Unwritten Books 2 - Fathom Five
FATHOM FIVE
THE UNWRITTEN BOOKS
FATHOM FIVE
by James Bow
Copyright © James Bow, 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Barry Jowett Design: Alison Carr
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Bow, James, 1972-
Fathom five / James Bow.
Sequel to: The unwritten girl.
ISBN 978-1-55002-692-4
I. Title.
PS8603.O973F48 2007 jC813'.6 C2007-900859-3
1 2 3 4 5 11 10 09 08 07
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada
Printed on recycled paper
www.dundurn.com
The author gratefully acknowledges the Ontario Arts Council for assistance with this project through the Writers’ Reserve Program.
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For Vivian
ARIEL:
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have and kiss’d
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
FERDINAND:
Where should this music be? i’ the air or the earth?
It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon
Some god o’ the island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father’s wreck,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it,
Or it hath drawn me rather. But ’tis gone.
No, it begins again.
ARIEL sings:
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell
— William Shakespeare: The Tempest
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
IT BEGINS AGAIN
“Peter! Storm’s coming!”
It was a beautiful day. Peter slid across the ice in the wading pool in the middle of the deserted park. The sun shone through the frozen willow tree. Ice coated its branches and it clicked like a wooden wind chime as it shifted in the breeze.
Fiona sat shivering on the bench. She pointed to a towering purple cloud approaching from the northwest.
“Come on, Peter; storm’s coming. Probably more freezing rain, so let’s go home.”
Peter slid up to her, beaming. “But it’s still sunny here.”
“Not for long,” said Fiona. She reached out. “Come home, now.”
The nine-year-old took his babysitter’s hand.
Together, they walked along the crusty snow, avoiding the smooth and slippery asphalt path.
As they approached the street, Fiona looked up.
“Your parents are home!”
Peter saw his parents climbing down from a streetcar. Dad took Mom’s arm as he helped her to the curb.
A horn blared. A pickup truck slid forward, its wheels locked. His father looked up.
There was a sickening thump.
Fiona screamed and ran, skidding and slipping on the ice.
Peter fell on the ice-hardened asphalt. A pain shot up his arm.
In the distance, sirens wailed.
***
Peter’s eyes snapped open. The light of an October morning seeped past his blinds and into his bedroom. His sheets were twisted around him. His cheeks were wet.
He touched his face, and stared at the moisture on his fingertips as if he had never seen it before.
His clock radio switched on with a babble of voices. He groaned and whacked it silent.
The house was quiet and cold. He frowned at the silence before remembering that he was the only one at home. His uncle was off to Chicago on business, and wouldn’t be back until early next week, just in time to celebrate Peter’s sixteenth birthday.
Peter threw on jeans and a Maple Leafs’ t-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt and tried to make his hair look less like a haystack. What had he been doing in his sleep, skydiving? He only remembered falling. He tossed the comforter over the knotted sheets and went galumphing down to breakfast.
He was scraping the hard butter over a rapidly disintegrating slice of toast when the school bus horn blared outside. He shoved the toast into his mouth, grabbed his battered school bag and his windbreaker, and sprinted down his walkway just in time.
Some of his fellow students called his name as he walked down the aisle of the bus. He nodded at them and sat in an empty seat near the back, staring out the window and trying to swallow the lump of toast.
A moment later, the bus stopped again. The door opened, and a cardboard box on legs wobbled up the aisle and stopped beside Peter. Suddenly, the box lunged at him and bonked him in the nose. He grappled with it as Rosemary swung off her backpack and dropped into the seat beside him. She was wearing jeans and a bulky grey cardigan sweater. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll take it back, now.”
His mouth glued shut by toast, Peter did his best to say, “That’s okay, I’ve got it,” with his eyebrows. He didn’t think he was successful, because she answered, “Science project. You know, those electron shell balloon models we were working on on Saturday? It’s not heavy, but it’s kind of awkward.”
She slid the box onto her lap, glanced at him again, and pushed her glasses further up on her nose. “Are you still eating breakfast?” The quirk on her lips was a dare for him to laugh.
With a mighty effort, he swallowed. “Nope.”
“You know, Peter, if you’d just set your clock radio to go off five minutes earlier —”
Peter laughed. “You say that every day. It’s not going to happen.”
Rosemary snorted. Then she frowned at him. “You look tired.”
Peter caught himself
in a yawn. Last night had not been good, but he couldn’t remember why. “Funny dream or something,” he said after a while.
“Not worried about your French mid-term, are you?” Rosemary gave him a teasing smile.
Peter stared at her, his stomach leaden with toast. He had forgotten to study for his French mid-term last night.
***
When Peter next saw Rosemary, after the school bells summoned them from first period, she was pulling books from her locker amidst the torrent of students rushing between classes. She had her textbooks around her in neat piles, and was sorting through them for the one she had misplaced. Her face lit up when she saw Peter. “How did the French test go?”
Peter’s smile vanished. He began thumping his head on the nearest locker. “Oh, God! How do you say ‘I’m going to kill myself’ in French?”
“Um … Je vais me tuer, I think. Was it really that bad?”
“I’ll be lucky if I get a ‘B’!”
“Oh, a ‘B’! You’ll be lucky if you don’t die of shame!”
He drooped. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
Rosemary smiled sympathetically. She touched his shoulder, and there they stayed a moment. The background chatter seemed to soften.
Then Benson barged in and opened his locker with a clatter, sending Peter and Rosemary scrambling apart. “Hey there!” he exclaimed. “How are the lovebirds today?”
Rosemary reddened and Peter flared. “We’re not lovebirds!” said the two in unison.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Benson’s friend, Joe, as he stepped up to his locker. He stopped and nudged Peter’s school bag with his foot. “Pete, isn’t this bag new? What do you do, play soccer with this thing?”
Peter sucked his teeth and said nothing.
Benson’s voice came from deep within his locker. “Either of you figure out question four from our history assignment? Stumped me.”
“Benson!” Rosemary exclaimed. “The War of 1812 ended in 1814!”
“Yeah?” Benson closed his locker. “Then why do they just call it the War of 1812? Doesn’t make sense, does it? History never makes sense. Speaking of, you folks ready for your history presentation? I’ve got the coolest!”
“I’m not presenting till Wednesday,” said Rosemary.
But Benson turned away. He focussed on a girl with golden curls who’d opened a locker beside them. He grinned, slicked back his hair, and stepped forward. “Hey, Veronica!”
Veronica gave him a glance, then buried her face in the locker. “Hey, Benson.”
Benson sucked in his breath. “You want to go to the Halloween Homecoming Dance?”
Veronica lit up. “Oh! I’d love to!” She turned back to shelving her textbooks.
Benson beamed. But as Veronica continued to focus on her locker, uncertainty crept across his face. “Um … so, when do I pick you up?”
She looked at him. “What?” Then her mouth twitched in mock sympathy. “Oh! You meant with you, didn’t you?” She closed her locker and strode away.
Joe patted Benson’s shoulder. “Ouch.”
“Oooo,” Rosemary winced. “Bet she’s going as the Ice Queen.”
Despite himself, Peter snorted. “Yeah, cold. You walked right into that one, B.”
Benson scowled at him. “I haven’t seen you try to invite anybody.”
Peter suddenly found himself staring at Rosemary. Rosemary looked back at him. Her brow furrowed. They stood a long moment, blinking at each other. Peter felt his cheeks redden. “Well, I —”
But Benson turned back to his locker. “So, what are you presenting, Pete? You’re up after me.”
Peter stopped cold. The leaden feeling in his stomach returned. History homework. That was the other thing he had forgotten. What had he been doing last night?
“Falling,” answered a small, lost voice.
He flicked his hand past his ear and looked over his shoulder, but no one was there.
***
Peter stepped out onto the porch of Rosemary’s house. The sky was a deep blue, with the moon rising over the trees. Rosemary stepped out after him.
“Thanks,” he said. “Your father’s a good cook.”
Rosemary smirked. “He can teach you, you know. Then you won’t have to rely on pot noodle when you’re home alone.”
“Well, maybe someday,” he shrugged. “How’s your brother doing?”
She rolled her eyes. “Still fretting over which graduate school to go to, poor Theo. He’s thinking about literary criticism at McGill.”
“I’m sure he’ll pick something good.” He grinned at her. “Thanks for the homework help, too.”
Rosemary touched his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
The front door opened again and Mr. Watson peered out. “Still here, Peter?”
Peter and Rosemary split apart, taking great interest in the posts and the cracked walk.
Mr. Watson smiled. “You’re sure you don’t want a ride home?”
Peter shuffled on the concrete steps. “I’m sure. It’s only a mile, and it’s a nice night.”
“See you at school tomorrow,” said Rosemary, starting towards him but bringing herself up short. Mr. Watson was still in the doorway.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “See you.” He turned away, trudging down the front walk and along the gravel shoulder of the road, cursing himself for being so tongue-tied around Rosemary’s father.
Why do I feel like I’m under a microscope when he’s around? he thought. It’s not as if I’m Rosemary’s future husband.
He lingered over that image a moment, then shook it out of his head.
Rosemary would die laughing if she heard that. Or kill me.
The road on which he and Rosemary lived was lined with trees for half a mile between their homes. Emerging from a tunnel of leaves, he was hit by a sharp wind blowing across an open field. The trees behind him shook with a sound like surf.
He pulled his windbreaker closer to his throat and whistled a tune. It was lost in the rush of wind around him. Clouds scudded in front of the moon.
Maybe a storm’s coming in, he thought. Maybe there’s a Small Craft Advisory on Georgian Bay. Gales across the bay can push small boats against the rocks just like one of those … what were they called? Water witches? Sirens?
Peter’s lips went dry, and he stopped whistling. He pressed on towards his house, kicking up the gravel along the shoulder of the road. He jumped when an owl hooted nearby.
He laughed at himself. Wrong setting. Sirens could hardly tempt him to crash his ship against the rocks on 45th Parallel Road. He was on dry land. He wasn’t even in a car. Perhaps sirens could entice unwary drivers into ditches, but people walking? That would be an interesting twist on the old legends.
He pressed on past the hissing leaves, until something on the side of the road stopped him in his tracks.
A stone fence ending in a tall gate pushed out along the property line. A shape was perched on top of the gatepost, just a silhouette in the moonlight. The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck rose. He was sure that the shape was looking at him.
Obvious explanation, said Peter’s rational mind. It’s a garden gnome.
Too big.
Maybe the Hendersons put in stone lions.
It doesn’t look like a stone lion.
And stone lions don’t move.
Peter stood stock-still. The wind rose again, whipping the branches into waves. He began to hear whispers off the leaves and wind. A woman reclined on the brick-and-concrete gatepost in front of him, her arms and legs too long to be human and her hair long enough to cover her like a shroud. Her gaze pinned him until the moon emerged from behind clouds. Pale light shone with such intensity that the telephone poles cast shadows. Peter blinked, and looked at the gate again. There was nothing there.
See? Nothing to worry about.
Peter crunched down the shoulder of the road and up to his front door as fast as he could walk. He burst into his house, slammed the door behind him, and
leaned against it, breathing heavily, wondering why he should feel so scared.
Then he wondered why he should feel so safe.
He had been alone with his thoughts out there, with nothing but the wind to interrupt them. His imagination had gone off on a wild tangent. In his uncle’s house, this hadn’t changed. The place was dark and empty. His imagination prickled like the hairs on the back of his neck.
Peter turned on every light he passed as he paced through the house, using the bathroom, changing out of his school clothes, and then fixing a snack to eat in front of the television.
The television squawked and babbled. He cycled through the channels with the remote twice, then set it aside with a sigh. After a moment he picked up the phone and dialled.
“Watson residence,” answered Rosemary’s voice.
“Hey, Rosemary.”
“Peter! You only just left here! Dad’s going to tease me again!”
He winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. What’s up?”
Peter hesitated. This was Rosemary he was talking to, his best friend. But he was still ashamed to say that he had spooked himself in the night and needed a human voice to tell him he wasn’t alone.
“Peter, are you okay?”