There was a historic theater that Milton and his mother used to go to. Not in the last year or so, not since things had started getting so tense and sharp. But before that, the theater had been the place they went for special days, sitting side by side with a bucket of popcorn between them and nothing else. The theater showed old movies—black-and-white films, silent films, musicals, that kind of thing. At the front, there was a red velvet curtain, and before the movie started, symphony music (probably made by instruments, not bugs) would pipe through the speakers. As the final notes ended, the curtains would pull back, revealing the great screen behind it, already lit up with the first flickering scenes of the film.
It was like that now as the vines split. Like a show had just started.
The Lone Island Show, starring Sea Hawk and Fig.
“Great flapping falcons!” Milton cried. “We did it!”
The jungle behind the vines was an incredible sight. It was full of plants that Milton recognized but had never seen in the real world before. There were rubber trees and magnolias, cacao trees and Spanish bayonet, and palms of every variety. There were bromeliads and orchids springing from tree trunks, along with the occasional clump of Truth-Will-Out Vine. The ground was thick with brush and wildflowers and creeping vines.
“The field guide was right,” Milton said, stopping to observe an enormous, vividly violet flower. “The vines weren’t destroying the island. They were protecting it.”
“So many people over the years have wanted to turn this island into something else,” Fig said. “I guess detecting the truth is the vine’s survival adaptation.”
“Like a test you have to pass to prove you don’t have questionable intentions,” Milton said, remembering Dr. Paradis’s words.
The air was heavier on this side of the Truth-Will-Out Vine, humid and hot. There were so many trees and they were so close together that not much sunlight could get through. It was as dark as late evening, even though it was only midmorning, which made the jungle seem mysterious and strange (and awesome, Milton thought).
Even as dark as it was, it was a lot lighter than it should have been.
“Look, the vines aren’t above us either!” Fig said, her head thrown back.
Milton remembered something, something he had forgotten because of turbulence and the possibility of regurgitation. “When I was flying here,” he said, “I thought I saw the island moving. Well, the vines, I mean. You couldn’t see any of this, even from above.”
“So the vines can cover the whole island,” Fig said.
“And no one can even see what they’re missing,” Milton said, shaking his head in amazement. Then he surveyed the seemingly solid mass of foliage ahead of him. “We are truly in uncharted territory. Shall we go … onward?”
“Yes. I’m not exactly sure which way though,” Fig replied, but her nervousness from earlier didn’t return. “I didn’t know what we’d find behind the banyan. Let’s keep moving inland for now.”
“An excellent plan,” Milton said readily, wiping his already-sweaty forehead. “Lead the way, Fig.”
As they hiked, Milton was in a state of constant elation. He couldn’t be more Sea Hawkian than this, trekking through the jungle on the trail of never-before-seen species. However, if this were Isle of Wild, he would be running at top speed, vaulting over fallen logs, swinging on lianas.
There was no running, vaulting, or swinging here. Moving through the jungle was hard work. The wildflowers on the ground were pretty, but Fig and Milton kept tripping over their trailing stems. Milton got snagged on at least a dozen super sharp briar bushes, and it seemed like every possible route led to a dead end, so they spent a lot of time backtracking.
After about an hour of slogging along, Milton’s elation had evaporated, and he was so sweaty that it looked like he had been swimming, not walking. He was glad he’d brought the extra pair of socks. At least one part of him would be dry when they stopped for the day.
To keep morale up (mostly Milton’s since he was the one who kept trying to sit down for just the tiniest rest), Fig read aloud from the field guide during the less taxing parts of the trek. It kind of helped to take Milton’s mind off how exhausted he was and how unfun this scientific expedition had very quickly become. But not really.
After another hour of trekking, they came to a river. Fig said it was their river, the one that flowed into the bay. Milton thought she probably knew what she was talking about, but it was hard to believe. The river that flowed into the bay was a thin, trickling thing. This part of the river was more than fifty feet across, murky, and very deep, by the look of it.
The good thing about the river was that there weren’t a lot of plants growing on its banks, so the path was much clearer.
The bad thing about the river was that its banks were made of incredibly thick, sticky, stinky, sludgy mud that tried to suck them down with every step.
Six of one, half a dozen of the other, really.
“I can’t walk any longer,” Milton gasped after only fifteen minutes of mud-trudging. “My boots are full of muck. My lungs are collapsing. My legs are turning into jellyfish. We’ve got to take a break!”
“It’s not time for another break, Sea Hawk,” Fig called, squelching onward.
“But my legs!” Milton cried, completely forgetting that he was supposed to be made of brawn and steel and incredibleness. “My le-e-e-e-egs!”
Fig came to a sudden stop. “How do your arms feel?” she asked.
Milton held them out for inspection. “Well, they’re not likely to win any Brawniest Appendages awards,” he said. “But I guess they’re okay. Why?”
Fig pointed down the river. Up on the bank, with only its faded red nose showing, there was a canoe.