For Martha
Foreword
Only to shortlist this wonderful book for the Carnegie Medal was an injustice, no matter what the other titles were! Here is certainly one of the finest, funniest, most exciting epic adventures ever written. It is an extraordinary literary achievement, but none of this is more than we might expect from Eva Ibbotson.
I should declare an interest, or rather make a confession, here. It is really hard for me to write in such glowing terms about Journey to the River Sea. Most authors have a tendency to be competitive however much they try to hide it. I don’t think I’m any better or worse in this regard. But the name and the books of Eva Ibbotson have in the past, I acknowledge it, turned my eyes green with envy. This is because so many friends talk with such admiration and affection about the work of Eva Ibbotson. My wife, Clare, in particular, has never stopped singing her praises ever since she read The Star of Kazan.
I think Clare has read every one of Eva’s books. So of course she encouraged me to do the same. ‘You won’t know you’re even turning the page,’ she told me. ‘But her books are more than page-turners. They are beautifully written; her sense of place is so good that you feel you are right there in the streets of nineteenth-century Vienna, or in a boat gliding through the Amazon jungle, her characterization and dialogue so tellingly drawn that you feel you’ve met these people, known their histories, heard their voices. Everything she writes is just so compelling. You have to read her books!’
The eulogies went on and on, and the more they went on the more reluctant I was to read them. But in the end I had to. It seemed churlish not to. I mean, I didn’t want her thinking I was envious of all this adulation, did I? So I read Journey to the River Sea.
I have to report that yet again my wife was right. The range and ambition of this book is extraordinary. Set a hundred years ago, it follows the life and journey of Maia, an orphan girl, as she faces up to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. She is sent from a well-meaning but prim London boarding school to join distant relatives in the Amazon jungle, where she imagines she will find the loving family she longs for and has never had. For a romantic and lonely child this sounds like a dream come true. But one by one her dreams are shattered.
Despite the disappointment of finding her new family completely horrific, Maia is blessed with wonderful friends who help her through the twists and turns of this incredible journey. And we too are her friends, so well is her character drawn. We will her through her trials and tribulations, suffer with her, rejoice with her. What a book! What a writer! She manages to do the impossible, to write an epic story that is intimate at the same time.
So I’m no longer green with envy, just full of admiration and affection. I’m simply grateful for the life and work of Eva Ibbotson, whose books enrich us all.
Michael Morpurgo
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
The Star of Kazan
The Dragonfly Pool
Chapter One
It was a good school, one of the best in London.
Miss Banks and her sister Emily believed that girls should be taught as thoroughly and as carefully as boys. They had bought three houses in a quiet square, a pleasant place with plane trees and well-behaved pigeons, and put up a brass plate saying: THE MAYFAIR ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES – and they had prospered.
For while the sisters prized proper learning, they also prized good manners, thoughtfulness and care for others, and the girls learnt both algebra and needlework. Moreover, they took in children whose parents were abroad and needed somewhere to spend the holidays. Now, some thirty years later, in the autumn of 1910, the school had a waiting list, and those girls who went there knew how lucky they were.
All the same, there were times when they were very bored.
Miss Carlisle was giving a Geography lesson in the big classroom which faced the street. She was a good teacher, but even the best teachers have trouble trying to make the Rivers of Southern England seem unusual and exciting.
‘Now can anyone tell me the exact source of the River Thames?’ she asked.
She passed her eyes along the rows of desks, missed the plump Hermione, the worried-looking Daisy – and stopped by a girl in the front row.
‘Don’t chew the end of your pigtail,’ she was about to say, but she did not say it. For it was a day when this particular girl had a right to chew the curved ends of her single heavy plait of hair. Maia had seen the motor stop outside the door, had seen old Mr Murray in his velvet-collared coat go into the house. Mr Murray was Maia’s guardian and today, as everyone knew, he was bringing news about her future.
Maia raised her eyes to Miss Carlisle and struggled to concentrate. In the room full of fair and light brown heads, she stood out, with her pale triangular face, her widely spaced dark eyes. Her ears, laid bare by the heavy rope of black hair, gave her an unprotected look.
‘The Thames rises in the Cotswold hills,’ she began in her low, clear voice. ‘In a small hamlet.’ Only what small hamlet? She had no idea.
The door opened. Twenty heads turned.
‘Would Maia Fielding come to Miss Banks’ room, please?’ said the maid.
Maia rose to her feet. Fear is the cause of all evil, she told herself but she was afraid. Afraid of the future . . . afraid of the unknown. Afraid in the way of someone who is alone in the world.
Miss Banks was sitting behind her desk; her sister, Miss Emily, stood beside her. Mr Murray was in a leather chair by a table, rustling papers. Mr Murray was Maia’s guardian, but he was also a lawyer and never forgot it. Things had to be done carefully and slowly and written down.
Maia looked round at the assembled faces. They looked cheerful but that could mean anything, and she bent down to pat Miss Banks’ spaniel, finding comfort in the feel of his round, warm head.
‘Well, Maia, we have good news,’ said Miss Banks. A frightening woman to many, now in her sixties, with an amazing bust which would have done splendidly on the prow of a sailing ship, she smiled at the girl standing in front of her. A clever child and a brave one, who had fought hard to overcome the devastating blow of her parents’ death in a train crash in Egypt two years earlier. The staff knew how Maia had wept night after night under her pillow, trying not to wake her friends. If good fortune was to come her way, there was no one who deserved it more.
‘We have found your relatives,’ Miss Banks went on.
‘And will they . . .’ Maia began but she could not finish.
Mr Murray now took over. ‘They are willing to give you a home.’
Maia took a deep breath. A home. She had spent her holidays for the past two years in the school. Everyone was friendly and kind but a home . . .
‘Not only that,’ said Miss Emily, ‘but it turns out that the Carters have twin daughters about your age.’ She smiled broadly and nodded as though she herself had arranged the birth of twins for Maia’s benefit.
Mr Murray patted a large folder on his knee. ‘As you know we have been searching for a long time fo
r anyone related to your late father. We knew that there was a second cousin, a Mr Clifford Carter, but all efforts to trace him failed until two months ago, when we heard that he had emigrated six years earlier. He had left England with his family.’
‘So where is he now?’ Maia asked.
There was a moment of silence. It was as though the good news had now run out, and Mr Murray looked solemn and cleared his throat.
‘He is living – the Carters are living – on the Amazon.’
‘In South America. In Brazil,’ put in Miss Banks.
Maia lifted her head. ‘On the Amazon?’ she said. ‘In the jungle, do you mean?’
‘Not exactly. Mr Carter is a rubber planter. He has a house on the river not far from the city of Manaus. It is a perfectly civilized place. I have, of course, arranged for the consul out there to visit it. He knows the family and they are very respectable.’ There was a pause. ‘I thought you would wish me to make a regular payment to the Carters for your keep and your schooling. As you know, your father left you well-provided for.’
‘Yes, of course; I would like that; I would like to pay my share.’ But Maia was not thinking of her money. She was thinking of the Amazon. Of rivers full of leeches, of dark forests with hostile Indians with blowpipes, and nameless insects which burrowed into flesh.
How could she live there? And to give herself courage, she said, ‘What are they called?’
‘Who?’ The old man was still wondering about the arrangements he had made with Mr Carter. Had he offered too much for Maia’s keep?
‘The twins? What are the names of the twins?’
‘Beatrice and Gwendolyn,’ said Emily. ‘They have written you a note.’
And she handed Maia a single sheet of paper.
Dear Maia, the girls had written, We hope you will come and live with us. We think it would be nice. Maia saw them as she read: fair and curly-haired and pretty; everything she longed to be and wasn’t. If they could live in the jungle, so could she!
‘When do I go?’ she asked.
‘At the end of next month. It has all worked out very well because the Carters have engaged a new governess and she will travel out with you.’
A governess . . . in the jungle . . . how strange it all sounded. But the letter from the girls had given her heart. They were looking forward to having her. They wanted her; surely it would be all right?
‘Well, let’s hope it’s for the best,’ said Miss Banks after Maia left the room.
They were more serious now. It was a long way to send a child to an unknown family – and there was Maia’s music to consider. She played the piano well, but what interested the staff was Maia’s voice. Her mother had been a singer; Maia’s own voice was sweet and true. Though she did not want to sing professionally, her eagerness to learn new songs, and understand them, was exceptional.
But what was that to set against the chance of a loving home? The Carters had seemed really pleased to take Maia, and she was an attractive child.
‘The consul has promised to keep me informed,’ said Mr Murray – and the meeting broke up.
Meanwhile, Maia’s return to the classroom meant the end of the tributaries of the Thames.
‘Tomorrow we will have our lesson on the Amazon and the rivers of South America,’ said Miss Carlisle. ‘I want you all to find out at least one interesting fact about it.’ She smiled at Maia. ‘And I shall expect you to tell us how you will travel, and for how long, so that we can all share your adventure.’
There was no doubt about it; Maia was a heroine, but not the kind that people envied; more the kind that got burnt at the stake. By the time her friends had clustered round her with ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aaahs’ and cries of distress, Maia wanted nothing except to run away and hide.
But she didn’t. She asked permission to go to the library after supper.
The library at the Academy was a good one. That night Maia sat alone on top of the mahogany library steps, and she read and she read and she read. She read about the great broad-leaved trees of the rainforest pierced by sudden rays of sun. She read about the travellers who had explored the maze of rivers and found a thousand plants and animals that had never been seen before. She read about brilliantly coloured birds flashing between the laden branches – macaws and humming birds and parakeets – and butterflies the size of saucers, and curtains of sweetly scented orchids trailing from the trees. She read about the wisdom of the Indians who could cure sickness and wounds that no one in Europe understood.
‘Those who think of the Amazon as a Green Hell,’ she read in an old book with a tattered spine, ‘bring only their own fears and prejudices to this amazing land. For whether a place is a hell or a heaven rests in yourself, and those who go with courage and an open mind may find themselves in Paradise.’
Maia looked up from the book. I can do it, she vowed. I can make it a heaven and I will!
Matron found her there long after bedtime, still perched on the ladder, but she did not scold her for there was a strange look on the girl’s face as though she was already in another country.
Everyone came well-prepared to the Geography lesson on the following day.
‘You start, Hermione,’ said Miss Carlisle. ‘What did you find out about the Amazon?’
Hermione looked anxiously at Maia.
‘There are huge crocodiles in the rivers that can snap your head off in one bite. Only they’re not called crocodiles, they’re called alligators because their snouts are fatter, but they’re just as fierce.’
‘And if you just put one hand in the water there are these piranhas that strip all the flesh off your bones. Every single bit. They look just like ordinary fish but their teeth are terrible,’ said Melanie.
Daisy offered a mosquito which bit you and gave you yellow fever. ‘You turn as yellow as a lemon and then you die,’ she said.
‘And it’s so hot the sweat absolutely runs off you in buckets.’
‘Not sweat, dear, perspiration,’ corrected Miss Carlisle.
Anna described the Indians, covered in terrifying swirls of paint, who shot you with poisoned arrows which paralysed you and made you mad; from Rose came jaguars, silent as shadows, which pounced on anyone who dared to go into the forest.
Miss Carlisle now raised a hand and looked worriedly at Maia. The girl was pale and silent, and she was very sorry now that she had told the class to find out what they could.
‘And you, Maia? What did you find out?’
Maia rose to her feet. She had written notes but she did not look at them, and when she began to speak she held her head high, for her time in the library had changed everything.
‘The Amazon is the largest river in the world. The Nile is a little bit longer but the Amazon has the most water. It used to be called The River Sea because of that, and all over Brazil there are rivers that run into it. Some of the rivers are black and some are brown and the ones that run in from the south are blue and this is because of what is under the water.
‘When I go I shall travel on a boat of the Booth Line and it will take four weeks to go across the Atlantic, and then when I get to Brazil I still have to travel a thousand miles along the river between trees that lean over the water, and there will be scarlet birds and sandbanks and creatures like big guinea pigs called capa . . . capybaras which you can tame.
‘And after another two weeks on the boat I shall reach the city of Manaus, which is a beautiful place with a theatre with a green and golden roof, and shops and hotels just like here because the people who grew rubber out there became very rich and so they could build such a place even in the middle of the jungle . . . And that is where I shall be met by Mr and Mrs Carter and by Beatrice and Gwendolyn—’ She broke off and grinned at her classmates. ‘And after that I don’t know, but it’s going to be all right.’
But she needed all her courage as she stood in the hall a month later, saying goodbye. Her trunk was corded, her travelling cape lay in the small suitcase which was all she was allowed to ta
ke into the cabin, and she stood in a circle of her friends. Hermione was crying, the youngest pupil, Dora, was clutching her skirt.
‘Don’t go, Maia,’ she wailed. ‘I don’t want you to go. Who’s going to tell me stories?’
‘We’ll miss you,’ shrieked Melanie.
‘Don’t step on a boa constrictor!’
‘Write – oh, please write lots and lots of letters.’
Last-minute presents had been stuffed into her case; a slightly strange pin cushion made by Anna, a set of ribbons for her hair. The teachers too had come to see her off, and the maids were coming upstairs.
‘You’ll be all right, Miss,’ they said. ‘You’ll have a lovely time.’ But they looked at her with pity. Piranhas and alligators were in the air – and the housemaid who had sat up most of the night with Maia after she heard of her parents’ death, was wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.
The headmistress now came down the stairs, followed by Miss Emily, and everyone made way for her as she came up to Maia. But the farewell speech Miss Banks had prepared was never made. Instead she came forward and put her arms round Maia, who vanished for the last time into the folds of her tremendous bosom.
‘Farewell, my child,’ she said, ‘and God bless you!’, and then the porter came and said the carriage was at the door.
The girls followed Maia out into the street, but at the sight of the black-clad woman sitting stiffly in the back of the cab, her hands on her umbrella, Maia faltered. This was Miss Minton, the governess, who was going to take care of her on the journey.
‘Doesn’t she look fierce?’ whispered Melanie.
‘Poor you,’ mumbled Hermione.
And indeed the tall, gaunt woman looked more like a rake or a nutcracker than a human being.
The door of the cab opened. A hand in a black glove, bony and cold as a skeleton, was stretched out to help her in. Maia took it and, followed by the shrieks of her schoolmates, they set off.
For the first part of the journey Maia kept her eyes on the side of the road. Now that she was really leaving her friends it was hard to hold back her tears.