On Milton’s eighth day on the island, he and Fig went down to the rocky north end of the bay to take another look at the river basin. Upstream, the wall of Truth-Will-Out Vine extended across the river, but before that, there was a long stretch of vine-free jungle.
“These trees are some of the tallest I’ve seen on the island,” Fig told Milton as they stood on the riverbank, surveying the area. “I’m going to climb up for an aerial view.”
“I will be remaining on solid ground,” Milton replied. “But may I suggest that peely, sunburny-looking tree right next to the vine wall over there?”
“That’s a gumbo-limbo,” Fig said, following his point. She tucked the field guide into her book pouch. “Latin name Bursera simaruba. And it’s perfect.”
They took off their shoes and squished through the sandy mud toward the scaly red-trunked tree. Little silver fish darted away from them with every step, their scales flashing like tiny bolts of underwater lightning.
“Do you think these are the Itty Bitty Fish, Fig?” Milton called, pausing so that the shiny, tiny fish would float closer. “The ones the guide says the Push-Pull Centopus eats?”
“What’s a centopus?” asked a voice behind them. “What are you doing in the mud? Can I come in the mud? I’m coming in the mud.”
Milton jumped and turned to see Gabe splashing toward them, a gap-toothed grin on his face. Behind him, motionless on the riverbank, was Rafi. He had a camera around his neck, one of those old-fashioned, box-shaped ones.
Instantly, Milton felt queasy. He and Fig had never talked about it, but they had both been avoiding the tree ship during their island explorations.
“Are you doing the nature survey right now, Sea Hawk?” Gabe asked. “We’re doing one too!”
“Ah,” Milton replied. “I see. Well. How nice.”
He glanced warily downriver again, but Rafi hadn’t moved except to hold up his camera.
“Ours is going to be way better,” Rafi called. “It’s going to have photos.”
On his face was that captain-of-the-ship expression. Milton didn’t reply, because he was 99.99 percent sure that whatever he said would be wrong. He was relieved when Fig, who was staring fixedly ahead, said loudly, “Sorry, Gabe, but Sea Hawk and I can’t talk right now. We’re very busy searching for something that will save the island.”
“Oooh,” said Gabe, who was now lying on his stomach in the shallow water. “Save it from what? Dinosaurs? Pirates? Rising sea levels?”
“From nothing,” Rafi said after a pshaw. “They’re making it up, Gabe.”
“We’re not,” Fig replied. She started toward the gumbo-limbo tree again. “Come on, Sea Hawk. Let’s continue our search over by the vines.”
“Right you are,” Milton said, wading after her as fast as he could.
Gabe, dragging himself through the water, shouted, “Is that what you’re searching for? Vines? There’s a bunch down there. And there. And there too. I can help!”
“Gabe!” Rafi yelled. “Come back. You’re doing a survey with me, remember? You’re not here to help Dr. Bird Brain and Big Fig with their Triple Fake make-believe.”
Fig stopped trudging forward so abruptly that Milton almost fell over, even though he was ten feet behind. It was like a shock wave had rolled off her, and when she spun around, both her eyebrows were at Maximum Arch Capacity.
“For your information,” she snapped, “we’re following clues that Dr. Paradis left in a secret field guide.”
“Fig!” Milton cried. Then he saw that she was unzipping her book pouch. “Come to your senses, my good woman! It’s not for their eyes.”
But Fig, it seemed, was not interested in being sensible. She pulled out the crinkly leaf-pages and stomped through the water toward Rafi, who hastily scrambled farther up the riverbank.
“The clues lead to a treasure,” Fig said, holding up the guide. “A treasure that will protect the island.”
“X marks the spot, me mateys!” Gabe cried. “Yo ho ho!”
Rafi inched toward Fig, looking definitely confused and very wary but more-than-a-little curious. “No way,” he said. “That’s a bunch of leaves you two scribbled on.”
Milton hurried over to Fig and took the guide from her. “You’re not supposed to tell anyone yet,” he whispered.
Rafi was right in front of them now. He reached out and touched the thin, veined pages of the guide. He seemed awestruck by its awesomeness. While Milton would absolutely not have chosen to spill their secret plans at this early stage, he couldn’t help but feel proud that he was in possession of something that Rafi was in awe of. He thought Rafi might possibly be at least slightly in awe of him now too.
Then Rafi snatched the guide.
Well, he tried to. Fig’s hand was there first, and the guide was back in her pouch before Milton even realized he wasn’t holding it anymore.
“I just want to look at it!” Rafi protested, his face going grumpy duck–like. “Anyway, I bet I could tell you all kinds of things about the island that you don’t know.”
“I doubt that,” Fig replied.
“Fig knows the Latin names of trees,” Milton told him as bravely as possible. “And, as I’ve told you, I work for the Flora & Fauna Federation.”
Rafi scowled. “Even if I believed you, that doesn’t mean you should keep the guide for yourselves.”
“We could help!” Gabe said from the river, where he was now making kissy faces at the maybe–Itty Bitty Fish that surrounded him.
Fig shook her head. “Sorry, but no,” she said. She tilted her head toward Rafi. “You’ve been very rude to Sea Hawk, calling him names. And to me, but what else is new. And you hate this island.”
“That’s true,” Gabe agreed.
“No, it’s not!” Rafi cried. “I mean, it’s not the whole truth. I don’t hate the island. I just don’t want to live here. And I never—you were the one—it’s not like you’ve ever been that nice to me.”
Fig didn’t answer. She swung around and splish-sploshed her way back toward the gumbo-limbo.
Milton certainly wasn’t going to be left behind with Rafi. He hightailed it after her without so much as a So long.