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“Wonderful,” said Mr. Adler calmly. “Brian, if you would lead the way, then?” He was carrying the first aid kit. Coco’s mom carried the emergency kit. They’d talked about trying to roll up the punctured raft, but it was heavy and damp and not much good except as a makeshift tent. It certainly would never float again. You could patch a hole; you couldn’t really patch a chunk missing.
The sun was pretty well up by the time they left. They hadn’t wanted to creep around the forest right at dawn, in case the snake was hunting. But it didn’t seem to actually brighten anything. The light was gray and flat; there was a haze on the lake. A little mist curled, visibly, between the trees of the forest. Brian didn’t like it. But what choice did they have? Stay by the lake, hope the monster didn’t nab them when they finally got desperate for water?
Brian took a deep breath and led them into the woods. Mr. Adler brought up the rear, with Ollie walking just ahead of him. Coco, her mom, and Phil were in between.
“Remember to look up,” said Phil. The rest of them nodded.
They slipped between the pines and pushed uphill, back in the grip of the trees. The path climbed up and up, winding a little, as Brian worked hard to get his bearings. The air was cold in his nose and throat. All of them were scanning the woods. Waiting, thought Brian, for something to happen.
But it was not, in the end, the sound of the chimes or the movements of the snake that caught their attention. It was a voice.
It was the axe man’s voice, and he wasn’t singing this time. He was reciting a poem to himself. His words carried eerily through the trees, now shouting, now whispering, breaking the thick, birdless silence. They all stopped dead to listen, hardly breathing, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.
Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.
The adults looked astonished.
“That’s the axe man,” whispered Coco to the grown-ups.
Unconsciously, they had all pressed closer together. The sound seemed like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere. The forest was cold and damp, but Brian was sweating under his clothes.
“I know that poem,” said Coco’s mom, listening, head tilted to one side. “I majored in English lit in college. That’s ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ A long, old poem. About a man who kills an albatross and brings bad luck on his crew.”
“What happened to him?” Coco asked. “The man who kills the albatross?”
“Well, his crew died,” said Ms. Zintner. “But—he didn’t. He wanted to, you see. But he couldn’t. Instead he was cursed to wander the world forever, telling his story.”
Somewhere in the distance, the voice went stridently on, growing louder and louder.
Alone, alone, all, all alone
Alone on a wide wide sea—
The verse went on, but Ollie broke in softly, “I wonder what happened to Captain Sheehan?”
“The log doesn’t say,” said Brian. “It ended with them going to fight the snake.”
Near and far away—it was hard to tell—the voice, which had faded a little, rose again, on part of a new verse:
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.
“Yeah,” Coco said. “We need to find him.”
“Cabin,” said Brian. “We should still start with the cabin.” Brian took a deep breath and scanned the woods again for landmarks. It was hard. The whispering voice and the flat, deceptive light distracted him. But he could do it, he told himself. He’d been hiking and camping in the woods since he was little.
Okay, he thought to himself. Okay. The beach is back that way, the cabin must be . . .
That way. He remembered that rise, the way the ground sloped, and . . . and there was the oak tree, and behind it . . .
“Hang on,” said Coco’s mom. “Did I hear a chime?”
