Oracle--Sunken Earth

by C. W. Trisef

  “So they just left it?” Ret’s conscience asked.

  “No, no, Ret,” Pauline intervened. “They didn’t just leave it to burn. Jaret was much too noble to do a thing like that.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “Well, he realized that there was really only one ship in that sea that he could control: his own. His crew had their doubts, but they were easily persuaded. Jaret had such a way with people. He wasn’t manipulative or anything like that. He was confident, and fearless; bold, but rational.” Pauline paused briefly before uttering each adjective. “Stern, but loving; if you knew him, you loved him; and if you didn’t know him, there was something about him that made you trust him—that made you want to trust him.” Her diaphragm seemed to lift her as she slowly and bravely spoke each word of her tribute, gazing into the air’s nothingness as if entranced in some daydream. “He was tall, and handsome—very handsome; strong, and thoughtful; and he had the cutest little dimple on his face, just below his—”

  “The ship, Pauline,” Ret said, rescuing his storyteller from the past. “What happened to the ship?” She sighed but continued.

  “It didn’t take long for the cutter to reach the site—”

  “Cutter?” Ret inquired. “What’s a cutter?”

  “A small boat used by the Coast Guard; usually with a single mast,” was her reply.

  “Oh.”

  “They used coordinates until they could see the smoke. Afterwards, the crew told me that when they were yet a ways off, they could see that the ship was totally ablaze and sinking fast. They also said that several square miles of the sea’s surface, especially around the ship, were bubbling violently—like a pot of boiling water or a glass of freshly-poured soda. None of them had ever seen anything like it before.”

  “Did they turn back?” Ret was curious.

  “Whether they wanted to or not, Jaret insisted that he go it alone. He told them it was too dangerous to get the whole crew involved.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “He steered the ship to safety and then moved forward without them. He left his crew and cutter at the edge of the bubbling waters and continued onward alone in the RIB.”

  “RIB?”

  “Sorry. Rigid-inflatable boat,” Pauline spelled out the acronym. “It’s basically a lightweight raft blown up with air. Most cutters come equipped with one.”

  “You mean he got into an inflatable raft in the middle of the ocean? And took it into a boiling sea towards a burning ship with a hurricane fast approaching?” Ret summarized the situation with great intrigue, impressed by the brave actions of his newfound hero. Pauline nodded proudly, to which Ret replied, “Cool.”

  “His crew warned him that the abnormal water probably contained too much air to keep his RIB afloat, but he never entertained the idea. Jaret had clocked more time in a RIB than all of his crew combined. He knew that the RIB displaced very little water and that its inflatable collar would keep it buoyant even if water ever came aboard the raft. He launched from the cutter, stayed afloat across the bubbling sea, and disappeared into the billowing smoke.” Pauline stopped her narrative. When she spoke again, her voice, raspy and quivering, was hardly louder than a whisper. “That was the last time anyone ever saw Jaret Cooper. The Coast Guard conducted a full-scale search: cutters and boats; planes and helicopters; even sonar and deep-sea divers. But they found nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Ret was astounded. “Not even from the shipwreck?”

  “Not even from the shipwreck,” Pauline repeated to emphasize the impossibility. “They couldn’t even begin the search until the hurricane had passed a few days later. Turns out the hurricane shifted its course, striking further up the panhandle, and when you factor in the Gulf Stream and the trade winds, well, it’s no surprise that most of the wreckage caused by the hurricane washed up along the shores of Georgia and South Carolina. Some of the debris, including what was presumed to be the shipwreck, even washed ashore right here on Tybee Island!”

  “That must have been quite an unpleasant coincidence for you,” Ret said, thinking of the taunting injustice Pauline must have felt as everything—save the man who was her everything—returned to land.

  “It was pretty unexpected, I can tell you that much,” she admitted, “but I don’t believe in coincidences, Ret, no matter how unpleasant they might seem.” Silence prevailed again. Ret hoped that Pauline would not suddenly cork her reminiscing, as it was finally answering some of the questions that he had been gnawing at for months.

  “So, Ret,” she said with a bit less ache in her heart. “Do you want to know why you love this part of the shore so much?” She didn’t give him much time to think. “Because this is where you washed up on shore.”

  “In this very spot?”

  “And do you want to know what you were in?” Pauline asked the flabbergasted boy.

  “Clothes, I hope.”

  “Yes, you were in clothes, my little comedian. But you were also in—Jaret’s RIB.” Ret’s jaw dropped. Pauline purposely let the next few moments elapse in silence so as to allow Ret ample time to contemplate the anomaly. At last, he spoke.

  “How in the world did I end up in—”

  “I’d give my right arm to know,” Pauline said, employing exaggeration to make a point.

  “But how’d they know it was the same raft?” Ret wondered.

  “Its identification number matched the one in the Coast Guard’s records,” Pauline answered, obviously having explored every jot and tittle in this case. “Not to mention the official Coast Guard seals that were emblazoned on the sides. Surely you remember the day we found you?”

  Ret reached into the recesses of his mind. “I vaguely remember a girl’s face and a high-pitched scream.”

  “Perfect: your first memory,” Pauline said, referring to her earlier statement. “That was when Ana peeked over the side of the raft, poked you in the arm until you regained consciousness, and then screamed when you opened your eyes.” She waited for Ret to say something, but his mind was too swamped with so much new information to think of anything to say. So she continued. “Ana was combing through the wreckage like a scavenger, amassing great collections of odd treasures like most thirteen-year-olds would do. I was also on the shore…,” her voice trailed off. “I was preparing Jaret’s gravesite. Even though his body was never found, the Coast Guard told me to arrange a funeral or write a eulogy or hold a burial—anything to provide the public with some closure. They said it was a ‘necessary procedure.’ So we held a private burial service, just Ana and me.”

  “Where?” Ret wondered.

  She scanned the sea. “You’ll find out in a few minutes.” Ret did not understand but felt it best not to probe.

  “So what did you do with me after you found me?”

  “The government took over from there, seeing as you technically were property from an incident involving the armed forces. They conducted a variety of tests and an array of experiments, hoping to figure out who you were, where you came from, what happened to Jaret, and why you looked so—so…” She searched for the right word and then, smiling, said, “So beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?”

  “I added that part. But instead of clues, all they uncovered were more questions. The X-rays and CAT-scans came back blank. It was puzzling, as if you absorbed the very energy that the doctors attempted to pass through your body. They tried to do an MRI, but something about you interfered with the machine’s magnetic field—and quite violently, I might add. I’m sure you remember that.”

  “Yeah,” Ret vaguely recalled. “I remember overhearing them saying something about how I broke their equipment.”

  “Let’s just say I’m glad I wasn’t footing the bill,” Pauline said, rolling her eyes in relief. “Most curious of all, however, were the biopsies and blood work. The scientists’ microscopes found unknown structures in your cells and strange particles in your blood. They couldn’t explain it. Some thought you had been electrocuted—s
truck by lightning or something. Others hypothesized that you were once exposed to radiation or some kind of nuclear radioactivity. But in the end, they concluded nothing, except that you were filled with a few more elements than the rest of us, whatever that means.”

  “So why didn’t they keep me as one of their guinea pigs?” Ret wanted to know, remembering how the tests abruptly ended.

  “There was nothing more to test. Their resources had been exhausted and sharpest minds stumped by an innocent thirteen-year-old boy, which is how old they presumed you to be. Personally, I believed you were a few years older, on account of your, shall I say, robust stature.” She squeezed one of Ret’s brawny forearms, which made both of them chuckle. “You were one of the healthiest specimens that anyone had ever seen: not so much as a single blemish on your body—except for the scars on your hands, of course. And since you had suffered complete memory loss, the government thought it no crime to let me adopt you, provided they could keep a close eye on you.”

  Ret was taken aback. “But why did you want to adopt me?” Pauline thought for a moment before speaking, choosing her words very carefully.

  “Because there was something about you that helped me to feel closer to Jaret—some sort of connection that linked us together again. Forgive me if that sounds selfish. Jaret’s RIB came back, Ret, bringing you instead of him. You—a living gift from a fading memory. It’s what Jaret would have done.” She paused. “Or, perhaps, it’s what he did.”

  Ret didn’t know what to think anymore, his mind overheating. He blinked several times and shifted his eyes out to sea, hoping to glean some composure from the collectedness of the ocean. The tide had reached the lowest point at which it dared to retreat. The shore along the island’s southern tip was unique in that it sloped less steeply, causing the low tides to expose an unusually long swath of the flatter beach.

  “Sometimes,” Ret said, assuming that it was his turn to share some of his feelings, “sometimes I feel a lot like that lone rock out there.” He pointed to a dark lump, quite a ways down shore, that had only recently been unveiled by the waning tide. “It’s the only rock I’ve ever seen on this beach. There’re lots of shells and seaweed and stuff, but only one rock. And look at it: it’s shaped so differently—so tall and thin. And it never receives any visitors, at least that I’ve noticed. But I can see why: it’s so far out there and almost always buried in deep water that you’d have to go out of your way to see it.”

  “I wanted it that way,” Pauline said, almost under her breath. Ret shot her the same, perplexed look that his face had been sporting for most of the morning. “That’s no rock,” she explained. “It’s a tombstone.” Pauline rose to her feet and started walking toward the object of their conversation. Ret’s astonishment provided her with a few seconds’ headstart before he, too, stood to follow after her. Her shoulder-length hair seemed to become more voluminous the more it was exposed to the growing humidity in the air. As she walked, the sand sank under her weight. It was a long, pensive trudge to the corpse-less cemetery. They stood together in silence for a few moments, the waves repeatedly stretching to tickle their toes.

  “He always wanted to be buried at sea,” Pauline broke the silence, “but I knew, should his passing precede mine, that I could never live without at least some place to visit him.” She smiled as her gaze focused on the marker. “So we compromised.”

  “At low tide, Jaret Cooper is deceased, at least in the world’s view. But when the tide returns and washes ‘necessary procedures’ from sight, he comes back to life, if only in my view.” Then Ret’s much-anticipated answer came: “That’s why this is my favorite spot, too, Ret. It’s the place where nature’s ingredients combine to deliver the hope to which I so desperately cling. Wind, water, earth—it’s as if the elements want me to hold out a little longer.”

  “I don’t know why you’ve come to us, Ret,” said Pauline, “but perhaps, with a little more time, the truth—the whole truth—about our pasts will be uncovered.” She put her arm around him briefly, then turned and followed her previous footprints as she paced back up shore. Still standing next to the gravestone, Ret bowed his head, partly out of reverence but mostly because his brain felt heavy from all of the fresh material given him to ponder.

  Still staring downward, Ret noticed a cluster of V-shaped markings on the rippled sand surrounding the headstone. Intrigued, he studied the etchings more carefully, which he assumed were small scars in the earth’s skin. He was about to leave the phenomenon for the geologists to explain when, suddenly, a few of the symbols disappeared as sand crabs emerged from underneath them. It was at that moment when Ret realized what the snapping seagull already knew: the secret lay in the scars.

  CHAPTER 3

  EVENING OF NOSEBLEEDS

  In less than a month’s time, Ret had quickly developed an acute distaste for Shakespearean sonnets. He marveled how so few words could be interpreted to describe virtually anything while meaning nothing at all to him. He honestly tried to appreciate Romeo and Juliet, but, as much as his teacher may have fawned over it, by play’s end, he considered it nothing more than a tragic tale about poor communication skills. The end of his English class’s scrutiny of Shakespearean literature could not have been more welcomed.

  In contrast, Ret found his brief hour of studying the sciences to be something akin to pure bliss. Every lecture answered a question; every experiment questioned an answer; and every minute he became more aware of the world around him. He was particularly fond of the Periodic Table of Elements, never forgetting the memorable day when his teacher first presented it to the class. For whatever reason, Ret reveled in the revelations of modern science.

  “Why are your fingers purple?” Ana asked Ret when they met in the hall on their way to World Geography.

  “In science lab today, we were experimenting with different foods to find out their starch content,” he eagerly explained, examining the splotches on his hands, “and I sort of spilled the iodine.”

  “Well, butterfingers,” she joked endearingly as they neared their next class, “you’d better watch out for the Purple People Eater.” Suddenly, Mr. Quirk appeared in the doorway to greet his next batch of students. “Because here he comes now,” Ana added, rolling her eyes.

  “Welcome, children!” Mr. Quirk squealed, dancing a jig across the threshold as he reentered his classroom at the sound of the bell. Ret and Ana hurried to the pair of seats being saved for them across the room.

  “Thanks, Paige,” Ana whispered, sliding into one of the chairs that had been reserved by her best friend.

  “Hi, Ret,” Paige waved, fluttering her petite fingers at him.

  “Hey,” Ret replied. As he strode to the vacant desk behind her, Paige’s face blushed, as it usually did when Ret was near. She was much less flamboyant than Ana, though equally as fair, and she always wore her blonde hair in soft curls.

  “Welcome to another exciting afternoon of studying the extraordinary subject of World Geography!” Mr. Quirk announced with great enthusiasm. A large boy sitting in the back row breathed a deep moan of dissatisfaction.

  “Why, Mr. Ledbetter,” the instructor said, waltzing toward the student’s desk. “Something to say, have we?” With his plump elbow positioned on his desktop so as to allow his hand to cradle his large head, the porky lad gave his teacher a blank stare and then belched.

  “Charming,” Mr. Quirk said amid the giggling of his students.

  “More like Harvey Bedwetter,” Ana jabbed, though only loud enough for Ret and Paige to hear. Mr. Quirk tried to quiet his class before leaning over to address his disruptive student face to face.

  “Shall I summon the nurse, Mr. Ledbetter?” he scowled. “Perhaps she can detect the cause of your…irritation, hmm?” The unimpressed stare persisted. Mr. Quirk resumed his erect posture, turning from the boy to readdress the rest of the class. “At any rate,” he said raising his arms, one of which knocked Harvey’s supporting arm out from underneath his head, which crash
ed into his desktop with a loud thud, “today we continue our study of the Caribbean Islands.” The entire class murmured.

  “But that’s what we’ve been studying since the first day of school,” a discontented student whined.

  “Yeah,” a different voice agreed, “I thought this was World Geography.”

  “Kids today,” Mr. Quirk muttered, facing the board to conceal his own displeasure. “It’s as if they want a quality education or something. Pity.”

  “When can we move on to something else?” the complaints carried on. Mr. Quirk executed an abrupt about-face.

  “We will move on,” Mr. Quirk answered, reusing the words of the question in a tone that made them seem beneath his superior vocabulary, “as soon as you can demonstrate that the material has become—” He paused to focus his attention on Ret before concluding, “—a part of you.” Ana observed the subtle stare with a curious eye. After a few moments, Mr. Quirk wiggled his head as if to shake off some trance, as a wet dog would shiver to free his coat of bathwater. “Now,” he said, regaining his composure, “for the remainder of the period, each of you will read the eighth chapter in the textbook in its entirety.” The whole class vocalized their disfavor, which seemed to provide Mr. Quirk with some sort of sick satisfaction. “And I have yet to even mention the quiz,” he snickered, retreating to his desk.

  Ret was convinced that Ronald Quirk was not the real name of the man who claimed to be their teacher, for his surname too perfectly described him. He was one of the oddest-looking creatures that Ret—and most of the other students—had ever laid eyes on, which held a great deal of meaning coming from Ret. Every few seconds, one of Mr. Quirk’s eyes would twitch violently, sending a wave of disruption through his entire face. There seemed to be no method to the madness of his ocular spasms. The rumor quickly spread amongst the student body that if Mr. Quirk’s left eye squirmed while he was speaking to you, it meant he disliked you, while if the twinges came from the right eye, he did not think you were so revolting. But no one claimed to know for certain, as there was always something else to gawk at when conversing with Mr. Quirk. His frequent twitching proved to be quite the optical nightmare for his eyeglasses, which he patiently readjusted after each tremor. His hair was a ghastly mix of black and gray and every shade in between, and some students believed it to be a toupee, seeing as it always looked so disheveled. Others, however, preferred to call it a wig, stating that the curls were a bit too long and stiff for a toupee. In fact, Mr. Quirk’s locks were so loopy that they resembled something of a cross between seasoned curly fries and a Slinky that had been stretched too far. And he had the most difficult time getting people to listen to him because his forceful twitching caused his curls to bounce atop his brow.