by Kari Jones
Storm Tide
Kari Jones
orca currents
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2011 Kari Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Jones, Kari, 1966-
Storm tide / Kari Jones.
(Orca currents)
Issued also in electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55469-808-0 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-55469-807-3 (pbk.)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents
PS8619.O5328S76 2011 JC813’.6 C2010-907952-3
First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010941955
Summary: Simon and his sister Ellen have to solve the mystery of the hidden treasure if they want to save the island lighthouse they call home.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468
Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA
V8R 6S4 98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
14 13 12 11 • 4 3 2 1
To Rowan and Michael,
the first adventurers.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Today is going to be great. I head down to the dock to wave goodbye to Mom and Dad. They’re going to Victoria for the day. That means that apart from my sister Ellen, who doesn’t really count, I am totally alone on the island for the whole day.
On my way back to the house, I plan my day. I can do whatever in the world I want. I’ve lived on this island all twelve years of my life, and this is the first time I have been alone on it for an entire day. If it warms up, I’m going to swim in the water hole. Then I want to check out the spring salmon run off Rudlin Bay.
First I need a couple of sandwiches, one for right now and one to take with me. I’m going to start the day with a hike to the midden on the other side of the island. A midden is basically an ancient First Nations garbage dump. That sounds gross, but it’s actually really cool. All the gross stuff has decomposed by now, and all that’s left are shells and bones covering a long stretch of beach. I go over there sometimes and sift through it. I have a good collection of bones from that site. But first things first, it’s time to head inside for a snack.
Unfortunately, as I pull the ham and cheese out of the fridge, Ellen walks in.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
Ellen’s voice has this mocking edge that would normally tick me off, but the last thing I want today is to fight with her, so I answer simply, “Making a sandwich.”
“I can see that, Simon, but why?” Ellen says. This time there’s no ignoring the you-are-so-stupid tone in her voice.
“I’m hungry.” Duh! I don’t say that out loud. I don’t want to risk my day of freedom, after all.
“That hungry?” she points to the huge amount of food.
You’d think she could figure it out, but I patiently explain that I’m making food to last a while.
“What about your chores?” she says.
“What about them?” I ask.
Ellen puts her hands on her hips and stands between me and the fridge. I’m uncomfortable with where this conversation is going. I don’t want to fight with Ellen today, but I can see my plans for the day disappearing if I let her tell me what to do.
“Mom and Dad expect the chores to be done. We’re the keepers while they’re away. They’ve got enough to worry about. You are not going anywhere until you’ve done your chores.”
I hate it when Ellen speaks to me like that. But I have to admit it’s true. Mom and Dad have a hard day ahead of them. The government’s been closing lighthouses all around here. Dad is sure Discovery Island Lighthouse Station is next. He and Mom are going to tell the people at the ministry about all the things they do: rescue boaters, keep weather records and help the biologists collect data on waves and currents. Man, I hope they can convince them that the lighthouse station should stay open. This is my home!
“I’ll have lots of time for chores,” I say. I start spreading mustard on the bread. Ellen stands there and watches me. She looks so much like Mom right now. Mom doesn’t have to say anything. She has this look. Ellen has it too. Someday my sister is going to make one scary mother. I look back at her, trying to ignore the Mom look, but it’s useless. The look is working. I can feel it.
“Okay, okay, I’ll do my chores first,” I say.
“You’d better. Then you can do whatever you want.” Ellen smiles sweetly.
Ha.
My main job is the boat shed. I keep it tidy so we can pull the boats in quickly during storms. I was rummaging in the shed looking for my fishing rod yesterday, so I know exactly how messy it is. This is going to take forever, half an hour at least!
I start with the ropes. I coil them properly and hang them in their spot on the wall. Then I organize the crab traps and the motor parts and oars and paddles and life jackets. After a while I start thinking that something feels different. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but something is out of place. I feel like I’ve half noticed something, but it’s taking a while to get into my brain. I look around. Everything looks the same, doesn’t it? What’s different?
I walk back to the entrance of the shed and look outside. Nope. Everything looks right there—the rubber tire that we use as a bumper on the dock, the bucket and hose we keep for rinsing salt water off our gear. There’s a barrel of strawberries Mom planted to make the place prettier. I turn back to the shed and look around inside. Everything is in the shed that should be. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s just my imagination.
I put this thought out of my mind and finish cleaning. When I’m done, I step onto the wooden planks leading from the shed to the dock. And I figure out what is missing.
A chill creeps up my back. I swear, when I walked into this shed half an hour ago, there were muddy footprints on the dock. They aren’t there now.
Chapter Two
The thing about a small island with only one lighthouse keeper and his family living on it is that anyone who comes to the island always stops in to say hello. Always.
That’s why it is so weird that I saw footprints. No one has come to visit. If someone came to the island without visiting, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It’s strange but not illegal. I stop worrying. Besides, now that my chores are done, I can head off for the day.
At home, I wrap my sandwich and shove it into a sm
all backpack with a water bottle. It is chilly outside, so I shuffle through the clothes on the floor in my bedroom until I find my old blue sweater. I stick it into the backpack, and I’m ready to head off.
As soon as I step outside, I let out a groan. In the short time it took me to grab my stuff, the weather has turned windy. That happens here a lot. Weather springs up out of nowhere. Today it’s an enormous pain in the rear, because now I have to check outside the light tower to make sure nothing’s been left lying around. Dad always sends us to check when a wind comes along, so I know it’s what he would expect.
I consider letting Ellen deal with it, but I don’t feel like facing her. And if anything did get lost in the wind, we’d be in trouble. I’d have to explain why I didn’t check. With a sigh, I take the path toward the tower.
It’s not far. If I walk fast, it only takes a minute.
There is a small hill between the house and the tower, so I don’t see the gray tent until I’m almost walking into it. It’s old-fashioned, with straight poles making an A shape. The door is open and flaps in the wind. There’s stuff all around. A sleeping bag spills out the tent door onto the grass, and a bag of clothes lies half-opened beside it. On the other side of the tent is a campstove with a pot half-full of water. The wind has pinned a map of the area to the wall of the tent. I’ve never seen such a messy campsite.
“Hello?” I call. There’s no answer. “Hello!” I poke my head inside the tent. It’s empty. I stand up and cup my hands around my mouth. “Hello! Anyone here?”
I get no answer. I’m starting to feel strange about this. No one has ever set up a tent on the island without asking. When they do ask, Dad always sends them to the meadow on the other side of the island to sleep away from the bright light. Why would someone pitch their tent under the light? Why would they do it without asking? It’s totally weird. And it’s the second weird thing to happen today.
As I look around, I wonder if the tent belongs to the same person the footprints did? It would be weirder if two separate people were doing strange things on the island, so I’m going with the idea that it’s the same person. I don’t know why, but there’s something creepy about this thought. Is this person trying to avoid us?
My good mood about the day evaporates.
It sure is windy now. There are whitecaps in the strait, and on the rocky side of the headland, spray spews off the rocks with every wave. There are even ruffles in the bay. With every gust of wind, a shrub near the tower rubs against the wall, making a sound like chalk on a blackboard. I shiver.
What if the owner of the tent got caught out in the strait when the wind came up? They’d be in big trouble now. I walk back to the tent and call out again.
“Hello. Anyone here?” I really hope someone is hiding in the trees and is going to answer. There’s no answer. I turn around and head back home, worrying about the wind. What if someone is in trouble? What will we do? This is not how I planned to spend my day. Even though I hate to do it, I’m going to have to see what Ellen thinks about this.
As soon as I’m close to the house, I yell “Ellen!” as loudly as I can to be heard over the wind.
“I’m right here. You don’t have to yell,” she says from the kitchen doorway.
“I need you to come. I saw a tent and called out, but there was no answer. Someone may be in trouble.”
She gives me a don’t-make-fun-of-serious-things look and turns back to the kitchen, but I grab at her sleeve. “Ellen, remember, we’re keepers today. Someone might need our help.”
She looks into my eyes, checking that I’m not teasing her, then says, “For once you’re right. We should look. Just give me a second. I’ll get a sweater.”
When Ellen is in her room, the VHF radio cackles.
“Discovery Light, Discovery Light, this is Discovery Keeper. Over.
It’s Dad. I pick up the receiver and say, “This is Discovery Light. Hey, Dad. Over.”
“Simon, I’m glad we got you.” Dad’s voice cracks over the line. “The wind has picked up quite a bit here. We’ll be delayed coming home. We may be quite late. Is everything okay? Over.”
I consider telling Dad what’s going on, but I don’t want to worry him. It’s probably nothing anyway. I’m sure the person camped by the lighthouse is just a hiker passing through.
“Sure,” I say. “Everything is okay. Over.”
Chapter Three
Ellen stands right where the tent had been not five minutes ago and stares at me. “Weirdo,” she says.
I have to admit, she’s got a point. There’s no tent here. Was I dreaming? I don’t think so. I could swear there was a tent parked here just a few minutes ago. Didn’t I shout out?
“It was here. It was. I’ll prove it to you.”
“Sure,” snaps Ellen. “You’re just doing this to get back at me about the chores. I know you.” She’s ready to stomp off back to the house, but I know the truth. Now I’m spooked. Disappearing muddy footprints are one thing. A disappearing tent is another.
“It was here. Really. Wait! Ellen, let me prove it to you.”
I swivel my head around. There must be some evidence a tent was here a few minutes ago. The grass is chewed up from us walking over it every day, so I can’t see exactly where the tent was. But there must be some way to prove I’m not going crazy or trying to get back at her.
The truth is, I’m beginning to wonder. Am I going crazy? What about the footprints? Same thing, I think. First they were there, and then they just…weren’t. I need to prove that the tent was there. For myself, not just Ellen.
I get down onto my hands and knees and crawl around. Ellen stands with her arms crossed over her chest and glares at me. Her hair whips across her face in the wind, but she doesn’t move. Any second now, she is going to say hmph and leave, but there must be something here. Something. If a person that messy had to pack up that quickly, they must have left something on the ground.
I sweep my hands over the grass and dirt, back and forth across the place where I think the tent was. My hands and knees are getting dirty, but I’m not finding anything.
I widen my search. There is a flat area right under the tower. I stand up and walk around it, looking carefully.
It’s strange what you notice when you really look. There is a lot of old bird doo and signs of other animals here. I find tiny holes from mice or moles and itsy-bitsy pieces of leaves that ants have left behind. There are spiderwebs in the low branches of the shrubs. Any other day, this would fascinate me, but today I’m frustrated. I can’t understand what is going on.
I keep my eyes open for a color or texture that isn’t natural. Nature’s colors are soft, and so are its shapes. Bright red or yellow or blue is usually plastic. A sharp edge is usually man-made.
Ellen isn’t even bothering to scowl anymore. She’s laughing—at me.
“Weirdo. Why would you want to pretend there was a tent here?” she says. But I know, know, know that I saw what I saw, so I keep looking.
Ellen walks away, but she doesn’t go far.
I’m on my knees with my head close to the ground when at last I find something. Sunlight glints off something shiny. I keep the spot in my sights as I stand up and walk to it. A tent peg lies at the edge of the spot I thought the tent was pitched. Next to the tent peg is a curious stone. I pick it up. It has numbers carved into it on one side and a flower like a rose on the other.
“Ellen, look.” I’m almost jumping, I’m so excited. “Look, a tent peg. It must belong to that tent. Dad never lets anyone camp here. See? And this too, whatever it is.” I hold the peg and the stone up for her to look at, but she is distracted.
“Simon, look. What’s that?” Ellen points out to the bay.
“What are you looking at?”
“Out there. What is it?”
We peer out at the bay. The wind is getting stronger and stronger on the headland. It’s hard to keep our hair out of our eyes. But there is something out there in the water. What is it?
“Simon, it’s a head. Someone’s in the water!” says Ellen.
She’s right. Where the bay ends and the rocks begin, a head is bobbing around in the waves. Then I see a small rowboat listing badly in the middle of the bay.
“They’ve fallen out of their boat,” I say. I turn to look at Ellen. Her eyes are big and round, like mine feel. We are thinking the same thing.
Ellen whispers, “We’re the keepers today.”
“We have to help him,” I whisper back.
Without talking, we spin around and run to the boathouse. I stuff the tent peg and stone into my pocket.
Thank goodness it’s not too windy in the bay, because Mom and Dad have the big motorboat. Ellen and I are going to have to row. We’ve been in the rowboat a million times, in the bay and all around the island, but rowing is a lot of work. Just what we need. We’ll have to stay inside the bay and out of the wind.
“Take these.” Ellen hands me life jackets and our life-saving ring. I put on a life jacket and throw the rest of the stuff into the boat.
“Some rope too,” I say, grabbing the rope off the wall. I’m glad I’d done my chores in the shed. We can actually find things. Together, Ellen and I push the boat into the water and settle onto the seats.
The first three or four strokes are fine, but as soon as we are away from the boat shed and the protection of the shore, I realize it’s way windier in the bay than I’d thought. I grunt as I pull on the oars. Ellen stands up, one hand on the gunwale, and pulls the hair off her face. Salt spray lands on my arms.
In a rowboat, the person rowing is facing backward to where they are going, and the person not rowing faces toward where they are going. When Ellen and I go out together, I usually row first and she navigates, then after a while we switch.
“I can’t see the head anymore,” she shouts to be heard over the wind. “The wind is picking up way faster than I’d expected. Maybe we should just turn around.”