The hike through the dense jungle didn’t take nearly as long now that they knew where they were going. Even so, it was after five o’clock by the time they reached the river, and Fig figured they had at least four more hours of hiking to go. Because the Lone Island was near the equator, days were about twelve hours long, even in the summer, and darkness fell quickly after sunsets.
So they had four more hours of hiking left. And less than two hours of light.
“We can’t spend another night out here,” Rafi said. “I told my parents I’d have Gabe back. They’re going to freak out!”
“Plus, who knows what Uncle Evan’s going to do,” Milton added, pushing aside foliage and leaping over underbrush as fast as he could. “He said he had until Friday to turn in any final research to the court or sign papers saying he gives up. What if he decides to give up?”
“There is a way to get back faster,” Fig said.
“Find a flock of Astari Night Avis and have them fly us home in their talons!” Gabe cried.
“Not exactly.” Fig pointed downstream. There on the riverbank, right where they’d left them, were the red and yellow canoes. “I know none of us were planning on getting back on that river, but the tide is going out, so the current is in our favor. If we paddle fast, we might be able to make it to the bay before sunset.”
Milton had a five-second, out-of-body flashback to the Push-Pull Centopus rising out of the water and himself huddled at the bottom of the sinking vessel, and It. Was. Terrifying. No, he did not like Fig’s idea one bit. Another night in the jungle probably wouldn’t kill them, but the centopus almost certainly would.
He was caught more than a little off guard when Rafi said, “Sea Hawk and I can handle the centopus,” and thumped him on the back so hard that he dropped to his knees on the muddy bank. “Sorry, Sea Hawk,” Rafi said, helping Milton to his feet.
Milton wasn’t so sure they could handle it. He wasn’t sure he, personally, could handle seeing the hundred legs of the Push-Pull Centopus writhing around in the water again, spewing river water like an evil-firehose monster.
But Rafi was smiling at him, and Fig was right: The river was their best option. Their only option, really.
“Indeed we can. I suppose. Perhaps,” Milton said. “Yes. I’m ready.” He sang a discordant octave to warm up.
“Save that for the centopus,” Fig said, holding her hands over her ears.
Everyone grabbed a paddle except Milton. Fig was willing to put up with Milton’s singing in order to save her life, but not his paddling. Milton put the original field guide in his dry bag, along with his HandHeld. Fig double-checked the guide and satchel in her pack, then tucked it safely under her seat, while Rafi put away his camera. After he and Gabe were buckled into their life vests, they all helped pull the canoes into the water, and off they went.
With the tide pushing them along, they were soon speeding down the river. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, they had incontrovertible proof that the island was spectacularly worth conserving, and home was only a few hours away. Everyone was feeling good, even Milton, who viewed Lord Snarlsy’s leaving as a personal betrayal (that fickle lemallaby was no Dear Lady DeeDee, that was for sure).
Yes, indeed, there were two boats full of happiness on the river.
Until something struck the side of the red canoe with a splat.
Milton tumbled right off his seat. When he pulled himself up and leaned over the edge of the canoe, he saw that the water had begun to churn and bubble. Waves were building.
“Not again,” he groaned.
Water rolled forward and crashed into the canoes, hard. The front end of each lifted into the air, then smashed back down.
“Showtime, guys!” Fig yelled, paddling with all her might.
Milton glanced across to the yellow canoe, ready to coordinate this performance in spite of the fact that liquefied panic was now pulsing through his veins. Rafi, however, was not ready. He was goggle-eyed, rigid, and … totally silent.
It seemed he had overestimated his ability to handle the centopus.
There was nothing else for it. It was up to the boy formerly known as Milton P. Greene to take the lead.
“Great green gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts!” Milton belted out, rising unsteadily to his feet.
That was as far as he got.
Because the centopus’s body was underwater.
It couldn’t hear a single tone-deaf note.
Before Milton could sing the next line of his glorious serenade (mutilated monkey meat), there was a sound like a fish slapping a gong, and the front of the red canoe was launched out of the water.
Milton was launched with it.
There was a weightless, surreal moment when he thought he might not fall into the water but might somehow keep flying. Maybe he had acquired superpowers! Even Sea Hawk couldn’t fly.
Then he belly-flopped into the river.
Spluttering and spewing water like a quadopus, Milton resurfaced in the tentacley-tempest-tossed river. Frothy whitecaps surrounded him, and slimy somethings kept slithering around his legs. A flash of teal above distracted him momentarily, but then he spotted his backpack bobbing nearby. He started to dog paddle toward it, but he kept getting knocked under the waves and fire-hosed in the face.
If it wasn’t for the ginormous tidal wave that broke over his head, tumbled him up and over, and finally deposited him and his backpack on the riverbank, Milton would have been a goner.
Once he’d taken a few gasping breaths, he lifted his head from the mud. Downriver, Gabe was crawling out of the water, and Rafi was close behind him, both of them in their life vests.
But Fig wasn’t on the riverbank.
Fig was still in the water with the Push-Pull Centopus.