Milton sat on the couch-bed gawking at the letter he’d just read (slowly because of all the weird misspellings). Then he read through it again (even more slowly). Then, struck with a burst of egad-can-you-believe-thisness, he threw the field guide into the air.
It came fluttering down like a many-winged Milton Macaw and landed open on a page with a pen-and-ink illustration and a block of carefully printed text. The illustration showed a cluster of vines with friendly leaves and tiny white blossoms. Seeing those vines was like seeing a familiar face, and Milton eagerly read the entry:
Truth-Will-Out Vine
Where else could you start but at the Truth-Will-Out Vine? This epiphytic plant may be the most misunderstood of the Lone Island flora. Not a destroyer but a protector, the vine’s unique survival adaptation is the island’s first line of defense. It has stood firm (or hung firm, rather!) against many would-be Lone Islanders with questionable intentions over the years. If you want to find the treasure, you will first have to go back and decode the truth about the Truth-Will-Out Vine. Then go forward and tell your own, which, if you have found this guide, you have already begun to do.
Habitat: Forms a dense perimeter around the island’s interior
Population Estimate: Millions and millions of strands
Disposition: Perhaps a tad overcautious, but always willing to listen to those who have nothing to hide
Not so familiar after all. Neither Uncle Evan nor Fig had mentioned any of this about protectors and truths. And what did Dr. Paradis mean about the vine listening? Hat-topped brain buzzing, vest-covered heart pounding, Milton flipped to the next leaf-page.
There he found an illustration of a big-eyed, long-winged bug with another name he recognized: Incredible Symphonic Cicada. These were the bugs that Uncle Evan had mentioned in his letter, the ones that Rafi said his parents were having a hard time studying because their habitat was in the vine.
Now Milton was turning leaves rapidly. He saw illustrations of a mouse-like creature with a spiraled nose, of some kind of tentacley water monster, of huge umbrella-shaped flowers. There were entries with titles like Tone-Deaf Warbler and Yes-No-Maybe-So Tree and UnderCover Cat.
And there were also these: a pachyderm that lived underground, a tree that shot poison arrows, and a bird with stars in its tail feathers.
“These are the never-before-seen creatures!” Milton whisper-yelled into the silence of the cottage, springing from the couch-bed.
Field guide clutched in his hand, he started toward the beaded curtain, ready to leap onto Uncle Evan’s bed and holler See here! I have found Dr. Paradis’s guide to the flora and fauna you seek! It would be a truly grand moment. Uncle Evan would probably cry with happiness.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, Milton spotted Sea Hawk in the kitchen.
He swung around to face the peacock-feather-hatted, explorer-outfitted figure and found himself eyeball to eyeball with—
Himself.
It was his blurry reflection in the icebox.
“I’m Sea Hawk,” Milton said aloud. “Naturalist and Explorer Extraordinaire.”
What would Sea Hawk do if he found a guide to hidden treasure inside a mysterious box underneath some bizarro spinning vines?
The answer was the same as it had been earlier at the trail: Sea Hawk would go onward, ever onward.
Staring at himself now, Milton decided that if he was really and truly going to be Sea Hawk P. Greene, then that was what he would have to do.
He would follow the clues (whatever they were). He would find the treasure (wherever it was). He would save the island (from who-knew-what kind of danger). He couldn’t play Isle of Wild right now, but he could live it.
Then he could really amaze Uncle Evan, and Fig would be thrilled to work on a nature survey with him, and Rafi would invite him into the tree ship.
And maybe his parents would come to the island to see his brilliance in action. Maybe Dev would hear about it. Maybe everyone at school would. Or even everyone in the world. No one would ever call him Bird Brain ever again.
Yes, indeed, suddenly and unexpectedly, things were looking up for the boy formerly known as Milton P. Greene.
Before he went to sleep, Milton pulled out his field journal and wrote his first-ever entry. Then he set the alarm on his waterproof watch, took off his glasses, and turned the oil-lamp wick down until the flame went out.
It still took him a while to fall asleep, true. But it wasn’t because he was thinking about totally, terribly, horribly, heinously rotten things or even Isle of Wild.
Milton lay awake in the silence and stillness of the night, and he thought about what he’d written in his field journal:
This may turn out to be the Most Seriously, Supremely, Unexpectedly, Astonishingly Spectaculous Summer of All Time!