“Trees attract lightnin’, just like the mast would if we left it up,” said Hawk.
Even on dry land the storm was scarifying. And the land didn’t stay dry for long. Tim lay on the ground beneath the curve of the boat’s hull as lightning sizzled all around them and the thunder blasted so loud it hurt his ears. Hawk sprawled beside Tim and both boys pressed themselves flat against the puddled stony ground.
The world seemed to explode into a white-hot flash and Tim heard a crunching, crashing sound. Peeping over Hawk’s shoulder he saw one of the big trees slowly toppling over, split in half and smoking from a lightning bolt. For a moment he thought the tree would smash down on them, but it hit the ground a fair distance away with an enormous shattering smash.
At last the storm ended. The boys were soaking wet and Tim’s legs felt too weak to hold him up, but he got to his feet anyway, trembling with cold and the memory of fear.
Slowly they explored the rocky, pebbly beach and poked in among the trees. Squirrels and birds chattered and scolded at them. Tim saw a snake, a beautiful blue racer, slither through the brush. Without a word between them, the boys went back to the boat. Hawk pulled his bow and a handful of arrows from the box where he had stored them while Tim collected a couple of pocketfuls of throwing stones.
By the time the sun was setting they were roasting a young rabbit over their campfire.
Burping contentedly, Hawk leaned back on one elbow as he wiped his greasy chin. “Now this is the way to live, ain’t it?”
“You bet,” Tim agreed. He had seen some blackberry bushes back among the trees and decided that in the morning he’d pick as many as he could carry before they started out again. No sense leaving them to the birds.
“Hello there!”
The deep voice froze both boys for an instant. Then Hawk dived for his bow while Tim scrambled to his feet.
“Don’t be frightened,” called the voice. It came from the shadowy bushes in among the trees, sounding ragged and scratchy, like it was going to cough any minute.
On one knee, Hawk fitted an arrow into his hunter’s bow. Tim suddenly felt very exposed, standing there beside the campfire, both hands empty.
Out of the shadows of the trees stepped a figure. A man. An old, shaggy, squat barrel of a man in a patchwork vest that hung open across his white-fuzzed chest and heavy belly, his head bare and balding but his brows and beard and what was left of his hair bushy and white. His arms were short, but thick with muscle. And he carried a strange-looking bow, black and powerful-looking, with all kinds of weird attachments on it.
“No need for weapons,” he said, in his gravelly voice.
“Yeah?” Hawk challenged, his voice shaking only a little. “Then what’s that in your hand?”
“Oh, this?” The stranger bent down and laid his bow gently on the ground. “I’ve been carrying it around with me for so many years it’s like an extension of my arm.”
He straightened up slowly, Tim saw, as if the effort caused him pain. There was a big, thick-bladed knife tucked in his belt. His feet were shod in what looked like strips of leather.
“Who are you?” Hawk demanded, his bow still in his hands. “What do you want?”
The stranger smiled from inside his bushy white beard. “Since you’ve just arrived on my island, I think it’s more proper for you to identify yourselves first.”
Tim saw that Hawk was a little puzzled by that.
“Whaddaya mean, your island?” Hawk asked.
The old man spread his arms wide. “This is my island. I live here. I’ve lived her for damned near two hundred years.”
“That’s bull-dingy,” Hawk snapped. Back home he never would have spoken so disrespectfully to an adult, but things were different out here.
The shaggy old man laughed. “Yes, I suppose it does sound fantastic. But it’s true. I’m two hundred and fifty-six years old, assuming I’ve been keeping my calendar correctly.”
“Who are you?” Hawk demanded. “Whatcha want?”
Placing a stubby-fingered hand on his chest, the man replied, “My name is Julius Schwarzkopf, once a professor of meteorology at the University of Washington, in St. Louis, Missouri, U. S. of A.”
“I heard of St. Louie,” Tim blurted.
“Fairy tales,” Hawk snapped.
“No, it was real,” said Professor Julius Schwarzkopf. “It was a fine city, back when I was a teacher.”
Little by little, the white-bearded stranger eased their suspicions. He came up to the fire and sat down with them, leaving his bow where he’d laid it. He kept the knife in his belt, though. Tim sat a little bit away from him, where there were plenty of fist-sized rocks within easy reach.
The Prof, as he insisted they call him, opened a little sack on his belt and offered the boys a taste of dried figs.
As the last embers of daylight faded and the stars began to come out, he suggested, “Why don’t you come to my place for the night? It’s better than sleeping out in the open.”
Hawk didn’t reply, thinking it over.
“There’s wild boars in the woods, you know,” said the Prof. “Mean beasts. And the cats hunt at night, too. Coyotes, of course. No wolves, though; for some reason they haven’t made it to this island.”
“Where’s your cabin?” Hawk asked. “Who else lives there?”
“Ten minutes’ walk,” the Prof answered, pointing with an outstretched arm. “And I live alone. There’s nobody but me on this island—except you, of course.”
The old man led the way through the trees, guiding the boys with a small greenish lamp that he claimed was made from fireflies’ innards. It was fully dark by the time they reached the Prof’s cabin. To Tim, what little he could make out of it looked more like a bare little hump of dirt than a regular cabin.
The Prof stepped down into a sort of hollow and pushed open a creaking door. In the ghostly green light from his little lamp, the boys stepped inside. The door groaned and closed again.
And suddenly the room was brightly lit, so bright it made Tim squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. He heard Hawk gasp with surprise.
“Ah, I forgot,” the Prof said. “You’re not accustomed to electricity.”
