The others grinned. Kwan gave a small bow.
“I didn’t say I liked it!” Clay laughed.
“But you forgive us?” asked Jonah.
Clay looked at his cabinmates. They looked back with puppy eyes.
“We’re still your cabin, New Worm,” said Kwan.
Pablo nodded. “We’ve got your back.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said Clay. He figured he had no choice but to let it go. “The question is, what do we do next?”
They all looked at one another. Nobody had an answer.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
THE HIKE
In the end, they did nothing. Which is to say, they decided to go on the overnight exactly as if nothing had changed.
“We’re already trapped on the island,” Jonah pointed out. “They’re in control of us, whether we go or not. What’s the difference?”
At least on the overnight there was a chance that the purpose of their camp would be revealed.
As it turned out, the person who wasn’t going was Buzz. He had to “hold down the fort,” he said. It was a welcome surprise, and made them feel more optimistic about the trip, until they discovered who would be taking their counselor’s place as their leader: Flint.
Everyone assembled by the lake before embarking.
Strapped to his backpack, each hiker had a volcano “surfboard”—a rough-hewn piece of wood with rope loops to hold your feet; basically, a homemade snowboard. The boards were heavy, but the ride down the volcano was the big reward at the end of the hike; nobody wanted to leave his board behind.
The girls, who would be hiking separately under the direction of Adriana, left first. They would meet again at the campsite that evening.
The hikers started by following the same trail off the lake that they had taken the night before, but instead of turning into Plume Canyon, they kept climbing until they were looking down on the site of the previous night’s lava walk and feast. Plume Canyon looked smaller from this height, and the lava pools less spectacular. Where before there had been steady plumes of smoke rising from the fissures in the ground, thin wisps now rose like the dying smoke of so many abandoned campfires.
“Just be glad you guys can see,” said Flint to the hikers as they took in the bleak view. “Sometimes the vog is so bad up here, I can’t see my hand.”
After several hours they reached a wide river that seemed mysteriously to end about fifty yards to their right. Clay guessed—correctly—that there was a waterfall below, the very waterfall that could be seen from camp on a clear day. A narrow rope bridge connected one side of the river to the other.
“Just so you know, the current’s pretty strong down there,” warned Flint. “You fall in, the water’s gonna want to send you down to the falls.”
“Watch out,” whispered Pablo. “This is a perfect spot for them to get a clean shot at us.”
The other Worms rolled their eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you,” said Kwan, “but nobody’s trying to take us out.”
Nonetheless, they were all a bit nervous as they walked single file on the swaying bridge, holding the rope rails to steady themselves.
Flint made it across first.
As if he were reading their minds, he held up a knife to the rope supports. “This way I can get rid of you all at once!”
Flint laughed, pocketing his knife. “I was just joking, you pathetic losers!”
The hike was strenuous, but worse than his sore muscles were the pangs of hunger that had started afflicting Clay around lunchtime. Each camper had been allocated one handful of trail mix. Any other food, they would have to forage.
As they hiked, Clay and his cabinmates started talking about their favorite meals, one-upping each other with descriptions of lobsters and cheeseburgers and everything in between. It all sounded great to Clay. Even a typical Earth Ranch kale salad now seemed irresistibly delicious.
They were still lost in food-fantasy land when they reached a dark gaping hole in the mountainside. Flint entered without stopping.
“C’mon, Worms, it’s a big wormhole—this should be right up your alley!”
It wasn’t a big wormhole, of course; it was a lava tube, a tunnel formed by a river of lava so forceful that it had carved its way through the mountain.
Holding their flashlights in front of them, the campers walked through the tunnel single file. The tunnel had rippled black rock walls that widened and narrowed over and over again, as if a giant hand were squeezing it, forcing the kids sometimes to crouch, sometimes to crawl. Clay, whose head kept hitting the ceiling, couldn’t help imagining getting trapped inside by another volcanic eruption. Just as the claustrophobia was about to become unbearable, he saw sunlight reflecting in a puddle of water. In all, it took about twelve minutes to walk from one end of the tunnel to the other, but it seemed much longer.
When they came out, they were standing at the base of Mount Forge. From where they stood in a small rocky ravine, the blackened mountain looked impossible to climb. The slope was steep, but worse than that, it was perfectly smooth. This side of the volcano, the south side, was covered entirely in ash. It was the side that they would be surfing down, Flint explained. To climb to the top, they would first hike to the north side of the volcano.
The girls had laid their sleeping bags by a steaming pool with a yellowish-greenish cast—a hot spring, although not one that anybody wanted to swim in. The boys laid their bags on the other side of the water so that they were separated much the way their cabins were back at camp. The water was smelly and sulfurous, but according to Flint and Adriana, Vulcan Springs, as it was known, provided the best campsite in the vicinity.
At some point during the summer session, everyone had actually learned to start a fire, and soon there was a fire tall enough to reflect in the murky hot springs. Clay half expected Flint and Adriana to return with another pig to roast, but no such luck.
Still, there were several edible plants growing nearby, and the kids foraged with varying degrees of success.
“Isn’t this great?” said Leira, sitting down with the boys for dinner.
“Sure, if you like eating weeds,” said Clay.
“Try this—it’s a nettle,” she said, handing Clay a thorny leaf.
“Looks more like needles to me.”
“I brought the main course,” said Pablo, standing over them with a closed fist.
“What, you got some of Jonah’s licorice stashed away, I hope?” asked Kwan.
“No. I’ve got something way more nutritious.” Pablo opened his palm and revealed a handful of iridescent green beetles. “Lots of protein in these critters.”
“Gross,” said Leira. “Bug Killer.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass, too,” said Jonah.
“You’re missing out,” said Pablo, popping a beetle into his mouth and chewing with an audible crunch. “Most of the world eats bugs. It’s just us squeamish Westerners who think we’re too good for them.”
The plan was to make it to the top of Mount Forge by sunrise. Which meant waking at four a.m. Which meant going to sleep early.
Clay tried to fall asleep along with the others, but he tossed and turned in his tight sleeping bag for what seemed like hours. Unable to keep his eyes closed, he watched the ominous clouds of vog float across the night sky.
Where was Flint leading them? Were they in danger? Would the real purpose of Earth Ranch be revealed here by the volcano?
He kept having the feeling there was something he was forgetting. Some key piece of information.
As he drifted off to sleep he remembered what it was: his birthday. It was tomorrow.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE CRATER
Ow.” “Ouch.” “Aw, man.”
Flint woke everyone with a kick. There were many groans and cries of protest, but in a few minutes the campers were packed up. They were to leave most of their things to be picked up on the way back.
Clay was the l
ast of the Worms to get out of his sleeping bag.
“Hurry up,” said Jonah. “You know Flint would be happy to leave you behind.”
The others were all heading toward their final ascent in the darkness, flashlights in hand and volcano boards strapped to their backs.
The plan was to make it to the top in time to watch the sunrise from the lip of the crater. But it was slow going. Most of the volcano was covered with ash, even on the north side of the mountain. The hikers had to pick their way among rocks and patches of harder ground. At times they would come upon an unexpected precipice or other dead end, and they would have to switch course.
There wasn’t much talking. Everyone was too tired. And too spread apart despite the fact that they’d been told to stay close together. It was a long and steep hike in the dark. At times, Clay could see none of his fellow hikers; and then flashlights would appear like fireflies darting back and forth up the mountain. As they progressed, one after another hiker stopped to rest or tie a shoe or have a swig of water. The volcano seemed to be wearing everyone down. Clay kept trudging forward and eventually found himself passing everyone but Flint, who was leading the way.
After about an hour and a half, Clay noticed that his feet were getting cold. He looked down and was surprised to find that he was hiking in snow. His sneakers were wet through to his toes. In fact, he was cold all over. Like the other campers, he wore only a sweatshirt for warmth; nobody had brought winter gear to the tropical island.
A glimmer of dawn lit the horizon, and the sky was starting to turn from black to gray, but visibility was still spotty; clouds of vog kept blowing by. Clay put his bandanna around his mouth to ward off the chill as well as the vog as best he could.
The first sun rays touched him just before he reached the top. The wind had picked up, and now he could see all the way to the ocean. He almost thought he could see the black beach on which he had landed weeks ago. To his far right were the smooth ashy slopes of the south side of the volcano—where they would be “surfing” later that morning.
It wasn’t necessarily where he would have expected to celebrate his birthday, but all in all, not a bad spot to turn thirteen.
He turned, looking for Leira or one of the Worms to share the moment with.
There was no one there.
“Hey, is anybody around? Can anybody hear me?” he called out. “Yo, dudes! Answer me!”
His voice was lost in the wind.
He figured he must be far ahead of the others. Unless they had passed him in the dark? Either way, he would see them at the top.
The last twenty feet or so, he was walking on ice. His feet kept slipping and he fell more than once, scraping himself on the ice and ash. His hands felt raw and he could feel his knee bleeding beneath his jeans. It would have been impossible to get to the top were it not for a few rocks jutting out from the mountain. These gave him just enough of a hold to pull himself up.
The top of the volcano was much bigger and flatter than it had looked from below, not quite the size of a soccer field. Hard icy snow covered most of the ground, except where plumes of smoke or bubbles of lava melted it. On the far side, the ground dropped off into sky. On the side where Clay stood, little jagged peaks stuck out where the mountaintop had broken away. The volcano had literally blown its lid.
The crater was in the middle. A perfect circle, except in a few places where the edges had collapsed. Clay had imagined he would see red, bubbling molten magma inside the crater. Instead, there was water. The surface of the water was perfectly smooth, and as Clay looked at it, it turned from inky black to a silvery mirror—like a giant mood ring reflecting the changing colors of the sky.*
He walked to the edge and saw himself looking up from the water with his big searching eyes. His face was smudged; his clothes were torn; his hair, wilder than ever. His wooden volcano surfboard slid forward slightly and stuck out over his head; it looked like something dark and predatory about to overtake him—a floating shark, perhaps, or a stealth aircraft.
And then there was someone else standing by his side. Flint.
Clay turned to face the older boy. “Where is everybody?”
Flint shrugged. “Slow, I guess.”
Flint held something in his hand. It was a small, crudely made rag doll, with red yarn hair and a polka-dot handkerchief dress. It looked like a voodoo doll, at once harmless and frightening.
Clay felt sick to his stomach. “Is that supposed to be Mira?”
“I made it in the Art Yurt,” said Flint. “Do you like it?”
“What are you doing with it?”
Staring at Clay with his icy blue eyes, Flint stepped closer to the edge of the crater. He dangled the doll by a string tied to its leg.
Clay watched, incredulous. “You’re dropping it into the crater?”
Not saying anything, Flint carefully lowered the doll headfirst into the crater.
“Is this your way of saying you’re done with her?” asked Clay hopefully.
“It’s my way of saying she’s done,” said Flint.
Clay remembered Leira’s prediction that her sister would be sacrificed in a volcano. It appeared to be happening—but as a strange and disturbing puppet show.
“Is this part of the play?” Clay asked.
“There’s no play,” said Flint. “There never was a play.”
“What, then?”
Flint smiled. “A magic show?”
Then he pronounced that strange word in the language Clay didn’t recognize.
The doll had almost hit its target. The silvery water rose upward to meet it, as if pulled by an invisible gravitational force, then fell back down with a loud splash. As ripples spread outward, Clay thought he saw Mira’s face reflected briefly in the water. Then the water disappeared, replaced by roiling, churning, glowing lava. Clay tried to comprehend what he was seeing, but he couldn’t. It was spectacular and terrifying and absolutely magical.
“You still think magic sucks?” asked Flint snidely.
Now the doll was almost submerged. As lava bubbled and spurted around it, the doll’s hair caught on fire, and Flint yanked on the string. He pulled the burning doll out of the crater like a fish.
“Wait ’til you see what comes next.”
He swung the doll back and forth. Its hair burned unnaturally bright, more like a flare gun than flaming cotton.
“Price was a great magician, but he was a coward,” said Flint, the fire passing in and out of his eyes. “What’s the life of one girl compared to the power of fire? Price had everything within his grasp, and he gave it up because of his silly guilt.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going with that thing?” Clay still couldn’t tell what Flint was up to or how serious he was.
“Where do you think? The volcano wants to be fed, and I will feed it,” said Flint. “She will burn, and I will have the volcano’s magic.”
“This isn’t real,” said Clay. “You’re just saying lines. You’re not really going to kill anybody.”
“Maybe that’s what Buzz and Eli think,” said Flint scornfully. “But deep down they know what needs to be done, and I’m doing it.”
Holding the doll aloft like a torch, Flint ran to the far side of the volcano.
“Don’t try to stop me,” he called over his shoulder, “or you and everyone else will burn, too!”
With that parting sally, he grabbed his volcano board off his back, tossed it over the edge, and jumped after it.
Clay stood on top of the volcano for a moment, too stunned to move.
If Flint was to be believed, Mira was about to burn to death. But where? How?
The library, thought Clay. He’s headed to the library. He’s going to light it on fire. Flint was rewriting Randolph Price’s story to his own liking.
And then Clay stepped into action.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
VOLCANO SURFING
There was a twelve-to fourteen-foot drop. Then snow. Then ash. A
nd ash. And more ash. All the way down the mountain.
Normally, Clay would have spent some time standing on the edge, before getting the courage to jump. He didn’t have the worst case of vertigo in the world. But he didn’t not get vertigo, either.
This time, he didn’t hesitate. He tossed his board into the snow below, gulped, then jumped right after it the way Flint had.
The snow went on for about thirty yards.
Clay had only snowboarded once—on a school trip that got cut short when a classmate broke her arm. He slid around, unable to catch an edge with the handmade wooden board, and almost started spinning uncontrollably. But then he righted himself, willing his skateboarder legs to adjust to the wheel-less ride across the ice crystals.
Far below, he could see Flint surfing the ash. Gray clouds billowed in his wake as he effortlessly carved his way down the mountain. Flint was going so fast, he would make it to their base camp in minutes.
And then…
Watching Flint, Clay failed to prepare for the transition to dry land and did a face-plant in the ash. It wasn’t as soft as it looked, but as far as he could tell, he didn’t break anything. He just got scratched up. And got a lot of ash in his mouth and eyes… and nose… and ears. His pockets were full of ash, too.
By the time he wiped himself off and stood shakily to his feet, he couldn’t see Flint anymore. Just a few clouds dissipating at the bottom of the mountain.
He put his bandanna back around his face, slipped his feet under the rope loops of his board, then started wiggling back and forth until he was moving down the ash slope.
The ash was slower than the snow, allowing Clay to get used to the feel of it. Soon he was making long arcing turns, ash spraying behind him. The slope was smooth and steep and very, very long.
He was so lost in his mission that at first it almost didn’t register. And then it did. He was surfing a volcano.