Celeste's Arc

Chapter 3 of 23

The jungle swallowed the light. Celeste pushed deeper, hunting for anything to eat or burn. She found dry husks scattered under a tall palm and tossed them in her bucket. Good tinder for a fire. She smiled and kept walking. She did not see the pair of green eyes watching from the leaves. Then she looked up and her smile fell. The canopy sealed the sky. No blue, no sun, no birds cutting a path overhead. On the boat she always knew her way by the birds. Here she had nothing. She turned in a slow circle. Every direction looked the same. The shore was gone, and she could not tell which way led back to it. Her father's voice came to her. When you cannot see the sky, mark your own trail. She gripped the machete. She would build a path she could follow home. She chose a game to keep herself brave. Every fifth tree, she stopped and cut deep notches in the bark. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Chop. The pale wood showed bright against the dark trunks. She worked until her arm ached and her feet dragged. A broad plant rose ahead, taller than her, its orange blooms shaped like sharp birds. She dropped under its wide leaves and set the bucket down. Just a rest, she told herself. Her eyes closed. Something touched her cheek. Soft. A paw. Celeste woke with a gasp. A cat sat on her chest, dark blue as deep water, with green eyes that studied her like she was a puzzle. She knew those eyes. She knew that fur. "Slate," she whispered. "You're the ship's cat. You lived." "So did you," Slate said. His voice was flat and dry. "Barely. You nap in a jungle. Bold." Celeste laughed, and tears stung her eyes. She was not alone. "I thought everyone was gone." "Not everyone." He hopped off her chest and shook out one paw. "You've been wandering in circles. I watched." "I marked the trees," she said. "I can find the shore now." Slate flicked his tail and walked off. "Then come. Before you forget which trees." She grabbed her bucket and chased him. He darted through the green, quick and sure, past a plant heavy with red fruit. Celeste stopped short. She knew those. Dragonfruit. Her father had given her one on her birthday, sliced open to show the white inside dotted with black seeds. She had eaten every bite. "Slate, wait!" She reached up and twisted the fruit free, one after another, dropping them in her bucket beside the husks. Food. Real food she trusted. Slate watched her pick. "So. You do know something." "My father taught me." She hugged the bucket. "Do you know the way out of here?" "I know things," he said. "More than you." He turned and led her on, into the trees.