IRA MATH­UR

Alake Pil­grim, a Trinida­di­an writer, burst on­to the lit­er­ary scene in 2022 when her chil­dren’s book, Zo and the For­est of Se­crets, was pub­lished by the British Book Awards Chil­dren’s Book Pub­lish­er of the Year, Knights Of Me­dia, to great ac­claim. The first of two in a se­ries (book two will be out in 2024), Zo was cho­sen for the World Book Day Book Club 2022 and short­list­ed for the 2022 Caribbean Bo­cas Lit Fest Chil­dren’s Book Prize. The au­dio­book is nar­rat­ed by Janique Charles, the T&T ac­tress and singer who plays Nala in The Li­on King Lon­don.

Zo and the For­est of Se­cret, says Pil­grim, is “a fan­ta­sy ad­ven­ture with fu­tur­is­tic twists, set on the north­east coast of Trinidad. In it, two chil­dren, Zo Joseph and Adri Khan, find them­selves on the run from strange crea­tures and dan­ger­ous adults who are af­ter them and their gifts.”

Pil­grim’s writ­ing jour­ney feels as fan­tas­ti­cal as her award-win­ning book.

“My child was born with a life-threat­en­ing ill­ness that doc­tors said could be on­ly re­solved by an even­tu­al trans­plant. In­stead, he was mirac­u­lous­ly healed, and the Bible sto­ries I’d read as a child sud­den­ly be­came very per­son­al and re­al. I was in­spired to write a fic­tion­al fan­ta­sy ad­ven­ture full of fear, beau­ty, and won­der.”

Pil­grim al­so feels “blessed to win prizes over the years and re­ceive sup­port from men­tors, work­shops, and fes­ti­vals.”

Ex­cerpt:

Zo and the For­est of Se­cret

Chap­ter Six­teen: SWING

I woke up with a throb­bing pain at the back of my neck, sur­round­ed by a hor­ri­ble smell.

“No…” I groaned, won­der­ing why my body felt so bent out of shape.

I opened my eyes to find my­self star­ing at my chest and stom­ach. My legs were up­side down, falling over my face. I was ly­ing on my up­per back with my neck cricked for­ward, my body form­ing an up­side-down, lop­sided ‘U’. As I tried to right my­self, the smell hit me again like a slap in the face. I broke out in a cold sweat.

I would know that smell any­where. It was the rank, mouldy odour of the Flesh-skin­ner. I be­gan to twist and turn as qui­et­ly as I could, try­ing to get in­to an up­right po­si­tion. In­stead, I found my­self pressed against some sort of wo­ven mesh. A wave of ver­ti­go hit me. I wasn’t on sol­id ground. I was swing­ing gen­tly from side to side, hang­ing in a net. As I tried to right my­self, the sway­ing grew more in­tense. I breathed heav­i­ly, on the verge of throw­ing up, trapped like a fish on a line.

“Care­ful.”

A wave of re­lief hit me. It was Adri’s voice, speak­ing bare­ly above a whis­per.

“Try bend­ing your right leg more, then the left. Okay, reach your hands up be­hind you and grab hold of the net. Now, try pulling your­self up.”

I fol­lowed his in­struc­tions and end­ed up half-crouched, half-seat­ed, but fi­nal­ly, thank­ful­ly, up­right. My hands were grip­ping a hang­ing net of dried and wo­ven vine, like the nests that corn­birds hung from trees. The gap in the weave was nar­row­er than my arm, but wide enough for me to see through. There, to my left, was Adri, trapped in a net of his own. We were dan­gling be­tween the rocky walls of what seemed like a deep well.

“Adri, the beast, it’s…” I was on the verge of tears. The smell was all around me, chok­ing me.

“Shhh,” he whis­pered, point­ing down­wards.

I looked down slow­ly. Be­neath us was a pit full of dark­ness and foul smells. At its base, I could see the Flesh-skin­ner, lit by a few stand­ing torch­es, sur­round­ed by a pile of cracked bones.

Its white skin was slick with phos­pho­res­cent slime, its huge head and jaws rest­ing on its front feet. Its mis­shapen body ex­pand­ed and con­tract­ed with each breath. It was sound asleep.

I fought the urge to vom­it. My head reeled as the cave spun around me.

“Zo,” I could bare­ly hear Adri’s whis­pers, but they were as calm­ing as the sound of the surf in Samaan Bay, the place I’d re­fused to call home.

What I wouldn’t give to be back there now.

“You trust me?” Adri asked.

The room right­ed it­self slow­ly. I drew a hand across my face. It came back streaked with tears and dirt. Sit­ting in his gen­tly sway­ing net, Adri pulled a small sharp knife out of his shoe.

“From the kitchen,” he smiled.

End of Ex­cerpt.

Alake Pil­grim has an MA in Cre­ative Writ­ing from the Uni­ver­si­ty of East An­glia in the UK, sup­port for which she cred­its Book­er Prize Foun­da­tion Schol­ar­ship.

Ira Math­ur is a Guardian colum­nist and the win­ner of the non-fic­tion OCM Bo­cas Prize for Lit­er­a­ture 2023.