The Falcon's Feather

by Trudi Trueit

  Cruz looked at Emmett, who shrugged.

  “Put these on.” She handed each of them a pair of safety goggles before sliding down her own pair. She punched a code into a gray box on one of the shelves, then put her eye up to the screen for an iris scan. The door of the box opened and Fanchon brought out a black ball about the size of a jumbo jawbreaker. Several hollow blue circles covered the ball like mini doughnuts. Holding it up, Fanchon smiled. “This is an octopod. Say you need to make a quick getaway from an attacker. One press and the octopod releases a spray that paralyzes the central nervous system of your assailant. Pssst!”

  Cruz and Emmett both took a large step back.

  “Relax, I didn’t really spray it. Besides, it’s temporary.”

  “What’s in it?” queried Cruz.

  “It’s a proprietary blend of plants and minerals, along with a single drop of venom from the blue-ringed octopus.”

  “The blue-ringed? I’ve read about that one!” exclaimed Emmett, backing up even farther. “It’s this cute little octopus that’s found in Australia and is also one of the world’s most venomous animals. Its rings start to glow just before it bites.”

  “You are correct,” said Fanchon. “Its bite can barely be felt by humans, but the tetrodotoxin it releases into the bloodstream will paralyze your diaphragm so you can’t breathe without a ventilator. For those who survive, the toxin wears off in about fifteen hours. To date, there is no antidote. My octopod, however, is much safer. The paralytic wears off in fifteen minutes. And there are no lasting side effects—at least, none that I’ve found.” She held the ball out to Cruz. “This one’s for you.”

  He was shocked. “Me?”

  “I thought it might come in handy, given recent events.” She arched an eyebrow, making Cruz wonder if she knew the reason why Tripp and Wardicorn had tried to hurt them. “Plus, it’s based on your mother’s research.”

  That got Cruz’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I’ve read everything she’s ever written. This was one of her ideas that she never got to develop. We didn’t have the technology to do it nine years ago.” She smiled. “But we do now.”

  Cruz bent for a closer look.

  “See the tiny yellow beak? That’s the sprayer.” Fanchon gently placed the orb in his hand. “Aim the beak toward your attacker, put your thumb in the middle of the blue ring on the side, and hold it down. The rings will glow five seconds, then send out a two-second burst of the spray, which is all you’ll need—believe me. This one is just for you, so please keep it in your pocket. And don’t tell the other explorers or they’ll all want one. I’m not sure Dugan is quite ready for this particular gadget.”

  “O-okay, if you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Thanks, Fanchon.” Cruz carefully put the ball into an outer pocket, and as he did, his fingertips slid across something else. And in that split second, he had an idea. “Fanchon, I have something for you, too.”

  “You do? For me?”

  “For her?” Emmett was puzzled.

  “Hold out your hand.” When she did, Cruz dropped his gift into her palm.

  Fanchon stared at the glowing purple time capsule. She knew what it was, of course, because it was her invention. But she had no idea what memory it contained.

  “Just watch it,” begged Cruz. “And after you do, if you still want to give up on the UCC, well, we’ll understand.”

  Emmett was nodding and grinning.

  Giving them a skeptical look, the tech lab chief closed her eyes. And her fist. For the next few minutes, the two explorers watched as she saw Operation Cetacean Extrication through Cruz’s eyes. She started moving her arms, as if swimming with Team Cousteau, which made Emmett and Cruz laugh.

  “Oh!” she cried, her head tipping down toward her hip, and Cruz knew that was the moment the calf had bumped him. After that, there was a string of “aahs” and “wows!” and “oohs,” and it became clear to both explorers well before she opened her eyes that Cruz had succeeded in his mission.

  The UCC wasn’t going to be mothballed after all.

  Dr. Fanchon Quills, chief of scientific technology and innovation, had changed her mind.

  PRESCOTT broke the bad news quickly.

  “Slipped through our fingers?” barked Brume. “Again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Did you hear from Wallaby and Mongoose?”

  “Right now, Wallaby is in hiding and Mongoose is…dead. Fell into a crevasse.”

  “I expected better, Cobra.”

  “Lion, I’m…I know.” Prescott couldn’t tell his boss he was sorry. He didn’t know why but he couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

  In response, he heard only the crackle of fire from the other end. For this call, Brume had pointed his phone at a roaring fire inside an ornately carved cherrywood fireplace. On the front of the mantel, a curly-headed boy angel peered out at Prescott from between scrolls of fig leaves. Prescott felt weird, staring into the flames. It was like looking at one of those yule log videos that show up on television around Christmas so everyone who doesn’t have a fireplace can pretend they do.

  “So far, we know the kid has the journal,” continued Prescott, “along with two of the eight pieces of a stone cipher his mother made. We’re fairly certain she engraved the formula onto the stone, though it could also be some kind of code or map. We…uh…don’t know for certain.”

  “Enough with the guesswork. We’ll get Jaguar on it.”

  “Very good. Uh…about that, Lion. How do I reach Jaguar?”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  Lowering his eyes, Prescott nodded. Brume didn’t trust him. Or was losing faith in him. Or both.

  “I think we’ve done enough chasing,” said Brume. “It’s time to make him come to us.”

  “You mean…?”

  “We knew it might come to this. You are still in position?”

  “Well…yes.” Rising, Prescott went toward the surfboard leaning against the wall next to the front door. The board was ice blue, painted with bold strokes of blue and green to look like crashing waves. He had thought the colors were too bright, but Marco had said it suited him. Prescott had thought he would hate surfing, but Marco had insisted that once he relaxed and let his body find its rhythm on the ocean, he would come to love it. Marco was right on both counts.

  “The kid has the cipher and soon we’ll have something he’ll want,” said Brume. “Then we’ll all have ourselves a nice little trade. Or not.”

  Brume’s fire popped. Prescott flinched. His boss wasn’t an even-trade kind of guy. With Hezekiah Brume, it was all or nothing.

  “I’ll send Komodo and Scorpion,” Brume was saying. “That should give you plenty of muscle. Please tell me you can handle this, Cobra.”

  Prescott ran his finger along the smooth, curved edge of his surfboard. “You can count on me, sir.”

  PADDLING his board into the turquoise waters of the cove, Cruz watched a wave rise behind Bryndis. As it rolled under her, she hopped up onto her surfboard and stretched out her arms. Aiming her board into the curl, she swiveled left, then right, then left again. White teeth flashed him a grin as she cruised past, riding the swell until it petered out. Bryndis was an excellent surfer! She made it look so easy. The good ones always did.

  Cruz wasn’t at all confident he could match her skills. Surfing in Iceland wasn’t anything like in Hawaii. For one thing, the water temperature in Iceland in October was more than 20 degrees colder than the water temp in Hanalei Bay in the middle of winter! This meant that here it was vital for a surfer to cover up from head to toe. By the time Cruz put on his neoprene wet suit, hood, gloves, and surf booties, he’d added a few pounds to his weight. He felt like an uncoordinated seal. Also, unlike back home, there was no soft sandy beach leading to a gentle surf. Nope.
Here, they’d had to pick their way through the giant boulders of a rocky peninsula, then jump straight into a crashing sea. Cruz was pretty sure he’d already swallowed a bathtubful of water trying to make it past the first break.

  Yet all those challenges were forgotten once Cruz felt the familiar surge beneath his board. Springing upward, he firmly planted his feet and, after a few minor bobbles, somehow found his balance. Now set, Cruz swiveled in a snakelike pattern, skimming the surface of the crest as it pushed toward the shore. He couldn’t help letting out a small “whoop!” He did not want to do a major wipeout in front of Bryndis, as well as Emmett and Sailor, who were intently watching from the rocks. Only as the wave began to smooth out did Cruz dare to gaze up at the vast stretch of snow-covered anvil mountains surrounding the cove. He couldn’t wait to tell Lani what it was like to surf in Iceland—if he ever got ahold of her.

  Cruz had tried to call her last night with Sailor, Emmett, and Bryndis, as they’d planned, but she hadn’t answered. It had been Saturday afternoon back in Kauai. She’d probably gone horseback riding with that Haych guy again. Cruz had seriously considered opening his mother’s journal for the third clue without her. He should have, too. It would have served her right for blowing him off. Okay, he had never seriously considered it, but Lani could have at least texted him yesterday. Or today. When he did reach her he was going to be plenty mad. Okay, he’d be a little mad. After all, it was Lani’s protective sleeve that had saved the journal from Tripp. He hoped. Cruz was still a bit nervous that the holographic book wouldn’t open for him.

  Cruz and Bryndis surfed for another half hour before Emmett waved them in. Cruz didn’t blame Emmett for wanting to go home to Orion. It had to be cold sitting there on the rocks. Emmett and Sailor had wanted to surf, too, but Bryndis hadn’t recommended it. Now, after wrestling with the awkward suit, unpredictable waves, and wild crosswinds, Cruz understood why she’d discouraged the pair. This was no place for a beginner.

  Dropping onto his belly, Cruz began stroking his board toward shore. It was their last day before the ship sailed. He hadn’t expected to surf again until he went home for a visit, so this was a perfect way to end his time in Iceland. Orion was leaving port tomorrow. Cruz was going to miss the land of fire and ice, but he was ready to search for the next piece of his mother’s cipher. As he neared the rocks, Cruz stood, picked up his surfboard, and followed Bryndis out of the water. Navigating carefully through the wet boulders toward his friends, he saw that Emmett was on the phone. Sailor handed them each a towel. “It’s Lani,” she said.

  “Finally!” Cruz wiped his face and took the phone Emmett was holding out to him. “Lani, where have you—”

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day…” She was breathless.

  “You’ve been trying to reach me?” He laughed. “We’ve been surfing. You should see the waves here, Lani—”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Uh-huh.” His dad must have told her about the cave-in.

  “And your dad? Is he on his way to see you?”

  “My dad? Coming to Iceland? No.”

  “So you haven’t heard from him?”

  “I talked to him yesterday, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But not since?”

  “No. What’s with the third degree?”

  “Your dad…he’s…well, he’s missing.”

  Cruz froze. “Missing?”

  “I stopped by the Goofy Foot after my piano lesson yesterday and he wasn’t there.”

  “He probably went to the beach or for a hike—”

  “Without locking up the store? Or telling Tiko?”

  A pang of fear sliced through him. His dad had left the shop open? And his assistant manager, who was also Lani’s brother, had no idea where he was? “No, he would never have done that,” said Cruz.

  “Mom and I thought maybe you had an emergency.”

  “Not me. Maybe someone else did? One of my cousins or a friend?”

  “I bet that’s it,” Lani said, but Cruz could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  “Let’s hang up. I’ll call him right now,” said Cruz.

  “Okay. If you find out anything, text me.”

  “You do the same.”

  “I will. Don’t worry, Cruz. I’m sure he’ll turn up. He’s probably helping out a friend or one of your relatives, like you said.”

  “Yeah,” said Cruz, though his stomach was churning. “Talk later. Bye.”

  He tried to call his father, but Cruz was so upset, he couldn’t get his cold fingers to work. Bryndis had to dial for him. When his dad didn’t pick up, Cruz called Aunt Marisol.

  “Come back to the ship,” she instructed. “I’ll look into things from here.”

  For the next six hours, Cruz dialed his dad’s number every 20 minutes, 18 times in all—and 18 times his call went to voice mail. He texted dozens of messages, too. All went unanswered. Aunt Marisol got in contact with their relatives, friends, and former Goofy Foot employees, but nobody had seen or heard from Cruz’s dad in more than 24 hours. She even called the local police and hospital in Kauai, but there had been no car or boat accidents, drownings, or unidentified injury victims. It was as if Marco Coronado had simply vanished from the face of the Earth.

  Early the next morning, Orion sailed from Reykjavík harbor. Cruz stood on the deck of his veranda as the ship left the fishing boats and colorful roofs and tabletop mountains behind. Spinning Nóri’s gyrfalcon feather between his thumb and index finger, he wondered: Was Nebula behind his dad’s disappearance? Or was it something else? Could his dad have taken a wrong turn on a hike? Maybe he’d lost his footing on a trail, slid down a hill, and was stuck on an outcrop waiting to be rescued? So many possibilities. None of them good.

  Cruz leaned over the rail, keeping land in sight as long as he could. He straightened only when the island of Iceland was merely a dark outline against a periwinkle sky. Cruz turned toward the horizon. He saw nothing in front of him but the white-tipped waves of a cold gray ocean.

  Cruz let the falcon’s feather go. He watched it swirl on the north wind, curling this way and that, before touching down on the dark sea.

  “Dad,” he whispered, “where are you?”

  THE TRUTH BEHIND THE FICTION

  Imagine swimming alongside a pod of right whales to capture a photograph, piloting a submersible to the depths of the ocean to discover new bioluminescent species, or trekking to Iceland to measure glaciers. These are some of the adventures undertaken by the real explorers of National Geographic, whose commitment to protecting the planet served as inspiration for this book.

  ERIKA BERGMAN

  Cruz’s adventures aboard Ridley might not have turned out as expected, but Erika Bergman, a deep-sea submersible pilot, knows the thrill Cruz must have felt when he took his first step into the tiny submarine. “Every single dive—it doesn’t matter if you’ve been to the spot a hundred times—is completely different. There are so many things that we don’t know about the ocean. Every single time you dive you see something new and unexpected.”

  -

  BRIAN SKERRY

  Underwater photographer and explorer Brian Skerry knows a thing or two about getting up close with whales. In fact, in the photo illustration on this page, Cruz’s figure was drawn in place of Skerry’s in a real-life photo! While marine scientists aren’t able to “speak whale” yet, they are unlocking some of the mysteries of cetacean language. They have discovered that the moans, grunts, knocks, chirps, and whistles of the North Atlantic right whale and other baleen whales may travel for hundreds of miles underwater. Researchers believe these social creatures use sound to identify one another, find food, and communicate. Different pods have even been found to have unique dialects! Scientists are also using such sounds to help save this endangered species. In the crowded shipping lanes of Massachusetts
Bay, a chain of smart buoys listens for right whales 24/7. When the network picks up the call of a right whale, it alerts the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, which then relays the information to ships in the area so they can slow down and watch for whales.

  -

  DINO MARTINS

  The Svalbard seed vault where Cruz discovers the feather in the seed packet that his mother left for him is a very real place. Located deep inside a mountain halfway between Norway and the North Pole, the structure is built to withstand natural disasters and catastrophic events. Inside the facility is the largest collection of crop diversity in the world—a safety net to avoid the extinction of global plant and food sources. Explorer Dino Martins may never have been to the seed vault itself, but he understands the delicate balance between ecosystem and biodiversity, and how much care it takes to make sure everything remains in balance so our crops can thrive. Martins’s main focus is conservation of pollinators—bees (the real-life Mells!) and other insects that are responsible for ensuring a lasting future for our plant species.

  M JACKSON

  The future, however, may not be as bright for our planet’s glaciers. Glaciers are more than massive chunks of ice. They are a vital part of our environment, providing water, creating local weather, building landscapes, and revealing important clues about our changing climate. National Geographic explorer M Jackson has spent years studying the effects of climate change on glaciers in Iceland and around the world. She believes glaciers mean much more to humanity beyond their direct effects: “They have been witnessed, recorded, and represented by countless human beings throughout time. My research finds that glaciers inspire, hold memory, directly connect cultures to landscapes, provide spiritual fulfillment, and link people to greater forces at plan across the planet.” Langjökull glacier, one of the settings in this book, is the second largest glacier in Iceland. Geoscientists have found that Langjökull is retreating, or getting smaller, due to rising global temperatures. Statistics show that if things continue at their present rate, Langjökull and most of Iceland’s more than 250 glaciers will be completely gone in less than two centuries.