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Timothy.”
    We were both hungry. He went back to the raft, took out the keg of water and the tin of biscuits and chocolate.
    While we were eating, I said, “You are worried about something, Timothy. Please tell me the truth. I’m old enough to know.”
    Timothy waited a long time before answering, probably trying to choose the right words. Finally, he said, “Young bahss, dere is, in dis part of d’sea, a few lil’ cays like dis one, surround on bot’ sides by hombug banks. Dey are cut off from d’res’ o’ d’sea by dese banks.…”
    I tried to make a mental picture of that. Several small islands tucked up inside great banks of coral that made navigation dangerous was what I finally decided on.
    “You think we are on one of those cays?”
    “Mebbe, young bahss, mebbe.”
    Fear coming back to me—I knew he’d made a mistake in bringing us ashore—I said, “Then no ships will pass even close to us. Not even schooners! We’re trapped here!” We might live here forever, I thought.
    Again he did not answer directly. I was beginning to learn that he had a way of being honest while still being dishonest. He said, “D’place I am tinking of is call Debil’s Mout’. ’Tis a U-shaped ting, wit dese sharp coral banks on either side, runnin’ maybe forty, fifty mile.…”
    He let that sink in. It sounded bad. But then he said, “I do hope, young bahss, dat I am outrageous mistaken.”
    “If we are in the Devil’s Mouth, how can we be rescued?” I asked angrily. It was his fault we were there.
    “D’fire pile! When aircraft fly above, dey will see d’smoke an’ fire!”
    “But they might just think it is a native fisherman. No one else would come here!”
    I could picture him nodding, thinking about that. Finally, he said, “True, but we cannot fret ’bout it, can we? We’ll make camp, an’ see what ’appens.”
    He poured me a half cup of water, saying happily, “Since we ’ave made lan’, we can celebrate.”
    I drank it slowly and thoughtfully.

CHAPTER

Eight
    D URING THE AFTERNOON , Timothy was busy and we did not talk much. He was making a hut of dried palm fronds. I sat near him under a palm. Now that we were on shore, I again began to think about what had happened to my mother. Somehow, I felt she was safe. I was also sure that a search had been started for us, not fully understanding that a war was on and that all the ships and aircraft were needed to fight the U-boats. I even thought aboutHenrik van Boven and what a story I would have to tell when I saw him again.
    I tried not to think about my eyes, sitting there under the palm, listening to Timothy hum as he made the camp. I trusted him that my sight would return within a few days. I also trusted him that an aircraft would spot our fire pile.
    In late afternoon, he said proudly, “Look, our hut!”
    I had to remind him again, stupid old man, that I couldn’t see, so he took my hands and ran them over the fronds. It was a hut, he said, about eight feet wide and six feet deep, with supports made of wood he’d picked off the beach. The supports were tied together with strong vines that covered the north end of the island.
    The roof, which sloped back, he said, was about six feet off the ground. I could easily stand up in it, but Timothy couldn’t. Not quite.
    Timothy said, “Tomorrow, we be gettin’ mats to sleep on, weave our own, but tonight we mus’ sleep on d’sand. ’Tis soft.”
    I knew he was very proud of the hut. It had taken him only a few hours to build it.
    “Now,” he said, “I mus’ go downg to d’reef an’ fetch langosta. We’ll ros’ it, to be true.”
    I became frightened again the minute he said it. I didn’t want to be left alone, and I was afraid something might happen to him. “Take me with you, Timothy,” I pleaded.
    “Not on d’reef,” he answered firmly. “I ’ave not been dere before. If ’Tis safe, tomorrow I will take you.” With that, he went down the hill without saying another