Seventeen

His mom stayed on his case all week and when she wasn’t on his case, she barely spoke to him, while his father—still deeply ingrained in the Yakuma firefight—had not been home for days.

Life at home sucked immensely.

As the fire spread in Yakima, and with his father calling for fresh clothes, a phone charger, and other essentials, Mrs. Dewitt had been forced to leave and bring him the supplies.

“Swear to me,” she said, cornering Edgar, “that you will honor your restriction while I’m gone. That you will go to school and come home and do all your homework and just go to bed.”

“I swear,” he said.

“No . . . catfishing. Or whatever it is you do.”

“Mom, I swear.”

Later that evening, Edgar broke his promise and fell through the Earth deep in thought, wondering why his life was so out of control.

It had to be the hole.

At all times he could feel it calling to him, burning in his blood like desire—to feel the wonderful whir of hot air whizzing through his hair as he plummeted through the Earth, of feeling his weight diminishing to absolute zero. This was his calling. To fall. No matter how bad things ever got—no matter how stressed out he felt—falling would always bring him back. It was the one thing that could bring him peace.

__________

Two minutes out from the other side of the world, he knew something was different this time around. Water droplets began to sting his skin and as each moment passed, the drops became thicker than before, peppering his whole body and making him wet.

Finally, as the opening on the island came into view, he saw only a dim light through the hole—no bright moon or stars, just a swirl of rain and angry, twirling clouds.

When he surfaced on the island and climbed out, immediately staggering backward from a violent gale, he leaned forward and braced himself, digging into the island crust.

Immediately he realized: it was a hurricane!

He spun a circle with arms outstretched and took in the raw power of the swirling monster. Waves crashed the shore and winds screamed from the heavens, and it was all wonderful against his skin. The roar of the world mirrored the roar that raged inside his conscience, of the tempest of guilt that made him an outcast in his own home.

Facing the storm now, it was the best he’d felt in days.

He laughed at its fierceness.

“I caawi!” a strange voice called through the night. It was a human voice, and Edgar’s knees almost buckled from shock.

“I caawi!” the voice called again, this time a bit louder. It was hoarse, weak, and barely audible over the roaring winds, but Edgar could clearly hear it. Though petrified, Edgar reached for his flashlight and shined toward the voice—which was coming from the sea.

At the appearance of the light, the voice began to scream wildly.

“I caawi! I caawi!” it shouted.

That’s when Edgar spotted him. There, drifting quickly by, was a man clinging desperately to a life ring, obviously lost at sea. He must have heard Edgar laughing at the hurricane and now, he was screaming uncontrollably at Edgar to save him. He was shaking his fist at the flashlight and weeping, calling for Edgar in a strange tongue.

“Fadlan!” the man cried.

As the current swept him by, Edgar realized that he was too far from shore to be grabbed. Edgar knew that if he, himself, tried to step into the churning waters he too would be swept away along with the man.

“Hold on!” he screamed, then dashed for his fishing pole. As the man paddled uselessly but frantically toward the island, he drifted even further away. The current was much too strong. Still, the man clamored for shore, screaming and gurgling and flailing his arms.

Edgar pocketed the flashlight and took the pole in his hands, then marched to shore and spread his legs, bracing himself against the hurricane. Then, digging his feet into the wet, rocky sand, he skillfully cast the spoon spinner out into the blackness.

Reeling violently, he yanked the spinner across the seas until its treble hooks snagged true.

“ARRGHH!” howled the man. The hooks were digging into his skin, but he was surely caught.

“I know!” yelled Edgar.

Mumbling a prayer that the eighty-pound test would hold, he slowly and carefully reeled the man in, giving only the occasional slack as the current demanded.

“AHAGA!!” the man gurgled. “ARGGGGHH!”

“Calm down!” shouted Edgar, knowing that if the man kept flailing the line would certainly not hold. If that happened, the drowning man would surely be lost.

The string was tightened to its limits, and it was just about to snap.

“JUST GO LIMP, MAN!” yelled Edgar. It was pointless to yell. He continued to reel gingerly.

Then, suddenly, the line went limp—but not in a good way. Horrified, Edgar dropped the pole and whipped out the flashlight. Shining it on the shore, there, just out of the water, Edgar saw the man, safe and sound. He was weeping bitterly and clinging to the thin beach, collapsing on his stomach, coughing with his face in the sand.

Edgar had done it. He had brought the man to shore.

Braving the gales, Edgar staggered down to the seaside and bent over, giving the muscular man a timid pat on the shoulder.

“Man?” he said. “Are you OK?”

Edgar shined the light on the man’s shoulder and discovered the fish hooks. They were dug in deep by now, and looked gnarly.

“Man,” Edgar explained over the storm. “We’ve got to get those out.” He pointed to the barbs and nodded. Then, from his pocket he withdrew a small a pair of fishing pliers and waved them before the man’s eyes. “See? I’ve got to pull those out, man. Don’t hit me when I do! It’s gonna hurt!”

The man glanced at the pliers and the realization of what Edgar was asking seemed to dawn on him. Wearily, he nodded and turned his muscular back to Edgar, presenting his shoulder.

“ARRGH!” he shouted as Edgar began to twist the hooks around.

“Just be still!” shouted Edgar as the man jerked slightly away. Stabilizing himself, the man nodded and invited Edgar to continue, so he pulled at the shiny hooks some more as the man moaned in pain. Digging into the man’s flesh, he could almost feel the pain himself. He had never had to de-hook a human being before.

The man had velvety-dark skin and a huge, wooly beard. His hair was disheveled and poked out from beneath a sea-washed, camo-green military cap. His eyes were bloodshot and lips deeply cracked from the onslaught of the ocean, like chasms in his flesh. The man’s muscles pulsated with absolute tension as Edgar worked, his soldier’s uniform holding on loosely to his famished frame by mere threads, seeming to suggest he’d probably been suffering from many days lost at sea.

Finally, thankfully, the last of the treble hooks came free from his skin. He slumped on the shore and heaved in the storm, grunting aloud, then nodded his appreciation at Edgar.

“Mahadsanid,” the man said breathlessly.

“Yeah, gotcha,” said Edgar. “But look. We’ve gotta get out of here, man. If we hang out any longer, we’re gonna get blown out to sea! The water’s never been this high!” He pulled on the man’s shoulder and urged him up toward the center of the island. “C’mon man!” he yelled. “We’ve gotta go!”

The man nodded and rose to his wobbly legs, then limped with Edgar to the edge of the hole.

“Look,” said Edgar, explaining their situation. “I know you don’t understand this, but we’ve got to jump down this hole. Right now. It’s the only way out.”

The man’s eyes followed Edgar’s finger and he looked down into the hole, where Edgar was shining the light.

“Yes!” yelled Edgar. “That’s right! Down there! We must go!” He took a demonstrative step toward the edge and pulled gently on the man’s arm to urge him to jump.

“Hey!” he said, feeling something unnatural. “What’s that?”

Edgar’s hand had touched something metallic dangling beneath the man’s shirt.

“Is that a . . . a machine gun?”

Edgar shined the light on the object and, just above the bottom of the green camo shirt, there hung a black, menacing-looking UZI, connected to a strap around the man’s shoulder.

“No,” shouted Edgar, “absolutely not! You can’t bring a gun to Mount Lanier.”

He pointed to the gun and mimicked shooting a machine gun in his hands.

“Qoriga!” the man shouted.

“No!” argued Edgar. “No qoriga!”

The muscles in the man’s face tightened as he glared at Edgar, but Edgar stared back just as fiercely, pursing his lips at the man. For a long moment they glared at one another before the man was pushed slightly backward from a tremendous gale.

The storm was getting worse. Suddenly it seemed to change the man’s mind.

With a slight nod, he reluctantly unslung the machine gun from around his shoulder and dropped it to the wet, crusty ground.

It plopped unceremoniously to the island like a brick.

“Thank you!” shouted Edgar, relief cascading through him. “Now. Let’s go to Washington!”

Edgar pushed the gun slightly away with his foot for good measure, then shined the hole again before giving the man a slight push toward it. The man gazed into it and suddenly, when it occurred to him what Edgar was truly asking, a look of horror came upon his face. He looked up at Edgar and shook his head violently.

“Maya!” he screamed, shaking his head.

“Yes!” shouted Edgar. “You’ve got to! If you don’t jump, the storm is gonna kill you! You don’t have a choice!”

Adamantly the man continued to shake his head.

“It’s the only way out, man!” shouted Edgar, pointing into the hole. He made an “A” with his arms that demonstrated a fake dive into the blackness, but suddenly, the man was stepping backward—away from the hole. He continued to shake his head, arguing with Edgar in the foreign language. “Maya! Maya!” he shouted.

Knowing the situation was quickly deteriorating, Edgar darted toward the man and snatched him by the hand, yanking him backward with everything he had in him. Lucky for Edgar, the man was slow to react, weary as he was. But as Edgar dragged him backward toward the hole, he dug his feet into the ground and bucked wildly.

Even still, Edgar did not let go. He clamped down on the man’s stony hand and yanked and pulled and heaved with everything he had, and after a few moments, he could feel the weight of the weary man budge. As he strained and pulled, caught in this strange tug of war, that’s when the man hit him in the back of his head, his boulder-like fist rocking Edgar like a car crash, and for a moment, Edgar could only see stars.

“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Edgar. “Stop that, dude! I’m trying to save your danged life!”

Wrestling the man to the hole’s edge, Edgar discovered that with each hard-fought step, the man was finding strength. He’d stiffened and planted his feet in the wet sand like an oak, screaming wildly in Edgar’s ear, lifting his strong back in order to obtain balance and not be dragged down into the hole.

But Edgar, like a ball of super glue, refused to let go of him.

That’s when the man heaved and screamed and, nearing the hole’s edge, lifted Edgar out over the surface to toss him in.

“Yeah!” shouted Edgar, “just like that!”

Once the realization that Edgar was not afraid to be thrown into the hole struck the man, a look of abject horror came across his face. Edgar knew he was probably thinking, what kind of crazy kid am I dealing with?

“Just let yourself fall!” shouted Edgar. “You can’t stay here, man! If you do, you’ll be blown back to the sea! You’ll drown or starve, man!”

The man continued slapping at the dangling Edgar with his free hand, kneeing him in the ribs as well. Edgar yelped as the blows crashed against him, but still, he did not let go.

Finally, when there seemed to be nothing remaining in the man’s tank, with one massive, wounded howl, he glared into Edgar’s face and roared like a lion.

“YOU ARE COMING WITH ME!” shouted Edgar, kicking his feet wildly over the hole to topple the man. Just then, a furious wave came sweeping across the sea and the man was plummeted over the edge. Instantly Edgar felt himself dropping with the man into the Earth, and thought to himself, finally. Thank God.

“AAAAAAHHHHH!” screamed the man. Loudly.

The screams did not subside for several minutes. Together they fell in the darkness until the man went hoarse. Then, falling in the sweet silence Edgar floated nearby and rubbed his aching ribs. The man had done some damage, kneeing him several times, hard.

When Edgar rubbed the pain away, he floated to the man. “Sir?” he said, shining the flashlight on him.

The man was unconscious. Edgar hoped he wasn’t dead. He reached out and took the man’s limp hand, then felt for his pulse.

“You’re still alive,” said Edgar, relieved. Then, for good measure, he reached into the man’s pockets and felt for any more weapons.

He just couldn’t bring an armed man up to Mount Lanier.

“You can’t go to Mount Lanier with weapons on you,” he explained to the sleeping man, patting him down further. The search rendered nothing but a silver coin and a crumpled-up picture, all blurry from the salty sea.

“Hey!” shouted Edgar, slapping the man’s face. “Man! Can you hear me? You’ve got to wake up, sir!”

But it was useless. He was out like a light.

“Please!” begged Edgar, quickly becoming frantic, considering the consequences of what might loom ahead. He began to slap the man even harder. “You’ve got to wake up, man! I can’t lift you out of the hole alone!”

But the man continued to sleep all the way through the Earth, that was, until about five minutes out from the cabin. Using a last ditch effort to wake the man, Edgar grabbed a fistful of his camo shirt and slapped him across the face as hard as he could.

The man erupted into consciousness. He gaped at Edgar with wide, wild eyes, both full of fear and bloodshot in the glow of Edgar’s bright flashlight.

“Hey!” said Edgar, the man beginning to look around in horror at the speeding walls. He thrust his hands outward for balance, but Edgar patted him on the shoulder to reassure him.

“I know,” he explained. “You’re still falling. But it will be OK, see?” He floated a bit from the man and shrugged to demonstrated how calm and unafraid he was. He could see the muscles on the man’s body began to soften as he studied Edgar—as he seemed to understand that maybe they weren’t going to hit the ground.

Was the man beginning to trust him?

The man stared at Edgar deeply. Then, he seemed to give a slight nod.

“Mahadsanid,” said the man.

Edgar pointed the flashlight up the hole to demonstrate with his right hand a clawing gesture.

“You’ll have to grab to the side wall when it comes, alright?” he said. Edgar took the man’s arm and drifted them both to the side wall, then placed the man’s hands flat against the speeding, glassy bricks. “See?” he yelled. “You just grab the side wall when you get to the top. Got it?”

The man stared at Edgar, the puzzled look returning.

But when the cabin came, Edgar continued to hold the man’s wrists to the wall until suddenly, they landed on the edge of the hole. Instinctively, the man grabbed the bricks and held tight.

“Yes!” cried Edgar, snatching the ledge as well. Together they dangled at the cabin floor, grunting.

“Good!” said Edgar. “You’re gonna make it!”

It was a calm afternoon outside the cabin, and an incredibly wild transformation from the rocky, stormy trip that had preceded it. Edgar climbed out and stood before the man.

“You’ve got to help me pull you out now,” he explained. Edgar took one of his hands and together they heaved until the man climbed entirely out of the hole, then, slumping wearily beside it, safe on solid ground, he wept terribly into his hands.

There were cuts on his face and heavy burns on his skin and a tongue so heavily swelled from thirst Edgar thought it might burst. Instantly Edgar stepped to the ice cooler to snatch a bottle of water, and the man looked up and saw what Edgar was offering and snatched it from his hands. Frantically, he uncapped it and greedily slurped the whole bottle down, finishing it in one continuous pull. As he did, Edgar walked to the cooler and got another, then two more.

“Wow,” said Edgar. Six empty bottles lay scattered at his feet. “You’re in bad shape.” The man, finishing his seventh bottle of water, crushed it and smiled, then nearly tossed it into the hole.

“No, man!” shouted Edgar, throwing up both hands to stop him. “You can’t throw it down there!”

This startled the man, who had begun to finally appear comfortable with his surroundings. Wounded, the man slowly pulled the bottle back toward his chest and stared up at Edgar, with a dose of hurt in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” explained Edgar, “but if you throw that bottle down, it’ll eventually end up hanging in midair in the center of the Earth. So, the next time I jump down, I might hit it going a million miles an hour, which could hurt me pretty good. I go so fast, you know. If I hit a bottle at a speed like that, who knows what it could do.”

Edgar peeled the bottle from the man’s hands and walked it over to a wastebasket. Then, he visited a small pantry by the freezer and withdrew a bag of potato chips, tossing it to the man, who ripped it open in one frantic yank and stuffed mounds of the chips into his mouth, crunching with audible moans.

“Hungry?” marveled Edgar.

The man ate and ate, staring around the room, then back at Edgar.

“Mahadsanid,” crunched the man, nodding at Edgar.

“Mahad . . . na . . . sand? Oh, wait, I see what you’re trying to say. You’re welcome.”

Eventually the man’s gaze returned to the ominous hole in the floor beside him. He looked over the edge and stared down intently, chewing thoughtfully, tracing his fingers over the designs in the bricks.

“Yeah,” agreed Edgar. “It’s quite incredible.”

Edgar rose and returned to his stash at the pantry, returning to the man and dumping everything he had onto the floor: Twinkies, beef jerky, pizza flavored Combos, Doritos, and even a half-eaten burrito from Taco Bell.

The man ripped into the food and stuffed every morsel into his mouth. With each swallow and each audible smack, he groaned with intense pleasure. Finally, once the snacks were gone and the packages licked clean of crumbs, the man wiped his hands on his holy green shirt and burped loudly, chuckling.

“I hope that fills you up,” said Edgar. “Because all I have left is frozen lobster.”

Edgar studied the man and tried to come up with a plan, but there was nothing more he could do. If he took the man to town, the people there would ask questions like “where did he come from?” Then they would surely trace his steps back to the hole, and that would be it. No more fishing, no more falling, and no more island. Just plain old Mount Lanier with his unremarkable, bland old life.

The man was so strong, considered Edgar, and seemed resourceful. He was a soldier! He’d do fine. At least he wasn’t still lost at sea.

He watched the man pick the last crumbs off his shirt and put them into his mouth.

“You’re a good guy, aren’t you?” he asked, fretting about turning an unknown man loose on the unsuspecting nearby towns.

The newly-full and happy man nodded at Edgar as if he understood.

“You can’t hurt people, OK? You’re not a soldier here.”

The man stared intently back.

Standing, Edgar walked to the man and reached out his hand, helping him stand. Then, he led him outside the cabin and across the brook, and together they stood looking down the trail.

Edgar pointed through the trees toward the town of Ellensburg—the opposite direction of Mount Lanier.

“Indian Ocean,” said Edgar, tapping a finger into the man’s chest. “You tell them you came from the Indian Ocean, OK? They’ll help you get back home.” He tapped the man on the chest and looked him in the face so that he would understand. “You tell them you’re from the Indian Ocean.”

“Imdiam Otshean,” repeated the man.

“Yeah! That’s right.”

Edgar then yanked out his wallet and paused for a moment, looking up into the man’s bloodshot eyes, then gave him everything he had. It was about eight hundred dollars.

Of all the places in the world, his mother had never thought to check his wallet.

“Mahadsanid,” said the man, nodding. Apparently he understood American money. He took it from Edgar and nodded respectfully.

“Cool, yes, Mahatma Sand,” said Edgar.

Edgar then extended a hand to him. The man looked down at it.

“It’s to shake,” said Edgar. “You do it in America when you want to say goodbye to someone. You shake.”

Instead, the man dug into his pockets. He retrieved the old coin that Edgar had found earlier, and placed it into Edgar’s hand. Edgar looked down at it: a silver disk, reading: REPUBLIC OF SOMALIA, 10 SHILLINGS.

The man also presented Edgar with the sea-washed photograph, and Edgar studied this, too, in the sunlight. The photo seemed to reveal a much younger version of the man—a more rested and a better fed one, who wrestled with a young boy in a grove, presumably his son. A beautiful woman looked on and laughed. Probably the man’s wife, deduced Edgar. They all seemed to be very happy.

It made Edgar instantly miss his father.

“Cool, man,” said Edgar, pocketing the picture. “Thank you very much.”

Then the man turned and staggered away, eastward toward the town where Edgar was pointing, down the trail a piece. Then he turned to wave, his face awash in contemplation, as if processing the strange events that had just occurred over the past hour or so: one moment lost at sea, the next fighting a young boy who wouldn’t let go, who dragged him down through the center of the earth and clear to the other side.

Saving him from the tempestuous sea.

Edgar gave the man a short salute, and the man, with a grave look of thankfulness on his face, nodded at Edgar, then turned into the thick brush and disappeared.

With the man on his way, Edgar glanced down at his watch. Oh no! He was late! His mother would be home soon!

He shot up the trail like a rocket. If he wasn’t there when she got home, he was dead.