Night of the Purple Moon (19 page)

Later, the wind backed off, and the waves created less of a rollercoaster ride. She made long westerly tacks throughout the afternoon. All this time Jordan rested peacefully, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm.

To stay awake, Abby splashed water on her face and immediately cried out in pain as the salt penetrated her cracked lips.

She nibbled a cracker, turning the crumbs into a soggy paste with a sip of water, her first sip in hours. The waves of nausea that followed helped keep her awake.

Abby scanned the horizon, expecting to see land soon. Castine Island to Portland was twenty miles. The plan was to sail straight there and then follow the coast south to Boston. Jordan had estimated the first leg would take ten hours, and they’d left eight hours ago.

She’d forgotten to pack sunglasses and rays of the setting sun drilled into her brain, triggering a splitting headache. Abby closed her eyes and felt immediate relief washing over her in the darkness.

“Abby!”

Jordan had called down to her. He was staring down at her from the widow’s walk back at their house. The sun behind him cast an incredible halo about his head. Her brother looked like an angel.

“Jordan, what are you doing up there?”

“It’s so beautiful.”

Abby reeled back and blinked. Her vision was blurry, and something was burning her chest and legs. The sun had dipped beneath the horizon. Slowly, Jordan came into focus. He was holding a drinking cup, and she noticed that her shirt and pants were soaking wet.

“Splashing water on you was the only way I could wake you up,” he said.

They switched positions, a simple maneuver that exhausted Abby. At the bow she rested her head on a life jacket and slipped into sleep.

Jordan wanted to remain a half mile off shore to avoid hitting rocks. He could make out the shadowy stubble of trees and silhouettes of houses along the shoreline. There were no lights, no fires, no other signs of life.

He played out the mainsheet, eased the tiller back, and put the skiff on a broad reach. The wind was blowing out of the north at about five knots and the sail flared wide and made the rope in his hand taut.

Abby lay stretched out in a deep slumber. The distance she had sailed amazed him. He crawled forward and laid the back of his hand against her forehead. Strangely, she felt cool. Did that mean her fever had broken, or had his temperature risen that much higher?

In the stern, Jordan twisted to the right and left, but no position lessened the searing pain between his shoulder blades. The rest of him wasn’t fairing much better. Sweats followed chills, then more chills, a never-ending cycle.

The night sky grew fuzzy with starlight, and a bell buoy tolled in the distance. He switched on the flashlight to check the time: nine fifteen.

Later, thinking he spotted campfires on the mainland, he fumbled for the binoculars but couldn’t find them. He blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the sky, not land. The campfires were really stars. No, he
was
looking at land. Or was he seeing the reflection of stars on the ocean’s surface? He sighed, knowing his mind was playing tricks.

Jordan was certain of one thing: they were making excellent progress. They might even have been doing six knots. He guessed they were off Hampton, New Hampshire, halfway down the state’s coast, and if they maintained this speed they would arrive at Boston’s Logan Airport four days ahead of schedule. Perhaps the scientists would hand out the antibiotic early? He and Abby might even have enough time to go home to Cambridge.

“Jordan.”

He recognized the voice immediately, and his spirit soared. “Mom? Where are you?”

When she didn’t respond, Jordan knew he was now hearing things.

His teeth chattered from chills. To warm up, he covered himself with a life jacket, wind breaker, a plastic bag of clothing—even the box of flares wedged on his thigh provided heat.

No sooner had he snuggled up, half buried under half their supplies, but he started to sweat. Jordan reached over the side and immersed his fingertips into the frigid water. He felt better immediately. The icy water was drawing the fever from throughout his body. All along the answer to his sickness surrounded him. The ocean was the antibiotic that would cure him.

He plunged his whole hand in the water, then his arm up to his elbow. He shifted and balanced his chest on the gunwale, the water now reaching his shoulder. Jordan’s reflection, inches away from his nose, wavered in the starry light.

Abby inhaled sharply and icy mist plunged down her throat. She started to gag and opened her eyes, fully awake now. It was pitch black. She had no idea where she was, only that the cold, clammy sensation she felt on her face was fog.

She blindly dragged her hands over strange objects in a panic. Her fingertips grazed slippery cloth, a strap, a metal buckle. The life jacket! Now it hit her.

The events of the previous day flooded her mind. She and Jordan were sailing the skiff to Boston to get the antibiotic. Both of them were seriously ill. Jordan might be worse off than she was. They had left Castine Island yesterday at dawn and at dusk she had closed her eyes after a long day. They must have sailed into thick fog during the night. She looked at her watch, but couldn’t see the hands.

Abby took quick, sharp breaths and her heart was pounding. “Jordan!” Her voice made a croaking sound. She tried working up enough saliva to swallow. “Jord…” Abby couldn’t finish saying his name. Her parched throat and tongue stopped her from trying to call out to her brother.

She thought he was sleeping. Under any other circumstances, Abby would have not have disturbed him. But she needed to hear his voice. She also wanted him to know they were adrift in the fog. Find him and give him a gentle shake—that was her only goal.

She pulled the flashlight from her jacket pocket. When she pressed the switch, the light wouldn’t come on. Were the batteries dead? She’d made sure it worked before leaving the island. Then Abby saw a tiny flicker. The flashlight worked fine, but the fog was suffocating the light.

Unable to see, Abby would rely on her sense of touch to find Jordan. Starting at the bow, she worked her way toward the stern. She identified water bottles, flares, rope, a walkie-talkie, a box of crackers, sleeping bags…

Abby sought to grab any part of him, blue jeans, a sneaker, an arm, his curly hair…

When she gripped the wooden tiller, she backtracked to the bow in a panic, patting and poking objects, feeling every square inch.

Jordan was not in the boat. Even a healthy person could not survive long in the frigid water.

She tried to scream. The fog dampened what little sound she made.

Abby wanted to run and jump into bed and pull the covers over her head and then fling them off and see Mom and Dad, Toucan and Jordan— all of her family standing before her as she awakened from a year-long nightmare. But this nightmare was real.

The next hours were both the darkest and most enlightening of her life, at the mercy of the weather and space germs, alone, lost in fog, miles from Toucan. Abby plunged into deep despair. She hugged her knees and sobbed for Jordan, for herself, for Kevin and KK and Colby, for every orphan and victim of the purple moon. From this deep gloom a single thought formed. She had reached some limit and could not experience any greater fear or sadness. The thought took root in her mind. She, alone, was responsible for her feelings. She had no control over the surroundings. Why should she allow the surroundings to control her feelings? Abby slowly felt a sense of calm come over her as she accepted her situation and let go of her sadness, let go of her fears, even the fear of death. She was almost giddy, freed from the crushing weight of her own making. Abby thought she discovered a new way to live.
Not quite
. She suffered bouts of panic and anger and depression throughout the rest of the night. She cursed the fog and comet and punched the air and pounded her fists on the life jacket before her. Back and forth it went like this.

The blackness finally gave way to powdery gray, letting Abby know that morning had arrived. The fog remained just as thick.

She took a tiny sip from the water bottle. The fishy water flooded her swollen tongue and tasted good.

“Abby!”

Jordan?
Or had his voice come from inside her head? She felt something nudge her leg. She reached forward and clamped on to what she thought was her brother’s foot. He wiggled it! All this time he had been there. Not about to lose him again, she moved her hand up his leg in search of his hand.

He screamed. “Ayyyyyyyyy! Don’t touch my back!”

Abby swallowed hard. “When did you get the rash?”

“What rash?” He paused. “Three days ago. Abby, it’s ok. I’m ok.”

She didn’t tell him what she was thinking. They had to reach Boston and get the antibiotic in four days or less.

“Jordan, where are we?”

“Somewhere off southern New Hampshire,” he said. “We’ll reach Boston ahead of schedule. Don’t worry, the fog will lift when the sun comes up.”

“The sun
has
come up.”

They waited for the fog to burn off mostly in silence. It required too much effort to talk. Abby could tell when Jordan had drifted off again from his grunts and groans. She might have fallen asleep at times, too. The edge between dreams and fog and wakefulness was a blur. Abby gave herself tasks to stay awake. Find the ibuprofen, find the crackers.

The sun first appeared as a pale wafer directly overhead. Soon it was a brilliant, shining orb in a clear, cloudless sky.

It was 12:30.

Abby could see land. A water tower. Vegetation. The houses stood like a row of tombstones. A thread of black smoke frayed as it rose higher in the distance. Between them and the land, the ocean was as still as a pond. Without a breath of wind, the canvas sail showed every wrinkle.

Abby nudged Jordan. He blinked, turned to the shore and immediately buried his face in his hands. Every word of his muffled cry stung. “We’ve drifted back to Maine!” he shouted.

The skiff sat about a half-mile offshore in the stillest of air, unmoved for the past three hours on an ocean of glass. It was the middle of the afternoon. Jordan thought that if the breeze did not pick up soon, they should start rowing to shore, arriving before nightfall if possible. How would he and Abby find the strength to row such a distance? They might not have a choice.

Jordan figured that once on land they could sleep near the boat and then make a decision in the morning. If there was a strong wind blowing in the right direction, they would resume sailing to Boston. Otherwise they would find a car and drive there.

He scanned the boat, but he didn’t see the car battery or the can of gasoline, items crucial to his plan. Cars which had not run since the night of the purple moon would have dead batteries, and he thought that kids on the mainland would have siphoned the gasoline from tanks long ago. Was he just not seeing them somehow? They seemed too big for their other supplies to conceal. He’d ask Abby when she awoke.

An hour passed without a whisper of wind.

Jordan inserted the oarlocks and freed the oars. Then he woke up his sister and explained his plan. “We’ll know what to do tomorrow,” he said. “It all depends on the weather.” Abby hung her head, appearing dejected. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She told him that she had thrown the battery and can of gasoline overboard.

“Abby, I would have done the same thing,” he said to make her feel better and because they could do nothing about it. If he had been sailing, though, they would have never been at risk of capsizing. “I still think we should row,” he added. “If the wind doesn’t pick up, we’ll have to find another way to reach Boston.”

Abby sat to his right and gripped her oar handle. “How long will it take to reach land?” she asked.

They were shoulder to shoulder. “Don’t think,” he said, “just row.”

“Do you think it’s about two-hundred yards?” she asked in a hopeful tone.

Should he tell his sister that it was five times that? Or let her discover the real distance for herself after several hours of rowing?

“It’s a little bit further,” he said.

Over the next two hours only a small percentage of the strokes they took were in harmony.

Jordan had somewhat grown accustomed to his chills, high fever, and grinding cramps, but every time he pulled the oar to his chest intense pain radiated throughout his body and scolded him to stop.

Never give up!

He knew how poorly Abby was rowing by hearing her oar shaft jump in and out of the oarlock and the weak splashes kicking up from the blade. But compared to him his sister was an Olympic rower. His oar blade barely skimmed the surface. To dip it deeper was too strenuous.

By the time they had rowed two-hundred yards—Abby’s estimation to shore—each had developed huge blisters on their palms. Jordan wrapped his hands in a spare pair of underwear, and Abby used one of his t-shirts.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, after they had found a rowing rhythm of sorts.

“Hippos,” she said.

“You’re kidding me?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was really wondering what Touk was doing. I miss her.”

Jordan said nothing. The pact that he and Abby had made—not to dwell on memories, on loved ones—he had broken hours ago. He held the image of Emily in his mind constantly.

The sun gilded the water bronze, and yet they were still hours from shore.

Crushed by fatigue, Jordan pushed on, oars slapping the water as desperate as a bird with a broken wing trying to fly. Abby set the pace. He couldn’t imagine where she was finding her strength.

As the brow of the sun sank below the horizon, Jordan felt as if he could reach out and touch land. He could make out overgrown lawns, roofs with shingles missing, cars parked in driveways. His energy surged.

But the outgoing tide pushed them further away.

A spider web of stars spread across the night sky and the temperature dropped. To tell the time, Jordan touched the tip of his nose to his watch and slowly rose up until the blurry hands came into focus. Ten forty-five! They’d been rowing for nearly seven hours.