A Tear in the Ocean

by H. M. Bouwman

He nodded once, jaw set.

  “Are you—are you planning to ever go back to Raftworld?”

  His eyes flipped up to stare at her. “Of course. I only ran away until I could figure out the salt and fix it. Fix the ocean. Then I go back.”

  And he’d return a hero. She could see the pull of that, how exciting it would be. That is, if people love you and admire you already, then saving the world would make everything even better, because you’d be proving to them that they weren’t wrong to care about you.

  “What if you don’t figure it out? Then what happens when you come home?”

  He shrugged in a closed-off way that reminded her of herself. “I never thought about that.”

  They both sat for a moment. Artie wasn’t sure what Putnam was thinking now, but she was imagining if she returned home after this journey. It was hard to even predict how angry her stepfather would be and how he’d take it out on her. She couldn’t think what Putnam would be facing. Why go back at all?

  “Well,” she said in what she hoped was a cheerful voice, “if we’re lucky, we’ll never find out, because you won’t have to go back. Because we don’t have any way to get back to our boat anyhow.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then broke out laughing. Like she’d said something really funny. He laughed so hard his eyes filled with tears.

  * * *

  • • •

  PUTNAM REALIZED Artie might think he was laughing at her, so he explained. “It’s the idea that I don’t need to worry about getting into trouble. I just think that’s funny. I mean, I’d much rather be able to get home, even if I’m in a little trouble.”

  “I don’t get why that’s funny,” Artie said.

  “I guess it’s really not.”

  Artie said, “We’re kind of in the same boat. Both runaways.” She smiled.

  In the same boat. Putnam hadn’t been given a mission of any kind; he’d just run away. He wasn’t any better than her. Worse, really, since it seemed like she had much better reasons for running away than he did, at least according to all the bruises he remembered, and the old scars she carried.

  And although he’d finally told her the truth, he hadn’t told her the whole truth: the fight with his dad, his shame over how his dad ruled—not being willing to take action, just letting things happen. His anger over how his dad let his second mom leave. And now, his guilt over running away himself and how much, even though he was mad at his dad, he missed him. Artie never talked about her stepdad, and he could tell she didn’t miss him. Her life had been so hard. Putnam was ashamed of how easy his life had been—and how he still couldn’t handle it. Artie’s stepdad had given her the bruises, Putnam was sure of it. His dad had only given him—what? Hard words? He felt like an idiot for getting upset about that.

  He was happy, though, at how much better Artie looked now, even with the new bruises from the ice tunnel: healthier, stronger, more filled out, and calmer. Not all the time; she was terrified of the bears, much more than he was. When they’d faced the beasts, she’d frozen in fear. But even so, she’d helped him escape, too. And here in the underworld she seemed genuinely happy. She still didn’t sleep well—up and down all night long, and always surprised when she woke and saw him, as if she’d forgotten that he was there and was scared of him.

  But her smile was readier and more real.

  “Stop staring.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking—this is kind of perfect for you. I know you didn’t plan it, but you said once that you wanted to live somewhere where there weren’t any people. And here we are.”

  She blinked. “I’ll help you find a way back.”

  Putnam grinned. “Did you change your mind? You want to go home?”

  “Not home.” Her voice was low and sounded almost angry. “No. But if I went back with you, maybe I could find a little island to live on, back in the warm part of the world, and you could go home. You want to go home, right?”

  “Of course.” But he was beginning to see that there was no of course to that question, not for everyone. “There’s an island Raftworld sometimes visits—it’s small with a deep lake in the middle. There’s good food, especially mangoes—and tiny monkeys for company. You could live there, probably. And I could visit you when Raftworld stops by for mangoes.”

  Artie nodded. “I’d like that. To see you.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll get us out, somehow. And we’ll find the boat—or build a new one—and we’ll get home.”

  She looked like she wanted to believe him, very much.

  He didn’t tell her that before they left he was going to study that statue. As weird as it seemed, he felt like the statue was what he was looking for, the key to the salty water. Maybe if he destroyed it . . .

  But he didn’t tell that part to Artie. She probably wouldn’t understand.

  She had a secret, too; he could tell, something she wasn’t telling him about the statue or about the underground cavern. Like she knew something he didn’t. Part of him wanted to know what it was, and the other part of him wanted to pretend that everything was okay, that they’d find their way out of here together and go back home, where they’d both be fine.

  * * *

  • • •

  DAYS PASSED as Putnam healed and Artie explored and found food. And the days in this underground world lasted so long! Artie couldn’t get over it. The first night they were there she had noticed the difference in light from the surface. The gypsum walls seemed to soak up light during the short southern day and then glow with it for hours after the sun must have set. By the time the glow faded fully, it was almost day again. Full darkness lasted only a few minutes.

  And it rained every morning. All Artie could figure out was that, high above, the ceiling of the cave must have condensation on it from the humid air that warmed up and dripped down when the sun rose. Or maybe it was so high up that there were actually clouds; she didn’t know. Once Artie and Putnam learned to pack up their blanket before the rain fell, they were fine. They let themselves get showered, and they dried off once the rain ended.

  Every morning she visited the statue and studied it, but it didn’t move again. She talked to it. She said, “Please stop crying” and “How do I make you stop crying?” and “I need you to stop turning the sea to salt or Putnam might knock you down,” but nothing worked. She pushed from different angles every day, but the statue didn’t move. She even kicked it a few times, and nothing happened except her toes hurt.

  Truthfully, it was hard to worry about the statue every moment. This garden was flawless. It felt to Artie exactly like she and Putnam were swaddled into a little pocket of the world, protected and hidden away. Like they were hidden inside some giant being’s luck pouch. It was impossible to imagine this world with bears—or anything scary. This lucky pocket of an underworld simply couldn’t hold terrifying things like that. Only lovely things. Only good reminders. And once Putnam’s back healed, everything would be perfect.

  She did think of the statue sometimes. And the claw marks on her arm. And then she put them out of her mind, deliberately, like she was hauling out trash to the bonfire and then walking away from her old home. This place was safe. It had to be.

  She hated the thought of going back to the outer world. This little pocket world, this was for her. She’d crawled inside and she never had to come out. She could almost feel a god’s heart through the fabric of this world, beating.

  She’d said she’d leave because she knew Putnam wanted to go back to Raftworld. Needed to go back. His father must miss him. And Artie knew, too, that if her mother were alive, Artie would try to get back to her; she could understand Putnam’s wish to return. So she’d help him find a way out, and then she’d break it to him that she was going to stay here. Where it was safe.

  But even as she thought about staying, her heart said, What about Putnam? Won’t he miss you?
And won’t you miss him?

  Finally, early one morning, she plunked herself down in front of the statue and just sat, wondering again how such a thing had come to exist. Putnam was still asleep. Several days had passed, and every day made him stronger. His back was healing. The scars would always be there, ugly and deep—she wasn’t a doctor, after all, and couldn’t do anything to make them fade and not pucker—but he would live. His arms and legs and everything worked well, and the tightness in his skin and back muscles seemed to lessen each day.

  Meanwhile, she had a good hour or more until Putnam woke and the rain came. She sat quietly on the big rock, and this time she didn’t tell the statue to stop crying. She just talked.

  “Hey,” she said, stretching her toes into the water. “I’m sorry you’re sad. And I’m sorry your arm got clawed up. I bet it was a bear, like Putnam’s scar. I’m glad you got away from it. My arm . . .” She paused, thinking. She’d never said what happened out loud. “It wasn’t a bear. It was my stepdad. He was really mad, about a whole bunch of things, and he threw the pan of hot oil, and it got all over my arm and my neck. He threw it at me.” She wasn’t telling the story right, but the statute didn’t seem to mind. “That was all after . . . after my mom died.”

  She kept talking. For a long time.

  The statue never frowned, never judged; she just listened.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN SHE reached the end of her story, she stopped talking. It wasn’t really the end. There was more to talk about—good memories of her mom as well as the sad and bad memories—and she could tell the statue these stories, too. But for now, she’d said enough. And she felt—lighter. Unburdened.

  “Um,” she said. The statue almost seemed to lean forward slightly. “I’ve been hogging all the talking. I just realized that. Do you—do you want to tell me anything?”

  For a moment there was complete stillness in the garden, except for the stream quietly babbling. The birds fell silent; the crickets and cicadas ceased their chirping and humming, the bees stopped buzzing, and the leaves did not rustle—as if waiting for something important. Except for the stream, it felt like time itself had stopped.

  Then the statue bent its head, just a fraction of an angle. Maybe a trick of the light.

  And then it blinked.

  Blinked again.

  And then it opened its mouth and began to talk.

  7

  PUTNAM AND RAYEL AND ARTIE.

  PUTNAM ROSE early—a sure sign that he was feeling better. He woke just as Artie was leaving, but he lay still anyway and let her depart. She was up to something. He wanted to know what it was.

  She headed toward the river, and after a few moments, he pushed himself up to sitting to follow her.

  It was harder than he’d thought it would be. Up until now, he’d really only left the blanket to take care of necessary business at a nearby latrine Artie had dug for him. This walk, though, was much longer and took him back through bushes and long grass. He wondered how Artie had helped him up the hill into the sunny spot to begin with; he barely remembered the walk and the river; even the icy tunnel had faded into a long dream of pain and claws and burning.

  But he remembered the statue. Or he thought he did. Did she really look like a Raftworlder? How was that possible? He must have dreamed that part.

  Trying to be quiet, he walked slowly and stayed on the path. The grass was flattened, as if Artie took it often. Well, of course she did: to gather water for him. But the path was so worn it almost looked older than their arrival here. Or she was using it much more than he’d thought.

  He could tell he was nearing the river because the sound of the waterfall grew loud. He could see the tall willow tree bending gracefully at the base of the fall; the statue would be nearby. He paused on the path. Was Artie down there now? How would she feel about him barging in on her?

  All at once the entire woods went silent; it was as if his ears suddenly stopped working—except that he could hear the water running and splashing. And through the babbling water came the sound of a voice.

  Not Artie’s voice.

  A Raftworlder accent, but old-fashioned, the way the oldest of the elders spoke. “My name is Rayel,” said a girl’s voice. “I want to tell you a story.”

  * * *

  • • •

  AS PUTNAM listened, the statue told her tale of how she left home to avoid an unwanted marriage; how she found her gift for the cold; how she met and lost Nunu; how she found Una in the underworld; how she and Una fought; how Una left. How Rayel, the girl who couldn’t freeze, felt herself hardening in grief and regret, how she turned into a statue, how she cried.

  She didn’t cry as she told her tale, though.

  Putnam, creeping closer, could see Rayel through the brush. Her face moved stiffly, as if unused to speaking, and her voice was creaky with disuse. Her hair was curled as tight and dark as Putnam’s, twisted around her head in intricate braids.

  “What about the scars on your arms?” asked Artie. Putnam, who didn’t remember, smiled. After all that—the crazy story, the fact that a statue was talking at all—Artie wanted to know about scars on the statue’s arm. She was an odd one.

  “The bears,” Rayel said. “Like what happened to you two. Bears follow everyone who comes south. Everyone has a bear after them.”

  Oh. Putnam gasped, then remembered he needed to be quiet.

  Artie too sounded shocked. “But the bears didn’t—they didn’t kill you.”

  “I was already a statue when they found me. Mostly.”

  There was a long, long pause. Then Artie said, in a small voice, “Wait. Your bear came here? Into this underground world?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . I thought this place was safe.”

  “Safe as anywhere else. Which is to say, not safe. Eventually your bear will find a way in, just like mine did so many years ago.”

  Putnam sat back with a crunch of twigs. The bears could be here—anytime. He thought of all the nights he’d slept without fear, out in the open on the grass. Artie, too.

  Artie turned and saw him, and he could see the same thought in her face.

  * * *

  • • •

  RAYEL HAD been frozen so long. It was as if the cold had finally, in her grief and shame, found her and had frozen her all at once. She didn’t know how the magic worked. She just knew that, when it happened, she had embraced it. She’d wanted to freeze. She had never planned to thaw.

  It hadn’t occurred to her that her tears would affect the rest of the world. She’d never considered that.

  If she had considered it, would it have made a difference? She wasn’t sure.

  But when Artie started speaking, she had felt something inside her come to life. Here was someone else with a story just as painful as hers—maybe more so; pain was so hard to compare and weigh. It was always heavier in your own hands than in anyone else’s. At any rate, here was this other girl with a painful story. Rayel listened, and her heart cracked open.

  Then the magical words: Do you want to tell me anything? And Rayel found that she did. Most of it confession. All the anger she’d felt toward Una (and Nunu) for leaving had melted away over the years, and what was left was regret and shame over the way she’d treated her. Thought of her. Rayel also felt grief, pure and sharp like a sword in her heart, for the people she’d loved and lost: Solomon, and Una and Nunu. And now, she felt love for Artie, who had gone through so much and still had room in her heart to care for someone else. And she worried that Artie would get stuck, too, and freeze. Underneath all these feelings, she was angry that the world was still, after all these years, so hard on people.

  So many emotions. They stirred her. She could feel waves of energy tingle all the way to her fingers and toes. And she knew she was unfrozen now for good.

  Everyone s
he’d ever known was dead—too many years had passed. But here she was, brought back through this girl’s story, and through her own. The least she could do, given that she’d been unfrozen, was help this girl in return.

  And the boy, Putnam. He’d listened to Rayel’s story, too. She knew that—she’d heard him and seen him eavesdropping early on, and she’d decided to keep talking, for him as well as for Artie. He was, according to Artie, a Raftworlder, and Artie cared about him. Rayel wanted him to know her story.

  As she told her own tale, her body thawed. Her limbs began to move. She felt stiff, as after a too-long sleep, but she was alive. Living and breathing again. With someone who cared about her—and people she cared about. Sharing a story with them. A perfect moment.

  When she finished, Artie asked if they were safe here in the underground. Rayel told the truth—no—and Putnam fell backward into the bushes, and the perfect moment was over.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE THREE of them moved to the side of the willow tree that was farthest from the waterfall, so that they were more out of the mist, and Putnam and Artie sat with Rayel for hours, rehashing her story and fitting it with their own histories. It turned out that Putnam was a distant grand-nephew of Rayel’s—through the baby that hadn’t been born yet when Rayel left. And he had heard stories about Rayel—not her name, which was probably recorded somewhere but not in the tales he’d heard, but her actions: he’d heard about a king’s daughter who’d run away on her wedding night and never returned. He’d heard—though he didn’t tell Rayel this part—that the princess had been cursed and turned into some kind of monster and had left. In some versions she left in order to protect her people from herself, and in others she was chased out after killing the young prince in a fit of rage and jealousy. She’d gone somewhere far, far away where she could be a monster in peace.

  Maybe, Putnam thought, lots of monster stories were just that—stories about people who’d left, for whatever reason, long ago. Maybe a hundred years from now, he and Artie would be remembered, if at all, as monsters who’d been exiled to the deep south . . .