Travels with my Family (7 page)

Along the way, there were all kinds of rock formations. Some of them looked like kings on their thrones. Others looked like Christmas trees. There were rainbow-colored bridges of rock that crossed underground rivers and lakes.

It was so fabulous that even my mother forgot to say how beautiful it was.

“Do you know the difference between stalactites and stalagmites?” the ranger asked me.

“Sure,” I told her. “Stalagmites grow from the floor to the ceiling. Stalactites grow the other way around.”

“Very good!”

“Everybody knows that!” my brother hissed. He was still mad because I got to hold the flashlight.

Finally, we reached the bottom of the cave. The ranger told us to sit down, shut off our lights and not say a word. We all sat in complete darkness, in total silence, for a minute or two.

I wondered if being blind was like this. I could hear my blood running through my veins, and my heart beating. I thought about the tons of rock hanging over our heads.

Then, from somewhere deep in the cave, a drop of water fell into a pool.

“The sound of eternity,” the park ranger said. Then she switched on her light.

We admired the rock formations a little more, making sure not to touch them. Before we began our climb back through the hollow mountain, the ranger counted us. Once, then twice.

Someone was missing. Guess who? It was my little brother.

My mother panicked right away. “Oh, my God, he's lost!”

“Stay calm, honey,” my father said. “He can't be far.”

The park ranger swept the walls of the cave with her high-powered light. We saw kings on thrones and stone Christmas trees flash by, but not my little brother.

A few seconds later, we heard a voice.

“I am the spirit of Slaughter Canyon. I got slaughtered.
Wooo…
!”

Everybody started laughing, even the park ranger. My brother showed up, smiling a big smile. My mother grabbed his hand. And then we climbed back up toward the little pinhole of light, opening out onto the sky.

By the time we left Slaughter Canyon, it was late in the afternoon. The car was waiting for us, as hot as an oven inside.

“We have a surprise for you,” my mother said as we bounced back down the road.

“What is it?” my brother and I asked.

“If I tell you, it won't be a surprise.”

I couldn't believe it when we pulled into the parking lot of the Carlsbad Caverns.

We reached the mouth of the main cave just as the sun was going down. A few minutes later, I heard a whispering noise. The whispers were growing louder.

Then, suddenly, millions and millions of bats were pouring out of the cave, flying into the dark sky, on their way to their night's work of eating insects. It was fabulous!

And we'd gotten there just in time.

It's February. Outside, the snow is halfway up to the roof. It's even too cold to go skating. Exactly the kind of weather that makes my parents want to plan our next vacation.

And sure enough, what should come in the mail but a postcard. A postcard of red-roofed houses on a rocky island floating in a deep blue sea. A postcard from one of our parents' friends.

My father took out his new glasses, blew the dust off them and started reading it.

“It's from Fred. He's on the island of Krk,” he said. Then he turned the card over and looked at the picture. “Hmm, not bad. I've always wanted to go to a place that doesn't have any vowels.”

He and my mother got out their travel book. It's a sort of guide that tells you about all the strange and dangerous destinations you can go to if you happen to like out-of-the-way places. My father leafed through it until he found the island of Krk. It was in Croatia, a country I'd never heard of.

I grabbed the book from him.

“Let me see. Hmmm… Beware of dangerous winding roads, with steep precipices on both sides, wild mountain goats and poisonous snakes.”

“Sounds fascinating,” my mother said, gazing at the postcard.

“It certainly does,” my father said, getting excited.

“And the national dish is
blitva
,” I continued.

“What's
blitva
?” asked my brother. “Some kind of insect?”

“Sounds like a weed,” I told him, “that the mountain goats eat when there's nothing tastier around.”

“Yuck,” my brother said.

“On the other hand,” I told him, “it could be roasted lizard. Or fried cat ears.”

My brother hugged Miro.

“Shh! He'll hear you.”

“So what do you think?” my parents asked us.

My brother and I looked at one another. An island called Krk. Why not Zut or Iz while you're at it?

We sighed. We couldn't wait.

Krk, here we come!

THE END

MARIE-LOUISE GAY
is an author and illustrator of children's books. Her Stella and Sam books have been translated into more than fifteen languages. She has won many major awards, including two Governor General's awards, the Marilyn Baillie Picture Book Award and the Vicky Metcalf Award. She has been nominated twice for the Hans Christian Andersen Award.

Born and raised in Chicago,
DAVID HOMEL
is an award-winning novelist, screenwriter, journalist and translator. He is a two-time winner of the Governor General's Award for translation and the author of six novels, including
The Speaking Cure
(winner of the Hugh MacLennan Prize and the Jewish Public Library Award for fiction) and, most recently,
Midway
.

Marie-Louise and David live in Montreal, but travel as much as possible.

GROUNDWOOD BOOKS
, established in 1978, is dedicated to the production of children's books for all ages, including fiction, picture books and non-fiction. We publish in Canada, the United States and Latin America. Our books aim to be of the highest possible quality in both language and illustration. Our primary focus has been on works by Canadians, though we sometimes also buy outstanding books from other countries.

Many of our books tell the stories of people whose voices are not always heard in this age of global publishing by media conglomerates. Books by the First Peoples of this hemisphere have always been a special interest, as have those of others who through circumstance have been marginalized and whose contribution to our society is not always visible. Since 1998 we have been publishing works by people of Latin American origin living in the Americas both in English and in Spanish under our Libros Tigrillo imprint.

We believe that by reflecting intensely individual experiences, our books are of universal interest. The fact that our authors are published around the world attests to this and to their quality. Even more important, our books are read and loved by children all over the globe.