A Tear in the Ocean

by H. M. Bouwman

  And it wasn’t as if following the dolphin would take her farther away from her goal: they’d be heading west, not north. It would be just a detour, before Rayel had to make the decision she felt tugging at her stronger and stronger: to go south. With her gift for cold, she knew south was where she belonged.

  She pulled anchor and trimmed the sails and headed west, following the dolphin, who shot ahead and then came back, urging her forward over and over throughout the day. Finally Rayel saw, ahead on the horizon, what the dolphin had been pointing her toward.

  An island.

  It was big—far bigger than one person needed. When she entered the bay, she realized what might be attracting the dolphin: the water in the bay was warmer, by quite a bit, than the rest of the ocean. Maybe there was a warm spring feeding into it from the island. Warm water didn’t matter to Rayel, but to the dolphin it would feel heavenly. Here was somewhere they could both spend the winter—before Rayel headed south again.

  And maybe in the spring, the weather would turn warm enough for Nunu to head south with her.

  Maybe.

  Rayel didn’t want to think about what might happen—that at some point she might get so far south and cold that Nunu wouldn’t be able to come with her even in summer, that at some point Rayel might have to choose between south and her friend.

  * * *

  • • •

  THEY SPENT THE NIGHT in the water of the bay, the dolphin warm but uneasy. Rayel wasn’t sure why, but she felt uneasy, too. The shore around the bay looked forbidding, with trees crowding the beach and leaning toward her like accusers. The narrow beach was empty and the bay silent except for the light splashing of waves on the sand. The next day, Nunu swam around the island, checking it out, while Rayel dove and swam in the bay. However eerie the island might be, the seaweed here was thick and healthy, and there were lots of fish. She might not even need to go ashore for food.

  She found herself glancing often at the shore. Once in a while, she’d hear a birdcall, but never a call she recognized. Other than that, silence. Like the island was waiting. She had the creepy sensation that something—or someone—was watching her. But each time she looked, no one was there.

  Late in the afternoon, Nunu returned, and the whole dream of staying at the island for the winter was over. Nunu was terrified. She nudged the boat, then rammed it, clicking and whistling, until Rayel finally pulled up anchor and left the bay. They headed east again, and when the island was out of sight, Rayel put down anchor and sat, deep in thought, on the deck, while the dolphin clicked and called from the water.

  She didn’t know why they’d left the island, but she knew Nunu was trying to tell her there was danger, and she trusted the dolphin. Something about that place not only wouldn’t work, but terrified Nunu—something made her pink underbelly turn pale with fright, made her clicks so high-pitched they hurt Rayel’s ears. The long scars on her back had never looked so dark and clawlike. Rayel wondered if the thing that had hurt Nunu was on that island. Was that it?

  Whatever it was, it was something Nunu couldn’t say, at least not so that Rayel could understand it. But it didn’t matter. Rayel felt it, too. There was something dangerous on that island.

  The dolphin shimmered in the water; it looked like she was shivering. A layer of slush floated on the sea’s surface.

  It was time to decide which direction to go.

  12

  PUTNAM. THE PRESENT.

  WHEN PUTNAM understood why Artie was turning the boat, he didn’t try to stop her, but he also didn’t join in to help. He should have been happy to see the island—overjoyed, even, since they were so short on water and it was the first land they’d seen. But he wasn’t happy.

  Part of his problem was that the island wasn’t south; it was west. And the adventure he wanted was south; this was a detour and would cost time. But an even bigger reason was that something—he could not explain what, even to himself—felt wrong about this island. And it felt more wrong the closer they got.

  Artie was excited. “We can get out of the cold for a bit. And maybe find some food that isn’t fish. And there will be water!” They were down to their last container, and although they’d gotten good at collecting rainwater, it hadn’t rained in several days. They were running out.

  So why did he feel so odd—so wrong—about turning and stopping at the island? Artie trimmed the sails and zigzagged them toward shore.

  It wasn’t because of the island. The island was . . . an adventure. Somewhere no one from Raftworld had ever been, Putnam was sure.

  No, he guessed it was simply the fact that they were turning from their path. The fish had told his dad to find the source of the salt in the deep south. Knowing that, of course Putnam wanted to go there. But he felt also like something was pulling him southward, and not just because he wanted to solve the mystery of the salt water. He did want to solve it, but that wasn’t what was pulling him. He felt sick to his stomach to turn away, even briefly, from their southward movement.

  And turning toward the island . . . worried him.

  There was no way to explain this feeling to Artie without sounding crazy. So he kept it to himself.

  * * *

  • • •

  EVENTUALLY ARTIE became impatient. “Could you maybe help?” She was struggling with a sail that had come loose.

  Putnam came over to steer, but sluggishly. And after a few moments, Artie took the rudder back. “I thought people on Raftworld knew how to guide small boats. But I guess I was wrong.”

  Putnam couldn’t even bring himself to argue. His stomach hurt more and more as they turned away from the south and headed west toward the . . . well, it was definitely an island.

  As they drew nearer, the land popped out of the horizon and became a hilly outcropping covered with what Putnam thought of as “cold weather trees,” oak and maple and birch and all kinds of firs. Trees like you might find on Artie’s big island—though this island looked smaller than hers.

  Still, it was plenty big enough for the two of them.

  It stood fairly low to the water. The main Island of Tathenn, where Artie had lived, jutted out of the water with rock cliffs, except that the capital city had a large bay, and the southern part of the island had some long sandy beaches. These were the good places to launch a boat for fishing or traveling. Other parts of the island were not easily accessible by water—unless you liked to climb steep cliffs. This island, on the other hand, looked to be all beach, at least on the eastern side. They could land wherever they wanted.

  But as they got closer (Artie muttering all the time about Putnam being lazy), Putnam could see that maybe he was wrong, and most of the island was encircled by rocky cliffs. They were approaching a large bay that made up the entire eastern side of the island: from this side, the island was crescent-shaped, and they were sailing toward the curved inside of the crescent. The north and south of the island, on the other hand, appeared to rear up to the sky and probably weren’t easy to land on. Putnam and Artie had gotten lucky. They’d be able to drop anchor in the calm bay waters.

  It was dusk by the time they reached the bay, where they lost the breeze and stalled. Artie wanted to row in and beach the boat before night. Her face was alight with excitement, as if this island were the very thing she was looking for. But she hadn’t known it would be here. She had just been running away—she hadn’t made a plan. Not like him.

  Putnam felt a surge of resentment for Artie and for her excitement. They should be sailing south.

  On top of all that, it was a bad idea to land on a strange island at night. “We need to wait until morning.” He tried to make his voice sound calm.

  She snorted. “We should land now. We’ll be able to explore a little, even, before nightfall. And have a bonfire. Think how good that will feel.”

  It was cold, even in the bay away from the ocean’s direct wind. There we
re white patches on the shore that Putnam was pretty sure were snow—not that he’d ever seen snow before, but he’d heard stories from Tathenlanders.

  Which meant Artie would know. “Snow?”

  She squinted. “Yeah. Probably.” Then she shrugged. “It’ll be warmer under the trees.”

  “No,” he said. “Listen, I agreed to come here even though it’s a detour for me, because you wanted to see the island. But we’re not landing at night. We don’t even know what’s out there.” Or who, he almost added.

  “What, like monsters?” she said. “Seriously?” But he glared at her like he’d seen the Island governor do—like he wished his dad would do sometimes—and he did not back down.

  She darted a glance toward shore. “Fine. Tomorrow morning, as soon as it’s light.”

  * * *

  • • •

  EVENING ON the boat was quiet. They both felt edgy, and neither of them knew how to put it into words. Seeing the island brought back memories for them both, and not good ones. Putnam thought of his mom leaving long ago, and of the recent fight with his dad. Artie remembered her mom’s death, and she remembered her stepfather throwing a pan of oil at her, and she remembered his fists, and she remembered his open hands. Somehow staring at the island in the dusk made all these memories sharper for both of them. Worse.

  Putnam said, “It reminds me of something . . . another island, maybe . . .”

  Artie, who’d never been to any island but her own, nodded. “Yeah.”

  “The smell . . .” said Putnam.

  “And the sound,” said Artie.

  “It’s like—it’s like something.” He shrugged. “I’m sure it’s just because it’s dark. You know. Creepy. It’ll all be fine tomorrow.”

  Artie went into the cabin, and after a moment, Putnam followed.

  * * *

  • • •

  THEY RESTED in the boat in the big silent bay that night. On the floor across the cabin from him, Artie snored. Putnam couldn’t doze off.

  The island curved around them, and it didn’t feel comforting to him. It felt ominous. But then, he told himself, he’d lived all his life on a giant raft, so it made sense that land wouldn’t call to him the way it did to Artie. Still, this land felt . . . wrong, somehow.

  Or maybe it was just that they weren’t moving south anymore. He could feel a pain growing stronger in his gut, the longer they stayed away from their southern path: a cramped-up feeling that made him want to curl on the floor and whine. An invisible key wound up his insides like a clockwork, so that his hands kept twitching all by themselves, and his heart raced and his lungs felt tight. He should be going south. There was something there, calling to him.

  No, not something. It feels like someone.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE NEXT morning, Putnam woke from a light, disturbed sleep. His stomach still hurt, but the pain felt dulled. Fog hung in the air like curtains. They could see only a short distance in any direction. They steered gingerly toward shore, Putnam carefully rowing in the back while Artie stood on the prow and watched for rocks or sandbars.

  There were too many rocks and fallen logs to land the boat.

  When they were a short distance out from shore, they decided together that they were as close as they could safely get, and frigid as the water was, they’d swim the rest of the way. Putnam stripped down to his shorts, placing his clothes in a waterproof sack that he strapped to his back. Into the sack he also placed three more waterproof bags—to hold any fresh water they might find—along with a handful of bright yarn strings snipped from the edge of a blanket, a piece of flint, and a small knife.

  Artie packed nothing. She removed her top layer and handed it to him to put in the bag, but kept her leggings and shift on: “I’ll dry.”

  And they dove. The water was so cold there were little chunks of slush in it, and for a moment, Putnam thought he’d seize up and not be able to swim. But then, wonderfully and painfully, his muscles quivered to life, and he pummeled himself toward shore, reaching it in time to shake the water off and drag his clothes onto his damp body. Artie followed and huddled on the sand, shivering.

  The sun was beginning to break up the fog, but even so the air was chilled. Putnam said, “I’ll build a fire.” His teeth clacked.

  Artie shook her head. “We’ll warm up as we explore.” Her lips were tinged with blue.

  “It’ll take ten minutes.”

  Artie didn’t move as he piled up driftwood and pulled his flint out of the waterproof sack. He wasn’t sure she could move. When he’d gotten the blaze started, she held her hands toward it and, after a few minutes, stood and rotated as if she were trying to cook herself evenly. Her clothing steamed.

  A short time later, when the first big logs of driftwood were ashing down to ghosts, Artie said, “I feel much better.” She grinned. “I’m going to explore now.”

  “Let me put out the fire, and I’ll join you.”

  “No!” she said, and then maybe realizing she sounded too stern, she added, “It’ll be quicker if we go in different directions.”

  “We need water,” Putnam said. “Fresh water. And fruits or vegetables if we can find any. But we don’t want to stay on the island. This isn’t where the water’s gone bad—we need to keep going south as soon as possible.” He was trying not to sound desperate. He tried to sound like he knew what he was doing. Like he was in charge.

  She said, “Water,” nodding, but didn’t add anything else.

  “If we split up, we need to meet back here before nightfall.”

  “We could stay a few days.”

  “No.” Now Putnam thought he might sound too strong, too bossy. “I mean, we need to leave, to get south. And there’s something about this island. . . . I think we’re better off sleeping on the boat.”

  She shrugged, clearly more comfortable with land than he was.

  “Meet back here before night. At least an hour or so before sundown.”

  “Sure.”

  Artie picked up one of the waterproof sacks they’d packed with them and stalked off. She climbed to the top of a small dune, then turned back. “I’m heading this way,” she said.

  “I guessed that,” said Putnam.

  “So you go a different way.” She turned and disappeared down the far side of the dune, aiming for the woods.

  “Like I couldn’t figure that out,” muttered Putnam.

  He was talking to himself; Artie was long gone. He shook his head quickly to clear it, hoping to make himself feel more optimistic. It didn’t work. This place just felt wrong, and Artie going off on her own felt wrong, too.

  What else could he do besides explore, though? He had all day, and they needed some fresh water. He took the other three waterproof sacks and headed the other direction. Away from the beach. Away from their little boat, anchored offshore. Away from where he knew he should be going: south.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN PUTNAM entered the woods, he felt what he always, at some point, felt on solid ground: that the land was both too quiet and that small noises were too loud. Without the constant background of waves and the wind, each birdcall surprised him, each footfall echoed. And everything was a little claustrophobic, the open sea too far away. The forest was old growth—it had never been cut for wood, at least as far as he could tell—and mostly pine. Dead trees lay on the ground, and live ones stretched their spindly arms to the sky. Light filtered through in shards. Needles crunched underfoot, and the spaces between the trees seemed empty and waiting.

  There were no paths, not even the crisscrossing tracks of small animals. Maybe the needled woods couldn’t hold paths.

  And definitely there wouldn’t be any human trails. There were only two countries in the whole world, and neither the Islanders nor the Raftworlders had ever been to this cold lit
tle southern island before—Putnam was sure of that.

  He found a good stream early on and drank until he almost felt sick. Then he filled the water sacks. They were too heavy to carry all day, so he left them against a tree with a bright yarn tied around to tag it so that he could find the sacks on the way back to the boat.

  Remembering how the Raftworld storyteller once told about how to find your way in the woods, he marked his trail as he went, scuffing his feet in the needles and breaking small branches to show the way. He tied a small piece of yarn every few minutes, and looked back often to see if he could spot the marker behind him. The Islanders had an old, old story about a boy and a girl—siblings, in the story—who’d gone into the woods and gotten lost, and they’d found a terrible monstrous witch who tried to eat them. He knew that wouldn’t happen here—for one thing, there was no such thing as witches. No such thing. But as he created his trail, his mind kept falling back to that tale and the bread-crumb path that didn’t help those children. The birds ate the crumbs. He couldn’t remember how the story ended—which bothered him.

  He hoped to find a high spot where he could survey the island. Finally he climbed a long, gradual hill at the top of which the trees thinned to nothing, just a windy meadow of long grasses, now brown and matted in the coming winter. There were patches of snow in the shade of a few big rocks. The field looked almost sullen. He shivered despite the effort of the climb.

  Putnam found a dry sunny spot and lay on the ground to get out of the wind. His face to the sunshine, he felt immediately better: he could see nothing but sky, and he could almost pretend he was at sea again. Even the wind, much stronger on the hilltop meadow, was comforting; its sound reminded him of the water. A lone spider crawled up a tall grass next to him, and he thought of all the spider tales he’d heard as a small kid and was comforted. Spiders were clever, and they usually did okay in the stories. He closed his eyes.