Scar Island(53)

I can do it, he told himself. Even his mind’s voice was breathless and terrified. I can save her! He shook his head and slid his fingers between the taut ropes. I can save him, he corrected himself. I can.

His fingers slid through. He hooked them around the last loop and pulled. It hung for a moment, stuck, then slid loose and the rope went slack and Colin shook his arms free and they both kicked up to the surface.

They tread water for a few ravenous breaths. He’d done it. He’d saved him. Tears were hot in Jonathan’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why. Relief, maybe.

His head bumped something hard and he jerked when he realized it was the ceiling.

“We’ve gotta get out of here!” he shouted. “Follow me.”

They swam through the complete blackness toward the doorway. The water was still flowing down the staircase, pushing them back into the room, trapping them in the rising water.

“Grab the wall with your fingers!” he hollered over his shoulder. “You can hold on to the cracks between the blocks!”

He pulled himself block by block up the staircase, against the current, kicking with his legs. His fingers and arms ached but he made it, finally hooking his hands around the edge of the upper doorway. The water was only shoulder deep there and he was able to brace his feet against the doorway and help pull Colin into the corridor.

They stood for just a moment to catch their breath.

“Do you know how to get back?” Colin asked. “Without any light?”

“I think so.” Jonathan started off, wading through the water, feeling the walls with his fingers.

“Hey,” Colin said, reaching out to stop him. “Thankth for coming back for me. For thaving me.”

“No problem.” Jonathan thought about the swim still ahead, past the Hatch. The water was even higher now. “But I’d save your thanks. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

They made their way through the twisting blackness. Jonathan ran through the mental map in his mind, retracing the path he’d taken three times now, negotiating turns and stairwells and pitch-black hallways. As they rose, the water got more shallow. Eventually, they could move quickly, with the water only splashing around their ankles.

Jonathan led them confidently down a corridor and started to turn, then stopped. Colin bumped into his back.

“Wait,” he said. “I need to warn him.”

“Warn who?”

Jonathan chewed on his lip. The water was still rising. Time was running out. They needed to get back. But he knew he had to.

“Follow me,” he said, and then turned and walked the other way. He knew exactly where he was now and he moved quickly, anticipating stairs before he got to them and turning corners confidently. Colin struggled to keep up.

“Where are we going?”

Jonathan stopped, gasping for breath. He could hear, all around him, rats splashing and flailing in the briny floodwaters.

“There,” he answered, pointing up ahead at the thin line of light gleaming just below the water, shining from under a closed door.

They jogged forward and Jonathan knocked urgently on the door.

It swung open.

“Ah,” the librarian said. “You’ve come back.” His hair was wet, stuck down to his head and over his face in a stringy mess. Wind whistled in the room behind him, tossing a blizzard of pages and papers around in the air. Ninety-Nine shivered on his shoulder, his pink tail dangling down the old man’s chest. Even soaking wet, the rat looked huge. Colin gasped and took a step back.

“Please. Come in. We can find you. Another book.”





The library, always so neat and dry and dustless, was in shambles.

The storm had shattered the windows here, too. Rain and wind howled and blustered inside, soaking the books and ripping out pages and leaving puddles on the floor and bookshelves.

“We’ve gotta go,” Jonathan blurted out, taking a step inside. “And you’ve got to come with us.”

“Oh,” the librarian answered calmly, turning and walking slowly into his wrecked library. “I don’t. Think so. What kind of book. Would you like?”

“No, really, we’ve all gotta go. This is a hurricane. The whole place is flooded. The island’s going under.”

The librarian stopped. He turned and looked at Jonathan in his hunched, twisted way. A small smile rose, just barely, to his lips.

“Yes,” he replied. “I know. It’s the sea. Come at last. To claim her own.”

“Then come on! We’ve got to get out! To higher ground!”

The librarian chuckled.

“Yes,” he said. “You do. The sea. Is coming.” He reached up and stroked Ninety-Nine’s dripping fur. “But I. Am staying.”

“You’ll die,” Jonathan insisted.

The librarian shrugged.

“I have lived. Long enough. I have never left. This island. Where else. Would I go?”

Jonathan shook his head and stammered.

“No … but … but …”

The librarian turned and looked out at the storm through his narrow, shattered windows.

“You must take the other boys. Higher. To the only part of Slabhenge. That will last.”

“What? Where is that?”

“The old lighthouse. Up, up. Up. Above the Admiral’s room. The lighthouse was here. First. Before the asylum. Before the school. It is built on the original stone. The true stone. Of the old island. The rest”—the librarian spread his arms to include the windswept stone structure around him—“the rest is all built on sand. But the lighthouse. Will stand.”