The Magician King_ A Novel - Lev Grossman [116]
“We’ve fallen on our feet,” Eliot said, once everybody had a job to do. “Don’t you think? So far I would rate this an above-average island.”
“It’s so beautiful!” Poppy said. “Do you think anybody lives here?” Eliot shook his head.
“I don’t know. We’re two months’ sail out from Castle Whitespire. I’ve never heard of anyone else coming this far. We could be the first human beings ever to set foot here.”
“Think of that,” said Quentin. “So do you want to . . . ?”
“What?”
“You know. Claim it. For Fillory.”
“Oh!” Eliot considered. “We haven’t been doing that. It seems a little imperialist. I’m not sure it’s in good taste.”
“But haven’t you always wanted to say it?”
“Well, yes,” Eliot said. “All right. We can always give it back.” He raised his voice, using the one he used to call meetings to order back at Castle Whitespire. “I, High King Eliot, hereby claim this island for the great and glorious Kingdom of Fillory! Henceforth it will be known as”—he paused—“as New Hawaii!”
Everybody nodded vaguely.
“New Hawaii?” Quentin said. “Really?”
“It’s not really tropical,” Poppy said. “The vegetation’s more temperate.”
“What about Farflung Island?” Quentin said. “Like as one word: Farflung.”
“Relief Island.” Poppy was getting into the spirit of it. “Whitesand Island. Greengrass Island!”
“Skull Island,” Josh said. “No wait, Spider-Skull Island!”
“Okay, the Island to Be Named Later,” Eliot said. “Come on. Let’s find out what’s on it before we name it.”
But by then the sun was low in the sky, so instead they pitched in bringing sticks and dry grass back from the meadow. With five trained magicians on hand, starting a fire wasn’t a problem. They could have made a fire with just sand. But it wouldn’t have smelled as good.
The hunting party came back flushed with pride, hauling two wild goats on their shoulders, and one of the foragers had spotted a patch of something very closely analogous to carrots growing wild at the edge of the woods, that seemed self-evidently safe to eat. They all sat in circles on the cooling sand, the cold sea air at their backs, the warmth of the fire on their faces, and savored the feeling of being on firm ground again, with enough space to stretch out their arms and legs and not touch anything or anybody. The beach was covered with footprints now, and as the sun got lower the light made monkey-puzzle shadow patterns on it. They were very far from home.
The setting sun moved behind a cloud, lighting it up from the inside like a pall of smoke, sunlight leaking out around the edges. Strange stars came swarming across the blackening sky. No one wanted to get back on the Muntjac, not yet, so when the light was all gone the travelers wrapped themselves up in blankets right there on the sand and fell asleep.
The next day everything seemed a little less urgent than it had when they first arrived. Yes, the realm was in peril, but was it in immediate peril? It was hard to imagine a place that felt less imperiled than the Island to Be Named Later. There was a touch of lotus land about it. And anyway adventure would find them when it was ready, or so the theory ran. You couldn’t rush it. You just had to keep the right state of mind. For now they would savor the anticipation, and stay well rested.
Even Julia wasn’t pushing.
“I was afraid we would not get back,” she said. “Now I am afraid of what will happen if we go forward.”
They hiked up to the top of the cliffs on one side of the bay and from there got a good look at more green island, with rocky hills heaped up in the interior. Birds roosted along the clifftops in bunches—they had dull gray feathers on their backs and wings, but they had a way of turning in the air in unison and suddenly showing you their rose-colored chests all at once. Quentin was going to name them rose-breasted swoopers, or something along those lines, when Poppy pointed out that they already had a name. They were galahs. They had them in Australia too.
The cook was a keen fisherman, and he pulled