Island

by Peter Lerangis

  I felt something pulling me back. A force in the water.

  Undertow.

  I knew about undertows.

  I knew you couldn’t resist them.

  They took you wherever they wanted.

  Usually to the bottom of the sea.

  Fight it.

  FIGHT IT, RACHEL.

  I tried. But I felt myself falling into a hole.

  A hole in the water.

  The white was fading to black.

  My tense muscles went limp. My thoughts — an entire life condensed into fast-forward images — eddied upward and out of my body.

  And I knew I could fight no more.

  It is done.

  We do not kill.

  I didn’t mean to do that. I meant to save lives.

  6

  I WAS UNCONSCIOUS WHEN the jolt came.

  But I felt it.

  In a dim flicker of awareness, I felt my body lurch upward with a force so sudden it threatened to rip me apart.

  My head tore through the surface of the water. Air exploded out of me.

  Air.

  I pulled it in. I devoured it, in racking gulps. I felt nothing but the action of my lungs, pumping. My arms thrashed in the water, my legs kicked wildly.

  Alive. I’m alive.

  I was bouncing, moving forward on violent swells.

  Before me, the mist was thinning.

  A dark form floated in the distance.

  Land.

  Just a glimpse. As quickly as it appeared, it was engulfed by the cloud.

  I took control of my body. Steady arm movements. Lifting myself with the rhythm of the wave. Pushing toward the landmass.

  There.

  Its shape was still dark. Still vague.

  But closer.

  I’d turned around. I was heading home.

  Just keep yourself afloat.

  Then, with a barely audible pop, the hiss stopped. The silence was so sudden, so total, it felt physical — like pitching forward into a ditch.

  The mist had lifted.

  I was floating on calm water.

  The landmass was clear.

  It was a cove, ringed by rocky outcroppings. The sand was bright pink in the sunlight.

  Sunlight. Calm.

  As if the clouds didn’t exist.

  I swam toward the shore — slowly, favoring my aching muscles.

  Soon I was bodysurfing on a long, low wave that took me into the shallows.

  My legs were shaky and weak as I staggered onto the beach. I scanned the short coastline and the expanse of water, hoping to see Colin. Or the yacht.

  No sign of either.

  The clouds were sitting on the water, pillowlike. Looking so harmless, so …

  Distant.

  Strange. I couldn’t have swum that far. The clouds seemed miles away — exactly the way they’d appeared back home.

  But this isn’t home.

  I gazed around the cove. Nothing was familiar.

  I knew the coves of Nesconset. All of them.

  This was someplace else.

  Where?

  The nearest island to Nesconset was just beyond the horizon line. Twenty-nine miles away. There was also a cluster of small islands near Woods Hole. But that was at least thirty miles to the west.

  I couldn’t have swum that far. Impossible. Even the steamship ferry took two and a half hours to cover the distance.

  Besides, the sun was still in the same spot. I’d been in the water for a half hour, tops.

  “Colin?” I called out.

  I headed up the nearest sand dune. At the top I’d have a better view. My dress and hair were dripping, my feet bare.

  Halfway up, I stiffened.

  Voices. From the other side.

  Muffled. Unintelligible.

  “HELLO?” I shouted, breaking into a hobbing run. “I’M OVER HERE!”

  I crested the dune.

  And someone sprang at me from the other side.

  She did it.

  You were lucky, Number 209.

  I trust she’s in good hands.

  7

  “AAAAAAAGH!” I SCREAMED.

  I bit my attacker’s arm.

  He jumped off. I scrambled to my feet and faced him. He was at least six feet tall. His face was acne scarred, his hair short on the sides and slicked back into a severe ducktail. He sneered at me as he massaged his arm.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  Behind him, a crowd was walking toward us. At least twenty people.

  I scanned the faces. About half guys, half girls. None were familiar. They were chattering excitedly with one another. A couple of them ran off into the surrounding woods.

  “She bit me!” called my attacker.

  “You tackled her blindside, Carbo,” one of the girls called out. “What do you expect, a thank-you?”

  Carbo?

  Some of the kids were snickering. Carbo looked flustered. “I — I thought she was — ”

  “I’m Mary Elizabeth,” the girl interrupted. “Sorry about Carbo. He gets excited easily.”

  Carbo slumped away, muttering something that sounded like an apology.

  “I’m Rachel,” I said. “I — swam here. Through those clouds. The water was unbelievably rough. I was off Nesconset — on this yacht? — and I jumped off, but I thought we were far away enough — we meaning this guy and me — Colin — dark hair, about five-ten? Have you seen him?”

  Mary Elizabeth shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Then he might still be in the water!”

  “We have binoculars — and some strong swimmers,” said a blond guy, wearing a retro-looking bowling jacket embroidered with the name WES. “If he’s anywhere near, we’ll find him.”

  As he jogged away, shouting instructions to the others, Mary Elizabeth looked at me with concern. “You must be so tired.”

  “And lost,” I replied. “Where am I?”

  “Onieron.”

  The name didn’t ring any bells. I tried to picture a map of the bay. But all I saw was a big expanse of blue.

  “C-c-can I use a p-p-pay phone?” My lips were quivering.

  The blond guy was heading back now. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. “No electricity here,” he said. “We rough it.”

  “Come back to our cabin,” Mary Elizabeth said. “You need a rest and a change of clothes. Maybe a warm bath.”

  “B-b-but I have to go back,” I insisted. “They’re waiting for me!”

  “It’s too late to make the trip now,” Wes said. “Not with that cloud cover. Especially if the water’s as rough as you say it is.”

  “All we have are rowboats and canoes,” Mary Elizabeth said. “Tomorrow morning the clouds’ll be gone.”

  “Tomorrow? But — ”

  “Besides, we’ve already sent for a cab,” Wes added.

  I pictured the look on Grandpa Childers’s face. Looking out to the cloud wall. Thinking I died.

  What about his heart? Could it take this?

  And what about Colin?

  Maybe he was back by now. He’d swum off in the opposite direction. Maybe if he’d kept going, he’d broken through …

  There’s nothing you can do about it now, Rachel.

  Except hope. And pray.

  A warm bath and dry clothes sounded pretty tempting.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Mary Elizabeth grinned and put her arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it here.”

  I walked between her and Wes, away from the water. I kept looking over my shoulder, hoping that Colin would appear.

  At the edge of the sand, we reached a rutted dirt road. I heard the clopping of hooves — and a horse and carriage emerged from around a bend.

  “This is the cab?” I asked.

  “Rustic living,” Mary Elizabeth said as she helped me into the carriage.

  It was pretty crude. Slapped together with rough wooden plank
s, rusty nails, and twine. The ride was bouncy enough to remind me of all my sore muscles.

  We rode past rolling moors dotted with tiny wooden houses and small farms. Along a distant ridge, a woman rode a packhorse laden with baskets. Three children in the middle of a field stopped playing a game of catch to stare at us. An old man waved from a porch. No one seemed in a hurry. I didn’t see one car.

  Before long we reached a meadow surrounded by woods. Across a well-worn field were two large summer-camp-style wooden cabins.

  “Home sweet home,” Mary Elizabeth said.

  “It’s kind of a mess,” Wes added.

  Mary Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Speak for yourself. She’s not going to the boys’ cabin.”

  “So this is a camp!” I exclaimed.

  “You could say that,” Mary Elizabeth replied.

  The girls’ cabin was crammed with bunk beds. The girls didn’t seem to have much stuff — mainly books and magazines, most of which looked as if they’d been dropped into the water and then dried out.

  A door led to a small bathroom. A pitcher of drinking water stood on a shelf in a corner. A candle sat in a crude fixture nailed to the wall.

  Two other girls were lugging in buckets of water that had been heated over an outdoor fire.

  “No plumbing, either?” I asked.

  Mary Elizabeth shrugged sheepishly. “You get used to it.”

  The bathtub was tiny. Pipes jutted from it, attached to nothing, as if it had been brought here from a junkyard.

  But the water was clean. And hot. And soothing.

  It felt totally luxurious.

  I leaned back, listening to the sounds of laughter and gossip outside the windows.

  My eyelids began to close.

  A dream.

  That’s what this is.

  An island where none is supposed to be.

  A camp. No adult supervision.

  It’s too good to be true.

  I’ll wake up …to Nesconset … to my … dreary … life …

  I must have fallen asleep. Because I awoke to the sound of a bell.

  Mary Elizabeth was standing in the bathroom doorway with an old rusty handbell — and a huge grin. “Wake up, Rachel. Can’t have a dinner party without the guest of honor!”

  I sat forward. “What guest?”

  Colin?

  “You,” Mary Elizabeth replied.

  “What about my friend?” I asked. “Any sign?”

  “Not yet. They’re thinking he must have made it back. Here’s your outfit.”

  She laid out a skirt, shirt, and cotton sweater on a small barrel in the bathroom.

  I got out of the tub and dried myself. The clothes were vintage, kind of threadbare but cool in a funky, retro way.

  As I lifted the skirt, I knocked over a book that had been lying on the barrel. I stooped to pick it up. It was a photo album, warped and mildew stained.

  On the cover, in faded print, were the letters NJHS.

  Nesconset Junior High School.

  So I wasn’t alone. There was another Nesconseter here.

  I set the book down and began to open it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mary Elizabeth ran in and slammed the book shut, nearly trapping my fingers.

  “I was just looking at — ” I began.

  “We don’t have time!” Mary Elizabeth said.

  “Who’s from Nesconset?”

  “Get ready before your carriage turns into a pumpkin!” Mary Elizabeth ran out, leaving me to get dressed.

  She took the book with her.

  She doesn’t know.

  Why didn’t you tell her?

  She wouldn’t have gone.

  But she’ll find out on her own.

  And by then it’ll be too late.

  Exactly.

  8

  “YOUR COACH, CINDERELLA?” WES stepped out of the carriage onto the running board. He was wearing a ripped old cape and a moth-eaten cap.

  “You must be the rat,” I said.

  “At your service. Step into my trap.”

  The carriage was festooned with wisteria, honeysuckle, and evergreen boughs. Around us the entire camp was gathering, everyone all dressed up.

  “What did I do to deserve this?” I said, stepping into the carriage.

  “We like your attitude,” Wes replied.

  Mary Elizabeth climbed in after us. “And we want you to stay forever.”

  I smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

  As the carriage trundled off, the other campers walked alongside, laughing and chattering. Some had brought along musical instruments — a saxophone, a flute, a snare drum, a trumpet. They were awful players. I couldn’t even make out the tune.

  But it didn’t matter.

  I was dry, cool, and comfortable. I would have felt just perfect if I’d only known Colin and Grandpa Childers were all right.

  They’re probably fine.

  Colin’s just as strong a swimmer as you are. Besides, HE was the one swimming in the right direction.

  And Grandpa Childers is a survivor, Rachel. He’ll probably outlive you.

  I tried not to think about them. For my own sanity.

  “Like it here?” Wes asked.

  “Sure,” I replied. “But where are the counselors?”

  “They don’t live with us,” Wes replied. “We only see them for special events, like this one.”

  “You’re totally on your own, all day long?” I asked.

  Mary Elizabeth nodded.

  “Maybe I will stay forever,” I muttered.

  Soon the smell of roasting meat wafted into the carriage. Then layers of other smells — corn on the cob, fresh-baked bread, muffins. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I had to hold back the drool.

  Do they always eat like this?

  We stopped at a broad, grassy field. In one corner, a lamb was roasting on a spit, and steam rose from three open stone ovens. People were piling platters of hot food onto long picnic tables.

  Adults.

  But they weren’t your average Cape Cod set.

  Most of them, in fact, were in costume.

  Themed costumes. In groups.

  In one group, the women wore hoop-skirted dresses and black felt hats. The men had on stiff woolen jackets, knickers, and hobnailed boots.

  Pilgrims.

  Another group, all men, wore ruffled white shirts and bandannas, right out of Treasure Island. They were bossing around barefooted guys dressed in tattered rags.

  Buccaneers and their captives.

  A bunch of guys in crisp khaki army uniforms looked as if they’d stepped out of a World War II movie.

  Saving Private Ryan.

  The groups seemed to stick together — except for a band of musicians, which had representatives from each. They were playing flutes fashioned from branches, drums made from hollowed-out tree stumps. Some people were doing an intricate clog dance on a patch of bare soil.

  “A THEATER COMPANY?” I asked Wes, shouting over the noise. “OR AN ACTORS’ CAMP OR SOMETHING?”

  Wes nodded. “THEY’RE CHARACTERS, AREN’T THEY?”

  I didn’t bother to ask again. Too much effort.

  As I stepped from the carriage, people rushed to greet me. Wes and Mary Elizabeth tried to introduce them, but I didn’t remember their names. Some of them spoke with accents — English or Irish, mostly, and some of the brogues were pretty thick.

  As I went to the buffet table, Carbo pulled me away. He was smiling this time. He tried to get me to do these intricate ballroom-type maneuvers with him. I was a total spaz, but he was much better than I would have expected. As if he’d been taking lessons.

  All around us, people clapped and cheered.

  I felt so welcome.

  And so hungry.

  Finally Carbo led me to a buffet table.

  I wanted to laugh. The guys in the army uniforms ate with their backs ramrod-straight and spoke in loud, clipped tones. The “Pilgrims” were silently
eating from plates that had hardly any food on them.

  The tattered men seemed to be waiters for the whole party, scurrying around with sullen expressions, clearing plates and cleaning up. The Treasure Island dudes were bellowing at them mercilessly, pushing them around and laughing behind their backs.

  “What’s playing?” I asked as I walked to a table with Wes and Mary Elizabeth, my plate heaped with food. “The Crucible, I bet … or, let’s see, The Pirates of Penzance — ?”

  “Right,” Wes said. “It’s like a respiratory company.”

  “Repertory,” Mary Elizabeth corrected him.

  I downed a cup of punch and began to eat.

  One of the barefoot men spotted my empty glass. “May I, mum?”

  Colin.

  For a moment I had a flash of him, clearing glasses on the yacht.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  Suddenly I wasn’t thirsty anymore. Or hungry. I pushed my plate aside.

  “Rotten meat?” Wes asked.

  “No, I — I’m just not feeling right.”

  Wes sprang to his feet. “A TOAST!”

  “HEAR, HEAR!” came a reply.

  I turned.

  Everyone was standing up. Smiling at me. Clinking glasses.

  I felt a hand pulling me away from the table.

  Mary Elizabeth.

  “This is for you,” she was saying.

  “TO RACHEL!” Wes called out.

  I was standing in the center now. Surrounded.

  “HIP, HIP!” shouted Mary Elizabeth.

  “HOORAY!” answered everyone else.

  “Guys …” I pleaded.

  “HIP, HIP!”

  “HOORAY!”

  “Thanks, but I didn’t do anything,” I said.

  “HIP, HIP!”

  “HOORAY!”

  “RACHEL, WE SALUTE YOUR BRAVERY,” Wes shouted. “YOU SURVIVED ALMOST CERTAIN DEATH AT SEA BUT ARRIVED HERE SAFELY, AND NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON— ”

  “TO SAVE OUR BLESSED SOULS!” interrupted one of the pirates.

  A great cheer burst out.

  I found myself laughing. I saved their souls?

  These guys were weird.

  And dramatic.

  And fun.

  As I looked around, smiling, Mary Elizabeth held out a cup of punch to me. It smelled fruity and delicious.