Thad had thirty-four chances left.
“Charley!”
Jillian’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and the Wall. I hadn’t moved since Sy carved Bart’s cross.
“Hey.” I turned toward Jillian. “What’s up?”
“You okay? You haven’t moved in, like, an hour.”
“Jillian—” I fumbled, trying to frame my question and not sound Ramia-looney, “Thad’s certain that the labyrinths mean one thing: that there’s one way on and off the island—a gate—and that catching a gate is like finding your way through a maze. But I can’t stop thinking that the labyrinths mean something more personal. That we’re here for a reason, and that it’s up to us to figure it out.”
I took a breath, primed to test my latest wild theory. “Sometimes I think that the key to how many gates flash in a set is tied to the personal journey part of a labyrinth, like we each hold the key, inside of us.” I didn’t mention that I’d seen a quad within minutes of landing; I’d no idea what that meant. “What do you think?”
It took Jillian a long time to answer.
“I think that we’re all searching,” she said slowly. “That being here has changed us all; I mean, how can it not? But”—she sighed—“is there some deep reason we’re here? And does discovering it help us get home? Sorry, but to me it feels like a stretch. Back home, people disappear all the time and are never found. It’s the mass disappearances that get attention, like ships or planes in the Bermuda Triangle, or entire families that vanish. I believe freak things like Nil exist without any hidden agenda.” Her tone went from apologetic to firm. “Talla worked harder than anyone here to get home, and she didn’t make it. Same for Li. So what didn’t they figure out?” She shook her head. “Sorry, my friend, but I agree with Thad. We’re here because each of us got swept up by an invisible storm. Wrong place, wrong time. All we have to do now is catch a gate to make the return trip.”
I stared at Jillian, processing her words.
“What is it?” she asked. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” I shook my spinning head. “You said something exactly right. Jillian, you’re a genius!” I hugged her quickly, then dashed to my hut and collected all four of my rubbings. The paper I’d used wasthin, more like tracing paper than parchment. I carefully spread out all four of my rubbings on the ground in front of my hut and stared at them. Soon I had an audience. Jillian, Rives, Thad, Dex, Jason, Macy, and Ahmad all peered over my shoulder.
“Okay, here goes. We know once gates flash, they roll north along longitudinal lines, and they never flash in the same spot—or on the same latitude—two days in a row. And we know the gate sequence starts here. I’m sure this is Quadrant One.” I pointed to the bottom right quadrant, to the spot where the man stood outside the maze on the drawing Ahmad found, the one Thad called Countdown. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. But I’ve been thinking it’s a wave of gates, passing over the island, and I think that’s where I went wrong.”
Moving slowly, I gently laid one rubbing on top of another, using the number twelve at the top as a constant. The Man in the Maze lay on the bottom; Countdown sat on the top. The remaining two rubbings were sandwiched in the middle. All the number twelves were carefully aligned, their edges sharp. I stepped back, gazed at the rubbings, and like a hidden picture that leaps out after careful study, I saw precisely what I was looking for: the straight lines within the mazes faded, and the circular etchings took center stage. Swirling lines, spinning toward the epicenter, toward the center ofeverymaze. Separately, the drawings were a labyrinth; together they were a guide.
Behind me, Rives sucked in a breath.
“It’s not a wave,” I said, my eyes still traveling the rubbings, “it’s more like a storm—like an invisible tornado. Or a hurricane. It swirls around the island, mimicking the circular path of the labyrinth, starting here”—I pointed at the bottom right quadrant again—“in Quadrant One, then moving left, clockwise, hitting each quadrant in turn, no more than four times.” I looked up. “That’s what I was missing—the circular pattern. And I needed all four rubbingstogether to see it.” I spoke out loud even as my thoughts gelled. “We rarely see the gates that flash first, because so much of the southeast corner is blocked by volcanoes; we usually catch the storm in Quadrant Two, the southwest corner. And I think the rogue gates that don’t quite fit are like outer bands of a storm, slightly off latitude but still within the same quadrant.” I paused. “What do y’all think?”
Dex spoke first. “It’s bloody brilliant.”
“I think you’re a hell of a Second,” Rives said, grinning. “I’m glad you’re here, even though I’m sorry you’re here.” He looked at Thad, who was quiet, then to me. “So, you gonna hit Quadrant Two tomorrow?”
“I have to check with my island guide,” I said, “but I’ll let y’all know. I hear there’s a storm coming.” Smiling, I crossed my fingers; I couldn’t help it.
Please let my latest theory be right.
CHAPTER
52
CHARLEY
DAY 84, NIGHT
The day after I broke out my storm theory, we were riding high. Noon brought a gate, a gorgeous single. Flashing fast and furious across the southern black field, Thad didn’t have a prayer of catching it, but it was there. And then it was gone.
And so the chase began.
We chased gates, and we chased noons, and the faster we ran, the faster time flew. Minutes drained like sand through a sieve, too many at once, too fast to stop. Each time I reached out to seize a moment, it was gone.
Day 331 turned into 332; 332 flew into 333. Sunrise, sunset—334, 335.
Three hundred forty.
Three hundred fifty.
