The Beast of Cretacea (9 page)

Ishmael, Gwen, and Queequeg share mystified glances. Have they caught a lucky break? Queequeg is reaching for his knife to cut the line, when the bow is suddenly yanked down with such force that the stern flies up —

And Ishmael and Gwen are catapulted into the air.

Ishmael smashes face-first into the ocean, then bobs to the surface in his PFD, dazed and coughing up salt water. The seawater is nearly as hot as the
Pequod
’s showers, and with a jolt he realizes that he’s in the middle of an ocean and has no idea how to swim. His body goes stiff with panic. Will the PFD keep him afloat?

A wet head of dark-red hair pops up a few feet away. It’s Gwen, coughing and spitting.

But where’s Queequeg?

One day, when Ishmael was around seven, he was playing on the floor with some children. On the other side of the room, a door opened and Ms. Hussey, the sour-faced woman who was always yelling at the children, came in with a boy on crutches, his legs strapped into long metal braces. Ishmael and the others stopped what they were doing and stared.

The two boys grew close, often playing games with a handful of parts they’d scavenged from the insides of broken tablets, navigating the pieces over a landscape of old circuit boards and touch-screen assemblies spread out on the floor.

Sometimes Ms. Hussey accompanied grown-ups into the playroom. And now and then, the grown-ups left with a child. While no one had ever wanted to adopt Archie, the boy with the leg braces, couples had often expressed interest in Ishmael, and on three occasions he’d been placed with families. Each time, he’d run away and found his way back to the home.

One day while he and Archie played, they became aware of two men, a woman, and Ms. Hussey standing a dozen feet away, observing. They’d seen one of the men before, watching them through the window from the street. He was stocky, with a broad forehead, thick black hair, and a beard.

The other man and the woman were new. They appeared to be a couple, the man tall but stooped, with a lined, wizened face and the thick hands of a laborer. The woman was petite, with bright, watchful eyes.

“We’ve tried to separate them,” Ms. Hussey was saying, “but no matter where we place the younger one, he always finds his way back here. He’s got an uncanny sense of direction, I’ll say that for him.”

“Does he say why he keeps coming back?” asked the man.

“He doesn’t say anything,” said Ms. Hussey. “Both boys could speak when they came here, but now they refuse. We don’t know why.”

The couple whispered to the man with the broad forehead, and then the woman turned to Ms. Hussey. “What about the other boy?”

“Archie?” Ms. Hussey shook her head. “You don’t want him.” She gestured to the leg braces propped against the wall.

In the past that had been enough to end the conversation, but when the three visitors began to whisper again, Ishmael and Archie eyed each other uneasily. Then the tall, stooped man said, “What if we took them both?”

Archie’s eyes instantly widened with hope. No one had ever suggested that before. But Ms. Hussey looked down at her tablet and shook her head. “As much as I’d love to get them both off my hands, it appears that you were fortunate to be approved for even one foster child given how small your home is. But why don’t you follow me? There are some excellent candidates in the room next door.”

She started away, but the couple and the stocky bearded man lingered for several moments more, speaking in low voices. When they’d gone, Ishmael and Archie shared a disheartened look. Being taken together would have been a miracle, but they were old enough to know that there was no such thing.

Fifty feet away, the chase boat bounces wildly as the hump tries again and again to dive. Somehow Queequeg has managed to remain aboard and is being tossed around inside the boat like a doll. Ishmael can’t imagine how he’s able to hold on and keep from being flung off. Why doesn’t he just let go and jump overboard?

Then Ishmael sees why: Queequeg’s not holding on — he’s being
held.
The back of his PFD is caught on something, and in the mayhem he can’t reach around to free himself.

Flask rushes up on the wave racer with Billy riding on the back. “What in the universe is he doin’?”

“He’s caught!” Ishmael yells from the water.

Crack!
A plank of the chase boat’s flooring breaks off, sails into the air, and smacks down into the water near them. The hump is pulling the boat to pieces. Sooner or later it’s going to jerk down hard enough to yank the hull right off the pontoons, and when that happens, what’s left of the chase boat is going straight to the bottom — and Queequeg with it.

A loud ripping sound fills the air as one of the pontoons tears free of the hull. The chase boat cants to one side, and Queequeg is slammed silly.

“Can’t we do something?” Ishmael shouts at Flask.

“Like what?” the third mate yells back.

Ishmael doesn’t have an answer, but he’s not going to bob around and watch his friend perish. His fear of drowning momentarily forgotten, he begins mimicking the movements of Fedallah swimming. He lacks the grace of the older sailor, and the PFD slows his progress, but even so, he’s able to propel himself forward.

“Stop!” Flask shouts. “You’ll get yerself killed!”

Ishmael ignores him.

“Come back! That’s an order!”

As Ishmael splashes closer to the chase boat, a burnt-chemical smell hits his nose and the water’s surface becomes oily. The chase boat is being pummeled so violently that it’s spilling lubricants.

Strangely, when he’s about ten feet away, everything goes still. The remains of the chase boat float peacefully, and Ishmael can see that this would be the perfect moment for Queequeg to free himself. But his friend hangs limp and stunned, thanks to the beating he’s taken.

Ishmael splashes closer. Five feet away . . . three feet . . . He can almost reach out and touch Queequeg.

“Get back!” Flask bellows behind him. “It’s breaching!”

Ishmael doesn’t know what “breaching” means, but there’s no retreating now. He’s reached Queequeg. A loop of fabric on the back of his friend’s PFD is caught on the float hook.

“Ishmael, it’s going to surface!” shouts Gwen.

Deep below them, a dark spot is rapidly growing larger.

“W-watch out!” Billy shouts from the back of the wave racer.

The water around the chase boat begins to roil. Ishmael gropes for his knife.

“Leave him!” Flask shouts.

Ishmael reaches up and slices through the fabric loop — just as something slams into them from below.

In the morning, the couple and the man with the beard were back with Ms. Hussey. Ishmael and Archie were in the exercise room, swinging on overhead bars. As soon as Ishmael spotted the grown-ups, he felt anxious. Usually when people came back for a second look, they ended up taking him with them, at least temporarily.

Sensing that a child might be chosen, the youngsters in the room stopped playing. Ishmael and Archie crept toward the playhouse near the wall, Archie walking with his hands, his legs dragging behind. They slipped inside, hoping the visitors would forget about them and leave.

Footsteps echoed in the silent room, and then Ms. Hussey’s sour face appeared through the playhouse window. “I’d cooperate if I were you,” she warned Ishmael under her breath. “The people who come here looking for children want the ones who are young, cute, and cooperative. The longer you play these games, the more likely it is that you’ll never be chosen.”

But that, of course, was exactly what Ishmael and Archie were hoping for. The boys stayed inside and huddled close to each other. Exasperated, Ms. Hussey said, “It’s no use. You’ll never separate them. If you insist on trying, all you’ll do is create a great deal of trouble for all of us.”

The tall man eased himself to his knees and gently pushed open the playhouse door. “You two must be pretty good friends, huh?”

Ishmael and Archie remained silent.

“My wife, Petra, and I would like a foster child,” the man said. “But we’re only allowed to take one of you.”

The boys backed farther into the playhouse. Now the petite woman with the bright eyes kneeled down beside her husband. “We would so love to have you both in our family. We tried to get them to change their minds, but they just won’t.”

Archie squeezed his eyes shut. Ishmael watched the grown-ups warily. No one had ever spoken to them like this before, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Ms. Hussey harrumphed loudly. “I really don’t see the point in going through all this. You’re just wasting everyone’s time.”

The tall man looked over his shoulder at her. “Just a few more moments.” He turned back to the boys. “What if we let the two of you decide who comes with us? Would that make it easier?”

“Oh, for Earth’s sake!” Ms. Hussey blurted out in exasperation.

Ishmael held the man’s gaze. Had he understood him correctly? Slowly, he began to creep forward. Archie stared at him uncertainly but didn’t resist.

“Well, well, isn’t this interesting,” Ms. Hussey clucked. “The younger one must really like you two. Either that, or he’s gotten tired of having that little cripple around all the time.”

Leaving the playhouse, Ishmael crossed the room and collected Archie’s leg braces and crutches . . . which he brought back and offered to the couple.

The woman drew a loud breath. Her husband took her hand in his. Ishmael crawled back into the playhouse and pressed his forehead against Archie’s.

“Pay them no mind,” Ms. Hussey told the couple. “I’m sure it’s just a trick meant to make you feel even guiltier about separating them.”

“Have they ever done it before?” asked the man.

“Well, no,” Ms. Hussey admitted. “But there’s always a first time.”

The two boys stayed inside the playhouse for more than a minute with their foreheads pressed together. Then Archie began to drag himself out. Ishmael remained where he was, tears running down his cheeks as the bright-eyed woman drew the whimpering Archie into her arms. Archie’s eyes stayed fixed on Ishmael.

The tall man slowly rose to his full height and gave Ms. Hussey a meaningful look. “Now tell me that you honestly think these boys should be separated.”

For once, Ms. Hussey appeared uncertain. She swallowed. “But you don’t have the space.”

It was then that the stocky bearded man with the broad forehead and widow’s peak took the director aside and began to speak to her in hushed, forceful tones. Ishmael could see that Ms. Hussey responded differently to him than she did to most grown-ups, listening instead of arguing.

When the man had finished, Ms. Hussey turned to the couple. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”