Unwritten Books 2 - Fathom Five (9 page)
“Yum,” said Peter. “It’s just like caramel!”
She looked up. Red-gold flames licked away the fog. As she watched, the bay came into focus. She could see an arm of the escarpment reaching out into the water, bathed orange in the setting sun. Peter held a stick away from the bonfire, licking his fingers.
Rosemary laughed. “As if you wouldn’t believe me.” She squished her marshmallow between two graham crackers and pulled it off the stick. “You never roasted marshmallows? Ever?” She set her stick down and rubbed her hand on her jeans.
“Never. Can I have another?”
She rummaged through her knapsack. “We’re almost out,” she said.
“How?” asked Peter. “We bought a whole package!”
She gave him a playful scowl. “You lost half of it in the flames.”
“Told you I never did this before,” said Peter. “I need practice. We should have bought two packages.”
“You’ll make do.” She bit into her s’more.
Her teeth clicked on nothing.
Rosemary shook her head so hard, it rattled. The image of Peter faded into the fog until she was sitting by herself. Her blanket fluttered in the cold wind. The breakers roared.
“What … the hell?” she gasped.
Then the sea-woman’s words echoed in her head: “
This place echoes memories. Don’t be ensnared.
”
Memories. Like shipwrecks, played out over and over again? Like
her
memories?
It had been so real. She could still taste the memory of marshmallows and graham crackers. Already she could feel things circling around her. She saw flashes at the edge of her vision like multi-coloured cobwebs.
She stood up with a shout, and the memories scampered away with the fog. She leaned against the rocks, breathing heavily. Then she picked up her underwear and rubbed it between her fingers. It was dry.
Later, warm and dressed, Rosemary stepped away from a broken container at the waterline, opening a keyed can of preserved meat. She wrinkled her nose, but dug in her fingers and nibbled at the pasty contents. Beside her, the bonfire waned.
Okay, she thought. That’s one crisis dealt with. Now what do I do?
Look for Peter, obviously.
How? she wondered. How do you search when you don’t even know where you are?
She looked up and down the beach again, up to where it vanished in the fog. Her eyes fell on the broken cargo containers. Curiosity twigged, and she stepped forward for a better look.
Picking up a fallen plank, she stared at the letters printed across it. It read: “USS
Lorelei.
”
She blinked. “That was over a hundred and eighty years ago!”
This box had been the one with the food.
“Ugh!” She cast the container aside, then picked it up again and stared at it. The tin gleamed in the twilight as though it had been made months ago, not centuries. The meat did not smell appetizing, but it didn’t smell rancid, either.
Moving to another container, she shoved some broken pieces of wood aside and opened up one of the smaller boxes within. Her eyes widened. The boxes contained nails: old iron nails of the sort made before mass production, as shiny as the day they were made.
Cargo containers smashed against the rocks, but showing no other signs of decay; food that should have been rotten but was edible (she hoped).
“Well, Toto, we’re not in Clarksbury anymore,” she said.
Then her eyes fell upon another container further out in the water. Glass was scattered over the protruding stones. They were the remains of bottles, of a sort that Rosemary had only seen in the antiques market. Some of the bottles weren’t broken.
She hopped from rock to rock, keeping an eye out for broken glass underfoot, and picked up one of the unbroken bottles. It was filled with a white liquid. “Milk? Well, here’s a test.” The lid was made of foil, and she peeled it off using her fingers and her teeth. She sniffed the contents, then took a tentative sip, then gulped it down and stared at the empty bottle. “I’m standing in the middle of the best refrigerator ever made!”
She tossed the bottle back inside the cargo container with a clink. “Neat. Now what do I do?”
Go find Peter, she thought.
“Where?” she muttered.
I don’t know, but I’ve found all I can in this spot. It’s time to go somewhere else.
“Let’s take along some supplies.”
She wrapped some matches and some cans of food and Sterno in her blanket and stuck one of the bottles of milk in her pocket. Turning to douse the bonfire, she stopped and noticed, for the first time, the thick black smoke that curled from it, up the cliff face and into the sky.
“Hmm.” She stuck out her lip. “Here I am. Come and get me.”
What an odd thought. Other than that sea-woman, I haven’t seen a living thing since I got here.
A splash brought Rosemary’s attention around.
The waves were a distant rumble, overpowered by the gentle lapping against the stones nearby. The sound was small and close by, like a pebble disturbed by a shifting foot.
Rosemary looked. In a still area of the cove, ripples reached out along the surface of the water. She could see nothing that could have caused them.
There was another splash, to Rosemary’s left. Another set of ripples, closer, fanning out against the shore.
Rosemary backed away.
Another splash, another ripple. This time, she caught a glimpse of a small, black shape as it slipped back into the water.
Then something flew at her.
She swung up her pack instinctively. Something bounced off it and fell with a splat onto the rocks.
Rosemary lowered her pack and stared.
The creature was an eel with legs and a tail, covered in scales that glistened with water. It had a huge unhinged jaw with many long and pointed teeth.
It rounded on her with the speed of a salamander when she dared take a closer look. It opened its jaw and let out a venomous hiss.
Rosemary scrambled back, barely taking it all in. What was this creature? Was it a fish?
There was another splash, and then another.
Rosemary had a nasty thought: fish sometimes travel in schools.
Something leapt at her out of the murk. Rosemary screamed and swung her pack. A long-tailed shape sailed out past a far tide pool.
She only just saw the other shape out of the corner of her eye when it sank its teeth into her forearm. She cried out and swung it against a rock again and again. The creature squealed, but it did not let go, even when it stopped moving.
Other shapes leapt forward and Rosemary ran for her life. Behind her, the sound of splashes became like applause, growing to an ovation that paced her along the shoreline.
“B
reathe, Peter.”
Peter floundered, struggling for air and light.
He felt himself sinking, pulled deeper and deeper by song. He reached for the shimmering ceiling above him, but darkness swept over his vision. It pressed.
Music rang in his ears: a haunting, lilting tune that came into his ears with the water. He wanted it in his lungs. He wanted to breathe.
Even though it would kill him.
He wanted to breathe in, water and song. His chest convulsed. He flailed desperately, but silky strands wrapped around him and held him still. The song broke off. “Easy, Peter. Relax. Breathe.”
The water slipped into his mouth and into his nose. Finally, he could resist no longer. The water swept into him.
“Breathe,” said Fiona.
Peter opened his eyes. He was floating in aquamarine, the shimmering surface within arms reach. Fiona stood above him, her hair fluttering in the current, her arms beneath his back. She smiled down at him. “Peter?” He wasn’t sure if he heard her words with his ears or his mind.
“Am I in heaven?” he found himself asking, surprisingly calm.
Fiona laughed like a flute underwater. “No.”
“Are you sure?” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking, or how Fiona heard him.
“Certain.”
“Then, where am I?”
“Home.” She hauled him to the surface. “Breathe!”
Peter burst from the surface, gasping. The sweetest air filled his lungs. He coughed and flailed, weak with relief. Fiona held him as he sagged into her.
“Thanks,” he wheezed. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and gazed around blearily.
I thought I was dead. Why did I think I was dead?
Falling … Rosemary … their screams mingling … the lake rushing up …
He flailed, raising spray.
“Rosemary! Rosemary, where are you?”
Fiona grabbed at him. “Peter, calm yourself! You’re safe, now.”
“No! Rosemary!” His voice echoed.
Fiona touched his brow and caught him as he went limp in her arms. She sat him down in the shallow water. “Rest,” she whispered. She cupped her hand into the lake and brought the water to his lips. “Drink.”
Peter swallowed the sweet water. It settled into his chest like a cool pebble. His ragged breathing eased. Tension slipped from his shoulders along with the fears from his mind.
Fiona smiled. “Yes.”
Peter let out the breath he was holding. “Where am I?” he whispered.
“Home. Look.” She helped him back to his feet.
Peter opened his eyes, then closed them immediately as the world swam around him. Fiona held him steady until he was ready to look again.
He stood knee deep in water a few feet from shore.
The breeze blew at his back, warm as a hair dryer. A line of cliffs rose around them, topped by trees of green, red, and gold. A line of flowerpot islands — small columns of stone — stretched out into the bay.
As his gaze reached the sky, he frowned. There were no clouds. No sun or stars, either. The dome above was a smooth aquamarine. “That can’t be right,” he muttered. The cliffs were no different from those around Clarksbury. Even the water tasted the same, and yet … where
was
he?
And how did he get here?
Fiona pressed his back, gently. “Can you walk?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.” They splashed ashore. Peter stood dripping. Fiona looked dry. They stood a moment, staring at each other. Fiona smiled at him. Her hair fluttered in the breeze. The waves slapped the shore. Finally, Peter broke the silence. “So … where do we go now?”
“I told you,” said Fiona, kindly. “Home.”
“How do we get there?”
“We follow that girl.” Fiona pointed. Peter looked. Behind him, on the top of one of a boulder that stood at the water’s edge, sat a young girl, no more than nine. She had brown curls, wore green robes, and sat facing the bay, knees hugged to her chest.
“Ariel!” Fiona called, and the girl perked up. She looked at them and, at the sight of Fiona, squealed and scrambled down the face of the rock. She ran into Fiona’s arms. “Fionarra! You’re back!”
Fiona embraced her. “Ariel.”
Peter frowned at her. “Fionarra?”
She smiled ruefully. “You may call me Fiona.”
Ariel squirmed free of Fiona’s embrace and turned to Peter. She stopped when she looked up at him. She swallowed. “Is this … him?”
“Yes, Ariel, this is Peter.”
Peter shifted under Ariel’s gaze of awe. The stones clicked beneath his feet. “Er … hi!”
Ariel squeaked and ducked behind Fiona. Peter blushed.
Fiona stepped aside and pushed Ariel into the open.
“Don’t be shy. You’ve so wanted to meet Peter.”
Peter swallowed hard. “Hi,” he said again.
“Hello,” said the girl.
The waves lapped the beach. Peter and Ariel stared at each other, unsure what to say. He’d never seen her before, he was sure, but there was something familiar about that round face, the brown hair, and the wide brown eyes.
Then Fiona pushed them forward. “Come, you two. The village awaits.”
Peter felt his stomach drop. “Village?”
“And your family,” said Fiona.
Family. The word knotted his stomach. This place was at once familiar and not familiar. The shape of the bay, Ariel. His future filled him with hope and dread. It pressed at him like the water and song. He kept himself from taking Fiona’s hand, and followed her.
As they walked, Ariel forgot her shyness. She bounded ahead and back, chattering. Her curls bobbed as she bombarded him with questions.
“Did you live in a house back where you were?” asked Ariel. “With electricity?”
“Um … yeah.” Peter gave Fiona a look, but she just smiled.
“And cars? Did you have a car?”
“Uh … yes.”
“Were you lonely?”
Peter blinked at her and glanced at Fiona.
Ariel went squealing after some sandpipers and Peter couldn’t help but grin. “Is she your sister?”
