The sun was high in the sky and blindingly bright as Milton stepped outside. Tipping his hat low over his eyes, he took in the semicircle of shining water, the rocky beach, the wavy seagrass-covered dunes, and the other two cottages.
Even from Uncle Evan’s porch, he could already see plants he recognized—some from his Nature Phase and some from playing Isle of Wild. There were palms of every kind, with their feathery fronds fluttering in the gusty sea breeze. There were bumpy ferns, brightly hued blossoms, and winding lianas.
After a few hundred yards, however, everything seemed to become one kind of plant. This, Milton thought, had to be the Truth-Will-Out Vine his uncle had mentioned. The vine, hanging from trees that were completely invisible beneath its strands, formed a bright green wall that extended around the inside of the island as far as Milton could see.
“What a totally terrible vine,” he said to himself as he started up the pebbly beach road. “Smothering the island’s flora and fauna. Sea Hawk would probably machete it to pieces!” He chopped the air with gusto.
Uncle Evan’s cottage had zero decoration. The next cottage had a cheerful yellow door, but the third one was the real eye-catcher. It was covered in a chaotically colorful jungle mural featuring dancing trees, heart-shaped butterflies, and some sort of firefly-fairy creatures. If there was an outlet anywhere, it would be in one of these cottages, but the thought of knocking on a strange door (even one with a laughing rainbow on it) was slightly terrifying, so Milton pressed onward. He would come back later, he reassured himself, after he did a little expeditioning.
During his Nature Phase, Milton used to go on expeditions every chance he got. They were usually in his backyard and they were, in retrospect, incredibly boring (a squirrel sighting was considered a great success). He had done a lot of watching and waiting during his Nature Phase.
In an Isle of Wild expedition, on the other hand, it usually took about three and a half seconds before something super amazing appeared (scorpions, jaguars, famished Venus flytraps, a herd of wildebeests, that sort of thing).
Here on the Lone Island, Milton had been expeditioning for at least five minutes and … nothing.
Not even a squirrel.
Milton was bored. Milton was hot. He was sure he was getting a sunburn.
Then something brilliant red and dark violet caught his eye, something skittering across the beach—a crab! Pressing his binoculars to his eyes (even though the crab was only four feet away), Milton watched as the many-legged creature darted into a hole between some rocks.
“Egad! What a discovery,” Milton said (in his best Sea Hawkian voice). He pulled out his brand-new field journal and turned to the Nature Sightings Checklist in the back. There were a lot of crab species in the Crustacean section—Portunidae, fiddler, ghost, spider. Milton selected red land crab after careful consideration and hoped that was the correct choice. He took great satisfaction in making a big red check mark in the box.
Now he was paying attention. Now he noticed the seabirds, some sleek and arrow-like, some improbably awkward and heavy-looking, soaring above. He noticed splashes out in the bay that might have been fish or dolphins or probably even great white sharks. He made a lot of checks on the Marine Life Checklist, some of which were bound to be correct. He even saw a really (kind of) big lizard that could have been (but almost certainly wasn’t) a Komodo dragon. He checked the Komodo dragon box, just in case.
Forget squirrels! He had never, ever, ever seen so many species in one place. This must be what Sea Hawk felt like constantly, and Milton was getting more sure by the minute that he could, in fact, find a never-before-seen creature. Probably this afternoon.
“Sea Hawk’s the name,” he said, tipping his hat to a pale yellow spider that he had checked off as a black widow. “Wildlife’s my ga—AHHH!” The little spider skittered toward Milton. Milton ran.
Other than the harrowing arachnid encounter, it was a surprisingly enjoyable morning. Milton was even a bit disappointed when he found that he had somehow hiked in a great big circle, and was back by Uncle Evan’s cottage again.
He was about to head inside when he noticed a trail off the pebbly road that he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t a well-worn path like the one he was on, just a place where the dune grass and ferns and trailing vines had been compressed by feet. Human feet probably, but maybe, just maybe (be still, Milton’s vest-covered heart!) large animal feet.
If this were Isle of Wild, the trail would be a clue. Go this way was what the trail would be telling him. And if this were Isle of Wild, at the end of that trail there would be wildcats or wild boars or wild some-other-kind-of-crazy-awesome creature.
So, feeling more Sea Hawkian than ever, Milton decided to see where it led.
He trekked through the high grass and into a field of stubby palm trees and sunset-colored wildflowers. He went through a twisty-turny cluster of sea grape trees. Then he came to a sudden stop.
In front of him was the biggest tree he had ever seen.
From playing Isle of Wild, Milton knew it was a banyan. The tree had dozens of interconnected trunks and spread out as wide as Milton’s house. There were limbs and roots sprawling every which way, and the leafy canopy was dotted with deep red fruits. Built into it, spanning across branch after branch after branch, was a tree house.
Or rather, since it was shaped like an enormous boat, a tree ship.
Behind the tree ship was the thick, bright green Truth-Will-Out Vine.
And coming from the ship were voices.
Boys’ voices.