But they had taken no more than a few dozen steps when all of them heard a sound. A definite something, directly behind them.
A low, rumbly sound, like a growl.
Rayel fell to her knees, coughing and hacking.
Artie and Putnam turned at the same time—and there they were. Two bears. The same two bears, it seemed like. Rising up from the snow. Either the bears had been underground, and had just now followed them out, or they’d been sitting outside in the snow as the three had left the tunnel and walked past them.
The bears blocked their escape back to the tunnel—not that that would have helped anyway. And there was no way the three of them could beat the bears to the sea, even if Putnam weren’t injured and Rayel weren’t now on her knees, coughing and choking. Even if they were sure of the boat’s location—and if their boat was even still there.
Putnam gave up. He’d already stood up to the bears once— and almost died. Would have died if not for Artie. He knew what the claws felt like. He could not live through them again. He stood in the snow and felt every ounce of bravery leave him.
* * *
• • •
ARTIE SAW THE BEARS and heard Rayel cough and felt Putnam freeze next to her, and she felt . . . angry. She knew what claws felt like—she’d felt them most of her life. But she did not give up. Not this time. Not ever again. Her usual tactic was to wait things out—or to run away. But she was done with waiting. Done with running. Done with it all. Just done. It was the one word that formed and hardened in her head at this moment. Done.
She put her arm out to tell Putnam and Rayel to stay back. She had this.
And she faced the bears.
She didn’t plan to die. It wasn’t a suicide mission. She just thought, Done.
Also, she didn’t plan to wait for the bears to attack.
She attacked them.
For a millisecond, just before she ran at them, she wondered what the bears were thinking. Usually—at least in stories—bears were hungry, they wanted food, they were on the hunt. But these, she knew, were more than bears. They wanted more. They did not give up. They did not tire, and they never would.
To Artie the bears looked like everything she’d run away from, always coming after her, never leaving her alone. Rayel was right. Your bear follows you, she thought. You can’t run. You can only take care of it.
And knowing all that, she ran at the bears. She aimed for the one without the bloody forehead. That one was Putnam’s; somehow she knew. Hers was clear-faced. She flew at it across the ice and snow and leapt into its arms. A great bear hug, her arms around its neck, its mouth gaping open in surprise.
* * *
• • •
PUTNAM FROZE. What was Artie doing? Putnam’s bear—the one with the mark on its forehead—stood still, as confused as Putnam. Both watched as Artie hugged, then choked, the bear.
Artie’s bear began to shrink.
Right before Putnam’s eyes, her bear grew smaller. Soon Artie and the bear were the same size, and a moment later, she was hugging something the size of a large dog as it wriggled and twisted and tried to get away. Then she was kneeling and the bear was the size of a puppy. Her back was to him, but she called over her shoulder, “Putnam, you too!”
Rayel was on her hands and knees in the snow, heaving like she was throwing up. The bears ignored her.
Artie yelled again. “Putnam!”
He looked at his own bear, who was mesmerized by what was happening to his companion. Now, if ever, was the time to attack. He gulped.
Putnam could still feel the claws in his back. How could he run at this thing? But Rayel kept choking and coughing, and Artie screamed, “NOW!” and he knew he had to. He ran at his bear from the side, swung his staff around the bear’s head, and leapt on its back, gripping the staff with both hands and hanging from the bear like a cape, the walking stick the clasp around its neck.
The bear bucked, but Putnam held on like death, bringing his heels in to grip as well. He could hear Artie yelling but couldn’t hear what she was saying. Maybe Rayel was yelling too. He couldn’t tell.
After what seemed like an eternity, his own bear began to shrink. Then his feet touched the ground, and he was standing over it, holding it down. Then he was bent over it, still gripping. As his staff fell to the ground, he clutched the bear with his hands; it was the size of a puppy and then even smaller.
Rayel coughed one last racking cough, her hands cupped over her mouth. And then, finally, silence.
“Are you okay?” Artie said, and Putnam started over to Rayel, dragging his toy-size bear along, but the older girl lowered her clasped hands and gasped, “Finish with your bears. I’m fine.”
Putnam and Artie each held their own bear. Both creatures were tiny, about the size now of baby birds, small enough to hold in one’s cupped hand. The bears clawed and growled and bit, but all they were able to do was leave little raised scratch marks on Putnam’s and Artie’s exposed wrists and snap at their fingers, which through the mittens felt ticklish. Putnam’s bear yanked off one of his mittens and couldn’t seem to figure out how to spit it out. He shook it in his jaws like it was an animal he’d conquered.
The bears were, in fact, almost adorable now, thought Putnam, if you could overlook the fact that they still wanted to kill you. They were tiny and pathetic predators, but they didn’t seem to know it, so they kept scrabbling. Artie grabbed hers by the scruff of its neck and dangled it out from her body, where it kicked its legs and growled so weakly it sounded almost like purring. Putnam copied her, first tapping his bear on its nose to make it drop his mitten onto the snow.
The two friends stood for a moment, studying the miniature killers. Then Putnam set his on the ground behind him, expecting it to . . . run away, maybe? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t run away; it scurried up the back of his legs instead and bit at his neck, little nips that stung like ant bites. He pulled it off and held it out again.
Artie observed him silently.
Rayel sat in the snow, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“What do we do with these things now?” Putnam asked. “It doesn’t seem like they’re going to stop following us.”
Artie shrugged, studying hers intently.
“Why are they so small all of a sudden? They’re almost cute—”
“They’re not cute.”
“No,” he replied quickly to her sharp tone. Then he added, looking at his bear more closely, “No, they’re not cute at all.” His bear still had a blood mark on its forehead from where he’d fought with it before. It had been so busy hunting him it hadn’t taken the time to groom itself. Or maybe that was a permanent stain.
Artie stared into her bear’s eyes. It was flailing its legs to escape her grip, but not succeeding. In fact, it almost looked like it was still shrinking.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Don’t eat it,” said Rayel. Her voice was raw from coughing.
Artie didn’t answer except to grunt with effort, still glaring into her bear’s eyes. The little bear hung its head, now shrinking so quickly that it was almost snapping away to nothing. Putnam gaped—he could feel his mouth dropping and his own bear nipping at him and wriggling, but he didn’t care. He watched as Artie’s bear dwindled until it was the size of a stone. Something you might toss in the water to see it skip.
Artie flipped her hand over to hold the bear in her palm, and suddenly it quivered and froze—like water turning to ice but much faster. And in her hand was a perfectly shaped terrifying bear made of ice. Putnam reached out and touched it with his bare finger. No, it was made of gypsum. Artie opened the luck pouch that hung around her neck and dropped it in, an unreadable expression on her face.
Rayel breathed, “Yes,” and bent her head over her cupped hands.
Putnam turned to his bear, not sure what to do. Artie did
n’t have magic any more than he did, so how had she done it?
At his shoulder, she whispered, “Look it in the eyes. Tell it that you know what it is. Tell it that it won’t chase you anymore, because you won’t run away. Tell it that you’ll live with it and carry it around, but it doesn’t scare you anymore. It doesn’t own you. It can’t kill you.”
The words didn’t make sense, exactly. I know what it is? But Putnam did it anyway. He looked into his bear’s eyes, and thought, I know what you are.
And suddenly he did know. The bear was everything he’d lost, all the sorrows he’d ever faced and ever would. And he knew then that he’d carry the pain of his mother leaving for the rest of his life, and maybe he’d never really be able to explain it to anyone, and Artie would carry her own wounds, and so would Rayel. They’d never completely get rid of them, they’d never get over the bad things that had happened. They would carry these things around; they would never put them down because they weren’t put-downable. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the bad memories wouldn’t freeze them, wouldn’t kill them.
As he thought all these things, his bear shrank to almost nothing and quivered to stone, just as Artie’s had. In his hand was a terrifying little figurine, all sharp edges and teeth and claws. “It’ll cut me.”
“Sure,” she said. “Don’t carry it in your hand. When we get back to the boat, I’ll make you a luck pouch. And you can put it in there.”
“But it’s bad luck,” he said.
“That’s okay.” She sounded tired. “The pouch is for things that make you you. Bad as well as good. It’s just that I—it’s just that most people only want to carry the good.”
She held out her hand for it, and he handed it to her carefully, so as not to cut her. She slipped it into her luck pouch. Then she turned to Rayel. “Want me to carry yours, too? Until you have somewhere to put it?”
And Putnam saw with surprise that Rayel was holding a small stone bear, too. She handed it to Artie. “I’m glad to get that out of me.”
* * *
• • •
THEY WALKED up the big hill, and there was the boat, still floating in the current like a miracle. Artie sighed, relieved to be able to go . . . well, home. To go home, wherever that might end up being.
Putnam had been quiet since Artie put the creatures in her luck pouch. Now he said, “What’s it feel like?”
Artie knew exactly what he meant. “It’s the first thing in my luck pouch. Well, the first three things—but you’ll both get yours back on the boat.” She didn’t say what it felt like, though. Putnam would find that out for himself, and she was pretty sure Rayel already knew. It felt like a sadness was lodged there, pressing lightly on her chest, and some pain and terror, too, and it would be there always. But there was also a power to it. She had something she’d lived through. She felt strong.
And she knew it was only the first item. There would be more things to put in her luck pouch, eventually.
“Now let’s get on that boat,” she said. “And go home.”
Part Four
Return of the Lost
All Three. The Present, and a Little Bit of Future.
ONCE UPON two times, two girls and a boy and a magical dolphin-girl and their bears all went on journeys. They arrived at various destinations, but the destinations weren’t always as expected. Bad things happened and good—and sometimes both at the same time. Most of the travelers transformed, some of them drastically. No one knows where the dolphin-girl ended up. Some stories don’t have happy endings, and other endings are mysteries.
But one story—our story—needs a finish. Two girls and one boy returned to the warm part of the world, in a little miraculous boat, sailing slowly outside the current, through the quiet and sweetening sea, heading north, always north. Eventually they arrived.
They sailed to Putnam’s world, to Raftworld. It was also Rayel’s world, though it was the wrong time. Still, the more they talked it over, the more she thought she would stay there. Or maybe, eventually, she’d move to the Islands or travel somewhere she could experience winter and get to use her gift. But for now at least, she’d visit Raftworld. She had a lot to catch up on.
Artie thought she’d stay on Raftworld, too, at least for a while, with her new friends—especially Putnam, this person almost as close to her now as her own heart. This person who’d saved her—and whom she’d saved. Later, Artie thought, she might move to the small secluded island with the monkeys and mangoes, and live by herself. But that idea sounded less and less right as time went on, and besides, for now she owed it to Putnam to go with him and face his father and whatever punishment he might receive.
Putnam hoped Artie would change her mind and stay on Raftworld, though he knew he couldn’t make that happen. But he wished. Maybe, he thought, if he’d had a brother or sister, he would already have known what it was like to have someone that you’re willing to die for and are also completely irritated by—at the same time. Someone who you know so well that you know what they’re thinking, sometimes, before they even open their mouth. Someone whose face is almost more familiar to you than your own. He thought that might be what a sibling was like. He’d never had a friend like Artie, someone who would never, ever flatter him or lose a game to him on purpose or hide her mood from him. Who would always be true.
In their little boat, they spotted Artie’s home island late one afternoon and sailed around it without landing. They stayed far out to sea, keeping it on the horizon. Rayel stared, hungry for people after so long. Artie watched, arms crossed, as they circled and moved north.
Just north of the big Island, they saw what Putnam had hardly dared to hope for: a shadow on the horizon. Raftworld. He let out his breath in a gush. How would he have found Raftworld if his father hadn’t waited for him? If the nation hadn’t lingered, hoping the king’s son would return?
The three travelers arrived to Raftworld in the early night, a couple of hours after dark. The half-moon gave enough light to see but not so much that they would be noticed. They were all glad; they could step into this world without crowds. For Rayel and Artie, there would be explaining to do, some of it hard to believe. For Putnam, there would be apologies to make and groveling to do; he couldn’t imagine his father not being furious at how long he’d been gone: well over a month, going on two.
They all hoped to tell their stories in private.
They pulled the boat up to the south dock—the quietest dock at night and closest by a little bit to Putnam’s house—and walked down the empty path to the king’s mansion. Voices wafted from people’s homes, muffled. The water slapped lightly against the bottoms of the rafts, which shifted as they walked.
Artie, who had never been on Raftworld—nor on any boat bigger than the fishing boat they’d traveled the seas in—marveled at the size of Raftworld. Rayel, who had been there before, marveled at how familiar it seemed, even with a century of changes. Hundreds of small rafts, joined with waterproof seams that allowed for flexible movement on the water; a house on each raft, surrounded by a lush, dense garden; the nighttime sounds of chickens nesting and children protesting bedtime. Paths wound through the rafts to draw everyone to the center, which was magnificent: huge gardens spanning multiple rafts; a large building that served as school, market, and meeting place; and the king’s mansion, not much bigger than the other houses but set in a gem of a garden that, even at this time of night, glowed with small lights.
At the entryway to the king’s garden, Putnam paused as if uncertain.
Rayel said, “Is this the place?” It was bigger than she remembered.
“Are you scared?” Artie said to Putnam. She thought, Of course he is. She’d be scared, too. What would his father do to him, after he’d been gone so long without permission?
Putnam took a deep breath. “It’ll be okay. He’ll be mad, but he’ll also be happy to see me. To know I’m safe. H
e’ll be glad that we—that Rayel—fixed the water. And of course, he’ll love to meet you both. I just—I’m thinking about how much he must have missed me and worried.”
Artie took one hand and Rayel took the other, and they stepped through the gateway and into the garden, through the garden and into the house, through the house and into Putnam’s father’s arms.
The old man wept with joy.
* * *
• • •
RAYEL, ARTIE, and Putnam felt funny about being called heroes. They hadn’t slain monsters, defeated bad guys, conquered foes. They had shrunk a few bears, but that victory was private. And they’d stopped the salt from entering the ocean—but only after Rayel had started it in the first place. Still, the people called them explorers. As Raftworld traveled north, the water grew less salty by the day, almost by the hour. And someday, all the ocean would be sweet again.
Rayel moved into a small house near one of the hydraulic engines; she said she wanted to learn how they worked, as she might plan another exploring trip into the cold sometime—maybe the deep north this time. She promised not to leave without telling anyone. And she made new friends—starting with the Raftworld storyteller, who was excited to meet someone who knew so many old legends.
Artie was given her own bedroom in the king’s house, a small cozy room next to Putnam’s. Putnam attached a lock to the door, in case she wanted to lock it. She did.
Artie’s bedroom contained a soft bed, and clean clothes to change into, and a cozy chair next to a window where she could sit and watch birds flutter and plants grow.
She went to school with Putnam, where she learned reading and knitting and how to build small rafts and how the giant hydraulics worked on the corners of Raftworld. Sometimes, to help out, she mended nets. She got a lot of compliments on how well she mended: the patches she sewed, full of intricate stitches like a spider’s web, turned out stronger than the areas that had never torn.
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