“I don’t feel great about this, Cy. Why would anyone be fishing in a storm?”
“It’s not a storm,” Cyrus said. “Not yet, at least.”
For a moment, they were silent, walking in step. And then his sister cleared her throat and coughed.
“Poor Mrs. E,” Antigone said. “If she hadn’t been helping us …”
“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “I know.”
Antigone looked at him. “Does it make you want to quit?”
Cyrus inhaled. It didn’t. And not just because they had nowhere else to go. He shook his head.
“Me neither,” said Antigone. “I mean, she died helping us. If we flunk out or whatever after that … I almost don’t care about getting Skelton’s money anymore. Almost. I know we need it.”
Cyrus said nothing. His sister was right. But he didn’t need any extra motivation, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a thought to Skelton’s estate. Antigone had known sooner than he had — what they’d learned, what they’d seen, what he’d done in the past three days, all of it had changed who they were. But he knew that now. Collecting tires would mean nothing. Sneaking into his school’s gym would be as exciting as sleeping. They could never go back to who they’d been before.
He wasn’t leaving Ashtown, not even if it meant studying something.
In front of them, the grass jutted out in a long row of flat-topped mini-plateaus, each one as big as a house. Between these, the slope continued more steeply, down to a long, level stripe of grass — the airstrip. Cyrus and Antigone jogged down. When they reached the airstrip, they stopped and looked back. Dozens of underground hangars were set into the hillside, with the grassy plateaus for roofs. Most of the doors were closed, but a few were open, revealing crowds of pristine vintage planes and clusters of jumpsuited mechanics.
Diana Boone stood beside the nearest one. She was wearing a ragged leather jacket over a jumpsuit, her hands were on her hips, and she was watching four men winch a pale-blue plane with a green underbelly back into a tight space in the small hangar. Beneath the glass cockpit, the plane’s name was painted in swooping red letters:
Frustrated, Diana shook her head and cupped her hands. “Wingtip, Edward!” she yelled. “You’ll clip the Bearcat!”
The man at the winch looked up. His gray jumpsuit was spotted with stains.
“Get out of here, Di!” he yelled. “Your Tick’s fine. Leave, or I’ll roll all your birds out into the storm and walk away.”
Cyrus opened his mouth to yell, but Antigone grabbed his arm and pulled him back around.
“Not now, Cy. No distractions. We’re going to the jetty.” She dragged him a few steps before he shook her arm loose and kept stride. “And you’re twelve,” she added.
“Practically thirteen,” Cyrus muttered. “And she probably thinks I’m older than you are. I’m taller and less snotty.”
Antigone laughed. “Right. You’re Captain Wonderful. Dream a big dream.” The two of them crossed the airstrip and let gravity lengthen their strides down the slope.
The harbor was full of bobbing sailboats. Sails had been lashed to masts. Smaller motored craft had been lashed into slips along a boardwalk. Some had been cranked up out of the water on metal lifts.
The stone jetty was empty of all but a few shapes. A dripping wet boy and girl were stepping off of it holding a large bucket between them that was splashing madly with something. A woman was running through a crisp routine with two signal flags for the benefit of a distant boat, and then consulting a large pair of binoculars before continuing her gymnastic conversation. At the very end, where wind-swollen lake waves were sending up spray, someone — man or woman — was slumped in a wheelchair with two fishing poles mounted to the hand rests.
“And,” said Antigone, “there’s our guy.”
As they approached, Cyrus could see that the spray was actually reaching the old man. A sopping blanket covered his legs, his chin was tilted forward onto his chest, and his hat had blown off.
Water dripped down his sun-mottled skin and off his beaked nose.
“Is he dead?” Antigone asked.
Cyrus tapped the man on the shoulder. “Hey! You’re not gonna catch much in the storm.”
“Cyrus …” Antigone leaned all the way over the man. A wave washed into the jetty and splintered on the stones. “He’s not breathing, Cyrus. He’s dead. He is. Call someone!”
“Who’s dead?” the man sputtered. “Where? Don’t just stand there! Dive in!”
Antigone jumped backward. Exhaling slowly, she closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked up at the sky.
“I’m sorry,” Cyrus said. “Mr. Douglas, right? We were worried about you. My sister thought you weren’t breathing.”
The old man’s sparse hair was matted down on his scalp. His skin was the color of spotted greasy cardboard, and his needle eyes hid in the shadows of badly organized coal-and-ash eyebrows. He glared at Cyrus, and then turned to Antigone.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. You really scared me. Of course you were breathing. I just … never mind.”
“I wasn’t breathing,” the old man said. Water dripped from his unevenly stubbled chin. “Hardly ever breathe. Only when I need to talk, or when young bits of skin come rouse me from my diving.”
“Your diving?” Cyrus asked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean my diving, you giblet. I was fifty meters down, floating with my bulls, sometime in the summer of fifty-two. They’re still down there, wondering where I’ve got to.”
“Right,” said Cyrus. “Well, we heard you might be willing to be our free-diving tutor.”
“Your what?” the old man asked, squinting. “What summer is this, anyhow? Not fifty-two. Nope. Nope. This is a wheelchair and my hands look half in the grave. I’m no tutor, and never would have been to a pair like you. Scurry on, boyito. Leave me be.”
Cyrus’s mouth snapped shut, molars grinding.
“What bulls?” Antigone asked, shooting her brother an eye warning. “What did you mean, ‘floating with my bulls’?”
“Sharks, lovely.” The man showed her his false teeth. “Bull sharks. Some people have dogs. I had sharks. Keepers didn’t take kindly to them. Tried to spear every last one. I cried for a week, and I don’t mind saying it.” He looked back out over the lake.
Cyrus moved around to face the man. “My name is Cyrus Smith, and this is my sister, Antigone. We have to achieve the 1914 standards for Acolytes — it’s a long story. And that means free diving. Can’t you help us? Maybe start by telling us what free diving is.”
The man sneered.
“Oh, we know what free diving is.” Antigone shrugged, trying to seem casual. “If you don’t want to help, that’s fine. It seems easy. We’ll manage.”
“Ha!” The man snorted. “The dusky beauty says it’s easy. Can you hold your breath for ten minutes? Can you walk on the bottom of this lake in nothing but your skin? I can. I have. I will again.”
Cyrus looked at his sister. She crouched beside the wheelchair, staring into the old man’s eyes. And then she smiled. “Mr. Douglas, I don’t believe you.”
The old man laughed. “You think I’m dumb? You think I don’t know what you’re tryin’, girlie? Spray me down with a pretty smile, and then doubt me till I’m itchy? Maybe sixty years ago, that works. Not now. Keep your smilin’ to yourself. Now it’s all about making a fair trade.” He smirked. “I’ll tell you what — if you throw me in the lake right now, we got a deal.”
Antigone straightened and crossed her arms, taking in the wheelchair and the man’s skeleton arms. “No way.”