Lisica Chapters

Thanks for joining us on our Scientist Soap Opera escapist journey to the mysterious island of Lisica! You can find previous episodes in the link above or column on the right. Please don’t forget to subscribe and leave a comment if you enjoy what you find!

Audio for this chapter:

8 – Hold On

Flavia returns from a mid-day shower, her skin prickling with cold. She has started taking them twice a day, growing addicted to the sharp pleasures of the clean water slapping her with the weight of gravity. It shocks her and brings her out of her deep reveries in ways nothing else can. Because when the maths start flying around in her head and logic chains bolt themselves together at nearly subconscious levels, she might as well be in a coma hooked up to an IV.

But now. Yes. Back in the real world. And it is beautiful here. She has always loved the California redwoods. She even had a poster of them above her bed in primary school. So to live among them for a few weeks is a dream. And the people are not so bad at all. A very interesting mix. They also distract Flavia from her work, which she needs from time to time so that when she resets she can see her current coding problems from a different perspective. She just needs inputs of time and near-random real world sensation to gain that new observer status, like in the thought experiment about the viewpoints of travelers as their spaceship approaches c, light speed. So, brief investment now made in the real world, she can return to her dynamic interior abstractions with renewed purpose.

Except it is not to be.

She hears the sobbing of a woman while she is still pushing her way through the underbrush. Flavia stops. The scientist in her wants to withdraw and let this woman have a moment in peace. But, despite the efforts of Esquibel and a couple others, Lisica is nothing like a professional setting, and her cultural instincts take over. She hurries to the base of a huge redwood, circling around its roots. Flavia recognizes Maahjabeen’s hoarse voice and muttered Arabic, desperate questions to herself, before she sees her. But it is too late to stop now. She steps over the last root. “Maahjabeen, no, no…” She reaches out a hand.

Maahjabeen is wringing her hands together, shaking with grief. She allows Flavia to console her, leaning her head against her shoulder, weeping even more heavily. Her headscarf comes loose and Flavia makes sure to keep it in place while the woman in her arms cries it out.

After a few minutes, Maahjabeen pulls away and wipes her eyes. “Thank you, Flavia. Thank you very much.”

“Of course. Whatever I can do. If you need to talk or…”

“It is March twenty-ninth today. It is the one year anniversary…” And then Maahjabeen falls into Flavia’s arms again, overcome. After another bout of grief passes, she manages, “Today, a year ago, my mother died. In her car.”

“Oh, terrible. So sorry.” Flavia kisses the top of her head, holding her tight, imagining losing her mother—that force of nature—to a car accident in Bologna. Her heart goes out to Maahjabeen.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone. I thought no one would find me here. I just wanted…”

“No. Please. Whatever other problems we have, Alonso is right. We are family now. A big Cuban family. For eight weeks. Just let me know whenever, and you can tell me about your mama and I will make you a nice espresso. Whenever you like, okay? Maybe I even check up on you sometimes, eh?”

“I miss her. And I miss being home. I was supposed to be back in Tunis for this day but I took this job instead. I wasn’t ready. I’m not ready to go back. My family doesn’t understand. I just don’t—I can’t handle grief the way they do, all together in a big crowd. It is too much. And they just want me to settle down and get married. I was supposed to, but it didn’t work out. No, I need to think my way through my problems, in silence, out on the water. That’s how I handle things.”

“The curse of the scientist.”

“Big Cuban family, eh?” Maahjabeen stops another sob with a gulping laugh. “That is crazy. This whole thing is crazy.”

“So far. Very crazy. I am sorry you can’t get out on the ocean.”

“Oh, I haven’t given up yet. If killer whales and Zodiac pilots can navigate it then I can too. In fact, it’s looking more calm today than I’ve seen so far. If this trend continues then I might get my big chance soon.”

“Killer whales? Out here?”

“I’ve seen them. I think it’s a local pod because they haven’t gone away in three days. I hope they’re still out there when I finally get my kayak past the breaks.”

“And by then I hope to have a working alpha of Plexity for you to use. Input your data, everything about the sea.”

They stare at each other, expressionless. Finally, Maahjabeen says, “You don’t really believe it will work, do you?”

“It’s not that it won’t work,” Flavia shrugs. “I just don’t see the purpose. All the data points we collect will be so contextual it will be meaningless. It is like how you can’t ever draw a map at perfect resolution because then it needs to have all the same features of the original—”

“Which means it has to be the same size, yes.”

Flavia shrugs, philosophical. “In the end, I am happy to be here to support Alonso and his recovery. And this will look very good on my CV. I just wish it was… ten days instead of sixty. Imagine, if we were already wrapping up and going home the day after tomorrow with all our new findings? I would say this was a perfect trip. But fifty more days of this? Eccch. I don’t know.”

“At least they stopped playing the music all night.” Maahjabeen stands, a fluid and graceful movement. She pulls Flavia to her feet and gives her a sharp but brief hug. “You are so nice. Thank you for letting me share my memory of my mother.”

“Of course. Our mamas live forever in our hearts.”

Ξ

Mandy brings a box to Katrina’s tent. “Hello-o-o…? I found it.”

Katrina, from within, grunts. “Uh. Perfect timing.”

“Is it? It doesn’t sound like it is.”

“Just finishing my third nap of the day.” The door unzips and Katrina rolls out, blinking. She was hoping she could just spend the whole day nursing her hangover but evidently her destiny says no. Mandy won’t leave her alone.

“Impressive. Three naps before noon. You’re like a cat.”

“Meow.” Katrina stares impassively up at Mandy, who senses the tiniest trickle of electricity between them. Or is that just projection? The lean and lovely Australian girl is very much Mandy’s type. And even though she spent last night in the arms of a male of the species, Mandy noted from the morning gossip that their clothes had stayed on. Perhaps there’s a chance. Katrina is just so damn cute. Mandy hopes she gets invited to the next dance party. “So what you got there?”

This breaks the spell. Mandy starts, then giggles. “This is my baby. Can I show you my baby?”

Katrina laughs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand like a toddler. She sits up. “God, we’re such nerds. Yes, please show me your baby, Doctoral Candidate Hsu.”

Mandy giggles again and opens the cardboard flaps. She brings out a whirlygig looking device, mainly a rotary fan studded with modules and sensors. “This is the all-seeing eye.”

“Wow. Yeh. Sounds like Greek myth. Is your other baby a demon with a hundred hands?” Katrina spins the frictionless fan.

“That’s the anemometer. Wind speed.”

“Zephyr, god of the winds. Got it.”

“Thermometer, hygrometer, barometer, and then this tiny thing contains a miniature digital transmissometer and Campbell Stokes recorder, though they’re really just emulators and they don’t work that well…” She points at each of the modules in turn, grafted to the stem of the anemometer with twisted wire. “Then I route them all through the network card I salvaged off my radiosonde and get a data stream of two kilometers range, line of sight. That should work, shouldn’t it?”

“Salvaged?”

“You didn’t see my weather balloon fiasco yesterday? I sent one up with a sensor suite when the morning was calm. But then those gusts came in hard last night and pulled the anchor out of the sand and crashed it into those trees over there. Total loss. Except for the radiosonde. It fell off on this side of the falls.”

“So where do you want the drone to take it? To the top?”

Mandy nods. “The most unobstructed view possible, as long as I still get signal. I could get the most amazing readings up there.”

“And how are we gonna lift this thing up there? Or anchor it when we drop it? You want it in some exposed spot, I guess?”

“I was hoping you had some ideas. I’ve kind of maxed out all my own resources…” Mandy realizes as she says it that she has made a plan in her mind of working on this with Katrina before she ever asked if she’d actually want to. Oh, Mandy. You’ve done it again. Whenever she realizes she’s being controlling she always flashes to the family dinner when she was like six and Auntie Fiona from the Filipino side of her family laughed at her, “Well doesn’t little Miss Mandy always have to be in charge!” It was supposed to be a corrective moment for her to feel shame and be reminded of her feminine meekness, but the gender-role rankled even then and the retrograde words had only made Mandy stand taller that day. She still doubles down whenever anyone challenges her bossy ways. It’s not her fault that she knows what to do in so many situations when others are at a loss. This is how she always proves her worth.

Katrina finally pushes herself to her feet and lifts the improvised weather station. “Oh, no. Shoot. This is way too heavy. There’s no way we can get it to the top.”

Mandy sags. “It is? I thought I’d made it super lightweight!”

“It’s the batteries. That’s… a lot of batteries.”

“Well, we got to get data the whole time we’re here. Everything we do in atmospheric science is longitudinal, pretty much. So it needs to give a steady stream.”

“But the drone literally can’t lift this package. Its payload is only a small camera, like not even a kilo. This is like three or more.”

“What if I get rid of—? No, I don’t want to do without any of the readings. This is the one snapshot I’ll get. Ugh.”

“Look. The drone can recharge. And the weather station can recharge. As often as we want. We just need to do regular runs. Swap out the batteries. Let’s work it out, Mandy. If this unit was just drawing from one battery, how long would the station last?”

“Thirty-five hours.” Mandy’s answer is prompt. She has worked out power requirements in detail.

“Okay. So we just replace the battery every twenty-four. Every morning it’s our regular chore. Drone fetches weather station. We replace the battery. Drone takes weather station back. Deal?”

“You think that could work?” Mandy doesn’t like all the extra transit that entails. She doesn’t quite believe in drones. A single mistake or dropped signal and the whole thing could crash. She only has one more suite of sensors if these are lost.

“I mean, yeh. We want to get some use out of the drone since we have it. I should be flying it every day.” Katrina pokes several of the junctions she might affix a twine loop or wire hook. “But now we got to figure out like a sling we can put around the whole thing to carry it. So are we agreed? You get rid of those extra batteries and I’ll grab the drone. See if we can figure out how to attach it safely to the gimbal. I’ll be right back.”

Ξ

“Can I get a hand when you have a moment?” Triquet stands at the edge of Pradeep’s platform, studying the young man’s solemn face, the laptop’s blue light casting angular shadows, making him look like the etching of an ancient king.

Pradeep nods slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen. His fingers are blazingly fast on the keyboard, in bursts of input. His spreadsheets are works of art. But sometimes he gets lost pursuing cells, forgetting what he was looking for. And now Triquet has knocked his current target clean out of his head. Oh, where was he going? Something about theOrthione griffenis parasites on West Coast mud shrimp populations?

After a long awkward silence, Triquet gives up with a curtsy and turns away. The vintage housedress they wear is a sturdy turquoise brocade with a scoop neck, already showing signs of serious wear from all the hard labor down in the sub. But the pearl choker still gives the outfit class, regardless of how filthy and torn it gets.

“No. Wait.” Pradeep sets his laptop aside and sits up. “Sorry. I’m coming, Doctor. Just let me get my sandals.”

“Boots, please.” Triquet stops and waits for Pradeep to put them on. “God, look at those monstrosities. Modern hybrid hiking boots are so ugly. They just look like six year-old sedans parked at a suburban mini-mall. Designed for dads who ‘hike’ by bringing the cooler to the kid’s soccer game. And what is that color? Plum? Burgundy? It just goes oh so well with the dark suede.”

“Done.” Pradeep stands, grinning at Triquet. “You’ll have to, ah, help me with my fashion some day, Doctor. Not all of us can be as stunning as you.”

“Wolverines. Ten dollars at Goodwill. Ba-zing. ” Triquet lifts a steel-toe work boot, clownishly large on their feet. “What were you working on back there, anyway?”

“Just re-ordering my notes into a more Plexity-friendly structure. Trying to adapt to the new paradigms Alonso has set up. I’ve processed all my latest collections with the new Dyson reader. Now it’s time to get back out on a kayak. But actually I’m thinking my next collection site might be a freshwater sample from the waterfall pool instead. See what micro flora and fauna exist in both locations and then try to figure out why. What are the common factors that allow them to flourish in both places?”

“Ooo that’s a good one. Neat idea.” Triquet leads Pradeep into the bunker, a bustling hive of activity now, with the work tables and clean room and private rooms and kitchen. Triquet weaves through all of it and brings Pradeep to the head of the stairs at the trap door.

“Down there?” Pradeep wonders why it hadn’t occurred to him where Triquet was leading him. Of course it’s down there.

Triquet looks at him with a shrug. “Down deep. Some of those pieces in the trash pile are like steel desks and furniture and they weigh a ton. Didn’t you hear? I hit the jackpot!”

Triquet walks past Pradeep, taking the stairs down one by one. They don’t look back or wait for him. There is only the expectation he will follow. Triquet opens the door at the bottom and Pradeep is relieved to see the room beyond is now well-lit. With a deep breath and a shiver he surrenders to the moment and for once lets social pressure overcome his anxiety. Down the stairs he goes.

The sub is so weird. The roof slopes above at a claustrophobic height. It turns out Pradeep is too tall for a sub. He would have never made it in the Navy. Stooping, he grimly follows Triquet’s scurrying form toward the far hatch. It’s nothing but the derelict engine room of a forgotten boat from long ago. There is nothing significant about that, Prad, except what you choose to make significant. This whole sub is just inert steel plates and the detritus of men, rotting in the sand. That’s all it is.

“Watch your head.” Triquet ducks through the hatch at the far end of the engine room and disappears. A yellow line of work lights runs the length of the boat, every other bulb unscrewed to save energy. This leaves room for countless shadows to spring out at him, or slowly transform into rats and spiders as he passes.

Triquet waits for Pradeep in the control room. Is he coming? Finally the young man shuffles down the hall, one hand against the far wall, the other hand holding his phone, its flashlight up full. Triquet frowns, puzzled. “Are you okay?”

“Yes… Just… Let’s just call it poor night vision. Oh my.” Pradeep pulls back from the yawning darkness of the warrant officer’s cabin. He edges along the wall past the Captain’s open door as well. “So what’s in there? That’s all been checked, has it?”

“The Captain’s cabin? Minutely. Although the original crew left scant traces in there. Frankly, I doubt the cabins were used much after the sub was buried. My gut instinct is this thing hasn’t been cracked open since like 1977. Have you not been down here?”

“Uh, not yet.”

“I’m sorry about your night vision. I had no idea. Are you going to be able to do this?”

Pradeep wants more than anything in the whole world to tell Triquet that no, in fact, he will not be able do this. But never, he is not the child he used to be, coddled by his mother and protected from all harm by his vigilant father. He is now an adult, and the night sweats and the panic attacks and the crippling collapse of his ego and will are measurably less intense than they used to be, bolstered by newfound strengths. Experience. That is the weapon he uses to combat these fears. Exposing himself to the world, regardless of how hard it might be. So far, the world has not yet killed him. It hasn’t even given him much reason to panic. What he sees in front of him with his own two eyes is just a room. A sad old room covered in rust. “I can do it.”

“Okay. Down here.” Triquet is fairly certain he’s not getting the whole story from Pradeep, whose mood has gone dark in the span of thirty seconds. But it is not in Triquet’s nature to push. They crouch at the edge of the hatch that opens to the floor below. Then Triquet lowers themself with a few grunts into the hole.

Pradeep closes his eyes. No. That’s worse. His eyes snap open again before the demons can rise up out of the darkness. Stick with Triquet. That’s his best bet. His only bet.

“You can just put one foot on this cabinet. It’s stable.” Triquet’s voice comes up from below. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

Pradeep lowers himself into darkness, feeling like he’s extending his legs into a garbage disposal. They will be shorn off by all the sharp claws that wait in the dark, leaving nothing but gore from his waist down. And the pain will be…

His foot touches the cabinet. He puts weight on it. His body moves even as his mind skirls with panic. Cold sweat sheets his skin. His hands might slip. Careful here. Don’t crash into Triquet.

Pradeep steps down onto the deck of an even narrower room, his face gray, his hands shaking. Triquet blanches. “Oh, dear. Are you sure you’re okay, Pradeep? You look ill.”

“I’m fine.” But Pradeep’s eyes are wide, as if he is afraid to blink. “Fine. Now what did you need help with?”

Finally, belatedly, Triquet remembers Pradeep describing his overactive imagination. This isn’t about his vision at all. “Oh. Ohh… Shoot. This place is really weirding you out, isn’t it?”

Pradeep grimaces and drops his head. “I’m so sorry. But…”

“No no. I get it. It freaked me out too at first. It’s hard to get used to, for sure. No, fair knight.” Triquet curtsies again. “I should have marked it. My deepest apologies. I release thee from my service. Go forth and return to thy spreadsheet labors.”

Pradeep stubbornly shakes his head no. “Uh, look, you got me all the way down here, Triquet. Let me at least be useful before I go. I do have to live with myself, you know.” He is glad he got the words out but Pradeep wishes he’d been able to utter them without clenching his teeth.

“Look, doll, anxiety is a real thing.” Triquet cocks their head in concern. “There’s no shame in it. It’s a big scary world out there and us big dumb apes just aren’t wired properly for it.”

“But the only way to re-wire,” Pradeep steps more fully into the room like he’s wading through deep currents, “is to force your brain to deal with new situations. If this is just circuitry then give me new circuits. Come on, brain! When I was a kid I couldn’t even stand up. Panic was so much nausea and like vertigo that…”

Pradeep sways and leans against the steel cabinet. His eyes flutter. But he sees something he didn’t expect. Everything down here has been neatly stacked and ordered, the garbage sorted and cleaned, small pieces set up in fussy knolling order on the shelves. All he’d heard was that it was a dump down here. That’s what he’d expected. But the floor is now bare in a narrow network of aisles, winding through tall stacks of like materials. The work lights are bright. The air carries almost no scent.

“It’s okay. It’s okay…” Triquet puts a slim hand on Pradeep’s shoulder to steady him. “Deep breaths, Prad. If you’re gonna fight it, you’ll need nice deep breaths. The crazy thing is how fresh the air is down here. That’s what I’m hoping to track down next. I still haven’t been able to follow the current down here. And I think that is the reason why.” Triquet points at a large steel bookshelf against the far wall. It has been cleared of its adjustable shelves and all that they held. Now it’s ready to be moved.

Pradeep nods, his pulse pounding in his ears. Best to get on with it. Now, what might be hiding in this corner back here? Snakes? He scans the floor. “I’m glad you made me wear boots.”

“Don’t worry. Nothing back there. I checked myself.”

“Right. Well here goes.” With far too much fearful anticipation for his own good Pradeep pushes his leg behind the corner of the bookshelf and drops his foot grimly on the ground. It lands solidly. No wet bursting carapace of some spider monster. No twisting writhing serpent grasping at him. Nothing. “Okay. Ready.” Shame and anxiety course through him in equal measure. “Where are we taking it?”

“Not much room down here. I think we just swivel it as much as we can against this curved near wall. It will have to be temporary. Okay. On three? One. Two.”

They lift, Pradeep walking his end in a wide arc. The air, which had only been a soft current before, now gusts into the room, smelling distinctly of the sea. It comes through another hatch that has now been revealed, this one half-open. The darkness of a further room doubles back under the floor of the sub above.

“Of course,” Triquet mutters. “Of course it does… Just like in the diagrams. Now where does this one lead?”

Triquet ducks through the hatch into darkness.

Ξ

“Is Triquet still downstairs?” Mandy is flushed, windswept. Amy stands in the kitchen opening a can of tomato paste. She admires the girl’s long black hair with its glossy sheen. Amy’s hair used to do that. Before she got old and decrepit.

“Uhh… I suppose so. They took Pradeep down there a while ago. I haven’t seen them come back up.”

“Storm coming. Big one.”

“Oh! Uh, that’s no fun… When?”

“Good question. I’m guessing soon. We should get them out of there. I’m still worried about flooding.”

Amy puts down the can. “Right. You want me to get them?”

“No, I don’t need you to—”

Miriam leans into the bunker. “Mandy? Are you in here?”

“Yes?” Mandy turns toward Miriam.

“Didn’t you say there’s a storm coming?”

“There is. Every sign it’ll be a big one too.”

“Can you please tell Maahjabeen? She’s trying to take her kayak out on the water and she won’t listen to me.”

“What?” Mandy squawks and hurries out of the bunker.

Amy nods. “Yeah. I’ll get the other two downstairs then.”

Mandy sprints out of camp across the sand, waving her arms urgently. Maahjabeen is already in her spray skirt, pushing her craft out into the lagoon. “Hey! Stop! Wait, Maahjabeen!”

But the oceanographer only has eyes for the glassy calm of the lagoon and the muted swells of the open sea. Mandy runs up to her as she pushes off, gliding out of reach. Annoyed, Maahjabeen puts one blade of her paddle deep in the water and pivots the boat.

“Storm coming!” Mandy gasps. “You can’t—!”

“Yes, I know. But this is my only chance to beat the—”

“Big one! We don’t know what it will do—!”

“Yes, that is why the sea went so flat! How long do you think I have?” Maahjabeen begins to paddle gently backwards away. The window is closing fast. She feels that keenly.

“How long? No! You can’t go out there! Conditions can change at any moment!”

“You aren’t the only one here with a barometer, you know.” Maahjabeen taps a black digital unit attached to her vest. “I can read the sky, even an unfamiliar one. I think I have an hour. Which means I’ll be back in forty minutes.”

“But look at it!” Mandy is appalled that anyone would consider taking a kayak out in these conditions with an advancing line of slate gray clouds on the southwest horizon. “The perspective doesn’t work from here. It’s impossible! Who knows how close it really is? And what it will do to the currents as it advances!”

“I’m staying close to shore, that’s for sure. Look, this storm or the next one. It’s clear this is the only way I’ll ever get out of the lagoon and I’m not staying trapped in here for eight weeks. It’s 1825 hours right now. I’ll be back at 1905 on the dot.”

“Then the next one! Let’s just observe this storm first! See how quickly it advances from initial observations! Come on! I thought you were the safety-at-all-costs one here!”

But the sea is too inviting. A film covers it, muting it, turning it soft and harmless. “Okay. Ten minutes. Just ten.” And with that, Maahjabeen turns her kayak expertly and lunges for the lagoon’s mouth. She is there within a minute, flying across the calm waters with ease. And now she is through! Finally! Out of her cage! The land falls away on both sides and all earthly entanglements go with it. Oh, she only ever feels truly clean out on the deep water!

She finally glides to a halt a couple hundred meters from the breaks. No, she was telling Mandy the truth that she would stick close to shore. Although she may have been less truthful about the ten minutes. Now, which way? To the right, along the southwest coast. That way she will be paddling into the wind. When it picks up is when she can turn back and have the first gusts carry her to the lagoon again. “Good plan, Maahjabeen.” She likes the sound of her voice. It is strong. She recites a prayer aloud, calling for God to watch over her. That sounds good too.

Maahjabeen spares a final glance for Mandy, abandoned on the beach, before she paddles around the western cliff that blocks the lagoon from view. Now she is truly on her own.

She glances nervously over her left shoulder. Yes, that’s a real storm all right. Her barometer is dropping under 1009 millibars. The surf here is simple, a line crashing flat against a wall of stone. She stays above it and rounds a point, to catch just a glimpse of an undulating coast before the closest cliff blocks her view again. But what a view it is! She paddles a bit further out to see it again and carefully takes a photo with her phone. She hadn’t brought her real camera. But it is beautiful, the cliffs of Lisica disappearing up the west coast in green and black folds. Now, to see how far she can get before she has to turn back.

Maahjabeen looks at the oncoming clouds again. Now that she has rounded the point she can see that the storm approaches from the entire southwest, stretching across a good seventy degrees of the horizon. Yes, this is a big storm, boiling up out of the North Pacific gyre in the frozen embrace of the Gulf of Alaska, then wheeling around to hit the island from below. She’s crazy, totally insane to even consider going on.

But Maahjabeen does. Just around one more point. Here, a fractured shelf holds a line of trees running the length of the cliff a hundred meters above her. Beyond that is a cluster of black rock and seaweed that is inhabited by more otters. Then a pair of jagged seastacks stained white with bird droppings. She skirts it all, staying out on the calm open water, and sees a spot along the coast another point ahead that may be hiding an inlet on the far side. That would be a prize, to be able to return with news of another waterfall. But how long does she have? Forty minutes, she said? Turn around after twenty? It’s already been sixteen. She can just push to that last point and take a peek within. Then scurry home.

Yes. Definitely scurry. The storm is noticeably larger and darker than it was when she’d first seen it. She leans in, twisting her core, willing her kayak across the water in a sprint. She is a waterbug skating across the deep gray surface as everything grows dark…

Oh, she may be taking too much time now. And the point is still a bit too far ahead. It is larger and farther than she estimated. And now she has no minutes left. But with one last sprint she might peek around anyway. Maahjabeen drives her boat around the last outcrop only to find that this point is broader than she thought. She’d imagined it as a knife edge like the cliff dividing the lagoon from the open water but this a bluff. Augh! She can’t turn around yet! This may be her only chance! And she can see how the cliff falls away only a few hundred meters ahead.

A fitful wind starts to ripple the sea, pushing on the left side of her face. Go, Maahjabeen, go! Hurry around the final point!

She pushes past the wide bluff and glides free, entering a wide and shallow bay fringed by a strand of pale sand, a white curtain of multiple waterfalls descending from the cliffs behind dropping into dark green forest. It is spectacular. The cliffs are solid walls of fern. She takes as many photos as she can, including one panorama before the strengthening wind makes her platform too unsteady.

Now. Now by the grace of God she hasn’t waited too late. Now is the time to race back over the dark water to shelter. She paddles with more urgency than she ever has in her life, flashing back to the crowd of clueless girls in their red boats and the unconscious one who didn’t know how to roll. She’d paddled as hard then, hurrying to get back to the dock and a full medical kit.

Now she fights for her own life. She rounds the bluff’s southern point to navigate the seastacks and follow the long straight cliff back but her heart quails when this stretch of coast is revealed. In the ten minutes since she’s been here it has transformed. Now the sea foams black and the surf slams against the cliffs with stunning force. She will swing wide, certainly, but the rising wind will push her toward the coast and the currents are definitely picking up. Inshallah, Maahjabeen intones and bends to her task. But it only takes an instant to learn she will certainly die against the cliffs.

She has waited too long. She cannot return to the lagoon.

Maahjabeen sits stupidly in the water, watching the storm rise and the water foam. Finally she rouses herself. There is only one option left. The beach she just left. She can stay there and ride out the storm. It is her only hope.

Maahjabeen turns the kayak once more, using the wind on her rear quarter to push her back around the bluff and even further from every human within thousands of kilometers. She isn’t cold. She has eaten recently and carries emergency rations in the stern hatch. The wind whips up behind her, creating whitecaps, and as she rounds the bluff a terrific gust pushes her away from the beach that just now comes into view. She fights to keep the nose of her craft pointed into the wind. It’s so strong that if she lets it hit her broadside she will roll in a heartbeat. Quickening rollers rise on either side of her, pulled up from the water by the coming storm. It is at her left, looming over her and dominating the sky. Lightning flashes beneath its black curtain.

Now the cold wind knifes into her, chilling her, and the sea boils. Fight! Fight! She had just crossed this water a few minutes before with ease! But now the storm pushes on her, trying to smash her against the bluff behind. She will not let it. She will not.

Maahjabeen struggles timelessly against the freezing wall of wind. Finally she gains the position she needs and glances off it at the closest possible angle to the coast to ride a wave into the bay and across its boiling surface onto the closest stretch of sand. She rips the skirt off its rim as soon as she can and tumbles from the kayak. Another wave, stunning her with cold, slams into her and she screams in surprise. It knocks her from her feet and rolls her away from her boat…

No no no! Maahjabeen lunges and throws her arms around her kayak before it is pulled away by the receding tide. Now she is throughly soaked, sand in all her layers. But she still has the boat. And the paddle. The craft is swamped but she can still drag it high up the beach. Here. She can carry it once she empties it of water.

The surf pounding her into the sand left her in shock, detached from reality. She observes herself as if at a distance. No. This isn’t high enough. The sea might very well cover this entire beach. Put the paddle in the cockpit. Use both hands on the hull. Come on, Maahjabeen! Further up! Further…!

A low shelf rises from the back of the beach a good ten meters, providing a refuge at the edge of the trees. If she can just fight her way up to that shelf then she will be safe. As she struggles with the boat on its vertical face the first fat raindrops hit her back. Oh, here comes the storm for real now. She is in God’s hands and no one else’s. With a heaving gasp she thrusts the boat onto the shelf up above. The rain starts to sheet down, drenching her with frigid drops. Now what will she do? There is no cover up here.

The trees will be too dangerous in this wind. She has another idea. Something she heard once from a friend from Malaysia. The top of this shelf is still sand, in rills and valleys. She finds a lee slope and begins to dig with a broken branch, creating a depression for herself to lie in. Then she rolls the kayak over the top of herself, so that her legs lie in the cold sand and her torso is inside the cockpit where her legs normally are, facing the seat.

With some rearranging she makes it work, with the first aid kit as her pillow and her spray skirt her blanket. She forces wet sand up against the coaming on the windward side to patch the gaps and soon she finds herself in a snug, waterproof shelter.

Maahjabeen is overjoyed at her ingenuity. Relief floods through her. It is not comfortable, but she can survive the night this way. She only has to listen to the rain drumming on the hull and recite some hadiths and this storm will be over in no time.

She did it. She survived.

Ξ

1905. Her watch says 1905 just like Maahjabeen said. But Mandy can’t see her anywhere. She didn’t come back. She said she would but she didn’t and now the seas are rising and the wind is picking up and whitecaps are filling her view. Impossible.

Mandy has never felt more helpless. What can she do? She paces back and forth along the beach as the light fades, fat drops of chilly rain starting to spatter her. She should have made Maahjabeen take a radio. Or like a signal flare or whatever they use out on the water. Mandy shouldn’t have let her go!

Miriam and Amy eventually find her in the dark, drenched and frozen. They appear like two hooded figures of death out of the gloom. But it’s just their rain coats. “Come on!” Amy shouts over the ripping wind. “Get Maahjabeen! We have to get inside!”

“I can’t!” Mandy bawls. “I can’t! She’s gone! She’s out there!”

This strikes both Amy and Miriam dumb. They only look at her with horror.

Mandy falls to her knees. “I tried! I told her not to go! I did everything I could! I—I…!” She collapses in grief, sobs convulsing her. “I told her it would be a huge storm!”

Amy wraps her in her arms and lifts Mandy with her unexpected strength. “She’s shaking, Mirrie. We got to get her inside.”

Miriam nods blankly, still studying the seething water. It’s getting so dark that she can’t even see past the mouth of the lagoon, where dim white surf crashes into black rocks with more force than ever.

Mandy fights them. She can’t abandon Maahjabeen. Leaving means accepting that the woman is drowned. And she can’t do that. She can’t let her go.

Amy and Miriam drag Mandy from the beach.

They carry her into the bunker, the wind flapping against the tarps. But they’ve done a better job of tying them down this time and the bunker is watertight now.

Mandy collapses on the concrete floor. Esquibel exits her room, trying to make sense of the chaos. They are all shouting over the top of each other and Mandy looks like her dog got hit by a car.

Everyone is in here. None have remained on their platforms. The storm is too violent. Upon hearing the tragic news, they all groan in despair. Alonso sits in a chair in the corner, face filled with agony. Flavia covers her face with her hands, unable to bear the details. Finally Esquibel and the others are able to fully piece the story together. Pradeep screeches wordlessly, dragging on his already wet coat, and bolts out into the storm.

“No, Prad!” Amy shouts. “Don’t!”

“We can’t—!” Miriam shrills, “We can’t lose any more! No!”

Jay wants to run after Prad, to haul him back or join him for his search. But his useless fucking ankle prevents him from even standing. He shouts in wordless frustration, the noise swallowed by the howling storm.

Alonso is devastated. Maahjabeen is his responsibility. Her life is in his hands. And he failed her. He brought her to this dangerous place with words of promise but he was unable to live up to that promise. He lied to her. His mind and body are broken. He can’t take care of anyone, not even himself. And now they’re dying because of him. Again. The grief in his heart is unbearably heavy.

The ground shudders from the storm. Lightning strikes hit the beach and thunder shatters the air. The maelstrom impacts the island like a car crash. Flavia screams.

Pradeep stumbles back through the door, soaked to the skin, eyes wild, limbs trembling. “I didn’t—couldn’t…” He sinks to the ground at the base of the wall. “Nobody go out there. I almost couldn’t find my way back.” Huge sweeping gusts dump rain onto the roof. Katrina pulls Pradeep to his feet and starts toweling him off. He can’t stop shivering, repeating the phrase, “There’s no way… There’s no way…” over and over.

Katrina hugs him. “No. There isn’t.”

Pradeep breaks down in her embrace.

Triquet finds Amy at the kitchen, boiling water for tea, her answer to everything. Triquet grabs her arm with a surprisingly firm grip. “We have to be strong. Right now.”

There’s something in Triquet’s face that tells Amy they’ve gone through something like this before and this is the priceless lesson they learned. Amy nods. “Yes. Strong. Yes.” Triquet indicates Alonso, who is so deep in his grief his eyes see nothing before him. He is clearly slipping back into his trauma. “Mirrie!” Amy hurries to his side, followed by Miriam.

“Lost, all lost…” Alonso holds up his hands. “Everyone I touch. Stay away! Or I’ll get you killed!” His eyes are wild, seeing visions that aren’t here. “Charlie, no!”

“Oh my god,” Miriam moans. “No, Alonso! Don’t do that! Don’t get lost in it! Stay here with us! Zo! Zo!” She shakes him.

A high-pitched note of desperate mourning fills the bunker. It is Pradeep, his panic reaching epic levels. He thrashes in Katrina’s embrace, pulling at his hair, his eyes startlingly white and round. “No! No!” It takes all her strength not to let him go.

“Oh mio dio what’s wrong with him?” Flavia shouts, pushing herself away from Pradeep as if his breakdown is contagious.

“It’s just a storm!” Katrina keeps shouting, holding fast. “It’s just a storm! There’s nothing we can do about it!”

They topple on the ground as the wind dies, gathering strength for another gale. But in the momentary silence all that can be heard is Mandy’s sobbing, Pradeep’s desperate panting, and Katrina’s soft words:

“It’s just a storm, Pradeep. We’re helpless. Just a storm. Bigger than us. We can’t do anything but hold on.”