We Who Hunt the Hollow, page 24
My new future is beginning to unfold right in front of me, and it’s something like the one I’d once dreamed of.
I know I am capable of handling it. I’m facing up to who I’m meant to be.
Geema taps the treadmill arm. ‘So. Have Christmas here. Have your birthday, and take your oath. Before the season changes, we need you in New Europe. We have to stop the Renegades before they can bring down the chaos they plan.’ She pauses, looking at me with her ash-grey eyes. ‘You will be the reason he fails, child.’
I nod at my grandmother. ‘Okay, Geema. I’m in.’
She winks at me again – we both know there was no decision to be made – and leaves me alone. I stab the buttons, bringing the treadmill back up to speed, and start running again. I’m still grinning. The Priscilla in the mirror is smiling once more.
Later, after we have dinner, my grandmother returns to New Europe. Next time I see her, I will be there too.
A few days after that, Cheryl flies out to the west coast, not even trying to pretend she isn’t nervous about it.
Builders come in to repair the attic roof. Mama and Lydia return to work with Bosco, Rosco and Rosie. Didi and Fergus spend every day in the command centre, pulling together plans for their new base, ordering materials, shortlisting potential locations, interviewing warriors on video calls to join their staff.
And I get going on my schoolwork, starting by completing the manticore scenario properly: using a blaster gun to take down every last one of those toothy suckers which technically aren’t supposed to leak through in packs.
I complete it in record time.
Mouse would’ve been so proud of me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Christmas is one of the quietest ones we’ve ever had, with only myself, Didi and Fergus at home with my mothers and the imps.
I didn’t have time to get a Christmas tree. I was too busy obeying my grandmother by kicking ass in my schoolwork. But when I wake up early on that festive morning, my subconscious has figured out what to do: use the giant googly-eyed cactus instead. Didi helps me decorate it with tinsel and fairy lights, the two of us still in our pyjamas, and we poke a star in the top. The cactus sparkles in the corner of the living room where we gather after lunch, its enormous eyes staring back at us, cheerful and blank. It’s definitely the weirdest Christmas tree we’ve ever had. The imps adore it. And I’m happy it’s not going to biodegrade on me too.
Tiny yellow crystals of ice rattle against the living room windows, the glass misted from the warmth inside. Carols burble from the apartment speakers, Mama humming along as she pours glasses of bubbly. Her taste in festive music is much better than her usual angsty pop-rock. Her black braid, woven with ribbons, swings over her shoulder as she hands the glasses out. She gives Lydia a nudge with her foot, and my other mother jumps with a snort, pushing up the silly paper crown that had slipped over her eyes.
‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ she claims, accepting her bubbly before sliding back onto the couch, her eyes falling shut.
Fergus, sitting next to her, rescues the glass before it falls out of Lydia’s hands. He raises it in a silent toast to Mama and takes a sip. Didi’s Rat is curled up on his shoulder, pressed against his slightly greenish neck. Didi is tucked into his other side, her black hair pinned back with a candy-cane-shaped clip – there’s a matching one in my own hair, a present she gleefully unveiled to me earlier. The hairclip has googly eyes glued to it. Actually, it’s kind of cute. I have a feeling the new base in Aotearoa is going to be full of googly-eyed accoutrements.
I’m glad Didi is going there. It’s the leadership role she’s cut out for.
And once, I might have envied her for it, or thought of it in terms of what I’m not cut out for. But that’s not what I want.
Didi and I might look similar, and like the same things, but we are not supposed to have similar futures. We’re not in competition, and I’m no dark mirror of her. We’ve got separate paths to walk.
Finally I’m appreciating that the differences between us are not examples of what I lack. She’s going to head up a new base in Aotearoa, and I will be going to New Europe to find my own future.
Four weeks later, I wake up on a rainy Tuesday morning with warm, fuzzy sheets wrapped around me. I don’t feel any older, but today is my birthday. I am eighteen, and I am ready. For the last few weeks I’ve been studying like mad, cramming hard to complete all the necessary scenarios, assignments and paperwork for my second oath. Despite how hard I worked to avoid this not that long ago, I’ve managed it. Like the rest of my sisters, I will be taking the oath of service on the same day I turn eighteen, the very first day we can.
My handset rumbles on the bedside table, and Fox snorts from her brand-new bed on the floor beside mine. Whassat?
‘Nothing,’ I murmur. ‘Go back to sleep.’
I hear the creak of a yawn. Okay, boss. Happy birthday, by the way.
‘Thanks.’ A new message icon blinks on my handset. It’s from Onyeka. I flip it open.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVELY. Good luck today! Thinking of you xx
I smile, and send her a thank you, and pop the handset back.
I’ll get to see her soon. Really soon.
I wrap myself in my dressing gown and go downstairs with Fox at my slippered heels. Today we’re going to have my favourite breakfast, which means I have a mountain of croissants to slice and stuff with ham and brie. Everything is stacked and waiting in the rebuilt pantry and repaired fridge.
Except the aroma of already-toasted pastry greets me when I get to the kitchen. Lydia’s there, trussed up in my pink apron with oven mitts like boxing gloves on her hands. She opens the oven to slide out a tray of croissants, the pastry brown and flaky over ham and gooey brie. This is my no-nonsense mother’s way of expressing her love – making breakfast so I don’t have to. I smile as she kisses me on the forehead.
‘Happy birthday, honey.’
‘Thank you, Lydia.’
We’re already digging in as Mama comes into the kitchen.
‘Good morning, wife,’ she says, kissing Lydia. Then she loops an arm around me, nudging her nose against my hair. ‘Good morning, my birthday baby.’
She takes the other seat beside me. ‘Croissants, of course. Wasn’t it only yesterday you were my angry little poppet who refused to eat anything except bananas? You used to scream the house down till we gave you one.’
‘Thank goodness you got over that phase,’ Lydia grins, licking flakes of pastry off a finger. ‘I swear for a while you were fifty per cent toddler, fifty per cent banana.’
While we eat, they reminisce. Mama talks about being pregnant with me, and how I bawled all night long as a baby. How they moved house when I was tiny, and they were too lazy – with their fourth daughter – to babyproof properly, until I fell down the stairs and cut my eyebrow, a scar I still bear. Lydia laughs as she remembers how I bossed everyone around – my mothers, my older sisters, the imps – and everybody was fine with that because I was the littlest.
They’re so fond, and proud, and I bask in it like sunshine for the soul.
The imps, Didi and Fergus join us, and after breakfast we leave all the dirty plates and mugs for later and head up to the living room. Me and my two mothers, the youngest of my older sisters and her half hell-beast boyfriend, all our familiars, and the imps. It’s a small one for the Daalmans. In the rush to get me to this moment, we haven’t organised a complete family celebration. Well. We probably need another six or so years to recover from the last one.
There’s no need to move furniture around, to form a circle. No Hollow energy will be transforming anyone today. The second oath is not a ritual like the first, but more a formal ceremony. The one that marks the completion of our schoolwork, and the beginning of our role as an active trainee.
Mama, Lydia and Didi stand in a row with their backs to the rain-laced windows. I face them, putting my shoulders back, linking my fingers together. Our familiars wait beside us, while Fergus and the imps sit to the side.
Anticipation and nerves simmer in my belly, but I am not afraid. I feared this for so long – too long. Now I’m standing here in this moment, prepared to go forth into a future unwritten, uncertain, but with the courage to meet it. I’ve worked for this. I want this. I deserve this.
Three amazing warriors stand before me, and now I get to join them. My mother Lydia, with the chestnut hair she gave to Jet and Cheryl. My Mama, with the black hair she gave to me and Didi. My sister Didi, my mirror.
Mama is carrying the handbook – the Master Handbook, the first to be written for the United Warrior Families guild. Holding it before her, she opens the heavy cover to the first page, the thick cream paper covered in a list of names written with stark black ink: the names of the original Hollow Warriors who formed the guild. They were forged in the Fires. I have been forged by the generations of knowledge that followed. Among those names are three in particular: Josie Daalman, Margot Daalman and, beside her sisters, Alora Daalman. Alora, whose ring I now wear, the gold warm on my skin, the emerald and pearls glinting in the light.
‘Place your hand upon the book,’ Mama instructs.
I lay my palm on the paper, connecting myself to the original warriors. My pledge is to them, to the guild, to my family, to myself.
‘Tell us the words,’ Lydia says.
I take in and let out a deep breath, and say the oath. I have practised these words so much, they are seared in my brain. ‘My name is Priscilla Daalman, and today I give myself wholly to the United Warrior Families guild. I know the power vested in me, and I swear to always wield it faithfully. I have passed my studies, and I swear to always recall them. I have learned our laws, and I swear to always obey them. I promise to always uphold the ideals of the guild. I promise to protect humanity against all that threatens us. We are those who hunt the Hollow. We are those who will not fold. We will protect our world until the end of time.’
‘We are those who hunt the Hollow. So we witness,’ my family murmurs.
I lift my hand from the page, a tingle in my fingers as if the spirit of my great-great-grandmother has seen and acknowledged me too.
Mama closes the book. ‘Join us,’ she whispers to me, and smiles. She and the others gracefully make a space for me as I step towards them. I turn around and take my place beside the warriors of my family, their arms threading around me, pulling me close. We all face the same direction.
Fox cheers in my mind, tongue lolling, grinning at me, and I grin right back.
I am Priscilla Daalman, Hollow Warrior.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
When I first started writing this story, I could only dream where it might end up. From the moment the idea came to me, I was in love with it, and I continued to be through every iteration. To think it is now this very book still feels unreal! Lots of folks helped me on the journey in getting it to this point, and I want to give a big shout-out to them all for being so awesome.
To all my friends and family, teachers and mentors – thank you for your overwhelming encouragement and support and cheerleading over the years. I am sure some of you didn’t think it’d take me this long, but it turns out it’s really hard to write whole actual books.
To my crack team of beta readers: Mum, Liv, Jenny, Tara, Damon, Cara, Lisa and Tessa – thank you for your time, your thoughts and your enthusiasm!
To Ms Victoria and Tina, Suri, Katy, Sophia and Laura – thank you for being my first readers, for drawing my first fan art, and for showing me I was on the right path. You made my day/week/month/year!
To my critique partners: Ren Hutchings (and Michael!), Claire Winn, Jacy Pietsch and Ashleigh Shears – thank you for everything you did to help shape this book, all the way from that very first VERY MESSY little draft. It wouldn’t be the story it is today without you.
To Helen – thank you for the comradeship, and for doing all the publishing things first so you could tell me about them.
To Alex Adsett – thank you for your skills in negotiating and signing Very Important Things.
To the amazing team at Hardie Grant Children’s Publishing: Marisa, Luna, Ella, Jane, Lauren, Penelope, Joanna, Kerry and everyone else I have not yet met – thank you for making my dream come true, for plucking my story out of the pile and turning it into this book, for your super-stealth deliveries, incredible support, keen eyes and encouragement. I am so lucky.
To the extremely talented Jess Cruickshank – thank you for the stunning cover (stunning!) And thank you to the Readings Teen Advisory Board for your help choosing it.
Special thank yous go out to my family, who’ve always known me to be a writer: my sister Tessa (who I never locked in a closet), my brother Chris (who may have been swallowed by a folding deckchair), my parents Pete and Yvonne (who raised me with All The Books), and to my grandparents Norman and Esmé, Bram and Jean (who I wish could have held this).
To my boys: Chris, Jamie and Rory – thank you for supporting my passion, for your quiet, but also for your noise. I love you.
And to all the readers out there – thank you for coming along on Priscilla’s journey. You’re the best.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kate Murray is a New Zealander living in Melbourne with her family, an alarming amount of Lego, and an ordinary number of books. She’s a fan of coffee, sunshine, sci-fi and fantasy, lip balm, cute earrings, and reading. Ever since she could hold a pencil, she’s been making up stories (which have come a long way since the first one: ‘I like cats.’) We Who Hunt the Hollow was shortlisted for the Ampersand Prize, and is her debut novel.
Kate Murray’s novel, We Who Hunt the Hollow, was shortlisted for the Ampersand Prize, Australia and New Zealand’s premier award for debut authors of middle-grade and young adult fiction.
Read more extraordinary debut novels from the Ampersand Prize:
Tim Te Maro and the Subterranean Heartsick Blues by H.S. Valley
A wildly original and joyously funny queer rom-com set in a magical boarding school.
Ottilie Colter and the Narroway Hunt by Rhiannon Williams
In this gripping fantasy adventure, a young girl pretends to be a boy to rescue her brother from a secret order of monster hunters.
In the Dark Spaces by Cally Black
A genre-smashing kidnapping drama about a stowaway, who’s faced with an impossible choice when she falls for her captors.
For more information, including how to submit your manuscript, visit: go.hardiegrant.com/ampersandprize
We Who Hunt the Hollow
first published in 2022 by
Hardie Grant Children’s Publishing
Wurundjeri Country
Ground Floor, Building 1, 658 Church Street
Richmond, Victoria 3121, Australia
www.hardiegrantchildrenspublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers and copyright holders.
eISBN 9781743588086
Text copyright © 2022 Kate Murray
Cover design © 2022 Hardie Grant Children’s Publishing
Cover design by Jess Cruickshank
Hardie Grant acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the country on which we work, the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation and the Gadigal people of the Eora nation, and recognises their continuing connection to the land, waters and culture. We pay our respects to their Elders past and present.
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Kate Murray, We Who Hunt the Hollow
