herself up from the deck. "Pirate! PIRATE! PIRATE PIRATE PIRATE!"
Miya stood as she yelled, fists clenched at her sides, screaming her frustration at the night ocean. She glared at the water, then turned her back on it.
"I AM a pirate," she muttered. "And everyone would know that, if I had half a chance to show what I can do."
In an instant she had her sword out, pointed at an imaginary Badger Pete.
"Oops," she said, as her sword flashed in the moonlight. "Was that your belt-buckle? Just a little too quick for you, am I? How's your grip, Badger Pete?"
Miya's sword flashed again, then again, quicker and quicker as she advanced on her enemy.
"There goes your cutlass. There goes your dagger. There goes your shirt, you really should sew your buttons on better."
Miya stood over the downed Badger Pete, her sword pointed at his heart.
"Yield," she said. "Or you'll taste the steel of my sword. Of my father's sword," she corrected herself. "The sword of a pirate king."
Miya held the position a moment, then laughed a little and sheathed her weapon.
"Whatever," she said, flopping back onto the hard wood of the deck. She flicked another pebble into the water.
" Why don't they understand?" she muttered, idly looking for another pebble. "And where did all these pebbles come from?"
Miya rolled over to see if there were any pebbles to her left. As she rolled she heard the crinkle of paper from her shirt pocket, which brought a sudden heavy feeling of guilt to her chest. I shouldn't have opened Dad's old chest, she thought, as she pulled out the letter to read once more. His private, personal stuff, I'd kill him if he looked at anything in my room. Even though I found this ...
*
Miya didn't go into the attic much, it was filled with dust and cobwebs and spiders—not that she was scared of spiders, she just preferred to be where they weren't. It was also where her parents kept their old stuff, and she knew how guarded they both were about their pasts. Even being up here felt wrong, like being an uninvited guest. Miya had been taught about 'respect for the past' from a very young age, not least from the stories her father had read to her and the history lessons her mother had taught. Clover Island was, in part, a place for second chances. A lot of people came to the island with pasts they'd rather forget. Part of what Tomas and Lily had instilled within Miya was the belief that you should not delve too deeply into someone's past—not without invitation.
But, Miya reasoned, this is important. Dad doesn't understand but that's because he's busy, he's got other things to do, responsibilities. He's worried, like we all are—that's why he couldn't listen to me properly. And I know he must have something that can lead to his parents up here, he's probably just forgotten about it, or he's too busy to think about that kind of stuff, or he doesn't want to tell me for some reason. He thinks I'm still too young, probably, he's always too protective of me. Also, maybe he just doesn't have the time to go scrounging around in a dusty old attic. So, I'll find it for him and save him the time and bother, and prove I'm old enough to do things for myself—and I'm sure once I get the time to explain things to him properly he'll thank me for it, and then we can go find my grandparents together.
Miya knew exactly where to start looking—her father's old sea-chest, a big heavy thing in the back corner of the attic, made of weathered but tough old wood, black with age (and ash; at some point in its life the chest had survived a rather serious fire). It was surrounded by crates and smaller chests, and Miya had to spend some time shifting things out of the way just to get to it—she'd wrapped a bandanna around her mouth and nose before coming up here so the dust didn't bother her too much, although it did get into her eyes a little.
After clearing enough stuff out of the way, Miya knelt in front of the chest and opened it, or tried to at
Miya stood as she yelled, fists clenched at her sides, screaming her frustration at the night ocean. She glared at the water, then turned her back on it.
"I AM a pirate," she muttered. "And everyone would know that, if I had half a chance to show what I can do."
In an instant she had her sword out, pointed at an imaginary Badger Pete.
"Oops," she said, as her sword flashed in the moonlight. "Was that your belt-buckle? Just a little too quick for you, am I? How's your grip, Badger Pete?"
Miya's sword flashed again, then again, quicker and quicker as she advanced on her enemy.
"There goes your cutlass. There goes your dagger. There goes your shirt, you really should sew your buttons on better."
Miya stood over the downed Badger Pete, her sword pointed at his heart.
"Yield," she said. "Or you'll taste the steel of my sword. Of my father's sword," she corrected herself. "The sword of a pirate king."
Miya held the position a moment, then laughed a little and sheathed her weapon.
"Whatever," she said, flopping back onto the hard wood of the deck. She flicked another pebble into the water.
" Why don't they understand?" she muttered, idly looking for another pebble. "And where did all these pebbles come from?"
Miya rolled over to see if there were any pebbles to her left. As she rolled she heard the crinkle of paper from her shirt pocket, which brought a sudden heavy feeling of guilt to her chest. I shouldn't have opened Dad's old chest, she thought, as she pulled out the letter to read once more. His private, personal stuff, I'd kill him if he looked at anything in my room. Even though I found this ...
*
Miya didn't go into the attic much, it was filled with dust and cobwebs and spiders—not that she was scared of spiders, she just preferred to be where they weren't. It was also where her parents kept their old stuff, and she knew how guarded they both were about their pasts. Even being up here felt wrong, like being an uninvited guest. Miya had been taught about 'respect for the past' from a very young age, not least from the stories her father had read to her and the history lessons her mother had taught. Clover Island was, in part, a place for second chances. A lot of people came to the island with pasts they'd rather forget. Part of what Tomas and Lily had instilled within Miya was the belief that you should not delve too deeply into someone's past—not without invitation.
But, Miya reasoned, this is important. Dad doesn't understand but that's because he's busy, he's got other things to do, responsibilities. He's worried, like we all are—that's why he couldn't listen to me properly. And I know he must have something that can lead to his parents up here, he's probably just forgotten about it, or he's too busy to think about that kind of stuff, or he doesn't want to tell me for some reason. He thinks I'm still too young, probably, he's always too protective of me. Also, maybe he just doesn't have the time to go scrounging around in a dusty old attic. So, I'll find it for him and save him the time and bother, and prove I'm old enough to do things for myself—and I'm sure once I get the time to explain things to him properly he'll thank me for it, and then we can go find my grandparents together.
Miya knew exactly where to start looking—her father's old sea-chest, a big heavy thing in the back corner of the attic, made of weathered but tough old wood, black with age (and ash; at some point in its life the chest had survived a rather serious fire). It was surrounded by crates and smaller chests, and Miya had to spend some time shifting things out of the way just to get to it—she'd wrapped a bandanna around her mouth and nose before coming up here so the dust didn't bother her too much, although it did get into her eyes a little.
After clearing enough stuff out of the way, Miya knelt in front of the chest and opened it, or tried to at
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