And felt . . . something.
No: heard something. A sound so deep and so quiet it almost felt like a tremble of the earth. He pressed his hands to the ground and opened his eyes. The earth couldn’t be trembling. The sea moved. Land didn’t.
The field wasn’t moving. But there was a rumbling, low and quiet, somewhere. Slowly he lifted his head and looked around. Then he flipped over, crouching in the brown grass and scanning the meadow and the trees around the meadow’s edge. Nothing. And the sound was gone now, too.
He lay back down, and there it was again, a low rumble, as if the earth’s stomach were growling. And there was something, a shifting feeling, to this ground. He was sure of it.
This time he hopped up quickly, looked around again, and decided it was time to go. Heading back down to the bay, he forced himself not to run, to be careful and find each yarn string as he retraced his trail back to the boat. But what he wanted to do was scuttle as quickly as possible to reach the safety of the water. He felt like there was something watching him. Someone watching him. Following him.
He reached the shore much earlier than he and Artie had agreed, and spent the afternoon there, near the water, building a small raft they could pole back to the boat, which still floated hopefully in the bay. Putnam was expert at building rafts; all the kids on Raftworld had constructed them as babies, practically, assembling little floats, capsizing them and building them again. This one he made of driftwood and fallen branches, lashed with vines and caked with mud to become as strong as possible, even though it only needed to last for a single short trip. It would last much longer than that, as solidly as he built it.
And the work kept him busy.
By late afternoon, one hour before sunset, he was sitting on the raft on the water’s edge, scanning the woods for Artie. She was nowhere to be seen.
13
ARTIE. THE PRESENT.
AS SOON as she dried off enough to stop shivering, Artie threw on her top layer of clothes and left both the fire and Putnam behind to explore the island. She was glad to leave. Bonfires on the beach, as warm and comforting and let’s-have-a-party-with-our-friends as they were supposed to be, also reminded her of her old life: the village bonfires where, after her mother’s death, Artie’s stepfather hung out night after night arguing politics and getting angrier and angrier—even while laughing and joking. His tone seemed jovial and good-humored, but the words were complaining and sometimes mean. Bonfires, to Artie, meant her stepfather telling “funny” stories about how the Island’s southerners were ignored, how fisherfolk were overlooked, and how now he had to raise some girl who wasn’t even his. And she sitting off to one side feeling the words jab or sneaking away alone, hoping he’d forget to come home that night.
Bonfires weren’t comforting.
Leaving Putnam, on the other hand, made her feel a little bad. Sure, he was a rich kid with a perfect life and no real problems to his name, and his mission (if you could even call it that) was kind of ridiculous. Who trusted that kind of trip to a kid, even the son of a king? He wasn’t a bad person, though. He was actually pretty nice, most of the time, and he had been okay to travel with. His company wasn’t terrible.
But her plan had been to escape to a place where she could be alone. Alone was best if you wanted to be safe: no one to disbelieve you, no one to make you go back home.
She wasn’t going to return to the boat. She was going to stay, alone, on the island. She’d spend the day exploring and scouting for a temporary new home—a dry cave if possible. She’d collect wood and figure out how to live through the winter. She’d need to start drying fish and seaweed immediately. So for the next few weeks, storing up food would be her first priority; when the water froze over—as it looked like it might—she needed to have enough food to make it through the winter.
Fortunately she was scrawny and didn’t need much. And she was used to being hungry.
* * *
• • •
ARTIE DISCOVERED a stream that emptied into a small pond and tasted the water: clean and cold and pure. Good. Water was taken care of. She hung the empty water sack on a tree above that pond so that she could retrieve it after she’d found a place to live.
She picked up a walking stick; it was the perfect length and weight and feel. She found some late berries—snowberries, just like on Tathenn—and ate her fill of them, mentally marking their location so that she could come back later and gather more and dry them. She found something that almost resembled a trail—though that wasn’t possible, since no one lived on this island—and followed it uphill until she came upon a rocky cliff that stood against the sea. A path seemed to wind down the cliff toward the water.
Hmm. Maybe she had been following a small animal route; she’d seen rabbits and ground squirrels, and they could make trails. Maybe there were caves in this cliff—little ones for rabbits or snakes, and maybe even a bigger one just the right size for herself.
She followed the smooth dirt almost-a-path that wound through the big rocks and over the side of the cliff, where there was a definitely-a-path that zigzagged downhill—maybe made by water trickling down the rock face over the years.
Partway down the cliff, she found it. A cave. A cave just the right size for someone like her.
She sat outside for some time, soaking up the sun and leaning against the cliff wall. But she wasn’t just resting. No, she was doing exactly what you should do when you find a cave big enough to fit—well, anything alive. She was waiting.
When she’d been there for the better part of an hour, listening, she picked up a few rocks and tossed them into the opening, where she heard them hit walls and crack to the ground. Nothing.
Then she stood at the mouth of the cave and peered in. She couldn’t see far, as the cave hooked around. But it appeared empty, though astonishingly clean. There must have been something living here at some point, keeping the entryway free of brush and dirt. She tossed a few more rocks in, aiming in different directions and listening for any sounds in response.
There was nothing but silence, and the day was getting later. The afternoon sun slanted across the entry, very little of it spilling inward.
She took a deep breath. This was what she wanted. A quiet empty place all to herself. A place where she would be safe.
She entered the cave.
* * *
• • •
THE BOAT, she knew, had a small torch that gathered sunlight during the day and used it up at night, but she didn’t have any such thing with her, so after she entered the cave (she didn’t even have to stoop, the doorway was so tall), she sat in the shadows for a while, facing away from the doorway and letting her eyes adjust to the murky darkness.
As the cave slowly appeared before her eyes, she liked what she saw. Straight dry walls and a smooth floor and ceiling. This cave was old but sturdy—not in danger of collapsing. And the entryway was high enough that a bonfire laid there would provide some heat without sucking out all the oxygen. But maybe she wouldn’t even need much fire to make it through the winter, if the cave went far enough in and stayed warm enough on its own. Already, only a few feet in, it felt warmer than outside.
She put her hand on one of the smooth walls and walked slowly into the darkness, sliding her feet carefully along the ground. Around the curve the cave was dark, but not completely black, as there was a small opening high up that let in some light—and some air, which was good. Air could go bad in a cave, and vents were a good thing.
A little farther on, she could hear the musical tinkle of water, and she kept following the curve (and the slight downward bent of the tunnel) to find a small dribble—a tiny spring—that popped out of the wall from a spout, pooled in a basin about two feet across, and drained slowly back into the cliff. The whole area of the cave widened here, as if to make a kitchen for her, a low flat rock in the corner standing like a table. A thin shaft of light fell
on the table from a vent above. The water in the tiny spring gurgled. Scooping her hands under the spout, she tasted the water. Sweet. She lowered her head and drank deeply. Perfect.
Then she moved on, following the curve of the cave into shadows—a gradual downward spiral, it seemed—thinking what all this meant. This cave could not be better suited for a human to live in. For her to live in. She felt as if it had been waiting for her.
As she followed the downward coil of the tunnel, the light waned to almost complete darkness, but she could see something before her—around the curve, another little bit of light ahead. She crossed her fingers and made a wish—which she never did, never. But something about this place seemed almost magical. So she wished: what she needed now was a cozy bedroom where she could pile some straw and spend the winter in comfort. With a bedroom, the place would be perfect.
When she turned the corner, another high skylight overhead showed her that what she had wished for did, indeed, exist.
It was a bedroom, small and cozy and already completely lined with a thick layer of straw, the dried grasses piled up high and warm. Like magic.
And in the middle of the straw: two hollows, as if two bodies had napped there. Large bodies. So large, in fact, that sleeping bodies couldn’t be what the dents came from. People didn’t take up that much room, not even if they were enormous grown-ups.
Artie stood perfectly still at the juncture where the tunnel ended and the little room opened up like a fist at the end of an arm. Why the dents in the straw? Why the straw at all? Up until now she could tell herself that the cave just happened to be here, in this condition, that she was just—finally, finally—lucky. The clean cave, the openings at exactly the right places, the warmth even without a fire, the big stone like a table. But a bed? And a bed that looked like it had been slept in? She felt her heart beating in her throat. She felt suddenly like she could hear the walls breathing. Slowly she backed up.
And then she heard something—a shuffling, like feet padding gently along a cave floor. And breathing—loud breathing, almost panting, as if something much bigger than she was (or maybe there were simply more of them) was moving toward her.
The noise didn’t come from behind her. It came from somewhere in front of her—from the bedroom. No, from behind the bedroom. She peered into the shadows and then saw it across from her: a crack, an extra corner, barely visible in the half-light. The bedroom had another entrance, and someone was coming toward that entrance.
She stood, frozen, for a couple seconds longer. She told her feet to move, but they did not move. What was coming toward her felt like everything she’d run away from, and now it was about to get her. It had followed her across the ocean. She almost imagined she knew who was coming toward her, but she couldn’t know; he couldn’t have followed her; this was a new danger, but it felt exactly like old danger, like danger she knew, and she couldn’t make her feet move, and she couldn’t get away.
“GO.” It was a whisper, but a loud one. It came from her own mouth.
Immediately the panting stopped, like the Thing was listening. Had heard her. And then the feet padding started up again, this time louder and faster, and the panting filled her ears. She turned and ran, as fast as she could, up the cave and out into the cold air, scrambling over the rocks to the top of the cliff. The world flying by so fast. So fast. So fast. She wasn’t even breathing, not thinking anymore, just running and running from whatever it was in the cave.
At the top of the cliff she almost fell—a quick stumble before she caught herself on a rock, cut her hand open, and gasped with the pain. As she righted herself, she glanced back over her shoulder, just one hasty look, and what she saw was almost enough to make her turn to stone right there.
Following her: two enormous bears, snowy white, with claws the size of her face. They were staring up at her from the mouth of the cave. As she looked, one lifted its head and roared. She felt hypnotized. The bear lowered its nose and stared at her, snuffling, and she could see the hatred in its dark eyes as it slowly shook its shaggy head. Then it roared again, rearing back on its hind legs and raking the air, and when it landed, it started lumbering up the cliff. Not quickly. Leisurely. As if it were playing a game—a game it knew it could win. The other bear followed.
The bears’ movement toward her broke the spell. Artie unfroze and ran. She did not look back again—she just ran, straight through the forest back to the beach, hoping against hope that Putnam had waited for her, expecting at any moment to feel five sharp slices across her back.
* * *
• • •
AS THE woods thinned near the bay, Artie still raced as fast as she could, but she wheezed heavily now and almost stumbled with every step. Her chest burned and her side pinched. She looked back over her shoulder again: she couldn’t see the bears, but she could hear them, panting heavily in rhythm with her own gasping. She could hear them inside her own head, growling. And she could feel, in the old burns on her arms and chest, their claws digging deep. They were near.
Putnam stood knee-deep in the water with a raft half pushed out to sea, as if he’d been about to leave. Artie was very late. The sun was setting, its red light splashed across the sky as its round head tipped below the horizon.
Putnam stared at her, a what’s wrong? in his face, as she flew across the beach, gasping. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t talk. She leapt on the raft and collapsed, motioning wildly for him to set off. Wordlessly, he did, his motions quick and his face worried.
When he’d poled them a good halfway to the boat, he said, “What is it?”
Artie shook her head. She still couldn’t talk, and now she felt sick. She leaned over the raft and threw up, heaving until there was nothing left in her stomach. Finally she stood to take the other pole.
“Rest,” said Putnam. “I can do it.”
She shook her head. “Faster.” Still panting, and now wobbly and sick, she helped direct them to the boat. The shore, meanwhile, looked empty, but she knew they were there. Somewhere. Watching.
When they reached the boat, she scrambled aboard and stood clutching her pole until Putnam, who’d climbed aboard with his three bulging water containers, pried the pole from her fingers and dropped it in the bay, placing her hand on the boat’s railing. “We don’t need the raft now. We’ll leave it behind.”
She nodded, staring at the shore.
Putnam raised the anchor and set up the sails. Artie felt a little like she should help, but she couldn’t move. She still felt sick. She clutched the rail, and when her legs gave way, she sat, staring through the bars at the vacant shore of the island.
When the boat was slowly moving out of the bay, he returned to stand next to her. “What happened?” He coughed. “I thought—I was worried you weren’t coming back.”
Suddenly he froze. The monsters were on the beach: two white bears, even larger than she remembered them, lumbering from the woods and hulking on the shore. One nudged the other and gestured its head toward the water, and they waded out into the bay. They stood chest-deep in the water, and Artie knew they were looking at her. She just knew.
Putnam, next to her, gulped audibly. When he spoke next, after a long silence, his voice sounded pinched. “Oh. Oh, I see. Wow.” He put his hand on top of hers, and it was so warm and alive and human that she didn’t jerk her own hand away. “That’s what was . . . chasing you?”
She nodded.
“What happened?”
“They just . . .” She didn’t want to say everything, but she could tell at least part of it. “I was going to stay. I liked that island, and I thought it would make a good home. They chased me.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell how scared she was, how she’d heard them the whole way—how she still heard them, growling inside her somewhere.
“You’re safe now,” said Putnam, and sat with his shoulder pressed against hers.
I’m not. I�
�m never safe. They watched the bears, one now pacing back and forth on shore, the other still chest-deep in the bay, both of them shrinking smaller and smaller as the boat drifted away. The abandoned raft floated between the bears and them like a tiny patch on the ocean’s sleeve.
14
RAYEL. ABOUT 100 YEARS EARLIER.
RAYEL TRIED to explain to Nunu why they needed to go south, but more than ever she felt the limits of language. Nunu clicked and whistled, and Rayel explained, for days on end, the water and air around them slowly growing colder. She told Nunu, again, about her gift for the cold and how she had to follow it to the end, to see how much she could withstand and how far she could explore. She owed it to the gift. But her words upset Nunu.
The dolphin was desperate to go to warmer waters. She grew thinner in the cold water, her whistles sounding almost like sneezes. Rayel couldn’t bring herself to go north—but couldn’t leave her friend, either. They were stuck. The weight rested on Rayel’s chest, pressing down on her heart. No matter what she decided, it would be the wrong decision.
Then one morning, Nunu was gone.
She’d made the choice that Rayel couldn’t and had left in the night. Rayel waited all day to see if she’d return. But she didn’t.
Two mornings after that, Rayel headed south.
Alone. Again.
* * *
• • •
RAYEL WAS UPSET. Of course she was. She missed Nunu terribly. But she was also grateful; by leaving, the dolphin had given her permission to head south.
Rayel had never been special before, not at anything, not ever. She was the opposite of special, except to her brother, and maybe to Nunu, who had never seen a human before and therefore thought she was magical.
But here it was: with this gift for cold, she suddenly was special . . . but only if she stayed in cold parts of the world. She could survive where no one else could. She wore the same summer shift she’d started her voyage in, and she used the blankets to provide more cushion to her bed but not to cover herself up. She was warm all the time. Or maybe, more to the point, she wasn’t cold. Ever.
A Tear in the Ocean Page 10
