“Even if it washes away,” Finnley says, “it’s not like we have anywhere else to go.”
She’s right, not that it’s much comfort. “Let’s come back to it,” I say. “It’ll be fine for now. Grab the Havenwater bottle and as many emergency bars as you can, just in case.”
Relief flashes in Hope’s eyes, but she makes no comment. We load our arms with supplies and follow Alexa’s footsteps until the sand turns powdery and sticks to our feet. Her footsteps veer toward the stone totem; we veer with them. Alexa studies the tower, dwarfed by its height, by the backdrop of jungle behind it. We join her in the shadows.
“This . . . isn’t the temple, is it?” Hope asks.
“It doesn’t match the description in the field guide, no,” I say. I run my fingers in the carved grooves and curved contours of one of its faces. “The field guide seems to indicate that the temple itself is somewhere deep in there.” I tilt my head toward the jungle.
We stare at the totem. It stares back.
“Ooooookay,” Alexa says. “Have fun staring at rocks—I’m over it.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and walks back toward the surf.
A breeze rustles the leaves; waves lick at the beach. It’s peaceful, serene. Nothing like the place we came from, sand laced with explosives and blood. No officers standing guard, no bullets and no blades.
And yet, the idea of being trapped here—even if it washes away, it’s not like we have anywhere else to go—sends an unseasonable chill through my bones, one that branches from my spine to my ribs and lingers longer than is comfortable.
No one ever prepared me for hope to be so tangled with fear.
ELEVEN
“YOU’D THINK THERE’D be a welcoming committee,” Alexa says as Finnley and I trudge past with the last of the supplies from our boat. Alexa turns over and flops an arm over her eyes. Her torso is coated in sand.
Hope arranges our stash of emergency bars in a neat pyramid beside the tree we’ve chosen as our temporary home, close enough to see the totem, but not so close it’s staring directly at us. There’s a clearing here, just outside the jungle, large enough for the four of us to stretch out side by side. Alexa has been horizontal since the moment we discovered it.
“I’m not surprised it’s like this,” Finnley says, despite the fact that she was so vocal about expecting a greeting of guns and guards. It must not come easily to her to admit when she’s wrong. “It makes sense that the temple would be as far from the shore as possible, and that people seeking sanctuary would have to work for it.” She drops an armful of random items into a hole I just finished digging.
For once, I agree with Alexa. “But wouldn’t people who seek sanctuary be tired—or dying, even? It doesn’t seem fair to make the exhausted work for peace.”
“If someone wants peace desperately enough, having to work for it won’t stop them from searching.”
The three of us turn to look at Hope. She doesn’t speak much, but when she does, people listen. Has she always been like this? How much of her is a product of the war’s chiseling and how much is due to sun-kissed genes, good parenting?
“I do wonder,” Hope continues, “about security. Why isn’t anyone standing guard?”
“Maybe they are. Maybe we just can’t see them.”
Whatever made Hope must have skipped over Alexa.
I glance over my shoulder, suddenly convinced she’s right. Maybe Finnley’s original theory wasn’t so far off after all. I see only trees, an ominous force of them, all shades of green until shadows stain them black. And then there are the hard, dead eyes of the totem carvings.
“Let them watch.” Finnley rummages around in our hole of random items. “Yes,” she breathes, pulling a Leatherman knife from the pile, along with a small box. “We would have been screwed without a blade. And, oh! Waterproof matches, excellent.”
Finnley and I take the lead on setting up camp, mostly because Hope is an enthusiastic follower and Alexa is more interested in sunbathing. Our plan is to first establish a home base, then set off in search of the temple. The island is large and the jungle looks dense. Depending on how well the temple is hidden, it could take an afternoon to find it, or it could take a week. Or longer. Especially with no welcoming committee to guide us.
I flip through Dad’s field guide. “Shelter, fire, food, and water,” I say. “Those seem like the most important things to focus on. How’s the Havenwater doing?”
Hope glances at the display embedded in its side. “Should be good for about four more refills.”
“Okay, so, we should focus on fire before food or water,” I say, “since we’ll need to cook or boil whatever we plan to consume.”
Finnley agrees, which is affirming. She sees the world in black and white, I’m noticing, through a grid of logic. Leaps of faith: not her strong suit. One foot in front of the other, though, and she’s an asset. It’s empowering that she thinks my thoughts are solid ones.
“Eden, you and Alexa should gather some of those long, thin leaves and start weaving mats,” Finnley says. “You said last night that you worked in a silk factory, right?”
That isn’t exactly what I said, but I don’t correct her. The cocoons I tended were used for tech, not textiles—the only similarity there is that they both come from silkworm saliva. Still, I know the basic principles of weaving. I once knew a girl at the silk house who stole a cocoon and tucked it in her pocket when only I was looking. She’d unravel it in the dead of night, then tediously weave the delicate thread into soft, slippery fabric. It was only as big as a bookmark when they caught her behind the silk house, dyeing it mulberry red—so many sins all at once. That was the last time I saw her. I was told to burn it, this beautiful symbol of rebellion, the only thing that got her through each day.
I tucked it into the field guide instead.
Finnley shakes the box of matches, tosses it to Hope. “We’ll collect sticks for the fire.”
“And for weapons,” Hope adds. The word sounds wrong coming out of her mouth. “We can whittle them into spears and use them to kill fish. Or small animals.” She pauses. “Or . . . large animals.”
“Or humans.” Alexa finally looks interested in the conversation, propped up on one elbow. “What?” She shrugs. “We might need to defend ourselves.”
Her confession from the boat—I was the one who set the factory explosions that flushed them out in the first place—has lingered at the edge of my mind ever since. I don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed by her, terrified or in awe.
Mat-making doesn’t sound so unpleasant compared with the far more complicated task I have ahead of me: extracting answers from Alexa.
The only thing that convinces Alexa to move from her place of comfort is the promise of more comfort.