Beaverville is burning, Jonathan realized.
There were no other lights, which meant the electricity must be gone. But there would still be people. People would be there, fighting the fires. They might even be on the banks of the river, dipping buckets of water to use on the fires.
“We’re going to call for help,” Jonathan said. “Maybe someone on shore will hear us. I’ll count to three, and we’ll yell together. One. Two. Three. HELP!”
Abby’s voice joined his and they screamed together, over and over. “Help! Help!” Then they listened, to see if there was any response. They heard no answering shouts.
Jonathan tried to gauge how far they were from shore. He guessed it was twice the distance from home plate to the center field wall. He was a strong swimmer. He could probably make it, despite the swift current. Moose would make it, for sure. Maybe he and Moose should swim to shore and then someone in a boat could go after Abby and bring her back.
Even as he made the plan, he knew he wouldn’t carry it out. He couldn’t leave Abby floating down the river alone. She would be terrified. And without Jonathan to distract her with singing, she would probably get hysterical.
What if she slipped off her tree or was knocked off? At least if they were together, Jonathan might be able to save her if she fell in. By herself, Abby would have no chance.
“One, two, three,” Jonathan counted. “Help!” they yelled together. “Help! Help!”
Their shouts faded into the darkness. Could anyone on shore hear them? Was there anyone on shore? Maybe Beaverville had been evacuated. If so, where were Mom and Dad? They had been headed for the emergency room at Beaverville Hospital but maybe the hospital wasn’t functioning. Maybe the hospital was burning. For all he knew, most of Beaverville was a pile of rubble.
The shoreline changed. The glow of the fires faded away like the taillights of a passing car.
Beaverville was behind them. Blackness took its place.
“Mommy didn’t hear us,” Abby said.
“We’ll try again at the next town.”
“I’m cold. I want my Barney sweatshirt.”
For an instant, Jonathan was annoyed. What did she expect him to do, swim back to Magpie Campground, dive under the river, lift the giant redwood with one hand, grab her sweatshirt off the hook, and swim back? “I’m not Superman,” Jonathan muttered.
“When we get home,” Abby said, “let’s make popcorn.”
Jonathan’s annoyance vanished. She’s only six, he reminded himself. She doesn’t really understand what is happening to us.
“Popcorn sounds great,” he said.
Jonathan knew there was another town, Kendra, still ahead on the bank of the Tuscan. Maybe they would float closer to shore by then. Maybe someone in Kendra would hear their cries.
And maybe not.
Mrs. Palmer screamed.
Mr. Palmer clutched the steering wheel and slammed his foot on the brake. Trees crashed around them as the car bucked like an untrained horse.
They had just crossed the bridge from Magpie Island to the mainland when the earthquake hit. Without warning, the entire car rose six inches off the road and bounced back down again.
Mr. Palmer turned off the engine but the car kept moving, swaying from side to side and rocking from back to front at the same time. The Palmers leaned forward in their seats, with their hands on their heads, while the earth pitched and rumbled and shook. The quake went on and on.
“We have to go back,” Mrs. Palmer said, when it was finally over. “We must get the children.”
Mr. Palmer got out of the car and looked around. The road was buckled in several places; trees were down everywhere. He walked behind the car to the bend in the road and looked back toward the island. His heart drummed loudly as he returned to the car.
“We can’t go back,” he said. “The bridge collapsed.”
Mrs. Palmer looked through the windshield at the trees blocking the road. “We can’t drive to town, either,” she said. “You’ll have to walk to Beaverville for help. I’ll wait here.”
Her ankle throbbed. The movement of the earthquake had made her legs bounce, and several times the broken ankle had slammed into the car door. She hoped she would not pass out from the pain.
“I don’t like to leave you,” Mr. Palmer said.
“There’s no choice.”
He nodded. He looked at his wife and saw his own fear reflected in her eyes. Were Jonathan and Abby hurt? How long would it take for help to get to them?
“Get help for Jonathan and Abby first,” Mrs. Palmer said. “I can wait. They may not be able to.”
He nodded. “I’ll hurry,” he said.
It was not so easy to hurry. He couldn’t just run along the road to town; he had to climb over downed trees and step around fallen branches.
Half a mile from the car, power lines hung across the road. The wooden power pole tilted at a forty-five-degree angle while the lines drooped downward. The wires hissed and sparks flew out. Mr. Palmer walked half a city block out of his way to get past the wires without touching them.
He hoped they didn’t start a forest fire. This area was heavily wooded and there had been no rain all summer. He added the power lines to his mental list of emergencies to deal with as soon as he got to town.
Or did this mean there would be no telephone service in Beaverville? Maybe all the power and telephone lines were out of service. It might not be so easy to arrange a rescue for Abby and Jonathan and another for his wife.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and plunged on toward Beaverville. Fear surrounded him like a winter fog. His body stayed warm from the physical exertion but inside, his heart felt chilled.
Three hours later, he saw a house, set back from the road. He pounded on the door. A fat, balding man opened the door.
“I need help,” Mr. Palmer said.
“Don’t we all?”
“My kids are alone on Magpie Island and my wife’s in the car back by the bridge with a broken ankle. I need to use your telephone.”
“Won’t do you any good,” the man said. “Phone’s out. Power’s out. Water mains are broken.” He opened the door wider. “You’re welcome to come in and wait with me and my wife. We can offer you a peanut butter sandwich but that’s all.”
“Thanks, anyway,” Mr. Palmer said. “I’ll go on into town. There must be some sort of emergency headquarters. The Red Cross or the National Guard or someone must be coordinating rescue efforts.”
“Good luck,” the man said.
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”
As Mr. Palmer continued on the road toward Beaverville, it grew dark. Blisters bubbled on both of his heels. He hoped Jonathan had sense enough to wait in the camper. Abby would fall asleep in a place she was accustomed to.
He smelled the town before he saw it. Smoke hung in the air, making it difficult to breathe. He coughed and held his arm up to his face, trying not to inhale the smoke.
As he climbed a small hill, he saw an orange glow ahead.
At the crest of the hill, Mr. Palmer stopped. Fire!
Flames licked skyward as he gazed down at the town. He saw five separate fires in different parts of Beaverville.
The road down the hill into town was free of debris. Mr. Palmer ran toward the fires. At the bottom of the hill, a group of people milled in the street, watching one of the fires. Mr. Palmer couldn’t believe that they were just standing around watching, instead of trying to put the fire out.
“Get water!” he yelled, as he ran toward them. “Get the fire department!”
The group turned to him.
“There isn’t any water,” a woman said. “All the main water lines broke. We hauled river water in buckets for awhile but we weren’t nearly fast enough and we gave up. It was like trying to put it out by spitting.”
A man in a baseball cap added, “The fire department is just as helpless as we are. The gas line broke, too, and the gas is feeding the flames.”
&n
bsp; “Half the buildings in town are on fire,” the woman said, “and the other half are knocked off their foundations.”
“Are there any emergency services?” Mr. Palmer asked.
“At the high school,” someone replied. “People whose homes were destroyed are staying there.”
“What about medical help?”
“That’s at the school, too. The hospital was evacuated.”
Mr. Palmer asked for and received directions to the high school. As he started off, a young man touched his shoulder.
“Anything I can do to help you?” the young man asked.
“My wife’s in our car, back near the bridge to Magpie Island. I think she has a broken ankle.”
“My name’s Kenny,” the young man said. “I’ve got a chain saw and a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Be glad to try to get through to her, if you want to go with me and help clear the road.”
“Yes,” Mr. Palmer said. “I’d be grateful for that. But first I need to alert the authorities that my children are alone on Magpie Island.”
“Are you sure?”
“We left them in our camper while I drove my wife to the hospital. After the earthquake hit and knocked the bridge out, we couldn’t go back after them. It will take a boat or a helicopter to get them off the island.”
“I heard on the radio a few minutes ago,” Kenny said, “that Magpie Island is gone.”
“Gone! How could it be gone?”
“The earthquake shifted the flow of the river and the island flooded over and disappeared.”
“No,” Mr. Palmer said. “No! Not Jonathan and Abby. Oh, please, no!”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” Kenny put his arm around Mr. Palmer’s shoulder. “We can go to the school and you can hear it for yourself, if you like.”
“I believe you.”
“Shall we go find your wife?”
Mr. Palmer started to follow Kenny, then stopped. “No. Not yet,” he said. “I have to let someone know that Jonathan and Abby are missing. There must be search planes or helicopters. How else would they know the island disappeared?”
“Not much chance of two kids surviving if the whole island’s gone,” Kenny said softly.
“Maybe they got off the island,” Mr. Palmer said. “Maybe they found a boat or something else that floats. Jonathan’s a strong swimmer and our dog was with him; maybe he and Moose got Abby to shore.”
As he spoke, he knew he was babbling. He saw the pity in Kenny’s eyes and knew the young man thought grief was making him grasp at impossibilities.
Maybe I am, he thought. Maybe there’s no hope that Jonathan and Abby survived. But I can’t give up without trying to find them.
Wearily, he walked toward the high school.
Abby never made it to Kendra.
As they began “Twenty-three Raggedy Anns on the shelf” for the second time, Abby’s tree collided with the remains of an old fishing pier. The wooden pier, unused for a dozen years, jutted several hundred feet out from shore. Buoys warned boats to stay away.
The earthquake caused the pier to shift and sink so that it lay just below the surface of the river.
Abby’s tree floated between two buoys and hit the top of the last post on the pier.
The collision jarred Abby and sent her tree spinning sideways away from Jonathan’s. She dropped the leash and clutched her tree. “My boat hit something!” she cried.
“Hang on!” Jonathan yelled. “Put both arms around Charlotte and hang on.”
Jonathan put his right hand in the water and paddled hard, trying to turn his tree toward Abby. The current was too strong. Even though the tree turned slightly, it continued to float rapidly forward. Abby seemed to have stopped moving.
“Stay with me,” Abby called. “Hold my hand!”
“I can’t. But you can still hear me. We’ll be able to sing even better if we each hold tight to our own tree.” To prove it, Jonathan started singing again. “Twenty-three Raggedy Anns on the shelf; twenty-three Raggedy Anns.”
Although Abby kept singing, the sound of her voice grew faint. Jonathan realized that her tree was not floating as fast as his was. She had somehow been knocked out of the main current and was either drifting aimlessly or was floating toward shore.
He raised his head and looked back.
“Abby?” he called. “Where are you?”
“I’m here. Back here!”
Her voice seemed far behind him. Her tree must not be moving. Something had stopped her. When he looked toward the sound of her voice, he saw so much floating debris in that part of the river that it was difficult in the dim moonlight to pick out which dark shape in the water was Abby. Whatever had caused Abby’s tree to stop moving forward, had caused other flotsam to stop there, too.
Jonathan debated. Should he abandon his own tree and try to swim back to Abby? But the town of Kendra was still ahead and with it the chance that someone would hear or see him.
There were no towns along this part of the river. Even if he and Abby got out of the current and made it to shore here, there would be no one to help them. And there was no way for Abby to walk miles to town.
It’s better, he decided, to try to get help as fast as possible, rather than to stay behind with Abby.
“Stay with Charlotte,” Jonathan shouted. “No matter what happens, stay on your tree.”
“Come back!” Abby cried, an edge of hysteria in her voice. “Stay with me.”
“I can’t. But I’ll be back to get you.”
“Where are you going?” she called.
I wish I knew, Jonathan thought. He yelled, “I’m going for help. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can. Keep singing! Sing to Charlotte.”
“Jonathan! Come back!”
“Sing, Abby. Sing the Raggedy song.”
“Don’t leave me. Come back! Please, Jonathan! I’m scared!”
You aren’t the only one, Jonathan thought, I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my life.
She quit calling and began to sob. Her voice grew fainter as he moved away and her cries soon faded away to nothing. All Jonathan could hear now was the sound of the river, rushing toward the sea.
Wearily, he laid his cheek against Moose and tried not to cry.
Moose barked. Jonathan raised his head and looked. Moonlight glinted off the black water, making it look like liquid silver. A baby’s high chair floated past, its wooden tray tilted up, as if the baby had just been lifted out. Moose barked again, wagging his tail at the high chair.
“It’s okay, boy,” Jonathan said. “It’s only a high chair.” He wondered if Moose associated the high chair with Abby. She had used one until she was almost three. Did Moose remember that?
Shore seemed farther away than it had when he floated past Beaverville. He should have left Abby then, he thought; he should have tried to swim to shore, rather than staying with her. Now they were separated anyway and the farther he was from shore, the slimmer his chance of making it.
Even if he did make it, he would not be near a town, so there weren’t likely to be any people to help him. By the time the river passed Kendra, he might be even farther offshore; too far offshore to be heard, or seen.
He wondered where his parents were.
Jonathan shivered. His clothes and shoes were soaked and the cold river water continually splashed over his back as he clung to the tree trunk.
He pressed his cheek into the tree’s rough bark and closed his eyes to hold back the tears. What were his chances of survival if he managed to stay on the tree and ride it all the way to the Pacific Ocean? How long could he live without food or water? The sun would burn him mercilessly all day and the freezing water would chill him at night. And what about sharks?
No one would be searching for him at sea. Rescuers would take one look at where Magpie Island used to be and assume that Jonathan and Abby had perished there.
Maybe, he thought, I should try to swim to shore now. Maybe I shouldn’t wait until I pass Kendra. Once on shore, I could h
ike to town. Without Abby, I can walk as far as I have to.
What if I don’t make it to shore?
Was it better to die trying to save himself or should he lie here hoping someone else might see or hear him?
What about Moose? Could the dog swim that far? If Jonathan tried to make it, Moose would have to try, too.
“Good dog,” Jonathan said. A lump swelled his throat. “Can you make it, boy?” Jonathan whispered. “Can you swim to shore?” He reached forward and rubbed Moose’s neck.
Moose turned his head and whined. Jonathan recognized the noise as Moose’s hunger whine; the dog did it promptly at six every night unless Jonathan fed him before then.
I’m hungry, too, Jonathan realized. Moving slowly so as not to lose his balance, Jonathan reached over his shoulder and opened the backpack. He removed the remaining two sandwiches. He broke one in pieces and held the pieces where Moose could reach. The dog ate greedily but stayed in place.
Jonathan ate the second sandwich himself and then ate a few pieces of broken cookie. Chocolate, he knew, was not good for dogs so he didn’t offer Moose any of the cookie.
When he finished eating, he looked toward shore again. It was barely visible now, even though the half moon was high in the sky. I’m drifting farther from land all the time, he thought. If I’m going to swim for shore, I must do it now.
He considered putting the leash on Moose, to be sure they stayed together, but decided against it. It wouldn’t be fair, he thought, to keep the dog tied to my wrist. Moose might make it to shore, even if I don’t. He buckled the leash around his own waist so he would have it later, on land.
He removed the backpack containing his mother’s shoe and dropped the pack into the river. Sorry, Mom.
He inhaled deeply three times, filling his lungs with oxygen and holding it before he exhaled. His baseball coach had taught him to do that just before his turn to bat, as a way to steady his nerves.
After inhaling the fourth time, he let go of the tree and rolled sideways into the river, blowing the air out his mouth as he dropped.
As soon as his head popped up, he called, “Come, boy! Come, Moose!”
Moose was already in the water. His head and the ridge of his back were visible; his tail floated behind him as he dog-paddled beside Jonathan.