“Fine,” said Darwen. “Don’t help.”
“Oh, I’m helping,” she said. “I’m helping you both to grow as people. Uncle Bob says that to me a lot. I think he got it from daytime TV. It’s what he says when he knows I’m not happy with him, which is pretty much always, but this time I think it’s actually on the money. Patch up your own squabbles, Darwen. You’ll grow as a person.”
And with that, she stalked off, not toward the tents but back to her table. She glanced quickly around and took a bowl of grilled chicken, then headed swiftly back toward the showers.
Darwen frowned. He didn’t like being lectured by Alex, even when she was right. He considered going to find Rich, but decided he would yell at her instead.
He ambled up the track to the bathrooms, but there was no sign of Alex. He called her name and walked around the block twice, then followed the path into the woods, the one that led to the last stage of the zip line. He walked a few hundred yards into the forest, climbing steeply all the way, but there was still no sign of her, and his anger turned into confusion. Where had she gone? He paused, and through the perpetual hum of the jungle came the sound of voices.
Or, rather, the sound of a voice: Alex.
She was burbling in a low, musical tone, like she was talking to a baby.
The sound came from some distance off the path to his left, but he couldn’t see far enough through the trees to pinpoint the spot. He stepped carefully into the leaf litter, watching for signs of movement underfoot, and took a few stealthy paces. The sound of the voice went away and then came back, nearer now. Darwen walked a little further, and as he emerged from behind a massive tree whose trunk seemed composed of several plants that had grown into a single mass, he saw her.
She was sitting on the ground, cooing over something, and, as Darwen watched, her hand reached into the bowl of chicken and dropped some of it. Something on the ground reached up and snatched at the meat. Something apelike but with the distinctive head of a large cat.
Darwen gasped, and as he did so, his weight shifted. A twig snapped underfoot, and Alex’s head spun around. Her eyes found him, and she leaped to her feet, her face a mask of rage.
“You followed me?” she bellowed.
“What are you doing?” Darwen roared back. “You’re feeding one of those things?”
“It’s hurt, okay? It got shot, and I’ve been looking after it. So now you know. Now you can take off, Darwen Arkwright!”
“Are you nuts?” said Darwen, closing on her. “Those things are dangerous!”
“You sound like Scarlett.”
“You saw what they did to the tapir.”
“They, Darwen, plural. This is one. It’s young and it’s hurt.”
“And what if the others come looking for it?”
“They haven’t so far.”
“How long have you been doing this? Were you ever going to tell us?”
“What, only you are allowed to have secrets, Mr. Mirroculist?”
“That is so not fair,” said Darwen.
“I told Sarita,” said Alex. “She helped me get food for it from the kitchens.”
“You told Sarita?!” Darwen exclaimed. “Are you out of your tree? We have a mission, Alex! We’re supposed to be finding the missing kids.” He took a furious step toward her.
The motion spooked the pouncel, which got awkwardly to its feet and limped a few paces away, where it sat, baring its fangs and hissing.
“Don’t scare it!” yelled Alex, though the creature seemed as alarmed by her voice as by his.
“That thing could take your hand off, and you’re feeding it like it’s a pet rabbit?” Darwen shouted. “That is so stupid.”
“Stupid?” roared Alex, rising and squaring up to him as if ready to throw a punch. “You calling me stupid?”
Darwen braced himself, but before she could come at him, the pouncel took another shrinking step away.
“Wait,” said Alex, taking a step toward it, but the movement only made it break into a run. Alex blundered after it, but the pouncel sped up, springing unevenly on its injured hind leg. In a moment, it was gone.
“Look what you did!” yelled Alex, rounding on Darwen, her eyes bright. “It’s gone, and something will get it or someone will shoot it, and it’s your fault.”
“I didn’t mean to!” said Darwen. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk, Darwen, okay? Not now, not ever. Just go away.”
Darwen had never seen Alex so angry. He left her but did not know where to go. Rich was in the tent, but Rich wasn’t talking to him either, and Mr. Peregrine was now, as far as Darwen was concerned, just another teacher. So he sat alone at one of the dining-shelter tables, which was piled with bundles of sticks and lengths of string, and looked out upon what had turned into a hot and glorious day feeling utterly miserable.
“Homesick, Arkwright?” called Nathan Cloten. He was playing darts with Chip Whittley in a recess at the back of the shelter.
“Not now, Nathan,” said Darwen, wishing he’d spotted them before sitting down.
“Probably not homesick anyway,” Chip observed. “For him and Haggerty this is probably paradise. Haggerty lives in a barn with no roof, and Arkwright doesn’t have a real home, do you, Arkwright?”
Darwen’s hands recognized the sticks for what they were before his conscious mind did. He whirled around, fluidly fitting an arrow into one of the few finished bows and aiming it first at Nathan, then at Chip.
They ducked comically, but they were both holding the darts they had been playing with. Darwen glanced at the arrow he had loaded. It was just a stick: straight, but without a tip of any kind. Their darts, on the other hand, had sharp metal points.
He put the bow down as quickly as he had snatched it up.
But if he thought that would end the matter, he was sorely mistaken. The two boys approached his table and stood looming over him. Chip snatched the bow and arrow off the table.
“Gonna shoot us, Arkwright, like some Indian savage?” asked Nathan.
“Leave me alone, Nathan,” said Darwen.
“Or what?” taunted Chip. He had unscrewed the head of one of the darts and was trying to fit it to the arrow shaft.
“Fine,” said Darwen, standing up. He just couldn’t be bothered with this, and the students and teachers were already starting to gather in the camp below for the afternoon excursions. “You want to hang out here by yourselves? Fine by me.”
He started to walk away.
“Hey,” yelled Chip, “we didn’t give you permission to leave!”
“Whatever,” Darwen answered.
He didn’t hear the creak of the bow or the thrum of its string. He didn’t hear the whoosh of the arrow through the air. He didn’t know Chip had shot at him until he felt the arrow’s two inches of needle-sharp steel slam into his shoulder blade.
The pain was sudden and intense. He cried out and reached behind him in disbelief, half turning in the process. He saw Chip, his face a mask of calm, smiling slightly, but Nathan looked horrified. Darwen stumbled against one of the dining shelter’s roof supports, conscious that the dart-tipped arrow waggled and slid out as he fell.
“Whittley!” someone bellowed.
Darwen was sprawled across a bench, but he thought the voice was Mr. Iverson’s. There were more shouts, and he felt hands on him.
“Get Jorge and the first aid kit,” said Mr. Iverson. “Put that down, Whittley!”
“I’m fine,” said Darwen, sitting up. “I just lost my balance.”
He turned around and saw Naia, her face pale and scared, holding the arrow with the dart tip, its point smeared with blood.
“What do you think you’re doing, Whittley?” said Mr. Iverson. “This is barbaric! You could have caused serious injury. I’ve n
ever seen such stupidity from a Hillside student. At home, this would be a matter for the police.”
That last phrase wiped the smirk off Chip’s face. His haughty self-confidence fell away completely, and he looked suddenly young and scared. “Sorry, sir,” he said, his eyes cast down.
“Apologize to Mr. Arkwright,” said Mr. Iverson, glaring at him.
“Sorry, Darwen,” said Chip quickly. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay,” said Darwen. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”
This was a lie, but by the time Jorge had finished cleaning and patching it, it was barely even noticeable. “Change the Band-Aid every few hours,” said the guide, “and keep it clean. If it swells or gets red, let me know.”
“Well,” said Darwen, twisting his head over his shoulder, “I can’t really see it.”
“Mr. Haggerty,” said Mr. Iverson. “You are sharing a tent with Mr. Arkwright, yes?”
Rich nodded but said nothing.
“Then you will keep an eye on his injury.”
Rich’s eyes met Darwen’s, and he nodded. Chip was looking at the floor while Miss Harvey berated him further. Everyone was staring at Chip with undisguised bitterness, and his eyes shone with tears. Darwen even felt a little sorry for him. Even Nathan had backed away from his friend, as if he had something infectious.
Darwen walked down to the beach, conscious that Rich was shadowing him, looking anxious, even a little guilty.
“I’m fine,” Darwen repeated.
“When we get back from the dig, I’ll take the Band-Aid off and check it,” said Rich. “We should wash it with drinking water.”
“It’s okay, really,” said Darwen. As they walked away from the others, he looked at his friend and took a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. “Several things, actually. First, you’ll never believe why Alex has been sneaking off to the woods. She’s been looking after one of the pouncels.”
“What?” exclaimed Rich, stopping in his tracks.
“It got shot and couldn’t walk properly, so she’s been feeding it.”
“Feeding it what, her fingers?” said Rich. “Is she insane?”
“No more than usual,” said Darwen.
It was terrible. They were discussing something awful, something that had left Alex hurt and furious, and they were doing it moments after Darwen had taken an arrow in the shoulder, but he couldn’t help grinning. They were, after all, talking again.
“I don’t know if we have to wait until sundown with these portals,” Darwen was saying, “but we can use the stone spheres on Caño to cross over.”
He couldn’t help the tremor of excitement in his voice.
They climbed into the boat. Other than Jorge and Mr. Iverson, who were sitting all the way in the prow and out of earshot, the students were jockeying for places aboard the other boat. Snorkeling was still a lot more popular than archaeology. Darwen noticed that there was no sign of Chip or Nathan and thought, with a flash of grim amusement, that at very least they would be spending the afternoon cleaning tents. Only Gabriel joined Darwen’s group.
“You wouldn’t prefer to go swimming?” asked Rich.
“Not today,” said Gabriel, adjusting his veil. “I thought the archaeology thing sounded interesting.”
Darwen wasn’t convinced.
“Probably just wants to stick with us,” said Rich after Gabriel was out of earshot.
“Yeah,” said Darwen.
“Look,” said Rich, “I’m sorry about before. I just didn’t like being left out.”
“I should have taken you with me,” said Darwen. “It was my fault. I’m an idiot.”
Rich grinned at him. “Not compared to Alex,” he said. “She was feeding one of those things? Seriously?”
“Seriously. And she told that girl from the village, Sarita, about it.”
Rich gaped. “What happened to keeping things within the Peregrine Pact?” he exclaimed. “Who else knows?”
Darwen shrugged. “I think she wanted a secret of her own. That’s why she didn’t tell us. Because she felt we—well, I—had been holding out on her.”
But before they could discuss the matter further, they saw her stomping stony-faced down the beach and into the water.
“You are coming to the island?” said Jorge.
“Apparently,” said Alex.
Jorge reached for her hand and hauled her in. She avoided everyone’s eyes and stared haughtily out to sea.
“I’m glad you came,” Darwen ventured.
“You think I’d let you two bond over how stupid you think I am?” she said, watching a tern skimming the waves off to the starboard side of the boat.
“I guess not,” said Darwen.
“So,” she stated. “I hear you got shot.”
“Yes,” said Darwen. “In the shoulder, look.”
“Fantastic,” she replied. “I hope it hurt.”
There was an awkward pause.
“We good now?” said Rich.
“Sure,” said Alex, finally turning to look at them. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
Darwen grinned, and the others joined him.
“Okay,” said Rich as the boat roared out of the bay and around the coast. “So now that we’re talking again, I’ve got a few things to say, and most of them are about the stupidity of trying to hand-raise wild carnivores.”
And they were off. Alex called Rich an unfeeling monster, and Rich said that he lived on a farm and knew animals.
“It’s not like Bambi, you know, Alex,” he said. “The birds don’t come and lay the table for you while the rabbits sing songs about how pretty you are. Animals act on instinct: fight or flight, kill or be killed. The pouncels are predators. I can’t believe you!”
“Whatever,” said Alex. Then, turning to Darwen, she added, “Before he bursts into a chorus of ‘Thank God I’m a Country Boy,’ can we at least acknowledge that he said I was pretty?”
“I did not!” yelled Rich, flushing pink. “I said the rabbits thought you were. If you were in a movie. And they were cartoons.”
“I know what I heard,” said Alex, smiling.
Darwen laughed, and soon they joined him. It seemed like they hadn’t laughed together for a very long time. It was a good feeling, good enough to mute the unease Darwen felt every time his eyes fell on Gabriel, who was sitting very still, his head turned slightly toward them, as if he was listening very carefully to everything they said.
Darwen didn’t know if he was becoming a better sailor or if he was just relieved to have Rich and Alex to talk to again, but the journey to Caño Island passed without the usual nausea. Rich had brought his pocketknife with the bundles of wood and string from the dining shelter, and they used the journey to catch up on their bow making. By the time they reached the island, they all had bows, though only Rich’s looked like it might actually shoot, and Alex’s arrows were all wonky.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said with a pointed look at Rich. “I won’t be using it to hunt defenseless animals.”
“If you did,” said Rich, eying her bow critically, “they’d be quite safe. It’s not straight.”
“Straight!” said Alex. “Straight is overrated. Straight is stiff, inflexible, square. I’m a free spirit, and my bow should match.”
“So long as you don’t mind putting your own eye out,” said Rich.
They beached the boat. Jorge left the yellow plastic fuel cans by the ranger station and headed up the trail to the dig site, chatting to Gabriel. From the shore they had been able to see the other boat unloading the students with their masks and snorkels into the water, but once they turned inland, they were completely alone.
As they walked through the jungle, Darwen told Alex and Rich about his realization that the clow
n he had glimpsed in the mirror was Blackpool’s World-Famous Laughing Man.
“How can it be?” said Rich.
“Must be one of those psychology thingies,” said Alex. “Repressed memory or something.”
“What?” asked Darwen.
“You know,” said Alex airily, “in the movies there’s always someone who saw something that they almost remember but can’t quite because it was something really awful, like a murder. But their unconscious mind holds on to a bit of it, and it keeps coming up, and eventually the character faces up to the terrible thing they’ve managed to forget, and that helps the police catch the killer, and everything works out.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” said Darwen.
“I don’t think it’s anything,” said Rich.
“I know I was scared of the Blackpool clown,” said Darwen. “And there were all kinds of weird stories about it. Some people said it was inside the fun house during a fire that destroyed the building, but the clown was untouched by the blaze. And some people said that the laugh was actually recorded in an insane asylum. And some people—”
“I think that’s more than enough information, thank you,” said Alex.
Darwen looked up the trail. Jorge, Gabriel, and Mr. Iverson were waiting for them.
“Mr. Iverson tells me you are keen archaeologists,” Jorge said, smiling.
“They are,” said Alex. “I’d rather be swimming with the fishies.”
“We have our own club,” said Rich, eager to show that he would not rather be swimming with the fishies.
“Have you found anything interesting?” asked Jorge.
Rich couldn’t resist a sideways grin at Darwen.
Well, Darwen thought, last year we found a scrobbler that had been shot two hundred years ago. That was fairly interesting.
“Certainly they have,” said Mr. Iverson. “Rich has developed a whole theory about our school having been built on sacred Indian land.”
“Really,” said Jorge, his voice neutral. Gabriel was listening closely.
“Just a theory, right, Rich?” said Darwen, wanting to steer the subject elsewhere. “It’s not like we’ve found any real evidence.”
Darwen Arkwright and the Insidious Bleck Page 21