Jigme spoke softly in reply. “This is not the Eightfold Path, nor is it the way to Nirvana.”
Peter had no idea what Jigme was talking about, but he could see that whatever they were, they were very important to Jigme.
Cube spoke again in their heads, this time with a hint of anger. “Your participation, and your victory, are the only things keeping you and everyone you know from a lifetime of slavery worshipping Orb. If you lose, you also lose the ability to follow the Eightfold Path and any hope of reaching Nirvana.”
Jigme, without looking at Cube, nodded. “That is why we agreed to participate.”
Peter looked back and forth between Jigme and Cube. He had no idea what they were talking about, but saw that Jigme was no happier about having to fight on behalf of Cube than he was about working for Orb. They were all being used—pawns in a game being played by organisms so much more advanced and powerful that they had almost nothing in common with human beings. There was not, at this point, anything any of them could do about it.
He bowed deeply to Jigme, who, after a moment, bowed in return. Peter then turned to Malcolm. “I’m ready.”
Jigme also turned to Malcolm, speaking thickly as if his tongue could not handle all the emotions welling up behind his steely façade. “I too am ready.”
Malcolm smiled, then shouted, “I will join you, and monitor you via my presence but my body will remain here.” Peter thought about asking him if his body was actually even with them now but, before he could say anything, Malcolm clapped his hands and said, “We begin!”
***
The first thing Peter recognized was a wet, slapping sound. He also felt very unsteady and was forced to shift his weight between his feet constantly to avoid falling. His eyes adjusted, or Malcolm turned on the lights, and he found he was standing up in the middle of a small aluminum fishing boat. In front of him was a center console, also made of aluminum, that had a steering wheel made of black plastic, a chrome lever which Peter guessed to be the throttle, and a round display that was currently off, or broken as it only showed a circle of gray.
Several cables that connected the steering wheel and the throttle ran along the inside of the boat, and Peter’s eyes tracked them to the stern, where they connected with a small, black outboard engine. In front of the engine sat a plastic gas can—the type used in boats—which was wide and flat with the opening where gas was poured in doubled as the place where the cap with a built-in gas gauge sat.
Between Peter and the gas can was a bench that connected the two sides of the boat. He looked forward and saw another bench in front of the console and a flat area at the bow where someone could theoretically stand if the waters were calm.
Peter looked to his right and saw Jigme in an identical boat. Both of them wore the clothes they had on when they entered the tree, and Peter had to fight back a grin at how out of place Jigme and his orange robes looked standing in the middle of an aluminum boat.
They appeared to be held in a protective bubble of some kind. Smallish waves licked at the sides of their boats, but outside the protected area Peter could see waves strong enough and tall enough that they sported whitecaps as the wind, which they also could not feel, whipped the waves. Peter tried hard not to look at the waves and instead tried to find sight of land, a landmark, anything that would help him understand where he was. There was nothing to see except more waves, and an ominous set of clouds in the distance that promised more trouble on this already cloudy day.
Peter gripped the steering wheel, which helped his balance a little, and turned it from side to side, trying to get comfortable.
He had been on boats before. Years ago, when his mother was still alive, they often borrowed a friend’s boat and spent entire days motoring around, fishing, swimming and basking in the sun at a nearby lake. Peter had been far too young to drive, and the friend’s boat had no steering wheel—just a short control arm that extended out from the outboard. He had, however, driven tractors on several occasions, and Big Ed had recently let him try driving the truck up and down their driveway.
The boat’s steering wheel felt nothing like Big Ed’s truck, or a tractor, and he realized that turning it would accomplish nothing unless they were also using the motor to propel them forward. He was studying the throttle intently, noting which direction was forward, versus reverse, when Malcolm’s disembodied voice replaced all other sound.
“Welcome, gentlemen. You have had a few minutes to familiarize yourself with your boats but, as Jigme has spent his entire life living atop mountains, and Peter has only a tiny amount of experience driving vehicles which operate on land, you’ll be given a little more time to experiment with their operation within this protected zone before you are released for your trial.”
“You each have a map of sorts located in the display next to the steering wheel.”
Peter looked down and noticed that the gray circle was now illuminated. His current location appeared to be represented by a blinking dot at the bottom of the circle while the very top of the circle featured a large, white X.
“Your objective is to reach the location indicated by the large X at the top of your screen. Whoever reaches it first wins.”
Peter was about to ask if there were any rules when Malcolm added, “There are no rules, except for the fact that Peter must follow the path indicated by the red line on his map.”
Peter looked down and saw that a thick, red line went from the edge of the blinking dot at their current location to the left side of the screen. It then turned right and headed up toward the X—but with what appeared to be quite a few zigs and zags in between.
“Veer too far from the designated path, Peter, and you will be disqualified, and your team will lose. I should also add that each boat has a full tank of gas, which is slightly more than is needed to reach your destination, but there is little margin for error. If you run out of gas you will be swamped by the waves and drown, resulting in a victory for the other team.”
Peter leaned back and snuck another look at his gas can. The gauge built into the cap, which must have a float underneath it to detect the level of gasoline, fluctuated between full and three-quarters-full with every gentle wave that brushed the boat.
“Jigme, you are able to use any route you desire. Please know that the closer you are to the center of the lake, which is where you are now, the larger the waves and the greater the risk. Of course, driving down the center of the lake is also the most direct route to your destination, though it comes with the highest rate of fuel usage.”
Jigme nodded as he took in the information while continuing to familiarize himself with the boat and its components. He had never driven a car, much less a boat, in his life, but had seen photos and movies where it was done.
“Malcolm, where is the life vest?” queried Peter. His mother had been adamant that her boys wear life vests at all times they were on, or even around the boat.
“There is no need, Peter. This lake is not of your earth. If either of you were to fall into its waters, you would be consumed by what dwells within it within seconds.”
“Ah,” Peter said sarcastically, “that’s great.”
Peter leaned slightly to his right, which he believed was called starboard, and looked down into the dark waters. There was nothing to see, which was okay by him.
“Are there any further questions?” asked Malcolm.
“Yes,” said Jigme quietly. “How soon after either of us reaches the destination does the Game end?”
“You are asking how soon you will either take a new form or, if you win, return home with your teammates?”
“Yes.”
“Roughly ten of your seconds.”
“Are there any important questions I have failed to ask that are likely to come up between now and the end of the trial?”
Peter was impressed by that question and wished he had asked it himself—a long time ago.
“No, Jigme.”
“And whoever loses this trial also
loses their current form and instead houses the final receptacle of their team for the next 2,000 to 3,000 years?”
“Yes, Peter, that is correct.”
Peter looked over to Jigme, then shrugged. “I don’t have any more questions.”
Jigme smiled faintly. “Nor do I.”
“Good luck to you both,” Malcolm said. “The protected area around your boats will last just a few minutes, and then you are really and truly on your own.”
Peter reached down and grasped the key sticking out of the helm. He turned and looked at Jigme. “Good luck!”
Jigme, who was also about to turn his key, looked surprised, then smiled. “I am in competition with no one. I strive only to be a better person today than I was yesterday.”
Peter had no idea what to say to that, nodded, and turned his key. The motor immediately revved to life. It took Peter a few seconds to figure out that he had to press the lower part of the throttle handle up to allow the throttle arm to move, but he was soon cruising forward at a decent clip. It was a little difficult to maintain his balance while also steering and controlling the speed at the same time. Once, practicing his turns, he over-steered and nearly threw himself out of the boat. Another time he gave it too much gas and nearly drove his boat out of the protected area.
After a couple of minutes, he had a decent enough grip on what he was doing to chance a look around. He saw that, unfortunately, Jigme had taken to his boat as if he had been born to drive it. Jigme alternated large turns with tight ones, varying his speed as he went but never losing control as his orange robes were stretched by the wind created by his velocity. After a few more turns, Jigme returned his boat to the middle of their protected area and put the throttle in neutral. Peter completed another turn with far less proficiency then puttered back to the middle and also put his boat in neutral.
Separated by fifteen meters of water, Peter thought of all the things he wanted to say to Jigme—not the least of which would be to ask, “Can you think of another way where all of us survive the Game?”
He already knew the answer, and with that answer firmly in his head, there was little else to say. He instead watched the protected area around them slowly shrink, the larger waves getting closer and closer. He checked his map and saw that his route still involved the left turn to the shore, and calmer water. He stole a glance at Jigme and saw that he had his boat pointed down the middle of the lake where the distance was shortest, while the waves, fuel consumption and the risk were the highest.
Peter gently put his boat in gear just as the protective circle around them disappeared. In an instant he was enveloped by a fierce, wet wind that whipped his face. Wiping water from his squinting eyes, he gave his boat a little more gas and did his best to follow the route indicated to the left. He looked no more for Jigme but wondered if he would see him again before it was all over.
Peter was so busy trying to keep the blipping dot that was his boat following the red line on the display that he forgot all about the waves—until one hit directly on the port (left) side, picking his boat up out of the water and nearly flipping it.
As it was, Peter was nearly knocked out of the boat and would have been had he not been holding onto the steering wheel with both hands. The motor howled as the propeller, freed of contact with the water, over-revved. The gas can appeared to levitate a few inches above the bottom of the boat, and then everything returned to this version of normal as the starboard side of the boat slammed against the water, nearly going under, before the rest of the boat settled heavily down into the remains of the crashing wave.
Screaming from both fear and frustration, Peter fought with the steering wheel, which was trying to make his boat take another hard turn to the port side directly into the next wave, and instead compelled it to his right, putting the waves, and the following sea behind him. He managed to make the turn to starboard, just so, and then immediately began shivering from the six inches of ice-cold water that now sloshed around his feet.
Alarmed, he realized this amount of water added so much weight that the sides of his tiny boat were barely above the water. He also noted that the boat moved very sluggishly now, in part from the extra weight and also because the water trapped inside moved exactly opposite to any change in direction he tried with the steering wheel. Perhaps most concerning, all this extra weight was making life harder on the motor, which meant it was using more fuel, which increased his odds of running out of gas.
Still shivering, routinely wiping water from his eyes, he looked back to make sure the waves were still squarely behind him, then looked down to check his map. Sure enough, he was well off his required path, heading down the center of the lake versus toward the shore line.
Peter snuck another look back and quickly understood that any move toward the shore would require him to drive sideways into the waves, which would no doubt end his time in this form if he took on as much water as he had the last time. He wondered how much space he had to play with in terms of the red line. How far could he be off that route before he was considered to be in violation?
Right on cue the map began flashing red and Malcolm admonished him. “You must follow the route indicated, Peter, or you will be disqualified.”
Peter screamed at the sky, having nowhere better to scream, “The route indicated is going to get me killed. The waves are too big!”
“I understand, Peter, but these are the rules.”
Peter said a few words that would have gotten him grounded had Big Ed been present, then turned back again to gauge how close the next wave behind him sat. A siren began wailing, indicating further noncompliance with his route, but he ignored it and instead pushed down on the throttle such that he gained about ten more meters between his boat and the following wave.
He then spun the wheel hard to the left and pushed the throttle down all the way, willing the propeller to find a grip in the slippery, green water. The maneuver worked, and he was headed straight at the wave, which had mysteriously lost some of its height and strength. Peter cut the throttle back, put both his hands back on the wheel and clenched his teeth to avoid biting his tongue as the bow of his boat broke through the wave, went airborne briefly, and then crashed back down to the water.
Peter immediately turned the wheel to his right and again gave his boat full power. The wind grabbed and pulled as it swept across him. The siren stopped. He risked a look down at the map and saw he was drawing closer to the path indicated by the red line. He then checked the wave coming toward him and gauged how much farther he could run along beside it before he would have to turn into it.
Several seconds later he repeated his turn maneuver to again break through the wave and return to racing sideways alongside the waves. He was still cold, but a little relieved to see that the maneuvering had knocked an inch or two of water out of the boat, which was feeling a little more responsive.
He continued along in this fashion for what seemed like eternity, but was probably more like forty-five earth minutes, when he noticed something green and hazy in the direction of what he assumed to be the shore. This revelation came at the same time that the waves dropped significantly in terms of their height and power.
Peter looked down and noted that he was spot-on in terms of following his required path. He snuck a look back and saw that the gas can, which was at the verge of floating from all the water still trapped in the boat, now showed that it had approximately half a tank remaining. He had burned through a lot of fuel in a hurry.
No longer as worried about the waves, Peter scanned the waters between him and the shore and saw that they were relatively calm—not a bathtub by any means, but quite a bit calmer than the waters he had just crossed. This was important as he now needed to attempt a maneuver Big Ed had showed him when they had accidentally taken on a bunch of water from a rogue wave that had emptied into their friend’s boat.
The maneuver, which Peter, Eli and their mother had vehemently argued against, involved the drain plug, which was mounte
d on the back side (the transom) of the boat. Big Ed assured all of them that pulling out the drain plug would get rid of the water trapped within the boat. Their mother argued quite loudly that creating a hole in a boat was not a way to get rid of water.
Big Ed finally convinced her to let him try his theory. He brought the boat and its sloshy contents up to full speed, had their mother hold the control arm to keep them running in a straight line, and then reached down and pulled out the drain plug.
It was not an immediate thing, but after a few moments, when they realized they were not going to sink, they saw that the level of water in the boat was slowly dropping. Several minutes later, Big Ed popped the plug back in and they continued along in their now mostly dry boat, congratulating themselves on having never doubted that pulling the drain plug would work.
Peter now needed to do this same thing, and he needed to do it while the waters were calm. The trick in his situation was that he had no one to help, and, more importantly, the steering wheel was way too far away from the drain plug. If he put the motor at full throttle but left the steering wheel unattended while he pulled the drain plug, he risked that the steering wheel might turn by itself. If it turned too severely with the motor at full throttle, the boat would flip and his race, and life as he knew it, would be over.
He looked around the boat but, as before, saw it had none of the extras, such as rope, that one might normally encounter. He tried to calm himself and think through the situation. After a couple of minutes of soul-searching, he remembered that his shorts had an elastic band and did not need a belt. Finally, a thought occurred to him. He lifted his right foot out of the murky water pooled at his feet and saw that his tennis shoe was held in place by a moldy, dirty shoelace.
He throttled down a little, checked again for waves, and then sat heavily on the bench behind him. He tore at the shoelace, which, out of laziness, was a series of knots he generally left alone because he got his shoes on and off by applying pressure, not by tying or untying them. The soggy laces defied him until he pulled his shoe off and, wincing from the smell, used his teeth to work loose the primary knot. As he fought with the knot, he deeply regretted all the times he had worn these shoes without socks.
The Promise of the Orb Page 23