The clearing was silent … for about two seconds.
“Great flapping falcons!” Milton cried. “How did the guide get here?”
“What’s happening?” croaked Uncle Evan, staggering backward with one hand to his T-shirt-covered heart. “Why did the vines move? Everyone saw that, right?”
Dr. Morris’s eyes were wide as she watched her daughter rush forward and pick up the guide. “Fig, what’s going on?” she asked.
“I don’t know how it got here,” Fig said, facing her mother and Uncle Evan, “but this is why we went into the jungle.”
“You found that in the jungle?” asked Uncle Evan. “But how? Where? Why?”
Fig glanced over at Milton, Rafi, and Gabe. Then she began: “Milton found a letter from Dr. Paradis right here behind her house.”
“And Fig figured out the first clue that Dr. Paradis left inside,” Milton continued, hurrying to stand next to his friend. “A clue that was supposed to lead us to a treasure.”
“Then we spilled our guts to the Truth-Will-Out Vine and went into the jungle,” put in Rafi as he and Gabe came over to Milton and Fig.
“Where we were almost killed like a bajillion times!” Gabe cried cheerfully. “There was a river monster and an invisible kitty cat and a plant that ate Milton, whadaya think about that?”
“The clues led us farther and farther into the island,” Milton said. “Right to the thorn-shooting Enmity-Amity Trees.”
“The Beautimous Lemallabies were at the top,” Rafi continued. “And one of them—Lord Gnarly or something—led us to this all-knowing tree.”
“Where we found this guide and these samples.” Fig held up the guide so that Uncle Evan and her mother could read the cover, while Milton hefted the satchel with some difficulty. “I thought I lost them…”
“But somehow, they’re here,” Milton finished. “This is the treasure that will save the island.”
The guide really was an enormous stack of very tightly bound (regurgitated) leaves. As Fig held it out to Uncle Evan (who kept glancing nervously at the rolled-up vine-balls), the leaf-pages flopped downward under their own weight and—
Something fell out.
“Another clue!” Gabe shrieked, pointing at the leaf-envelope that was now lying on the ground.
“A clue to what?” Fig asked. “We already have the treasure.”
“Ask questions later,” Rafi said. “Open it!”
Milton snatched up the envelope, thinking of the phlegmy-green one that had set all of this in motion not even three weeks ago. He didn’t think he could read aloud because his stomach felt like an overly inflated centopus, so he handed it to Fig.
She opened it, removed several leaf-pages, and began to read:
Dear Guide Finder,
You’ve done it! You’ve found my guide, my samples, and a treasure that promises to be your greatest responsibility and your greatest joy.
When I arrived on the Lone Island fifty years ago, I was much like another young naturalist I know—ready to log more discoveries and continue making a name for myself. This island, I thought, was a challenge fit for an explorer like me.
But it took me many, many, many years to understand how this very unusual and very special place works and what it needed from me. As much as I wanted to share those remarkable truths with the world—and with that one young naturalist in particular—this adventure was my way of letting the island reveal itself.
If you are reading this, you have proved yourself truthful and open-hearted, curious and thoughtful, brave and wise. You have proved that you are a true naturalist.
Yes, the Lone Island was waiting, and you came out to meet it with all you had. I can only hope that you continue to do so as you protect, explore, and share this island in the future.
Sincerely,
Dr. Paradis
Fig turned to the next leaf-page and continued:
“THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF DR. ADA PARADIS: I, Ada Paradis, explorer of islands, confidante of vines, befriender of creatures great and small, and the sole permanent resident of the Lone Island, being of competent and sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.”
Fig stammered to a stop, eyebrows popping up to Maximum Arch Capacity as she realized what she had just read. “Here,” she said, holding out the pages to her mother. “I think you should read this.”
Dr. Morris took the letter and held it between her and Uncle Evan, who appeared thoroughly overwhelmed. Their eyes moved over the paper, and for a few minutes it was as if the entire jungle was holding its breath. There was no wind. The vines did not sway. There was no rustling in the bushes.
Inside Milton, there were one million and one thoughts, all of them jumbly, all of them mishmashed. He knew the young naturalist Dr. Paradis had mentioned must be Uncle Evan. He knew that a will meant someone was getting something. But who and what?
“What does it say, Uncle Evan?” he finally blurted out, pressing his hat-covered head with both hands. “What’s going to happen to the island? Is it still going to be sold to the Culebra Company? Did you inherit it?”
Uncle Evan shook his head, and Milton felt himself deflating like a serenaded centopus, sinking down.
“No, I didn’t inherit the island,” Uncle Evan said softly. “But Dr. Paradis did leave it to someone. Listen to this: I give, devise, and bequeath all the remaining and residual property I have ownership in at the time of my death to the finder of this document, absolutely and entirely.”
Fig pressed her hands to her mouth, while Rafi gaped and Gabe whispered, “Yowzers,” but Milton shook his head.
“It’s been quite the morning,” he said. “Quite the year, in fact. Could you simplify that statement?”
Uncle Evan lowered the leaf-pages and smiled the biggest smile Milton had ever seen on any face anywhere.
“I didn’t inherit the island, Milton,” he said. “You did. You and Fig and Rafi and Gabe. You are the finders of this document, the finders of Dr. Paradis’s will. You went out to meet the Lone Island, and now the Lone Island is yours.”
Knees wobbling, Milton thought he might faint. He stumbled backward into the wall of Truth-Will-Out Vine, letting the cords of green steady him.
“So I guess we should be asking you,” Dr. Morris said, beaming at the four. “Are you going to sell the island to the Culebra Company?”
“Never,” Fig said, flinging her arms around her mother.
“Never ever!” Gabe shrieked as he leaped onto his brother’s back.
“Never ever ever,” Rafi agreed.
Milton was about to add to this impromptu vote when behind him the vines began whooshing yet again—and then he almost fell over as the strands that had been holding him up swished away. He swung around to see that a second layer of vines had parted.
And sitting there, bushy tail twitching, round eyes shimmering, was the lemallaby formerly known as Little SmooshieFace—along with three dozen others. Each one had a SunBurst Blossom clutched in its paws, and each one was chitter-chattering with what sounded like happiness.
Uncle Evan staggered again, but this time he was moving forward. “Dr. Paradis told me about these!” he exclaimed. “Is that—is that Little SmooshieFace?”
“It’s Lord Snarlsy,” Milton corrected. “He didn’t abandon me after all!”
Lord Snarlsy, holding a teal SunBurst Blossom, came leaping out of the vines. He landed right on Milton’s waiting shoulder and tucked the blossom behind his ear.
“How did you get here?” Milton asked him.
Lord Snarly chattered a response, but Milton (very disappointingly) still couldn’t understand Lemallabese.
“He must have followed us this whole time,” Fig said slowly. “That’s what he was trying to tell us at the Yes-No-Maybe-So Tree. When he was pointing up, he was telling us that he wasn’t going to walk.”
“He came through the canopy,” Rafi finished. “Like Dr. Paradis wrote in the entry, lemallabies don’t travel on the ground.”
“I knew this wacky kitty loved me!” Gabe sang out, his arms around his old chartreuse-bootied pal.
Milton nodded as the pieces came together, then gasped. “Lord Snarlsy, I saw you! Right before I was flung into the depths of the river. You must have seen Fig’s backpack fall in and fished it out!”
Lord Snarlsy gave him a bucktoothed grin and a nod. The lemallabies behind him chattered their confirmation.
Finally, with his fauna friend perched on his shoulder, a SunBurst Blossom behind his ear, and a very full vest-covered heart, Milton P. Greene was ready to answer Dr. Morris’s question.
“Are we going to sell the Lone Island?” he said. “Never. Never ever ever ever.”