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tight to the foam lid of his ice chest,
whirling and buffeting up and up.
A downdraft dashes Lisa onto the
deck of the freighter, and Kirsten crashes
down a moment later. Alby tears himself
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free of Lisa s pocket and scrambles to the
edge to look down, down, down, trying to
catch sight of his sister.
The freighter is now listing and
quaking, pounded by the fury of the wings
beating from every corner of the sky. Lisa
and Kirsten, crawling along the deck, have
found the switch that controls the
freighter s anchor, and the anchor is
groaning down toward the surface on its
impossibly heavy chain.
The crew hears the anchor start to
go, and they are straining against the
force of the wind to reach the girls, to stop
them from stopping the ship.
The great anchor hits the surface of
the water, and an unearthly roar splits the
air. The great ship strains against the
anchor, tipping and pulling against the
great chain that is swiftly unrolling toward
the depths. The ship groans and heaves
and suddenly pulls free of the water,
blown like a million-ton kite on a
thousand-ton string. The crew starts to
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pray, wondering what they could have
done to arouse the anger of the storm.
The eagle readies itself for the final
blow, summoning all its strength and
poising itself for the great crack of
lightning that causes the ship to blaze
with light and a sun-sized spark to blaze
down its length and explode down the
chain toward the irresistible pull of the&
And then everything is still. The
ship, like the punch line of a joke, plunges
down out of the windless sky and smashes
into the surface of the calming lake. The
startled sun beams down on a circle of
gently expanding ripples.
Lisa and Kirsten stare down from
the deck of the ship toward a distant
bobbing speck.
Aboard the speck, a grinning Alvy
holds aloft a dimly glowing mason jar,
attached by a thin copper wire to a fishing
sinker whipped desperately around the
ship s massive steel anchor chain. Good
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job, guys! she yells, knowing they can t
hear. I got him!
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Twenty
It takes the ship s crew a few
seconds to pick themselves up off the deck
and blink at each other to determine
they re not dead, before they go running
out on deck to figure out what s going on
with the anchor. They follow a weird
screeching, whistling sound, and find two
strips of packing tape securely tied to the
railing, and a pair of colorful shapes
disappearing down at the other end.
Weird.
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Twenty-One
They lie on the grass, staring at the
jar. Alvy wants to kick it. Instead, she
holds up a smelt she s been grilling, and
takes a big bite. A tiny, angry spark
sizzles along the jar s copper wire.
It s only fair, she tells the jar. I
did your dirty work, now you can do some
of mine.
The light in the jar throbs with
frustration. Alby wishes she d stop doing
that. It makes his hair clench.
Oili s voice echoes out of the trailer:
I m ready. Bring him in.
Lisa picks up the jar, and hobbles
with it over to the open trailer. She passes
it down to Oili, who patters off with it. In
a few seconds, the trailers lights come on,
and everyone applauds.
Oili comes out, looking pleased. He
turned red, but he s working all right, she
says.
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Twenty-Two
Don t you think this is a little
conspicuous? Lisa asks.
The trailer is moving smoothly down
the road, the warm air of the summer
night blown back toward them by the
three dozen electric fans they ve got
harnessed up there like horses, the force
of the fans pulling the trailer down the
road. The fans purr softly, happy to be on
the move. Oili is watching them, a smug
and happy look in her eyes.
Lisa and Kirsten have their heads
out the skylight, enjoying the breeze. Do
you think Mom and Dad will have noticed
we were gone? Kirsten asks.
Alby and Olli are up on a shelf,
sleeves rolled up, side by side, wiping
wrenches down with mineral oil and
arranging them by size. Alby is pretty
sure his collection is bigger, but Olli has
some unusual ones he s never seen.
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Alvy is sitting by herself in the very
back, bathed in a dim orange glow. It
wasn t really a vacation, she thinks, but it
was something. She looks at the jar.
Keep it up, she tells it. It will be good to
get back home.
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Thanks to:
Ted Cushman and Andrea Selese Carlson
for help with the underlying folklore.
Anders Matney for help with ornithology
and ecology. Any inaccuracies are mine
not his (for example, the only caribou on
the North Shore are imaginary ones.)
Ryeon Corsi, Josh Ferguson, Ed Vogel and
the Bisco Kid for early encouragement and
incisive comments.
My editor Marisa Ring. This story's faults
remain because I have ignored her advice
in my vanity and sloth.
Peet Fetsch (aka Cork Leg Nelson) for
energetic and implacable design work.
www.corklegnelson.com
Mozhi my prosthetic right brain.
Rachel for unwavering confidence and
support.
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Cover Illustrations CC-BY-NC 2008 by Mozhi
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