Max made the periscope rise above the surface. He scanned the horizon. An island lay ahead of them in the distance slightly to the left. Between the sub and the island, the sea was choppy, but Max’s eyes were drawn to what looked like a distant black circle on the horizon directly ahead, in the middle of the water. “I think I see an oil slick.”
Basile cocked his head. “This isn’t anywhere near the tanker routes. What does it look like?”
“Big and round,” Max said. “Really dark. Kind of like a black hole.”
“Let me see, if you would.” The old man pushed Max aside and glanced through the scope, blinking hard. In a moment his smile vanished, and he looked up again at the sonar map. “That’s not an oil slick. It is a black hole.”
“What?” Max said.
“The nautical equivalent.” Basile began flicking switches and looking at gauges. “This is a maelstrom, lad. A whirlpool.”
“Is it dangerous?” Max asked.
“You’re bloody correct, it is!” Basile said. “These things pull in great ships. You know what this is, my chickens? Punishment! Neptune does not like us for associating with Stinky!”
He yanked the steering wheel to the right and blinked his eyes furiously, trying to focus on a sonar chart. “I bloody well wish I knew which direction to go.”
“You don’t?” Max said.
“I have never been in one of these, my boy.”
Alex’s fingers rose to her mouth. “Tourbillon D’Eau . . .” She scooped a dictionary off the floor and flipped through it. “I don’t believe this . . .”
Basile and Max both stared at her as she ran her fingers along one of the pages.
“D’Eau means ‘of water’ and tourbillon means ‘turbulent’—but I never looked up the phrase, the two words together!” Alex said. “‘Maelstrom’—that’s what tourbillon d’eau means! Jules Verne wasn’t giving us the name of a village. He was warning us about this!”
“Now you tell me, lassie!” Basile said.
“Are we in it already?” Alex said. “Are we going to die?”
Max began walking in circles. He fought back the smell of fish. “Something isn’t right . . .” he murmured. “Something isn’t right about the clue . . .”
The Conch was slowing, the engines churning loudly. “Trying to cut the engines, put her into reverse,” Basile said, “but the current is wicked.”
“The parts . . .” Max murmured. “Break it down into the parts . . .”
He closed his eyes and pictured the translation. Proceed, as I did, to the northeast, stopping at the port of Tourbillon D’Eau . . .
“Max, what are you saying?” Alex cried out. “What parts?”
Northeast . . .
Stopping . . .
The port of . . .
Max raced over to the periscope and looked through. To the island. The whirlpool.
“Left!” he blurted.
“Excuse me?” Basile said.
“Go to the left. Now.”
“Why?” Alex said. “How do you know?”
“Verne said ‘port of Tourbillon D’Eau,’” Max said. “He didn’t mean a port, he meant the port side,” Max said. “There’s an island on the port side of the maelstrom. That’s where he wants us to go!”
Basile peered through the scope. He let out a gust of breath. “I never thought I’d see the day when a twelve-year-old boy outnavigates a salt like me.”
“Thirteen,” Max said. “My fourteenth birthday is in—”
“Hold tight!” Basile said as he spun the steering wheel to port.
The Conch veered left. The engines moaned as Basile pulled back the throttle.
Max hung on to the instrument panel. His eyes darted up to the radar screen. The sub was a white blinking dot, making a sharp left-hand turn. He bent down and looked through the periscope. The sub was looping far to the left, swinging clear of the black hole. “You’re doing it, Basile!” he shouted.
“Not yet, lad . . . I’ve got to access overdrive . . .”
The sub was vibrating. The specimens in Basile’s museum cabinet were clattering against each other. Max could hear something crash to the floor in the medical room.
The old man had sweated through his head bandage. His eyes were bloodshot, and the knuckles of his fingers were white on the wheel. “Fire the depths,” he said.
“What?” Alex blurted.
“Again! Fire all of them! They will reduce our weight! And the recoil will give us an extra jolt away from the maelstrom!”
Max turned and slammed his palm against the red emergency button.
With a dull, deep thump, two black charges hurtled forward like oversized bullets.
“Keep doing it!” Basile shouted.
Thooom.
Thooom.
Thooom.
Max slapped his hand down until nothing happened. He could feel the ship recoiling after each one, but now it was rolling, pitching from side to side . . .
And then, without warning, the engine went silent. The lights flickered.
The sub had lost power. Max slapped the controls until his hands hurt, screaming at the top of his lungs.
41
“SSSSH, Max,” Alex said.
Max gulped down his screams. The only sounds in the control room were the beeping of gauges and the dull slap of the tail of a wandering fish on the left-side window.
“What happened?” Alex said.
“Did we make it?” Max asked.
Basile bowed his sweaty, bloodied head. “We made it,” he said. “We’re out of the current. For now, we’re safe. Thanks to our intrepid young laddie here.”
“Wait,” Alex said. “That’s . . . that’s amazing! Max . . . Basile, you’re awesome! You are the best captain in the—”
“Not so fast.” Basile held up his hand. “We’re also out of fuel, lassie.”
Max swallowed hard. “So . . . what do we do?”
Basile looked up. He was working hard to keep his eyes steady now. With a sigh, he said, “We need to move fast. The sub is using auxiliary battery power for the interior electricity, but that won’t last forever. In the diving chamber there are wet suits, goggles, and flippers. Also headlamps. These will be crucial.”
“We have to swim?” Alex exclaimed.
Basile shrugged. “Aye, no other choice. The island is maybe half a kilometer away. The water will be frigid, but the suits should do the trick if you go fast.”
“You mean, ‘we,’” Max said.
“Right,” Basile replied. “Of course. We. Chop-chop now. Don’t shilly-shally.”
Alex and Max helped Basile to the diving chamber. They pulled wet suits from a chest and quickly put them on. Basile reached into a supply chest and handed them each sealed bags. “Tuck these into your suits. The suits are waterproof, head to toe. You put the flippers on over your enclosed feet. Inside the bags you’ll find matches, flint, even some dry paper and kindling. The island will be cold. Once there, you’ll want to keep your suits on for the insulation, but a human being can only take so much exposure. Oh, and Max . . .”
“Hmm?” Max said.
“Tell me, do you still have that specimen I gave you?”
Max smiled and felt for the lump in his pants pocket. “Sea fan—Isis hippuris,” he said. “I carry it wherever I go. You said it was medicinal.”
“Very good,” Basile said with a smile. “Precious stuff. Wouldn’t want you to leave it behind.”
Alex and Max took their bags and tucked them in. Basile grimaced as he pulled his suit over his injured leg. Alex helped him fit the hood gently and then his mask, snorkel, and headlamp. “Are you sure you can make it?” Alex said.
Basile smiled. “Haw! By the time you get to the shore, I’ll have already prepared lunch.”
He put the snorkel into his mouth and gave a thumbs-up.
Max and Alex donned their equipment. Basile pressed the button to open the chamber, and water cascaded in.
The old captain was the
first to dive. As he disappeared into the dark water, he waved.
Max took Alex’s hand. Together they thrust forward into the ocean, and they swam away from the Conch for the last time.
42
BLACKNESS.
Cold.
Time.
Pain.
Max’s eyes blinked open into rainy darkness.
He was on a bed of rocks, wet and sticky. He had no memory of the last few minutes. Thunder boomed overhead. He braced for a flash of lightning, but there was none. No light except the faint orange glow of a smothered sun taken hostage by clouds.
Max stood, pulling the goggles from his eyes and letting them hang around his neck. Every muscle shrieked at him, commanding him to lie down. His body unfolded in waves of ripping, searing pain.
Still, he ran up and down the coast, shouting.
“Alex! Basile!”
They were gone. He staggered up into the scrubby woods behind the shore and called again, into the spindly branches and thickets. He looked back out to sea, wading into the frigid water, even though he could barely feel his feet.
“Alex! Basile!”
There was no echo in this place. The sound stopped two inches from your face and then was absorbed in the pouring rain.
Fish fish fishy skunk skunky fish skunk fish fish.
He paced, talking to himself. Talking was good. Talking worked. He counted the shells until his teeth were chattering so much he couldn’t even think.
He wrapped his arms around himself as if that would keep him warm. Out to sea, his eyes located the black hole, the maelstrom—a distant, smudgy black blot.
Tourbillon D’Eau.
This was it. This was the island Jules Verne had led them to, the goal of their hunt. Somewhere—behind him? under him?—a massive treasure waited. Unless it didn’t.
And none of that mattered.
Max slumped down onto the rocks. He felt his thoughts darkening. One by one they were blotted out by a thick marker that was the color of squid ink, by the blackness of death. This had been a quest to find a fortune. The fortune was supposed to save a life.
The score so far? No lives saved, two lives lost.
And me. What about me?
He could jump into a pile of gold, and no one would ever, ever know he was here.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’m sorry, Basile. I’m sorry, me. I’m so, so sorry.”
Throwing his head back, he let out a cry that welled up from his stomach and ripped the back of his throat. Overhead, as if in answer, a thick black shape on a tree branch unfurled its vulture wings and began flying upward, gliding black against the silver-gray sky.
Max felt a shiver and stood. “Alex!” he tried one more time. “Basile!”
No answer, of course, except for the splashing of water. He squinted carefully at the ripples, the shadows and swells. The wind battered his face and froze the tears on his cheeks, and even though he was in a wet suit, he knew he wouldn’t survive too much longer. He would die here on the shore if he didn’t find some warmth, some food. He wanted, more than anything, to sleep.
As he turned away, a tiny blot of blackness rose and fell on the water to his right. Frozen and numb, he fought the urge to ignore it and lingered a second longer. It was a piece of flotsam that looked at first small and then massive. It hid and reappeared on the crest of a swell that was slowly bringing it to shore.
His fingers nearly numb, Max managed to remove the flippers from his feet, which were still enclosed in the waterproof material. As he ran across the shore, the shadow rode another wave that deposited the debris on the rocks.
It had arms and legs.
And flippers.
Max ran despite the near-total lack of feeling in his legs. He dropped to his knees and turned the body over onto its back.
Alex. Unmistakably Alex. Still in her wet suit. He ripped off her mask and snorkel.
She was not breathing. Her skin was cold.
No.
Max began pounding her chest. One . . . two . . . three . . .
He’d never done CPR. But he’d seen it a million times on shows. He’d read about it too. Watched videos. Memorized the facts.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
Sometimes people’s lungs filled with water, so you made a vacuum and sucked the water out. Some people said that wasn’t necessary. But some said it was. So he exhaled, emptying his lungs. Leaning forward, he grabbed Alex’s lips in his hands. Then he put his lips on hers, trying to make a seal. He wasn’t exactly sure how to make a vacuum seal with lips. So he pressed hard. That was probably good enough.
Her lips were as cold as steel. What next?
More compressions. Speed was important.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
Max sat back on the rocky shore, numb. He was breathing hard. This wasn’t working. Because sometimes the facts weren’t enough. Because you couldn’t learn everything from a book or a TV show. Like building a drone, driving a sub, capturing a treasure, fighting a squid, escaping a cruise ship. Making a person breathe. You couldn’t learn those by reading. “Breathe!” Max screamed. “Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe!”
Even lifeless, Alex looked like she was about to talk. Alex always said good things. She was awesome. He had known that the first day he’d met her. She had convinced him he could leave the house, travel without his mom and dad, search for a treasure. She had given Max good advice. The best advice ever.
Sometimes you can’t be ready to do the things you really need to do. You just do them. And that makes you ready.
That was what Alex had said. It was how she lived.
Max took a deep breath and leaned over her again.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
You . . . just . . . do them . . .
One . . . two . . . three . . .
One . . . two . . . three . . .
He felt the tears dripping down his cheeks as he pressed his lips against hers one more time and prepared to inhale.
Alex gasped and sat bolt upright. She twisted away and threw up water—once, twice, three times.
Max screamed, falling back onto the rocks.
“Max!” Alex said as she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her wet suit. “I didn’t know you cared.”
43
SHE felt cold. But hugging her made him feel warm.
“You’re—you’re alive!” Max screamed. “You’re alive you’re alive!”
“But not ready to party . . . just yet.” Alex blinked. She looked left and right, coughed, and then turned on her side and spat up more water. “We’re here, right? The island at the port side of tourbillon d’eau?”
“Yes.” Max hooked his arms under her shoulders and gently dragged her up the shore, away from the water that lapped over her legs. They rested on a couple of large rocks, not far from the ridge of pine trees that led deeper into the island. The rain had stopped, but the rock was still slippery.
“What are you smelling?” Alex asked.
“The good things,” Max said. “But they’re making me hungry.”
Alex laughed. “I smell seaweed. Max, is Basile here?”
Max shook his head. “I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s in the woods. He said he was going to make us lunch.”
Alex didn’t nod. Her face grew sadder. She looked out to sea and didn’t speak for a long time. “He was really weak, Max,” she said finally. “His leg wasn’t working. I think he had a pretty serious concussion too.”
“But he told us he was feeling strong,” Max said.
“He was lying,” Alex said. “He wanted us to swim to safety. He checked to see if you had your valuable specimen. He was saying things like he was sure he’d never see us again. He knew that you and I had a chance if we went together. If we’d fussed over him and tried to make sure he was safe, none of us might have made it.”
Max looked out to sea. “He sacrificed himself.”
“I think so. Yeah.�
�
Her eyes were watery. She held Max close, but they didn’t take their gaze from sea. It was just too hard to believe. Max hoped that somehow the big guy would suddenly surface with a great big “Haw!”
Finally Alex stood and turned to look into the woods. “We need to get warmer, Max. Start a fire maybe.”
“Do you think someone will rescue us?” Max said.
Alex nodded. “We’ve seen settlements up in this area on maps. Which means supplies have to get here. Which means shipping.”
She reached into her wet suit and pulled out the waterproof bag Basile had given her. Inside was a box of matches and some kindling made of specially treated wood. Together she and Max gathered the driest wood they could find, buried under great big deadfalls. They piled it on the rocky shore, just at the edge of the woods.
It took a long time to get the fire going. The wood let off a lot of thick smoke. But it felt good and smelled better than good. As the aroma seeped into their nostrils, Max and Alex huddled together for warmth.
“Are you tired?” Alex asked.
“No,” said Max, before his eyes dropped shut.
Max didn’t realize they’d both fallen asleep until the sun woke him up. He had to squint against the light, shielding his eyes with his arm. The storm had moved on, and the sun was low in the sky, peeking out from behind a scrim of fluffy clouds. “Alex, wake up.”
“I was dreaming about summer vacation,” she moaned. “I’m going back to sleep.”
Max smiled.
She would be starving when she finally woke up. They hadn’t really eaten in twenty-four hours. The thought made him imagine a plate of eggs and bacon, and his mouth filled with saliva. If they were going to survive, they’d need to be like pioneers. Pick berries and catch fish from streams with their bare hands. He had read about how to do those things.
Max stood up and turned toward the island’s interior.
Who knew? There might even be people here. A camp, maybe, or even a small settlement.
In the light, the place was less scary than it had seemed hours ago. They’d fallen asleep at the top of the shore, near a copse of dense bushes. Behind them, the ground rose into a thick growth of low, green-gray scrub brush, dotted with gnarled trees and a few pines.
Max Tilt: Fire the Depths Page 18