Hold Zero! (3 page)

He filled the gas tank, then sat down to wait for the others. A soft click in the willows attracted his attention. “Hi, Squawker!” he said as he peered into the cobweb of limbs to locate the friendly blue jay that roosted there every evening. A soft spot among the stiff branches was all Craig could see of the bird. He squinted, moved closer and saw that the breast feathers were fluffed. The heckler of the marsh appeared gentle. Craig thrust his fist toward him, first and little fingers raised, so that his hand and wrist made the outline of an owl. He knew Squawky would object, because an owl’s shape—live, dead, or badly imitated—made him angry. He could not help it; his mind was imprinted with hate for a round head and tufted ears. The bird screamed. Craig laughed and turned away.

He lay down on the wharf and shone his flashlight into the water. Small animals were moving slowly in the cold. A dragonfly nymph clung to the stem of a splatterdock leaf. A water strider made six dents on the surface with its black feet as it walked. Craig thought about the water strider: he might make big feet for himself and his friends so they could walk across the water to Batta—but he did not get very far with the idea. He was diverted by memories of more successful devices he had borrowed from the animals of the swamp and woods.

For instance, the day the marsh buggy was on its maiden voyage. The craft was steady on the water as he and Phil and Steve and Johnny nailed the last plank down and stepped aboard. The motor started, the paddle wheel turned, and they were off with cheers down the channel among the reeds. Too late, they realized they had no way to steer. They were headed for the reeds. Steve jumped to turn off the motor but he was not fast enough. They struck hard, and Craig, standing precariously on the edge, was plunged into the water. He sat up to his chin in mud and black marsh water.

An argument had started aboard the craft. Johnny wanted to lie on his belly and steer with his hands, but Steve thought the best solution was a car steering wheel with ropes attached to two boards nailed beneath so they would turn. Craig had said nothing. He was watching a water boatman steer itself unerringly around the cattail stalks. He leaned closer to it. Two large feet shaped like paddles maneuvered the insect. On each foot was a fringe of hairs that bent to give the creature more control. “Hey!” he called. “I got it.” He came to his feet dripping black water. “We need two old canoe paddles. We put one on each side of the buggy and steer with them.”

Steve had nodded. Johnny had said, “That’s it!” and Phil had added, “Where’ll we get ’em?”

Johnny suggested that the sporting goods store might have some secondhand ones they’d be glad to sell cheap, which they did. In fact, Mr. Aronozo took only a dollar for them to hurry the boys out of the store before they blocked the entrance admiring the guns. Craig, still impressed by the hairs on the feet of the boatmen, insisted that they tack fringed inner tubing on the paddle edges. Johnny had said, “Okay, you do it.” So he did, and fastened the paddles to the barge with rainspout hoops. That was two years ago. The beginning of project Batta.

Craig came out of his thoughts and again listened for his friends. As he stood up, he looked back at the buggy and remembered the day they had finally set sail successfully through the vast marsh. The motor had purred, the wheel turned, and the swamp buggy had inched forward on a perfect course. He and his friends had sung songs as they moved down the channel between the reeds. Occasionally they stopped to hack down cattails and make a wider passageway. They puttered on.

The channel wound in and out for a hundred yards among all types of swamp life. Frogs rested on broken reeds, turtles basked in the sun. Occasionally the paddle wheel struck the bulrushes and red-winged blackbirds flew up, protesting the intrusion. There were snakes, muskrats, snails, and dragonflies. As they explored, they talked about the fact that the town board had once wanted to drain this beautiful marsh. If the subject ever came up again, Johnny had said, he would tell his father he would tie himself to the reeds and just stay there.

They turned a bend and came into a huge body of black water, too deep for reeds, too meandering to be a lake—the slow stream. They could see across it to the north shore where the hemlocks darkened the ridge. Ducks floated on the water, a marsh wren sang its pensive song. Craig whispered that they could not see a house or a chimney, for the town was hidden beyond the edge of tall hickories, maples, snakeroots, and rushes.

Then he saw the island! Johnny saw it at the same time. Phil and Steve turned at their shouts. The island was small and green. Its northern end was rocks and boulders; they could see meadow and woods, gold and dappled with sunlight. Craig noticed that the shoreline was covered with moss.

They steered toward it, knowing before they got there that they had found a haven, a place to be alone, a secret island, hidden in the middle of a busy town.

The swamp buggy touched the island and Craig turned off the motor. Softly, he stepped ashore. A flock of ducks winged up, circled the island, then disappeared into the marsh. A raccoon, sunning itself on a sugar maple limb, got up and walked headfirst down the tree. He disappeared along his private trail. The boys tied the buggy to a willow and crept up the embankment. Craig found a sparrow’s nest in a hawthorn bush. Four fat babies lifted their heads to be fed as he jiggled their nest branch. Johnny laughed. “Do they think that shaking’s their mother?” Craig nodded, and crept on. A mink ran across an opening in front of them. It slipped into the water without a splash.

The island, Steve figured, was about an acre. Most of it was low and flat except for the boulders they had seen from the slow stream. These were high. They jutted above the willows and were surrounded with big hemlocks and saplings, wild grapes and blueberries. The boys climbed the rocks and sat down. “This is heaven,” Johnny said. “A boy’s acre to try it alone. No piano lessons, no organized activities ... nothing ... but us.”

“Boy’s acre to try it alone,” repeated Phil. “Not bad. B-A-T-T-I-A—Battia. Let’s name the island Battia.”

“Or Batta,” said Steve. “That’s easier to say.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring and rolling in the sun. Reeds jangled, leaves made shadows, ducks and geese cried out, and the herons stalked fish on their long legs.

Before they started back Steve asked to circle the rock once more. On the far side the boulder hung over the ground, making a dry shelter. He called the others. When they found him, he was kneeling in soft earth, digging. “Something’s down here,” he said. “Gimme a hand.”

Suddenly a barrel of dirt shifted under Steve’s knees and slid into a deep hole. Craig crept forward on his stomach and peered into the earth. A stone room lay below him. He eased himself down and found six log steps. They spiraled into the room. He lit a match. The light fell on an arched cavern, its floor covered with ages of fine dust. “Gee!” Johnny had followed Craig. “What is it?” Steve and Phil were close behind.

“We’ve got a secret, a big, quiet secret. Batta, the underground retreat!” Phil said.

“It looks like a Revolutionary War ammunition shelter,” observed Steve.

Johnny walked into the room. “I see beds here and a kitchen there. Running water, lights. Wow, we’ll never have to go home.”

“And it’s a good place for the transceiver Uncle Harry gave me,” Steve added. He was feeling the dryness of the rocks.

“Yeah, we can listen to music while we fall asleep,” said Johnny.

Craig sighed at the memory of that wonderful day two years ago. Now, he thought, we’re getting that same wonderful island ready for police inspection. Nuts.

He listened with annoyance for his friends. They were already fifteen minutes late. A water nymph caught his eye. The lower lip of the insect sat far out. The nymph was moving the lip up and under a snail. When the snail rested on it, the insect opened its mouth, and the entire lower lip enclosed the food like a box trap. Pretty tricky, Craig mused, and wondered where such a device could be used in Batta.

Then the willow branches snapped. He jumped at the sound. Steve was saying hello. He had pliers in his hand and Johnny had a shovel and some gunny sacks. They quickly got on the buggy and started the motor. It sputtered and hummed. Slowly it edged down the darkening reed canal. Craig felt the fright and worry of the afternoon disappear as the buggy toiled along. Ducks gabbled in the shadows, a muskrat swam ahead. Craig turned on his flash to light their route through the dark labyrinths of cattails. Johnny hummed a soft tune through his teeth and braces. Then he stopped. “Did I tell you what I discovered at the dentist’s yesterday?” he said.

“What?”

“Well, Doctor North was putting a new brace on me when it touched my back filling and I heard ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah; stomp stomp.’ I looked at the doctor. He wasn’t singing so I said with my mouth full, ‘ ’old it!’ He did and I heard the rest of the song. I told him, and
was
he amazed! He said he’d read about this at dental school. Certain kinds of fillings act like crystal sets. But he had never had a patient that got tuned in. He wanted to hear too, but of course he couldn’t.”

Craig looked back at Johnny. He had never heard such a wonderful story. “Wouldn’t you know it,” he said. “You get tuned in to the radio waves! Wow!”

“Lucky guy,” Steve said, laughing with pleasure. “You can listen to the radio while you’re doing your homework. What stations do you get?”

“I dunno, fourteen-fifty, I think.” Johnny closed his mouth smugly and grinned at his friends.

“Can you get it now?” asked Craig.

“No, it only happens when something metal touches the filling—like the brace. It’s too solid now.”

“Shucks,” said Craig and tried to peer into Johnny’s mouth. “You oughta get him to wire you up for WZIK. Then you could listen to the ball games.”

They putted into the slow stream, and Craig lowered the light, for they could see now they were on open water.

Johnny pulled hard on his paddle. “What didja think of Officer Ricardo?” he asked.

Steve said he thought he was pretty nice, and if they made a good show he would probably let them put the rocket off. Craig admitted he liked him but said he was worried about Mr. Brundage. “He’s pretty high principled,” he said. “In fact,
very
high principled!”

The swamp buggy softly bumped the wooden wharf on the island. Johnny began to whistle as if the water-locked acre of land had already made him peaceful, but Craig could not forget the huge policeman and all the laws and regulations he stood for. It seemed that there was so much that had to be learned the hard way.

C
RAIG’S FINGERS FUMBLED
as he tied the swamp buggy. He mumbled a few reassuring words to himself and slowly walked down the cobblestone path to the launch pit. He stumbled, looked down at the round stones he and his friends had carefully dug into the ground, and was proud to notice how neat they were after two freezing and heaving winters. A dandelion, its head half-blown, was wedged between two stones. He pulled it up and wound through the willow grove to the alders that grew at the edge of the meadow.

The fire control bunker, the observation bunker, and the launching pit sat in the meadow. They were earth-colored and dark against the yellow-green of the grasses, for each was made of mud-filled gunny sacks, dried in the sun and stacked like adobe blocks. Steve, who had run ahead, was at the fire control bunker. Johnny was at the pit, legs apart, hands on his head, thinking. Craig paused again, glanced down the path that led into the hemlock grove, and he felt secretive about the rendezvous at its end—Batta.

“Hurry up, Craig!” Johnny called. Craig doubled his pace to the launch pit and jumped in. The rocket stood before him. Almost three feet tall, it rose out of a ring of six first-stage rockets to stand like a spear in the dusk. The payload and nose cone were not on the booster; they lay in the equipment box. But even without these the rocket looked regal to Craig.

“I should think Officer Ricardo would okay that,” he said to Johnny. “And this, too,” he added as he kicked the wall of mud bags.

Johnny circled, examining them critically, to see if they would pass inspection. “I
know
they’re strong,” he said. “Nearly busted my back on ’em.” He turned to Craig. “But what about the bottom of the pit? We don’t have mud bags on the floor.”

“Heck,” said Craig, “we spent a whole day pouring water on it and tamping it with those logs. We’ve always thought it was okay. We can’t worry about the floor now. Let’s cover the door to Batta.” He pushed back the rocket cover, a large corrugated iron pipe cut in half and welded to four legs on old wagon wheels by their friend Joe, a welder.

They squatted down to examine the small wooden door that opened onto the tunnel leading into their underground retreat.

“We don’t have time to dry out gunny sacks of mud,” said Johnny. “Maybe we’d just better hang them over the door.”

Steve had come from the fire control bunker and was standing on the rim, arms folded, listening. “No,” he said. “Officer Ricardo might look behind them. We’ve gotta fill the bags with dirt and stack them as best we can.”

“You’re right,” said Johnny and leaped out of the pit, dragging the gunny sacks. He picked up the shovel and started across the meadow toward the beach and the clay deposits.

Steve opened the door to Batta and crawled down the passageway. In a few minutes he was back with a board. “I’m gonna build a shelf for the launch panel,” he announced, as he balanced it on his head and walked toward the fire control bunker. He stopped halfway and swung around. “By the way!” he called, “as of this minute the fire control bunker is officially the Batta Command Center.”

Craig nodded, and stared into the equipment box with a vague plan in his head.

“Hey! Help!” It was Johnny. “I can’t lift the durn bag.”

Craig laughed and ran to him. He skidded down the beach and grabbed a side of the filled sack. He heaved. They both heaved, then sat down. “This isn’t gonna work,” Craig said. “I’d forgotten how heavy the earth is, and the rollers we used on the other bags are now pilings in the wharf.”