Lost by John Wilson

Author:John Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV016050, JUV028000, JUV030120
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2016-02-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

After we collect our flasks, packed lunch and Annabel’s weighty book about the Inuit stories, we head to the stern, where the Zodiac is tied up. To our dismay, Rob and Terry are already there. They are dressed in military camouflage gear and carry backpacks much larger than our daypacks.

“Thought we’d come with you and collect samples,” Terry says.

Annabel shrugs like, What can we do?

The Zodiac is crowded as we bump our way over to the island. We’re hauling the kayaks onshore when a large red helicopter thumps above us. It banks and does a circuit of the island. I see a pale, plump, smiling face wearing round sunglasses in one of the windows. I only get a brief glimpse, but I have a feeling of familiarity. “Do you think that’s part of the expedition diving on Erebus?” I ask.

“Could be that they check out anyone coming near the dive site,” Annabel says, sounding distracted. The machine circles the Arctic Spray and then heads off to the north.

The crewman driving the Zodiac puts the motor in reverse. “I’ll pick you up in time for dinner,” he shouts as he turns and zooms back toward the ship.

Terry lifts his backpack and heads inland. Rob follows him. “What are you collecting today?” Annabel asks.

Rob doesn’t stop, but he turns his head. “Plants,” he says.

“Talkative, aren’t they?” I say. Annabel just grunts.

We spend the morning puttering on the beach and kayaking along the shore. The ground is made up of small, sharp rocks that are uncomfortable to walk on. They’re all weathered to the same dull gray color. The main vegetation is round, dark spots of lichen on the rocks and struggling patches of grass here and there. Small areas of startlingly green moss thrive in sheltered hollows and behind bigger rocks.

The wind has picked up by the time we reach the far side of the island. We settle behind a rock and break open the tea and sandwiches. Annabel has been oddly quiet all morning.

“Not a lot of plant life for Rob and Terry to collect,” I say, trying to make conversation. We’ve seen the pair in the distance, wandering along the low, rocky ridges inland or crouching down examining things.

“I’ve been thinking about the Crype Foundation,” Annabel says thoughtfully. “Did you notice that Crype is an anagram of Percy?”

“Humphrey Battleford’s dog?” My heart sinks as Annabel’s paranoia begins to cloud an otherwise great day. “That’s stretching it. Didn’t you say it also meant something in marketing and is a surname? Isn’t one of those more likely?”

“Maybe,” Annabel says, “but there’s something else. Do you remember the slogans Enigma Tours uses in their brochures?”

“Vaguely,” I say. “They didn’t make much sense. Isn’t one about traveling in a ship in the desert?”

“The first one,” Annabel says. “Travel on a ship of the desert. Camels are called ships of the desert.”

“That makes more sense,” I say, wondering where this conversation is going. “One was about seeing the dawn, which we’ve done most mornings.”

Annabel doesn’t crack a smile.

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