Descendant (Secrets of the Makai) (16 page)

"People?" Tristan asked, squeezing his hand between rocks to reach the fork. "This isn't really a good time for me."

The falcon landed at his feet and began pecking at his shoes.

"Fine!" Tristan stood, unsure of how far the falcon would go to make him move. "Have it your way."

Tristan stepped carefully, stopping often to wait for the sliver of moon to reflect on rocks. "You're probably good at seeing in the dark," he said miserably, complaining as much as possible.

He began a slick zigzagging descent until a wooden tapping sound stopped him. He held his breath, waiting to hear it again.

Through a break in the clouds, faint moonlight fell upon the shingled wall of a building. Shocked by the sudden appearance of an actual man-made structure, Tristan flattened himself behind a boulder, afraid he'd already been spotted.

The falcon shrieked and pecked against the wooden window frame.

Tristan stared at the moon, debating what to do. Someone might be sleeping inside. He watched the falcon disappear into the square of pitch-blackness and fly out through an empty door space, disappearing into the night.

"Abandoned?" It did sort of look rundown. Tristan couldn't tell if it was a house, a shack, or a shed.

He approached the structure slowly, wishing his flashlight would make up its mind to be dead or not. If there was a door, it was already open. "Hello?"

Nobody answered.

Tristan tested the floor with one foot before shifting more of his weight. It seemed sturdy enough to walk on. He shook the flashlight again and spotted a tangle of rope hanging from one wall to another. The structure seemed deserted. He let the backpack fall from his shoulders and inadvertently bashed his shin against something hard.

He hoped the structure served as someone's storage place and searched the duffle bag for his quilt, spilling handfuls of fruit in the process. Water dripped from everything, probably making his bags twice as heavy.

Tristan sank to the floor, determined to stay awake in case someone walked in. But what did it matter? He was freezing and dozing by first signs of dawn. He'd probably die of pneumonia before starvation.

In the dim light, the ropes strung between walls looked like a hammock—he tested the stability and climbed into the netting. Getting caught might be the only way to survive.

18

- BAD
S
MOKE
S
IGNALS -

THE RUSTIC SHACK GLOWED with a warm, greenish light. The entrance didn't have a door and Tristan couldn't tell if the window frame had ever held glass. For a table, a large slab of wood balanced on a wide stump. Three smaller logs served as chairs.

A single wooden shelf sagged above a long counter, extending to the far wall. In the center of the room, a pile of chopped wood sat beside a woodstove made of brick.

A broom leaned in a corner, its bristles in a cracked bucket, and a skillet rested in a stainless-steel sink. All the cupboards under the counter were bare, and in a drawer to the right of the sink, Tristan found a wooden cigar box half-eroded by mice. A rusted spyglass and a broken compass lay inside. He returned the box to the drawer and explored the rest of the room, deciding to risk starting a fire.

The natives couldn't be all bad if they tried to lead him to the little orchard. He felt fine, so the fruit didn't appear to be poisonous. Hallucinating might explain the event better, maybe induced by a breeze carrying the sweet scent. But he couldn't explain waking on the beach, unless it was a message from the natives to
stay
on the beach.

Tristan stepped outside to look for kindling. The surroundings stopped him dead.

The shack balanced on a ledge with a steep cliff on one side and sheer rocks to the top of the mountain on the other. Tristan walked carefully along the narrowing pathway to an area of full sun, surprised he hadn't plunged to his death in the dark of night.

He leaned against a boulder, letting the heat radiate into his bones. The path he'd used the night before led up and around the mountain. It also sloped to the forest below, zigzagging to a crystal-clear lake, surrounded by rolling, tree-covered hills.

There were no other signs of civilization.

Changing his mind about the fire, Tristan went back to the shack with a new plan. He dumped all his belongings onto the table and repacked everything washable into the duffle bag, being sure to include the water jug, hooks, and fishing line.

The trip to the lake went faster than expected. He waded into the water and did his best to wash his clothing and quilt, tossing cleaned items to a rock jutting outward toward an extreme drop-off. He waded in deeper to dunk himself, determined to work the mud and tangled matting from his hair. When the washing was done, he climbed onto the rock to wring everything out and lay in the sun.

At the end of the rock, Tristan gazed into the depths of the lake, dwelling on the falcon and who might have built the shack.

Since a ferry dock didn't seem to exist, he considered using the spyglass at the top of the mountain, where he might spot an airstrip cut in the trees—
if
there were still people who traveled back and forth to the mainland. If not, well....

He wondered how many years it had been since the captain's visit. What happened to the people and the ferry? Was he destined to end up like them?

Tristan shut the questions away and woke a short time later, sunburned. He thought of building a large fire to send smoke signals if he happened to see an airplane.

In the lake, several large fish swam about eight feet down. Tristan raced for a worm and unwound a short amount of line, staying away from the water's edge as he let the hook sink. Within seconds, a fish threatened to pull him in. He yanked it out, sending the poor thing flying into the bushes when his line snapped.

He'd never actually killed a fish, but he had to become a hunter if he expected to survive. He washed his hands, left his belongings, and hiked up the mountain with the fish as he recalled an infomercial he'd seen about knives—how they'd gutted and filleted a fish for demonstration.

The skillet in the sink needed some serious cleaning before he could use it for cooking, but he lit a small fire and used the tip of his knife to cook individual, mouth-watering, bite-size pieces. He was halfway down the hill to get the water jug when the distant hum of an airplane drowned all coherent thought.

Tristan raced back up the trail, stopping at the shack long enough to get the spyglass and matches on his way to the top of the mountain. He balanced himself at the highest point and found the plane making its way across the vast ocean. Why did it have to be so far away?

No time to waste. He gathered every dead twig, branch, and log, and tossed them to a pile against the nearest tree. He added pinecones, clumps of moss, and his own shirt, then struck the first match against the cardboard covering. It wouldn't light. "Come on!"

The second match stayed lit for only a few seconds before going out, leaving a trail of sulfur smoke in the air. Tristan held his breath with the third, holding the flame beneath a wad of dead moss. The clump began smoking, then burst into glorious flame. In the time it took to spot the plane again, the flame died to nothing.

"No!" He could have sworn the fire would take off. He tore off another match. "Come on…."

His chances were good. The moss was obviously dry enough. He held a burning match under blackened twigs and flames erupted again. He blew gently to keep it alive and pulled his shirt from the pile, using it to fan the flames from a greater distance until one of the sleeves caught on fire. He quickly stuffed the burning cloth under a few larger sticks.

Soon, half the tree burned strong, sending a rich, almost black trail of smoke into the sky. He rushed to the highest point on the mountaintop and searched for the plane, waiting for it to change directions. But there was no trace of it.

Shirtless, defeated, Tristan laid on a mound of rocks with the remaining matches clutched in his hand. Five. How long could he survive with five matches? He turned toward the roaring heat. His mouth fell open as his eyes grew wide with shock. A much bigger problem blazed before him—a raging inferno eating through the forest.

19

-
P
LAN
B
-

DORIAN THREW HER WORKBAG against the wall, upsetting a shelf of empty jars. They crashed to the floor and shattered. "You said death wouldn't follow him, and he burns half the forest!"

"Now, now," Gram said, using her grating parental voice. "It could have been worse and you said no one perished."

"Yet! No one's perished
yet!
" Dorian knelt to collect the glass. "Burned alive! Can you imagine the suffering? I can't repair those kinds of scars."

"Ah, Dorian. Fires happen naturally all the time, the trees will be fine with the scars. They might even flourish. See it as an experiment for the landscape."

"I hate you." Dorian left the remaining glass where it lay and slammed what she'd collected into the trash bucket. Oliver and Eric entered the workspace, blocking her exit, covered with a layer of soot. They had the nerve to be laughing.

Dorian clenched her jaw. "Get him off the island before I kill him."

"I think it was just an accident," Eric said, toning down his happiness.

"I do, too," Oliver added. "He even tried putting it out, but it just got out of hand. Might have been worse without last night's rain."

Dorian shoved Oliver as hard as she could. "Get out of my way."

"Hey now." Oliver's thick frame wouldn't budge. "I'm thinking the kid's okay. He did his best, even when it was obvious nothing would work."

"You were there? And you didn't put it out yourself? How long did you let it go on?"

"Dorian…. We didn't want to blow our cover. We could've put it out sooner, but we thought we'd let him give it a go."

"How could you!?" Tears ran down her cheeks and she shoved Oliver again, hoping to send him flying out the door. He caught her wrists and refused to let go.

"The kid tried to signal a plane, that's all."

"Then bring him a plane!" Dorian shouted.

"Not a bad idea." Oliver smiled, nodding his head toward Eric. He let go of her wrists and went to the sink to wash his hands. "Like that little seaplane we used last spring. What was it, some sort of Cessna?"

"Yeah," Eric said. "I think it's still around, just out of Anchorage. It probably hasn't run in a while, and we might want to have some fuel available for the return trip. But I'll help tune it up and we can have it here by tomorrow. Maybe by late morning if you take my cave shift."

"Soon enough for you?" Oliver asked Dorian. "And yes, I'll take the shift. It's not sleep, but I could use the down time."

"Now would be better." Dorian squeezed past Eric and stood on the back step, smearing the tears from her face. A haze of smoke rose from the hilltop in the distance, settling like a grotesque fog over the glassy surface of her lake.

"...and did you hear?" said a nearby shrub. "Naomi got to hold his hand! She's still swooning."

Dorian shook her head with disbelief. Instead of being upset, like herself, the plants were buzzing with excitement.

"What?" Dorian asked aloud, unable to comprehend the layers of drama unfolding between species.

"If you ask me," said a fern, "he'd have less damage if I was the one holding him."

"You're just jealous because your roots aren't strong enough to handle the rocks on that side."

"I can handle it over there just fine! Dorian! Can you move me? I promise I'll be twice as strong when you need me."

Dorian grinded her teeth at the mere thought. "Don't even consider it."

"I don't want to move," said Omero, the cedar, in his low husky voice.

"You can't be transplanted!" Dorian said. "Not at 80!"

The surrounding plants were stunned. "Why not?" they all asked.

"Mendel, and the others." Omero sighed. "They think they failed to make enough smoke and they want a second chance."

Dorian's jaw dropped. "Mendel wants to be set on fire again?"

"They all do."

"That does it. I've heard enough." Dorian stomped to her cabin and slammed the door behind her. Then opened it again. "Why? Why would they want to die for him?"

"Because he desires it," explained a honeysuckle vine in a sing-song voice. "Not the death, but the making of smoke."

"Don't you understand that being on fire will kill you?"

"It matters not," the vines sang. "It is his will."

Dorian fumed, disbelieving the level of infatuation. "I forbid any of you to die for that...that...pyromaniac! Got it? Spread the word before someone gets killed."

"It matters not what you forbid. He is our master."

"You have no master!" Dorian shouted. "He is nothing! You don't even know him!"

"It matters not—"

Dorian screamed with frustration and slammed the door shut again.