She watched the pool, smoking with heat. They’d wait out the storm, watch the waves settle and the thunder rumble away. Moss had watched many storms from that pool. And she needed to swim, be submerged. That the water was churning dark and angry fit even better.
She stripped in a small hollow where the cliff overhung the pool and rock ledge, placing her coverings where it was driest. The waves crashed so hard against the rocks beneath her that spray even hit her bare body. Final-sure, like Adder, she began to shiver. Quick-fast, Adder pushed past Moss to barrel in, splashing and yelping. The dog looked back, expectant.
“All right, I’m hurrying.”
Moss jumped. She knew from experience that the pool was deepest on the side nearest her: deep enough to gasp for air when she came up from touching the bottom. But the water was cooler than usual—the storm deluge spoiling it. She paddled like Adder did. Soon, she felt a bubbling rumble: more movement from the volcano.
She pointed her toes, moved her legs in circles to spin. She was a fish now, and her dog spun beside her. Two fish together. Moss flipped to her back. There was rain on her cheeks, shocking-cold on her pool-warmed skin. She watched the storming sky, how the lightning jags made it look purple, then copper-gold. The colors of Cal’s bruised eye. And even though she felt mad-angry with him, she wished he could feel this warm water too. If he were here, she’d make him stop talking in riddles. Make him curl around her.
She swam.
With the cramps stretched out, her belly didn’t hurt. Was she bleeding into the water, making food for the fish? Perhaps new stormflowers already sprouted on the earth where she’d bled before.
Following Adder, she put her head under the surface, opened her eyes. She heard tiny snaps from the sparkle-fish, hiding from the storm, saw them swimming in Adder’s wake. Down here, Moss couldn’t hear the crash of water hitting rock. Instead was a soft, still darkness. She dived deeper, keeping her eyes on the sparkle-fish. She’d never been able catch them, and she and Cal had tried for days one sunny season. They were too quick, too bright, too impossible to see clear. Even Pa couldn’t explain them.
“Phosphorescence, maybe,” he’d said.
But when Moss had looked up phosphorescence in Pa’s Oxford Dictionary and had seen that it was another word for light, she knew that was wrong. These things were alive, fish and light in one. Adder swam in circles, and the sparkle-fish followed behind, giving the dog a golden glow.
Moss came up to the surface, breathed. She swished her arms through the water and the sparkle-fish followed. Adder tried biting at the golden cape they made, swallowed water instead. Moss spun again, so caught up in the sparkle-fish, she forgot about the storm. Forgot about her bleeding. Even about Cal or Pa.
Then a huge crack of lightning jolted her back, and the fish disappeared. Moss saw the island lit up. The beach glowed bone-white. For a moment, she could see right out across the ocean: all the way to the horizon.
And there was something out there. For a flash there was.
She frowned. Something dark and big. Out on the waves. Lit up by lightning and then gone. Flickering.
Cal’s land? Or smaller than that? A raft? Something else? It had looked like it was moving. Maybe.
She kept hold of Adder and waited for lightning to flash again. But, quick as a tail flick, a cold sea fog was rolling in, smothering the storm and what view she still had. Moss swam for the side, her dog trailing behind. Soon, the island would be blind—at least until the fog rolled away.
Moss crawled out of the pool, every part of her straining for sounds. She went fast to the edge of the rock, as far as she dared with the fog.
“Stay,” Moss commanded Adder.
Moss looked out to the dark, gripping tight to the rock. Splish-splash … very faint. Like the sound of someone swimming? She shook her head. She was hearing things now!
But, still, could it be Pa out there, riled up from the flowers and swimming in storms? Or what if Cal had seen that shadow-shape and tried to raft to it? It could be his land, after all. She crawled forward until her legs were dangling over the edge. One tiny tip and she’d be the one in the waves.
What was it, out there?
“Cal?” she shouted. “Pa?”
But only her own small voice came back.
Finn pushed hair from his eyes, tried to see. Stumbling as the boat spun, he lurched to the side. There were cracks and smashes in the dark. Things breaking. Stuff coming loose. Quickly, he moved up on deck and rain lashed at him immediately, pounding his face.
Where was Tommy? What the hell was going on?
Winches were undoing; he heard the whirring of lines as they escaped. A life jacket skidded past him.
“Tommy!”
Wind roared back. It tried to pull him, screeching like an animal. But he had to keep hold, couldn’t let go. Rain was driving at him sideways now. And he was so wet. Freezing! Slipping!
He wedged his foot against the mast as everything tipped. Heavy, wet sails thudded against him. Now the cold sea was close, just below his shoulder. Roaring and black. Taking their stuff, swallowing it. Almost taking him.
Had it taken Tommy already?
He clung on tight. Spun.
Hell was here.
Dawn was coming; light snuck above the horizon. Soon Moss would see what had been out there last night. She set water to boil. When they were Small Things, Cal and her had stored cooking pots and coverings in these caves and played homes with them; she was glad of that now. A brew of stormflowers may soothe her paining. But when she went to add the petals she’d just picked, she paused, hand hovering.
I don’t think they make any of us well. She’d said that last night, hadn’t she? And here she was, still trying them.
Instead, Moss hitched up her skirt. Less blood today. She lay one of the downy gull feathers she’d been searching for earlier on top of her smalls. She felt better already, more in control. Waiting outside the cave, she watched the sea turn from black to silver-gray.
Still no land.
She’d imagined it, then, last night—that shape, or whatever, out there. Another vision, just a trick of the sea fog now, in this delicate sunlight, that storm seemed impossible. Maybe she’d dreamt up Cal leaving, too. And Pa’s Blackness? Maybe everything was just as it used to be.
Soon the sunlight pierced her in a thousand different places. She took the plain water—overboiling now—from the fire and sipped it, sticking her burned tongue out into the breeze after. This sunlight was praise-soft. Moss clicked to her dog, who was soaking in the heat outside the cave, white tummy pointing up. She looked like how the stormflowers soaked in rain, spreading her haunches wide. One of her eyes slit open.
“Come on,” Moss told her. “We’re going to see what’s what.” Just because she couldn’t see anything out there didn’t mean nothing had storm-washed in. “There’ll be treasure,” she tempted.
Moss would just know—wouldn’t she?—if Cal or Pa had been out on the waves? If anything had happened …
Clicking for Adder again, she climbed down the narrow cliff path and turned for the cove. It was hotter, so sunny, the island’s weather on its best behavior after its tantrum the night before. Following a big storm, it always felt like the island was holding its breath, waiting to see how much trouble it was in. On another morning, Moss might’ve laughed at this weather, might’ve let the breeze take her skirt as she ran. But Cal was gone. Pa was full-strange and getting sicker. And something had been in the waves.
Down from the cliff, she saw just how much the wild tide had washed in. Over near the rocks at the edge of the cove, where she’d been sitting with Cal those nights earlier, the sand was littered thick with seaweed and Treasure. The air was strong with the stench of dead things, too.
Finn didn’t open his eyes, not yet. He’d sleep a little longer.
He listened for Mum to start clunking things around downstairs, making breakfast. Toast and eggs. He’d smell that soon. Coffee!
He
rolled over, reaching for Sebastian. But his dog wasn’t there.
Grit, though. Heat. That was. But no blankets, nothing around him at all. And sweetness in his mouth. Like honey? Or like the ganja Tommy brought to parties? Was he passed out on some random couch? He heard water, too. A shower running?
He licked his lips. The grit was sand.
Sand?
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
This wasn’t a party.
He wasn’t at home.
Everything was bright, too white. He still smelled that ganja smell. But it wasn’t a couch he was lying on. And there was no shower running.
He turned his head and saw it: ocean! He was on a beach? It was gorgeous, one that could advertise honeymoons. There were even tiny, bright flowers, all over the sand and blowing in a light breeze. They were dancing, swishing their petals just for him. Like a million colorful hula dancers right before his eyes!
He’d never been to a beach like this, not even in an entire year of sailing. Those flowers, for one thing … That smell …
Slowly, he dug his fingers into the sand and pushed himself up. His head pounded and his throat ached. He needed fresh water.
A small cove. He saw that. Curved like a mouth, with teeth-like rocks at its edge. It had swallowed him.
And there was a horse here, too. A few feet away. Watching him.
Seriously?
He squinted at it. From where he lay, it looked huge and very white. Too white. Shining.
He was dreaming this! Had to be. When he blinked again, the horse blurred out of focus … came back. It made a soft whickering noise like it was laughing at him.
He slumped back down. Shut his eyes and felt his body sway. Again, he heard the flap of sails against the wind. The creak of the mast. His boat.
You’ll never make it through the Pacific. Not with just the two of you.
Dad’s voice. Was he here too?
He had a crazy image of his dad swaying like a hula girl, brightly colored like the flowers in the sand.
Where was Tommy?
Again, he tried to drag himself up. Tried to see. But his head pounded, pushed him down. And the sand was so deep and soft. It welcomed him back. Wrapped him up. He couldn’t … quite …
And he was swaying, swaying, swaying …
… going deeper. Following tiny lights. Diving to where it was quiet. No cracking or smashing.
To where it was cooler.
Green.
There, on the bottom of the ocean, Tommy was making a fire, waiting for Finn to join. Finn just had to swim down deep enough to find him.
Moss found Pa out front, crouched before the fire. He didn’t look up, just kept poking at whatever he’d just burned.
“Pa!” Moss said. “I was worried you’d gone swimming in the storm!”
Pa looked at her, glassy-eyed, still not out of Blackness. Jess came over then, whining for food. Adder licked her snout. Quick-fast, Moss put tea on to brew for Pa, found scraps for Jess. But not stormflowers, not for any of them.
“Did you see anything out there last night?” she said.
“Floods,” he murmured. “They’re what’s coming now. Only floods.”
Moss stared at him. “But I saw something.”
Pa’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing out there, Moss.”
Then Moss realized what he’d been poking in the flames. There were words. Printed words. She read: City. Lost. Drowned hopes. The book she’d tidied up the other night in the cave, the “classic.”
“You’re burning your storybooks now?”
“The island needs them more …”
Moss frowned. Sudden-fast, she did not want to be anywhere near Pa. Not when he was like this. He made salt-tears prick her eyes, scared her.
She turned for the cove, Adder at her heels. Needing to see the treasure proper. Needing to get away.
On the wet sand were storm-blown crabs and bloated gilly-fish. So many smashed-up shells. There was seaweed in armfuls, enough to keep their hut thatched for many moons. Each new object she saw was, for a moment, her fishboy.
“Callan.”
She whispered his name to the sea. Asked it.
Where was he? Where had he gone last night?
She saw his body bobbing in the waves, saw him shore-washed. But when she looked a second time, it was only a gull bobbing, or a wasted puffer fish on the sand. She walked farther along the tide-line. A jellyfish still pulsated with poison.
No Cal.
Moss breathed out. This cove was where things washed up first. If Cal wasn’t here, that meant he was all right, didn’t it? Wouldn’t she feel it, bone-deep, if he weren’t?
But what had it been last night in the waves? Who?
In seaweed farther along was something buried. She hurried to get there, then bent to dig it out. Not Cal, but … a piece of wood, almost as long as her forearm. Red as lobsters. Storm treasure from the rest of the world! There were markings on one side of it. Letters? She traced them with her fingertips:
I M
She turned the wood. Or should they be W I?
She brought it to her nose to smell, even held it to her ear to hear if it had stories. Who had touched this last, where had it been?
Half running now, she went farther along the beach. There she found another piece, smaller but also lobster red. She took that piece, too, carried them both to a patch of seaweed and piled them there. This was good treasure to come back for. She ran along the tide-line, searching for more, then shielded her eyes to look up toward the stream.
That’s when she saw him. Farther up and flat-out on the sand.
Cal?
No. Not the same coverings. Not the same shape.
She backed up, turning for the hut. Then made herself stop and stand. She would not keep running back to Pa, not anymore! Whatever—whomever—this storm treasure was, it was hers. Adder barked—one high, sharp, warning call—and the figure did not even move. Was it dead? Another vision?
She thought of how Cal and Aster had arrived—after a storm, after Pa had done the Experiment and she’d been desperate for something to change. Was it possible—she hardly think it—possible she’d done this? Had the Experiment the other day even … worked? Maybe the flowers hadn’t gotten rid of water but brought in another spirit instead, just like Pa had done that day long past. She walked closer, Adder coming too.
Crusty yellow hair fell across his closed eyes. Scratches were all over his pale, pinkish skin, and his coverings were stiff-hard from salt. A bloodied deep gash was in his leg. He smelled sort of … stale. As if he had been turned over many times in salt water and had been crisping in the sun ever since. He did not smell like Cal, did not look like Cal, either. He was more like Pa. If it weren’t that Adder’s eyes were also locked on him, Moss might have thought she’d imagined this strange new creature.
This … spirit?
This … man?
This storm-woke gift.
But was he dead? He looked both drowned and sun-dried at once.
Moss leaned closer. Drawing a quick breath, she prodded him hard in the stomach.
Someone was staring down at him. Not Tommy. Not a horse this time. A girl.
A real, live one.
Where had she come from?
Finn closed and opened his eyes. But she didn’t fade away. He tried to focus on her dark, wild hair and green, green eyes. Eyes like a rain forest. He could drink those eyes. She was saying something, but his ears felt thick—too thick—and he couldn’t understand.
Blinking, he waited for her to stop spinning. Her hair sprang around her face like a black halo, and there were tiny braids in parts of it, unwinding as he looked. There were petals in those braids. Like gemstones. Like the flowers in the sand.
This was a dream. Girls who looked like this weren’t real. Here was an angel. He’d died … drowned! One of the dancing flowers had come to life!
That storm …
Those waves …
His eyes closed. W
hen he opened them again, she was still there. She bent closer, studying him like he was a bug. She smelled sweet, like the ganja smell he’d had earlier. And there was a … dog … too. Nothing like his Sebastian. This one was feral-looking, all teeth and slobber and with a big, square head.
That, at least, didn’t seem like a dream.
“How did you get here?” the girl said.
This time he heard the words and understood them. He wanted to ask the same of her. Wanted to ask where here was. But his head was pounding him, splitting him.
“Perhaps you can’t speak?” she said.
He tried to open his mouth, form sentences, but it seemed like he was only made of salt and snot, and nothing came out. She was watching his face so intently he worried she might prod an inquiring finger right into it, straight into one of his eyes. Instead, she leaned even closer and pulled his shirt collar from his neck. When he flinched away, she held him firm.
“Stay,” she growled, almost like she were talking to her dog.
Up close, she smelled even sweeter. Again, he blinked and tried to focus. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe this was really Tommy leaning over him.
“Water,” he said, blinking hard. “Tommy, man, don’t be an ass, water …”
He tried to say that, anyway. He wasn’t sure how it came out. A bundle of strange sounds. Like an animal. And Tommy didn’t come into focus. It was just … her. Finn tried to move backward, tried to see. He needed to work this out—where Tommy was, who she was. But the girl held him tightly.
“Shhhhh,” she murmured. “Shhhhh.”
She brushed her fingertips—so lightly—over his skin. Then she leaned over him again, until her nose was almost touching his neck, and she … smelled him. Finn was so surprised he didn’t even back off. He watched her from the corners of his eyes. Slowly, she breathed him in, starting at his ear and moving to his shoulder. The dog even joined in with a sniff of its own. When Finn jerked away then, the dog licked his forehead.
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