He laughs his airy laugh. “Sorry. It’ll get better. That nasty stuff Tilly makes soaks into your body and somehow keeps working even after it’s washed off.”
“Good to hear.” It comes out less enthusiastic than I mean it to.
He raises his eyebrows, and again, I’m tempted by what dwells beneath that eye patch of his. Turning more serious, his stare piercing deeper, Will moves down to the floor next to me, not taking his eye from mine. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes,” I whisper and swallow hard because he’s close. I can feel the heat of his body radiating along my right side and he’s still staring. My God, does he ever blink?
“How did you feel? Back home, I mean, when those girls were treating you so horribly? What…” He glances away, then back. “How…” He sighs, breaking our eye contact and speaking into the fire. “How did it make you feel?”
I think for a minute, twisting my wet hair into a knot over my shoulder, opening my mouth a couple of times to speak, but closing it because the words aren’t right. My eyes follow his toward the fire, and I talk into the flames.
“No one’s ever asked me, so I’m not sure how to answer. Mostly, I felt broken, like each time they hurt me, they took a piece of me with them. I felt helpless. Hopeless. Powerless.” My voice breaks and my eyelids sting. “I couldn’t be me. I didn’t know who I was anymore or if I ever was anyone at all… If that makes sense.” I shake my head at myself, sniffing, bottling the tears begging to drop. “But more than anything, I just wanted… To be. Just be.” I look at Will and wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Sounds stupid, I know.”
He turns toward me. “No. It doesn’t at all.” He shakes his head, brows tugged together, his eye patch pinched. “I’m so sorry.” Will’s eye glistens, the constellations blurring. Running his hands over his face and into his hair, somehow, he makes his tears disappear. Had I imagined it?
“Well, thanks, but it’s not like you had anything to do with it.”
To that, he gives me an odd half smile, half frown and pulls me by the waist into him, his face nestled within my hair, his warm breath on my neck.
I swear I stop breathing because this is definitely against the “rules.”
As Will pulls away, taking with him the scents of saltwater and earth with mint leaf undertones, I allow myself to exhale slowly out my lips.
“Sorry,” he mumbles into the fire.
I tilt my face toward his, trying to catch his eye. “Don’t be sorry, it’s—”
“Forget it—”
Like a sharp wind, Will’s lips are on mine, and we’re falling back to the floor in slow motion, and nothing matters in the world but Will’s perfect mouth, his salty skin, the firelight. Everything outside this little womb of a tree could explode and I’d be fine with that.
When he lifts his mouth from mine, I feel cheated. Too soon. But then I open my eyes and see how he’s staring at me: deep, thoughtful, beautiful. Forehead lined, he raises his hand to my hair, the spot above my left ear now nearing a half an inch in length, and holds his hand there, palm down, as if to heal it. Something about it, his deliberate touch, the look in his eye, is more intimate than anything I’ve ever experienced.
And that eye patch, the firelight casting shadows across the black leather, calls to me, whispering to me to lift it, see what pain, what secrets, what other celestial worlds dwell there.
With Will’s hand still warm above my ear, I push my head into it, desperate to feel more warmth. He brushes his thumb across my cheek. My eyes still locked in the intensity, the intimacy of the moment, I reach my fingers up toward his face, to the patch. His chest rises, shoulders tense, but he doesn’t stop me. First, I trace the outline of the patch with my pinky. So slow. So slight, my finger a petal, the patch a delicate shell.
Then Will sits up, guiding me with him.
Now facing one another, our knees touching, he brings my hand to his injured eye and together, we lift the patch onto his forehead. He presses his lips together into a stern line and looks away.
I want to gasp and smile and cry all at once because the truths whirling beneath his eye patch aren’t anything I’d imagined. They’re secrets in the form of pain, hurt, and tiny swirling scars, like vines of unruly seaweed growing along the ocean floor. If his good eye is the night sky, this is its polar twin. Beneath the black, worn leather lies the deepest depths of the sea. Like those constellations, it too swims of unknowns and dark secrets. But, unlike the night sky, these truths are sealed off. Protected. Scarred over.
Unsure, hesitant, hoping to heal it like he did my source of pain, I place my fingertips over the ocean bed, keeping my touch light as if barely grazing a sea star.
Will’s shoulders shudder and his chest rises and falls.
Then, he looks at me with his one perfectly green eye, yet another constellation showing through. It occurs to me I should name them. But not now.
As we settle within one another’s arms next to the fire, the combination of the warmth, the lulling rhythm of Will’s breath, how his chest rises then falls, sleep calls to me. Just when I close my eyes, he brings his lips to my ear and whispers, “I’ve waited all my life for you.”
I’m not sure if he knows I’m awake or means for me to hear it or not, but I don’t move. I barely breathe. I work as hard as I can to memorize this space in time.
Because in this moment, right here, right now…
We just are.
Chapter Twenty
Charlie
Will and I fell asleep in front of the fire, but I wake up in the morning in mine and Tilly’s room. I rub my eyes, hoping—praying—last night wasn’t a dream. When I finally open them, I find Charlie sitting cross-legged an arm’s length away. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s staring at something above my head, blond curls dangling over his forehead, blue eyes glowing against his tan skin.
I tilt my neck back, straining my eyes to look up, scooting down my mat, terrified it’s going to be a mammoth jungle bug.
There is something hanging above my head. A necklace. My necklace. But something’s different. I sit up and remove it from the knob of wood it’s hanging from. Without a doubt, it’s my long-lost silver pendant, except strung alongside it is the carnival doubloon I’d had in my back pocket when I arrived. The chain’s been replaced with a piece of leather, the strip, a similar brown to that of my jacket.
Once I pull it over my head, it rests perfectly at my chest, the silver pendant having turned over to reveal a carving that wasn’t there before: Just Be. Two simple words that hold the weight of the world. I smile to myself, then remember Charlie’s sitting in front of me, still staring at the necklace.
I try to make eye contact and notice there’s a bit of sand stuck to his cheek. “Morning, Charlie.”
His eyes flicker but don’t move from my necklace.
Then something happens. Charlie points at his raggedy, torn and faded Castaway Carnival shirt, then motions to the doubloon hanging from my neck.
“Oh, you recognize this?” I pull the coin forward for him to see.
He nods and it’s the first we’ve communicated. My heart warms and I’m terrified I’m going to say or do something wrong that will push him away.
“Do you want to see it closer?” I ask, taking the necklace off my neck and holding it out to him.
The kid glances up at me, one eyebrow cocked, as he considers my offer. He nods.
I push the necklace closer and like a bird pecking for a worm, he picks it from my palm, holding the doubloon close to his chest, rubbing the sides with his fingers.
“Hoh-m,” he mumbles so I barely hear it. Aside from his night terrors, which are all screams and yelling, as slight as it is, it’s the first time I’ve heard his normal voice. It’s hoarse but high—a child’s voice—like Lucky’s. “Ho-me,” he repeats more clearly, louder, and I’m freaking out but trying to stay calm.
“Home?”
He nods his head once, eyes knowing, the blue beyond
his years. This kid can talk, something’s just been keeping him from doing it.
“Home,” he says plain as day.
Holy shit! I want to yell and scream for everyone to come, but I’m too stunned and too afraid I’ll terrify the poor kid. Instead, I try to keep the conversation, such as it is, going. “Do you recognize this from home, buddy?”
He nods, glancing up from the doubloon with longing, tear-filled eyes.
“Would you like to have it?”
He nods his head ferociously. A definite yes.
I attempt taking the necklace back with care, but end up having to yank it from his grip when he won’t quite let go. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it back. I just have to—”
“Home!”
“Yes, yes, home. I’m working on it. Shh…”
But he doesn’t shh, he wails as I fumble to remove the coin from the leather cord, dropping the damn thing twice.
One by one our family descends on us: first Will comes sliding in, then Jude, followed up by Lewis and Tilly, Bug at their heels, when finally, finally, I get the doubloon off and all but throw it at Charlie.
He cradles the thing like a baby, holding it in his palm against his cheek. Charlie chants, “Home, home, home, home…”
Five heads peer around the doorway like turtles stretching their necks out of their shells. They exhale in a combination of gasps and cheers. To which Charlie swivels one-eighty on his butt, holds up the coin, and exclaims, “Home!” His first word in over a year.
“Home!” they all repeat, wide-eyed and googly-smiled as if cooing a puppy. But it’s much more. We all know. Charlie even knows it. With his first word comes hope. Hope in the form of a bad replica and the hoarse, unused voice of a nine-year-old.
From the day Charlie says “home,” he refuses to leave my side during waking hours and some sleeping hours, despite Bug’s very vocal displeasure with that arrangement. But she loves him and relents, eventually conceding to share me.
And, if that isn’t enough, the kid is speaking more now, trying to communicate, and giving my little Bed Bug a run for her money. Sure, his speech is pretty rusty, but he’s trying, even using gestures when the words don’t surface. It’s all in there, he just has to remember how to put it to use. Because of that, he’s easily frustrated. For some reason, he usually comes straight to me for consoling, which, after many repetitions, I’ve grown accustomed to.
Will’s theory is that Charlie now associates me with home. I’m his security blanket. A place where he feels safe to use his voice after keeping it locked away for so long. It makes sense and is a big responsibility, but one I’ve taken on for better or worse.
Besides, I have a feeling once he finds that key and gets comfortable, we won’t be able to shut the kid up.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eleven Days
“Olive? You asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Hey! Are not!”
“Well, you should be—and you know you’re not supposed to be in here. If Tilly wakes—”
“I know, I know. I’ve…I’ve been thinkin’…” Charlie sighs.
“And?”
He nudges up to me like Lucky would. “And… I wanna go with you.”
Before I can say an adamant no, Will enters the room, his silhouette unmistakable in the faint light of the coconut oil candle on the floor next to the doorway.
“Hey, bud,” he whispers. “You sleepwalking again?”
Charlie’s body stiffens. He sits up, stands, then walks, head down, back to his room.
Will sits next to me, not saying a word.
It’s been like this with us for eleven days. Since our “moment,” my necklace, and Charlie’s first words, which opened some treasure box in his brain where the rest of his speech had been sleeping, yet still listening. While he’s ever the quiet, observant Charlie we all know, the kid talks like any nine-year-old, but similar to Bug, there’s this way about him that’s far beyond his years. The transformation has been miraculous. And all because of that silly doubloon which Will quickly fashioned into a bracelet for Charlie.
Will lies down beside me, staring up into the tree ceiling. We stay silent for a while, listening to each other’s breathing.
Then, the now familiar pha-ooh rains down from the mountain like clockwork.
We stare at each other.
It sounds again.
We wait.
Silence.
Will and I exhale at the same time.
The King’s horn has been sounding each night since our encounter at the cliff over the waterfall. It’s always late at night, always two blows, twice in a row. No bombs. No more appearances. It’s as if he’s taunting us, messing with our heads, so when he does strike we won’t be expecting it. That’s Will’s theory, anyway.
He turns and faces me. “Charlie can’t go with you. It needs to be Jude—has to be Jude. Everyone else is too weak.”
“I know…”
“But?”
“But… What if they attack while we’re gone? You’ll need Jude more than I will.” He sighs—because I’m right. “If not Charlie, who? Lewis?”
“Yeah right. Lewis alone with you for who knows how many days? He’ll lose his mind. You’d be better off taking Charlie.” He glances over at me and I can just make out his half smile. “Though getting rid of the lovesick, mopey stooge for a while would be nice, I’m not gonna lie.” He laughs airily.
Lewis has been in a horrible mood since the day Will gave me the necklace. Apparently Lewis had found it next to me that first day I arrived and taken it, for, uh, safekeeping. Not only was he embarrassed, but probably now suspects Will and I have feelings for one another. And we do. What exactly those feelings are, I’m as unsure as Lewis must be.
I half smile back. “So? Who, then? I mean, I could go by my—”
“You’re not going alone.” He looks away. “Tilly needs to stay for Bug, I need Jude in the case of attack, and Lewis, well, Lewis can’t.”
“Charlie it is then?”
He heaves a long sigh. “Charlie it is.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The King’s Mountain
Duke’s mountain is something straight out of Narnia—the White Witch’s castle minus the snow and ice. It’s barren. Tall peaks of rock scratch at the sky, trying to score and scar its perfect blue. Each sharp finger points toward several above it.
According to Will, to scale it, we need to find the perfect route. And there are several skinny pathways winding up the cliffs. Some find you higher, many lead to dead ends. Each day for the past two, Charlie and I have been following Will, slowly making our way here, memorizing the hike, where to camp if need be, and talking over what we’ll do once we reach the cave, tirelessly speculating the outcome. The more I learn, the more I wonder why I volunteered for this death sentence.
Oh yeah, to fix things. Mend relations between the two sides and end this war, because if it hasn’t happened in ten years, these two groups clearly know nothing about making peace. Not that I’m skilled in such matters, but there’s this nagging in my gut that tells me I can do it. I can do this.
I hope.
Maybe.
Will, Charlie, and I stand at the base of the sharp hills, hiding behind thick ground plants and boulders as we gaze up into endless mountain and cloudy sky.
“You see that path? There, between those two huge rocks?” Will asks through his teeth and under his breath.
Charlie and I nod in unison, staring at what could be the gateway to Hell; two sharp boulders parallel one another marking two different lands. Where we crouch, it’s green, alive, the forest reaching up toward the mountain, only to recoil at the gate, the other side dry. Barren. Dead.
“That’s the way up to reach the cave. You’ll know it when you see it. Its mouth is huge, a gaping hole in the mountain like a black, bullet wound,” Will speaks toward the mountain and at that wound, wherever it is.
“Then what?” Charlie whispers, voice shaking.
He grabs my hand and squeezes. I give him a look of reassurance, nodding.
“Just like we talked about, you’ll camp out in a smaller nearby cave, there are hundreds up there. Stay as long as you can, get any information you’re able—especially about the bombs—then come back down. Anything you get will be helpful, buddy—even if it’s what they eat for breakfast.” He winks at Charlie, giving me a more cautionary glance once Charlie looks away.
We hike back, retracing our steps, but at an expedited speed, reaching the cave-tree in half the time.
Bug’s tiny calf muscles flex with each step as I follow her into the woods. Single-file, she leads, then me, then Jude, who wasn’t shy about displaying his displeasure over being sent on the task with us—me.
Since I’m the newbie, Bug’s to show me some survival skills and Jude was sent as protection in the form of an irritable tag-along. Collecting a variety of items in her bag, Bug stops every few paces to pick something from a plant or dig into the ground.
When we reach a small clearing in the forest, she finally stops, settling herself atop a small green patch of moss. I crouch right across from her. Jude stays a good distance away and sits on the ground. He pulls out his knife then starts carving into a nearby stump.
I glance back at Bug who’s laid out her hoard along lines of leaves.
“What’s this?” I’m ready to be schooled in how-not-to-die-in-the-forest 101.
“You’ll see,” says the little sneak, narrowing her eyes up at me, cocking a sideways grin. The look reminds me of Lucky—one he’s given me a thousand times. If it’s possible, my heart shrinks a bit more. As if Jude senses it, he coughs, somehow, in a smug way. I want to throw one of Bug’s specimens at him.
“Ready!” Bug whisper-shouts in my face. I snap out of the fantasy where I’m plucking the strings from Jude’s guitar one by one. Before me is an assortment of nature, small pieces of the forest equally spread out like chess pieces.
She points a stick at a set of very similar plants. “First, roots. Ginger. Dandelion. Cattail. You can eat them straight from the ground or boil them. They’re less sour boiled.”
The Castaways Page 11
