by Will Taylor
“No one is leaving this island until I have a thorough and satisfactory explanation of what has been going on,” Antonia declared. “You will just have to wait while we throw a party.”
“I don’t know if Maggie and Abby really have time for that . . . ,” Joe said.
“Nonsense!” said Antonia. “There is always time for an efficient party. Things should be done properly. Dignity and tradition are the most important things, remember.”
“I like this lady!” Ben whispered to Murray.
“Now,” Antonia called, “does anyone here need to borrow a floaty?”
Joe and I had to explain the floaty situation to the others. Miesha frowned. “I don’t know if floaties are really going to help us with this one,” she said. “But, hey, do you all have a whiteboard? I think the main thing we need for this party is a whiteboard. A big one.”
Antonia looked to her daughter.
“I don’t think we have one of those,” said Helene, thinking. “But maybe . . . hmmm . . .”
Twenty minutes later Joe and I had changed back into our normal clothes and rejoined our friends and the crew in front of the great glass wall in the Island Underneath. The members of our group who hadn’t seen it before had settled down, and Ben had stopped his peacock screaming at all the whales and sea turtles and fish, and everyone listened as Helene explained the plan for the meeting. The finished ring of keys glinted at her belt, and she looked very happy.
“Remember, this is not a routine party,” she said, speaking to the crew gathered cross-legged on the floor. “A routine party involves singing and shouting and floating. And that won’t be helpful right now. What this party involves is pens.” She held up a bucket of dry-erase markers. “And respectful listening, and neat handwriting.”
“Woo! Handwriting!” shouted one of the crew, and the others cheered.
“Thank you,” said Helene. She passed the bucket around to the Council, Maggie, Joe, Antonia, and me. “Now let’s get started. Does everybody who’s presenting have a pen?”
Joe, Antonia, and I cheered. The others held up their markers and looked confused.
“Does everybody know what they’re going to tell us?”
We cheered again, with Maggie and Miesha catching on and joining in.
“And does everybody feel okay drawing charts and pictures and maps on the wall while they speak?”
Everyone cheered that time. The crew gave a round of applause.
“Then let’s begin!” said Helene.
And so we did.
At Antonia’s insistence, I went first, explaining what had happened to me after I disappeared with the ring of keys through the Deer Door. It took plenty of diagram drawing along the glass to explain the tangled path of loops and links I’d taken, but eventually Antonia nodded, and it was Miesha’s turn.
Maggie went after her, then Carolina, then Ben, then Murray, then Joe. Piece by piece we sorted out what had happened over the last few days, who had had which keys when, and how the two ridiculously complicated magic doorway systems that had made it all possible worked.
Helene was just rubbing her temples and suggesting it might be time for a tea break when something happened on the other side of the glass that made everyone in the room gasp, even the crew.
The golden sunset had been dancing down through the water for a while, but now it shifted ever so slightly, angling off the curve of the glass, sending little rainbows twirling through the air just as an entire pod of dolphins swam into sight on the other side of our charts and drawings.
“For real?” Miesha said, taking off her silver sunglasses to watch.
“Okay, deep breath,” Maggie said to her in a calm, soothing voice. “You are swimming through ancient seas. You are bathed in rainbows and sunlight. Everything is beautiful. The midnight blue deeps—”
Miesha threw her pen at her. Maggie grinned and threw it back.
“Hey,” I said. “That one dolphin looks different. Is that . . . ?”
“Florence!” said Helene. “She has her own sensor for when dolphins are near. She likes the chance to play.”
Outside the glass, Florence the mechanical dolphin—who turned out to look totally lifelike, apart from her glowing green eyes and black racing stripe—pranced and danced and swam with the visiting pod, all of them dappled in sunlight and rainbows.
It was hard to get the meeting back on track after that, but Antonia managed it. I was beginning to feel antsy. All this logistical talk and diagram drawing and loop-link analysis was interesting, but the Camp Cantaloupe clock was ticking.
There were still some big moments to get through, though. The first came when the crew voted unanimously to allow the Council to construct a pillow fort back to le Petit Salon, and eventually a whole new global Hub in the Island Underneath.
“We’ve got plenty of room,” Helene said, waving a hand at the rock wall. “And you won’t find a more secure location anywhere on the planet.”
“Oh, I disagree, dear,” said Antonia, who had been standing back, thoughtful and silent. “I can think of one place better.” She clapped her hands. “Everyone, I have an announcement to make. I have been thinking, and I have decided I am not going to live in the Palace anymore.”
The reaction to that statement from the crew and Helene was so loud, even the dolphins looked around in surprise.
“I’ve realized there’s no need anymore,” Antonia went on. “The final order of Captain Emily has been fulfilled by these children, who have gone back to Versailles and most definitely got everyone’s attention. And you, dear”—Antonia turned to her daughter—“you have the ring of keys, complete at last. Things are being pulled together that have been apart for a long time, and I’m not going to keep swimming against that tide. I will come below and live with you.”
Helene looked like she was caught between crying and laughing.
“But . . . but . . . what about Captain Emily’s other final wishes?” she said, finding her voice. “The order to look after the Palace? You’re not just going to abandon it after all this time, are you, Mama?”
“Of course not!” said Antonia. “The Palace will go to these children, and their international friends, for their new base. It is self-contained, with easy access to the beach, and plenty of space, not to mention plenty of pillow fort provisions. It should be ideal. If they are interested, that is?”
Miesha and the other Council members accepted so eagerly their sunglasses almost fell off.
“Understand, of course,” Antonia said, giving them a stern look, “that we are placing a great deal of trust in you. And in your ability to be responsible for your own behavior in this shared space, as well as the behavior of the members of your networks. And there will be conditions. You will have to keep the Palace clean, and change the flowers on Captain Emily’s portrait, and make the food for the chickens. Ariadne is very particular, you know.”
“What kind of food do you make for her?” asked Murray. Antonia described the necessary chicken feed. Miesha raised her eyebrows.
“Wait, you mean Cheerios?” she said. “Seriously, you have no idea how much we’ve got that covered.”
Antonia seemed a little skeptical, but with the whole Council plus Maggie and me agreeing with Miesha, she let the matter go.
“If I understand everything that I’ve heard,” Helene said, eyeing the mess of scribbles on the great glass wall again, “getting a new global Hub set up is going to be very complicated. It will have to be built and made secure. The other Continental networks will have to be successfully linked in. There will have to be a clear schedule, with rules and rotations and record keeping. It’ll be a big job. Is there anyone in your organization who’s up to it?”
Miesha, Abby, Carolina, Murray, and I all turned to look at Ben. His pink face went bright red. He smiled, suddenly looking a lot more like the ten-year-old he was.
“Excellent,” Antonia said. “And can you do all that and still perform your own duties as . . .” She con
sulted the bit of wall where Ben had printed out his titles. “As a Council member and network head?”
To my surprise, Ben paused, considering. “Before, I would have said yes,” he answered. “But with the west coast, things have been getting super stressful. There’s so much training that has to be done, and explaining the rules and systems to new kids over and over. You might not have noticed, but it’s been getting to me.” Maggie snorted. Ben looked around. “Please don’t be shocked, everyone, but I don’t think my network should control the west coast anymore.”
Everyone was shocked anyway. After all that time fighting and scheming to get it, after everything we went through last summer, Ben was willing to just let the west coast go?
“I want to do a good job on this island-coordinating position,” he explained as we all spluttered. “A really good job. And the west coast needs someone who can give it more attention than I can right now.”
Miesha recovered first. “Okay, fine,” she said. “Anyone object to Ben’s network going back to being just the Great Plains Sofa Circle?”
No one raised their hand.
“Motion passed. Next item: who should take over the west coast? There are already new forts that will need guidance and direction.” She looked to me and Maggie. “Any interest in restarting Camp Sofa Fort, you two?”
Maggie’s mouth fell open, her eyes shining, but I whapped her on the arm. She was my best friend in the whole world, but honestly, that was the last thing this summer needed.
“We’d love to,” I said. “But Maggie and I are going to be at Camp Cantaloupe for the next five weeks, and we can’t really restart a network from there. Plus we’re aging out soon when we turn thirteen. It’s not really worth getting super involved like that just for a few months, is it?”
Maggie shut her mouth with a snap, looking seriously disappointed. But she nodded. “Abby’s right. The west coast should have someone who’ll be around for a while to lead it.”
“Any ideas?” said Murray.
Maggie and I locked eyes.
“Kelly,” we said together.
“Isn’t she a little young?” asked Ben.
“Same age as you,” I pointed out.
“Perfect!” Miesha looked really pleased. “Done. So, if she wants, Kelly can join the Council as head of a fifth network representing the west coast. We’ll need to order another chair for the Council table. And she’ll have to get started designing an official banner.”
I caught Maggie’s eye again and grinned. There was a one hundred percent chance that banner would revolve around a picture of a cat floating through space.
With all the major party business checked off, the party broke up. Helene led the crew in the traditional closing sea chantey; while Joe went to fetch my supply pack from the Palace; Miesha and Murray built a temporary fort to le Petit Salon over a pair of armchairs; and the rest of us cleaned off the great glass wall.
“One thing we never did figure out,” said Carolina, watching me wipe away my brilliantly simple diagram of the links in the Montreal museum, “was that prophecy about the door in le Petit Salon.”
“Oh, yeah!” I said. “Hey, Mags, wasn’t that step seven? The prophecy dealy?”
Maggie looked over. “Totally! Whoever opens the door will be the chosen one who will uncover the secrets of the origins of linking—”
“—and bring about a new golden age for the world of pillow forts,” finished Ben.
“Right,” I said.
“So, did all that happen?”
“Seriously?” Ben said. He was turning bright pink again. He pointed at Maggie. “You used the Oak Key in its proper door.” He pointed at me. “And you discovered the secrets of the origins of the pillow forts and unlocked the door in le Petit Salon. After all this I cannot believe you fulfilled that prophecy between you and didn’t even know it!”
“So who’s the chosen one, then?” said Carolina. “Abby or Maggie?”
Everyone looked at each other, eyebrows raised, mouths quirked. No one spoke.
“Oh, come on,” said a passing member of the crew. I recognized my friend the T. rex. “I listened to every word the lot of you said, and the chosen one is obviously Samson.”
Soon the glass was clear, the negotiations and planning were put on hold for now, and we were all saying goodbye.
Joe was going back with Murray, whose network could get him close enough to his Alaska research station that he could make it the rest of the way himself. He gave me and Maggie big hugs outside the new fort.
“Don’t forget to send me postcards!” he called, still waving as he crawled out of sight. “I might have built a new Fort Orpheus in my cabin this year—just saying!”
Antonia and Helene didn’t ask for postcards, but they thanked Maggie and me over and over for the return of the Oak Key. I gave Antonia my worst curtsy ever in return, and she laughed and pulled me into a hug.
Finally, with one last wave to the crew and Ariadne, and one last look around the Island Underneath—for now—I slung my supply pack over my shoulders and followed my best friend in the whole world back through the links, to find out what had become of our camp.
Forty-One
Maggie
There was a happy surprise waiting for me in my art cabin fort at Camp Cantaloupe: my patchwork scarf, neatly folded on top of my gear pack.
“Hey, keep it moving,” called Abby as I scooped up the scarf and hugged it. I moved aside, crawling out into the cabin, and Abby followed.
The cabin was deserted, and, weirdly, it looked exactly the same as when I’d left.
“It’s so bizarre being back!” said Abby. “And, whoa . . .” She took in the easels and drizzle paintings chaos of Ms. Sabine’s art explosion. “What happened here?”
“Ms. Sabine got a little carried away last night,” I said. Had it seriously been only last night? “But I don’t get why it hasn’t been cleared up by now. What did they do for class?”
Abby picked her way over to the window. I saw her freeze.
“Um, Mags,” she said. “You might want to come see this.”
The whole camp was gathered on the field. All the kids were on one side, and the counselors and staff on the other, and in between was an army of search and rescue officers, their uniforms and badges visible from here. I spotted the barefoot drama teacher, spinning his whistle nervously while a strange man in a trench coat addressed the crowd through a megaphone.
“Do you think they’re talking about us being missing?” Abby asked.
“They have to be.” I checked the clock on the wall. “We’re definitely past the deadline for camp being shut down if you weren’t back.” I threw the patchwork scarf across both our necks. “Whatever happens, no matter how much trouble we’re in, we are not getting separated again, no matter what. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Abby, putting her shoulders back and wrapping her end of the scarf around her hand. We shared a solemn nod, then marched out of the cabin with our heads held high.
Outside we could hear what the man with the megaphone was saying.
“. . . important that you all feel safe in this extremely serious situation,” he said, his amplified voice all crackly. “We are doing everything possible to recover the missing . . . the missing . . .”
He stopped, staring, and there was a buzzing murmur, then a clamor, then a roar, as the sea of Cantaloupers spotted us striding toward them over the field.
Of all people, it was our cabin counselor who reached us first.
“Ohmygoodness, ohmygoodness,” she kept saying over and over, hugging us tight.
Kids were pressing forward, asking what happened, where we’d been. I heard the man in the trench coat shouting for order.
“But where did you come from?” our counselor asked, looking back toward the art cabin. “And where’s Charlene, and Director Haggis, and Ms. Sabine?”
“Huh?” Abby said. “Wait, are they missing too?”
“Oh, no,” I said, remember
ing. But before I could fill Abby in, there was another roar from the far side of the crowd, and everyone turned to look.
The megaphone crackled and hummed as Trench-Coat Man raised it to his mouth, took a deep breath, and completey lost track of what he was doing as . . .
. . . a moose cantered out of the woods.
It was a giant moose. A huge moose. A high-crowned moose of mammoth proportions, with the biggest antlers, the biggest eyes, and the biggest nostrils the world had ever seen.
And riding on its back was Charlene, in her pajamas and Safety Monitor sash. And behind her was Director Haggis, in his rumpled suit and mustache. And behind him was Ms. Sabine, in her crown and paper chain necklace.
The moose trotted right across the field, towering over the officers and the counselors and the man with the megaphone, and stopped, snuffling in a friendly sort of way, in front of me and Abby.
There’s no silence in the world quite like the silence of two hundred–plus campers and officers waiting for a girl on a moose to speak.
“You will not believe,” Charlene shouted, looking down at us with the world’s biggest smile, “where we have been!”
Later that night, after an unspeakably long day of dealing with too many grown-ups asking too many unanswerable questions, Abby and I found ourselves back in our bunks, staring up at the splintery wood ceiling of our cabin, together again at camp.
After the police and search teams and reporters had finally left, Ms. Sabine and Charlene had cornered me, gushing about all the fabulous new ideas their trip into the woods had given them for our art mentoring project. Abby seemed very impressed when I explained the situation. I got the feeling that of everything that had already happened this summer, me teaming up with Charlene Thieson to help homesick little kids might have been the biggest surprise.
Charlene was now the most popular person in the entire camp, and her triumphant entrance on the back of the moose was guaranteed to carve her a spot in Camp Cantaloupe legend forever. Everyone seemed to decide all the other disappearances must have been part of the same story—even Abby’s, since she and I returned just before Charlene—so we got to share some of the glory without having to answer too many more questions.
