by Lynne Matson
I left it at that.
I glanced sideways at Brittney, who was as quiet as I was. Only she was looking around, her eyes wide as always.
“You okay, Brittney?” I asked.
She touched the bark of a tree as we passed. “This place is so pretty I can’t believe I’m here. It’s like I won one of them free vacations you get those phone calls about, only this is real, you know?”
“It’s pretty,” I said carefully, “but Nil’s not a vacation, Brittney, no matter what it looks like, okay?”
Brittney didn’t reply. Her rookie status glared as bright as her new City threads. With a start, I realized that the marks I’d first seen on her biceps weren’t dirt; they were bruises. Fading to green, the bruises came to Nil with her.
Maybe Nil was a vacation for her. A scary thought. And a sad one.
At the City’s edge, we cut through the cliff, passing through the Crystal Cavern. It was nearly as beautiful as the Arches.
“Wow.” Kiera turned in a slow circle near the exit. Facets winked at us floor to ceiling, the morning light bouncing off the walls. “So beautiful.”
“No doubt. They’re diamonds. Rough and uncut. But definitely diamonds.”
“Diamonds?” Brittney’s slow drawl was full of wonder. “Oh my gawd, my mama would go hog wild with this.” She ran her hands over the walls.
“Be careful. They’re sharp,” I said. The last thing she needed was a cut and an infection.
Brittney jerked her hands away. Her face looked wistful.
“C’mon, you two. Let’s go see the Man. He’s waiting in his Maze.”
Twenty minutes later, we climbed around the edge of Black Bay, and the Arches came into view. Five black rock arches in varying sizes, all carved from the volcanic black rock by water or forces I couldn’t even comprehend, all framing a piece of Nil sky. Water crashed against the bases, white and frothy.
I led the girls to the biggest arch, where the Man in the Maze lived.
“That’s it?” Kiera asked. She stared at the carving, hands on hips.
“That’s it,” I said crisply. She’d looked more impressed with the raw diamonds than with this carving, never mind the fact that someone had carved a perfectly symmetrical goddamn labyrinth into unforgiving black lava rock, by hand. No wonder so much info gets lost here, I thought, abruptly furious. First you have to care.
I took a slow breath, dialing down my temper. I wasn’t sure why I was so annoyed. Probably because I was freaking exhausted.
“There are three other carvings,” I told Kiera. “Not identical, but similar. They all have the number twelve at the top.”
“I’ve seen the rubbings,” Kiera said. Still unimpressed. “I just thought in person it’d be different.” She shrugged. “Bigger.”
Classic.
Brittney touched the carving, one finger reverently tracing the circular lines. “Who did this?” Unlike Kiera, her face read awestruck.
“I don’t know,” I told Brittney. “Someone here long before us.”
“I couldn’t do this in a million years,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “I could draw the stick figure, though.”
I stared at the stick figure, at the Man in the Maze.
Was this carving more important than the others? If so, why?
“We’re going back,” Kiera announced. “Are you ready?”
I shook my head. “I’m going to stay. Do you know the way back?”
“Yeah. It’s easy,” Brittney answered.
Disappointment flickered across Kiera’s face—again.
A flash of purple made me turn.
Kiera’s flower—the one she constantly kept tucked behind her ear—was in her hand. Three petals were falling into the water below the Arch, dropped by Kiera herself. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine.
“I thought I should leave something.” She shrugged. I nodded, impressed. Maybe Kiera had figured out that disrespecting Nil was a seriously bad call.
Maybe there was more to Kiera than I realized.
“Thanks for the tour.” Kiera tucked the rest of her flower back behind her ear, a smooth move that hid the missing petals beneath her hair. Self-aware, and calculated. Like Nil, but not.
Maybe Kiera was exactly as I suspected.
“Anytime.” I smiled.
Kiera smiled back and turned away, linking her arm through Brittney’s.
I turned back to the carving. I squatted down, about four meters back from the Arch. Mount Nil sat perfectly framed. I’d never noticed it before. From this angle, the twelve on the carving pointed toward Mount Nil, the highest island point.
Watching us, are you, Nil? I thought.
Fine, I thought fiercely, my fist tightening. Two can play this game. Because I’m watching you too. Watching, listening, taking notes and numbers. And I’m getting closer; I feel it. I hope you do, too.
A hissing on my right made me turn. A black cat with frosted white paws sat on the nearby rock, flicking his tail.
“Well, hello, Burton. Good to see you’re not puppy chow.” I grinned.
I couldn’t help thinking that Nil picked this precise moment for Burton to resurface. A sign of benevolence, a sign that Nil had heard me. A sign that Nil didn’t kill everything it touched.
But Nil wasn’t in the friend column yet.
Or ever.
CHAPTER
24
SKYE
DAY 1, DAWN
I never stopped running, never stopped moving, and by the time the sun rose, I found myself surrounded by lush trees. Vibrant green leaves canopied overhead; fruit hung from branches for easy picking. Water coated leaves on the ground. I licked a dozen leaves, lapping up every speck of water. Then I carefully studied the trees and fruit, recognizing guava.
Choosing ripe ones, I ate a handful and felt better.
In the early light, the Sharpie on my wrist stood out like a cheap tattoo: TFPL. Think first, panic later.
I snorted.
Maybe I hadn’t fully panicked—as if there are degrees of panic, my mind admonished. Even partial panic is, by definition, panic—but I sure hadn’t done a great job of thinking. It was more like act first, think later; I’d been reactive rather than proactive. And with the tiger, I hadn’t acted at all. I was lucky to be alive. I’d barely given my follow-the-strange-kid plan any thought at all.
Great job, Skye. I brushed aside the nagging thought that landing here had been my plan all along, that on some level I’d known the boy with the lei would lead me here.
Be careful what you wish for, Charley had warned. Because you just might get it.
I’d managed to get myself stuck on Nil, like my uncle, the same uncle who died base jumping off the Sydney Harbor Bridge. Apparently the reckless gene ran strong in our family. I just hoped the survival one ran stronger.
But now that I was here, now what?
Now I had absolutely no plan at all.
Sorry, Dad, I thought, a lump lodging my throat. For making you worry, for not listening all the times you tried to share survival techniques.
For not believing.
Because given my weak performance so far, I wasn’t as prepared as I’d thought. My dad must be out of his mind with worry. I hoped that somehow he’d know I was here, that he’d know I’d be okay.
Problem was, I wasn’t sure I’d be okay. The welcome committee wasn’t exactly welcoming. Then I had a frightening realization—neither of the kids at my welcome party had used the word Nil.
What if I’m not on Nil?
What if I’m somewhere else?
Panic rose, as swiftly as a gate, a living, breathing, air-sucking beast inside me. I tried to take a deep breath and began hyperventilating instead. You’re panicking, Skye.
Breathe. Calm down.
Think.
If I had a hope of making it here—please be Nil—it was time to start thinking.
Think first, act second. It was my new motto.
Think.
Thi
s place had to be Nil. The similarities to Uncle Scott’s journal were too great: the gate trip with its invisible burn, the naked arrival. The black rock mountain, the grassy meadow. The clear blue sky, the lush fruit trees. If the journal rang true, I stood in the groves.
I had to be on Nil. If not, then I was stuck on some freaky replica of Nil that was so similar I was more screwed than I could even imagine.
Fear streaked down my spine, cold and choking.
Breathe.
This is Nil, I told myself repeatedly until the cold subsided. I’m on Nil. And I’m going to be okay.
I would operate under the assumption that I was on Nil until I found out otherwise. Plus, my current plan depended on it: I needed clothes, a weapon, and Rives, in that order.
Being naked made me feel vulnerable. I was constantly aware of my nakedness, taking precious mental space that I needed for survival. Just because I knew everyone woke up naked on Nil didn’t prepare me for how awkward it was. The sooner I had coverage, the better.
Taking another deep breath, I assessed my surroundings. I catalogued what materials I could use, what I needed to do, my mind replaying a dozen different videos and web pages and parental lectures. I needed a tool.
I found a small, flat black rock, the size of my cell phone, and rubbed the edge repeatedly against a boulder until it was decently sharp. Now I had my tool. Next I needed fiber—the kind to wear, not eat.
I strode over to a thicket of stalks that appeared to be dogbane, or at least a close cousin. Good enough, I thought. I skipped the grayed stalks as too old and focused on the brown ones. One at a time, I hacked off a dozen just above the ground. Soon I had a respectable pile.
Moving methodically, I flattened each stalk against the boulder I’d used to hone my rock tool, pressing until the stalk split in two. Then I broke off each end, gently pulling the outside woody part off, lifting carefully from each end and alternating until the wood fell away completely, leaving me with two three-foot-long ribbons of twine. I repeated this process until I had four pieces of twine. To make the twine more pliable, I rubbed it between my fingers, working my way down the ribbon, just as Dad had taught me, or rather, the myriad YouTube video clips he insisted I watch on making rope in survival situations. Tedious work, but necessary. I manipulated the material until it softened, just enough to make the twine easier to work with. My fingers were already sore. Thankfully, I didn’t have blisters.
Yet.
Taking a break from the twine, I gathered green leaves that looked like elephant ears, sharpened a small stick to act as a needle, and pierced the leaves enough to thread the twine through, careful not to tear the leaves. Then I fashioned a wide green-leaf skirt and top, enough to cover myself and give myself a semblance of privacy. It wasn’t J.Crew, but it worked.
Next, I needed a weapon, one with better range than a handheld rock tool.
I stripped four more stalks and separated the bark, leaving me eight more ribbons of twine, but this time I skipped the softening process. I didn’t want to risk a blister that could rupture and leave me open to infection. Plus, I still had to braid the fibrous ribbons. Working on autopilot, I swiftly wove the material into rope, then crafted a rock sling. A simple but effective weapon, a small cradle held the rock, woven between two lengths of braided cord. Over the course of four summers, I’d practiced this maneuver countless times with my dad, using hemp twine, rope, and a variety of other bark fiber as raw materials. The actual sling took little time to make; it was the prep that took the work. I didn’t need practice on how to use it; I could wield it blindfolded by feel. And eyes open, I could hit my mark from 100 feet. Not bragging, just a fact. Some people come home from summer trips with T-shirts; I came back with rock sling accuracy.
I’d never been more grateful.
I draped my sling across my shoulders, picked up three more pieces of twine, and tied my hair back in a long ponytail; it was already an out-of-control island nightmare. Shallow, I knew, but I hated how my hair looked without product—like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket. Tying it back made me feel like I’d accomplished something; it made me feel more like me.
Hair barely tamed, I hacked off a branch from a living tree—Sorry, tree, I thought, feeling environmentally disrespectful, but I needed a green stick—and sharpened the end into a spear. Rough but decent, and the green stick would be stronger than a dead branch that would snap at the first hint of pressure. I wished I had a pack to carry guava and mango, but I’d taken enough time already. I knotted twine around several mangoes and a handful of guava until they stayed put, then slung the fruit strand over my shoulder. It was the best I could do in such a short time. From what Uncle Scott wrote, the City was on the opposite side of the island from where I was, so I had a two-day walk ahead. I’d go slightly north, tracking the coast. There was no way I was going anywhere near the mudflats and the angry, angry hippos.
I gathered one more handful of guava and held them.
On my left, something snorted.
I turned slowly, slipping off my rock sling as I moved.
At the edge of the fruit trees, a large rhino stood motionless. Twenty feet of grasses separated us, at most.
Think.
Don’t panic.
Don’t react.
Think.
I quickly worked through what I knew about rhinos. Poor eyesight, great hearing, killer sense of smell—it’s how they sense humans. Sleep during the heat of the day, sometimes sleep standing. If they charge, stand your ground, and at the last second, dive out of the way. Then find cover or run.
Run, I thought.
Uncle Scott’s neat print floated behind my eyes. Life. Death. Gates. Running.
Yup, I thought. It seemed like all I did on this island was run. But I didn’t feel like running today.
Moving slowly, I eased back into the trees and worked my way north, away from the rhino.
An hour later—maybe longer; I already missed my phone in more ways than one—I ran into Paulo, the younger member of my not-so-welcoming committee, just past the lush trees. He sat on a rock, crying. He looked miserable, and he smelled horrible.
“Are you okay?” I knelt, trying to breathe through my mouth.
His head jerked up. His eyes were red. They widened as he pointed a shaky finger at me.
“You!” he cried. “You ruined everything! Why did you follow me?”
“Why do you care?” I asked.
“Because you shouldn’t be here!” Under his breath I caught the word kapu. Forbidden, I thought. Trespasser.
“I came through the same wall of air as you,” I said calmly. “Therefore the island must welcome me, too.”
His face paled in shock. “What do you know of this place?”
“More than you think,” I said.
Suddenly, he wilted. “I hate this place already. I didn’t even want to come. My brother was the firstborn; he should be here. But instead he chose to study Western medicine and I got stuck with upholding the family honor.” The way he said “family honor” made it sound like a disease. He glared at me. “And because of you, my mentor ditched me. I’ve been looking for you all night, and instead, I ran into some monkeys who threw poop at me.”
It took all I had not to laugh. “You know, that’s a sign of intelligence.”
“What?” he said.
“The poop throwing. Scientists say it’s a sign of primate intelligence.”
“Great. Well, all I know is that it stinks.” He sighed. His stomach grumbled. Still holding my breath, I handed him some guava. “Here. Breakfast.”
“Where’d you find this?” he asked.
I pointed behind me. “There. Tons of fruit, all within reach. I’m Skye, by the way.”
“Paulo,” he said.
“I know.” I smiled wryly. Then I thought for a moment, choosing my question carefully. “Why did you come?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
; He shook his head. “You don’t understand. This place … the tradition…” Abruptly he looked wary, like he’d said too much. He glanced around and stood. “There are rules. I can’t break them. I’m to tell you to go west, and you’ll find people like you.”
“People like me,” I repeated. Then I regarded him thoughtfully. “Paulo, we aren’t so different. There is a City to the west, full of kids like us, all trying to make it home. All helping each other.” I prayed that what I was telling him was still true. “I’m going there now. You can come with me, and they’ll help you survive until you can get home.”
He looked at the sky. “A prison is still a prison, even when the walls are beautiful,” he murmured. His shoulders slumped. The defeated posture was back. “I can’t leave yet.”
A thought struck, because he sounded so certain he would leave.
“How do you know you’ll get home? What do you know that I don’t, Paulo?”
His eyes widened and he backed away. “You talk too much, haole,” he said.
“Skye,” I corrected, knowing full well the term for “outsider” was his attempt at maintaining distance. I stepped closer. “I’ll figure it out, Paulo. Maybe not today, but I will. And in the meantime, if you need help, come to the City. Come find me if you don’t want to do this alone.”
“I have to,” he whispered. He looked ready to cry again. “It’s the only way.”
He turned and ran. I watched him go. Something told me I’d see him again.
As Paulo vanished into the groves, I wished I’d warned him about the rhino.
And I wished I’d asked him if this was Nil.
CHAPTER
25
RIVES
DAY 279, BEFORE DAWN
Christmas Eve on Nil royally sucked.
The entire City was on edge, and it wasn’t because we were waiting for Santa. Something was out there, something lethal. Something that would probably eat the fat man in the red suit if he got too close.
Animals usually didn’t attack humans unless provoked. But if their food sources dwindled, all bets were off. Survival reigned. It was as simple as that. I’d pulled watch off the Shack, unwilling to put anyone at risk so close to the City’s edge. As of now, the lurking predator trumped raiders on the threat list.