Song of the Deep Read Free Page A

hurry
down the cliff steps, leaping the gap without breaking my stride. In the shed I
take inventory of everything I’ve got to work with. There are gleaming scraps
of gold-colored metal, a few sturdy planks of wood, a half dome of glass, and
piles of the strange mechanical contraptions that I can’t even name. My father
makes up some exotic explanation for each of the treasures he brings home. A
half dome of glass was once a monocle for a giant cyclops octopus. A little
propeller was a merry-go-round for playful hermit crabs.
    I look back and forth at the jumble, trying to decide where to
start. I grab the biggest pieces of metal and start hammering them into curves.
Each one has to align perfectly, so I carefully measure them as I go. They’re
surprisingly malleable, as if they were made to be sculpted. When the biggest
scraps are all laid out and curved into shape, I use a hammer and awl to poke
careful rows of holes along the edges. I bolt each piece together, one by one,
securing the bolts as tightly as I can.
    I take a step back. Am I crazy to think this is going to work?
    There isn’t much metal left, so I start collecting the sturdiest
pieces of wood I can find. I sketch out a design in the sand and make some
quick calculations. I saw the wood into carefully measured lengths and nail
them together. The wood fits snugly into the metal frame, forming a tight seal.
The outer frame is starting to take shape.
    As I check the seals on the bottom of the frame, I spot a tiny hole
at the front of the hull. It’s barely bigger than an inch in diameter, but I’m
not sure I have enough metal left to patch it.
    Sifting through the dwindling pile of treasures, I find a striped
orange zephyr whelk. I hold the colorful seashell in my hand—it’s about the
size and shape of an ice cream cone. What was the song my father sang about
this one? There was something special about zephyr whelks. I try to recall the
melody, and then stop myself. What am I doing? My father needs me. Every second
matters.
    I wedge the zephyr whelk into the hole in the front of the hull as
tightly as I can. It’s not a perfect solution, but I’m in a hurry. Maybe the
little seashell will bring me luck.
    I glance back toward the sea. The sun is already high overhead,
and I feel a wave of panic. How do I really know my father is down there? If he
is, how long can he survive under the water? My whole plan suddenly feels
foolish. I look out at the dock to see Fergus staring back at me.
    “What should I do, Fergus?” The pelican turns away and looks
toward the sea. He doesn’t believe in me either. I feel a huge weight pressing
down on me. What am I thinking? I’m twelve years old. I can’t do this. I’m just
going to get myself killed.
    The wood-and-metal frame I’ve built looks like a big bathtub. How
did I ever think I would be able to ride inside it, let alone use it to find my
father? I suddenly feel more alone than I have ever felt. I wish my mother was
here. I wish I had someone to tell me what I should do.
    I close my eyes. A light wind blows gently through my hair. I
listen to the soft sound of the surf reaching toward me up the shore. Then I
feel a hand on my shoulder. My father! I want to whirl around and embrace him,
but my body is frozen. I feel the hand gently stroke my hair. The smell of wild
orchids surrounds me. I remember my mother used to make necklaces out of their
purple petals, one for her and one for me. I feel long soft hair graze my back,
and a gentle kiss in my hair. I turn around.
    The beach is empty. The smell of wild orchids is gone. Even Fergus
has disappeared.
    But so have my doubts. I know what I need to do and I know I can
do it.
    Suddenly I’m working faster than I thought possible. My hands are
moving in a blur, as if they already know what to do. I finish the roof,
bolting everything tight and double-checking each seam. I pull a little
propeller and an axle out of the scraps. The next step will require some parts
I