She broke stride and tried hopping in place. It required somewhat less exertion than jogging, and used different muscles. She struggled to choke down the bile in her throat, to ignore the suffocating heat searing her lungs. The island remained several hundred yards away.
The surface of the lake began to feel tacky. With each successive jump she felt increasing stickiness against the soles of her boots. Rachel realized she was getting lazy with her hopping. She was not thrusting her feet down briskly enough, nor lifting them quickly enough. If the sensation progressed beyond stickiness, a boot would get trapped, and she would die.
The thought impelled her forward. No use hopping when she could be making progress, especially once it proved to be less restful than she had hoped. Salty sweat stung her eyes. She wiped them clear. The nausea had diminished while she was hopping, but it returned as she jogged.
She took a bad step, almost stumbled, and for a moment the surface felt alarmingly wet. After recovering, she dashed forward faster than ever, eyes on the island. She was getting close.
The coppery taste of blood became more evident in her throat as her breathing became increasingly arduous. She was running inside an oven. Was the air shimmering more here, or was her vision blurring? She felt dizzy. The island was less than a hundred yards away. It looked bigger than it had from the shore. Not a rock pile. A boulder pile.
Anyone can run a hundred yards, she thought blearily. Each breath scorched her tortured lungs. The burning muscles in her legs verged on total exhaustion. She shed sweat with every stride. Her vision became edged in blackness.
The island was so close, but she didn’t know if she could reach it. The human body had limits, even in emergencies. There were certain mechanical impossibilities. Any second now she would pass out, and that would be the end. In a way it would be a relief. Her legs felt clumsy and distant. She shuffled and stumbled instead of running. Against the soles of her boots the lake felt like freshly paved asphalt.
The island was only thirty yards away. Anyone can go thirty yards.
With a growling burst of exertion Rachel increased her pace to a full sprint. She had to reach the island before she fainted! Her legs refused to cooperate, and she fell.
Her left hand slapped the scalding surface. Then her right. She was going down, so she let herself roll forward, and with desperate effort used her momentum to regain her feet and continue running.
Vomit spewed from her lips as she reached the rocky shore of the island and pitched forward onto her hands and knees. As she held her head down, her stomach clenched again, and acidic foulness fauceted from her mouth.
She wiped the sickening taste from her parched lips. Her breathing felt ineffectual. Raising her head suddenly, trying to find fresh air above if it did not exist below, she experienced a peculiar rush as the blackness along her peripheral vision swelled inward, swallowing everything.
When Rachel regained consciousness, her cheek lay against a warm stone. She sat up gingerly. The sun did not seem to have moved, and her body was still slimed with sweat, so she did not believe she had been out long.
Looking back toward the shore through the trembling heat, Rachel could barely distinguish shapes that might have been Ferrin and Jason. The heat and atmosphere of the rocky island was almost as uncomfortable as the air directly over the lake.
She got up, massaging her elbow where an ugly bruise was forming. Why had she volunteered for this? Maybe she would stay on the island forever. She could not imagine crossing the lake again.
Rachel had never been closer to dying than when she had stumbled at the end of her run. How many near misses could she expect to survive? Her thoughts turned to her parents. They had built their lives around her. Her disappearance in the arroyo had to be driving them crazy. What would they do if she never made it home? No, she couldn’t acknowledge the possibility. She had to make it home, for herself, and especially for her mom and dad.
The island truly seemed to be nothing more than a big heap of rocks, some big, some small. The highest point reached perhaps forty feet above the lake. The only evidence of life was tufts of purple-gray moss growing on some of the stones.
On wobbly legs Rachel began circling the island, looking for anything besides rocks upon rocks. The clue she needed might be scrawled on a stone. Or buried. Or not on the island at all. Maybe Nicholas had his facts wrong.
She was a quarter of the way around the island, picking her way carefully so as not to turn an ankle, when she noticed a shadowy opening some distance up the slope from the shore. Could it be the mouth of a cave?
As she approached the opening, she saw that it extended back into the pile of rocks for some distance, sloping downward. The tunnel looked ripe for a cave-in, until she noticed that the chinks between the rocks of the walls and ceiling had been filled with mortar.
Rachel walked down into the shadowy tunnel. The farther she descended, the cooler the air became. The potent stench of the lake faded. She inhaled greedily, grateful for the reprieve from the intense heat.
The tunnel extended a surprising distance. Just as she was estimating she had to be at or beyond the center of the rocky island, the round tunnel opened into a domed chamber with a floor of solid rock and a pool of water at the center. The purplish moss she had seen outside grew plentifully. Several other shafts extended upward at various angles toward the surface. All were smaller than the tunnel by which Rachel had descended to the chamber, and most were inaccessible because they were too high on the domed ceiling. Daylight filtered into the chamber through the shafts.
Why was the chamber so cool when it was encompassed by the heat of the lake? And how had this place not been flooded by white goo years ago?
“It has been ages since I’ve had a visitor,” a weak voice greeted.
Rachel jumped, eyes darting to find the speaker. She noticed the head of an old man on the ground near the edge of the pool, half hidden by a stone. The head smiled as she made eye contact.
Before knowing Ferrin, this sight might have been sufficient to make her pass out again. Even so, the severed head was disturbing.
“Are you a displacer?” Rachel asked.
“That I am.”
The head had a long white beard and long white hair but was bald on top. The beard reached high onto the cheeks, hiding all of the face except the eyes, nose, and deeply creased forehead.
“Where is the rest of you?” she asked.
A movement glimpsed from the corner of her eye caused Rachel to turn. A wrinkled arm, severed just below the shoulder, wormed over the stone floor.
“That’s all I have left,” the head said.