Oracle--River of Ore Page 2

  “Good grief,” Ana mumbled to Paige at her mom’s fickle nature. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “What’s that?” Paige wondered, pointing at a strange-looking thing that had just appeared on the horizon. The Cooper women immediately fixed their attention on the faraway object. It lay directly in their path, mostly westward but also a bit to the south, and still well ahead of the fleet of ships that the balloon was pursuing. With each passing second, the unidentified destination grew in width, like an approaching landmass. Given their aerial perspective, the basket riders could see beyond the periphery and a bit inland.

  “It looks like...” Ana guessed, squinting, “...almost like a rainbow.”

  “Yeah, sorta,” Paige somewhat agreed, “or like an oil spill or something.”

  “It certainly is colorful,” Pauline added.

  “What’s all the hubbub about?” Mr. Coy, the adventure lover, chimed in merrily, leaving Ret’s side and striding over to where the ladies all stood staring.

  “There’s something strange up ahead, Dad,” Paige instructed, pointing past the ships, “way out there.”

  Mr. Coy had scarcely laid his eyes on the object in question when his entire face turned white as a ghost. In an instant, it seemed all the life and love had been sucked out of him, leaving him a stone-cold statue. For many moments, he neither blinked nor breathed.

  “Dad,” Paige pressed, having glanced back to make sure he was looking in the right direction, “are you okay?” No reply. “Dad? DAD!”

  Suddenly, Mr. Coy became conscious again, inhaling like a desperate swimmer would gasp for air. He looked at no one, his eyes wide and pupils tiny. He was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. A phantom stressor had seized his psyche; a locked-away memory had punctured his heart.

  “Turn the balloon around,” Mr. Coy demanded in no uncertain terms.

  “But, sir—” Ishmael began to protest.

  “I said turn around!” Coy barked. “That’s an order!”

  “Yes, sir,” Ishmael obeyed. “Forgive me.” Silence prevailed for a second or two as the vessel commenced to turn.

  “Is everything alright, Dad?” Paige asked cautiously.

  “We’re going home,” Coy announced coldly, rummaging through his supplies.

  “Say what?” Ana balked.

  “Going home?” Paige questioned.

  “You can’t be serious,” Pauline put forth.

  To everyone’s chagrin, Mr. Coy made no answer. Ishmael had nearly completed the turn.

  “But, Dad,” Paige persevered. “Why are we going home? Are we in danger?”

  Pauline joined in, “What are you so worried about all of a sudden?”

  “Is there some leprechaun monster up ahead on rainbow land or something?” Ana mocked.

  Rather than acknowledge their concerns, Mr. Coy continued to sift through his belongings, as if searching for something.

  “What about Lionel?” Paige interrogated.

  “The heck with Lionel,” Ana interjected, “what about my dad?”

  “Yes,” Pauline asserted, their tones collectively growing more impatient, “my husband is...er—could be—on one of those ships. I demand an explanation.”

  Rummaging.

  “Ishmael,” said Ana, directing her pleading to the person who was literally in charge of the craft, “never mind what crazy Coy said. Turn this baby back around, and let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Ishmael,” Coy warned, waltzing to his side with two oxygen masks in hand, “you have your orders.” He shoved one of the masks into Ishmael’s hands, who promptly put it over his face.

  As much as Ret wished to participate in the ongoing protest against Mr. Coy’s unfounded decision, he was thoroughly distracted by something much closer at hand: a new scar had quite suddenly illuminated on the palm of his left hand. In fact, he began to feel it light up at precisely the same moment when Paige had pointed out the curious object on the horizon, which is why he never came over to gawk at it with the rest of them, choosing instead to study his new scar. It was adjacent to the mark of the moai statue, which, now that the fire element had been collected, was still fully visible but not luminescent. Eventually, Ret stood and turned to face his comrades to announce the exciting news.

  But the scene before him was one of mutiny, the three females in an uproar. While Ana was trying to tear the controls away from Ishmael, Pauline was following Mr. Coy’s every step like a bloodhound, her lips flapping and finger pointing, with Paige unsure of what to do.

  At the height of the chaos, Pauline grabbed Mr. Coy’s head, ripped off his oxygen mask, and slapped him square across the face. The sound of her smack made the clouds gasp and echoed in the heavens. Everyone abruptly stopped and stood motionless, waiting for Mr. Coy’s reaction.

  Mr. Coy, who had scarcely winced, closed his eyes for a few seconds, still facing Pauline, who had her white-knuckled hands positioned on her sturdy hips. His assaulted cheek was growing rosy, and a fresh scrape had appeared where Pauline’s wedding ring had struck his skin. Opening his eyes slowly, Mr. Coy raised a clenched fist, and, for a moment, it looked like he might retaliate, despite Pauline’s unflinching scowl. Instead, he opened his fist and dropped a small canister that, upon hitting the ground, exploded and released a high-pressure gas, which quickly filled the basket and immediately put to sleep every unmasked person.

  Mr. Coy, still holding his breath, bent down to retrieve his oxygen mask and remarked, after putting it on, “I can’t stand that woman.”

  “You hide it very well,” Ishmael commented through his mask.

  Mr. Coy spent the next few minutes tending to the balloon’s snoozing passengers. He straightened out each of the bodies that had slumped to the floor, then outfitted them with a blanket and pillow to ensure their comfort for the long journey home. He did so gently, even though the extra-strength gas would ensure their unconsciousness long after they returned home. The group was much more agreeable now that they were asleep.

  Instead of chasing a setting sun, they were now fleeing from it, and the sky quickly faded to blackness. Knowing it had been a very long and strenuous day, Mr. Coy offered to relieve Ishmael at the helm, recommending he get some rest. Ishmael gratefully obliged and promptly joined the others in deep slumber.

  At last, Mr. Coy was alone with his thoughts—his terrible, dreadful, lonesome thoughts. For miles upon miles, he stared hopelessly into the pitch blackness above, below, and all around him, haunted by bad memories and taunted even more so by the good ones. Warm tears dribbled down his cold, windswept face, the tiny liquids belying the vast volume of grief they represented. His regrets knew no mercy.

  Owing to a lesson he had learned long ago to never travel the same route twice when conducting questionable business, Mr. Coy purposely bent the balloon on a return course that was completely different from the one they had taken to get to Fire Island. Rather than heading north and hugging the coastlines of Peru, Ecuador, and Columbia, Mr. Coy steered the airship south around the bottom tip of the South American continent. Still choosing to float a ways off shore, he rounded Cape Horn, then bore north along Argentina, Uruguay, and Brazil. In the darkness of night, the land’s great coastal cities sparkled and shined, each as sleepless as was Mr. Coy. Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro, Recife—he had been to them all, which only exacerbated his hemorrhaging heart.

  In its constant drift northward, the balloon at length came upon the wide delta where the monstrous Amazon River poured into the Atlantic Ocean. Mr. Coy recognized it quite easily, where large islands sit in a massive mouth fed by sprawling tributaries. He gazed upon it only briefly, however, because a light glowing nearby had caught his attention. It was coming from Ret, who was lying on his back with his hands on his chest. Knowing the effects of the sleeping gas would not wear off for several more hours, Mr. Coy inched closer to investigate, expecting the light to be coming from a neglected wrist watch or ignored cell phone.

  Finding Ret sti
ll sound asleep, Mr. Coy unfolded his limp hands. They were empty, but the light persisted. And then he saw it: a new scar, shining brightly on the palm of Ret’s right hand, just next to the clearly visible scar of the hook and triangle that had led them to Sunken Earth. Coy analyzed the new scar for several moments, but, as usual, it neither rang bells nor jogged memories. In fact, only half of the scar seemed to be lit. Vexed, he replaced Ret’s hand and returned to the balloon’s control panel, relieved at least to have finally found something to take his mind off other things. A few miles later, the lighted scar faded away completely until it was again indiscernible.

  For the remainder of the return trip to Tybee, Mr. Coy’s thoughts ran wild, while Ret’s dreams did the same, both unaware that they each had seen a different new scar.

  CHAPTER 2

  A PIECE OF WORK

  The Coopers awoke in their own beds the next morning, each incensed to find they hadn’t been dreaming.

  “That lousy snake!” Ana yelled as soon as she opened her eyes. “He drugged us—he actually drugged us. What a big ninny!” She stormed into Ret’s room. “Can you believe that guy?”

  Ret rolled over, still half-asleep.

  “I mean, I’m a reasonable person,” Ana continued, starting her usual methodical walk as she thought out loud. “I was willing to talk it out.” She straightened a strand of her disheveled hair as she passed the mirror on Ret’s dresser. “But he wasn’t even willing to discuss it—he didn’t say a word. Come on; be a man!”

  “He was being coy,” Ret mumbled into his pillow, sharing his sister’s sentiments. “It’s what he does best.”

  “Well, frankly, I’ve had quite enough of it,” Ana asserted. “I want nothing to do with that man; my nerves can’t tolerate any more of his...of his...” then, finding the right term “any more of his shenanigans.”

  Impressed, Ret remarked, “Nice word choice.”

  “Yeah, well,” Ana steamed, “I can think of a few other choice words that I’d like to—” Just then Pauline appeared in the doorway.

  “Good morning,” she said pleasantly, untying her cooking apron from behind her back. “If you two can collect yourselves, I’d love for you to join me at the breakfast table.”

  “Super,” Ana cheered, leaving the room. “I’m so hungry I could eat a house.”

  “You mean horse?” Ret corrected, following her downstairs.

  “Same diff.”

  Their modest table accommodated four but always saw three, all of whom sat in their usual seats. As prescribed by propriety, Ret was last to serve himself a stack of waffles, then waited for his turn with the syrup and fruit topping.

  Ana picked up where she had left off. “Why do you think Mr. Coy acted so—”

  Pauline held up her hand to silence her daughter. “I don’t want to hear another word about what happened,” she said sternly. “I know you’re upset; we all are. But not another word—do you understand, young lady?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Ana, correctly interpreting her mother’s tone.

  “Now,” Pauline continued in a softer voice, “let’s talk about something else, shall we? Let’s see...” She groped for a new subject—any new subject but the current one. “...School resumes on Monday.”

  “Lame,” Ana responded, her mouth full of waffle.

  “The day before that is New Year’s,” Ret pointed out.

  “Of course!” Pauline celebrated. “Let’s figure out some New Year’s resolutions!”

  “Lamer,” Ana moaned.

  “Ana’s birthday is coming up,” Ret added.

  “Now we’re talking!” applauded Ana, suddenly springing forward in her chair. “My sweet sixteen! It’s gonna be amazing.” While she went to fetch pencil and paper, Ret exchanged humored glances with Pauline.

  “This ought to be good,” he whispered, Pauline grinning in agreement.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” said Ana, returning to her seat. “I’ve already got it all planned out. I figure we can rent out the banquet hall downtown for the night—I mean, come on, we’re gonna need lots of space.”

  “Space for what, I wonder?” Pauline asked sweetly.

  “For the dance floor, of course!” Ana explained. “There’ll be a mechanical bull, catered food, a mariachi band—the whole twelve yards.” Ret snorted at Ana’s idiomatic error.

  “A mariachi band, hmm?” Pauline asked.

  “Yeah,” Ana carried on, her excitement building as she added to her list. “The whole school will be invited, so I reckon a mariachi band will span all cultural barriers, you know?”

  “Good thinking,” Pauline said sarcastically.

  “Does that mean there will be a piñata?” Ret teased.

  “No,” Ana dismissed, “but I am working on a design for bilingual invitations: You’re invited to my sweet 16! Mi quinceañera!”

  “Uh,” Ret interrupted, “I think that’s when they turn fifteen.”

  “Close enough,” Ana said, undeterred. “I still need to find a dress, make party favors, schedule a manicure—” She scribbled each item on her growing to-do list.

  “I admire your ambition, dear,” Pauline finally reigned in, “but I have one question.” Ana, who thought she had covered every jot and tittle, stared at her mother. Pauline asked, “How are you going to pay for all of it?”

  “I knew you were going to ask that,” Ana confessed with sudden disappointment.

  “I’m sorry, young lady,” Pauline apologized without remorse, “but there is no room in the family budget for an extravagant party. We just can’t afford it.”

  “But Mom—” Ana whined.

  “If you want this party to happen so badly,” Pauline informed lovingly, “then you can get a job, and you can pay for it.”

  At the thought of getting a job, Ana fell back in her chair, threw her pencil up on the table, and crossed her arms in defeat. “Then you probably don’t want to hear what else I was going to tell you,” she pouted.

  “Oh?” Pauline said. “There’s more?”

  Suddenly perking up, Ana declared, “I want to get my driver’s license!”

  “Watch out, world,” Ret snickered. Ana flicked a syrupy waffle crumb on her plate in Ret’s direction, and it stuck to his cheek.

  “I think that’s a terrific idea,” Pauline admitted. “I’d be happy to take you down to the DMV next week to get started on the paperwork.”

  “Great!” Ana clapped. “Then, afterward, we can go car shopping!”

  Pauline choked on her orange juice. “Car shopping?”

  “Yeah,” said Ana coolly. “Once I get my license, I figure we’ll need more than one car, considering all the driving I’ll be doing.”

  “And where, may I ask, will you be driving?” Pauline inquired.

  “Back and forth to school,” then, for emphasis, she added, “every single day; and other places—you know, like the movies, dances, beach days, road trips.”

  “You can take the bus to school, you can get rides from your friends, and you won’t be going on any road trips without me,” Pauline insisted.

  “But Mom—”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but you will not be getting your own car,” came Pauline’s terms. “You can use the family car.”

  “That hunk of junk?” Ana protested.

  “You could always get a scooter,” Ret said as an option. Ana melted in her chair.

  “How about a less expensive one?” Ana begged. “I’d settle for a fixer-upper—you know, a cute old VW bug or something?”

  Pauline shook her head. “A car is a luxury, and they are not cheap. After you factor in registration fees and insurance costs, not to mention the outrageous price of gas, I’m afraid we just—”

  “—Can’t afford it,” Ana completed the sentence. “You’re always saying that, Mom. ‘We can’t afford this’ and ‘We can’t afford that.’ I hate it when you say that!”

  “Well, learn to love it, sweetheart,” said Pauline without sympathy, “because that’s li
fe. If we start saving now, maybe someday we can get you your own car—” then, upon seeing Ana’s eyes light up, she added with emphasis, “—a small, used one. Until then, there’s the family car, and if you’d like to use it, all I ask is that you help pay for gas.”

  “So I’d need to get a job regardless,” Ana surmised unhappily.

  “Precisely,” Pauline smiled. Then she rose from her seat and went outside to get the mail.

  “Too bad about your birthday party,” Ret said now that Pauline had stepped out of the room. “It sounded like a lot of fun.”

  “Oh, Ret, don’t be ridiculous,” Ana shrugged, her energetic fantasies now subdued by harsh realities. “That was all a big act.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” she said broadly. “I knew Mom would never go for it. That’s why I told her about it before I brought up the car idea: I figured she’d feel guilty about not letting me do the party, so she’d be more willing to get me a car.”

  “Well, that plan failed,” Ret observed.

  “Yeah,” Ana sighed, “but it was worth a shot. Besides, who in their right mind likes mariachi music anyway?” Ret nodded in agreement. “I guess this means I have to get a job.”

  Ret reached for the stack of scratch paper next to Ana and wrote the words “Ana’s Car Fund” on one of the sheets in big letters. Then he dabbed his finger in the puddle of unused syrup on his plate and wiped a drop on the back of the paper, providing enough adhesive for it to stick to the drained pitcher of orange juice in the center of the table. He found a penny in his pocket and dropped it into the container.

  “We’re on our way,” he laughed as the copper coin bounced at the bottom.

  Ana grinned appreciatively and said, with a bit of sarcasm, “Keep it coming, moneybags.”

  Tybee High had changed little over the course of the winter recess. While girls and boys reported on new clothes and toys, teachers and administrators reminisced of fun vacations and family get-togethers. When asked what he had done over the holidays, Ret dodged the details by simply stating that he had gone—