The Falcon's Feather Read online

  “They can?” Was that a tiny crack in Dugan’s tough outer shell?

  “Uh-huh. Sharks find their prey mainly by smell. They see well in low contrast but have a harder time with high-contrast objects,” explained Cruz. “They can be attracted to jewelry, bright swimsuits, or surfboards with contrasting colors, thinking they’re fish.”

  Dugan eyed him suspiciously. “You’re teasing.”

  “I’m not. Honest.”

  “You think you’re so smart because Monsieur Legrand picked you instead of me to be the crustacean ambassador, but you’re not.”

  It was on the tip of Cruz’s tongue to correct him, but he didn’t.

  Bryndis did. “It’s cetacean, Dugan, not crustacean. Crustaceans are crabs and—”

  “I know what they are,” bit Dugan, turning away.

  “We’ve locked on to the pod.” Monsieur Legrand was coming toward them with Ekaterina, Zane, and Tao close behind. “Get into your gear, team.”

  Cruz reached for his buoyancy vest. He slipped the outer strap over his oxygen tank. Zane was there to give him a hand, lifting the tank so Cruz could slip his arms into the vest. Cruz picked up his helmet and turned the dial above the left ear clockwise to switch on the helmet’s computer system. They were using Fanchon Quills’s watertight rebreathing helmets. When a diver exhaled, the helmet filtered out the carbon dioxide, recycled the oxygen and nitrogen, then added fresh air from the tank before cycling it all back into the helmet to be inhaled. Cruz clicked the dial over the right ear clockwise to turn on his microphone. While Zane connected the hoses from his tank to his helmet and the emergency regulator attached to his weight belt, Cruz checked to make sure the UCC controller was securely clipped to the belt. He set the toggle to human communication, as Fanchon had instructed. Zane slid the helmet over Cruz’s head. Cruz could hear him flipping latches, attaching the helmet to his wet suit to create a watertight seal.

  “You’re set,” called Zane, tapping his back. “Check your level and test, please.”

  On the bottom of his view screen, Cruz spotted the air tank gauge. It read 100 PERCENT. Cruz took a few deep breaths to make sure the unit was functioning, before giving Zane a thumbs up. All that was left was to put on his fins and gloves. As he did, he saw Dugan unzip the top of his wet suit and slip his gold chain inside.

  Once everyone from Team Cousteau was suited up, Team Magellan backed away and took their seats in the front section of the sub. With a final thumbs-up to the dive team, Tripp hit a switch on his console. The watertight wall began moving, separating the dive section from the front of the sub. A few moments after the wall locked into place, water began coming in through vents at their feet. Cruz’s pulse quickened as the water rose to his ankles, his shins, his knees…

  “Team Cousteau, check in.” Monsieur Legrand’s voice was in Cruz’s helmet.

  “Cousteau One here,” responded Cruz.

  “Cousteau Two,” echoed Sailor.

  “Cousteau Three,” called Bryndis.

  “Cousteau Four,” said Emmett.

  Silence.

  All heads turned to Dugan. He put his hands out, palms up, as if to say, What?

  Cruz reached for the dial on Dugan’s helmet and turned it clockwise.

  “I said, I’m here!” Dugan’s voice pierced their eardrums.

  Monsieur Legrand sighed in that way teachers do when they wish class was over already. The dive section now completely flooded, Monsieur Legrand swam to the upper hatch and spun it. He pushed the door upward and kicked through the circular opening. As the webbed tips of his fins disappeared, Team Cousteau followed. Cruz went up after Bryndis. The moment he was in open water, he felt himself relax. He hadn’t been diving since last summer. It felt good to be in the sea again—featherlight and free. He loved the buoyancy of water. Maybe Bryndis was right. Maybe this was his örlög. Cruz did a few somersaults for fun.

  Monsieur Legrand closed the hatch behind them. “Ridley, we’re clear.”

  “Roger that,” confirmed Tripp. “The electromagnetic shark deterrent is on, so you should be protected. We’ll be here in case you need anything. Team Earhart is on the surface and is tracking you. Ridley out.”

  Monsieur Legrand glanced up from his sonar receiver. “Looks like the whales have turned and are heading closer to shore. Follow me. Visibility isn’t great today, so remember your scuba training and stay with your buddy.” He motioned for Dugan, who was his partner, to join him. They took the lead. Sailor and Emmett fell in behind them. Cruz swam to Bryndis. Shoulder to shoulder, they brought up the rear.

  The pair kicked in an easy, steady rhythm, their heads slowly turning as they scanned the seascape. Monsieur Legrand was right; visibility was low. For a while, the only thing Cruz saw was Sailor’s and Emmett’s fins stirring up a silty blue fog ahead of him. Suddenly, to his right, a silver blur. Cruz pulled up. A giant group of small, shimmery gray fish made an abrupt yet smooth turn to avoid him. There must have been thousands of fish in the school, maybe tens of thousands, but they seemed to move as one.

  “Herring,” identified Bryndis. “I read that they can communicate by farting.”

  Cruz tried to keep from giggling. That had to be an Icelandic word that meant something very different from what it meant in English.

  “When they break wind, it makes a high-pitched buzzing sound that humans and other fish can’t hear,” she said. “Although it’s possible whales and dolphins can hear it, in which case the gassy herring are advertising themselves as dinner. Weird, huh?”

  “Tooting fish,” laughed Cruz. “Who knew?”

  “You do know we can hear you guys,” Emmett said drily.

  “Farts and all,” added Dugan.

  Cruz and Bryndis exchanged sheepish grins.

  “Up ahead!” It was Monsieur Legrand. “We’ve found our pod, explorers!”

  Cruz and Bryndis swam faster to catch up with the others. Reaching Monsieur Legrand, Cruz spotted about seven or eight dark masses perpendicular to their position. They were drifting near the surface. Suddenly, a diagram of a North Atlantic right whale popped up in the corner of Cruz’s viewer. The light next to it turned green. The UCC was ready!

  “Cruz, you’re up,” said his instructor.

  This was it!

  “I’m switching over to UCC communication only now.” Cruz tried to sound composed, but it was hard to keep his voice steady with his heart booming against his rib cage.

  “Copy that,” said Monsieur Legrand. “We’ll let you know if we need to speak again.”

  Cruz flipped the toggle. He began swimming toward the group, kicking gently and keeping his arms close to his body so he didn’t spook them. He chose a whale on the outside of the group and glided toward its head. He wanted the animal to be able to clearly see him with the eye on that side. The black whale was enormous—bigger than a school bus! Its long, smooth body sloped to a massive, notched tail that was lazily fanning the water. Several white patches were splattered across its belly. The whale’s mouth scooped down below a large black eye, then up toward the nose to form a giant upside-down U. Sandy white bumps dotted the head and swooshed over each eye, like a thick eyebrow. Yesterday in class, Dr. Ishikawa had explained the bumps were hardened patches of skin called callosities. These rough patches of calcified skin were a distinguishing feature of right whales. No two whales had the same pattern.

  For a moment, Cruz could only stare at the 70-ton animal. Mesmerized by its size and beauty, he felt so tiny. So ordinary.

  Cruz should probably say something, shouldn’t he? As he started to speak, he heard a noise that sounded like a baby elephant trumpeting. Had that come from the whale? The blue light in his helmet went on. It had! Cruz held his breath, eagerly waiting for the translation.

  “Human.” It was Fanchon’s voice in his ear. It was comforting to hear her.

  Cruz heard anoth
er lonely wail, this one longer and from farther away.

  “Caution,” came the translation.

  A dark eye was moving, studying him. Cruz’s mind suddenly went blank. It took him a few seconds to remember what he had practiced. “We’ve…uh…we have come to help,” Cruz said too loudly. “To take off the nets.”

  As the UCC broadcast his message, Cruz heard a long whooooooom, like a lone trombone, sliding from one low note up to the one above. The noise was not loud; however, Cruz felt like his head was stuck inside a stereo speaker.

  The message came back: “Help.”

  The whale turned its head toward Cruz, seeming to acknowledge him, before slipping lower in the water. Out of the corner of his eye, Cruz saw a flash of red. Was that a buoy? Could this be the snarled whale from Dr. Ishikawa’s video? The pod parted, allowing Cruz to move between them. He kept his arms in, fluttering his fins slowly and steadily through the cloudy blue-green water. Surrounded by creatures that were 10 times his body length, Cruz didn’t feel crowded or jostled or even scared.

  There! A red buoy was trailing a whale. It was attached to a clump of twisted fishing net wound several times around the whale’s lower belly and tail. The net was so tightly wrapped, it was bending one of the tail flukes. The sight of it made Cruz wince.

  Cruz heard a soft, mournful wail. It seemed to go on forever.

  As the whale’s tail sank, the translator spoke: “Struggle. Tired. Pain.”

  “I understand!” cried Cruz. “Yes! Hold on. Do not give up!” Cruz got so excited he nearly forgot to switch his controller. “Monsieur Legrand, I’m pretty sure I’ve found the whale from the video, the one with the buoy. Swim through the space that I took and you’ll see us. Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

  “Easy there, Cruz,” answered his instructor. “Tell him to stay still. We’re coming.”

  Cruz flipped the toggle on his UCC to relay the message, then moved in a bit closer. He put a hand on the whale’s body, next to a long, wide pectoral fin. “You will be all right. My friends will help. I am right here. Stay still, if you can.” He was probably talking too fast and saying too much. Slow down, he told himself. If you’re calm, it’ll be calm. But he was touching a whale! How do you not freak out about that?

  Through the haze, Cruz saw one helmet, then another, appear. “Here they come!”

  The team members took their positions on each side of the whale. Sailor drifted into place next to Cruz. As their eyes met, hers widened as if to say, Can you believe where we are?

  “Cousteau Two, report,” commanded Monsieur Legrand.

  “No netting up here near the left fin,” replied Sailor, moving along the whale’s body. “I see no injuries.”

  “Cousteau Three?”

  “Same report from the right side,” explained Bryndis.

  “Cousteau Four?”

  “Netting is wrapped around the lower body,” said Emmett. “There is a small cut here on the belly, but it doesn’t look deep.”

  “Cousteau Five?”

  “Netting here, too, but no injuries,” reported Dugan.

  “The tail is bent, but I see no wounds,” reported Monsieur Legrand. “Team members two through five, please slowly swim back to the tail to assist me. Cruz, please continue to keep our patient calm.”

  Cruz stroked the animal. Its skin felt rubbery smooth over a firm, muscular body. “You are doing well,” he said into his translator. “We are going to take off the net now.”

  I wonder what you’re thinking, Cruz thought as the dark eye roved over Sailor, then him.

  The whale’s tail and fins had stopped moving. It was floating. Waiting. Maybe even trusting?

  Their instructor ran his hand across the net. He looked to be probing for a loose section. “We’ll start here,” said Monsieur Legrand, taking a knife from his belt. “Dugan, hold this piece up while I cut it. Good. Now, Emmett, gently unravel that side. Sailor and Bryndis, can you gather up what we cut away?” Little by little, piece by piece, they peeled away the netting. The whale did not flinch, even when the tips of Emmett’s flipper slid along its belly. Everyone moved cautiously and carefully, and for Cruz, it was like watching a dance in slow motion—an amazing dance in a dreamy blue-and-black world. In less than 10 minutes, the explorers had removed every last bit of knotted rope. Monsieur Legrand contacted Dr. Ishikawa and Team Earhart to tell them they were bringing the debris to the surface.

  Cruz looked directly into the whale’s eye. “We are done. You are free.”

  He heard a ghostly moan, then saw an easy flick from a tail that was no longer bent. It was as if the mammal was testing to see if it was true.

  A fin seemed to reach out to Cruz. It trailed along his chest. “Gratitude,” said his translator.

  Cruz could hardly contain himself! It was all he could do to keep from doing a somersault in the bubbles. They had done it. They had actually rescued a whale! Cruz snapped to attention when he saw the blue light. His UCC was translating again: “More.”

  More what? More netting? Cruz’s eyes darted to inspect the whale. “It is all right,” he confirmed. “We have taken off all the nets.”

  Cruz heard it again: “More.”

  He was confused. He didn’t know what to think. Or say. Had they missed something? Could there be a hook in its mouth or some other injury they had missed? Maybe the whale had been snarled in the gear so long, it felt like it was still attached to it. Should Cruz say something to Monsieur Legrand? He reached for the toggle switch on his belt.

  “Cruz!” Emmett was pointing over Cruz’s shoulder.

  Turning, he saw three whales gliding toward them. They must have splintered off from the main group and circled back while Team Cousteau was busy. The whale on the end had a long rope wrapped several times around its nose! Cruz remembered how Professor Ishikawa had told them right whales feed on zooplankton and krill by skimming the surface, opening their mouths to take in water, and filtering their prey with baleen plates. Sailor read his mind. “How can he possibly eat like that?” she said.

  “It isn’t easy,” said Monsieur Legrand.

  “It’s a good thing we got here when we did,” added Emmett.

  Next to him, Cruz was certain, were the two other whales they’d seen in Dr. Ishikawa’s video: the mother whale, a tangle of netting lashing a fin to her side, and her calf.

  Cruz’s translator spoke for them all: “Help.”

  Cruz smoothly pushed his arms through the teal waters to reach them. “We are here to help,” he said. “Do not worry.”

  This time, instead of cutting the nets himself, Monsieur Legrand handed his knife to the explorers. He guided Bryndis and Dugan on how to snip away the ropes from the first whale; then it was Emmett and Sailor’s turn to release the mother whale. Cruz held his breath as he watched them work. They had to be so, so precise.

  Cruz felt a bump on his hip. It was the calf. The young whale was less than half the size of his mom and not quite as dark, but with similar callosities on his head, above the eye, and on the tip of his nose.

  Cruz grinned. “Hello.”

  He heard several short clicks, which were soon translated: “Worried. Mother.”

  Cruz wondered how long his mother had been tangled in the fishing gear. The calf rolled, revealing his belly patches, and tapped his mother’s side with his nose. Cruz heard a long warble. It reminded him of the way a singer holds out the last note of a sad song. The note faded away into an eerie silence.

  “Love,” said his translator.

  Cruz swallowed past the lump in his throat.

  “Gently, gently, almost there,” coached Monsieur Legrand softly as Emmett cut away the last of the rope.

  Cruz watched the mother whale’s fin spring from its tether and felt his own heart leap with joy. His team let out a collective “Whoop!”

  “That should do it,” announce
d Monsieur Legrand. Emmett and Sailor swam backward with the net in tow. “Everyone in this group is clear with no discernible injuries. I’d say Operation Cetacean Extrication was a success. Team, let’s get all this junk up to the boat.”

  Cruz saw that Bryndis was wrestling with a clump of netting. He grabbed one side of it, and they swam up together. As the five explorers and their instructor surfaced, the pod breached, too.

  Several of the whales curled forward, diving and surfacing and diving again as if on a roller coaster. Others spun sideways, their flapping fins making it seem like they were waving. Maybe they were! As they frolicked, the whales took turns blowing huge bursts of air and water into the sky. Treading water, Cruz watched the calf and his mother break through the deep blue waves. Cresting together above the whitecaps, they pitched forward and dived, slapping their tails in unison. It was an incredible sight to see such powerful yet graceful beings swimming strong and free. What was the word Bryndis had used? Örlög. It may have been an ancient idea, but it fit. This was nature’s destiny.

  Now on the surface, Cruz could no longer hear the whales’ song, but his translator could, and it kept repeating one word: “Joy.”

  Joy.

  Joy.

  Tears clouded Cruz’s vision. He was breathless. And speechless.

  Team Earhart, coming around the back side of the pod in a small powerboat, got soaked from all the thrashing and spraying, but didn’t seem to mind. They cut their engine so they wouldn’t scare the whales. Explorers Kwento Osasona, Femi Touitou, and Kendall Pierson were all smiles when they leaned over the port side to haul up the net from Cruz and Bryndis.

  “Well done, Team Cousteau,” said Monsieur Legrand once they’d heaved the last of the fishing gear into the boat. “Let’s go back down to the seafloor for one last check. We don’t want to leave any debris behind.”