us in the car, but only the basics while we walk.” He strapped the blanket onto the bottom of the bag, rolled it a little tighter, and pressed it in tightly with his fists, compacting it into a more manageable shape. “There’ll be water – still some streams and oases out there. We bring soda bread, jerky, our beans and grains. Nothing bulky. Nothing heavy.”

“No mules?” asked the girl.

“None left,” the man replied. The girl made a soft little noise into her arms.

“Got your tins?” the man asked, pushing the canvas bag back to the girl and straightening up.

“Here,” said the girl. She reached behind her and pulled out two large tin containers.

“Nearly ready, then. Just need to load up and we’ll be set.”

“Do we have to say the prayers again?” asked the girl, leaning forwards onto her toes and patting her bag.

“Do you want to?”

“If it’ll help.”

The man thought about this. He looked at the girl’s face, which was harsh and angular. Lines creased and fled from her mouth and her eyes, but they were not caused by laughter. Her jaw was permanently set as solid as concrete. Her grey eyes rarely looked above the horizon. Anger slept beneath her skin.

“It might,” he said.

*

“Do people speak English here?” asked the girl from her prone position on the backseat of the car one day. She was sharpening a little knife and holding it up to the sun, one eye shut tight and the other observing the blade.

“I doubt it,” said the man.

“I haven’t seen anybody in days,” said the girl.

They had passed yet another empty encampment several hours ago. The girl had watched it from the back window of the car until the dust swallowed it up. It had been the seventh of their journey.

“Not many live here anymore,” said the man.

“What went first?” asked the girl, propping herself up on her elbows. “The crops or the people?”

“It’s hard to pinpoint,” said the man heavily. “In my opinion, though, it happens much the same every time. A small portion of people get tired, or sick, or scared. They leave for the cities. Most go to the shelters or the compounds. So there aren’t many left to care for the land anymore. Less people plant grain. Less people clean the water systems. The dust gets closer.”

The girl was sitting up now, staring into the mirror at the man’s face. He met her eyes for a moment and looked away, back at the road.

“And so the land moves in. Back on your Scarba, or my Hirta, nature was safe in the valleys. Trees could still grow – not too high, but we could still have our land. Out here, it’s not safe anymore. No shelter. So the dust and the sand and the dead dirt take over. The people that are left – what can the land give them? Nothing. So they go and they find someplace safer. Or they stay.”

“And they die.”

“And they die,” echoed the man, nodding his head.

The girl lay back down. The man glanced back at her – she was pinching the blade of her little knife between her thumb and index finger, and her eyes were closed.

“The sea is very far away,” she said, in an equally distant tone.

“Thousands of miles,” agreed the man, and he silently thanked whatever deity had decided to frown upon their wretched little planet. The girl sighed, but said no more.

*

“It doesn’t rain much,” said the girl. The car was several miles behind them now, useless, and the sun shone down on their faces. It was not especially warm, but carrying a pack was work enough to get the heart beating, and their cheeks were coloured pink.

“Not now, anyway,” said the man. He had been answering the girl’s vaguely-worded queries for long enough to take such a statement as a question, and endeavoured to share as much of his (admittedly limited) knowledge as he could. “Rains come in summer, and that’s still a month away at least. We’ll get winds and some cold nights, but nothing dangerous.”

“If we’re lucky.”

“If we’re lucky,” said the man with a rueful smile, which the girl did not imitate.

“We’re not very lucky, though,” said the girl. “Not been water for a while now.”

“We’ll find some,” said the man, not feeling especially worried about this. “Are you thirsty?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll be alright.”

*

The girl stopped on the plains again, her hand raised and her eyes staring up above her. The man looked at her, and he suddenly realised that he had not seen her eyes illuminated by the sky before. The grey became less steely, more soft and translucent. The expression she bore was a strange one – uncharacteristic in this quiet, semi-arid land, on that quiet, semi-arid face. Surprise?

“Is something the matter?” he asked gently. She had stopped them three times in the past hour without explanation, only to move on soon after.

“There are still birds here,” said the girl in a hushed voice, as if the circling bird far overhead could hear her.

“Yes,” said the man. “Some. Do you know what it is?”

“I only know gulls,” the girl replied.

“No gulls here,” said the man. “That’s a vulture. Bigger, scarier, uglier, meaner. They feed on carrion. Must be something dead out there. Or dying.”

The girl made a face.

“Would you like to make camp?” the man asked, wondering if this unsettled her.

“We’re still miles from nightfall,” said the girl, disproving his pondering.

“That’s the spirit.”

They climbed a little higher on the plateau – it seemed that the girl was eager for a glimpse of whatever the vulture was closing in on. The bird was dropping lower in the sky with every lazy revolution. The man was becoming weary, but the girl was energised, more sprightly than he had seen her in weeks.

“Another,” said the girl, and she sounded slightly breathless. She pointed and squinted. “And another. There are four of them, look, see? Maybe more, they’re so far up. Maybe we’ll find what they’re looking for.”

“Maybe,” said the man tiredly.

*

Three hours later, the man was dozing on his feet. He kept one foot pacing steadily in front of the other – a peaceful easy rhythm on level ground. He had walked long distances before, and he had learned many methods of keeping awake. Singing silently to himself, counting steps, changing the timing of his inward breath every so often. It kept him alert enough to trundle onwards.

“There’s someone out there!” said the girl loudly, all of a sudden. The man’s head jerked upwards and he blinked the heavy feeling out of his eyes. The girl was several metres ahead, standing still and pointing enthusiastically. “There’s a person, out here on the plains, look! And he’s… he’s… carrying someone? Oh…”

She took a step backward. The man caught up with her and followed the direction of her gesture. Indeed, there was a man out there, carrying another – no, half-dragging another. The man narrowed his eyes against the glare of the setting sun, and he drew a slow breath.

“Don’t go any closer,” he said to the girl. Judging by the sudden, intense stare she gave him, she did not need to be told twice. The man put a hand up to throw a shadow across his face. “Keep your head low and your voice down,” he murmured, and the girl nodded. “We’re not in any danger, but it’s best if we don’t intrude.”

“What’s happening?” asked the girl, and she sounded very young. Her eyes were wide; her pupils intense little dots in stormy grey oceans. Her fingers flexed at her sides and then flattened against her thighs, like white spiders. The man realised that she was not afraid.

“A burial,” he answered, looking away from her white, bright face. “A sky burial.”

“What does that mean?”

“Watch. Wait, and see.”

He crouched beside the girl and put a hand on her shoulder to prevent any desire to stand and approach the distant man. The figure came closer, little by little, dragging the second person with him. The second person was smaller, slighter. The man guessed it was a female. The distant figure set the female down on the dry earth and knelt beside her. He bent forward and set his forehead against her chest, and he seemed to be praying. Judging by his attire, the man guessed that he was a priest of some sort. After a few minutes, he straightened up, made a few gestures over her body, and began to remove her clothing. There was a slight movement from the girl, but the man merely squeezed her shoulder briefly and said nothing.

Back out on the plain, the priest was setting the little bundle of clothing to one side. He returned to the woman’s body, naked and vulnerable and exposed to the elements, and he leaned over to fetch something from his backpack. It was a long knife, sharp and shining in the sun.

There came a sharp, shivering exhalation from the girl. “The vultures,” she whispered. Her voice was harsh.

“Yes,” said the man quietly.

“Why doesn’t he bury her?” asked the girl, her head craning forward to observe the scene. “Why doesn’t he burn her?”

“The ground is too hard and dry,” said the man, patting the earth beneath them with his free hand. “And I’m going to take a guess and say that this man lacks the fuel for a proper cremation. The living are his priority.”

“He should respect the dead,” the girl muttered darkly.

“He does,” answered the man. “In this culture, however, the body is but a vessel. Once the spirit has left, it is empty and useless.”

The priest’s knife sliced easily through flesh, exposing glistening innards to the sun. With practised and experienced hands, he gently parted the body, prying open the ribcage and lifting the organs from their lifelong home. They were set about the emptying corpse in neat little piles, carefully, almost primly. It was surprisingly clean work – the incisions gleamed crimson against the pale skin of the woman’s body. The vultures hung low in the sky.

“I don’t presume to be an expert, but this is an offering, I believe,” said the man, glancing up to the birds. “Maybe they’re spirits of the sky, or maybe they’re psychopomps – ah, escorts,” he added, noticing the confused look on the girl’s face. “Carrying the soul away to the afterlife. I don’t know. Just moving it on.”

“It’s not that,” said the girl, her voice low and grating. Her sharp eyes were fixed on the body. “It’s to help the living move on.”

The man kept his eyes on the sky, on the birds swinging down towards their feast.

“What does the dead person know about all of this?” she continued, as if muddling through something in her head. “Cutting it up like that, feeding it to the birds, it’s only helping the people left behind.”

“Maybe so,” said the man, sensing that argument was unwise. “All the same, it’s sacred.”

“Nothing’s sacred anymore,” muttered the girl.

She leaned back on her heels and watched the rest of the ritual in sombre silence. The priest finished dissembling the body and retreated. He lit incense, and the pair could hear him chanting in a language different to their own. The girl asked the man to translate, but he shook his head. The vultures eventually descended upon the body of the woman, clattering and bustling and hissing, tearing and pulling and scattering. The scent of the incense carried up to the man and the girl, sickly sweet and unfamiliar. The girl wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Do you want to go?” asked the man. There was a silence from the girl.

“We still have a couple of hours before nightfall,” the man continued. “I doubt there are other predators on the plain, but we should put some distance between ourselves and the body before the sun goes down.”

“If you like,” said the girl slowly, and she finally dragged her eyes away from the body. She looked up at the man.

The man’s breath caught in his throat. He removed his hand from the girl’s shoulder and straightened up. He took several steps backwards, putting distance between himself and the stench of death, the scent of incense, the clangour of the birds, the cadence of the priest, the intimacy of the sky burial, the expression on the girl’s face.

“Yes,” he said, and he turned his back on her. “Come along, then. If we’re lucky, we’ll meet a stream coming down from the mountainside. We could do with filling up our tins.”

The girl stood slowly, cracked her back, and turned to gaze down at the birds, the priest, and the corpse. The man stood and waited for her, unwilling to approach her or pressure her into a departure before she was ready. The girl drew a hissing breath through her teeth, and the man noticed that the priest had caught sight of them. It was difficult to discern his features, but he looked surprised, shocked, maybe even affronted. The man inclined his head in what he hoped was an apologetic manner, but the girl remained motionless. She stared defiantly down at the priest, who simply stood and watched her. Neither of them moved for a long time.

“Dox,” blurted the man suddenly. The girl’s head jerked to the side. “We have to go, now.”

Wordlessly, the girl turned away from the sky burial and trudged after the man. The priest was left behind, and he watched them all the way.

Late that night, amidst the stinging cold and the silence of the plains, the man lay on his back in his bedroll, staring at the ceiling of his tent.

He was not a cowardly man. He did not fear the dead. He did not fear the night. The unknown held little terror for him. He had lived long enough to accept that the world was hostile and unforgiving, and he had built a certain kind of braveness around that acceptance.

Now, though, something lurked in his mind – something had taken him and left his spirit unsettled. Something had wormed its way into the secret spaces of his consciousness, and he couldn’t shake it off.

It had been the look on the girl’s face as she turned away from the sky burial, he remembered, with a squirm of uneasy realisation. She did not look disgusted or fearful. She did not look angry or upset.

She looked hungry.

The boy had never enjoyed going to the seaside, but his father had insisted. He sat, sullen and silent, in the back seat of his father’s car, staring out the window at the rolling hills and the isolated clusters of forest. Occasionally his eyes would lose focus, and he would find himself staring vacantly at his own reflection, meeting his own dark blue eyes.

“I don’t want to go,” he informed his father, eventually.

“How many times must I tell you, Vivaldi?” His father’s voice was tense and impatient; he only used his son’s full name when he was unimpressed with his attitude. “We might not get many more chances to come here, you know. You might as well enjoy it while you can.”

“But it’s a windy day,” implored Vivaldi, slumping against the seat. “You said –”

“Never mind what I said,” snapped his father, and his knuckles were white against the steering wheel. “You need to stop complaining.”

Vivaldi sighed loudly, but said no more. His father was angry at him now, he knew, and that put a damper on his mood. He kicked his feet against the back of the front passenger seat, sulking.

He was a small child, for his age, but he was not fully aware of this, as there was not much basis for comparison. He had met perhaps three other children in all his nine years. The rest had been drafted to the compound with their families. He and his father had been spared, so far, but it was only a matter of time. That was what everyone said, anyway. It was only a matter of time.

They were lucky enough to live in an area not yet consumed by the urban sprawl – the vast cities had not yet reached Scotland. Granted, there were towns and settlements and a capital, but nothing like the rest of the United Kingdom. They had visited the metropolis of Upper Northern London, and Vivaldi had not seen even one tree. The place was completely devoid of living flora and fauna, and that had upset him. Thankfully, they had only spent two weeks there while his father conducted business, and they had returned to their island, Hirta, exhausted and fed up and incredibly grateful for the gentle murmur of the wind in the high trees.

Their island had once been uninhabited; his father had told him. The notion was strange to Vivaldi, as he could not quite imagine any part of the world being empty of people. There were not many youngsters in their settlement – he was the most junior by about seven years – but their community was tight-knit and intimate. They occasionally made contact with villages on the other islands, Dùn and Soay, but they tended to keep to themselves, for the most part. It was quite difficult to keep up a steady stream of communication, as the combination of unpredictable weather and small population limited their ability to man the telephone lines. Every so often, they sent letters and small gifts to their neighbours on the boats that travelled intermittently between the islands, but it was hardly a reliable method of keeping in touch.

Hundreds of years ago, his father had said, there had been ancient people living on their island, in rudimentary huts, leading basic and primitive lives. There had been no computers back then, apparently, no cars or planes or ships. They had eventually abandoned Hirta, allowing nature to run her course, and the island had been a wild and windswept place until the government had set up a military base nearby. The more adventurous folk had ventured out to the newly created settlements, seeking respite from the growing problems of overpopulation, and they had established the village of Baile Nua, which meant “new town”, or so Vivaldi had been told. Most of this fascinating information was lost on him, however, as history lessons tended to sail right over his head.

Then all the terrible things had happened, and winter had begun, and everybody had moved to the cities.

His father slowed the car, squinting out the window and then examining a complicated little apparatus attached to the dash. He grunted.

“We’ll get about an hour, I imagine,” he said. Vivaldi breathed a sigh of relief.

“I need you to be on your best behaviour, though,” his father continued, sounding stern again. “We’re greeting some new arrivals, today.”

Vivaldi’s interest was immediately piqued and he sat forward in his seat, his eyes on his father’s reflection in the rear-view mirror.

“People are coming to live here?” he asked, his voice shrill with excitement. He could not remember the last time a family had joined their little herd. “Are there kids? Like me?”

His father nodded, and Vivaldi made a yelping sound. Suddenly, his reluctance to visit the seaside was completely forgotten. His father smiled slightly, his thin lips curling upwards, and parked the car. The parking lot was empty, as usual, but Vivaldi could see a small boat on the shore. He unbuckled his seatbelt hastily and opened the door. His feet crunched on the dirt and he bounced on the balls of his feet as he rubbed his hands together, all distaste towards the seaside forgotten in his eagerness to meet the new arrivals. If it was another child he would have someone to play with, he thought excitedly. If it was a boy, even better – they could pretend that the old cars and buses worked again and they could go hunting for imaginary animals in the woods near his house. They could go bird-watching, too. Sometimes the gulls came too far inland and scared the little birds living in the aviary.

“Hold on, hold on,” said his father, following suit. “Don’t forget your jacket.”

Vivaldi rolled his eyes impatiently. It was never as cold as it used to be anymore, and he didn’t see the great need to envelop himself in layers upon layers, but his father insisted, and that was that. His father was terribly preoccupied with their health, ever since Ma had died.

“Now, our new visitors are from an island very close to the mainland, so they won’t be used to the kind of life we have here,” explaining his father gently, crouching down to help his son into a bulky jacket and doing up his buttons. “It’s a little girl, just a year older than you, and her mother.”

“They don’t have a dad with them?” asked Vivaldi.

His father shook his head, looking rather grim.

“No,” he said, and his voice was heavy. “They’re like us.”

Vivaldi nodded, and he did not reply. Many families had holes in them left by the sickness.

“Now, we’re nearly ready,” said his father after a moment, patting the front of Vivaldi’s parka. “Just your hat and we’re set.”

His father put a woolly hat on over Vivaldi’s dirty blonde hair, and then put one on himself, and they looked at each other for a moment, silent, blue eyes reflecting blue. Their hair was cut quite short, a standard style. Everyone told Vivaldi that he looked very much like his father, but Stradivari was strong and tall, with wide shoulders and a big nose. Vivaldi could not imagine himself ever growing to be so large. His mother had been rather more delicate, he was told. She had been a frail little woman, wispy and brunette. Like a little bird, Stradivari had said, once. Vivaldi could not remember her. She had died when he was three, from cancer caused by radiation poisoning.

Stradivari rose and straightened. He reached into the car, removed a portion of the machine on the dash, and clipped it to his wrist, scrutinising it for some time with a pensive expression, and then turning his head to look out at the boat on the shore.

“Mind your manners, Viv,” he said to his son, looking back down at him. Vivaldi nodded obediently. He was too eager to meet their new neighbours to object to the assumption that his manners would not be minded.

“Okay,” he said, and he took his father’s hand.

They walked together down to the shore, and Vivaldi’s heart shook. Was he excited or nervous? He could not quite tell, but there was a vibration in his chest, and his eyes strained against the sea breeze to make out the three figures standing on the shore.

He knew one of them – the ferryman, Aesop, was one of the oldest people he had ever seen, stooped and wizened and hoarse and foul-mouthed. Everything he said was garbled by a mouthful of tobacco and several missing teeth. Vivaldi raised his hand in a greeting as he and Stradivari neared the little troupe, and the smallest figure, the girl, returned the gesture. Vivaldi grinned maniacally – the prospect of meeting a child his age was beyond thrilling, and his heart pumped and pumped in anticipation. It didn’t even matter that she was a girl – girls could play, too, and maybe she’d like cars and animals. Maybe she’d like birds, too. His father must have noticed the vice-like grip on his hand, because he laughed gently and looked down at his son, a look of great amusement on his face.

“Excited?” he asked.

“No,” said Vivaldi quickly, assuming as disinterested an expression as he could manage. Stradivari chuckled and squeezed his hand. As soon as Stradivari looked away again, the grin returned the Vivaldi’s face. He couldn’t help it. There was a new family on their island, and his heart was threatening to jump out of his chest.

“Strad, my good man,” said Aesop through a mouthful of tobacco, approaching them first and clapping his father on the shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in months, you old bastard, how’ve you been?”

Stradivari grimaced slightly, but Vivaldi was quite used to Aesop’s colourful use of the English language – immune to it, even.

“I’ve been well,” he answered the old man, letting go of his son’s hand and clasping the ferryman’s forearm with both of his own. “How was the trip?”

“Ah, you know how it is,” replied Aesop, and he shrugged. “Choppy. Windy. The usual, you know.”

“And our new arrivals survived, I see,” said Stradivari good-humouredly, tilting his head towards the two huddled figures, who were inspecting their baggage. Vivaldi stood on his toes to see them better, but their faces were hidden in their many layers of clothing.

“Aye,” said Aesop with a gruff laugh. “The little one took to the sea like an old sailor – helped me out with the boat, even, but the mother was sick as a dog.”

“It happens to the best of us,” allowed Stradivari, mildly, and raised his voice slightly to address the pair. “Everything alright?” he called out. Vivaldi craned his neck to stare around Aesop, and the little girl raised her head. She was so swathed in a jacket as heavy as his own, so Vivaldi could not quite make out what she looked like, but he could see that she had long dark hair, like her mother. Her eyes were dark too – blue, maybe. He couldn’t tell for sure.

“We’re okay,” said the girl, and her mother straightened up, hefting a suitcase. Stradivari immediately moved forward to help with the rest of the bags, and Vivaldi followed his father, suddenly very anxious. The girl was taller than him by several inches, and she had a loud voice. He stayed close to his father’s legs, quiet. The girl smiled at him.

“This is my son, Vivaldi,” said Stradivari to the woman, laying a hand on Vivaldi’s shoulder. “He’s nine.”

“Dox is ten,” said the woman with a smile. Her voice was gentle and low, with a strong Scottish accent.

“That’s a pretty name, isn’t it?” said Stradivari, crouching again to extend his free hand to Dox, who took it and shook it enthusiastically. “Vivaldi prefers to be called Viv. Don’t you?” This last question was directed at his son. Vivaldi struggled to find his voice.

“Yup,” he said. After a pause, he imitated his father and held out a hand to Dox. She grasped it tightly, shook it with gusto, then let go and turned to her mother.

“Everybody likes shorter names,” she said. “My mum’s name is Suhail, but everyone just calls her Su.”

Suhail nodded, then turned her head towards Stradivari and asked something in a very quiet voice. He glanced at the little machine strapped to his wrist and answered, equally hushed. Vivaldi watched this little exchange, and he knew that they did not have much time left until they would have to go back to the shelter of the hills and the trees. They began to walk back towards the car. Dox and Vivaldi followed side-by-side. Vivaldi stole a glance at the new girl. She was staring right back at him, with a startlingly intense gaze, and he noticed that she had grey eyes, like the sea on a stormy day. He had never seen grey eyes before. Dox smiled suddenly at him, and he directed his gaze towards the back of his father’s head.

“Ever been on a boat before?” Dox asked him, slightly out of breath from carrying her suitcase.

“Yup,” said Vivaldi, and then decided that he should probably expand on his monosyllabic answers. “Me and Da visit the mainland sometimes, for Da’s work. Not much, though, just about every few months.” A pause. “It’s not that great,” he went on. “I don’t really like the cities. They’re too big. Too many people.”

“I don’t like them either,” said Dox agreeably, swinging her arms. “We live in a small settlement – not as small as your one, Mum says – but we visited London District once, and I got lost all the time. I was only little, so I cried and cried until someone found me and checked my ID. Didn’t see Mum for a whole day. I don’t like the people in London District. They talk too fast. I didn’t understand them. I like it up here better.”

“Me, too,” said Vivaldi, quietly. There was silence for a moment as they approached the car. Dox looked over her shoulder at the boat and the old ferryman, her expression wistful. Her long hair blew about her face in the wind.

“I like the seaside,” she said, after a moment’s reflection. “Do you come here much?”

Vivaldi shook his head. “We can’t,” he said, shortly. Talking about the seaside made him uncomfortable. “It’s too windy. You’d get sick.”

“Oh,” said Dox, and her face fell. “Like my dad.”

“Yeah,” said Vivaldi. “And my Ma.”

They walked in silence again, following their remaining parents, each lost in their own thoughts. They did not speak again for some time, and sat together in the back seat of the car, looking out opposite windows, listening to their parents chatter about the village.

“Viv?” said Dox, after about an hour of driving. Vivaldi looked at her, startled out of his reverie.

“Yeah?”

“Are there any other kids on the island?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“Just us,” he said, noting her disappointed expression.

“I suppose we’ll have to be friends, then,” she said, looking over at him with those strange grey eyes.

“Yup,” he replied, and he looked out the window again, his eyes on the horizon. “I suppose so.”

*

“Do you like birds?” asked Vivaldi later that day. The sun was beginning to set behind their forest, and the light was golden and heavy. Dox had been introduced to her new home, which she accepted with great enthusiasm. The new girl was filled with seemingly inexhaustible amounts of energy. She ran around her new home yelling happily, inspecting the empty cupboards and paintings on the walls and the cushions of the sofa. She rolled on the carpet and she climbed the stairs to the attic and she descended to the basement, wide-eyed and tense. She had informed Stradivari and Vivaldi that she hated being underground, but the wild grin plastered on her face did not do service to this claim.

Vivaldi had spent his afternoon following her path of overjoyed discovery around the house, and now he was tired. He needed to go to a quiet place and sit down.

“Birds?” Dox asked, red-cheeked and breathless, running to his side as he walked away from her front door. “You mean like gulls? Warblers?”

“No,” said Vivaldi. “I mean little birds. Birds that sing.”

“I dunno,” said Dox. “Never seen ‘em before.”

Vivaldi stopped and frowned at her. “Don’t you have aviaries on Scarba?”

“Nope.”

Vivaldi fell silent, considering this. His father had warned him that Dox would be unused to Hirta customs, but he had not expected that she was deprived of even the smallest things. What was life like on her island? Did they even eat the same food? Did they have the same trees? Did they have more people, or less? Did they have many children? What did they do for fun? Did they tell the same stories?

Vivaldi realised that he would have to start asking a lot of questions.

“Well, we have things called aviaries, here,” he began patiently, eager to educate her on his favourite subject. “They’re like houses for birds. Some birds survived in the wild, so the people who lived here before captured them and took their nests down from the trees, and they helped them grow and build nests in their new houses. Some were sick, but a lot of them stayed alive and had healthy babies, and now there’s a load of them.”

“Animals get sick too?” asked Dox.

“Everything gets sick,” Vivaldi told her, shocked and appalled that she didn’t know this already. “People, animals, plants. Everything.”

“Oh,” said Dox in a small voice, and she didn’t say another word until they got to the aviary. Her silence told Vivaldi volumes about her old island. They sounded so sheltered.

“Okay,” he said in a slightly brighter tone when they reached their destination. “You can’t shout or talk too loud here, alright? The birds don’t like it. It upsets them.”

“Birds don’t have feelings,” scoffed Dox, but she kept her voice down nonetheless. Vivaldi did not dignify her statement with an answer, but he seethed quietly. Of course the birds had feelings. They sang, didn’t they?

“It looks like a lot of cages, but the birds don’t mind,” he explained. He opened the door to the aviary proper, and there was a sudden, quiet intake of breath behind him. He smiled to himself. It was certainly very beautiful, but the most surprising thing about the aviary was the birdsong. You walked in the huge doors, and you were immediately greeted by the cacophony of hundreds of little birds all singing at once, and the sound filled your ears and your head and your chest, and it felt like you were flying along with them.

The building itself was comprised mainly of wood, and the ceiling arched gracefully upwards to a vaulted ceiling. It was three storeys high at least, big enough to hold three or four houses. Shrubs and small trees grew in every enclosures, ivy crawled up the walls, flowers and weeds sprouted from beds at the feet of the trees. There was a long aisle running between the enclosures, which were lined up against the walls.

“They’ll dim the lights soon,” said Vivaldi, indicating the large lights on the ceiling. “To let the birds know that it’s evening. Otherwise they’ll get confused.”

No answer from Dox, who was standing still with her mouth hanging open, utterly flabbergasted.

“Come here,” said Vivaldi gently, taking her sleeve and tugging her along with him. “I’ll show you some finches.”

Dox stumbled along in his wake, her head craned upwards to take in her surroundings. Vivaldi was quite happy that she wasn’t talking – her voice was loud and would be wildly out of place in here. He came to the aviary for solace and comfort, not yelling and arguing. He didn’t even speak if he could help it.

“Here, that’s the chaffinch,” said Vivaldi, bringing her to the front of one of the enclosures and pointing at a talkative rust-coloured bird nearby. Dox stood beside him and nodded. “There’s a lot of them,” he continued, watching the bird sing with a peaceful feeling in his heart. “Their families are big.”

“What do the babies look like?” asked Dox quietly.

“Ugly,” said Vivaldi with a little laugh. “Really ugly. Bald, with big eyes. They’re so noisy, too. Never stop shouting for their dads and mums to bring them food.”

“Can I see one?”

“Nope,” said Vivaldi. “I’ve only seen one because a nest fell and someone had to nurse the chicks back to health. Otherwise, we’re not allowed to mess with them. We have to pretend this is real nature.”

“Okay,” said Dox.

“Let’s go find my favourite,” said Vivaldi, taking her by the arm again and leading her across the central aisle. He stood against the wire mesh with his fingers tangled into the ivy growing against it, peering through the leaves at a small, ground-hugging shrub.

“There,” he whispered, standing back to allow Dox forward. She crouched slightly and squinted her eyes, trying to find the bird Vivaldi was gesturing towards.

“Oh,” she said. “I see him!”

A beady-eyed, fat little bird was observing them from the branches of the shrub. He, too, had a red chest, but his chunky head was black, and his back and wings were a slate grey colour. He preened and began to sing, a sweet whistling song. Dox smiled.

“He’s pretty,” she said.

“Yup,” said Vivaldi, delighted and relieved by her approval. “He’s got a family around here somewheres. Dad showed him to me when I was small, and I’ve liked him ever since.”

“You’re still small,” said Dox with a grin.

“I’ll get bigger,” Vivaldi shot back, and they laughed.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” said Dox. “It’s really nice. It sounds good.”

“We can come here every day, if you’d like,” said Vivaldi hopefully.

“I’d like that,” said Dox, and Vivaldi’s heart soared.

Eight years passed, filled with the usual triumphs, trials and tribulations that accompanied island life. The elder members of their settlement passed away, Aesop the ferryman included, and their population dwindled in the unfortunate absence of new life being brought into the world. Vivaldi and Dox remained the youngest members of the village. There had been no newcomers after Suhail and her daughter had arrived on the shore, nearly a decade ago.

Hirta’s residents occasionally received correspondence from its neighbouring islands, and the news was always slightly disheartening, if not downright grim. Scarba, Dox’s birthplace, became completely uninhabited over the years. Little by little, the population of the island began to migrate – first, to the valleys in the Highlands, then southward – towards London District. The sprawling city crept across the land like some sort of sentient, metallic fog. It stole into the forests and levelled them. It curled around lakeshores and drained them. Rolling fields of grain and grass became tramlines and apartment blocks and industrial parks.

Whenever Vivaldi or Dox inquired about the mass exodus or the city itself, Stradivari’s expression became dark and forbidding, and Suhail became withdrawn and sad. Island folk, from Vivaldi’s perspective, seemed to be in two minds about the urban crawl: the majority of people were more than happy to ignore it, living their rural and isolated lives in their little town, carrying out their appointed tasks and cooperating closely on a daily basis to keep themselves comfortable and healthy. The other portion of their number – usually the younger, single generation – was more cynical. They lamented the lack of activity in their lives, and they yearned for something bigger, better, more “alive”. Every couple of years, Hirta lost one of its numbers to London District. Some stole away on the ferry without much ado; others stormed out on fractured families amidst bitterness and angry loss; others still threw massive going-away parties and promised tearfully to visit often, to send letters, to bring back gifts.

None of them had returned. No letters had come home.

Vivaldi became the assistant curator of Hirta’s aviary, and he thrived in his new role, delighted with the sense of responsibility and the opportunity to spend elongated periods of time in his preferred environment. He retained the quiet stoicism of an introvert, but he became taller, more confident, gently authoritative. He never grew as tall or broad as his father, but many of the townspeople remarked that the similarities between the two were uncanny – the curve of their noses, the deep blue smile in their eyes, the sudden, startling laughter whenever they were especially amused. Stradivari remained an upstanding and respected member of the community, and part of the township council.

Suhail and Dox were regarded with great interest in their early years, and were (inevitably) the subject of much gossip. Suhail eased into town life with little effort – she was gentle and intelligent and uproariously funny after a couple of drinks, and responded to the men’s attempts at courtship with a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and modest amusement. Whispers flew amongst the women that she and Stradivari were romantically involved, but this notion was blown straight out of the water when Suhail began tentatively dating a woman working in the mill.

Dox was a shock to the system, in more ways than one. The township was unused to children as a general rule, and the arrival of a child as outspoken, argumentative and energetic as Dox threw it off kilter. She skipped school to wander alone in the forest, she stayed up all night reading books about the island’s history by torchlight, and she asked loud and obtrusive questions about the war and the outside world, making her teachers uncomfortable and setting fire to the other children’s minds.

Surprisingly, she and Vivaldi maintained a firm friendship despite their differing personalities. Dox kicked at the boundaries and preconceptions that Vivaldi had been raised on, and Vivaldi, in turn, brought an element of peace and firmly rooted acceptance to Dox’s divergent mind.

*

Dox’s eighteenth birthday fell on a Tuesday – a grey, blustery Tuesday in March. Naturally, the entire settlement gathered to celebrate, as this was essentially the day their youngest female officially became a woman, a coming-of-age, of sorts. A party was organised, speeches were written by various members of the community, and Dox visited the seaside with her closest friend.

“We don’t have long,” said Vivaldi, pacing, keeping his eyes on the Geiger counter strapped to his wrist.

“We have long enough, Viv, stop stressing,” scolded Dox, her head tilted back and her grey eyes closed. Vivaldi scowled at her and stopped pacing. He had agreed to go along with her on her annual trip to the shore, but as always, he was uneasy and uncomfortable so close to the sea, especially with the wind so strong. He felt safer inland, under the cover of the surrounding mountains and trees. Dox, on the other hand, had never abandoned her fascination with the ocean, and had insisted, vehemently, that she visited the seaside every year on her birthday.

He eventually settled somewhat, but his eyes returned to the contraption on his wrist every few seconds – a nervous tic, almost. He sat on the bench beside his friend and leaned his elbows on his knees, staring at the dead, dull sand beneath his feet. There was no sound out here, away from the populated areas. No birdsong, no comforting hubbub of human activity, just the endless push and pull of the waves, the roar of the sea. He hated it.

“It doesn’t feel any different,” said Dox eventually. Vivaldi looked up from his prone position. Dox’s eyes were still closed, and he took a moment to study her face. She didn’t look any different, but then again, he had been looking at her face for eight years, and change came slowly, largely unnoticed. He did have to concede that she was no longer the little girl that had shaken his hand all those years ago, on that very shore. She was still tall, still taller than him, but her shapeless ten-year-old body had grown and matured, and she was now shapely, long-legged and lithe, with dark brown hair to her elbows. She had never been shy, and it showed on her face – her features were sharp and commanding, high cheekbones and a long, straight nose, a full, expressive mouth and a strong jawline.

He supposed she was pretty, he reflected, still studying her. She was no classic beauty, no delicate damsel, but she was powerful and confident and full of life, and he liked that about her. He didn’t think about her in a romantic or sexual manner, however. They had known each other too long and too well for that. And despite the complete lack of other likely parties on the island, they had never considered the possibility of a relationship or anything like it. Stradivari and Suhail had, independently, discussed the inevitability of reproduction with them, but it remained an unspoken agreement they that never get involved, much to their parents’ apparent chagrin.

“Is it supposed to feel different?” asked Dox, jolting Vivaldi from his rambling train of thought. He looked away from her, out to the horizon, thoughtful.

“I dunno, Dox,” he said. “I don’t see why it should. It’s just one day.”

“I feel like something should change, though,” she said, shifting restlessly in her seat. “I feel like I’m waiting for something to happen.”

Vivaldi didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. Much like the majority of the other islanders, he did not see change as progression, but rather as a distortion of a comfortable routine, an upset. It comforted him to know that his life on Hirta was based on a simple, inexorable structure, and he was not bothered by the normality of it. Dox, on the other hand, was bored by the mundane.

“Do you know why we left Scarba?” she asked him. He shook his head slowly, then realised that her eyes were still closed. He cleared his throat and spoke up.

“Not really, no.”

“After my dad died, my mum was pretty depressed. She didn’t go out, didn’t do much housework, never had friends over. I supposed it’s horrible to lose your husband – I wouldn’t know. It was pretty horrible to lose my dad, though. Still is.”

Vivaldi looked back at her. Her eyes were still closed, but her brow was knit and her jaw was tense. He didn’t understand why she was telling him this – he knew about her father’s death already.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Mum eventually decided that there was nothing to do but either get over it, see other people, and continue her life as normal, or she could escape from Scarba and start again somewhere new. God knows why she chose this place – it’s as wild and far out as you can get, but maybe that was what she wanted.”

There was another pause. The waves assaulted the shore, over and over.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about,” said Dox, quietly, after the silence had dragged on a little too long. Vivaldi frowned.

“You mean you want to move away?” he said quickly, his voice unnecessarily harsh. Dox opened her eyes and looked at him, and he was struck by the fierceness of her expression.

“Do you really want to stay here forever?” she shot back, leaning forward to place her hands on her knees, glaring at him. He floundered for a moment, caught in the headlights of her stare. The look on her face frightened him, and he didn’t understand why. “Do you really want to continue your boring life on this shitty little island in the middle of nowhere? You do know we’re doomed if we stay here, right? Doomed like your dad and my mum and everyone else!”

The statement hit him harder than a slap in the face, and he stared at her in shocked silence for a moment.

“Is that how you really feel?” he asked, shakily, finally.

“I have to get out of here, Viv,” she said, her voice gentler. “I’ll go insane if I’m stuck here. I need to get out.”

He struggled. His hands tangled together between his knees. The waves crashed, over and over, and he felt like she was already being washed away. A distance gaped between them and they stared at each other, her cheeks flushed, bright red spots of anger and frustration.

“What about me?” he managed, eventually. What do I do without you? Who will I have then?

“I don’t know, Viv,” whispered Dox, and she looked away. Vivaldi stared at her face, and he felt a bizarre urge to cry, or scream, or start running.

The Geiger counter began to crackle and click, and they both looked down at it. Vivaldi felt bewildered by the sound, as if Dox’s announcement had removed him from reality for a moment, away from a world where the wind was laden with illness, where somewhere across the sea there was a poisoned crater which bred all the woes of the world. And Dox wanted to go out there?

“Time to go home,” said Vivaldi, dully. They stood simultaneously, silent, and walked back to Stradivari’s rusty old car. The sea breeze ruffled the back of Vivaldi’s head, and he wondered how much they had breathed in today, and how much the iodine tablets would be able to stave off. He should not have come to the beach today, he reflected. The wind was too strong, blustering inland, bringing with it the sickness that had taken his mother. Why on earth would Dox want to leave the safety of their island? The deep valleys were as good a protection as any underground compound.

“Where will you go?” he asked his oldest friend, and she shrugged. Her long hair flew about her head and shoulders like a cowl.

“Not underground, anyway,” she said, her tone steely. “I’m not burying myself just yet.”

“Nowhere else is safe, Dox,” Vivaldi reminded her, gently. As if she needed reminding.

“I’m not looking for safe,” she replied. They stopped at the car. Vivaldi removed the Geiger counter from his wrist and strapped it to the dashboard, where it crackled and hummed contentedly. Vivaldi stared at it for a while.

“Maybe I’ll go out to sea,” she said, eventually. Vivaldi snorted loudly and sat behind the wheel of the car. Aesop had gone to sea. Lots of people had gone to sea, and none of them had come back the same way.

“You won’t last a month out there,” he scoffed.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” retorted Dox in a growl, sitting beside him and shrugging out of her jacket.

“Dox, that’s where people go to die,” said Vivaldi, and he couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice. “You might think it’s some sort of grand adventure on the high seas, but it’s a death wish. You’ll just end up on a hospital bed in some dingy ship, coughing up blood or losing your hair or your teeth or something awful, and I’ll never hear from you again. Please, tell me you won’t leave us. What about your ma? And my Da? What about us?”

Dox turned her grey eyes away from him, and she watched the horizon for a long moment.

“It’s my birthday, Viv,” she said eventually, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “I just want to enjoy tonight. We can talk about this another time.”

The urge to scream came again, and Vivaldi scowled fiercely, jamming the keys in the ignition and starting the car. They did not speak again for the entire journey home, Vivaldi simmering, his eyes on the road; Dox cold and far away.

*

“Shouldn’t you be off dancing with someone?” asked Stradivari, approaching the hunched back of his son.

Vivaldi shrugged, opened his mouth to reply, and found that there was a lump in his throat. He shut his mouth and shrugged again, keenly aware of the fact that he was acting like a sulky teenager, and not caring in the slightest. Besides, his father knew that he’d talk if he wanted to. They had been through puberty, and Stradivari was no stranger to sullen silences.

“Shouldn’t you?”

Stradivari chuckled. Vivaldi stayed still, and listened to the soft sounds of his father’s amusement, then to the silken rustle of leaves as Stradivari joined him in the enclosure.

“I’m a terrible dancer,” he said truthfully, being the proud owner of a pair of left feet. “Besides, it’s a night for the young people. Or the under forties, at least. I needed a breath of fresh air.”

“Plenty of fresh air outside, Da,” muttered Vivaldi.

“I wanted to see where you’d gone,” said Stradivari, and he leaned against the tree Vivaldi was sitting in. “And once I’d found you, I wanted to ask you why you are neglecting your friend on her big night.”

There was a silence. Vivaldi’s lips twisted in the near darkness and he ran both of his hands through his hair, still cut short. Something tugged on his insides and dragged at the inside of his chest – a burning, rolling, completely unpleasant sensation. Vivaldi had not cried in months, and he had no intention of it now.

“She’ll be fine,” he said, in a thicker voice than he had intended.

“Vivaldi,” said Stradivari, in that tone he had used since Vivaldi’s childhood: the tone that implied that vague statements and grumpy deflections were now off the table.

“She’s leaving,” he said suddenly, and the words felt like they were forcing themselves out of their own accord. There was a full feeling in his eyes. “She’s leaving the island, she’s leaving all of us, she’s leaving me, and I don’t know how to make her stay.” His hands curled into fists in his hair, and then he cradled the back of his neck, staring at his dangling feet. His vision clouded and the feeling in his eyes became warmer, and he angrily blinked it away. “If she goes, it’s only me left, Da! Me and the island, and I can’t… I can’t live like that!”

Stradivari was silent, staring up at the back of his only son’s head.

“I’m sorry,” said Vivaldi in a hushed voice, after a moment. “I didn’t mean that I don’t want to be with you and Su and everyone. I just…”

“I understand,” murmured Stradivari, barely audible.

Vivaldi took a deep, shuddering breath and put a hand over his mouth.

“I just can’t do it,” he breathed. His voice was gruff and low. “I can’t be without her.”

“I know,” said Stradivari.

Vivaldi nodded to himself, and then looked over his shoulder at his father. Stradivari stood watching him, his dark eyes filled with an emotion that Vivaldi couldn’t describe, but it looked very similar to the one that rushed and bellowed throughout his entire body. Vivaldi jumped down from the low-hanging branch and brushed off his pants, his cheeks flaming. Stradivari leaned away from the tree, put his hands into his pockets, and he smiled down at his son. Vivaldi clenched his teeth tight together to keep himself from crying, and he stared up into his father’s bearded, benevolent, beloved face, and he knew that Stradivari, in all his paternal worldly wisdom, understood exactly what Vivaldi was unable to say.

“Go and dance with her before she goes, then,” said Stradivari. He took one hand out of his pocket and clapped Vivaldi on the shoulder. Vivaldi smiled sheepishly and nodded jerkily.

“Try not to get too drunk, Viv,” said Stradivari with a chortle. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around his son’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug, holding him silently for a moment before letting go. “Now, get out of my sight,” he rumbled. “Have fun.”

Vivaldi mumbled out an affirmative. He turned on his heel, and half-stumbled, half-ran out of the aviary, wiping the tears from his face as he went.

*

“Alright,” said Vivaldi heavily, his voice laced with a sigh. “I think you’re wearing enough layers.”

Dox glared back at him, her face-half covered by her hood. The sun had chosen to shine as brightly as it could muster on the day of her departure. Vivaldi imagined, with a cruel tinge of satisfaction, that she was probably sweltering beneath her many jackets.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she grumbled.

“I’m not taking any chances,” said Vivaldi. “The sea breeze is extremely dangerous, Dox. Plus, it’ll get cooler out there. I hear the mainland gets colder than here, too. Probably something to do with all the metal and vents and… air conditioning.”

“Bullshit,” said Dox, but her expression was much less harsh than her voice. Vivaldi let out a sudden laugh and patted her on both her shoulders.

“Got your Geiger?”

“Of course.”

“Your iodine?”

“Viv, you’re asking the most stupid questions.”

“Just trying to keep you alive.”

“Hey,” said Dox, and she was suddenly quiet and young and small, not the fierce, iron-eyed lioness. “Take care of my mum, alright? She’s getting older, and I’m not going to be-“

“She’ll be fine,” said Vivaldi quickly, cutting off Dox’s words, slightly unnerved by the change in her disposition. “You’ll see her when you come back.”

“Yeah,” said Dox, looking away from Vivaldi and out to sea. Her eyes reflected the cold ocean, and all of a sudden she was gone – steely and distant and unfathomable.

“You’re coming back,” said Vivaldi, and it wasn’t a question. He stared hard at her face, inspecting all of her tiny details, trying to commit everything to memory, wondering when he would see her again, and trying to ignore the terrible, painful, roaring pain in his chest. Dox turned away and picked up her backpack.

“Goodbye, Vivaldi,” she said. Vivaldi nodded, and the sound of the waves beating the shore filled his head.

“Goodbye, Dox,” he said, but he didn’t hear the words come out.

He stood on the shore and watched her walk away, all wrapped up in jackets and silence. He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug deep into his palms. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

He stood on the shore of his little island and he watched the ferry carry away the woman he loved until the sea swallowed them up. He wept into the sand until his lungs burned, and darkness fell, and the Geiger counter on his wrist ticked out a smug and loathsome warning.