by Philip Roy
“Of course they’re real.”
“They don’t look real.”
“They are.”
“I know, I know. They just don’t look it. They look fake or something.”
I brought the sub to touch the ledge, then we jumped over with the sacks. Cinnamon grew very quiet now. I asked her to hold open the sacks while I lifted each skeleton inside. She nodded and held open a sack. I picked up the head first and put it in the sack, because I knew it would fall off anyway. Cinnamon made a whimpering sound and squinted her eyes shut. I put the skull in as gently as I could, then picked up the rest of the skeleton by holding on to the uniform. It wasn’t too hard, but a few bones slipped out.
“Please open the bag as wide as you can.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
I slid the skeleton in, picked up the extra bones, dropped them in, and then tied up the top tightly with a piece of twine. “Okay. That’s one. That wasn’t too bad.”
Cinnamon shivered. “Please hurry!”
“Okay.”
We bagged the other skeletons. Then we carried them one at a time into the sub and piled them inside the engine compartment, which was a tight squeeze. I took one last look at the cavern that had been our protection from the typhoon, and the soldiers’ tomb. I was glad I had taken photographs already. I would never forget it anyway. We submerged and went out into the sea.
We sailed around the island and into the lagoon, surfacing under the bow of the circus ship. Paul was waiting on the dock with a cart. We carried the bags up the ladder of the dock one at a time and laid them on the cart. Paul looked distressed. I asked him if he was okay.
“I’m fine, Alfred. I really am. I am just so glad to be doing this. It is an honour for me. You cannot know what it means.”
I nodded. I knew that was true.
When all of the skeletons were on the cart, Paul wrapped a blanket around them and tied it down. I went back to the sub and brought Hollie out. Then I took the sub down so that the portal was just a foot above the surface and tied it up to a rope ladder Cinnamon dropped on the other side of the ship. I swam back to the ladder and climbed onto the wharf.
“Now,” said Paul,“I will push the cart to my house, and tomorrow I will call the police and explain what I found. And I will call the man who gave you his number, and we will find the identities of these men and contact their families.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“No, Alfred. Thank you. You have helped more than I can say. Will you promise to come back and visit me?”
“I will. I promise.”
“He keeps his promises,” Cinnamon said.
Paul reached out his hand. When I shook it I felt fresh blisters from the work on the road. I also felt strength in his hand I hadn’t felt before. “I will come back,” I said. I knew that I would.
He smiled, though it was a sad smile. He nodded to Cinnamon, turned and started pushing the cart slowly away. I felt my eyes water suddenly, and had to bite my lip.
“Are you okay?” Cinnamon asked.
“Yup. I’m just . . . tired, I guess.”
In truth, there were no words to describe the sight of that old man walking away.
I stood and watched until he became nothing but a shadow, then barely a shadow, and then nothing.
What did it all mean? What had it all been for? I didn’t understand any of it. And maybe I never would.
We left Saipan in the middle of the night. Cinnamon and I took one final walk. She tried to talk me into staying longer, to join the circus for just a while, to see what it was like. I was tempted really, but I had so much more to do now, besides places to explore and things to discover. I wanted to learn more about the health of the sea, how to clean it up and protect it. This was my path now, just as the circus was hers. But I knew our paths would cross again. I just knew it. And I didn’t need Sheba to tell me.
Epilogue
THE SEA ROLLED in silver and blue swells, as it would anywhere, except maybe the Arctic. But the air was hot, so very hot, unlike anywhere else I had ever been. You wouldn’t last long in an open boat here, without shade or fresh water. You would die of exposure perhaps almost as quickly as you would die of exposure in the north Atlantic. That seemed ironic to me. A lot of things about the Pacific seemed ironic.
But I had answers to some of my questions now. Were the waves bigger in the Pacific? Yes, I thought so. Were the storms bigger? Definitely. Was there something about places that drew extraordinary events to happen there? There seemed to be. That’s what it felt like to me, and I would continue to believe that, at least for now.
Was I sorry to have seen some of the darker things? Yes and no. But I was catching only a glimpse through a “glass darkly.” I hadn’t been here when the worst things had happened. I had seen the garbage for myself, yes, and the typhoons and shrimp trawlers, but I hadn’t seen the suicides, people on fire, or the battles or nuclear explosions. I had seen only films of those things. And it wasn’t the same. At least I wouldn’t go through life not knowing those things had happened, or were happening somewhere else right now, some of them. I wanted to know what was happening in the world, good and bad, I really did. And I believed I could make a difference. It wasn’t too late. We did deserve this planet. Hollie and Seaweed certainly deserved it. Ziegfried and Sheba deserved it. Cinnamon deserved it. The people cleaning up from the typhoon deserved it. Mr. Chee deserved it. Paul deserved it, even if he didn’t think that he did. I believed that he did.
Three days from Saipan we picked up a weak signal on radar. It appeared and disappeared. I couldn’t help getting my hopes up. Could it be Hugh? I wanted so much for it to be him, to see him again and know that he had survived all the terrible storms.
As we closed in on the signal I climbed the portal, strapped on the harness and scanned the water. I couldn’t see anything. Perhaps it was just a floating can. And then, I saw the tiny splashes that a turtle’s fins make. And I saw a spot on his back. But it wasn’t Hugh. It was another turtle with a transmitter and a yellow spot. It didn’t matter. I felt the same thrill. Of all the things I had seen in my life so far, none filled me with so much awe as the sight of a sea turtle swimming across the vast ocean all by itself. Sea turtles had been doing it for millions of years, long before humans ever took a step on the earth—swimming along like tireless, peaceful warriors. It filled me with awe.
I pulled alongside him to see if he would rest, as Hugh had rested. Then it occurred to me—perhaps this turtle wasn’t a he, but a she. I tried to think of a good name for a girl and decided to call her Penelope. Seaweed promptly jumped onto her back. I carried Hollie out and let him look and sniff. The great turtle hugged the side of the sub and shut her eyes. We stayed and watched until we grew sleepy too. After a while, I went to bed. As I lay on my cot and felt the hot Pacific air drift into the sub, carrying the faint scent of burning, I thought of Ziegfried and Sheba, and how much I missed them. And very slowly I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke, the turtle was gone.
Standing in the portal with Hollie, while Seaweed flew above us, I read a few lines from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in the sea turtle’s honour.
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Philip Roy continues to live and write in Nova Scotia. Whenever possible, he travels to the places he writes about in the Submarine Outlaw series. From 1999 to 2001, he lived on the island of Saipan, which features in Ghosts of the Pacific. Recently he travelled to India to research the fifth book in the series, to be released in 2012. His next journey will be to Mozambique and South Africa. Travelling makes for great adventure, Philip contends. The only thing better is writing about it and visiting schools to share his stories with young readers.
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