I explain this when I arrive at Vivian Jean’s hut with Tully and Katherine, but Vivian Jean has other ideas. “There’s nothingI can do here to help Momma Hazel. You can send your brother Raymond with a message for Byron. He can bring a doctor for Tully and Robbie.”
“You don’t need a doctor, miss. I’ll take care of your husband,” Momma Hazel intervenes. “And mi look after the boy, too. You should accompany my daughter. She can’t be alone in the jungle.”
“I agree,” Vivian Jean adds. “Not in this weather.” Then she whispers, “Not in your condition.”
I can’t argue with her, especially since my mother seems to be on Vivian Jean’s side. As we leave, I hear my mother chanting. She has started the healing ritual. Vivian Jean pauses, giving her husband a hopeful glance, but I urge her out of the hut. “We’re wasting time.”
I grab a machete and some hiking gear from a large pouch in the corner of the hut.
Without mules—since the storm makes them too skittish to trust—I only know one footpath to take—the one heading toward Maggotty.
“If we don’t find them on that path, when we get to Maggotty, I’ll call Byron or send a telegram if the phones are down.
Wrapped in long, oilcloth coats that Vivian Jean had taken from her hut to ward off the rain, we set out with me in the lead.
We stay close together and move quickly through the jungle, densely covered with fallen leaves, branches, and mud from the wind and rain.
“We’re about thirty to forty minutes behind Othella and Schaefer.” I hope Vivian Jean can hear me over the storm. “We need to stop Schaefer from whatever he’s planning before he hurts her.”
“What if that’s all he’s planning?” Vivian Jean yells.
“Let’s keep moving,” I say, slashing my machete through vines, branches, and more, because I have no answer for her.
I might be acting on a whim and a prayer, trying to convince myself that our effort to find Othella isn’t in vain. If Schaefer hasn’t hurt her yet, Vivian Jean and I are ready for a confrontation—I hope. I have my trusty machete, while Vivian Jean brought one of the small shovels Robbie uses to dig up plant roots.
“I heard something,” Vivian Jean shouts and we stop.
“What was it?”
“A voice, I believe.”
“Quiet. Listen.” I stand completely still, struggling to hear anything other than the sound of rain and wind.
Then Vivian Jean spins and begins marching back in the direction we just came from. “I heard it again.”
As we retrace our steps, a pool of water seems to bubble up from nowhere. I keep an eye on it, trying to remember something my father once said. At the same time, I cup my ear, listening to the night, straining to hear what Vivian Jean hears.
“Help me.”
We turn sharply to face each other. We both heard it.
“Was that Othella?” Vivian Jean asks, barely breathing.
Holding Vivian Jean’s hand, I squeeze the handle of the machete in my other hand. We inch forward, careful to steady our footing, but suddenly, we’re not on solid ground.
Vivian Jean screams as our hands tear apart. I feel the ground drop away beneath me. The machete slips from my other hand. I reach out, grabbing onto anything to halt my fall.
What is happening? My oilcloth coat catches on something, and I am no longer falling. Instead, I am hanging onto a branch or a rock, kicking as I search for a ledge or something solid to stand on.
One foot touches a rock or ledge, while my arms hold onto another rock or a thick palm tree root.
Blinking repeatedly, I try to clear the mud and dirt from my eyes. I hear a voice.
“Where are we? What is this?”
“Are you holding on to something, Vivian Jean?” I shout, recognizing her voice as I cling to whatever root or branch has stopped my fall. “We are in a sinkhole. I don’t know how deep it is and can’t see how far we’ve fallen. I think Othella is here, too. Can you hear us?” I call out. “Can you see us, Othella?”
A tense moment passes as I wait for a reply.
