Between my non-skills and a nine-year-old’s short stride, we’ve got our work cut out for us. It’ll take the better part of the day and drain us dry of the drinking water we’ve brought from the cave-tree to make our intended mark by nightfall.
I lead the way, taking calculated yet quick steps, switching off glancing at the ground before me and searching for the landmarks Lewis had me memorize. This place is so unpredictable, one misstep and I could hurl us over a cliff or into a pack of Panthers.
All night, I’ve been aware of Charlie’s footsteps behind me, but now I can hear his breath wheezing. A sound I know all too well. I glance over my shoulder. “You all right?” I whisper.
He nods, but his curls are soaked with sweat and, with the sun rising quickly, I can see his face is red, his eyes puffy. I stop. “Let’s take a break. Reward all this walking with a snack.”
“Okay,” is his breathy reply.
I know we shouldn’t stop. That whoever was attached to that horn is out here somewhere. But, what else can I do? The kid’s gotta rest and, honestly, sitting down sounds like the best thing ever right about now.
We settle beneath a group of broad-leaved trees and I pull out the fish flakes Tilly dried and cured with saltwater along with a handful of coconut chunks that we’ve already dug into a couple of times while walking. I separate the food sparingly, giving us each two bits of coconut and a small handful of the fish.
We sit in silence, listening to the sounds of the island and each other chewing. Charlie takes a long swig of water, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s so hot already.” With a sniff, he turns his gourd upside-down. It’s empty except for the few drops trickling out.
“Oh my God!” I hiss, trying to keep quiet but freaking out. “Did you drink it all?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers back. “I was thirsty.” The kid gives me a set of blue puppy dog eyes that damn near breaks me.
“Listen, bud. You know we don’t have much water with us. You’ve got to pace yourself, just a few sips here and there. You can’t gulp it down like that.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“We can share mine, but small sips.”
Charlie nods, shoving his last piece of coconut into his mouth, making a grossed-out face as he swallows it. “I hate coconut.”
I laugh. “Bad luck for you, eh?”
He flashes a wide grin. “Don’t tell Tilly, but I give all mine to Lewis.” He takes a deep breath.
“Are you all right to go on? It isn’t too late to turn around. This is rough. It’s hot, and we still have a long way to go,” I say.
“No. I don’t want to turn around. Please don’t make me go back,” he blurts out, spewing small shreds of coconut at me.
“Shh! It’s okay.” I pat his back. “But we’ve gotta be quiet and keep moving.”
Something in my gut nudges me to turn back. I ignore the urge. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” Charlie wipes his nose with his shirt, hopping to his feet like a peppy puppy.
By the time we reach our halfway point, Charlie’s lost his pep and we’re down to a few sips of water at best. We’re behind schedule and stopped so he can rest and catch his breath—
Pha-ooh. That damn horn.
I gasp.
Charlie’s eyes go wide.
It’s close. Like, around the corner close.
I pull myself and Charlie back behind a tree.
We’re ducked in the brush, squeezed side-by-side as if our lives depend on how close we can get, and still the trunk barely covers us.
“Do you think they’re coming—” Charlie whispers in my ear, stopping short. He hears something. The same something I hear: quick footsteps.
My eyes dart from tree to tree, plant to plant, searching for a better place to hide. But there’s nothing. No cave-trees, not even a ditch. We stay put. Unmoving. Barely breathing. As the footsteps grow louder, closer, Charlie hides his face in my shoulder, clutching his fingernails into my back, his breath whistling through my shirt sleeve.
I wrap my arm around him, pat his back, hoping to calm the kid.
But he stiffens. Then I stiffen. Because the kicking of ground brush is about to pass right in front of us.
“Olive?” Charlie whines as air into my shoulder.
I rub his back harder, hoping he’ll hush, hoping no one heard.
The running feet slow. Then stop.
“Why the hell did you stop?” a girl snaps.
“You hear that?” a boy says, his voice cracking in a screech.
“What?” a gruffer, older boy asks.
“I’m not sure…” Screechy voice moves closer. “Something. A whisper.” Wait. That voice. I know its screeches. The Wildling twin. My stomach twists and I swallow the gasp caught in my throat.
With both his arms clamped around me, Charlie tries as he might to keep his wheezing under control. I stop breathing altogether.
“I didn’t hear anything,” the girl says.
“Me neither. Probably an animal. Let’s keep going,” Gruff voice says.
“But—” Wildling twin tries to argue.
“We have a deadline, man!” Gruff voice bites back.
“Come off it, guys! Henry’s right. It was probably just an animal. Let’s keep going. Duke wants results today,” the girl cuts them both off and they’re on the move again, footsteps now running away from us.
Charlie and I exhale simultaneously but don’t dare move until we can’t hear so much as a distant shuffling.
Charlie’s first to break the silence. “What are they doing?”
“I don’t know, buddy. The girl said Duke expects results, so I can’t help but wonder if they’re searching for me.” His face crumples. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
I stand, brush myself off, and look up at the sky. “We better keep walking toward the water. We won’t make it today, but let’s get as close as we can. If we’re lucky, we can find some coconuts and drink from them.”
“Mm’kay,” is Charlie’s tired reply as he, too, gets up, not bothering to brush off. Gathering our gear, re-packing our bags, we move on—in the opposite direction of the small group of Panthers who are headed straight for our cave-tree.
Our cave-tree.
Neither of us speaks it, but I know we’re both thinking it.
Finding a place to camp proves difficult. More difficult than Lewis made it out to be. “Just locate a cove, or cave, or large tree and set up camp,” he’d said. Well, there are no coves, or caves, or large enough trees to hide behind or under or in. Not here anyway.
Charlie and I settle on a small area surrounded by thick plants—a dead-end just off our route. It’ll hide us, but also trap us. Not the best, but we’re exhausted, and while Charlie’s not wheezing anymore, he’s off. This will have to do.
As the sun falls behind the mountains, casting the island in shadows and dim purple light, there’s a smoky, nostalgic campfire smell filling the air.
The Panthers are far enough away that we can’t hear them or see their fire, yet close enough that its odor surrounds us. This is cause alone to avoid building a fire ourselves, and once again, we must eat from our rations and promise to replenish our stash tomorrow. We’re a good hour walk from the small spring, then two, maybe three more hours to the base of the mountain.
We work quietly to pierce a couple of coconuts while Charlie whispers about why he hates anything coconut flavored because he once threw up a macaroon.
“My dad always keeps a tin of them in his desk drawer. When I was four, I snuck in and stuffed a bunch in my mouth. I think I ate almost all of them. When my mom called for me, I jumped up from the chair, and—barfed. All over the floor.” He shakes off a shiver. “It’s my arch enemy.” Charlie lets out an airy laugh under his breath, reminding me of Will. “It was gross.” He scrunches his forehead and makes a sad sound like a puppy whimpering. “Anything you hate to eat, Olive?”
“Oh, definitely. I actually hate seafood. It reminds
me of giant bugs. So creepy. But, I guess I’m outta luck there with that.” I wink at him.
He smiles. “Yeah…” Charlie’s blade pops through the coconut skin, jarring his upper body forward. He jerks the knife out, wide grin visible through the shadows, and all I can think is how I’d never let Lucky use a knife like that. I force a smile back.
“Nice work,” I say.
Charlie keeps smiling, sucking the milk from the ripe coconut like a sippy-cup. He lies down on his bag when he’s nursed it dry.
I go back to work on mine, turning the rough thing over in my hands, searching with my fingers to find the three eyes like Bug showed me. I pierce one. Then another. With the third, I shove the knife in, pull it out, turn it, and shove it in again, making an X, then swivel the blade in a circle. I put my knife away, bring the coconut to my lips, tip my head back, and pour. My mouth is so dry it instantly absorbs the water. After going the last half of the day without anything, it tastes like heaven.
When I’m finished gulping, I remove the small fur blanket from my bag, lay it over Charlie, then untie the woven mat from his pack and cover myself with it.
I close my eyes, but can’t fall asleep. Instead, I listen to Charlie’s breathing, how the wheezing is coming back. Worried as I am, I’m also more tired than I’ve ever been, and the soft whooshing lulls me to sleep.
I awaken to the horrible and unmistakable sound and stink of barfing. Charlie is on all fours, puking into the plants beside us.
“Shh… It’s okay.” One part concerned for Charlie’s health and two parts terrified he’ll give us away, I try to quiet the kid while consoling him by rubbing his back. He makes more gagging noises. “Shh…” He sits up and wipes his mouth with his hand, spreading the froth across his cheek. “Use your shirt,” I whisper. “We’ll rinse it tomorrow.”
He nods, pulling up the bottom of his shirt, mopping his mouth and chin.
I reach for my coconut from earlier. I’d saved a few drinks for the morning, but offer it to him now.
“Thanks. Sorry.” He takes the coconut and drinks.
“No biggie, buddy.” He stares at me with heavy eyes. “Do you think you’re sick?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I feel a little better now. When I woke up my stomach was hurting so bad. But… Oh no, not again. It’s getter…worse…er—” He folds his arms around his waist. More puke.
“Worse,” I correct his grammar in a whisper only I can hear, because what does he care? He’s throwing up the only food and drink he’s had all day. We’re already failing and haven’t even begun.
Shits.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Can’t Escape the Monster
I awaken mid-wheeze. “Hhhh…huh. Hhhh…huh—” I sit straight up, clutching my throat. “Hhh…huh. Hh…huh…huuuhh—”
I tuck my legs underneath me. Curl into the fetal position. Shove my head between knees.
“Hhhh! Huuh…hhh…hhhuuhh—” Breathe, Olive. Breathe. Through the nose. Out the mouth.
There’s shuffling in the background.
“Olive? You okay?” Fear shakes Charlie’s whiny words.
I nod my head—still shoved between my knees.
“Hhh…hhuh…hhh…hhuh…” I swallow, the fit settling.
Head still down, I stretch my arms straight out in front of me, opening up my ribs, my lungs, breathing in the dirt below me.
“I’m—huh—o—hhh—kay…” I say between quick breaths. This is how I do it. How I’ve been doing it since that first time the Trio struck. Calming the storm. Or better, killing the monster. I’ve learned to slay the physical and mental mind blow before it takes me down its hellish spiral. I’ve never fallen all the way down. But the threat is always one breath away.
Eyes watering, nose running, I’ve created a not-so-cute mud puddle in the dirt below me. I lift my head, wipe the sludge from my face, and sit up in slow motion. I’m still breathing heavily but am passed the storm.
“Sorry,” I say.
Charlie’s frozen, horror mixed with concern contorting his face. A breeze picks up the leaves in the trees above us, urging me to look into the branched sky.
“Is that normal?” he asks.
“For me? Yes.” But I’ve never had one this big without the Trio to get it started.
“Does it happen a lot?”
I meet his eyes. “No. It’s fine. Nothing to—” I’m about to say “worry about,” but I see the kid for the first time this morning and I’m shocked. His eyes are swollen, puffy, black against chalky skin. And bloodshot. “Your eyes!” I shout, then slap my hand over my mouth. “Your eyes,” I whisper through my fingers.
“What? Oh. Yeah. Do I have the circles?”
I nod.
“And the pillows?”
I nod again. How does he know?
“It’s allergies.” He sniffs. “I used to get them at home a lot. Peanuts and dairy mostly. Sometimes wheat, though, depends what it is. It hasn’t been so bad here. Until now.” He wipes his nose across his forearm.
Great. Perfect timing. “Is that normal?”
“Kinda. Mom used to tell me my allergies were like a big cup: my body was okay until it filled up, but if it spilled over the side, I was in trouble. Worst thing is the itchy eyes.”
Charlie’s last word is taken over by a loud, long pha-ooh.
No.
It’s loud.
Near.
Before I can say anything, another horn sounds. It’s the same pha-ooh, but this one calls from a distance, answering the first.
What the hell? Do they have two horns? Are they communicating?
No, no, no chants in my head as Charlie and I scatter in circles like mice, collecting gear, stuffing our bags, clearing any evidence we were ever here.
The stampede of feet drums toward us.
We drop to the ground, landing flat like snakes, half put-together packs falling from our backs.
“Hurry!” The girl from last night shouts.
“Hey! I’d like to see you run with a hundred pounds on your back!” Gruff boy yells after her.
Wildling laughter.
“Ha. Ha. You finished? Now, come on, less bitching, more running!” the girl shouts, drill-sergeant style.
Neither argues and their footsteps quicken.
But wait…
A hundred pounds. Of what? Of who?
Still lying on our bellies, I stick my face in Charlie’s ear. “Can you run?”
He nods and I ignore the hesitation in his nine-year-old eyes. Because he isn’t your typical nine-year-old boy. He’s stronger. Wiser. At least that’s what I tell myself as I hoist him up by the armpits and pull him along after me—after the Panthers, who have something and are running it back up their mountain.
An offering for their leader? Wild animals with fresh kill?
But lions eat panthers.
Or so I’ve been told…
Sweat beads on my upper lip and I can taste the salt in my mouth. We’ve been tip-toeing as well as anyone could ever possibly tip-toe through a forest for hours and without a cloud in sight. Even here, under the trees, the heat and humidity is getting the best of the island.
We’ve gone off course. Off the map Lewis worked so hard to perfect.
We’ve gone without drink or food for far too long.
We’ve fallen farther behind, quickly losing the Panthers. The only indication we’re going the right direction is an occasional swear or demand shouted by one of them.
Charlie and I don’t dare speak. We barely make a sound save for our breathing and an occasional, unavoidable branch under foot.
He’s not well. The kid is pasty and wheezing. So far, the low, whistling breath streaming out his mouth and nose isn’t horribly loud. But if it continues and worsens, I’m worried he’s going to make the Panthers turn around for us.
With the image of them bagging us up and adding two more mounds to their backs, two more kills to present to the King of the island, my body is forced around by
a horrible retching behind me.
Charlie’s doubled over, arms hugging his gut, and dry heaving into the forest air. His bracelet has fallen off and lays on the ground in front of him. I backtrack to where he is, pick up the doubloon, and shove it into my pocket. He doesn’t even notice.
I place my arm around the kid’s shoulders and open my mouth to ask him what’s going on, to plead with him, for the love of God, to be quieter, when I hear the trickling of water.
The beautiful, wonderful, amazing, lovely, sweet trickling of water.
He stares up at me. I didn’t believe it possible, but his eyes are in worse shape than this morning: darker, puffier, screaming red veins webbed behind the bright blue of his irises. “Water,” he wheezes.
“Yes, okay.” I’m so sorry. What was I thinking dragging a sick, dehydrated nine-year-old through the forest in this heat? “Come on. This way.” I grab his hand and it’s clammy, listless, barely able to grasp back. His head bobs with each step we take toward the sound until we reach the spring.
Flopping down onto a rock next to the pool, Charlie holds his head in his hands while I fill his gourd. When I hand it off to him, he pours it into his mouth, spilling half in the process.
“Slow down, buddy. Too much and you’ll puke it all up.”
He nods but continues pouring.
I head back to the edge of the water and fill my own gourd, barely resisting the urge to stick my face in and drink straight from the spring. And then I understand. It’s hard to drink slowly when your mouth is so dry it’s as slick as rubber. The water slips and slides down and I choke a bit because it’s so fast.
Now we’re both coughing, but it’s a joyous sort of coughing—it’s wet. We stare at each other and laughter sets in. I think we’re delirious.
Eventually, the delirium settles after we’ve soaked our heads in the pool, and I realize we’ve lost our one-way ticket to the mountain. It’s about the same time Charlie’s stomach realizes how much water he’s tossed down his throat. We both lie back in the grass, me moaning internally over my stupid half thought-out choice to avert our plan, and Charlie moaning over the pains in his belly.
The Castaways Page 13
