Why the Whales Came. Michael Morpurgo

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      Why the

      Whales Came

       Also by Michael Morpurgo

      Arthur: High King of Britain

      Escape from Shangri-La

      Friend or Foe

      The Ghost of Grania O’Malley

      Kensuke’s Kingdom

      King of the Cloud Forests

      Little Foxes

      Long Way Home

      Mr Nobody’s Eyes

      My Friend Walter

      The Nine Lives of Montezuma

      The Sandman and the Turtles

      The Sleeping Sword

      Twist of Gold

      Waiting for Anya

      War Horse

      The War of Jenkins’ Ear

      The White Horse of Zennor

      The Wreck of Zanzibar

       For Younger Readers

      The Best Christmas Present in the World

      Conker

      Mairi’s Mermaid

      The Marble Crusher

      Why the

      Whales Came

      MICHAEL MORPURGO

To Mark, Linda, Geoffrey and Stewart

      CONTENTS

       1 Z.W.

       2 Island of Ghosts

       3 Messages in the Sand

       4 The Birdman

       5 The Preventative

       6 The King’s Shilling

       7 Samson

       8 Castaways

       9 31st October 1915

       10 Dawn Attack

       11 Last Chance

       12 The End of it All

      I was brought up on Bryher, one of the Isles of Scilly. You can find them on any map, a scattering of tiny islands kicked out into the Atlantic by the boot of England.

      I was about ten years old when it all happened. It was April 1914.

       Gracie Jenkins, 1985

      1 Z.W.

      ‘YOU KEEP AWAY FROM THE BIRDMAN, GRACIE,’ my father had warned me often enough. ‘Keep well clear of him, you hear me now?’ And we never would have gone anywhere near him, Daniel and I, had the swans not driven us away from the pool under Gweal Hill where we always went to sail our boats.

      Daniel and I had built between us an entire fleet of little boats. Fourteen of them there were, each one light blue with a smart white stripe along the bulwarks. I remember well the warm spring day when we took them down to the pool in father’s wheelbarrow. We had just the gentle, constant breeze we needed for a perfect day’s sailing. We launched them one by one and then ran round to the far side of the pool to wait for them to come in. It was while we were waiting that a pair of swans came flying over, circled once and then landed in the middle of the pool, sending out great waves in their wake. Two of our boats keeled over and some were eventually washed back to the shore; but we had to wade in after the others to retrieve them. We tried shouting at the swans, we even threw sticks at them; but nothing we did would frighten them away. They simply ignored us, and cruised serenely around the pool, preening themselves. In the end it was we who had to leave, piling our boats into the wheelbarrow and trudging defeated and dejected home to tea.

      For some days after that we tried to occupy our pool again, but the swans always seemed to be on the lookout for us and would come gliding towards us in a meaningful, menacing kind of way. They left us in no doubt that they did not want us there, and that they would not be prepared to share the pool with anyone.

      So reluctantly we gave up and took our boats to nearby Popplestone Bay, but we found it was so windy there that even on the calmest of days our boats would be capsized or beached almost as soon as we pushed them out. And then one day the fastest boat in the fleet, Cormorant it was, was carried out to sea before we could do anything about it. The last we saw of her was the top of her yellow sail as she vanished in the trough of a wave. That was the last straw. After that we never sailed our boats from Popplestone Bay again. We were forced to look for somewhere else.

      The beach on the sheltered coast of the island opposite Tresco would have been perfect, for the water was calmer here than anywhere else around the island, but there was always too much happening there. It was the hub of the island. Fishing boats were for ever coming in and going out, leaving great tidal waves behind them big enough to swamp our boats; and the children were often fishing off the quay or splashing through the shallows. Then there were Daniel’s brothers and sisters, most of whom always seemed to be on that beach mending nets and lobster pots or painting boats. Of all of them, the one we most wanted to avoid was Big Tim, Daniel’s eldest brother, and our chief tormentor; and he was always there. The one time we had tried to sail our boats there, he had come with his cronies and bombarded our fleet with stones. They had managed to break two of the masts, but to our great delight and their obvious disappointment, none of our boats was sunk. Even so, we did not want to risk it again. We had to find somewhere secret, somewhere where no one came and where the water was still enough for us to sail our boats. There was only one place left that we could go – Rushy Bay.

      Rushy Bay was forbidden territory to us, along with most of the west coast of Bryher. The pool under Gweal Hill and the beach on Popplestones beyond was as far as any of us children were allowed to go in that direction. We never asked why, for we did not have to. We all knew well enough that the west coast of the island was dangerous, far too dangerous for children, whatever the weather. Mother and Father reminded me repeatedly about it, and they were right to do so. At Shipman’s Head and Hell Bay there were black cliffs hundreds of feet high that rose sheer from the churning sea below. Here even on the calmest of days the waves could sweep you off the rocks and take you out to sea. I had been there often enough, but always with Father. We used to go there for firewood, collecting the driftwood off the rocky beaches and dragging it above the high-water mark to claim it for our own; or we would go for the seaweed, piling the cart high