The Beast of Cretacea

  “But ’tis so beautiful,” Thistle gushes.

  “It’s all right,” Gwen says. “I don’t mind.”

  “See?” Thistle sticks her tongue out at her older sister.

  Fayaway looks away, right into Ishmael’s eyes. Until that moment, he wasn’t aware that he’d been staring at her. Fayaway gives him a baffled look, then gazes off. Ishmael feels his face grow hot.

  Dishes of yellow and green plant foods are passed to them, along with a bowl of fibrous brown meat, which Ishmael suspects is the cooked flesh of the fur-covered creature the huntress slew. At first he and the others have difficulty picking up their food with the long, pointed spines the islanders use as utensils.

  “Takes practice,” Thistle says sympathetically. “Be —”

  Gwen holds up a hand. “Don’t say it. Believe me, we know.”

  Near them, at the table where Gabriel and some of the others sit, a discussion grows heated. The huntress appears to be doing most of the talking, while others cast furtive glances at Ishmael and his crew.

  “Is that tall woman your mother?” Gwen asks the girls.

  “’Tis Diana,” Fayaway replies. “Our mother’s ceased.”

  The corners of Gwen’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry.”

  “’Tis no need t’be sorry.” Thistle waves her arm. “She is still here, in the animals and plants and trees of the jungle.”

  “Trees!” Queequeg motions toward the tall, sturdy plants with the brown shafts that help keep the village elevated. “That’s what they’re called!” He picks up a few of the yellow and green scales that have fallen. “And these are leaves, right?”

  Thistle nods, bemused.

  “What’s jungle?” Gwen asks.

  Thistle sweeps her arm toward all the dense greenery surrounding them. “All of this.”

  After several minutes of silence during which the crew concentrates on the strange new foods they’ve been served, Ishmael has a question for Fayaway: “Why did your people shoot us with darts?”

  “Didn’t know were ye friend or foe,” Fayaway answers simply.

  “How do you know now?” Gwen asks.

  Fayaway glances at the table where her father and the others sit. Could that be what the argument is about? Ishmael wonders. Is that why the huntress Diana keeps casting wary looks in their direction? Fayaway turns back. “Ye have no weapons. Shan’t matter.”

  “There was something in the darts that temporarily paralyzed us,” Gwen says.

  “Nectar,” Thistle answers.

  “Hush!” Fayaway snaps at her.

  “Why?” Thistle asks.

  Fayaway’s eyes peek at Ishmael and the others. “’Tis not a thing t’discuss with outsiders,” she says harshly.

  Sensing that it would be impolite to press the issue, Ishmael continues eating. In the dark, beyond the reach of the flickering lights, creatures make strange, eerie sounds. Ishmael feels edgy, but their hosts don’t appear bothered.

  Gabriel leaves the other table and joins them. “We art curious,” he says. “Have ye news of Earth?”

  They tell him what they’ve been able to piece together from the few Z-packs they received while aboard the Pequod: Conditions back home are deteriorating.

  Gabriel accepts the news with a wistful sigh.

  “How long have you been here?” Ishmael asks.

  “’Twas born here,” Gabriel answers.

  Queequeg raises his eyebrows. “We were told it’s really dangerous on land.”

  “On the mainland, perhaps, but on this island ’tis not too bad. No more than at sea. Maybe less so.”

  “If you were born here, how did your parents come to be here?” Ishmael asks.

  “’Twere born here, too. And their parents. Goes way, way back to the ship that ran aground on the reef.”

  “And you’ve never tried to leave?” Gwen asks.

  Gabriel smiles softly. “’Tis no reason to.”

  Later that night the chase-boat crew lie in hammocks, listening to the distant crash of waves and the calls of animals.

  “Think they’re looking for us?” Queequeg asks hopefully.

  “Not likely,” Gwen says. “The Pequod’s on the move, trying to make up weight. And the longer we stay here, the farther away she’ll go.”

  “What do you think we should do?” Queequeg asks.

  “Leave,” Gwen says. “As soon as Billy’s well enough.”

  In the morning, Ishmael and the others watch a scrawny man inch his way up a tall, limbless tree. At the top is a burst of long, skinny green leaves and several clusters of what look like large round green and yellow plant foods. When he’s climbed high enough, he pulls a stick from his waist and swats at the clusters until they break loose and thump to the ground below.

  “Hungry?” Thistle asks the chase-boat crew. The scrawny man climbs back down and hacks at one of the round things with a hatchet. Close up, he’s older than he looked. His short, curly hair is gray, his wrinkled skin sags from his bony frame, and he doesn’t have many teeth left.

  “Mikal, these art my friends,” Thistle says. “’Twill try a treestone.”

  The old man cuts a hole into one end, then offers it to Gwen, who hesitates. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Drink,” Thistle says.

  When Gwen declines, Mikal offers the treestone to Ishmael, who presses the hole to his lips. The liquid inside is fresh and sweet, but the taste is foreign, and he’s not sure he likes it. He hands the treestone to Queequeg, who sips, makes a face, and hands it back. The old man shrugs, presses the treestone to his lips, and drinks what remains.

  But he’s not finished. With the hatchet he splits the treestone in two. Inside is a hard brown nut the size of a large man’s fist, and inside that is an almost pure-white substance. Mikal scoops some out and offers it around. Ishmael tries a small bite and is surprised to find it delicious and chewy. When he quickly takes a larger bite, Gwen and Queequeg decide to sample theirs. Cheeks bulging, both nod approvingly.

  With a toothless smile, Mikal starts to hack open more.

  From that day forward, the crew begin with a breakfast of treestone meat, then visit Billy. He’s still asleep, the maggots still infesting the wound, but the foul odor is less and less evident. Afterward the chase-boat crew are free to do whatever they choose — which usually means exploring the island. With Thistle as their guide, they trade their shoes for animal-hide boots and climb the hill behind the village, where she shows them the row of enormous catapults that launched the stones that drove the pirate boat away. Another time, she leads them to a place where clear, cool water actually burbles out of the ground and is collected for drinking and cooking. From there she points out the cave where the first inhabitants of the island — the survivors of the shipwreck — took shelter centuries before.

  One afternoon she takes them to a beach where, for the first time in their lives, they feel sand between their toes. A pack of children passes, several of them guiding a sightless boy, his eyelids closed over sunken sockets. While he sits at the water’s edge, the others bring him shells and pieces of oddly shaped white stone to feel.

  Queequeg picks up several pieces of the white stone. One is shaped like a leafless plant with many offshoots. Another is round and furrowed, and a third is covered with a dozen thick, stubby appendages.

  “Coral.” He offers them around.

  The coral is rough and porous. “Like what you and your father stood on?” Ishmael asks.

  “Uh-huh.”

  So his story was true, Ishmael thinks. Coral exists. And if Queek has seen it on Earth, doesn’t that mean there really were oceans at one time? Why did this become a secret? Why was such information banned, along with the knowledge of how to decipher those long lines of symbols from which Queequeg has learned so much?

  Suddenly, a large shadow passes over the beach. Ishmael looks skyward. A huge gray flyer with broad wings and a long, pointed beak circles overhead. Thistle jerks her head up and shouts, “To the t
rees!”

  The children splash out of the water and scamper up the beach. The biggest among them scoops up the blind boy and carries him. The flyer glides lower, tilting its head as it searches for prey. Cowering under a shady canopy of leaves, a few of the younger children whimper while the older ones press them protectively close to the thick, hard trunks.

  The flyer flaps its wings and rises higher in the air, then banks and disappears from view. “Wait,” Thistle whispers, then steps cautiously out into the sunlight and scans the sky. Finally she turns and waves to those still huddled under the trees. “’Tis gone.”

  The children creep from their hiding places, but there’s a palpable sense that playtime is over. Glancing warily at the sky, they lead the sightless boy back toward the village.

  Watching them, Ishmael feels an ache. The way the islanders care for one another reminds him of how he and Archie always looked after each other.

  Petra woke them in the dark. “Get dressed, boys.”

  “Why?” Archie yawned and rubbed his eyes.

  “Ben’s run out of Natrient, and he’s not feeling well. We have to get him some.”

  Ishmael and Archie dressed, hunting around in the murk for their clothes and shoes, then joined their foster mother.

  “Stay together.” Petra unlocked the front door. “No going ahead, Ishmael.”

  At that moment, going anywhere was the last thing on his groggy mind. He mostly wanted to crawl back into bed. “Why do we have to go so early?” He yawned.

  “The dispensary’s been running out. If we wait until later, there may not be any Natrient left.”

  “What happens to people who don’t get any?” Archie asked as he hobbled out into the dark on his crutches.

  “They don’t eat.” Petra locked the door behind them.

  “Don’t they get hungry?”

  “I’m sure they do. So they’re probably the first in line the next day.”

  In the inky predawn blackness, they found the rope that led out to the street.

  “What’s a hundred and fifty-seven divided by twelve?” Petra asked.

  “Thirteen, remainder one,” Archie answered almost instantly.

  “Good. Two hundred thirty-three divided by four?”

  “Fifty-eight remainder one,” said Archie.

  “Right again. Let’s let Ishmael answer. One hundred ninety-one divided by six.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I know,” said Archie.

  “We know you know, sweetheart.”

  “Thirty-one, remainder five,” said Ishmael.

  “Very good. Another word for scared.”

  “Frightened,” said Archie.

  “And?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Give Ishmael a chance.”

  “But he used all the good ones,” Ishmael complained.

  “Afraid, fearful, horrified.” Archie rattled off three more.

  Ishmael didn’t really mind that Archie was smarter, or at least a quicker thinker than he was. Joachim always said that Archie would need to be extra quick-witted to get along with his disabled legs: “The world is full of people who’ll try to take advantage of you. Your best defense is to be shrewder than the lot of them.”

  They found the street rope and started to follow it, Ishmael’s ears attuned to any sound that might mean danger.

  “Is Old Ben related to us?” he asked.

  “No,” Petra answered. “He’s just a good family friend.”

  “Then why are we getting him Natrient?”

  “That’s what friends do, they help each other. For instance, Ben helped us find you. He’s the one who spotted you in the window of the foundling home.”

  “How come you needed help finding us?” Archie asked.

  “We didn’t need it, but when he saw the two of you, he knew you were the right children for us. And he helped persuade Ms. Hussey to bend the rules so that we could take you both. We have a great deal to thank him for.”

  Even though it would be another three hours before the Natrient dispensary opened, a line of people already stretched down the block in the first faint light of day.

  “Can Ish and I go look around?” asked Archie.

  Petra shook her head. “It’s still a little too dark.”

  “Come on, we’re not kids anymore.” Archie was eleven and Ishmael was nine.

  “All right. But don’t go far — and stay together.”

  Archie began hobbling away down the sidewalk, Ishmael a step behind. When they were out of earshot, he dropped his voice: “Where are we going?”

  Archie grinned. “You’ll see.”

  As the days pass while they wait for Billy’s wound to heal, the crew of Chase Boat Four find different ways to occupy their time. Queequeg joins those who go in outriggers to net scurry. Gwen has befriended some of the hunters and often joins them in search of game. Ishmael finds himself interested in how the villagers cultivate plants.

  Fayaway is among the islanders who tend the fields where vegetation is grown. Ishmael often sees her in the mornings, before the midday sun becomes so scaldingly hot that everyone heads down to the sparkling blue water of the lagoon to cool off. Ishmael sometimes joins them, though he never wades in deeper than midthigh.

  One day, as he reaches down with cupped hands to splash water on his sunburned shoulders, Fayaway suddenly rises out of the lagoon before him. Her drenched black hair is stuck close to her skull, and water runs down her face. “Do ye never go deeper?”

  “I don’t know how to swim.”

  From the vexation on her face, Ishmael knows she finds that difficult to imagine. The island children learn to walk and swim at practically the same time. He’s seen three- and four-year-olds glide through the water like scurry.

  “’Twill teach ye.” She reaches for his hand. At her touch, Ishmael feels a strange fluttering in his chest. She tugs, trying to lead him deeper, but he resists, recalling the sensation of nearly drowning when he tried to save Queequeg the day they harpooned the big hump. She gives him a puzzled look, then lets go.

  “Watch.” She lies back and floats with her arms spread, only her chest and face above the surface. When Ishmael peers into the water beneath her to see what’s holding her up, she laughs and stands. “’Tis not trickery. Come on, try.”

  With Fayaway standing beside him, Ishmael lies back stiffly. Even with her hands under him, he can’t relax.

  “Let yeself float,” she coaxes softly. “Ye won’t sink.”

  Ishmael’s heart is beating with such agitation that he expects to see small waves rippling away from his chest. But at least the water here is shallow and he can get to his feet if he has to.

  “Fear not,” Fayaway gently assures.

  He closes his eyes and feels the midday sun’s heat on his face. His heart is still thrumming and his breath is quick.

  “’Tis good.” Fayaway removes one hand from under his back.

  Ishmael tenses, certain he will go under as soon as her other hand is no longer supporting him.

  “Easy now.” Fayaway is holding him up with only fingers. He takes a deep breath, preparing to plant his feet on the bottom when he feels himself start to sink. But miraculously, when Fayaway withdraws her fingers, he bobs with just enough of his face above the surface to breathe. He opens his eyes and sees her smiling down at him. Can he actually be floating? It’s a confounding sensation, but he still doesn’t trust it. After a moment, he tucks forward and stands, breathing hard, water streaming off him.

  Fayaway claps proudly. “’Tis enough for today.”

  Back onshore, she bends over and wrings out her hair. Ishmael is about to look away — he doesn’t want to be caught staring again — when he spots a circular design tattooed on the nape of her neck.

  Fayaway straightens up, whipping her hair behind her shoulders. When she sees Ishmael’s face, her brow creases. “What?”

  “That tattoo on the back of your neck . . . Where’d it come from?”

 
“’Tis something we art given at birth. Everyone has one. Why?”

  “I’ve . . . I’ve seen something like it before,” Ishmael says.

  Fayaway glances toward the fields where the other islanders have gone back to work. She doesn’t seem particularly curious about Ishmael’s discovery. But Ishmael is certain that the tattoo on the back of her neck is the same as Archie’s favorite design from the old tablet they found in that shack in Black Range. What’s it doing here?

  There was no point in reminding Archie that Petra had told them not to go far; he wouldn’t listen anyway. Besides, she was back in the Natrient line and would never know. And Archie wasn’t foolish — he stayed away from alleys and crossed the street whenever someone questionable approached.

  “Where’re we going?” Ishmael asked again.

  “There.” His foster brother gestured toward a building barely visible in the deep grayness. Beside it rose a smokestack like the ones at the Zirconia Electrolysis plant. But while those stacks spewed black smoke twenty-four hours a day, this one appeared dormant.

  When they got closer, Ishmael saw that the building was abandoned and crumbling, the windows shattered, and rubble was strewn about.

  “Careful.” Archie gestured at the jagged rusted ends of pipes jutting out of the ground here and there. Ishmael knew better than to ask what they were looking for; Archie would always say they were looking for whatever they found.

  Archie stopped at the base of the old smokestack and gazed up. It was still dark enough that the top of the stack was indistinguishable from the void above it. A row of metal rungs ran up the side, the lower ones sawed off by scrap poachers.

  Ishmael immediately understood what Archie wanted to do. “But there’s nothing up there.”

  Archie smiled. “Let’s see.” He propped his crutches against the stack’s base, then held his hands out. Ishmael gave him a boost, and Archie was able to grab the lowest intact rung, then started to hoist himself up. While his legs weren’t much good, Archie’s upper body was strong, and when he needed to rest, the stiffness of the leg braces provided support. Ishmael jumped up and grabbed the first rung, then began to follow.