Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  I couldn’t believe that, and I said so, quickly, but the serious-worry was settling heavy and thick on Mr. Dubois’s face, and while I was insisting that Kaya’s friends would never do a thing like that, Mr. Dubois was shaking his head and saying that violence and terrorism are never the answer. I backed up and told him about my message in a bottle, and about Kaya’s prison above the Ruby Lake, and about how she got there. By the time I was done, he was biting his upper lip, and his eyebrows still hadn’t lifted.

  “I have a plan to help her,” I said, “but see here?” I pointed to a story further down. “The Ruby Lake’s going to erupt someday soon, and I can’t even find out if Kaya’s still in the Lotus or somewhere else. What if she’s still there? The government needs to let her out of there.”

  I could feel my stomach churning again. I swallowed a couple of times and pressed my arms against my middle, trying to make my insides settle down.

  “And how were you aiming to help her?” Mr. Dubois asked, after a moment.

  I told him my idea, about getting the news to come out to Mermaid’s Hands again, so we could say a big public thank you. Then I showed him Kaya’s letter, and where she said at the end about inviting me to come visit her.

  “So maybe I’ll also say how I want to meet her one day,” I said. I reread the last line of the letter.

  I wish you a bright future, filled with possibilities.

  Last words. Last wishes. No, not Kaya’s last words. Not Kaya’s last wishes. Just the end of this letter, that’s all. I had to scold myself something fierce to stop those bad thoughts. After a moment I noticed that Mr. Dubois hadn’t said anything. I looked up.

  “Maybe …”

  I’ve never seen a teacher hesitate. They’re always sure of everything. I waited. He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his shaved head.

  “Here’s the thing. It’s awful to be in solitary confinement over a volcano. Almost too awful. Honestly, when you were talking, I thought maybe your Kaya was just a clever liar making up stories to get you to feel sorry for her. But then there’s that,” he said, tapping the computer screen. His finger was on the old story of Kaya’s speech. He sighed.

  “So, I guess the Lotus on the Ruby Lake is real, and that’s bad. But it’s hard to tell about all the rest of those stories. Hard to know what’s true and what isn’t.

  “I know she feels like a friend to you,” he continued. “But sometimes you can make mistakes about people, especially if you’ve never actually met them. Anyway, it’s not just about her and you and your friendship. Stop and think about this a moment: Right now nobody connects Mermaid’s Hands with Kaya or the separatists in W—. But if you do a big public thank you, and if the government thinks of Kaya and the separatists as terrorists? Suddenly y’all are linked to terrorists. See how that could be bad?”

  I did see. Things that make Mermaid’s Hands look bad are dangerous—things like the Sandy Neck fishermen dumping their illegal catch in the back of Mr. Tiptoe’s truck—because if Mermaid’s Hands looks bad, the state might decide to tear it down after all. We’ve got a lot to lose.

  But Kaya had a whole lot to lose, too, when she spoke up for us, and it didn’t stop her. I want to be like Kaya.

  “I have to try to help her,” I said. “No matter what.”

  “I understand how you feel,” said Mr. Dubois, “but you know, there are organizations that do this sort of thing all the time, organizations just for helping political prisoners. They can do research, send letters—they’ve got years of experience. And they’re not putting their homes at risk. You could get in touch with one of them.” He typed “Amnesty International” into the search bar, and the articles about W— and Kaya disappeared.

  “But I know her. And I am her friend.” I couldn’t get my voice above a whisper. It sounded babyish in my ears. Mr. Dubois had a sad, kind of wistful expression on his face, as if he was thinking about something lost or broken.

  “There’s another thing,” he said. “There’s, well, there’s what it would mean for you, personally, if you went in front of the cameras … because they, the news people … you know, they like to find out all about a person and their family … And, well, Jiminy …” Mr. Dubois’s gaze went to classroom’s ugly speckled floor. “His situation … That might have an effect, too, on how people look at Mermaid’s Hands. It’s possible it could even have consequences for Kaya.”

  The words were a punch in the gut. I wanted to be out of that chair, out of that room, out of that school. I wanted to be running across the mudflats home. But instead I just sat there, staring at six different links for Amnesty International.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Dubois mumbled. “That came out all wrong. That last part probably isn’t even true. Listen, it’s just that you’re a bright kid, a good kid, and I want you to have the best possible future. Like Kaya said.”

  I pushed out of the chair and gathered up my things. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand. Thanks. I’ll … I’ll … Well, I gotta go now, but …”

  “Okay.” He looked pained. Why? It ain’t like anyone just said to him that his family shame could sink his home and hurt his friends. “I’ll see if Amnesty International already has a campaign for Kaya,” he continued. “If they don’t, I’ll find an address for you to write to, okay? By email. You can use my computer.”

  I was at the door by then, but I nodded.

  I think he started to say one more thing—I think he called my name—but I was already running, as hard as I could, until my lungs and legs felt like they were on fire, and I still kept right on running. Too bad I didn’t burn up: I would of been happy if I could of turned into a flame.

  I was panting and sticky by the time I reached Mermaid’s Hands. A knot of grown-ups were standing outside the Tiptoes’ house, so I slowed down to catch my breath and cool off some before I reached them. Small Bill waved from on top of the pile of salvaged corrugated steel roofing panels for our kitchen roof, and a bunch of heads turned my way: first Mrs. Ovey and Dad, then Mr. Tiptoe, then Auntie Chicoree and Tomtale and Marcela. They didn’t turn back to their conversation. They just stayed staring at me as I got closer. The hairs on my neck and arms stood to attention.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Can I see your letters?” Clara asked. “From the lady who saved Mermaid’s Hands?” She and Tammy were sitting on the Tiptoes’ veranda.

  “I was talking to Marcela here about saying thank you,” Dad explained.

  “I’m so sorry Minorities Mobilize didn’t follow through on advocating for your friend,” Marcela said, voice full of regret. “I was all caught up with work here in Mermaid’s Hands; I didn’t think to ask if a campaign for W—’s mountain people had gotten off the ground. I know everyone was really busy with the Rohingya campaign … I guess it pushed the W— situation off the radar.”

  “Can we do something now? Can we make a Mermaid’s Hands thank you?” I asked, turning to Mrs. Ovey. She was smiling—like she used to before Mr. Ovey went under the waves.

  “I think we should dye some shirts specially, each one with a letter on it, so you kids can spell out ‘thank you,’” she said.

  I felt warmth spread through me, so different from the fire that had been raging in me on the way home. This was a good feeling. But there, still, at the back of my mind, were Mr. Dubois’s words and warnings. Would everybody still want to say thank you if they knew about the risks?

  I thought about not telling them. I know Kaya’s not a terrorist. But what if everything happens the way Mr. Dubois says it might? What if suddenly the state changes its mind and says take down those houses?

  “Mr. Dubois said that some people might think Kaya’s connected to terrorists, and that if they think that, thanking her may turn them against us,” I said.

  Mr. Tiptoe nodded. “I know. He left a message on my phone.”

  “He did?” He was that worried?

  “Yep.” Mr. Tiptoe shrugged. “She can be a terrorist for all I care. Somebody help
s us, we say thank you.”

  “That’s right,” murmured Tomtale, giving Marcela a squeeze.

  “Mmm hmmm,” agreed Mrs. Ovey, nodding, and everyone else joined in with an of-course or a no-question. Each one was like a sun ray, and I was the cup catching them all. I was shining inside.

  “I’ll tell her how we never forget our friends,” I said. “I’ll tell her how we’ll sing her name to—”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on,” said Mr. Tiptoe, casting a quick glance Dad’s way. “I don’t know that the news people are gonna want to film each and every seachild saying personal thanks, Minnow Em. What do you think, Marcy?”

  “Well, I …” Her eyes flitted from Mr. Tiptoe to me to Tomtale to Dad.

  Of course: Mr. Dubois must of mentioned about Jiminy, too, when he left his message on Mr. Tiptoe’s phone. The punched-gut feeling was back again.

  “I think Em has to say something, though, don’t she? Seeing as she’s the one that made friends with Kaya in the first place.” Dad’s tone was light, but I know Dad, and I could sense his temper rising. He and Mr. Tiptoe locked eyes in an invisible tug of war, each trying to pull something from the other just with the strength of their gaze. Dad won. Mr. Tiptoe shrugged.

  “Well sure, that only makes sense, I guess,” he said, like it was no big deal. Marcela grinned, and Small Bill cheered.

  “Those T-shirts, do you think we can make them right away?” I asked Mrs. Ovey. And then, to Marcela, “Can we get the news to come on Sunday?”

  “That soon? Don’t we want to plan it out a little?” Auntie Chicoree asked.

  Thoughts of Kaya and the Ruby Lake were making my stomach twist and flip-flop like a fish on dry land.

  “There ain’t time. She’s in danger,” I said. Everyone was quiet. It hit me: to them it’s just a thank-you, not a rescue mission.

  “We can get those shirts dyed in no time,” said Mrs. Ovey.

  “I’ll call my friends in Cambridge,” Marcela said, “and see if they can get any national-level news guys to cover the story. I don’t know if we can manage Sunday, but I’ll tell them time’s of the essence.”

  We all broke up for supper after that. I’ve been writing this in the dark—but in our own new house. It’s practically finished. But I have to sleep now.

  I hope this plan works. I wish I had arms as strong as Vaillant and could swim to W— … or wings, like a seagull—or a crow. Or even a red-winged blackbird.

  October 13 (Em’s diary)

  Today was the day. We got the T-shirts finished yesterday, and Marcela contacted the news people. I thought there were going to be bunches of them, with lots of lights flashing as they took pictures and lots of cameras with news station names on them, like we saw on TV at Aunt Brenda’s house when that football player who crashed into a school bus gave an interview, but there were just two people from a newspaper—a photographer and a reporter—and two from a news station, one with a TV camera perched like a roosting duck on her shoulder and the other dressed in a bright yellow jacket and high heels to match, to stand in front of the camera and talk.

  The newspaper reporter had hair like crimped copper wire and lots of freckles up and down his arms. Small Bill said he’d come here before, when me and Tammy were at Aunt Brenda’s and everybody in Mermaid’s Hands was clinging to the Winterhulls’ house, hoping to get permission to rebuild.

  The woman with the yellow heels was sinking into the mud each step she took, leaving a trail of dots like clam breathing holes. She looked cross about it. Too bad, because she was pretty, even though her hair was relaxed, which Gran doesn’t like. Gran says in the merlands, everyone’s hair floats in a cloud around their face, and seachildren should remember that.

  Both the TV woman and the newspaper reporter talked a while to Mr. Tiptoe, while the photographer snapped pictures. Then the TV woman stood in front of us kids and said some words to the TV camera, and the camerawoman turned slowly from left to right so that the camera could get a good look at all of us as we shouted out “Thank you Kaya!” I wanted to say something more, but the camerawoman was already detaching things and putting them in a bag, and the woman in the yellow heels was busy tapping something out on her phone.

  The newspaper reporter came over, though.

  “Hi there,” he said. “You’re Emlee Baptiste, right? My name’s Justin Landau. Can I ask you some questions?” The lines by his mouth and eyes as he smiled matched Dad’s. I felt my courage come alight.

  “Can I say some things of my own, too?” I asked.

  “Sure you can. What do you have to tell me?”

  I took a deep breath and started talking as fast as I could because I didn’t know how much space was on his recorder or when he’d decide he’d heard enough. Finally I figured I’d covered just about everything and said I was ready for his questions. He laughed.

  “Well, I reckon you’ve answered most of them. That’s one amazing story, about how you happened to start corresponding. A message in a bottle. What are the chances it ends up in the hands of a prisoner—sitting in a volcano crater, no less.” He shook his head.

  But the chances are one hundred percent, because that’s what happened.

  “Political prisoner,” I said. Adding the word “political” turns Kaya from a bad guy to a good guy.

  “Political prisoner,” he repeated. He was looking at me like he was trying to guess my height or weight, and then, out of the blue,

  “So Em, I heard you have a family member in prison, yourself. Your brother, right? Do you think that made you extra interested in writing to Kaya?”

  Just like Mr. Dubois warned. I swallowed.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe a little.” Mr. Landau nodded and waited expectantly. What did he want me to say?

  “Maybe it worked a little the other way, though, too,” I said, finally. “Maybe writing to Kaya made me want to try writing to Jiminy more.” I struggled hard to keep my voice from sliding into a mumble there at the end. Then, remembering what else Mr. Dubois had said, I added,

  “Just because my brother … just because he’s in prison don’t mean only criminals or families of criminals support Kaya.”

  Criminal. I hate that word. Jiminy is more than “criminal.” Only for Kaya’s sake—just for her—I made myself say those words: Criminals and families of criminals.

  “Lots of people in W— support her,” I said. “And I bet lots of people all over the world would support her, if they knew about her.”

  “No doubt, if she’s like you described,” Mr. Landau said, nodding.

  Will he think she’s like I’ve described when he reads all the stories about the troubles in W—? Maybe he’s already read them. He did his homework on me, so maybe he learned all about Kaya, too.

  “Will you put what I said about Kaya in your story? Make people care about what happens to her?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said with a grin, making the Dad-style smile lines appear on his face.

  And don’t mention about Jiminy, I wanted to say, but before I could work up the nerve, Mr. Landau was sticking out his hand and thanking me for my time.

  After dinner, I went looking for Marcela. I found her playing catch with Tomtale and Windward Fearing, Tomtale’s baby nephew, half on the Ikahos’ veranda and half in the incoming tide, with Granny Ikaho watching. The sun was nearly gone, and everything was rosy-flame colored. Windward was waving his arms and squealing every time the ball splashed in the water, and that was making Tomtale and Marcela laugh. If you pretended Tomtale and Marcela were married, and that Windward was their kid instead of Tomtale’s nephew, then it would be like Ma and Dad and Jiminy, before I was born.

  I’m glad Dad wasn’t with me. I bet it would of made him feel lonesome and regretful, seeing that scene. It kind of made me feel that way.

  “Hey Em,” said Tomtale, tossing the ball to Marcela and steadying Windward. “What’s up?”

  “First stars,” I said, pointing to the sky.

  “You gonna
wish on one?” Marcela asked.

  That’s a dry-land charm, wishing on stars. I wonder if Dad knows that. Maybe that’s why he thought to catch starlight for Ma. I told Marcela I had at least as many wishes as there were stars shining, and she told me that you’re only allowed to wish on the first one you see.

  “But I noticed that one and that one at the same time, and that one too,” I protested.

  She shrugged and grinned.

  “I dunno, then.” She set the ball down on the veranda. Granny Ikaho nudged it with her foot and sent it rolling toward Windward, who crouched and caught it with his whole body.

  “I came by to say thank you. For calling the news people,” I said.

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” she said. “Justin told me he’d email me the photos Ed took. He said it’s all right with the newspaper if we put them on the Minorities Mobilize website. We’ll link to the story too, when it comes out. Hopefully people will notice!”

  “Do you think they will?” My voice sounded thin in my ears. “Will people in other countries see it? Will it be in Google News?”

  Her smile faded to something small and apologetic.

  “I can’t say for sure. I think it went to the right department at the AP wire service—I think. And we did send a note to a freelance reporter we know who tries to bring lesser-known human rights situations to light, but it all depends on what other news is going on and whether the editors want the story. But you know, our website gets thousands of views each day, and it’s a good story, an important story, so …”

  Her hand brushed mine, a light touch.

  “Ba! Ba!” Windward squealed, pointing. The ball bumped up against Marcela’s ankles, and she pushed it back toward him.