by Lynne Matson
As we left the field, she glanced back, and I noticed a tiny streak of fresh blood on her face. It stood out like island paint, where her jaw had brushed the flowers when she’d bent to grab the bag. I reached out and immediately pulled my hand back. I didn’t have the right to touch her.
I barely knew her.
“Skye, you’ve got blood here.” I tapped my jaw with my finger.
Her eyes on mine, she reached up and touched her face.
“Closer to your chin,” I said softly, moving my finger down my jawline to explain.
Her motions tracked mine. Slowly, carefully, her fingers traced her cheek as she gently wiped away the blood, never looking away from me.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, like I’d sucked down deadleaf tea.
“Did I get it?” she whispered, her eyes barely blinking.
I nodded, my eyes on hers. I’d lost my ability to speak. What the hell was that?
We started walking. Neither of us said another word.
Dex and Sy waited where we’d left them. “Raider meet-up, preplanned,” I told them succinctly. “Stole three bags, we got one back, thanks to Skye.”
Dropping into a squat, I gently dumped the contents of the recovered bag on the ground. Mangos, guava, and rocks spilled out.
“Rocks?” Skye frowned. “Why would anyone steal rocks?”
“No clue,” I said. And why steal food when the groves offer plenty?
“About the rocks,” Sy said. He sounded hesitant. “Last night I saw Archie hanging around the Shack and the Food Hut. He looked like he was up to trouble. Like he might take stuff.” Sy flushed, not meeting my eyes. I recalled a time when Sy had been less than honest. My gut said his thoughts tracked mine.
He cleared his throat. “He left the Shack, his arms full of stuff, and when he went into the woods, I saw him stash two satchels at the edge of the Flower Field. Then when he went to bed—he crashed in Cho’s hut last night—I snuck back out and opened the satchels. He’d taken sandals—three pairs—shorts, a wooden machete, and food.” He shrugged. “I filled the bags with rocks and covered the rocks with food. I figured he could take the food.”
“Nice job,” I added, watching Sy’s posture straighten with pride. “Good thinking.”
“So he’s gone then? Archie?” Dex asked.
“Yup,” I answered. “But his friends might come back. They ran off with two bags.” I caught Dex’s eye. “Archie didn’t make it.”
“What does that mean?” Sy frowned.
“It means something grabbed him in the Flower Field. Something strong enough to take down all seventy kilos of him in one bite. And something strong enough to drag him away.”
Dex clenched his jaw. “Something with fur, no doubt.”
“I’d guess yes.”
“It just took him?” Sy looked both bewildered and pale. “Like he vanished?”
“He left a trail of blood,” Skye said quietly. She pointed at the satchel, which now lay blood side up.
“Bloody hell,” Dex swore.
“That’s Nil,” I said.
Sy started hyperventilating.
“Breathe,” I told him calmly. “Slow and steady. You’re gonna be okay, buddy. Just breathe.”
I gently led us toward the Shack, Sy breathing loudly, Dex and Skye completely silent.
By the time we got there, Sy had pulled himself together but he still looked ready to puke. I wondered if he’d eaten today.
Working as a quiet group, we inventoried the Shack to see what else was missing.
The answer? Not much.
From our best guess, the third satchel had held a dried water gourd and, of all things, a pillow. Nothing else was missing. Sure, a pillow took a little time to make—the grasses didn’t dry overnight—and yeah, the cloth to wrap them was precious, but it was a goddamn pillow.
Archie’s middle had abruptly turned into his end, over a pillow.
And that was Nil truth number six. Don’t waste time on stupid stuff. Sometimes it will come around to bite you in the ankle.
Or kill you.
CHAPTER
34
SKYE
DAY 4, MID-MORNING
Christmas in the islands was not at all I what I’d expected.
I had the blue sky and gorgeous beaches, the freshest fish I could ask for, plenty of downtime, and if I was honest, I had hot guys in skimpy island shorts that made me shiver at weird and unexpected moments. And I had people getting mauled by invisible predators and disappearing into thin air.
Merry deadly Christmas.
If Nil didn’t like thieves, I was in big trouble.
I hoped that wasn’t Nil truth number one.
I watched Rives paddle out, diving under the breaking waves like a pro. I didn’t know how to surf, and right now I hoped I wouldn’t stay long enough to learn. Noon would show up soon, maybe bringing a gate, maybe not. But midnight would show up eventually, too. I wasn’t so naïve as to think the stationary gate appeared every night at midnight; that would be too easy. But if there was a pattern to the rolling gates, why couldn’t there be a pattern to the stationary gates, too? And I wouldn’t find it sitting here on the sand, watching Rives surf.
My frustration with Rives grew.
Archie’s freak death made me want to find that elusive outbound right now. To not waste another single second, let alone a day. Not waste time goofing off in the ocean when we had a chance at a Citywide escape, here on land.
Rives pulled up and sat on his board. He faced the horizon, his board drifting, his body still. He made no attempt to catch a wave or come back to land, and he sure wouldn’t find the stationary gate at sea.
Why didn’t Rives feel the same urgency to find it as I did?
And how long did he expect me to keep the stationary gate a secret?
No more, I thought. He’d had a day. Twenty-four hours, which on Nil was a lifetime. Rives basically said so himself. Births, deaths. Arrivals, departures.
It all could happen—and did happen—in one day.
Rives had had his chance. Instead, he chose to surf.
It was time to make a new plan. My plan, which did not involve piddling the day away on the water.
I spun around and nearly knocked Macy down.
“Hey,” she said, backing up with her hands raised, smiling. “Most people only move that fast around here when they see a gate.”
“Or a predator,” I said. I didn’t smile. Less than three hours past dawn and a boy was dead.
Macy’s face softened. “True. I’m so sorry for what happened to Archie. Sometimes there are no words, Skye. Sometimes life is cruel.”
I noticed she said “life,” not “Nil.”
Reaching out, Macy pressed something into my hand and squeezed. “It’s small, but Jillian and I just wanted you to know that we’re glad you’re here even though we’re sorry you’re here.” Macy smiled. “Merry Christmas, Skye.”
I opened my palm to find a bracelet. Soft twine held a cluster of three small white shells, each unique in shape, none perfect, yet totally perfect for the day. Simple and gorgeous.
Pressure squeezed my chest like an invisible gate.
I had nothing for her or Jillian, and it made me feel awful. I hadn’t even thought about gifts, or more importantly, anyone else. My focus had been on the midnight gate and escape. And Archie’s death. And me. And not necessarily in that order.
I looked up, feeling shallow and selfish and more resolute than ever. “Thank you, Macy,” I said. Tears welled in my eyes; I blinked. “I’m sorry I have nothing for you.” But I will. I have a gate, a surefire escape, I just can’t tell you about it. Yet.
Macy squeezed my hand, a gentle pressure. “I don’t expect anything. That’s why we call it a gift.” Her smile was as warm as her grip. “Given freely, expecting nothing in return. Jillian found the twine; I found the shells. It’s from both of us.”
I touched my gift. “Thank you.” I stared at the bracelet, heari
ng Rives’s voice, his words echoing Charley’s. There are good people still here, still stuck in this deadly paradise. They all deserve to get home.
He was right, and the sooner the better.
It was time to make some Christmas magic happen.
CHAPTER
35
RIVES
DAY 280, MID-MORNING
I paddled out and breathed.
Out here, I gave in. Gave up, letting the water push me where it pleased. I didn’t even try to catch a wave. I decompressed, needing the space to think.
Skye’s motto. Think first, act later. The unspoken don’t panic.
Talla’s motto. Don’t think, act. The unspoken follow your instincts.
Telling myself not to compare the two was pointless. I compared everyone to Talla; she was my standard for Nil badassery. Leila and Pari held their own, rocking a quiet sense of competence, and both had smartly made allies to watch their backs—like Michael, Raj, and Cho. Kiera was weak and privileged and utterly focused on the I in Nil; Brittney went around with her jaw perpetually dropped in wonder. Neither would notice an elephant on an approach. The only feeling I got around those last two was a heightened pressure to get their butts home in one piece. Macy and Jillian were tough and kind, my Nil sisters like Nat had been. Dex had grown into his strength, like Ahmad and Jason and Miya.
Talla had been different.
And Skye was different.
Talla’s in-your-face attitude had rubbed others wrong, but not me. There was more to Talla than just toughness, and yet, in the end, you got what you saw. A fighter, unwilling to back down, willing to fight for what was right, even if the battle cost her life. Which, in the end, it did.
Skye was another story.
Skye didn’t react like Talla; Skye acted. Coolly, with a confidence most people could only dream to channel; her every move was methodically thought through, constantly putting Nil on the defensive. More cerebral, less knee-jerk. More going on inside than anyone could see, giving me hope she might take Nil on and win.
Until this morning. And that’s what pissed me off.
Skye had stepped up to the darkness like a rookie dumbass, without thinking. It could’ve turned out badly. Could’ve been deadly.
Like Archie.
I replayed the morning and a crisp mental sequence struck. Skye, sliding her sling back on her shoulder, her hand palming a rock.
Had she been prepared after all?
Maybe I was the dumbass. Maybe I didn’t give her enough credit. Maybe I owed her an apology for being a chauvinistic jerk.
Maybe I didn’t need to protect everyone, but that didn’t change the fact that I felt driven to try. Archie had been in camp less than twenty-four hours, and I’d done nothing to protect him. Maybe his death was meant to be. Maybe fate was the foe today, not Nil.
Maybe I’m losing my shit.
Rivesssss …
The waves hissed with a ferocity that snapped me back.
The current had pulled me south, past Black Bay, toward the Arches. A single figure stood in front of the Man in the Maze.
Maaka.
I paddled furiously and rode the next wave in. Leaving my board on the rocks out of wave range, I climbed higher, toward the Man in the Maze.
Maaka still stood motionless, arms crossed, a slight frown pulling his eyebrows tight as he faced the carving.
“Morning, Maaka,” I said. “How’s your middle going?”
Maaka didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t acknowledge my presence at all.
“Why, good morning to you too, Rives,” I said pleasantly. “It’s great to see you. How’s everything going? Lose any friends today?” I crossed my arms, my stance matching his. I’ll talk until you do, I thought. I’ve got time.
He turned toward me slowly. “I do not think he was your friend,” he said quietly. “Unless your friends steal from you.”
His gaze flicked to my board and back to me, thoughtful.
“You are not like me, and yet you are. You are haole”—he pointed toward the City—“and yet you are not.”
“Because I look like you?” I asked, annoyed that Maaka had put me into a club, yet at the same time excluded me. Twice. “Because my grandmother was from the islands? Is that what makes us alike?”
“No,” he said. “You are not an islander like me. But there is—something. You act like us. You question like us. You think. You lead, you protect, even at your own expense. We are alike here.” He placed his fist over his heart. “The island blood running through your veins is strong.”
Which island? I wondered. Hawaii or Nil?
“Who are you?” I asked. “Who is your ‘us’?”
Maaka dropped his fist and looked away.
“Three … two … one…,” I counted slowly. “C’mon, answer, Maaka. Don’t let me get to four.” I raised my eyebrows.
“The numbers,” he said. “They are not for you.”
“Nothing here is for me,” I said dryly. “And yet here I am. Feel free to tell me what they mean.”
Maaka tipped his head.
“The numbers represent the timeline of the journey. Of our journey. Of the path we travel. We start with three seasons, then two, then one. A progression, not to zero but to a completion, to a new beginning. To the fourth season, when we return home.”
A countdown, I thought. Just like Thad named the carving.
Obvious and disappointing.
“You talk about us and them.” I studied Maaka as I spoke. “The first day we met, I argued we are one and the same; you told me we’re different. In one way, you’re right. You come here, knowing you can leave. You don’t have to run, you don’t have to guess. You don’t have to live in fear. Everyone else spends every day running for their lives, trying to catch a gate as it races across the island. We don’t have the luxury of knowing a gate is waiting. It’s like you’ve got a first-class ticket and the rest of us are flying standby, every damn day.”
I breathed, fighting the constant frustration simmering below the surface. “So you can have your spiritual journey, Maaka, your middle, but we don’t get that, either. Because when you’re facing down death every day, it’s a little tough to find your inner peace and personal path. And some people never get their fourth season, because they die. Here, on this rock.” I looked hard at Maaka. The lines of his face didn’t change, but at least he was listening. And he didn’t tell me I was wrong about the stationary gate.
Point for me, I thought.
“You see much,” he said finally.
“Am I still at the edges?” I almost smiled.
He looked through the Arch, toward the island’s interior.
“The island only tests those with the strength to survive,” he said finally. “The island does not bring people here to die. We are all metal, strong but pliable, forged through fire. That is our middle. The island does not choose those who will burn.”
“We all burn,” I said, thinking of Talla. “Fire always wins.”
“Does it?” The water crashed loudly in Maaka’s pause. “Fire may leave a mark, but it doesn’t have to kill.”
“It leaves you scarred, then.” My tone was harsh.
“Perhaps.” Maaka sounded thoughtful. “Or perhaps reshaped. Molded. Stronger. Weak points soldered.” He pressed his hand flat against the Arch. “Look at the island. Shaped by fire. The land, blistered and burned, reshaped into something beautiful.”
His reverent tone made me sick.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Maaka. I don’t think those scarred by Nil would consider those marks of beauty, even if those scars are invisible.”
“You don’t know that,” he said. “How scars are viewed is a choice. Scars are badges of honor. Marks of the path walked to shape you into the person you are to become.”
“Back to the journey, I see.” I crossed my arms. “People die here, Maaka. People who didn’t choose to come.”
“Perhaps their choice was made for them,” he
said softly. “Perhaps their end was already written.” His eyes flashed fierce. “But most survive, and those who do are stronger, even if scarred.”
He stepped back, like he’d crossed some invisible line.
“I will go now,” he said. “Do not follow me.”
“Maaka.” One word, delivered like a command.
He paused, then faced me like an equal.
“We’re not done,” I said quietly. “We’re not even to the middle, you and me.”
For the first time he smiled. “We are definitely in the middle, Leader Rives. Just because you can still see the beginning does not mean it is not behind you.” His smile faded. “The island’s fire has touched you. It burns inside you. Do not let it consume you.”
He turned, dropped into the water between the rocks, and disappeared beneath the froth, leaving me alone with the numbers and carvings.
The island’s fire has touched you. It burns inside you. Do not let it consume you.
Easier said than done.
Fire can be extinguished; fire can be also controlled. Harnessed. Like humans had done for centuries.
But Nil’s fire was invisible.
How can you harness something you can’t see?
CHAPTER
36
SKYE
DAY 4, MIDDAY
After spending the rest of the morning satisfying Sy’s rabid curiosity about my uncle’s journal—What did they eat for breakfast? Did they build the fish traps? Did Mount Nil ever blow?—I finally escaped, begging off to go find Jillian.
Other than Rives and Dex, Jillian was the only other person Charley had mentioned by name, which told me Jillian could be trusted. And I desperately needed to trust someone with my secret. It begged to be shared, because the stationary gate didn’t belong to me; it belonged to all.
I found Jillian by the Shack, spreading out sheets of creamy pulp to dry.
“It’s so lumpy,” she grumbled. “No one beats the pulp flat like Heesham did.” She pounded one particularly large knot with her fist, which did absolutely nothing. “Crap.” She looked up and wiped her forehead as she smiled. “What’s up, Skye?”