MAX squinted out the window. Directly below them was a range of mountains that thrust up from the earth like a tsunami of white-capped rock. “Is that snow?” he shouted, his face pressed to the glass.
For the first time during the whole trip, he was sitting in the copilot seat, and he liked it. A lot.
“You like the Urals?” Sergei yelled back. “We take detour and see them!”
As he yanked the throttle to the left, the helicopter banked sharply. Detours were not on Max’s wish list these days. But Bitsy and Alex were totally into it, busy taking photos with Alex’s phone. The chopper scaled the side of the mountain range, lurching left and right. “Too much wind!” Sergei yelled. “I go higher!”
Now the helicopter was rising over the peaks. Across a vast, flat plain, Max could see the silver glow of a body of water. “So that’s the Barents Sea, right?”
“Very good!” Sergei replied. “Goes into Arctic Sea—straight to North Pole! Santa Claus!”
“I can’t see the workshop,” Bitsy said.
“Probably underwater by now,” Alex replied.
“Can we get back on track now?” Max asked.
The chopper banked, rose, and dropped. It dipped into valleys where the streams looped and twisted like some secret script handwriting. It buzzed over villages ringed with mud huts and cattle. Sheep moved like earthborne clouds among vast grassy fields, and a mysterious cloud of dust rose just above the horizon. Out of it emerged a herd of horses galloping fiercely toward nothing in particular, their manes snapping like flags.
Soon the mountains and sea were far behind them, and Sergei descended. Not far from another village, a river cut through the landscape like a blue knife wound, bruised on either side with rock cliffs and thick vegetation.
“Welcome to Kozhim River!” Sergei said, maneuvering the chopper over a scrubby clearing.
“Wait, we’re here already?” Max said, feeling a jolt of excitement.
“I took shortcut!” Sergei said with a laugh. As they descended to the top of a cliff, the expanse of river disappeared below them. “I lead tours here many times! Steep! Most important to be careful! Very sacred place.”
In minutes the helicopter was on land, the rotors slowing. The ground was parched and flat, and a ramshackle shed stood off to the side. Max grabbed his pack and jumped to the ground. It was much colder here than in Perm. He ran from the helicopter with Alex beside him. She was crouching superlow under the still-moving blades.
“You don’t have to duck,” Max said. “Those blades are nowhere near your head.”
“It’s the way people do it in movies,” Alex said, shivering.
The thrum of the helicopter rotors slowed and stopped, replaced by the wind’s hollow whoosh and the soft crackle of swaying branches. Sergei had a huge backpack of his own, and from it he pulled out three lined anoraks. “Here,” he said. “You need.”
The jackets were all too big, but at least they cut the chill. Together they walked to the point where the land ended.
Max gasped. Below them, the river was tiny and distant, gashed into the earth between two grayish-white cliffs. The drop-off was a nearly vertical wall of rock, grooved into chutes that seemed to beckon a slide straight downward to death. “Limestone?” Max asked.
Sergei smiled. “How you know?”
“Long story,” Max replied.
“Isn’t there a place where it’s less steep?” Alex asked.
Sergei took a deep breath. He was still in just his paint-spattered T-shirt but didn’t seem to be feeling any cold. “This . . . coil,” he said. “This is same as . . . what is word . . . screw?”
“Not exactly,” Max said. “A screw has spiral threads. A coil itself is a helix. Basically, a three-dimensional spiral with a constant diameter.”
“What he means to say is, very similar,” Alex cut in. “Why do you ask?”
Sergei took a deep breath. “This part of Kozhim River is very special place. Much, much gold here, but hard to find. Many years ago—1990, 1991, I think—international scientists travel along river looking for gold. They stop to rest here.” He pointed downward. Max squinted and saw a small group of wooden shacks dotting the rocky banks of the Kozhim.
“One great scientist, Regina Donner, she cannot sleep,” Sergei went on. “She feel something. Like electricity. Like headache that will rip open skull. She runs out of tent. Something is glowing in bushes. She picks up. Looks like gold coil . . . or screw. But she knows is very, very old—so . . . maybe great discovery of tool from ancient times? Right then she hear noises, like animals. Shadows moving along shore. Creatures, picking these coils out of bushes. Their faces are covered with hair, like wolves! Donner puts gold coil in pocket, but now entire body is growing hot, like fever. She runs back in tent, grabs rifle to scare away monsters. Bang! Soon other scientists are running out of tents!” Sergei removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He reached into his pack for a water bottle. “Sorry. Dry.”
“Keep going!” Alex shouted. “What did they find?”
Sergei took a swig and continued. “Creatures gone. But Donner—she is lying on rocks. Groaning. She tells them what happened—monsters, coils, everything. How can such a thing be from this earth? The scientists, they don’t know how to think. Delusions, maybe? Then . . . cccchhhh . . . she dies. No bullet, no knife. Only bruise is where she fell. They take body home and empty Donner’s pocket. All they find is . . . dust. Which scientists determine is thousands of years old.”
“So . . . coil dust!” Max blurted. “Like in the hint. Which is why you brought us here!”
Sergei nodded.
“Wait, this story is true?” Alex asked.
“This is Russia,” Sergei replied with a shrug. “Could be. Could be no.”
Max looked over the edge. “There’s no way we can get down there without dying.”
Sergei smiled. “Sergei will take care of you. This is my job.”
He walked to the small shed, spun the combination on a lock, and pushed the door open. Disappearing inside for a few moments, he came out with three huge harnesses connected to wings that were folded like bats. “We use these.”
Bitsy looked like she was going to faint. “G-G-Gliders?”
“I show you,” Sergei said. “Not as dangerous as you think, if you do it right. Wind currents along river are perfect.”
“This is soooo cool!” Alex said. “I have been wanting to do this all my life. My parents? They’re like, ‘over my dead body’—”
“You have very good parents,” Bitsy said.
Sergei was already strapping one on. “Sorry. Only three gliders in shed.”
“No problem,” Bitsy blurted out. “I’ll wait.”
“Maybe you won’t need to,” Max said. He set down his pack and unzipped it. Jammed against the side was the cylindrical container he’d been neglecting the whole trip. With a proud grin, he opened it and pulled out the lightweight hang glider he and Evelyn had made. “We designed this for Charles the robot. But I can try using it.”
“What?” Bitsy said.
“No,” Alex said. “Just . . . no.”
“You just said it was so cool!” Max protested.
“Yeah, I meant using real, outdoor-tour-tested, tried-and-true gliders,” Alex said. “You’ve never tested your contraption, Max! Do you even know how to work it?”
“Ms. Williams, our robotics teacher, gave Evelyn and me an A plus on the project.” Max slipped on the harness and fastened the belt. “Not just an A. No one else has ever received a plus. It passed every aerodynamic test we put it through. We even made a report. And Sergei can give me tips.”
“I don’t believe this is happening . . .” Bitsy said.
“Is beautiful!” Sergei exclaimed. “So light. I give you tips if you let me try later?”
“Maybe.” Max pulled his phone out of his pocket and thrust it toward Alex. “Will you video me, so I can send it to Evelyn?”
“No, I won’t video you!” Alex protested. “And just so you understand where I’m coming from—no. Just abso-totally-lutely no!”
Max stepped toward the edge of the cliff. “Then I’ll have to take a selfie.”