A Tear in the Ocean

by H. M. Bouwman

  He was, but he wasn’t moving. It was like he’d . . . collapsed. Her hands wrapped around. His back felt sticky.

  Above her the light from the tunnel opening suddenly eclipsed. Lying under Putnam’s body, looking up, she saw a terrifying white head poke into the tunnel, sniff its long nose, and pull back. Then, slowly, a powerful front leg reached in, five long claws extended. The paw drew nearer, stirring in the air like it was trying to scoop out the last delicious filling from a jar. She watched in terror.

  When the claw, circling and slowly descending, had almost reached Putnam’s back, Artie jerked into motion. They had no choice. The bears would pull them out onto the surface. Would kill them. She rolled Putnam over in her arms so that he faced outward, his back pressed against her stomach.

  And she shoved herself and him feetfirst down the slide. Into the unknown. Into adventure or death or maybe just nothingness.

  Away from the bears.

  There was, she knew as they hurtled down the smooth icy tube, no way back.

  2

  ARTIE AND PUTNAM.

  AS SHE shot down the long slide into darkness, Artie wished desperately that she had free hands. Not that she could have slowed herself down—there was nothing to grab onto; the slide was made of perfectly smooth ice, as if it had been built just for them to hurtle down at top speed. But if her hands had been free, she could have at least put them out to cushion the ride. As it was, she clutched Putnam, unconscious in her arms, to her chest and wrapped her legs around him, and she cushioned his ride while her shoulders, knees, ankles, and spine banged into solid ice over and over again. She tucked her head forward into Putnam’s shoulder and managed to keep most of the blows on her body instead of her head, but that was all she was able to do. If she survived, she’d be a mass of bruises.

  The ride seemed to go on forever, though it was really less than a minute. Long enough to be terrifying. The tunnel grew darker and darker, and they flew faster and faster, until she knew they would land somewhere in a crunch of bones on ice and die.

  But that didn’t happen. Instead, the slope flattened, and their hurtling downward slowed until finally they were sliding forward, not down, gradually slowing as you would at the bottom of a long, steep hill on a sled in winter.

  Putnam never reacted. He jostled around in her arms as they swerved down the tunnel, but he didn’t move on his own. Was he even still breathing?

  When they stopped sliding, they sat in a darkness so intense that Artie wouldn’t have known Putnam was there if she hadn’t been holding him. She leaned forward, her cheek against his, hoping he was still breathing.

  Yes. The silence here was so deep, she could hear his light intake of air, the small sigh escaping from his mouth.

  Gently she disentangled herself from him. The tunnel had broadened out; she couldn’t quite stand (as she found when she reached up to feel the ceiling), but she could stoop over Putnam and lay him down. She turned him on his side and felt his back. Still wet and sticky—as were her chest and stomach where he had been pressed against her on the slide. Blood. She knew what blood felt like in the dark: warm and tacky. Carefully she felt his whole back. His clothes were shredded, and so was his skin, with five long, deep cuts. The cuts were oozing rather than spurting, so that was good. But he’d lost a lot of blood. That was less good.

  She removed her outer cloak, shivering. They each had an outer and an inner cloak—really just two blankets they’d cut to fit over their heads. Putnam’s were no good anymore, hanging in bloody strips, though the hood part still seemed okay, so she left it and simply wrapped her blanket tightly around his back and shoulders, slipping it under him and tying it around his stomach like a giant bandage.

  Putnam lay on his side, and though she couldn’t see him in the dark, she knew he was still unconscious. She moved around to his face and flicked it gently. “Wake up.”

  He didn’t wake up.

  She talked to him for a few minutes, reminding him who he was and telling him where they were. His eyes remained shut, and his face, growing barely visible as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, looked restful and at peace. She almost hated to wake him. But they couldn’t stay here. Here was nowhere. And the ice was cold, seeping into her bones as she sat on it. Her whole body felt like a giant shiver.

  Finally she slapped his face—not hard, but hard enough to sting—and he opened his eyes, groaning as he did.

  “Are you okay?” asked Artie. What a dumb question. Of course he wasn’t okay.

  “What happened?”

  “The bears—” said Artie. She stopped herself, because Putnam’s face immediately changed.

  “Right,” he said, wincing. “I remember.”

  “We got away,” Artie said. “But we’re kind of . . . well, we’re way underground and lost.”

  She gestured around them into the darkness.

  “Can we go back? When the bears are gone, I mean?” He curled a little tighter on his side, like his body didn’t want to get up.

  “No.”

  He didn’t question her, just accepted her answer. “Well, then I guess . . .” He thought.

  “It’s a tunnel,” said Artie. “I think.”

  “Tunnels go somewhere,” said Putnam.

  “Okay,” said Artie. Putnam was suggesting that they follow the path, and honestly, she couldn’t see any other option. “Can you get up?”

  “Sure,” he said. He pushed himself to one elbow and gasped. “Maybe not.”

  “Can I—can I help you?”

  “Give me a second.”

  They sat in silence. Artie looked around and realized the darkness she’d thought was so deep wasn’t actually complete. Ahead of them, away from the slide they’d shot down, the tunnel glowed faintly. Maybe—odd to think so, so far underground—maybe there was a way out. She could hope.

  “You saved me from the bears,” said Putnam. “You came back for me and pulled me into the tunnel. Didn’t you?”

  “I ran away first.”

  “I told you to! You came back. For me.”

  She nodded and then realized he might not see her. “But only after you saved me. And I was going to keep running, but you yelled really loud. And I couldn’t . . .” She couldn’t even say everything she wanted to say. He’d offered up his life to save hers. No one had ever done that before. Probably no one ever would again. It was the kind of thing that happened once in a lifetime, if ever. It was a crazy thing to do. He was crazy.

  “You came back,” said Putnam. “We saved each other. That’s what friends do, right?”

  “We’re friends?” she asked. The question popped out before she thought about how rude it might sound.

  “Of course,” said Putnam.

  It was really cold in the tunnel. Artie’s eyes felt funny, like ice was melting in them. Or water was freezing in them, she wasn’t quite sure. “Can you get up now?”

  “Help me?”

  She pulled his hand, and they both stood, stooping in the low tunnel. Putnam swayed, and Artie slipped under one shoulder to support him. Carefully they shuffled along the slick tunnel, hobbling and slipping toward the dim light.

  * * *

  • • •

  PUTNAM COULD feel everything. For a little while, even after he woke up, the pain wasn’t too bad: a heat on his back like a bad sunburn. But now there were knives plunged into his back, sharp lines of fire running down his spine. His face hurt, too—probably from smashing into the ice when Artie had first pulled him into the tunnel—and his shoulders ached as if they’d been jerked almost out of their sockets, and the backs of his legs were bruised from the trip down the chute. But more than anything, his back was aflame.

  He groaned as they shuffled down the tunnel; every tiny slip on the ice was excruciating.

  “Does it hurt?” said Artie. Which was almost the worst question she could
have asked.

  “A bit,” said Putnam, which was almost the worst answer. He tried again. “It’s burning.”

  “Would it help to lie on the ice for a few minutes?”

  “I don’t think it’s that kind of burning.”

  They seemed to walk down the tunnel forever. They stopped to rest several times, whenever Putnam began to stumble and lean too heavily on Artie and Artie began to stagger under Putnam’s weight. Putnam’s mouth turned cottony with thirst, and when Artie spoke, her voice sounded dry and tight. They’d long ago emptied the water bag slung around Artie’s neck.

  The light in the tunnel continued to glow, but it never seemed to grow brighter. The light’s source was always farther down, around the next corner, out of sight.

  What was the point of continuing? For the first time in his life, Putnam understood how a person could simply give up: you’d give up because there was no reason to go on, no end to the tunnel. You’d give up not because you’d reached the light, but because you’d finally realized you never would.

  The next time they sat down to rest, Putnam sank onto the ice and let its cold seep into his legs. And when Artie said it was time to get up and move on, he shook his head no.

  “You need more rest?” she asked. Her voice was scratchy. “We can stay a little longer, but then we should move on.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve lived through a lot of winters, and I have to tell you that if we stay in one spot too long, the cold will get to us and we’ll die. We have to keep moving.”

  “No.”

  She glared at him in the dim light. “No?”

  “I’m going to stay here. You can go on. But there isn’t any point. We’re going to die anyway. So I’ll stay here.”

  “I’m not going to die.”

  “We’re both going to die. This tunnel doesn’t go anywhere. We’re underground at the far south of the world, and no one is going to rescue us, and we’re going to die.”

  “Get up!” She stood, hands on hips, glaring. The tunnel had broadened sometime during their trek, and now they could both stand upright—if Putnam stood. “Are you getting up?”

  “No. I’m going to die here.”

  “You are so stupid!” Artie stomped her feet, which made Putnam smile. “This isn’t funny!”

  “I’m staying here.”

  “Fine! I’m going.”

  And that was it.

  Artie marched away down the tunnel, walking much faster now that she didn’t have his weight to half carry. The tunnel curved slightly, and after a moment she disappeared.

  She was gone.

  Putnam’s back hurt too much to lean against the tunnel wall. He lay down on his side, facing the tunnel end where Artie had disappeared, and gazed into the glowing half-light. The cold slithered up into his body from the ice floor, but it didn’t feel quite as cold as it had at their last stop. He took off his mitten and laid his hand on the ice. It was true: the ice felt warmer, less like ice and more like stone. That probably meant he was close to freezing. He’d heard stories. It was weird but true that you’d feel warmer the closer you grew to turning to ice yourself. Maybe it was your body’s way of becoming one with its surroundings. He closed his eyes.

  He might have dozed off; he wasn’t sure how long Artie had been gone. The time seemed both long and short. When he opened his eyes, the side of his face was pressed against the ice, which felt cool but not cold. Artie stood in front of him, hands on hips again.

  He was hallucinating. Maybe this was something that happened before you died of hypothermia: you saw things that weren’t there?

  But why did he see Artie? Why not his dad, or—or even his mom, who’d been gone so long that she might as well have died, too? Or he could have seen any of his schoolmates from Raftworld. Or maybe he could have seen an ocean again; he loved the ocean. But no: here in a hallucination that could be literally anything, here was Artie and the endless tunnel. Just like in real life.

  “You are such a jerk,” said Artie.

  He lifted his head. “Am—am I dead?”

  “Shut up, okay?”

  “Dreaming?”

  “Yeah,” she said sarcastically. “We’re still on the boat. The whole thing with the bears was just a fantasy.” She snapped her fingers in his face. “Wake up.”

  “My back is killing me.”

  “Well, then I guess it’s not a dream. Now get your butt up and start walking.”

  “You don’t need to be mean.” Putnam sat up.

  “I’m not leaving you here. You jerk. Get up.”

  Slowly he stood, swaying. He didn’t feel any better than he had before she’d stormed off, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. In fact, he had no energy at all. “I don’t think I . . .” He stumbled against her, and she caught his shoulders.

  For a moment she stared into his face as if she had no idea what to do. She looked scared more than angry. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t be frightened, that the ice didn’t even feel cold anymore and it would all be okay. But the words wouldn’t form right.

  She turned her back to him, still holding one of his arms, which she pulled over her shoulder. “Other hand.” He held it up, and she grabbed it, pulling him onto her back. “Wrap your arms.”

  He could barely fumble them around her neck, but with her help, he managed it. Then she picked up his legs under her arms and carried him on her back down the tunnel. Slowly. So slowly.

  They didn’t make it far. Artie was just too scrawny and small to carry Putnam. She fell to her knees, and he slid to the ground.

  She barely paused—which even in his state of grogginess Putnam found admirable—but moved into a better plan. Taking off her inner cloak, she ripped one seam so that it turned almost back into the blanket it had originally been. She slid it under Putnam, who lay down on his side again, and then she began to pull the blanket like a sled behind her, dragging Putnam down the tunnel with her.

  The floor of the tunnel was quite, quite comfortable under his blanket as he slid along. This was a fine way to die, thought Putnam. Of all the possibilities, it could be much worse. He could barely even feel his back anymore. It still burned, but behind everything else. He could ignore it and sleep.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” barked Artie.

  But as they slid along, around curves and corners and along the endless tunnel, Putnam began to drift off.

  Then Artie snapped him awake again. “What is that?” She stopped pulling, and Putnam’s sled stalled. “That. Putnam, look.”

  Putnam didn’t even open his eyes. He was facing the wrong way to see whatever it was she was looking at anyway. “Hallucination,” he said dreamily.

  Suddenly she was yanking the sled faster than ever, running with the sled sailing behind her. Putnam was flying. Into the hallucination, whatever it was, with Artie. He sighed and slept.

  3

  ARTIE AND PUTNAM.

  WHEN ARTIE was at her most exhausted and low, pulling a sled with her possibly dying friend in it to nothing and nowhere in a dark tunnel underground, that was when it happened. Around a curve: more light.

  Lots more light.

  So much it was hard to see.

  She squinted into it. It wasn’t just brightness. There were things in the light. Plants? She could hear . . . birds? Running water? Was she imagining?

  If so, it was the best fantasy ever, and she wasn’t planning to stand outside in the cold. She could feel drafts of warm air wafting up the tunnel from the bright place.

  Putnam said it was a hallucination, but she didn’t think so. Or if it was, it was a dream they could share, so why not go to it? She ran into the light, yanking him behind her. She almost flew. She ran as much out of fear for her injured friend as joy for the light.

  Then the tunnel opened out and she was in—was it a giant cave? Made
of sunlight? And was she standing on dirt?

  The slick tunnel floor ended in leaves and grass and mulchy composty soil that smelled of plants and decaying things and worms and life. Above her, light glowed, but she could not see the sun or the blue sky. It was brighter here, underground, than it was outside, as if this strange place trapped and reflected and lengthened the available light. Everything was green and growing, warm and humid and alive. A squirrel-like creature ran past, chattering. Brightly colored birds flew overhead. The grass and bushes and trees rustled as if to say welcome and safe.

  Artie couldn’t help it. She fell to her knees. She felt like she was praying, except she didn’t know who to thank. The bears? Herself and Putnam? God, whoever he or she might be? The cave itself, pulsing with life as it was?

  Finally she said, “Putnam. Putnam. We’re here.” Wherever here was didn’t matter right now. She could tell immediately that this was a place without bears.

  But Putnam didn’t answer, and when she turned back to him, her stomach fell. They were safe and warm, but he was terribly injured. In the light she could see that his face was slack in unconsciousness, bloody and swollen. But far worse was his back, dark with blood—some drying, some still wet—seeping through the cloak she’d tied around him.

  She patted his face. He felt warmer now. Carefully she pulled the sled blanket over the mulch and into a patch of sunlight, where she pillowed his head under a folded-up section of blanket. Then she stood and looked around. What could she use to help stop bleeding?

  For herself, back on Tathenn, she’d always used moss for wounds. Clean water to wash, and moss to dry and pack under a bandage. After one more glance at Putnam’s sleeping face, she followed the sound of water and found two streams coming together: one cloudy, the other clear as crystal. The merged stream, cloudy like the smaller stream, tumbled away happily.

  She tasted the joined stream: it was unpleasantly salty, brackish just like the ocean. She sipped from both of the little streams above where they merged.