Dark Waters

Brian’s first thought was relief. “Trash!” he said. He’d never in his whole life felt relieved to find trash out in nature before, but there was a first time for everything. Trash meant people; trash meant other people came to this island. Trash meant they weren’t trapped.

Then he paused. It looked like trash, but it looked like something else too. Something familiar, but not—not so big.

He stared hard at that pile of trash.

“No,” he said. With a hand that shook more than he wanted, he reached out and touched it. A little damp. Papery. Almost translucent, when he put his hand close. Just like . . .

Phil whispered, “It’s a snakeskin.”

It was a snakeskin. Now that Brian’s eyes had adjusted to the size—and how could a snake be that big?—it was obvious.

“It comes on land,” said Phil. “Just like—like a regular water snake. It comes on land.”

Brian didn’t say anything right away, but his heart had started to race. His chest felt tight; his breath came short.

Phil went on. “Water snakes are crepuscular,” he said. Phil had always been good at science class. “That means they hunt at dawn and dusk. And sometimes—sometimes they hunt at night.”

Brian whipped around, shouting, “Coco! Coco!”

No answer.

A sick, cold fear filled Brian’s head.

“When did you last see her?” he demanded of Phil.

“Dunno,” said Phil. He was looking scared too. “Ten minutes ago? I heard her—she makes a lot of noise—but then I saw this, and I stopped listening . . . Maybe she went back toward the beach?”

Brian turned and pushed through the trees, back in the direction of the water. He was furious at himself for letting them all split up. Didn’t you learn that this winter? his angry inner voice demanded. You can’t split up! Splitting up means your friends get lost and bad things happen.

And Coco was smart, but she was no good in forests. “Coco!” he shouted. “Coco!”

No answer. Only the silence of the trees.

And then Brian heard a sound that relieved him and froze him cold with terror at the same time. A long, shrill whistle. The sound of the emergency whistle that Coco was carrying.

Brian started to bolt toward the sound. Phil seized him by the arm and brought him up short. “Hey, buddy. You’re not thinking. What if the snake is here and it’s—hunting? Coco hasn’t been eaten yet, or she wouldn’t have blown the whistle. We don’t want to get eaten either.”

Brian yanked his arm out of Phil’s grip, straining his ears, listening. He wanted to snap at Phil, but he bit his tongue and tried to make himself think properly. Phil wasn’t saying that they should run away or anything. He was just saying that they should be careful. Which wasn’t bad advice. Besides, Phil looked terrified—understandably—since he’d seen the snake snatch his uncle, and he was still there, not running in blind panic. If Phil could manage not to panic, then Brian could too.

Brian took a deep breath. “?’Kay,” he said. “Okay. We’ll be careful. Do you—do you remember anything about how water snakes hunt?”

Phil frowned. “Well, crepuscular. They hunt at dawn and dusk. And um . . . that’s about it, really. Sorry.” He shook his head. “Let’s be really careful,” he said. “Keep an eye out.” He picked up a thick tree branch, the most solid of the pieces of firewood they’d just gathered.

Brian grabbed a stick too. “Let’s go,” he said.

They began moving in the direction of Coco’s whistle. The light was fading now.

Another whistle tore through the trees. They hurried as fast as they dared toward the sound, peering in all directions, holding tight to their sticks.

Suddenly Brian grabbed Phil’s arm. “What’s that?” he said.

Phil stopped. He was sweating all over his face, even though it was chilly. A few hundred yards farther in, there was a fishhook hanging from a tree branch. A big, rusted fishhook.

“There too,” said Phil, pointing in another direction. Brian followed his friend’s finger. Another fishhook. And another. The trees, he realized, were full of fishhooks. Dangling fishhooks. Big and small. Old and rusted.

They’d been hung from tree branches on short lengths of rope. In some places, Brian saw that the ropes had worn thin with rot and the fishhooks lay on the ground, brown with rust and hard to see.

“At least we know people come here?” breathed Phil. “Or else who hung these up?”