Bad Luck

  “Oh well,” said Leira. “I didn’t think you were the circus type anyway. Something will come along, you’ll see. One day, you’ll be picking your nose, and suddenly—”

  Clay grinned. “So that’s how you became a pickpocket!”

  Leira laughed ruefully. “I deserved that.”

  “Uh-oh—” She pointed to a bee hovering nearby. “Looks like somebody heard about your face fountain.”

  As the kids watched nervously, the first bee was joined by a small swarm of his brother drones. They spread out into a ribbon and then fluidly formed a question mark.

  “Tell Buzz not to get all bent out of shape,” said Kwan to the bees. “Whatever Adriana thinks she saw, it was only carrot juice.”

  Buzz was the Worm counselor and the camp beekeeper—or, as the campers sometimes joked, the Worm keeper and the bee counselor. Around camp, the bees served as his eyes and ears and, occasionally, as his message bearers.

  The bees hovered in place, as if considering a rebuttal, then flew away with an angry hum.

  “It’s like we live in a prison run by bees,” grumbled Pablo, who, as a self-described anarchist, hated authority of all kinds. “I swear, one day I’m going to zap those little spies with a can of bug spray.”

  Leira looked at him, aghast. “Don’t even joke about that!”

  “Sorry, forgot you were a vegan.”

  “That has nothing to do with it!”

  Clay nervously patted his sweatshirt pocket with his juice-sticky fingers. Inside, the bananas sat next to a mango, one of the camp’s homemade breakfast bars (dates, sunflower seeds, and bee pollen), and a worn pair of flip-flops. He hoped the pollen wouldn’t attract the bees’ attention.

  Far from being a prison, Earth Ranch more closely resembled a preschool: All the campers ran around with bare feet and dirty faces; they did plenty of arts and crafts (magical arts and crafts, but nonetheless… ); and there was circle time each morning and each afternoon. The afternoon circle, known simply as Circle, was the time for sharing feelings and airing concerns—in other words, for shouting and fighting. The morning circle, called Morning Mindfulness, was a calmer affair, akin to a yoga class—if your yoga instructor happened to be a wizard with a peculiar affection for bees.

  That morning, Buzz sat on the ground under the dome, his long legs crossed in lotus position. A lone bee sat on his bushy mustache while others circled his head in a moving halo.

  The campers sat facing him, their legs also crossed, but only Adriana, who was sitting in the back, keeping an eye on everyone from behind, was flexible enough to match Buzz’s full lotus.

  As for Clay, he wasn’t quite sure what mindfulness was except that it was his idea of torture.* Never mind that there was a starving fugitive waiting for him in a cave. Unfortunately, Buzz had refused to excuse Clay from that morning’s session, even when Clay had tried to insist that an early-morning hike would do him just as much good.

  “Be aware of your breath…” Buzz was saying, his voice low and lulling. “Feel it, don’t force it. Let your breath breathe you.…”

  As their counselor spoke, his breath became visible in puffs, as on a frosty winter day.

  “There is no inhale, no exhale. There is only the ebb and flow of energy.…”

  One by one, the kids lit up in delighted surprise: Their breath was materializing in the air as well.

  Unable to focus on his own breathing—unable to focus on anything at all, really—Clay watched the little clouds floating out of his friends’ mouths. He glanced over his shoulder. Adriana gave him a look, and he turned back around.

  From his own mouth, naturally, came nothing.

  “This energy, this vital life force, the ancient Greeks called it pneuma—the breath of life.”

  Lingering in the air, the campers’ breath curled like smoke. Gradually, it started to sparkle, as if it were made of gold dust.

  Mesmerized, Clay began to relax. Finally, he could see his own breath, streaming from his mouth in one long exhale. He smiled to himself; maybe he had some magical potential after all.

  “In Chinese medicine, it is chi. In the Hindu religion and in yoga, it is prana. But you are probably more familiar with what those famous yoga masters Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda call it—the Force.”

  The campers giggled uncomfortably, uncertain whether Buzz was joking. (Probable answer: He was and he wasn’t.)

  Above them, their golden breath spread out like a blanket, darkening the space beneath the geodesic dome while at the same time sparkling brighter and brighter. Soon, the campers were looking up at a night sky, replete with twinkling stars, swirling galaxies, and fiery comets.

  “This energy, this pneuma-prana-chi-force, it is everywhere and nowhere. It is part of the unseen universe. The universe that we in the SOS call the Other Side.”

  At the mention of the Other Side, the stars, like so many golden snowflakes, started gently to fall. There were audible sighs from the campers.

  “When the Other Side intersects with our side, when we see its energy at work in the physical world—this we call magic.”

  As the last of the stars fell away, Buzz, still in lotus position, floated in the air, about two feet off the ground.

  “And this I call the flotus position,” he said, smiling.

  Some of the kids laughed. Others rolled their eyes.

  “Bad pun, I know, but there’s a point to it. Magic, like yoga, is a practice. A practice we must maintain if we are to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Perhaps I imagined it, but this morning the rainbow looked a bit… I’m sorry, give me a second—”

  A bee hovered by Buzz’s ear. Buzz frowned as he listened.

  “Guys, I’m sorry, we have to cut this short,” he said, lowering himself to the ground. “A cruise ship has anchored close to shore. I don’t know if they’re stopping for a snorkel, or if they’re in some kind of distress, or if… well, better not to speculate.”

  The campers looked at one another in surprise. Nobody had heard of a boat ever stopping anywhere near the island. It was too remote and inhospitable for tourists, and the vog kept away even the most intrepid fishermen.

  Clay tried not to show any reaction—

  “Clay, are you all right?” whispered Leira.

  Apparently, he had failed.

  “No, I’m fine, it’s, uh…” He should warn Brett, but how? He turned to their counselor. “Hey, Buzz, I just remembered, I left my wallet at the beach yesterday when the vog got really bad. Can I go get it?”

  “All right, but don’t take all day,” said Buzz, who was signaling instructions to the bees with his hands. “And bring Como with you. That llama of yours needs a walk.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said Clay, jumping up before Buzz could change his mind.

  Leira watched Clay go, then looked at the wallet in her hand, puzzled. She’d lifted it from his pocket only a moment ago. There’d been no time for him to miss it.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  AN ANNOUNCEMENT

  There are two kinds of people in the world: people whose idea of heaven is to be stuck on a boat with nothing to do except work on their suntans and eat as much beef Wellington as they can, and people whose idea of hell it is. In other words, there are people who love cruise ships and people who hate them.

  Personally, I am in the second camp. All those humans stewing together in one germ-infested pot? No, thank you! The last time I went on a cruise, there was an outbreak of stomach flu so intense that—well, you don’t want to hear about that.

  Naturally enough, most of the passengers on the Imperial Conquest were cruise lovers, or cruisers, as cruise-ship veterans call themselves. Inevitably, however, there were a few cruise haters aboard, who had been dragged along by their cruise-loving families. You can imagine how these disgruntled souls reacted when the ship dropped anchor without warning in the dark of night. As far as anybody could tell, they were in the middle of nowhere, and by breakfast time, anxious murmurs could be heard a
ll over the ship. The crew tried their best to reassure worried passengers, but in truth the crew didn’t know what was happening, either.

  When the intercom finally beeped, signaling an announcement, everyone waited with bated breath for an explanation. Even the youngest children fell silent and listened. Only the occasional wailing baby interrupted Brett’s father as he addressed the ship’s passengers:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, guests and crew of the Imperial Conquest. This is Brett Perry speaking to you from the captain’s deck. Captain Abad is indisposed at the moment, but she has graciously allowed me to speak in her place.

  “As the new owner of Imperial Cruise Lines, I had hoped to use this trip to introduce myself and welcome you as my friends. Sadly, tragedy has intervened. I am sorry to report there has been an accident. My only son, Brett junior, has fallen off this ship. Although I must face the fact that he may have drowned, I remain hopeful that he is still alive. In a moment, I will be leading a search party to Price Island. That’s the island you can see port side. The left side of the ship, for you landlubbers like me.* They tell me that with the direction of the ocean currents, there is a strong possibility that my son has landed there.

  “In the meantime, enjoy yourselves as much as you can. The pools and spa are open. Drinks are on the house. And every passenger will receive a one-hundred-dollar chip to use in the casino. Well, every passenger over eighteen. Thank you.”

  Afterward, a few passengers could be heard complaining about their vacations being ruined, but even the most ardent cruise haters felt sympathy for Brett’s father and agreed that he was treating them quite generously under the circumstances. They happily lined up at the casino to get their chips.

  Of course, there was one person on board who was far from happy with the announcement. She knew much of it to be untrue, and she longed to set the record straight. Unfortunately, her mouth was gagged, and she was tied to a chair in her stateroom. It is safe to say that she did not consider herself a cruise lover at the moment.

  Captain Sofia Abad had lost command of her ship.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  FOOTPRINT

  Clay was beginning to regret taking the llama with him.

  “C’mon, Como,” he pleaded. “Vámonos.”

  The llama snorted disdainfully.

  “I know you’re not a dog. I’m sorry. Discúlpame—”

  Como had been darting ahead of Clay for the entire hike, teasing his two-legged companion with his superior speed and agility. Now that they were finally in sight of the cave, however, the llama had decided he was done running. Como sat on his back legs like a camel, just a few feet away from the steam vent that Clay had first spotted the day before.

  And when Como decided to sit, there was usually no changing his mind.

  Clay sighed in frustration. Behind them, far out in the ocean, the massive cruise ship was sitting idle, like a sea monster waiting patiently for its prey. The fear in Brett’s voice was still ringing in Clay’s ears. He had to warn him.

  “What’s wrong?” Clay asked the llama. “Are you scared? ¿Tienes miedo?”

  Although Clay’s Spanish was limited, he and the Peruvian camelid had a special connection, and normally they communicated with ease.* It was one of the few ways, if not the only way, in which Clay could claim an ability that might—possibly—be construed as magical. (Then again, he sometimes reminded himself, all people talked to their pets; some people even talked to their plants!) Right now, however, he had no idea what the llama was thinking. The only clue was the llama’s ears. They were pointed forward—a sign of fear or danger.

  “Is the volcano about to erupt? Is there a bear in the cave?** Don’t tell me it’s the smell—your shed smells a lot worse!”

  Como’s ears flattened further. Bear or no, the llama was definitely afraid of something. So afraid that he seemed to have lost all capacity for language.

  And he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Fine, I’ll go without you, but you’d better stay aqui, okay?—Ow!”

  In his agitation, Clay had stepped too close to the steam vent. A plume of steam scalded his hand.

  He blew on his hand to cool it off.

  The llama’s odd behavior had unnerved Clay, and he took only a tentative step into the cave before stopping.

  “Hello?”

  There was no bear.

  There was no Brett, either.

  The one thing not missing was the stench.

  Clay steeled himself against the sulfur smell and took a few more steps inside.

  “Brett, you in here?”

  Outside, the sun was high in the sky, and the interior of the cave was brighter than it had been the day before. Clay’s eyes lingered on the cave paintings, which looked even sharper and more alive upon second viewing. He could almost hear the dragons calling to one another as they flapped their wings.

  He rubbed his eyes. Why did this cave make him so sleepy?

  “Pee-ew! It smells worse than Kwan’s sock in here!”

  Clay jumped, startled.

  Leira was standing inside the mouth of the cave.

  “I knew you weren’t looking for your wallet!” Grinning, she tossed his wallet to him. “You’re so full of it.”

  “Thanks. Right. There it is. I should have known you’d have it.” Clay glanced around nervously. Never mind his wallet; how was he going to look for Brett with Leira watching his every move?

  Leira walked up beside him. “Cool drawings. So this is what you came here for—to see them?”

  “Yeah, uh, I saw Flint walking out of the cave, and I decided to check it out,” said Clay, more or less truthfully.

  “Since when does Flint care about art?” Leira stepped closer to one of the cave paintings. “They’re dinosaurs, right? What are they called—pterodactyls? It looks like those people are hunting them.…”

  “Well, that would be quite a discovery,” said Brett, emerging out of the shadows. “Considering that the last dinosaurs died millions of years before there were any people. Or any cave paintings.”

  Despite looking even more bedraggled after his night in the cave, Brett held himself with great dignity—and his bow tie was still tied perfectly around his neck.

  Leira stared. “A. You don’t have to be so snotty about it. B. Who the heck are you?”

  “That’s Brett,” said Clay, relieved that Brett was still alive, if a little surprised that he’d shown himself. “And those aren’t dinosaurs—they’re dragons.”

  Leira laughed. “Dragons? Dragons are supposed to be more realistic than dinosaurs?”

  Clay shrugged. “All I know is they’re breathing fire. Look at the red parts.”

  Leira scrutinized one of the drawings. “Okay, maybe that is fire. I guess that’s why Flint was so into them.”

  She turned back to Brett and regarded him suspiciously. “That still doesn’t explain your secret friend.”

  Clay looked at Brett. “I swear, I didn’t bring her.”

  “You can tell her, I guess,” said Brett. “Just please, both of you, don’t tell anybody else I’m here.”

  “I’m great at keeping secrets,” said Leira. “When I want to be.”

  Brett turned to Clay. “And please tell me you brought something to eat. That’s the only reason I came out here.”

  Clay reached into his sweatshirt pocket.

  Brett crossed his fingers, murmuring, “Not more trail mix, please. Not more trail mix… Wait, what is that—birdseed?!”

  “It’s a breakfast bar. And you’re welcome.”

  “Right. Of course it is,” said Brett, taking a cautious nibble. “Thanks.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t really like them, either.” Clay laughed. “Oh, here—”

  He tossed Brett the bananas, mango, and flip-flops. They landed in a pile in front of Brett’s bare feet.

  “Flip-flops?”

  Clay gave him a look.

  “Okay, okay, there’s a first time for everything, I gue
ss.” Brett eyed the shoes warily as he picked up the bananas. You could see the dirty imprint of Clay’s toes in the rubber. “Couldn’t you at least have cleaned them first?”

  Clay gave him another look.

  “I know, beggars, choosers, et cetera, et cetera…” Brett held up his hands in surrender.

  “You got that right!” said Clay, amused despite himself. Maybe Brett was annoyingly squeamish, but at least he was funny.

  As Brett tried on the flip-flops, Clay told Leira about finding their surprise guest lying half-drowned on the beach.

  “Awesome—our very own castaway!” said Leira when Clay finished. “So the ship that’s parked out there—that’s the one you were on?”

  “Oh no, it’s here?” Brett grimaced as if he had a sudden pain in his stomach. He set down the remaining banana. “I guess they’re looking for me.… It’s called the Imperial Conquest. My dad owns it.”

  “Wow. You must be rich.” Leira smiled slyly. “I bet there’s a big reward for you.”

  “Leira!” Clay shot her a warning look.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t turn him in. But if you want my help, I want the whole story. Now.” Leira folded her arms and looked hard at Brett. “First of all, did you really fall off? I mean, don’t they have railings, and nets, and stuff? Sorry, but it’s kind of hard to believe.”

  “Leave him alone—he almost drowned,” said Clay, although he had his own suspicions.

  “No, it’s okay,” said Brett. “She’s right. I didn’t exactly fall.”

  Leira glanced at Clay. See.

  “You mean you jumped?” prompted Clay, who in reality was as eager to hear the story as Leira was.

  “It was my dad. We had a fight.…”

  Brett described finding all the animals in the ship’s hold, as well as the huge shipping-container-turned-cage. “There were all these guns lined up. I could tell they were planning to smuggle some kind of big, scary animal—like a lion or a tiger, maybe, but, I don’t know… bigger. At least, that’s what it looked like. And the live animals were there for it to eat, I think.”