The Beast of Cretacea by Todd Strasser

The Beast of Cretacea by Todd Strasser

Author:Todd Strasser [Strasser, Todd]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7636-7413-7
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2015-11-11T16:00:00+00:00


“Ishmael?”

He opens his eyes. Fayaway is leaning over him, her eyebrows dipping in concern, her dark hair hanging down like a curtain. “Who art Grace?”

Ishmael feels his drumming heartbeat begin to slow. He’s been dreaming that he’s in the bow of the Pequod while it pursues a trawler. Beside him Tashtego is aiming the big harpoon cannon at the trawler, preparing to fire.

“Ye yelled her name.”

“She’s someone I’m supposed to know but don’t,” Ishmael tries to explain.

Fayaway gives him an uncertain look but lets it pass. “Come.” She takes his hands and helps him sit up in the hammock. Stippled sunlight slants through the leaves overhead, and the air is heavy with morning dew. The village is still except for a few feathered flyers that chirp in the trees.

“Can’t I sleep a little longer?” Ishmael yawns groggily.

“’Tis something that shan’t wait.” Fayaway slowly pulls him to his feet. When they start down the walkway, Ishmael becomes aware of a raw stinging sensation in his earlobes. Reaching up, he feels tiny barbed spines.

“When did this happen?” he asks.

“Last night,” Fayaway says sheepishly. “Spines so small art rare and an honor. T’ show our thanks.”

At the end of the walkway, they pull on high boots and start along one of the brush-lined paths going uphill behind the village. The jungle is filled with floral scents and every conceivable shade of green. Under the tree canopy, delicate yellow-and-black creatures flutter, and flyers sing melodies from the branches. Stepping out of the trees and into the bright morning sunlight, Ishmael must shut his eyes for a moment. The insides of his eyelids are bands of soft colors — no doubt another side effect of the nectar — and he pauses to ponder their beauty until Fayaway again tugs at his hand.

“’Twas wrong to tell Diana that ye knew of our terrafins.” Fayaway’s eyes are downcast with shame.

He squeezes her hand. “It’s okay.”

They reach a clearing, where Fayaway points out at the vast blue ocean. Far on the horizon a ship moves slowly. Ishmael feels his breath catch; while it is too far away to see clearly, there is no mistaking the thick brown stripes of rust. It’s the Pequod.

Fayaway tightens her grip on his hand. “Ye art all welcome t’ stay here.”

If a heart could wince, Ishmael’s would. He knows it cannot be easy for Fayaway to show him the ship. And he is tempted by her offer to stay. The ways of the islanders remind him of the life he once had with Archie and his foster parents — filled with love and caring.

“I can’t,” he says.

Fayaway’s face falls. This island is all she’s ever known. It must seem like madness to her that he’d want to go back to that floating hunk of rust.

“I have people I have to help. And a foster brother somewhere on this planet who I need to find.” A thought occurs to him. “Your father said ships sometimes pass near here. Have you ever heard of one called the Jeroboam?”

Fayaway pauses to think, then shakes her head.



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