As the rain finally dropped into her mouth, she knew that something fishy was going on.
It was salty.
“Edgar?” she whispered. “Is that you?”
Twenty-Five
Edgar rowed for his life well into the night.
Just twenty hours before, he’d known the serenity and comfort of a hospital bed; but now, he wasn’t even sure he could make it five more minutes.
Shirtless and broken, covered in sweat, his hands blistered and injured leg screaming—too scared to even look behind him now, to see how close his watery fate loomed—he rowed.
He could hear it, though, just as he had all night: swooshing just like Niagara Falls right behind him, like a water monster, with its wet jaws open wide.
How terrible it would be to die this way! To end up drowned, bloated, water-logged and consumed by sea creatures in the black depths of the water-filled Earth—that was no way to go. The dreary prospect scared him so badly, he continued to huff the pre-dawn air and, buckling down, he ignored the pain and rowed some more.
With each painful stroke, he thought about how good it would feel to simply give in, to stop rowing, just to let his muscles rest. He felt like a marathon runner, exhausted and ready to fall down.
As Edgar thought these things over, thinking about dying and his parents and how much his hands burned, or how thirsty he was—about Shay and Flounder and how they might be doing in their evacuation, about Weedy and how his threats paled in comparison to the evil waterfall behind him—suddenly, he realized something strange was happening.
What was it? What was different?
Hunched over the raft, his head down, his eyes closed, he suddenly opened them and looked up and realized that the sky was white with dawn. He looked around and surveyed the sea.
All the dead Ambercod had vanished—there wasn’t a single one left, all of them having plunged down the hole into the Earth. The ocean was smooth as a countertop now.
Shaking with weariness, he struggled to raise himself up, then, turning in the raft, he beheld the sea behind him: there, many yards from where he first began, was the tip of the hole. It now protruded slightly from the sea, the result of the now incoming low tide. No longer was the seawater pouring down into the Earth. No longer was the whirlpool around to threaten him.
The whirlpool had been shut off, like a faucet.
Suddenly, as he realized this, he broke down into waves of weeping, crawling up into a ball on the raft floor and shaking.
He had done it. He had survived.
“Oh, thank you, God,” he whispered.
The only bad thing was that his way back home was forever sealed.
He was in this for the long haul now. But, at least for the time being, he would not sleep forever in a watery grave.
It felt so good to lay, he almost allowed himself to drift off from the exhaustion; but then, just before he gave way to sleep, something told him to sit up and row.
If you sleep, you will die, the voice told him. Get away from the hole. The whirlpool returns with the high tide!
He pulled himself up from the raft and took the oars in his blistered hands then rowed like a madman for the current, discovering a newfound energy. Somehow, some way, he mustered the strength to row vigorously away, punishing his burning arms and blistered hands, making a wild dash toward the sun, hoping to catch the oceanic river he’d discovered on the map pictured on his father’s Mac.
On that current, he knew he could almost coast to the French Southern and Antarctic Islands—the ones he’d found on his childhood globe—that landmass with the jagged peaks and a French seaport. From his calculations, he suspected it might be only a few hundred miles away.
He could do it. He could make it.
He could do anything.
Though his body begged for sleep, he denied it. Though his stomach begged for food, he overruled it. He would row until his arms fell off if he had to—anything to shake the horrible whirlpool that would soon reemerge behind him, and to attain safety at the port of the French Southern and Antarctic Lands many days before him.
If all there was to do was to be a seaman now, then no sweat, he decided: that’s what he was born to do.
Almost as if fate had heard him thinking the thought, he noticed something flash in the water nearby—just beyond the raft in the light of the rising sun. Leaning the oars against the side wall of the raft, he looked over the ends and there, swarming in the deep water below him, like an oceanic nightmare, was a school of toothy sharks, tracking him as he rowed.
They were following him, obviously, congregating around his raft and ultimately lured here by all the bits of dead Ambercod that had been scattered across the ocean by the dynamite.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
Inadvertently, he had chummed the waters.
He fretted as he rowed, but rowed even still, making his break for the French Southern and Antarctic Lands, pausing only now and again to take a greedy slurp from one of his water bottles or to check on his position by studying the rising sun.
Only hours later with the sun towering high in the sky did Edgar finally consider himself to be far enough from the whirlpool for a rest and a bite to eat. Dropping the oars on the raft, he collapsed into a heap of exhaustion and wild relief.
Then, once his hands stopped burning, he rolled over to the supplies and snatched out a thick bag of beef jerky and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing delightedly, then washed all the delicious meat down with a hefty slug of lukewarm water.
As he chewed, he leaned over the side and looked overboard. There, just below the raft, continued to lurk ten or twelve sinister, longish sharks, all meandering in circles, some large, some small. They must be attracted to the splash of his rowing, he decided, which made him tense with fear.
After he polished off the jerky, he rowed for a half hour more; but when he could not keep his swollen eyes open any longer, he surrendered to exhaustion and collapsed into the raft, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The sharks will just have to wait, he thought.
With the first blast of water erupting in Mount Lanier, Milly looked down at her phone. It was buzzing in her hand.
It was the hospital.
“Mrs. Dewitt?” the nurse said. “We really don’t know how to tell you this, but your son fled from the hospital in the middle of the night.” There was a pause on the other end. “We are so, so sorry. We know you have a lot on your shoulders right now.”
“Fled?” she demanded. “What do you mean, ‘fled?’”
“Again,” assured the nurse. “We are so, so sorry we failed to see him go. He snuck out between shifts. He stuffed his bed sheets with pillows.”
“Yeah,” muttered Milly. “He does that. Well, don’t worry. I’ll find him.”
Hanging up the phone, she made for the Jeep and fired it up, then hit the gas and began the winding, mountainous trek to Mount Lanier.
As she drove, she studied the beam of salt water shooting up in the sky through the rhythmic swipes of her windshield wipers. It was an otherworldly sight, the alien water, leaving her yearning to know what it was, and if somehow it was related to the now-missing Edgar.
Reaching to the dash, she flipped on the radio to see what people were saying. Every station on the dial frantically covered it. The DJs’ voices were frenzied.
“The salty geyser,” they said, “is currently flooding all the low-lying lands of Mount Lanier!” The reception suddenly vanished to static, so she flipped the dial to another station. “. . . is turning the streams into rushing rapids right now, so please be advised.” In the same breath, the reporter added, “Fortunately, it can’t be denied how wonderful this turn of events is for the firefighters fighting the wildfire! Somehow, some way, good people of Mount Lanier, it’s raining! And we will take it!”
Milly quickly lea
rned that the fire had been snuffed in some places and was becoming more manageable by the minute in others.
Somehow, some way, it seemed as though Mount Lanier might find itself spared from the wildfire after all.
“The firefighters are totally energized now!” barked a DJ on WGDC. “They’re attacking it on all fronts now, with help from the strange underground rain. It’s the first real progress that has been made in this fight.”
Stranger yet were reports that had begun to file in of large fish and marine life dropping from the sky.
Reportedly, in the middle of a trailer park, a shark had fallen on top of a Corvette. It smashed the hood and windshield and sent the entire surrounding neighborhood into an uproar.
Across the town in a small shopping mall, a box jellyfish had landed in a wishing fountain.
A box jellyfish, she thought.
“What can I do to make you believe me?” she remembered Edgar had said, as she lost herself in recollection. “I went fishing on the Indian Ocean. I sold the fish at the Arteses’ fish stand . . . I caught lobsters with my new girlfriend, Shay.”
Oh my God, she thought as the words repeated in her mind, over and over. Squinting at the beam of water shooting out of the northwest, she raced the Jeep along the back roads of the mountains, disregarding the fact there were cliffs beyond the shoulder of the road.
By the time she skidded into her driveway—praying frantically that Edgar might be there, but for some reason doubting it—she dashed through the door and yelled his name.
“Edgar!” she screamed, but there was no answer. She scoured the house front to back, whimpering more and more each time as she walked into yet another empty room.
“Edgar!” she called again and again, from the doorway of each, but she did not find him.
Once the house had been scoured, she returned to the kitchen where she came upon a letter that sat on the granite countertop addressed to “Mom.”
How she missed it when she first came in, she did not know.
Frantically, she tore it open.
Mom,
I hope there wasn’t too much flooding in Mount Lanier. Pretty sure there’s a chance that something could have gone wrong. And I’m aware I might have drowned some animals and stuff, but I really hope not.
Dr. Van Rossum thinks it would just make it rain, because of the force of the Indian Ocean pushing the seawater up through the Earth like an untied water balloon. It should just shoot water out and fall back to the ground in drops, but we will see.
I’m trying to make it rain for dad. Also, I’m sorry you couldn’t believe me, but I wouldn’t have believed me either. I know I’ve been lying a lot. Please forgive me.
And also, call Shay.
Milly read the letter twice, placing her fists knuckle-down on the cold countertop, allowing the fearful tears to rise and then fall out of fear for her son. Hanging her head in worry and exhaustion, she suddenly began to weep.
Her stringy, unwashed hair draped entirely over her face.
Finally, after a long and helpless cry, she lifted her head in a show of strength to see that there, across the counter on the answering machine, was a blinking red light. She lunged for it, hoping that it would be from Edgar.
“Hello? Mrs. DeWitt?” a soft voice played on the machine. “It’s Shay Sinclair again. I got a letter from Edgar, who says he wants me to get in touch with you. Can you please call me when you get this? It’s really important.”
Milly took down the number and then bolted for the door.
She moved faster than she ever had, jamming the stick shift into fifth gear and praying to God to save her son as she barreled down the road.
For all she knew, headed to the police station as she was, they were probably all out at the spewing geyser, or whatever it was, trying to figure out why it was erupting from the Earth and flowing through Mount Lanier.
As she sped toward downtown, she almost missed a strange story that was playing on the radio—a station out of the town of Ellensburg. When she heard the phrase, “. . . jumped through a hole in the Earth . . .” she turned the radio up and pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road, to listen in.
This was a piece on the strange arrival of an illegal alien who had an incredible story.
“. . . The foreign man,” said the reporter, “who speaks no English, has claimed to be a citizen of Somalia. He has asked authorities in Ellensburg—through aid of a translator—to assist his return home, to Africa. The man, purported to be Captain Cali Ibrahim Warsame, has been questioned thoroughly on how he has arrived here in Central Washington, to which he continues to answer, ‘I am Captain Warsame, Captain of the Somali Navy, shipwrecked in pursuit of pirates near Madagascar. I was pulled onto a small island by a young American boy, who then pushed me into a hole that went all the way through the world . . .”
“Oh my God!’ screamed Milly, pounding the gas, wheeling the jeep around and making a full, squealing circle in the middle of the road. As she did, she forced a horrified truck driver to swerve out of her way, almost crashing over the side of the road. When she saw he was OK, she waved apologetically as he shook his fist at her, then peeled off down the road at full speed, dialing the number that Edgar had given her as she drove.
“Hello?” came a girl’s voice on the other end. “Mrs. Dewitt?”
“Shay?” said Milly. “Oh, thank God!”
“I’m so glad you called!” said Shay. “It’s so good to hear from you. Edgar left a letter, Mrs. Dewitt.”
“Yeah,” muttered Milly, fresh tears sparkling in her eyes as she rounded a bend. “He left me one, too,” she said.
“What did it say, Mrs. Dewitt?” asked Shay.
“It said, ‘I did it for Dad.’” And then, trying not to cry, she added, “I guess I finally know the origin of all that ‘Ambercod’ everybody’s been talking about, huh?”
“Yes ma’am,” answered the girl softly. “My dad thinks it’s Chilean Sea Bass.”
“Have you been there, Shay?” Milly asked. “To the island? With my son?”
“Yes ma’am,” she admitted. “I have. It’s the most wonderful place I’ve ever seen.”
Milly nodded and pushed the jeep up to seventy miles per hour.
“So, Shay,” Milly asked. “Tell me. What does your letter say?”
“Oh, well, it says: ‘Go find mom,’ and then it gives coordinates.” There was a slight pause. “He says he didn’t want to put coordinates in your letter because he didn’t want to freak you out.”
“Well,” said Milly, “mission not accomplished.”
__________
By the time she arrived in the small town of Ellensberg, the water had stopped spewing in Mount Lanier. She parked in a handicapped spot and ran frantically inside the police station, almost shouting at the front desk clerk.
“Please!” she cried. “I need to speak to Captain Ibrahim Warsame.”
“Oh? Captain Cali you mean?” said the young officer. “What do you need with him?”
“Please,” begged Millie. “You must know, my son is in trouble. I think Captain Cali can help him.”
“OK,” said the desk clerk. “In that case, I’ll go get him for you.”
Once the man was escorted to her—towering over Milly Dewitt like an oak tree—she looked up and gave him a polite, reassuring smile, then dug into her purse for Edgar’s picture. He watched her keenly as she did. Then, withdrawing the only picture of Edgar she carried—his little league photo, the one he hated so much—she showed it to Captain Cali and awaited his reaction.
The man’s eyes lit up, and he reached out and tapped the picture urgently.
“Eu O Conheco!” he shouted, looking down at her, a knowing look in his eyes. Repeating himself, he cried, “Eu O Conheco!”
“Yeah, Captain,” she said, dryly, “that’s what I thought. You and
Edgar must be friends.”
Twenty-six
Edgar woke in the evening sunburned from sleeping the day away. He was groggy, bloodshot, and thoroughly weakened from thirst. After gulping down his first gallon of water, he almost drank another. But better sense prevailed.
Once his blazing thirst was finally under control, his stomach growled and told him how hungry he was. He hadn’t had a bite to eat since the hospital room back in Mount Lanier—except for that bag of beef jerky on his retreat from the whirlpool—and boy, was he ravenous.
Greedily, he dug through the supplies, seizing a family-sized bag of Fiery Hot Habañero Doritos, which he decided would be his reward for escaping the horrible whirlpool. Stuffing a humongous handful in his mouth, he closed his eyes and chewed in ecstasy. The tasty chips were better than anything he’d ever put in his mouth. One after another he crunched the spicy triangles, leaning his head back against the cushiony sidewall of the raft with eyes closed in delight.
Suddenly, the thought occurred: shouldn’t I save a few Doritos for later? Nah, he thought, disregarding the notion. He deserved a family-sized bag of Doritos, after all.
After he’d had his fill and one-fifth of the bag remained, he licked his fiery-red fingertips and belched, then stowed the rest of the bag away. And after a few more sips of water to wash all the food down, he leaned over the side wall and checked on the sharks he hoped weren’t still lurking below.
The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt Page 22