by Fred Koehler
A low toll resonated through the houseboat. The duo exchanged glances.
“Is that the bell?” asked Archie.
“It can’t be. It sounds too far away.”
They dashed to the porthole and gasped in unison. Mr. Popli’s houseboat and its mooring floated freely away from the island. The main line had been severed. The island was drifting apart.
Chapter 8
“Snakespit,” Mr. Popli cursed. Archie, for once, agreed.
The duo scrambled out of the hatch and climbed the lashings holding the top deck in place. From there they could better see the island; but it was drifting farther away by the minute. And since Mr. Popli had not designed the Abigail as a seafaring vessel, she possessed no sails, no oars, no method of locomotion. They were trapped on a floating prison.
Archie suggested that they could swim back, taking turns to push the egg along on a float. Mr. Popli flatly refused, citing every danger from currents to carnivorous fish to Colubra herself, who had probably already entered the city to gobble up each and every citizen in the chaos.
“Well, I hope you’ve got a better idea,” said Archie.
“I may indeed.”
Mr. Popli salvaged long, flat sticks from the remains of the mooring platform. Balancing on the water barrels, they paddled furiously back toward the island. After a full ten minutes, Archie gave up.
“We’re going nowhere,” the shrew shouted across the nose of the houseboat.
“I’m afraid you’re right. We need to cut ourselves loose from the mooring platform.”
“No—we just need more leverage. Instead of paddling the Abigail, let’s cut the houseboat loose and paddle the platform.”
“We can paddle the platform, but we’re not leaving my houseboat!”
They clambered down the tethering rope and onto the mooring platform itself. Made mostly of wood with bits of foam tucked in the cracks, the raft-like platform floated just above the waterline. From here they made better progress, but waves washed over the top, bowling them over and sometimes into the ocean. After a series of long, dark shadows passed beneath them, they retreated from the platform back to the Abigail.
“Maybe I could reimagine the tarpaulin as a sail,” said Mr. Popli, climbing paw over paw to the top deck. “We could ride the wind back to the island.”
“It’s blowing the wrong way!” Archie called over his shoulder, scampering along the pontoons.
“I’m going to see if I can finagle it. And Archibald—you’d better not try anything foolish!”
Archie looked toward the shrinking island. He could barely see it now. He decided to try something foolish.
At the back of the houseboat, Archie used his sharp, spiky teeth to slash through the lashings holding Mr. Popli’s bathtub in place. He maneuvered the butter dish atop the mooring platform at the front of the boat. By the time Mr. Popli realized Archie was right about the wind, the shrew had loaded the egg and was preparing to row away. Mr. Popli had to tackle him to keep him from succeeding. The duo tumbled into the water and climbed, sputtering, back onto the platform. Archie barely snagged hold of the butter dish before it floated off.
“We’re caught in a current, Archibald. No amount of paddling will get us back to the island until we drift out of it.”
“But with a small enough vessel I can paddle across the current instead of against it and probably make it home in time for a snack before dinner.”
“Didn’t you just eat lunch?”
“I know. But I’m hungry again.”
“You’re not going!”
“I am, and you’d come with me if you cared more about your life than you do this silly houseboat.”
How dare he! thought the mouse. Of course he cared about getting them home safely. But at the same time, his houseboat was far from silly! He’d spent months designing it, redrawing the plans at least a dozen times. Yes, he regularly scrubbed every inch of plastic till it shined. And maybe, just maybe, he had tethered the Abigail so far from other homes so he’d have fewer visitors to sully his perfect vessel. But he would gladly let it go if it meant rescuing himself and Archibald. Wouldn’t he?
Archie wasn’t waiting to find out. “I’ll send help when I get back,” said the shrew. He’d broken free from Mr. Popli’s grip and was pushing away from the platform, using one of his makeshift oars to shove himself into the current.
“You’ll do no such thing,” said Mr. Popli, snatching ahold of the paddle at the last second. “I’ll need your help aboard the Abigail once we’ve drifted out of the current and can paddle back. I can’t do it by myself.” He hauled the oar toward him until he could grip the edge of the butter dish. With a giant heave, he pulled Archie, egg, and dish back onto the rocking platform.
Archie leapt from the dish and bared his teeth, shoving a clawed finger at Mr. Popli’s snout.
“I thought I was banished. So then I don’t suppose you’re in charge of me any longer. I’ll take my chances with my own ideas, thank you very much.”
“First of all, you’re not banished yet. Second, it’s my bathtub and you can’t have it! But if you continue to disobey orders, I’ll have you chopped into a bait ball, then banished.”
“Sounds preferable to spending another minute with you!”
And that’s how Merri found them: slip-sliding atop the mooring platform and snarling over a butter dish.
“Archie! Mayor Popli!” Merri lighted on the milk jug’s spout.
“Merri,” said Mr. Popli finally, composing himself and looking away from Archie. “Thank goodness you’ve found us. What’s happened?”
“The main line—it snapped. Most of the island is so interconnected that it’s all stayed in one place, but you’ve lost a few houses, many of the boats, and part of the wall is sinking. The citizens have pulled back toward the center of the island, and every able-bodied animal is working to repair the damage. You two were the only ones unaccounted for, until now. No one’s hurt, but your help is needed. I’ll arrange a rescue party to come get you with the big rowboat.”
“We’re caught in a current, Merri. The rowboat would be in as much trouble as we’re in,” said Mr. Popli.
“Nonsense,” said Archie. “Ten rowers could make progress against this current. Send them as quickly as possible!”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Popli. “And that’s an order. Mark our coordinates, then return to the island. Let the council know what happened, but for goodness’ sake make sure Edward the Dung is the last to know. As long as he doesn’t get in the way I can coordinate things from here. Bring news and come back to see if we’re free of the current.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Archibald is somehow responsible for this mess.”
Merri’s beak dropped. Could Archie have really made the island fall apart? He could be warm and kind and fiercely loyal. But she also knew what happened when he couldn’t control himself. She’d seen him act selfishly and recklessly and dangerously. He might not have done it on purpose, but he certainly could have severed the main line.
And that’s when she saw the egg.
Chapter 9
“What’s that?” Merri asked.
Archie and Mr. Popli exchanged glances.
“I … I saved it,” said Archie. “I was going to tell you.”
“Where? How?”
Mr. Popli cut in, hefting the egg out of his bathtub. “Merri, we’ll answer all of your questions. But for now you can think of this egg as one more reason to get us home as quickly as possible. Archibald did find it, and somehow in doing so he’s caused this disaster. But right now we need your swift assistance before we’re all in real danger.”
As Mr. Popli wrestled the egg back inside the houseboat, Merri and Archie stood in silence. Archie could not meet her gaze. He turned away to count the hairs on the end of his tail, letting go of the butter dish. Why hadn’t he brought her the egg? Maybe he was still upset about their argument. Or maybe you knew that she’d be the natu
ral choice to hatch an egg. And you wanted to keep it for yourself.
Mr. Popli climbed back out of the hatch. Merri exchanged a few more words with the mouse, and then flitted off toward the island.
“Well, now you’ve done it, Archibald,” Mr. Popli chided. “You’ve ruined things even more than I imagined possible!”
“I have, haven’t I? I suppose I should have told her.”
“Told her? Oh, yes. About the egg. Of course.”
“Wait. If you didn’t mean the egg, then what were you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Mr. Popli. We are adrift at sea with no way home, having just deeply offended our only hope of rescue! All of which you think is my fault! What else could I possibly have done?”
“There is the small matter of my bathtub.”
Squinting against the sun, the duo watched Mr. Popli’s butter dish bob farther and farther away until it disappeared into the horizon.
As she flew, Merri noticed her tiny shadow flickering over the ocean and tried not to think of the egg or of Archie’s betrayal. She imagined instead what it must be like to fly in a flock, dozens or even hundreds of shadows soaring in formation. Did other birds play games to pass the time as they flew? What was it like to sleep nestled up with brothers and sisters? Would others think her strange, having grown up with only non-fliers? What if they thought that she flapped her wings funny? Or that her warble sounded a bit like a shrew’s squeak?
The stories she’d heard from the citizens all ended the same way. War had discouraged avian life around the islands. Any passing bird might be mistaken for an enemy fighter and attacked. Eventually, they had all died in the fighting or fled in search of safer lands.
But if I was born after the war, where did I come from? And what about this new egg? There must be a bird colony nearby. Perhaps my family is there, searching for me even now. They could be just over the horizon!
And then she saw them: dark spots on the water’s surface, shadows tracking along at exactly her speed. Merri spun toward the sky, searching. But she saw nothing. No! Where did they go? Flying as high as she dared, she darted between clouds, scanning the air with her sharp vision.
She looked back down; the shadows still raced. She dove. The shadows grew. A bull mahi leapt from the water, launching a spray of crystalline droplets into the air. Merri swerved and climbed higher. The green-and-blue fish flopped back into the rushing shadows. Just a school of fish. The swarm of mahi wove playfully in and around one another below the waves. Like a happy family, thought Merri as she flew on alone.
Days passed and the current died down, but tensions did not. By now the rowboats could no longer reach them. The only sailboat large enough to risk the venture had sunk when the island started to break apart. Still, Archie and Mr. Popli made slow progress toward the island. The egg, bundled in blankets in the warmest part of the ship, had not hatched.
As the island grew even the tiniest bit closer, Archie longed to see it up close through the lens of his looking glass. But he left the invention right where he’d hidden it in the big pouch of his satchel. No doubt Mr. Popli would commandeer it for himself. Besides, it’s rather nice to know something he doesn’t.
For her part, Merri made several flights a day back and forth between the island and the Abigail. She brought something small but helpful each time she came. An extra length of string. A matchstick. A rubber band. She tried to keep her spirits high, but life on the island had become tense. Without Mr. Popli there to calm tempers, factions had formed. The council argued over how to accomplish the most routine tasks and about which unlucky souls would carry out Archie’s rather unpalatable assignments. And while no one was openly hostile toward Merri, she felt a further shift in how the islanders addressed her.
Merri, fix that! Merri, go there! Merri, take this message to Edward. The citizens seemed to need her more than ever, but treated her as a mere errand bird. And though she grew exhausted from her efforts, Merri refused to ask for extra rations or rest. I’ll sleep when Mr. Popli and Archie are home safe.
She brought news of the progress on the island to the Abigail. “The main line snapped on the north end of the island. That’s also right where the wall split, but no one can seem to figure out why. They’re still working to float that section of the wall high enough up that a new patch can be added. You were there that morning, weren’t you, Mayor Popli?”
Mr. Popli’s ears lowered, almost imperceptibly. Snakespit, he thought. He had hammered the extra nails into the patch. They could have split the cigar box lid, and that might have had an effect on the main line. “I was there, inspecting Archibald’s recent patch, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary,” he said eventually. Then he quickly asked about the condition of old Mrs. Toad, whose declining vision caused her to keep eating plastic berries. Archie looked curiously at the mouse but said nothing.
The next morning, Merri landed on the hull of the Abigail in an excited flutter. “Mayor Popli! Archie! Come quickly!” She tapped incessantly on the thin plastic. The hatch on the porthole opened, and a pair of harried mammals emerged, climbing to the top deck to meet the bird.
“What is it, Merri?” asked Mr. Popli.
“Whales? Sharks? Whale sharks?!” asked Archie.
“No! But you won’t believe what’s drifted toward you overnight. You can see it just over there!” They squinted and looked to where Merri was pointing.
“There’s something out there for sure,” said Mr. Popli. “What is it? More trash?”
Archie recognized it at once. He gasped and then began chittering excitedly. Not more than a hundred lengths away was the wreckage of Archie’s sea-cycle. Early morning sunlight glinted off the clear plastic and misaligned coil spring.
“It’s my invention!” cried Archie. “The locomotive engine! Merri! Mr. Popli! We’re saved!”
Mr. Popli stared hopelessly at the broken-down rig of castaway parts and floating garbage. “Doomed is more like it.”
Chapter 10
An hour before the storm struck, the familiar sound of Archie and Mr. Popli arguing woke Merri from her nap. She’d sapped all her strength carrying a pipe nearly as heavy as she was from the island. Archie needed it to finish the steering mechanism, and she had gone after it against Mr. Popli’s better judgment. But Archie said they couldn’t manage without it and Merri had insisted she could do it. She’d arrived too tired even to speak. They’d had to help her inside.
The wreck had destroyed both the body and front wheel of the sea-cycle. They could not salvage the vessel. But the coil-powered engine along with the remaining paddle wheel had survived and seemed to function.
Archie’s solution was to rig the engine at the back of the Abigail and steer her home. Mr. Popli flatly refused, of course, but gave in when Archie flatly refused to help paddle unless they spent equal time on his idea. The mouse’s eyes bulged with every smear of grease on the polished hull. He squeaked involuntarily with every new hole that the shrew punctured in the perfect plastic.
Mr. Popli still insisted they spend the first several hours of each day paddling toward the island—just in case the second voyage of Archie’s coil-powered engine was as much a failure as the first. They were running low on supplies, and lower still on patience.
To Archie, every minute they spent paddling toward the island was a wasted chance to install the engine. To Mr. Popli, every hour of inventing lessened their chances of ever making it home. And still, the egg had not hatched.
Eventually, Archie lost his patience. “You’re a tyrant, which would be fine if you weren’t also ridiculous! It will take two extra days to install the steering inside the houseboat and we won’t be able to see where we’re going. It’s a laughable idea.”
“We can cut a hole in the front of the Abigail so we can see to steer and I’ll replace it with glass later. Installing the steering on top of the houseboat would expose the driver to weather, Colubra’s attacks, and who knows what else. And I don’t appreciate n
ame-calling, by the way.”
“I’ve got much worse names in mind for you!”
“By all means, do tell,” said Mr. Popli, who felt a sudden tinge of satisfaction at seeing Archie lose his temper.
“You’re a self-important, stuck-up pig of a mouse!”
“Go on.”
“Why you’re nothing but a … a snake! A skulking, slithering monster who only cares about himself and his precious houseboat!”
“You’re just upset because, deep down, you know I’m right and you don’t want to admit it.”
“Deep down is where you’d be the most useful. I think you’d make an extraordinary anchor.” The shrew gestured toward the ocean.
“At least the conversation would be more intelligent. And the company would be far more agreeable.”
And that’s how Merri found them when she woke: once again bickering—and completely unaware of the storm racing in from the southeast. Billowing clouds were clambering over one another like an angry swarm of black flies. On the opposite horizon, the distant island sparkled under blue skies.
“Mayor Popli,” said Merri, poking her head out of the open porthole.
“Not now.”
“With all respect.”
“I said NOT NOW.”
“Perhaps after you sink in the giant storm that’s headed straight for us?”
Only then did Archie and Mr. Popli look up. Merri flew from the hatch and lighted on the tarpaulin.
“You know what, Archibald? I think you may be right,” said Mr. Popli. “Let’s install the steering on top. How quickly can it be done?”
“Thank you for agreeing, Mr. Popli,” said Archie, eyes widening at the gathering darkness. “But it could take half a day to cut the steering column to size.”
“We’re out of time. Is there another way?”
“I could have it done in ten twitches with the pipe saw from my workshop.”
“I’ll get it,” said Merri. “I can go and be back before the storm gets here.”
