by Amanda Witt
I stood there and watched him come. I was a practical joke, the Watchers had said. A subject.
An experiment.
Angel saw that I wasn’t running and he smiled, but not at me. It was a secret smile, triumphant. He had won.
Ezzie’s words struck me, then, jolting me out of my stupor. Angel had paralyzed me, hypnotized me, like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.
I turned and ran.
I was more afraid than I’d expected to be, afraid of Angel and of myself, my uncertain ability to discern good from ill. I was afraid of Angel and I was also afraid that I was making the wrong decision by running from him. All I could do was stick to the plan—I could join Angel later, after I’d thought more carefully about what he’d said, but if I went with him now I wouldn’t be able to stop Sir Tom from attacking him, and if Sir Tom killed him I’d never find Meritt—though Angel was probably lying about that—of course he was lying. I’d seen that secret smile. How could I have come so close to ruining our plan? I was supposed to distract Angel, but instead he had distracted me, and not for long enough. I’d bought the others hardly any time—only a minute or two. This had all gone wrong.
I ran for the rocky promontory, but the dragging sand slowed me, gave my flight that helpless surreal nightmarish quality, so that with every step I expected to feel Angel’s hand on my shoulder. But whether Angel followed me, and how far, I don’t know. I was afraid if I looked back I’d see him reaching for me, or else I’d trip and fall, so I didn’t turn until I was on the cliff top, at the very edge of the sea, escape within easy reach.
Then I did turn, and what I saw took my breath away.
Four black-clothed wardens were right behind me. They were close, very close—how had I not heard them? Their faces were hard and mean and they were coming on fast.
“You’re going to pay,” the one in front called. “No one kills a warden and gets away with it.”
Me, kill a warden? I hadn’t killed anyone.
Angel was nowhere in sight. The warden was almost within arm’s reach, and I wasn’t going to stop to argue with him. I swung straight over the edge of the cliff, where the terrifying ladder hung, and began to climb down.
The warden peered over the edge at me, then turned and flung one leg down, felt for the rung. He was following me—he was coming down the ladder, and it swayed as he put his weight on it. If he fell, he easily might take me down with him.
Someone up above shouted; a single shot rang out. Who was shooting? Was it Angel? Sir Tom? Or were the wardens shooting at my friends?
The warden kept climbing down after me. I sped up, counting aloud—one, two, three, skip the rung, one, two, three, skip the rung. But I had two feet, not one, and I began to be confused about which foot was on which number, plus I was waiting for the warden to hit a bad rung, one of Sir Tom’s booby-trapped rungs, and come down on top of me.
An indistinguishable cry rose up above us, someone hurt, someone in pain. Who was that? I couldn’t tell, not with other people yelling.
Then the warden did hit a weak rung and the ladder jerked violently, slamming me against the cliff wall. I held on tight and didn’t fall, but neither did the warden; he caught the side rope and held on. The ladder swayed as he dangled from it, felt for a safer rung. And then he came on again, if anything faster than before, and now with a steady stream of curses and threats.
Dizzy, I clung to the swinging ladder, though it swung and scraped my knuckles against the rocks. As soon as the vertigo passed I started down again, unsure of the count, testing each rung but with no time, and eventually plunging on and trusting to dumb luck.
Finally I made it to the bottom, and the rock felt hard and unyielding after the rope, and the waves hissed and snapped. Since I didn’t know how to swim and didn’t know how deep the water was beyond the ledge, I wanted to cautiously edge my way along the wet shelf of rock, but with the warden hard on my heels, I had no choice but to rush forward. I had never stepped on anything so slick. I went down on the second stride, and waves washed over my arms and legs, tried to pull me into the sea. Warden or no warden, I would have to move carefully, testing each step and digging my toes into the rocks.
I heard the warden drop onto the shelf behind me, and willed myself not to whip around and lose precious seconds. I cleared the outer edge of the little peninsula and there was Farrell Dean in the tiny cove, watching for me. When he caught sight of me he began easing the little boat further into the water. Then he saw the warden.
“Get in the boat!” he yelled and began pushing through the waist-deep water, trying to get to the warden before the warden got to me. But the warden was too close—only a couple of yards away. He lunged at me and I jerked away from his hands, losing my footing on the slippery rocks, falling with a splash into water so icy I gasped and swallowed a mouthful of salty sea.
As I came up, gagging and gasping for air, I caught a glimpse of Farrell Dean grabbing the warden around the neck, hauling him down into the water, and then something else caught my eye.
The boat was drifting.
Swaying gently in the waves, bobbing slightly, it was edging away from us, toward the open sea. I hurried after it as fast as I could, but the water clung heavily to my legs, soaked into my clothes, dragged at me. What if I lost the boat? We’d be trapped—more wardens could follow this one down—and the rocks were sheer, there was no escape from here but by sea.
I took a deep breath, bent my knees, and launched myself out toward the boat. I came down hard and water went up my nose, set me spluttering and coughing again. My fingertips touched the edge of the boat but as I scrabbled at it, it moved away, out of reach again.
Frantically I got my feet under me and lunged again. This time I caught the boat solidly with both hands—so solidly that it tipped up toward me and things fell out. I stood up—the water was only up to my chest—and when I did the boat leveled. Keeping one hand on it, I grabbed an oar floating nearby and flung it back into the boat. What else had fallen? It didn’t matter. I had to get back to Farrell Dean.
Getting in front of the boat I started tugging it after me, back toward shore. It was maddeningly slow-going, like moving through honey. Where were Farrell Dean and the warden? There they were—oh, this was bad—the warden was on top of Farrell Dean. As I watched he shoved Farrell Dean further under, held his head under water.
I pulled with all my might, gasping with the effort. Farrell Dean’s hands were around the warden’s neck, but the warden was bigger, heavier.
Finally the boat wedged on the sandy bottom. I let go of it and grabbed the loose oar. Taking three steps, I swung hard at the warden’s head.
My aim was bad and the oar caught his shoulder, jolted out of my hands. He staggered and Farrell Dean came up in a rush, tackling him, knocking him off his feet. But the warden came back up again, fast, and he came up swinging.
Farrell Dean ducked under the blow and then warden saw me, lunged at me. He was too close—I couldn’t get away—and he grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me so hard my teeth rattled, and then shoved me backward, hooking my feet out from under me. I struggled and kicked, managed to keep my head out of water, but then he was reaching for my throat, he was going to drown me—
Then he froze. His mouth came open in surprise; his grip on me loosened. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell with a splash into the shallow water near the rocky cove.
Panting, Farrell Dean dropped the rock he was holding and grabbed the floating oar. He hurried to the head of the peninsula to see if there were other pursuers. Satisfied, he turned back to the fallen warden.
“Help me get him out,” he said, bending over the man and catching him under one arm. It was awkward work, he was heavy, I was trying to bear the brunt of it to spare Farrell Dean’s injuries more trauma, but finally between the two of us we got him up on to the shore, high enough that he was beyond the tide line, and wedged him against a rock so he wouldn’t roll back in and drown.
“Let’s go,�
� Farrell Dean said.
I clambered gracelessly into the boat, feeling it sway and tilt beneath me, and Farrell Dean pushed us into deeper water, leaning hard against the wooden front, finally heaving himself over the side and then shoving with an oar, sending us into the arms of a tide that pulled us away from beneath the rocky cliff and shot us out toward the open sea.
“You okay?” he said, breathing hard.
“They have guns,” I said. “Up above. Someone was shooting.”
“I heard.” He slid his oar into a notch on the side of the boat and stroked it through the water. The boat jerked, slewed sideways. Farrell Dean reached for the other oar and slid it into place, slammed both oarlocks shut, then tried again. This time we moved smoothly, shooting out further, faster. It was windier out here on the water and my hair tangled in my face, blinding me.
Were the wardens on the cliff top pointing guns at us? We couldn’t possibly be a safe distance out, not so quickly.
Farrell Dean was facing me, sitting on the wider middle bench rowing hard, his back toward the open sea, his eyes on the jumble of things in the bottom of the boat.
“Where’s the gun?” he said. “Find the gun and if they start shooting at us, shoot back.”
I crouched down and dug through the things in the bottom of the boat.
“It’s not here,” I said finally. “The boat tipped when I grabbed it. The gun must have fallen out.”
“All right,” Farrell Dean said, rowing harder and grimacing with the pain of it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll manage.”
I crawled up onto the seat but my back was to the shore. I didn’t want my back to the shore. What if the bullet was about to come, was about to hit me? Hurriedly I glanced over my shoulder, bracing myself to feel the shot, the bullet piercing my body.
That quick glance relieved one fear and replaced it with another. No one was pointing a gun at us or even looking at us; but on top of the peninsula several figures were fighting, some in the black uniforms of wardens, two of the struggling figures in gray, while a third in gray knelt on the ground, on his hands and knees—a dark man—Ezzie. Three in gray was too many—and where was Sir Tom, in his brown and green clothing?
Farrell Dean slowed our outward thrust, turned the front of the boat down the shore, south. There was no room for me to turn fully around on the little end bench; I twisted, straining to see what was happening back on the cliff top.
Was Ezzie hurt? Why was he kneeling like that, watching and not fighting? Had he been shot? As I watched he collapsed onto the ground, tried to rise, collapsed again. Oh, Ezzie . . .
The three wardens were fighting hand to hand with—yes, it was Cline, I could see his short blond hair, but who was the other? No one else was supposed to be out here. The others were all supposed to be at the stockade. He was smaller than Cline, most everyone was, but this person also was blond and I had a sick feeling it was Judd, who was just the sort to do such a stupid thing, trying to protect me when I had promised to protect him.
I turned toward Farrell Dean, fighting my hair out of my eyes. “Can you tell who it is?” I started to say, but Farrell Dean’s gaze was fixed elsewhere, a short distance to the right, where two figures stood alone on a high precipice above the sea, watching the fight below.
One was easily recognizable, tall and well built, long pale hair lifting in the wind: Angel.
The other I would know anywhere, from any distance, day or night, dead or alive.
“Meritt!” I screamed, standing up. The boat tilted and a wash of water came over the side.
“Sit down!” Farrell Dean grabbed my leg and yanked me unceremoniously off my feet, then reached for a small metal bucket. He began bailing, his eyes still on the two figures. The oars jerked in their locks and the boat stopped moving.
“Meritt!” I screamed again, my throat burning with the effort. On the big rock, Meritt raised one arm toward me in acknowledgement.
I kept my eyes on him as I untangled myself, got up on my knees, soaked through by the freezing water sloshing around the bottom of the boat, not caring, not feeling anything but joy that Meritt was alive, he was there, I could see him, soon I could talk to him, touch him.
“We have to row,” I said. I climbed onto the middle bench, squeezing in beside Farrell Dean. Grabbing the oar on my side I rowed hard, gouged at the sea. It yanked back and the oar ripped out of my hands, clattered in the oar lock. I grabbed it again, caught it, held it more firmly as I dug at the water again, not as deeply this time, and in response the boat listed sideways, in the wrong direction—there had to be a better way, I had no idea how to do this—we needed to row back to shore, farther down, far from the wardens, where we could land and make our way to Meritt. Meritt, who wasn’t dead—Meritt, whom I hadn’t gotten killed.
“Angel was telling the truth,” I said, gabbling, stumbling over the words. “He would have taken me to Meritt. I should have gone with him. Row, Farrell Dean! I can’t do it by myself.”
He didn’t budge. He bailed water from the bottom of the little boat, shifting the items sloshing around—a spade, a leather canteen, various odd bundles—with maddening deliberate movements.
“Please,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Please help me.”
But though I ordered and pleaded and finally wept with fury, Farrell Dean wouldn’t row, wouldn’t move so I could reach the other oar, wouldn’t even look at me. He finished bailing the water out of the boat, then held his oar up out of the water and watched the two figures grow smaller. He let the wind and waves seize us and turn us outward, away.
I called him every bad name I knew while all the time keeping my eyes fixed on the figures high on the rock, figures growing smaller and smaller and, as they grew dark with distance, becoming silhouettes, becoming more and more alike—tall, broad shouldered, familiar and unfamiliar, safe and mysterious—
“He’s Meritt’s father,” Farrell Dean and I said at the same moment.
I should have seen it before. Their coloring was different, and Meritt wasn’t as perfectly beautiful, and he was thinner, hadn’t yet filled out as a completely grown man, but the resemblance was there, not only in their faces but in their height, in the way they stood, in the timbre of their voices, in ways I couldn’t put my finger on but knew were there, were true . . . Meritt was Angel’s son. He was the son of a Guardian.
Surely Meritt knew—why else would he be out there with Angel? But why hadn’t he told me? And who was his mother?
The waves rocked the boat and I clutched at the side, staring at the figures on the shore until my eyes burned. The gray sky rocked above us, the gray sea below. Farrell Dean sat there, waiting, not touching his oar, letting the elements propel us.
“Why are you taking us out so wide?” I said, bewilderment beginning to drive out anger. “And we’re supposed to circle round counterclockwise, toward the stockade . . .”
Farrell Dean didn’t answer; he merely shook his head, his eyes fixed on Meritt.
It was the currents, I thought, or the tide, forcing us to take an altered path to the other side of the island, sweeping us out and curling us clockwise around the island. No—not curling us around it—we were—
“Farrell Dean!” I said, panic flaring. “You have to row—we’re getting too far out—we might not be able to get back—”
He looked at me, then, and I saw pain in his eyes, and something else, too, something that struck me suddenly frightened and desolate. And all I could manage was a single short sentence, terse and under my breath: “No more secrets.”
Farrell Dean didn’t look away, though it seemed to cost him. “There’s another island,” he said. “We’re going there.”
Another island?
Was he insane? We had to get back—had to get home. I couldn’t jump out of the boat. I couldn’t swim. And I could see by the set of his jaw that there was no persuading Farrell Dean this time. I was helpless, stolen away from everything I knew, everyone I loved, sent off over the edge of th
e world into some mad dream of that mad old man.
“You planned this,” I said. Farrell Dean shook his head, but I went on.
“You didn’t speak to me all day because you knew you were lying to me. Yes, you were—Cline knew you were going away.”
Oh, yes, Cline had known—that was why he had attacked me. He had known that Farrell Dean was going to carry me off somewhere, that he wouldn’t be seeing us again for—how long? And he wanted to chew me out before we went.
Seeing their deception, thinking it through, kept me from yielding to the blinding panic that swam just past the edges of my vision. The distant figures of Meritt and his father were tiny now, blurring together into one dark shadow.
Divided loyalties. That was what the Watchers had said about Meritt. Did they know about his father the Guardian, or were they thinking only of me, of our friends?
I got up from the middle seat, crawled to the end bench, as close to Meritt as I could get, and stared until he was gone, until even the rock he stood on blurred, became part of the island, indistinguishable from other rocks and ridges. I stared until the island itself was nothing but a low shadow on the surface of the water.
“Everyone lied to me.” I turned toward Farrell Dean with a look so stony that he flinched. “Sir Tom. Cline. Your mother. And you most of all.”
Farrell Dean ran one hand across his eyes. “Sir Tom misled you,” he said quietly. “He misled you for your own good. But I didn’t even do that. I was going to take you back. They didn’t know it, but I was going to take you to the stockade.”
When he dropped his hand and looked straight at me, I could find no trace of deception in his eyes.
“So what’s stopping you?” I said. “We can still get back.”
He shut his eyes briefly, as if my words hurt. “No,” he said. “They were right, Sir Tom and my mother. They said it was too dangerous for you here, that you needed to get clear away. I thought we could keep you hidden in the woods, that that would be good enough, but . . .” He broke off midsentence, leaned forward. “On the far side of the other island, Red—if they’re still there, if we can get help—Sir Tom says—”