vegetation as the jungle ruffles and shakes itself into a new tangle of overgrowth. The whole island continually changes, like a great sleeping beast breathing on the horizon.
âWhatââ My brain isnât even close to catching up to what my eyes are seeing. I lower the heavy glass and look to the Captain. âPlease tell me you see that.â I hesitate. âThe way itâs moving, I mean.â
He raises his brows quizzically. âAnd why wouldnât I see whatâs right in front of me?â
But his words donât make me feel any better. âThings like thatâthey donât . . . Itâs not possible,â I tell him.
âMaybe not in the world you were taken from. In this one, thoughââhe gives a shrug that looks more tired than carelessââIâve seen more than most would care to, and I learned well enough that nothingâs impossible.â
Unease trickles down my spine. He spoke so casually, that I know I canât be hearing him right. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself for the question I canât believe Iâm about to ask.
âWhat, exactly, is that supposed to mean?â I say slowly.
âI thought I spoke clearly enough.â He glances at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. âHave you seen or heard of many islands, then, that move and dance to their own heartbeat in your world?â He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to back away. âHave you seen a forest rise and fall with its own will and of its own wanting?â
I swallow hard and, unable to form the words, shake my head. Of course I havenât, because such things do not exist. They cannot exist.
âAnd having seen such wonders, is it so hard to believe that you are no longer in the human world? Is it so impossible, after what youâve seen through that glass, to believe youâve found yourself somewhere else entirely?â His mouth goes grim once again. âIt may look on the surface like the world you know, lass, but donât let that be fooling you. Though the sky is broad, there is nothing to this world but the sea and that,â he says, pointing to the island. âAnd there are dangers on those shores you cannot have imagined.â
âThere has to be something else,â I said, thinking about how impossible what heâs saying sounds.
âYouâd think it, wouldnât you? But Iâve tried myself to escape. Iâve sailed this ship for weeks on end, until my crew was near starvation, and I thought for sure weâd all die from the icy cold that coats the sea beyond. After weeks of sailing, what do you think appeared on the horizon?â He points toward the island again. âItâs as though this entire world is centered on that one heartless piece of land. All directions lead there.â
âThatâs impossible,â I say, wondering how bad of a Captain you have to be to sail in circles like that without realizing it.
âPerhaps in the world youâre from,â he tells me, and his voice is so rough and worn, I almost believe heâs telling me the truth.
âBut even if I believe you, even if I accept we are in another world, it canât just be the sea and that island,â I tell him. âThere has to be a way out.â
âThere are boundaries between your world and this one, to be sure, but Iâve no idea where theyâre hidden. And Iâve no power to breach them.â His dark eyes are serious and steady on mine. âThink of how you came to be here, lass. It wasnât a ship that brought you, now was it?â
âThe monsters,â I whisper, remembering the strange pressure, the dizzying flight.
âAye,â he said darkly.
I grip the railing so tightly, my fingertips ache, and I close my eyes against the sea and the island and a truth too terrible to accept. âWhat is this place?â I ask, my voice shaking.