Quick-fast, the boat slosh-whooshed, bobbed close to cave sides. Cal got working. He ran round deck, push-pushing the boat away. When the boat moved fast toward the rock gap out ahead, he took a long paddle of wood to push the sides away sharper. He was huff-puffing hard. The wide-big sea got closer. Still, the boat scraped rock a few times, making Cal stop his breathings. But it held. Everything held.
When the boat got nearer to big waves, flowers sang louder, pushing scents out. Cal felt them cling-long to his nose, buzz bright in his brain. All around, it sounded like the island was moaning. As they left through the jagged-sharp opening—Cal pushing and pulling and sweating and bleeding to make sure they didn’t hit cave sides—he saw lizards. They were jumping from rocks, spreading webbed hands wide as they hit the sea. Stingers were below, also, their pale, soft bodies moving like clouds. Were they scared of the volcano, too? Escaping?
Then they were out with the boat. Far out. Beyond even the reef. The water was rough-dark, only moon to light it. The sea had stripes, like them zebras from books. Cal had only twice before been this far out. When he washed up, which he did not full-remember. And when he’d tried to leave with Moss on the raft. Both times he’d been pulled in.
Not this time.
Quick-fast, he looked for the Flicker-land and saw it, more solid now.
“Bird Island!” He pointed it out to Finn.
He saw Tommy had been right—the land were just rock and birds, no huts or humans. Not the same land where the man from his dreamings lived.
But he didn’t have time to look proper. Because the growling noise Finn made from the boat changed, and the boat went true-fast. Waves slapped the sides, made Cal sway. He gripped the long pole through the middle to steady himself. He thought of Moss as a Very Small Thing on this very same boat, and that settled him most. But Cal were not scared—not one weasel-bit!
Finn was laughing when he looked back. Cal came closer to see why.
“Can’t believe getting out of there was so easy!” Finn said. “Where next?”
Cal pointed to where the cove was. Finn steered the boat—it went tossing and turning, but he kept it moving straight. Cal squinted for Moss in case she was already on this shore, sent thoughts out on the winds about where they were. Then, far-high, he saw smoke, like there were a thousand fires on top of the volcano. Flower-smoke! It were like branches stretching down—clawing, grasping. It came sinking ’cross the island.
Was there moving fire with it too, underneath-sneaky, coming for Moss and Pa? Coming for Jess and Adder and Aster, and wild dogs, and all the lizards that did not jump?
Finn kept the boat level with the shoreline of Western Beach. They were far-farther out than that day on the raft. And maybe it were that, and maybe it were not, but Cal were remembering—long-ago thoughts were coming clear. Stories about Flower Island, different ones from what the Pa had told: ones from a time—place—other than here. Stories about beings forgetting what they came knowing.
“What the—?”
The shout startled him. Cal looked across to see Finn with his mouth wide. Seems he’d seen volcano smoke too. Cal didn’t explain it: he couldn’t. ’Cause understanding this island were a bit like knowing Moss—he were never sure he got her complete-right, never saw her all in one easy look-see. Cal couldn’t explain a thing like that.
As smoke came thick and more colored toward them, so did the singing. Flower-singing. So much louder now.
“Seriously,” Finn said, “what the hell is this place?”
Then the boat moved sharp. It were like something grabbed it, twisted and spun it. Like there were a whirly-pool right under. The same pulling feeling as when Cal and Moss had been on the raft. Like something did not want them to leave.
“Hey!”
A shout. Tommy on deck now too, risen bleary from the cabin, holding firm to its door. Looking. Frowning. Staring. Standing.
Cal smiled. Well!
Finn’s grin came fast, too. “What’re you doing up here?” He spun the steer-wheel hard, fighting with the boat and trying to make it go. “Do you feel all right?”
Tommy stared at the island, full-confusion on his face. “What’s the pull?” he said.
Finn pushed at the steer-wheel, and still the boat would not go forward.
Tommy was baffle-faced, watching. “It’s like when we wrecked,” he said. “The same feeling. That pulling in.”
Moss’s hair was tangle-knotted, the wind near-pulling her from Aster. She held on to Pa and they galloped. Drumming in her ears and through her body. Hooves and rumbling. Aster was on wings, flight-fast.
She whistled again for Adder, hoping her dog was keeping up and dodging the falling debris. There was noise, everywhere. Wind hissing. Trees cracking. And, behind everything, a roar. Loud-fierce. The volcano. How long did they have before it swallowed them up? She knew Cal was waiting. She felt that bone-deep inside her. She heard his voice.
Western Beach … Come fast … Come now-now …
Still, she felt tension in Pa. Felt his doubt in the stiffness of his spine against her chest.
Through the pine forest, faster. The sea whirled fierce, calling to them as it always did, but louder now. Adder barked: still here, still close. It was too dark in the trees to see her proper,. Everything was moving. The whole island shifting, swaying, dancing, trembling. And Aster galloped, lightning-fast. Racing for the sea, to be gone. A shudder brought branches down around them; Aster dodged them all. Even now, the island was beautiful-wild. Like Pa, Moss had an ache inside her when she thought about leaving.
But soon they were out of the pine trees and onto the dunes. Fast … faster … quicker than ever before. Here, the wind was lizardlike, biting and clawing. Sand whirled into their eyes, stung their faces. And there was the sea, full-huge and writhing. There was Bird Island, full-solid.
And, stuck on the reef, spinning and struggling, was Pa’s boat. The Swallow.
Moss cried out as Aster reared. It took all Moss’s concentration to stay clinging to the horse and to Pa—to keep thinking kindnesses to quiet her.
Pa’s boat whirled like Aster. “Can you see it, Pa?” she said, pointing.
He saw it, she knew: She saw his faint smile in recognition.
“Back again,” he murmured, then looked to Bird Island too. “All back.”
She remembered Cal’s words on the wind. Come now-now. “Maybe they were trying to get to us in the cove and got stuck here instead.”
But Aster wasn’t stuck. She set off running again, getting closer to the ocean, closer than she’d been when Finn had sent her racing. Moss felt her shaking: a volcano underneath her, twice now. Moss put her hands around Pa’s waist, keeping steady. She turned to find Adder. There was ash in the air. Burning petals. So much smoke. Orange and red, pink and gold. Flower-colors. The air was so thick, in moments they couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Aster skittered sideways to the water. Moss thought of Jess, back in Pa’s cave. All alone! Burning. She touched her fingers to Aster’s salt-crusted skin as she got to tide’s edge. Would she be leaving Aster soon, too? And was that really what the horse wanted?
“We’ll need to swim, Pa,” Moss said.
When Pa looked at her, his eyes were yearning-sad. Moss thought she knew why: He wanted to stay with his horse, with his island. Even if it meant drowning. Or being burned. As Aster dipped fetlocks to water, her hooves disappeared in the swirling sea. Did Pa realize that the horse wouldn’t come with them? Did Aster know it too?
“But my success … ,” he whispered, winding up her mane with his fingertips.
“Not your only one.” Moss gripped his hand.
“You too?” He raised eyebrows. When he looked at her, she grinned.
“Come on, Pa. It’s time. We have to leave now.”
Keeping hold of Aster’s mane with her other hand, she got down from the horse. The water was shock-cold, the wind against her legs making it full-colder.
Pa reached out to tap the end of Moss’s nos
e. “There’s magic all through you,” he said. “As much as in Aster.”
Moss gripped harder on Pa’s hand and pulled. Aster had to stay. Couldn’t have a horse on a boat—she’d sink them all. But would Pa go without her? Would Aster be all right? Moss felt the ache in her heart too.
“She wants to be in the water though,” she said to urge them both. “She wants to be here. Wants to stay.”
Like Pa did.
Like a part of Moss did, too. And this part was splintering her.
She brushed her hand against Aster’s neck, as she had when the horse had arrived.
“I can feel it,” she said. “It is the sea you want, isn’t it?”
And Moss did feel this urge—through the horse’s muscles and movement—that urge to dive to the water, to skitter on sand, to gallop in pines. To stay! This island was her; she was the island. Wherever else Cal had come from, Aster was from here. Flower-made. Moss knew this, bone-deep.
Could Pa leave that?
He watched his horse, deciding.
When Aster reared again, he came from her, tumbling to Moss in the shallow sea. His head snapped back to Aster straight after, an invisible cord between them.
Aster tossed her head, and flower petals swirled around her like a colored crown. So many buzzing, all wanting to be with her. She was rainbow-furred. Prancing and high-stepped, she went farther out, until the water was nearly up to her stomach, her tail risen and proud. She did not look back to either of them.
Pa sang to her like he sang to the flowers, the two-toned trill. Then he whispered something too soft to catch on the wind, and Aster’s ears flicked backward, listening, pausing, prancing …
Pa breathed in, air rattling in his throat. And Aster dived away, straight and sharp. That huge horse as elegant and streamlined as a seabird. Down, down into the ocean, and a wave took her under. Moss saw her for a moment more, diving as a dolphin might, curved and pale as a wave tip herself.
Waterhorse.
Water.
Gone.
Like how she’d arrived.
Pa breathed out.
After a moment, Moss did too. Maybe it would be all right now. Maybe Pa had released whatever hold still attached him to this place. Maybe the island would go calm. Pa would too. Soon, they would swim out and get the boat free: leave. A new start for them both. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
“Come on, Pa,” she said.
But the cliffs were still rumbling and shifting. There was still so much ash in the air. The ground still shook. When she tried to search for the boat on the reef, smoke blinded her. She grabbed Adder, clutched her tight-tight. Whatever else happened, she would not lose her dog. Pa clutched Moss tight-tight too, shielding her from the wind.
“We have to leave, Pa,” she said.
He tightened his arms around her, looking back to the volcano. “It doesn’t want to lose our stories,” he said. “Remember … when the island catches stories, it stays hiding. But when the stories leave …”
“The island comes real.” She finished it for him. “Comes back.”
And maybe it was true. Pa’s truth, anyway. Maybe he’d made it that way.
“It’s not Bird Island that been flickering,” she said, remembering again Cal’s words. Maybe Pa’s stories, and the stormflowers, were what had been keeping them hidden. Or, hidden until now.
She grabbed Pa’s hand, pulled him another step into the water. “Time for us all to be real. We’ve all been flickering.”
And that felt true too.
The smoke was so thick, making them cough, making their eyes tear. As they went farther into the sea, Adder howled. Moss grabbed her scruff and pulled her. She heard voices now, too, shouting from the boat, urging them on. They’d seen them!
“Come quick,” she said.
They tumbled to swimming, the water flint-sharp. She let go of Adder and swam strong, the waves sloshing. She pulled Pa with her, even when he spluttered for air. Seaweed tangled around their feet, trying to pull them down, pull them back.
They swam hard.
But soon, Moss felt Pa sink. He was snagged on something. Slipping! For a moment, she lost him. She went back. Salt water in her throat, in her ears.
“Pa?”
She searched for him in the waves, treading water. She saw a shape through the thick flower air. He was facedown, spinning, whirlpool-frenzied. He was water-full.
Grasping her arms around him, she yanked and kicked. But he was tangle-tight on weed, buffeted by currents and waves, caught. She couldn’t do it! She bobbed at the surface. Called for Adder, who’d gone too. Called for anyone!
Was this how it ended, drowning? Going back to the sea like Aster? Never ever going beyond the reef!
No!
She pushed at Pa again. Cried out with the effort of flipping him to his back. But she did it … she did! His eyes were still open. He saw her. They blinked.
“Breathe, Pa!”
He coughed and spluttered. But she was sinking too as she held him. Spluttering also.
No!
She screamed it out, louder than anything, her noise bigger than the volcano. This wasn’t their end!
And someone heard.
Quick-fast, something else was swimming with them. Someone. Moving as easy as the water itself. Eel-fast.
Cal?
Hands grabbed her coverings and pulled her up. She felt Pa coming too now, grabbed to her tight. Up, up, up, toward the surface. She gasped at the cool salt air. The ease of it. At Cal beside her. Swimming! At how he did not seem afraid, not of water or anything. At how he smiled like pure light.
Cal did not think clear when he jumped: only of Moss, of her swirling down deep. Not coming with!
But the water had not stung him—had not taken him sink-down and turned him over like storm treasure.
He had swum fast-free ’til his fingers clasped solid around Moss and he pull-pulled her up. She gulped air, and he did too. Gasped deep. Then she were looking at him with wide-eyes. Reaching to touch his skin.
It were changing. He felt it. He saw it too.
But quick-fast, he were swimming her back to the boat, to where them two boys grabbed and took her from water. And he were going back for the Pa. Even when he did not right want to! Even when it were only for Moss that he did!
The Pa were heavy with sea, but Cal kicked and pulled hard. He got the Pa to the boat’s side and pushed him to the boys. Gasping hard, he pulled his own limbs over, too.
There, he held his hands in front. Looked at what Moss had seen. What he knew to be true.
As the water dripped from him and settled to the boat, his skin were true-different. As water left him, so, too, did his scale-sheen. It faded gone! Flicker-flicker-gone! Disappeared! No more inside him! Cal saw it make patterns in the puddles before it faded complete.
And Moss had seen it. There, in the water. There, in the cave. This were not just his imaginings.
When he looked across again, he found her eyes, saw her gasping still. At him! His changing!
He held out his hands and shook them to make the water go faster. And—there!—the webbings between his fingers felt different, too. Fading? Going? He shook-shook his hands and his webbings seemed to … flicker. And again! He shook-shook-shook ’til the water—’til the webbings—disappeared. ’Til his fingers were naked-normal. Smoothed! Cal went deep-deep-diving for air. Breathed! Watched! Made sure!
It were real. Now his scale-sheen and webbings … gone! Like they’d never even been. Their disappearing hadn’t even hurt. Not one weasel-bit.
When he looked up this time, it were the Pa who were staring: his mouth open like a chick begging food. Sudden-quick all the anger Cal had toward him came back. Like a fire fresh-lit. Like a burning-bright.
Cal had saved the Pa.
Should he?
The Pa had pulled him by the foot, long ago, back when he were a Small Thing. Took him from another place. Stole him. Stormflower-magicked with webbings and scales. Sa
id he came from a fish!
Cal should have let the Pa go water-heavy! Should have let him kiss seabeds! Let him drown!
And the Pa did not even look grateful.
Cal strode toward him, stood in front. “You took me,” he said. “You lied.”
The Pa shook his head, looked away, but he knew. He knew!
“You said I was fish-made! Said there were no land. You lied hard!”
Cal held his hands up as proof, shoving them to the Pa’s face. He could push them inside of Pa, push ’til there were no Pa, grab and twist his insides nasty. He could push him over the edge, back into the ocean. But even now, he felt Moss’s eyes, fast-steady. If he pushed the Pa, he pushed her, too. Even now, still, she had carings for the sick man.
“I am sorry,” the Pa murmured. “I did not mean, did not know, did not fully understand … I thought the flowers, maybe Moss …”
“You knew I were not made from flowers! Always knew it!”
And again and again, the Pa shook his head. “Never meant for you to come … ,” he said, “… just Aster. You came … by accident. I never knew who you were.”
“Still don’t!” Cal spat at his feet. Turned from him. “I should push you over. Should let you die.”
Because Cal were remembering. Cal had other ones, somewhere. Cal had been pulled from that.
Maybe it had been an accident that Cal came. But he would not hear the Pa’s sorry, either. ’Cause Cal had saved him while the Pa had him taken!
Though, Cal knew it also—without that taking, Cal would’ve found no Moss. He moved from the Pa quick-fast and went to Finn instead. “Sail the boat gone,” he said firm. “Now.”
He did not look back at the sick man. Let the Pa suffer in the new world, just as Cal had suffered in his! He would come back to Moss, instead.
Moss felt the boat’s deck beneath her, and the shake and lick and warmth of her dog. She heard voices she knew. The other boy—Tommy—was staring at her. Was he the one who’d pulled her over the side from the water? He looked at her, concern through his face. Full-sure, he was alive. Healthy, even.