Island (7 page)

Wes’s intensity cut through the darkness.

The Big Rock Candy Mountain.

“Where no one ever grows older.”

That’s what Colin had sung.

But that’s not the lyric. He’d made that up.

To see how I would react.

To see how deeply I hated my own life.

To see if I was fit.

For immortality.

And I had given him permission.

“So I’m … ”

“An exchange.”

No.

Not an exchange.

In an exchange, you get something.

“I’m a
sacrifice,
Wes.”

“It’s not a sacrifice if no one dies,” Wes said. “And you’ll never die here. You’ll be like us.”

“Trapped!”

“No worries. No pressure — ”

“No growth!”

“Who needs growth?”

“Things that
live
! You guys aren’t alive, you’re … you’re …”

Dead.

Say it, Rachel.

That which doesn’t grow is dead.

They’re not real.

They’re ghosts. Zombies.

I swallowed my words.

I was hearing voices. Approaching from the woods.

Wes turned. “OVER HERE!” he called out.

GO!

You’re not killing them, Rachel.

You can’t kill something that’s already dead.

I pushed away. Hard.

Wes slipped off the pylon. His hand slipped off my arm.

I dived back into the water.

I swam, ignoring the pain in my arms. The water in my lungs.

To the noise.

To the mist.

The sea was black and freezing, but I knew exactly where I was going.

Wes was following. I could hear his voice. His arms chopping the water.

The sound was quickly swallowed up. Muffled by the hiss.

I veered left, angling closer, knowing he wouldn’t see me and hoping he wouldn’t hear.

The edge of the cloud wall drew closer. Its gassy tendrils wound around me.

I snuck a quick look back.

Wes was gone.

I was home free.

Or dead.

Either way was better than Onieron.

I could taste the mist now.

As the water swelled beneath me, I rose and fell.

And soon I was no longer in control.

My head submerged without warning. Then I was tossed above the waves. All I could do was hang on.

Breathe.

Stay alive.

And try to see the waves in the meager moonlight that pierced the murk.

A boat.

It flashed dully across my field of vision. A gray outline. A shadow within a shadow, riding the waves. In it was a ghostly figure wearing a hooded, tattered coat and rowing with eerie calmness.

Death.

That’s what he was.

A
specter.

A guide into the next world. Into

The hereafter.

And then, in the next moment, he was gone and I was underwater
(can’t breathe)
and my strength was fading
(cold I am so cold)
and suddenly my arms felt heavy and my body was sinking sinking
(sleep Rachel sleep)
and I saw my mom and dad and they were crying
(and Grandpa Childers where is Grandpa Childers?)
and then I saw the beach on Onieron, filling with the survivors
(crying too because I did it I destroyed them)
and everything turned to black.

We’ve lost her.

We’ve lost him.

Who?

I
N MY DREAM
I
’M
floating and happy and the fish slither around my body and I dive through coral portals of purple and white

“Rachel … ”

And someone is calling my name, it’s the sweetest sound in the world, somehow strong and soothing at the same time, and the only person I know who talks that way is

“Rachel!”

Is Grandpa Childers, but Grandpa Childers is not in my dream
(where is he?)
because Mom and Dad and Seth are crying alone and I suddenly realize it’s not only about me, they’re crying about him, too, which is the worst, absolutely the worst thing I could think of because

“Ugggh … ”

Me, that’s me, something’s wrapped around my stomach
(leave me alone),
and I feel myself being torn away from my vision, and I want to get it back, the part about Grandpa Childers, somewhere else, somewhere happy
—

“Rachel, you’re going to be okay.”

The dream blew away like ashes.

I was alive.

Sitting on something solid.

A seat.

A strong arm cradled me, wrapping a rubber rain slicker around my upper body.

I tried to look at my rescuer, but the wind blew water into my face.

I knew him, though.

The beard, scrubby and white.

The craggy skin.

The slate gray-blue eyes.

“Grandpa Childers?”

“Hold still, little one.”

Yes.

No.

It wasn’t.

It looked like him. Sounded like him.

But it was someone else.

“Thank you,” I said, shivering.

“What’s your name?” the old man asked.

“Rachel Childers. Yours?”

He smiled. “People call me the Skipper.”

I pulled away. “You’re the Skipper?”

No.

Please no.

I considered jumping.

Trying again to reach the cloud wall.

But I no longer had the heart. Or the will.

I couldn’t hold back my tears. They blended with the cold rain on my cheeks.

He had me.

They
had me.

I was one of them.

For a lifetime.

The Skipper reached down between his boots and picked up a wet burlap bag. “Do me a favor. Return this to its owner. He would want it, I think.”

He held out the bag and I took it. “Who — where — ?”

“Ssssh.” The old man gently placed a finger on my mouth. “Just go. The boat will get you through to the other side.”

“But — the island — all the people — ”

“Let me worry about that.” The old man smiled. “And you tell everyone Clemson Childers is doing just fine.”

Clemson Childers?

Without another word, the Skipper suddenly pitched himself overboard.

“WAIT!” I called out. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

“Just angle it to the left!” the Skipper yelled back. “You’ll get through!”

He turned away and began to swim back toward Onieron with strong, even strokes.

In a moment he was swallowed up by the fog.

I was alone.

Saved by

Clemson Childers.

The first.

My great-great-grandfather.

The captain of Grandpa Childers’s birthday cruise.

The Skipper.

I opened the bag.

Inside, soggy and limp, was the stuffed white bunny rabbit.

Fluffy.

I put her back into the bag and wedged it carefully beneath the seat.

Then I lifted the oars and began to row.

Angling left.

He’s barely alive, but he made it. Swimming.

Who?

Childers. He’s not as frail as he looks.

But the girl is still missing.

No.

Yes.

No! I mean, I see her! She’s in a boat!

I
TRIED TO ROW
to shore.

I couldn’t.

My arms had given up.

In the predawn light, Nesconset was like an old black-and-white photo, silvery and serene. My boat floated forward on momentum, its prow breaking the glassy stillness of the water. Behind me, the turbulence of the cloud wall was like a waning tailwind.

Home.

The sound of the word comforted me but it had no real meaning. Like a beautiful song in a language I didn’t know.

A moment ago, home was all I’d wanted.

A moment ago, I was pure gut and nerve. Pure survival instinct.

Now I was safe.

And now I could think.

They’re dead. All dead.

Wes. Mary Elizabeth. Carbo.

My own ancestor.

I murdered them.

A distant motorboat began to whine. The whine quickly grew to a roar. I watched as two harbor-police craft and a Coast Guard boat sped toward me, their headlights steady and bright.

I felt no relief, no happiness.

Only numbness.

In a moment, it will end.

How? How does the end of a world feel?

Loud and violent, like an atom bomb? Or quiet and painless, like a dewdrop in the morning sun?

Do they scream? Will I hear them?

I don’t remember much of the next few moments.

A towline. People climbing into the row-boat.

Arms.

Words.

Motion.

When we reached the dock, I caught sight of Mom, Dad, and Seth. Their faces were raw, their eyes bloodshot. I fell into their arms.

We stood there, holding on to one another, rocking back and forth.

I tried to recall our last family hug. I was eight, I think. I didn’t remember the occasion, only the feeling.

It was just as good at thirteen.

It broke through my numbness, piercing the dam I had built inside. Out spilled happiness and agony and guilt and fear and utter horror, in a cascade of tears that I couldn’t control.

Seth and Mom were crying, too.

Dad was stoic. But when my own tears started to dry, he was the one holding me the tightest.

“We thought …” Dad said, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry,” I replied.

Mom glanced out to the beach. “The boat?”

“Later.”

Mom didn’t press further.

She knew I couldn’t talk about it yet. She could tell, just by the look on my face.

She’s a mom.

I suppose someday I will tell her something.

What? That I’ve annihilated this island of zombies? And oh, you’ll never guess who gave me the boat, never in a million years …

Even if I did tell her, chances are she’d think it was a dream.

Only two people would believe me. Only two would understand.

And neither one was there.

“Dad, where’s Grandpa Childers?” I asked as we walked into the yacht club. “And that busboy, Colin?”

Dad didn’t get a chance to answer. Everyone who’d been keeping a respectful distance was finally giving up — Uncle Harry, Mr. Havershaw, everyone I knew from Nesconset. I was mobbed with well-wishers. A photographer from the Nesconset
Inquirer and Mirror
began snapping photos. Lawrence, the Nesconset Yacht Club chef, kept asking what I wanted to eat.

Finally our family physician drove up. Dr. Evans shooed everyone away and ushered me into a quiet, brightly lit corner of the club.

He asked me tons of questions. I don’t remember what I answered, but I mustn’t have made much sense, because he kept scratching his head and saying, “Uh-huh … ” the way you’d talk to a baby.

Everyone had run out to the dock now. I could see them through the bay window, their backs to me, watching a harbor-police boat putter up to the dock.

The sun had risen. The bay was sky blue and clear to the horizon.

No clouds.

No island.

Gone.

Forever.

I scanned the crowd to find Grandpa Childers and —

Colin.

There he was. In his swimsuit, soaking wet.

I wanted to strangle him.

I tried to jump up, but Dr. Evans gently pulled me down. He told me I had traumatic shock or something, and I should sit in the chair until Mom and Dad drove me home, then stay in bed the rest of the day.

Right.

When someone called Dr. Evans out to the dock, I stood up.

Colin was heading inside. Toward me.

We were the only two in the room now.

I spotted my soggy burlap sack, left in a heap near the door. I ran to it and threw it at Colin. “This is yours!”

The white rabbit fell out limply to the floor. Colin’s jaw dropped. “Fluffy? How — ?”

“HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?” I shouted. “HOW COULD YOU TRICK ME INTO IT? WHY DID YOU COME HERE?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t coming for
you.
I wanted someone else to go.”

“Who?”

“Your grandfather!”

“Grandpa Childers? You wanted to sacrifice him? Why on earth — ?”

“We were his best friends!
His
grandfather was on the boat. I figured he’d want to see them. And at his age — with not much time left — why
wouldn’t
he want to go to Onieron?”

“That’s insane!”

Colin sighed. “Well, that’s about what he said, too. He told me he missed his friends, but it was so far in the past. He’d made peace with it. He said if he had only a minute left to live, he’d rather live it here.”

That’s why he was so rattled.

He’d just met a face from the past. A face that hadn’t changed a bit.

It must have been tempting.

But he rejected the offer.

Because of his family.

Because of me.

“ ‘Better to die among people you love than outlive them all,’ ” I murmured. “That’s what he told me.”

Colin nodded. “So I was stuck. But when I got to know you, I thought you were perfect for Onieron. You hated your life here. I figured if I could just get you there, you’d never want to come back — ”

“HOW CAN YOU THINK THAT?”

“I’ve been
there
for sixty years. I think like an Onieronian.”

“Wes, Mary Elizabeth, Carbo — they all could have returned. Why didn’t they?”

“At first a few tried. But the old-timers were on them like hawks. Told them about the Law of Onieron. And over time, one by one, we all just … got used to it. The routine. The freedom.”

“But
you
decided to leave. Why?”

“When I knew the cloud wall was coming, some of the old feelings came back. I took a look at my friends. At what our lives had become — no worries, no problems, every day total perfection. I imagined myself staying there forever. And … I wanted to die.” Colin smiled sadly. “But I knew I couldn’t.”