To The Center Of The Earth

by Greig Beck

  “Lucky we haven’t launched the boat yet,” Angela observed.

  Wenton rubbed his chin. “If it’s a cyclone, we have no choice but to wait it out.” He turned to look into the distance at the column mountain. “But if it’s just a storm, even if it’s a bad one, we should take advantage of it.”

  “What do you mean?” Andy frowned. “Wait, I hope you’re not thinking about…”

  “Yes, we launch,” Wenton said matter-of-factly. He glanced back at the approaching wall of boiling cloud momentarily. “What’s our biggest threat crossing the lake?”

  “Being attacked,” Jane replied.

  “Exactly. Being attacked from something below the water. That could see us on the surface, while we can’t see it.” He pointed at the approaching storm front. “But what if the surface is obscured, by rain, and waves, and foam?”

  “They can’t attack what they can’t see.” Michael half-smiled. “Crazy logic…that might just work.”

  “Michael, seriously? You want to put it out into that storm? I mean, the objective of building the boat was to keep us out of the water, right?” Andy glowered at Wenton.

  “That’s right. We have a sail and paddles. We’ll keep the sail furled until we see just what the wind speed is like. As long as there’s no breaking surf, we can do it.” Michael looked around. “We should push out and get out a little from the shoreline before the storm hits. Be hard to do in the face of a gale.”

  Andy pushed long hair back from his forehead. “This is madness.”

  “No, this is Sparta.” Michael grinned back at him.

  The young caver laughed. “Okay, very funny.”

  Michael slapped his arm. “Help get Angela into the boat.”

  The first zephyr of wind began to move past them. Michael sniffed. There was little new odor, but the air was cooler, laden with moisture. And he knew there’d be rain coming as well.

  He turned to the jungle and saw the last of the flying creatures that he couldn’t really call birds take to the treetops. He hoped below the surface of the water, the denizens of this mighty lake would either do the same by retreating to deeper water, or at least the storm would render their boat invisible on the surface.

  “Is everyone ready?” Michael asked.

  “No.” Andy smiled flatly.

  Michael had to raise his voice over the wind. “Andy, get Angela onboard and then you take starboard rear oar. Jamison, port-side oar. Harry and I will take forward oars, and Bruno to steer.”

  Angela was carefully placed inside the boat. He sniffed and smelled an earthiness carried on the breeze…maybe ozone.

  Time was against them. The wind began to whip at them and the rags of their clothing flapped madly. The group was all around the boat that had considerable weight on land.

  Wenton, at the front half, turned. “On the count of 3, 2, 1, hea-aaaave.”

  The boat slid forward on the sand and then stopped a few feet from the water.

  “Once again, and hea-aaave,” he yelled over the breeze.

  Small waves had begun to break on the shore, and above them, the blood-red sky suddenly went dark. This time, the sliding boat went into the water, and Michael was delighted to see it was rock steady and extremely buoyant.

  They pushed it a little further out, and then one last push set it in motion as everyone clambered over the side to drop into their positions.

  “And we’re away,” Michael yelled as they grabbed their oars and started to pull out from the shore.

  As they stroked away from the shoreline, they saw that the depths increased dramatically. The water here was fresh, so it proved that all those trillions of gallons of liquid that geologists had said were locked up in the Earth’s crust and mantle had found a home.

  Around them, the first drops of rain began to fall—big drops and warm as blood. Then the wind increased and in just a few moments more, it began to come down in driving sheets that made talk impossible.

  Jane lit one of their lamps and laid it in the bottom of the boat as finally the blood-red heat and glare from the boiling fusion overhead was shut out completely, leaving them in near darkness.

  In moments, the little lamp was underwater, and luckily they’d done a little forward planning and had at-the-ready giant empty seedpod-like gourds to use to bail the excess water out.

  Bruno stood at the rear, holding the long steering oar. His eyes were closed to near slits from the pelting rain, and Michael wondered whether he could actually see where they were going. They had to cross the lake at an angle and cut out a huge swathe of the jungle.

  They expected it to take them a day to cross, and as yet, he wasn’t sure if the storm would help or hinder them.

  The wind and rain blasted them so hard it stung their exposed skin, and their boat rose up the peaks of waves, and then slammed back down into the troughs, almost throwing the occupants of the boat to the floor. Michael had no idea whether anyone got seasick among the group, but right about now, as long as no one went overboard, he didn’t care how sick they felt.

  Bruno yelled his orders in Russian, his urgency meaning his brain probably didn’t have the time to translate. Michael did the job, yelling himself, ordering one side of the boat or one specific oar-person to pull harder or stop rowing for a few seconds.

  Several times, waves crashed over the side, pouring thousands of gallons of water into the boat, and everyone had duel jobs of keeping the boat stable, while also getting the water out—the lower they sat, the more waves came in.

  The sky above boiled an angry purple shot through with veins of red, and the rain, though painful, was warm and slick. There was no sign of it abating, and for the first time, Michael started to have doubts about the wisdom of them setting out. At least nothing below had bothered them, so at least it was doing its job of masking their passage.

  He hoped that when the rain and blasting wind left them, they’d be close to their destination. But in reality, he had no idea which way they were actually heading. The wind was their master now, and it might be luck that dictated where they ended up.

  The boat lifted again on the crest of a huge wave, and they seemed to be suspended in the air for ages. Michael held his breath, clamped his teeth, and sure enough, the impact from striking the wave’s trough was loud, hard, and jarring. But the worst noise of all was the sound of splintering wood. Somewhere, their boat was losing the battle of durability verse gale force.

  The wind was a living thing, pushing, pulling, and battering at them. Michael knew now it had to be forcing them further than they were rowing.

  Everywhere around them were darkness, foam, and machine-gun rain, and good as Bruno was, he knew that the man’s focus was keeping their nose into the wind, more so than their direction.

  “We need to get to shore,” Michael yelled. He switched and yelled the same again in Russian, and Bruno looked to him briefly, but then shook his head. He flicked water from his eyes, took one hand off the steering oar, and pointed.

  “Konets shtorma.”

  Michael followed where he indicated and saw that there was a line of red on the horizon—as Bruno had said: end of storm.

  Michael nodded. “Pull, pull,” he yelled, and they all set to dragging on their oars to keep them moving forward into the teeth of the maelstrom, but toward the red line marking its end.

  And then as quickly as it started, it ended. The rains eased and then stopped. Then like a giant’s purple blanket being pulled back, the clouds continued to rush onward, now moving away over the interior world’s horizon.

  In another few moments, light began to move over the lake, as if there was a sped-up transition between night and day. The darkness of the storm vanished and once again they were under brilliant, and hot, red light.

  They stopped bailing and the group looked around. About 500 yards from them was an island that seemed no more than a few hundred feet around. Trees were at its center and golden sand ringed it, making it look like a child’s birthday cake. But that
was all.

  Michael rose up in his seat. “Where’s the shore?”

  “Oh no,” Angela said.

  Bruno looked about. “I think we get turned about, maybe.”

  “No maybe.” Wenton stood. “I’d say definitely.”

  Michael saw that the cloud was vanishing toward the horizon. “The storm came at us from what I think was probably the northeast and has headed southwest. Therefore, we originally wanted to head parallel to the storm. I think we need to be going that way.” He pointed. “I think.”

  The group turned to where Michael indicated. There was nothing that way or in any other direction, save the small island behind them.

  “How far?” Andy said.

  “I don’t know.” Michael sat down.

  They continued to row slowly toward the small island. Michael looked around, trying to get his bearings. Any sign of land on any horizon would have helped. The wind now had dropped away to dead stillness and with it the lake became a sheet of red glass as it reflected the blood sky.

  “And if we’re wrong? Instead of heading toward land, we’re heading further out into the center of this inland sea,” Andy asked. “We’re a long way out already. Maybe already too far to get back.” He shook his head. “And now very visible to what’s underneath us.”

  “Andy, just being negative isn’t going to help. We all agreed to this plan,” Jane said.

  “No, I didn…” he stopped talking, sighed, and sat down heavily. “What the hell anyway. We’re literally all in the same boat now, right?”

  The boat rocked a little and Michael turned to Bruno who had his head turned to look over the side. The Russian continued to stare, and Michael didn’t like the look on his face.

  “Bruno?”

  The Russian still didn’t turn. “Something.”

  Michael slowly stood and saw that a few hundred yards out, the millpond-like lake surface now had ripples emanating from the spot Bruno was watching.

  “What was it?” Michael asked.

  Bruno shrugged. “Something came up, but when I looked it was already going back down. Very big.”

  From the other side of the boat, there was the tinkle of falling water, and once again when they whipped their heads around, there were just the signs of something having been there and now gone.

  “It’s playing with us,” Wenton said just above a whisper.

  “And I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse,” Michael replied. “Listen, guys, why don’t we pull a little harder toward the island? I suddenly like the idea of having ground under my feet for a while.”

  They began to row, deep strokes and hard, but all trying not to create too much of a disturbance on the water.

  Bruno did his bit, using the oar as a sweep to get a few extra ounces of speed from their boat.

  Michael and the other rowers were faced toward the rear, with the rest fronting forward. He half-turned. “Someone count off the feet to the island.”

  “300,” Jane immediately responded.

  Michael leaned into it and pulled back, grabbing the oar cup full of water and pushing it back as the boat moved forward. Their small craft was sturdy and built for stability, and safety, but definitely not for speed. Every inch of progress was hard-fought and done with muscle, not design.

  “Any sign, Bruno?” Michael called, looking up at the Russian.

  With legs planted wide, he slowly turned, but shook his head. “All is calm now.”

  They pulled hard, and Michael felt his hands becoming sore and rubbing. He shifted his grip to ease the pain and friction, but knew the blisters would form, then they would burst, and then he’d be rubbing against raw skin.

  “200,” Jane yelled.

  200 was nothing, Michael thought. A few more strokes, and we’ll hit the sand.

  Michael turned to look up at Bruno just as the man’s eyes went wide and he sat down in the boat for a moment.

  “What is it?” Michael quickly asked.

  “In water. Thing underneath boat. Big eye. Look up at me.”

  “Ah, shit,” Michael said between his teeth. “Come on, everyone. Last few strokes, pull hard now.”

  Bruno got warily to his feet but stayed in more of a crouch as he took the sweep oar again. He carefully looked over the side and then down. He shook his head.

  The rowers pulled hard, but the boat slowed and then stopped. And no matter how hard they dragged on the oars, it remained stationary.

  “Have we run aground?” Jamison asked.

  Bruno looked over the port side and then the starboard. He shook his head. “No, still deep water.”

  Michael turned to look over his shoulder. The small island was so close he felt he could get out and almost run to it. The upside was that he felt if need be, they could swim it.

  “Might be a reef outcrop.” Andy leaned over the side. He turned back. “Hold on to me, will you?”

  Jamison grabbed the back of his pants, and Andy leaned out even more, his face now just inches from the water.

  He squinted down into it and lifted a hand to hold over his head to try and shield himself from the red glare from the sky.

  “Can’t see anything.” He turned back while still hanging over the side, his ear nearly touching the water. “We might be in a patch of weed. Someone might need to go over and free us.”

  “No, come back in,” Michael said.

  As if in response, the boat suddenly pulled forward, almost throwing Andy over the side. He sat down hard and turned with a grin.

  “See, like I said, musta just been weed or something.”

  In another few minutes, the boat scrunched in on the sand and Michael and Wenton were first out to grab the gunwales and hold the boat steady. After each leaped out, they all pulled the boat in a few extra feet to ground it.

  Wenton pointed to tide marks on the sand. “Seems we have an ebb and flow of tides. We’ll need to watch the boat.”

  They gathered in their group. Angela hung onto Andy and kept one leg up off the ground. Michael walked into their center.

  “I’m not going to kid anyone that without sun or stars we have no real navigation guides. We have no working GPS anymore, or even a toy compass. Without doubt, the storm blew us off course, so we’d be guessing on a direction to take.”

  “Suddenly, coming by water isn’t looking like such a game-changer after all,” Maggie sighed.

  “For now, we rest up. Fatigue is doing nothing for our decision-making abilities or our normally good humors.” He half-smiled. “First up, we need to do a scout of the island to make sure we haven’t just blundered into anyone or anything’s backyard.”

  Jamison scoffed. “Too bad if we did. We can’t exactly start up the outboard motor and zoom away.”

  Michael ignored him. “Keep a lookout for anything to eat. Then we can make some sort of shelter, and take turns grabbing some shuteye. Choose a partner and do a quick scout. It’s not a big piece of land so meet back here in 15 minutes. And shout out if you see anything…concerning.”

  He turned and noticed Bruno by himself near the shoreline, and he went to stand by the stocky Russian.

  “What is it?”

  The Russian turned. “I think it was that thing that stopped us just off the shore. But then let us go.” He turned. “Because maybe it wants us here.”

  “That’s not a comforting thought,” Michael said. “Why?”

  Bruno shrugged. “That is good question.” He looked quickly along the shoreline, and then waded into the water a few feet to grab at something. He lifted it out and walked quickly back up the beach.

  He held it out to Michael. It looked like a piece of shell or exoskeleton, and on its side was a perfectly round hole the size of his fist. He put his fingers through it.

  “Maybe is tooth mark.”

  Michael groaned. “Maybe. Let’s keep it to ourselves for now. But we stay alert.”

  “Da, always.” The Russian tossed the fragment back out into the water.

  �
��Michael.”

  “Yo.” The call came from Andy, and he turned and jogged up the beach and headed into the thicket of trees at the center of the island.

  Andy and Angela were standing by a pile of earth as the others joined them. The mound was about seven feet long and three feet wide, and at one end a caving pick used as a marker.

  “A grave,” Andy said.

  “Whose?” Wenton asked.

  Michael crouched and started to clear away some of the sandy soil. He came across a canteen, Swiss army knife, and fragments of material.

  He shook the canteen and something rattled inside it. He tossed it to Jane. “Check this out.”

  He rubbed a thumb on the knife case and read the name. He scoffed softly. “Georgy.” He looked up. “Katya’s team leader.” He then opened the Army knife, folding out a few rusted implements, but also a tiny compass. He tapped it, seeing the small needle wobble to life.

  “Yes, we now have a compass.”

  Jane had opened the canteen, stuck a finger inside, and drew out a tiny roll of paper.

  She shook her head and held it out to Michael. “It’s in Russian.”

  Wenton grabbed it and handed it to Bruno. “What does it say?”

  Bruno read the note. “Here lie, great friend and leader, Georgy Azarov. We press on: northwest.” He turned it over and frowned. “Can’t read, some faded. But this bit strange: beware the water.”

  “Beware the water?” Jamison said. “That’s not very helpful.”

  Bruno turned back. “I think they mean, beware what’s in water.”

  Maggie seethed. “Oh for Chrissake. I mean, we’re on a freaking island—there’s water all around us.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got no choice but to go back out on the water,” Jamison sighed. “We can’t exactly stay on Gilligan’s Island.”

  Michael held up the Army knife. “They went back out. And now we know which way they went—north—and also more importantly, which way north is.” He stood, dusting off the sand. “Let’s finish our scout for food and anything else that might be useful. We’ll make a quick shelter from the heat with the palm fronds, catch a few hours’ sleep, and then be a bit better equipped and ready to head back out.”