Free The Sound of Many Waters by Sean Bloomfield Page B

the duffel with him. He landed right where he wanted—just behind the turtle. She had finished digging her nest and was now dropping eggs from a pink, fleshy orifice protruding from beneath her tail. Zane had hoped that the eggs would not yet be coming; to prevent crushing them, he would have to improvise. He scooped out the half dozen she had already laid, but they kept coming and he could not clear them fast enough. He looked at their source. There was only one way to stop them—one appalling, disgusting way—and so he stuffed his hand into her chute.
    It was slimy and hot inside her and he could feel more eggs pressing down on his knuckles but the turtle did not seem to notice the intrusion. With his free hand he tipped the duffel bag and dumped the stacks of coins into the nest. They fit nicely and left plenty of room. He reached in and pulled out two stacks of coins, hesitated, and pulled out one more. He then pushed a pile of sand into the nest and replaced the eggs he had removed. When he pulled his hand out of the turtle, a large globule of mucous and eggs surged out. Moments later, she continued laying them one by one.
    “Sorry, girl.” Zane shook his head. He could hardly believe he had just violated a turtle.
    He jumped to his feet and tossed the three stacks of coins into the duffel bag. Then he flung the bag over his back, scaled the dune and, crouching on its summit, reached over and stuffed pieces of Styrofoam into the bag until it looked full. He scanned the beach for a landmark—to his left, rising out of the dunes, stood a solitary coconut palm, and to his west he saw a massive structure silhouetted against the stars.
    He turned and looked in the opposite direction. Miguel had reached the other tracks in the sand; his head slowly turned as he followed them up the beach with his eyes. For Zane, it was like watching a fuse burn rapidly toward him, with no time to get away. As Miguel’s gaze reached the dune, the lighthouse beam found Zane and set him aglow. He felt like a stage performer blinded by a spotlight. When the beam left, he saw Miguel sprinting at him.
    “Drop that bag!” screamed Miguel.
    Zane bounded across the ridge of the first dune and then turned away from the beach and barreled into the sea oats. Sharp reeds sliced his limbs as he ran. The dunes, and the rhythm of loping over them, reminded him of ocean swells. Each time he reached the top of one he would glance back and, each time, Miguel was a few steps closer.
    “You’re dead!” shouted Miguel.
    The dunes ended at a thick wall of forest. As he approached, Zane scanned it for the clearest entry point. There did not, however, seem to be one—the entire thing looked like an impenetrable tangle of oaks and vines and cabbage palms. He buried his fear and raced headlong into the blackness with one hand outstretched as a probe. Once inside, he could not even see his arm in front of him. Disoriented, he staggered through the dark jumble, tripping over logs, squeezing through bushes, and bouncing off tree trunks like a running back.
    The duffel bag jerked backward; he held tight and tugged on it but something with great strength pulled back. He reached around with his other hand and discovered that the bag was entangled in a web of vines. He wrenched on it with all of his strength, grunting and twisting, and the vines snapped all at once. Surging forward, his face smashed into a branch and the force of it flipped him onto his back. Every thought and impulse vanished and an insistent sleep took over against his will.
     



Chapter Nine
    “His name is Ixasatoriona.” Francisco gestured to the tall native who had now saved Dominic twice. “But you can call him ‘Ona.”
    “Ona,” the native affirmed with a bemused smile. He nodded at Dominic as if to say hello and Dominic reciprocated.
    In the days following the berry incident, the natives had stayed close to Dominic, like overprotective parents afraid to let their child of out