A Tear in the Ocean

by H. M. Bouwman

  * * *

  • • •

  WEEKS LATER, when Rayel saw her first icebergs, she didn’t know what they were. All of a sudden, the horizon broke up into jagged humps: elbows and sharp corners. And as she sailed among them and dove and swam around them, she learned that some were just slabs of floating ice, and others—more worrisome for a boat—were giant craggy chunks that descended like mountains well below the surface, showing only their icy peaks above water. She pulled in her sails and began to row, winding between them. Soon she found a current that took her slowly southward, leaving her free to steer, with her paddle like a rudder. Icebergs rose like towers above her. She looked around in awe.

  Yet she wasn’t cold. Not a single shiver. The ice towers creaked. The birds had long since disappeared, and she couldn’t see any fish in the water, but she felt . . . fine.

  Rayel couldn’t feel the cold; but maybe it was more correct to say that the cold couldn’t feel her. That was what it seemed like, anyway: the cold was out there, searching for something warm and alive to torment, and it walked right past her, not even realizing that she was there. It didn’t find her and freeze her, and she slipped through it safely.

  She missed Nunu all the time. If she hadn’t been so toughened by now, she would have cried.

  * * *

  • • •

  OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, alone on the craft and steering into worse and worse weather, she wondered how smart her logic was. What if, for example, she had never discovered her gift? Would she still have a duty to follow it? And what if (to return to her earlier daydream) her gift had been something crazy: to survive on the surface of the sun? Would she have the duty to follow that adventure to its end? Did a gift naturally bring with it the duty to use the gift? Or could a person, say, turn the gift down and go north with the dolphins?

  But Nunu was long gone, so there was no reason to go back. And there was something exciting about being the first explorer to ever find the true south. Rayel kept going.

  When she finally reached land, she wasn’t even sure at first that it was land. There was by now so much ice everywhere that she was constantly navigating through it. She moved mostly by latching onto slow currents and steering between icebergs. The water was deeper than she’d ever known water could be, so deep that she couldn’t see to the bottom, where it grew black. Food was scarce; she was eating her dried stores, which was a worry.

  She’d see what there was here to see, then turn back north and find food. She anchored, roughly, to a giant shard of ice and dove into the water, swimming the short distance to shore, where she shook off as much water as she could before it froze into her clothes. Glad for her light boots because of the sharp ice, she climbed a long, low hill and stared in every direction. The land was empty of anything but snow and ice. It was beautiful—and more colorful than she would have imagined. Under the bright blue sky, the land rolled out in dunes. The snow, crusted by time and wind into small regular waves, glinted blue with purple shadows. Far off, a patch of clear ice glowed green.

  Distance was impossible to judge.

  And—what was that? Near the horizon was . . . something. A mound of snow containing a lighted circle, like the opening to a cave, except bright. It glimmered for just a moment as the sun hit it, then disappeared into the dimming and purpling snow. She wanted to know what it was, but the day was quickly waning. A goal for tomorrow. She shivered with excitement (not cold) and headed back to the boat.

  The next morning, however, she woke to loud cracking. The boat, as if it had simply given up upon reaching shore, creaked and boomed and finally broke apart around her, crushed by the ice. While it was still groaning, she scrambled and brought out her food stores and everything she thought might be necessary. Then she stood on the ice and watched the boat crumple and sink.

  It didn’t strike her, until all the excitement was over, that she was now stuck in the far south. She had no way to get back home. There was only forward into the snow.

  So she picked up her sacks of food and walked toward the interesting lighted mound from yesterday, the glint of light that might be something or nothing.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE SNOW WAS COLD, she knew, but she wasn’t bothered by it. The wind, though—it blew sharp snowflakes into her face like pins and whipped her icy clothing against her in slaps. And underfoot, the snow’s top layer of crust, ridged and sharpened by the wind, cut into her boots and feet. Every few dozen steps, she’d break through the crust to the soft fluffy snow underneath, plunging as far as her knee or even her thigh before catching herself with her other foot or her hands. She was sure there was ground somewhere underneath all this snow, but she only really knew this because she could see, at the top of some of the hills, bleak gray-brown rock, blown clean and bare. She hoped she could find the cave opening; she hoped it was a cave. She really, really hoped she could find trees. Something to build a new boat with, now that the sea had devoured her first one. Finding wood didn’t seem likely, at least not anywhere near here. But who knew how far the land went?

  Anyway, sulking wouldn’t help anything. First things first. Find somewhere to get out of the wind. Somewhere to rest and store any food she might find (but what?).

  Still running all these thoughts through her head, she struggled through the snow toward the lighted mound. As she got closer, it looked even more like a cave. She tried not to let her hopes get too high.

  The sun was already setting. It had barely even risen above the rim of the horizon, and it was already going down. She hurried. She didn’t want to sit out in the dark through the long night. Maybe she could build a snow fort. That might not be a bad idea. She’d look at the lighted hill and then build a snow shelter to crawl into and store her food. Sleep until morning.

  She finally reached the lighted hill. And when she got to it, she saw that she’d hit some good luck. It was a cave—but a very strange cave.

  Glowing faintly, a tunnel led into the hill and down. She peered as far as she could, but she couldn’t see to the end of the passageway as it curved around. The source of the light was somewhere far ahead.

  What was down there?

  Rayel could see only two real options: the tunnel led to something good or to something dangerous. And if it was good, why not rush in? And if dangerous, why not rush as well? It had been weeks since Nunu left, months since she’d lost Solomon. She’d been alone for so long now that it was hard to comprehend what the danger might be. But surely—surely light meant something intelligent? Maybe even human?

  Rayel stooped to enter the tunnel, which gradually descended. She walked a long time. The light source was always ahead of her, its glimmers refracting on the ice around her. The walls were made of ice, but the air seemed warm, and beneath her booted feet, the floor felt smooth like well-worn rock. She walked until she could no longer see her breath, and then the tunnel turned a sharp corner and opened. It opened out and out.

  And it was glorious.

  15

  PUTNAM AND ARTIE. THE PRESENT.

  THEY SAILED south for several days almost without speaking. Artie didn’t want to talk about the bears, and Putnam was irritated that she wouldn’t. He admitted to himself that it might be petty to be mad at her—she was obviously used to keeping things to herself, obviously not used to treating anyone like a friend. But it stung that she wouldn’t tell him more about it. After all, he was so easy to talk to! He was a good listener; he always nodded and said the right words in response. Also, he had agreed to run away from the island—even left behind her water sack that they so needed—hurrying away at Artie’s insistence, and before seeing the bears.

  When he saw them, he understood why Artie was so scared. But he also knew there was more to the story.

  Artie said they chased her. But she refused to give any details. Where had she found them? How had she gotten away? Were there more than two?
And . . . bears?

  Bears, after all, didn’t even exist. At least, not according to the stories he’d grown up on. They were like dragons or sea monsters: pretend. But these—these were definitely real. Or real-ish. He needed more explanation. He wanted to talk about them. And she was a boulder of silence.

  * * *

  • • •

  ARTIE FELT RELIEVED: relieved to be away from the bears, and almost as relieved that Putnam was mad at her. If he stayed mad at her, she wouldn’t have to talk with him. And Putnam, mad, was almost laughable. He didn’t even yell or hit or anything. He just frowned deeply and grew quiet. She could handle that.

  Of course, maybe he just hadn’t lost his temper yet, and that was still coming. You never could tell.

  She knew why he was angry; she wasn’t stupid. He wanted her to talk, to explain everything about the island and what exactly had happened with the bears. But she just couldn’t talk about it, how she stood in the bears’ home, how she saw the hollows their bodies made in their beds, how they huffed as they followed her. If she put it all into words, the bears would seem even closer, their panting breaths even louder.

  Besides, they were in the past now. No reason to remember them.

  But though she put the bears out of her mind during the day, they inhabited her dreams. She found herself waking with a jerk several times every night, falling off cliffs trying to escape, or tripping over tree roots, or simply not running fast enough, their claws raking at her back. She’d yell or gasp as she flailed and fell through sleep to wake, dazed, in the cabin of the boat. And across from her, on the other side of the cabin with just the heater between them, she’d see Putnam’s eyes, open in the darkness looking at her with concern. She’d duck and cocoon her head in her blanket and try to go back to sleep. But sleep was long in coming, and then another nightmare would jerk her out of it.

  She only knew what bears were because of stories—stories from both the Islands and from Raftworld. But they were all made-up stories—no one thought bears were real. They were the bonfire stories that children listened to when they wanted to scare themselves—as they huddled under a blanket or cape with a grown-up who would protect them. The stories described the claws and teeth, the huge doglike shape, the long nose and small round ears, the white fur, and the padded feet as large as a person’s head, with claws extending as long as your fingers. In some stories, the bears came into your house and stole your food and sat in your chairs and slept in your beds, like goblins. And in other stories, the bears lived in rough caves, and when you went near the caves, they came out and roared, like dragons. And like goblins and dragons, they were mythical.

  And in none of the stories did their cave resemble the cozy home you always dreamed of having.

  Artie knew now that bears were real. But one of the reasons to hold off from telling Putnam more about them was that somehow telling would really make them real. Right now she felt like she was keeping them, just barely, in the world of nightmares—and shutting them out of the daytime. Talking about them would make them daytime monsters, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  PUTNAM, AS THE DAYS and—especially—nights went on, transformed from being angry to being worried. He could see Artie was having nightmares, and he could see she was scared. And that made him feel troubled for her, too. And not sure how to fix things.

  He used to think he was good at fixing things—especially between people. But Artie refused to tell him, refused to let him make everything right again.

  So they traveled on, barely speaking, through disturbed nights and anxious days.

  Meanwhile, as days passed, the water grew choppier, filled with slush. Soon they began to see actual ice—slabs of it floating on the water and chunks sticking up that hinted at more ice beneath the surface—worrisome even to them with their shallow boat.

  There wasn’t much to do. Putnam took the sails down; they shouldn’t move fast with so much ice around. He thought they would need to pole or paddle, but almost immediately they found a slow current that pulled them south, winding through the biggest chunks of ice either of them had ever seen—the only big chunks of ice Putnam had ever seen, actually. Artie’s islands froze every year, but even she’d never seen this kind of winter. Where she lived, the sea stayed liquid away from shore; it only froze and cracked into a crust along its edges—the Island’s shore. The giant mountains of ice that rose out of this ocean—well, this was a different world.

  Putnam stood on deck with a pole to make sure that they didn’t run into anything. Once in a while he stuck the pole out to push against a too-close slab of ice. But mostly he didn’t have anything to do but shiver and daydream. When he got too cold, Artie would appear and take the pole from him. They traded spots all day long. At night they put the anchor down but stayed in the current so that the water wouldn’t freeze around the boat. Artie explained—since Putnam had no experience with ice—that if they let the boat sit in still water, it would start to freeze and develop leaks. Could even break apart.

  “I’ve seen it happen,” she said. “My—someone—left a little rowboat in the water, anchored to the dock. And the ice wedged in and made cracks so that when spring came, the boat leaked like a basket.” She shook her head, remembering. “So it’ll be better if we keep the boat in the current.”

  “That makes sense,” said Putnam. And the conversation for the day was over.

  * * *

  • • •

  AS THEY got farther from the bear island, Artie thought she’d sleep better. But she didn’t. In fact, the nightmares got worse as they entered the ice fields. One morning—a week now since they’d left the island—she stood on the deck, pole in hand, and shaded her eyes to look far away, all around them. Ice and slushy water in front of them. Behind them, less ice, but just as much water. The island long out of sight.

  But . . . there was something—on the horizon. She squinted. What was it?

  Putnam came up to take his turn with the pole. “What are you looking at?” He shaded his eyes, too, then said, “There is something back there, isn’t there?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Artie. She looked again, and now she couldn’t see anything, but horizon clear and bright. “Just ice.”

  “I guess so,” agreed Putnam. “But wow, I could have sworn I saw an iceberg that was moving. I guess you get optical illusions when you’re out here so long.”

  It wasn’t an optical illusion. Artie had seen a chunk of ice lumbering toward them.

  Like a giant bear. Like two bears walking on the water.

  But that couldn’t be.

  * * *

  • • •

  ONE MORNING Putnam saw land: an island. Or something even bigger, and all made of ice and snow. It rose out of the ocean, grim and white and endless.

  “Well,” said Artie.

  “Yep,” said Putnam. “End of the road.”

  “You think it’s here? What you’re looking for?”

  Putnam didn’t know. He felt like there would be something here. The water was so briny that they could smell it all the time, and their clothes were covered in salt stains. The answer had to be here somewhere.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She looked back at the horizon and then turned forward, shrugging. “Let’s go take a look around.”

  But as Putnam and Artie poled through the ice toward shore, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. He kept looking over his shoulder. Whatever had happened to Artie on the island was starting to rub off on him now. He shook himself and straightened up. Stop being afraid. Artie might be falling apart since the bear island, but that meant it was up to him to hold everything together. To be the hero. To rescue them and save everyone.

  He could have sworn, though, that when he’d studied the far distance where Artie had been looking, he’d seen two white bears, small and almost glowing agai
nst the bright horizon, riding a tiny raft. Following them.

  16

  RAYEL. ABOUT 100 YEARS EARLIER.

  THE FIRST thing Rayel did after she entered the giant cavern at the end of the ice tunnel was take off her boots. She stood on one leg at a time, unwilling to crouch or sit in this strange place, and freed first one foot, then the other. The ice under her soles felt warm, actually warm, like it wasn’t ice at all. And the air around her glistened with moisture. She walked to the edge of the ice and stepped onto the rich, loamy earth. Far above, almost too high to make out, sunlight filtered through an enormous skylight of ice, and refracted and magnified, illuminating the entire cavern. It had been close to dusk when she entered the tunnel; somehow here it was still bright. Birds called and flew overhead; squirrel-like creatures chattered; leaves rustled.

  Under the frozen south lay another world, a world of greenery and warmth. Small trees and bushes everywhere, with strange fruits that she’d never seen before. Birds entirely new to her, most of them multicolored and as bright as if dressed for one of her mother’s parties. Lizards that changed color even as she stared at them.

  She walked into the underground garden without thinking of danger—this was so clearly not an evil place. And if it was—well, then there wasn’t anywhere in the world that was safe.

  She walked for a good while, following what looked like a rough trail, before she came upon a stream—where she drank the coolest, purest water she’d ever tasted. As if all water began here, perhaps. And when she followed the stream toward its source, she began to hear, in the distance, the sound of crashing and splashing.