Devil's Rock - Chris Speyer [4]
Zaki climbed down into the cabin to join the others.
‘What were you doing?’ asked Michael.
‘You know . . . just looking,’ said Zaki, taking a mouthful of sandwich.
‘Tide’s not out till six. You want to take the dinghy out?’ Asked their father. ‘You could sail up the river, or around the pool. Got a few hours.’
‘Not really,’ said Michael.
‘I want to,’ said Zaki.
He looked at his brother who was stretched out on the bunk opposite. Headphones on, he was sliding into his own world, into himself, into a Michael-shaped chrysalis where he could dissolve the old Michael and become someone else, someone Zaki didn’t know.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Zaki.
‘Dunno. Read a book . . . Dunno.’
‘Come on, Michael,’ said their father. ‘This may be the only time we’ll come to Dragon Pool this season. Big tide, you might get the dinghy past the ford.’
‘I wish you’d stop calling it that,’ said Michael.
‘Calling what, what?’
‘Dragon Pool – it’s not its proper name.’
‘It’s what we’ve always called it,’ said their father.
‘It’s what Mum always calls it!’ said Zaki.
‘Well, she’s not here, is she?!’ And Michael rolled on to his other side, facing away from them.
‘When you’ve finished your lunch, Zaki, I’ll give you a hand with the dinghy,’ said their father. ‘And, Michael, I’ll need help with the legs later.’
The chrysalis rocked slightly to show that the thing inside had heard.
The sandwich in Zaki’s mouth refused to be swallowed.
It had always been Michael who had led the expeditions up the Amazon. It was Michael who had the idea to make bows and arrows in case the fierce tribes lurking in the woods launched an attack on the brave explorers. It was Michael who engineered the dams to hold back the incoming tide, urging on the frantic shovelling of sand until the crumbling walls were finally breached and their castles overrun by the sea. Hours, days, lifetimes had been spent with Michael crouched over rock pools, or floating, heads back, arms out, spreadeagled in the water, the blue sky flooding into them, as they drifted on the current from the Jumping-off-Stone to Sand Island.
But that Michael was inside his chrysalis, being transformed by the music that pulsed through little wires into his ears.
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Zaki spent the afternoon alone in the dinghy, the boat’s little red sails zigzagging across an estuary that looked utterly familiar but today felt utterly different.
He sailed imaginary races, beating his way through a fleet of invisible competitors to streak first across the finishing line.
The rock pools remained unvisited, the Amazon unexplored.
Every now and then he would send the dinghy scudding across the water to spin around Morveren but Michael only emerged on deck to help his father rig the legs and then descended out of sight without even acknowledging the victorious wave from the winner of the Dragon Pool Regatta.
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That night, in the fore cabin, there was no whispered rehashing of the day’s exploits and no plans were laid for the next day’s adventures.
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Chapter 2
Low tide; the boat standing as still and solid on its keel and legs as a house on its foundations. Was it the lack of movement that woke Zaki? Even in the calmest weather a boat at anchor moves slightly, swings with the fluctuations in the current, turns to find where the wind blows from. Cradled inside, the crew sleeps, secure in the knowledge that their ship, like a mother, is awake, watching over them.
Zaki lay, his sleeping bag drawn up to his chin, listening. He had been whispered to sleep by the little ripples that jostled against the hull of the boat, now all was silent.
The V-shaped fore cabin that Zaki shared with his brother contained two raised bunks with lockers underneath and a narrow shelf above for books and other personal odds and ends. As the lockers