not know your fortress. It is yours. But the Looking Glass pool is not.” He stared at me and frowned. “Do not go back.” This time it sounded like a warning.
“If it’s not for me, who’s it for?”
“For those who do not need to ask.”
He turned away and blended soundlessly into the trees without a backward glance.
I wondered why he hadn’t joined the City, and how long he’d been on the island. And I wondered what he was doing in that cavern and how he knew it existed in the first place.
To hell with his warning, I was definitely going back.
CHAPTER
11
SKYE
NOVEMBER 18, MID-MORNING
Uncle Scott’s journal was addictive, like the guiltiest pleasure ever. I felt like a voyeur, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to think of what that said about me.
Entry #8
For the third morning in a row, I woke to a full gourd of water.
Maybe the girl was an angel after all. Or a genie.
Maybe the island was full of magic. Black magic. Black sand, black nights. Black air that pops out of nowhere.
Let me back up.
I woke up, found a full gourd, drained it, and sat on the beach, staring at the rising sun. I was operating in semi-shock; I just didn’t know it. I needed someone to slap me.
So the island did.
The sun licked the sand, making the brittle bits glint like black diamonds. I strolled up the beach aimlessly, thinking about how hungry I was and wondering what the hell I should do and what had happened to the giraffe. As if that mattered.
I didn’t want to leave this beach. I knew it was because of her. It was stupid. I know that now.
I was stupid.
I was also hanging on by a thread, so cut me some slack.
My stomach was turning on itself after six days of water. Oh yeah, and urine. Concentrated urine, so foul I’m gagging right now just thinking about it. Think on that, why don’t you? I dare you to drink your own piss for a few days, then switch to shotgunning water. NO FOOD. Yeah. How clear would your head be?
The air in front of me wavered, like a warning. Then shimmering air popped at eye level and dropped into a perfect circle that thinned into a wall. All I could think was holy-shit-I-hit-this-air-once-and-it-burned-like-hell so I backed up and tripped. The swath of rippling air glittered like mercury glass, then instantly switched to flat black. Empty black. No light, no glistening, just a black hole hovering in midair. It scared the shit out of me, because the black air screamed life-sucking danger. All I knew about black holes were that they were very, very bad. Like sun-gone-supernova bad.
Two seconds later a walrus fell out of the air. A fucking WALRUS. With tusks and wrinkled brown skin and whiskers just like out of Encyclopedia-fucking-Britannica. The black hole vanished.
The walrus didn’t move, but I did.
It was the slap I needed, more like a walrus kick in the ass. I didn’t know if walruses—Walrae? Walrus? What the hell is the plural of walrus?—were aggressive, but I didn’t want to find out.
Go north, she’d said. Find others like you.
I went north. Correction, I ran north, like an angry walrus was on my tail. With what little strength I had left, I ran. Away from the walrus. Away from the beach with the girl. Toward the best hope I had, which wasn’t much.
I never saw the walrus again, but I know it was there.
My name is Scott Bracken, and this is the truth.
Entry #9
I followed the coast, leaving the walrus behind, and as the black beach curved I slowed, my adrenaline rush gone. My feet dragged like cement blocks. The beach rounded into a series of massive rock arches, the most gorgeous island formation I’d ever seen. Black arches, as if carved by the hands of giants.
Then my jaw dropped.
Inside the largest one, a boy stood, running his hands over the rock. Tall, lean, light brown hair cut close to his scalp, fairly light skin and slightly sunburned shoulders, he wore a loincloth like me.
HE WAS LIKE ME.
“Hey!” I shouted. Or tried to shout. My voice
“If it’s not for me, who’s it for?”
“For those who do not need to ask.”
He turned away and blended soundlessly into the trees without a backward glance.
I wondered why he hadn’t joined the City, and how long he’d been on the island. And I wondered what he was doing in that cavern and how he knew it existed in the first place.
To hell with his warning, I was definitely going back.
CHAPTER
11
SKYE
NOVEMBER 18, MID-MORNING
Uncle Scott’s journal was addictive, like the guiltiest pleasure ever. I felt like a voyeur, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to think of what that said about me.
Entry #8
For the third morning in a row, I woke to a full gourd of water.
Maybe the girl was an angel after all. Or a genie.
Maybe the island was full of magic. Black magic. Black sand, black nights. Black air that pops out of nowhere.
Let me back up.
I woke up, found a full gourd, drained it, and sat on the beach, staring at the rising sun. I was operating in semi-shock; I just didn’t know it. I needed someone to slap me.
So the island did.
The sun licked the sand, making the brittle bits glint like black diamonds. I strolled up the beach aimlessly, thinking about how hungry I was and wondering what the hell I should do and what had happened to the giraffe. As if that mattered.
I didn’t want to leave this beach. I knew it was because of her. It was stupid. I know that now.
I was stupid.
I was also hanging on by a thread, so cut me some slack.
My stomach was turning on itself after six days of water. Oh yeah, and urine. Concentrated urine, so foul I’m gagging right now just thinking about it. Think on that, why don’t you? I dare you to drink your own piss for a few days, then switch to shotgunning water. NO FOOD. Yeah. How clear would your head be?
The air in front of me wavered, like a warning. Then shimmering air popped at eye level and dropped into a perfect circle that thinned into a wall. All I could think was holy-shit-I-hit-this-air-once-and-it-burned-like-hell so I backed up and tripped. The swath of rippling air glittered like mercury glass, then instantly switched to flat black. Empty black. No light, no glistening, just a black hole hovering in midair. It scared the shit out of me, because the black air screamed life-sucking danger. All I knew about black holes were that they were very, very bad. Like sun-gone-supernova bad.
Two seconds later a walrus fell out of the air. A fucking WALRUS. With tusks and wrinkled brown skin and whiskers just like out of Encyclopedia-fucking-Britannica. The black hole vanished.
The walrus didn’t move, but I did.
It was the slap I needed, more like a walrus kick in the ass. I didn’t know if walruses—Walrae? Walrus? What the hell is the plural of walrus?—were aggressive, but I didn’t want to find out.
Go north, she’d said. Find others like you.
I went north. Correction, I ran north, like an angry walrus was on my tail. With what little strength I had left, I ran. Away from the walrus. Away from the beach with the girl. Toward the best hope I had, which wasn’t much.
I never saw the walrus again, but I know it was there.
My name is Scott Bracken, and this is the truth.
Entry #9
I followed the coast, leaving the walrus behind, and as the black beach curved I slowed, my adrenaline rush gone. My feet dragged like cement blocks. The beach rounded into a series of massive rock arches, the most gorgeous island formation I’d ever seen. Black arches, as if carved by the hands of giants.
Then my jaw dropped.
Inside the largest one, a boy stood, running his hands over the rock. Tall, lean, light brown hair cut close to his scalp, fairly light skin and slightly sunburned shoulders, he wore a loincloth like me.
HE WAS LIKE ME.
“Hey!” I shouted. Or tried to shout. My voice
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