Shallow Water

By Brita Woolums

One of sixteen-year-old Janiese Macbrells crazy dreams has finally come to life, and she realizes she has an important task at hand. She discovers that the seemingly ordinary Robert ORileya budding teenage geologistshares a part of her soul, and that soul could be in danger.

In their dreams, the two teenagers meet and begin the adventure of their lives. They are aided by Rick Trigg, an independent photographer and self-professed dream traveler who finds the meaning in dreams and then tries to determine what will happen next. The trio must find a way to stop the spread of a mysterious organism that has embedded itself into Robbys body.

Embarking on a wild journey along the Nile River, the group discovers how difficult it can be to travel the deserts and rainforests of eastern Africa. Living off of bananas and indigenous creatures, Janiese and Trigg battle the elements, following the maturity of Robbys soul. Janiese soon learns that she must make the crucial decision: Should she let Robby live? Or should he be left to die at the hands of an unknown being?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450248594

Brita Woolums

BRITA WOOLUMS AND LARRY BUHR JR. both live in Iowa with their families, where Brita is hard at work on the sequel to her first book, Shallow Water. Brita and Larry plan to partner on future writing projects together. Dead Evolution is the first book in an anticipated series.

Book preview

Contents

Preface

1. The Boy

2. Small Victories

3. Keeping Track

4. The Robot

5. Furball

6. Journaling

7. Dreaming

8. Gathering Knowledge

9. Out of Breath

10. Alien Life

11. Embedded

12. The Tahquamenon Falls

13. Stone Cones

14. Vignettes

15. Trapped

16. Holy Ground

17. Missing

18. A Critical Hit

19. Near Miss

20. Innocent Casualties

21. Kaelan

22. Sunflower

23. Still Missing

24. Torturous Thoughts

25. Trigg

26. Line of Communication

Bibliography

Preface

Preface

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I had started writing this book three and a half years ago while I was attending college. My parents had bought me a brand new computer for my birthday and I was thrilled, because before that I had only written on was a typewriter. I wasn’t and am still not very well-versed with computers like that of my wonderful husband, Josh, who enjoys building his own computers. I had been keeping track of the many personalities that I encountered from college, work, and friends, in general. I always enjoyed sitting outside just watching people in downtown Iowa City, when the University classes let out. It was like watching herds of many different kinds of animals cohabitate. Taking several notes, I started to develop the characters in my mind for the novel that I intended to write.

After acquiring all of the details I felt necessary to include in my writing, I began to write my novel. I spent hours upon hours, late nights upon late nights, writing whenever possible. It felt so good to know that I was actually pursuing my dreams and doing something that I had always longed to do. I ended up just about finishing my novel, when I turned on my computer one day and it wouldn’t boot up. We had gotten a storm the night before and I had forgotten to turn my computer off during that time. I asked my husband for assistance and he spent two hours trying to get my computer to start up. He finally opened my computer and looked inside to find that the motherboard had gotten fried—most likely from the lightning storm the night before. This would have all been okay if I would have known or even thought about backing my writing up in the first place—but unfortunately I had not. In this foolishness for which I could only blame myself, I lost all of the writing that I had ever done on my new computer. All of the observations, character development, pages and pages of my novel, essays, and poetry, that I had put so much effort into, had just vanished.

It took a year and a half of mourning my works in writing, in order for me to realize that I had to get back up on the horse and start writing everything again. Even then, it took a while for me to get back my excitement that I had so readily exhibited with writing. My husband spent a year and a half trying to convince me that everything was actually not that bad. And finally, I started to believe him.

I took up writing my novel again last year, as well as writing poetry which I love. Let’s just say that this time, I understand what it means to backup one’s work.

1. The Boy

The Boy

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As I laid gazing and dreaming, I looked for answers in the sky. I was taught that the future was in the skies and that all you ever needed to know was just above you. I asked about tomorrow and the next day and the next, but I was still new in dreaming, so I only got as far as tomorrow. As I sat up and brought my face forward, I squinted and saw a boy playing on a beach faraway. He was about my age, give or take a few years. A whirling sound erupted above me, and I looked up to see the clouds entwining themselves into helixes. It was as if the sky was a big scattered puzzle that just fantastically started putting its pieces together before my eyes. Each step that we took towards each other put together another piece of the puzzle.

The wind whipped through the overgrown weeds along the arctic shore. Leaves and garbage raced the waves onto the pale beach. Beautiful pieces of sea glass hid themselves beneath the sand’s recurring floods. One after another, fresh, young, foaming waves toppled over each other onto the beach, in hopes of using their white arms to help them win their repetitive relay races. In the far, concealed, never-ending track of sand, a young boy gathered lost sea shells, wandering colors of sea glass, and smooth stones for his handcrafted slingshot. Barefoot and knees covered in dry, cold sand, it was obvious that this young geologist had been digging for hidden treasures for a large part of his afternoon. Beneath the mysterious loose particles along the roaring aqueous whitecaps, multiple clams and shellfish buried themselves, one by one, away from the footsteps of the nearing boy. A small hand reached down and braised the soft sand as it lifted a large detailed shell of some once-living marine animal. The boy’s mouth opened with interest, as he felt every little crevice and indentation of his new find. This gorgeous, glistening, golden seashell was like no other he had ever seen; massive, with lots of wear, it took up the space of over four of the boy’s calloused hands. Holding the sea creature with care, he carefully placed his treasure into his navy knapsack.

As the boy turned around and began plodding down the spongy beach, his rugged sack weighed down his tiny shoulders. Retracing his footsteps, he detoured through the sharp, tall grass along the edge of the beach. Sweating, the boy trekked up an animal-worn path. Finally he came to a clearing where grass had been flattened by deer but had continued to grow sideways.

Breathing hard, the boy took a seat. He curled up his knees and placed his head to his dirty skin. After about ten minutes, he lifted his luminous, ocean blue eyes and glanced out from where he was resting. He lifted his knapsack upside-down in the air to empty its belongings onto the grass surrounding his calloused toes. Several twinkling rocks, fossilized stones, and exceptional shells tumbled out into the sunlight. Examining his findings, the boy picked up each of his stones and held them up in the bright sky. His young fingers caressed each of his prizes. After inspection of his hard day’s work, he gently placed each finding back into his navy knapsack. He heaved the bag onto his raw shoulders and got up staring out at the rippling waters. After a moment, he turned and continued his trek up the steep bank.

He had gone and left my sight. I had to go home and wait until tomorrow to find him again.

2. Small Victories

Small Victories

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Fifteen minutes flew by, and the boy finally returned to his parents’ summer cabin on the island of Edisto in South Carolina. He slammed the wooden door behind him and just as he latched the deadbolt an echoing voice rumbled from the next room.

Robby? Robby! Is that you? his mother bellowed. She stood in the doorway that led to the living room, and put her arm against the door frame in exhaustion. Tall and blond, Robby’s mother was forty-four years old. An avid painter, Farah was covered in splotches of red and yellow. After giving an intense look at her son she questioned him worriedly, Are you okay? I’ve been worried sick about you. You know you can’t go wandering about these foreign lands for long periods of time. There are people out there that aren’t as forgiving as me and Dad you know?

I know, Mom, the boy replied solemnly.

Who knows what kind of people dwell out here? It’s like another city. You can’t just go wandering off.

I know, Mom, but I was okay. Nobody was around. It was just me and the ocean today.

You went swimming? I thought we told you not to go—

No, I went collecting rocks. Do you want to see them? Some of them are very cool looking. Just try holding one up in the sunlight, you’ll see.

So you’re telling me that you didn’t go swimming today? questioned the boy’s worried mother.

Yes! So do you want to see my findings?

Okay dear, but later, Farah relaxed her tense shoulders in relief. Right now I’m going to try and figure out what we’re going to eat for dinner tonight, okay?

Okay, Mom the boy replied solemnly again, knowing full well that his mother really had no interest in his findings.

But I don’t want you running off again right now. It’s beginning to get dark out. Promise me you’ll stay within range of my voice if I want to call you, okay?

Yes, Mom! an air of urgency resounded in Robby’s voice. Just as his mother disappeared through the swinging kitchen door, Robby had an idea. Sprinting through the living room and into the kitchen, he went to beg his mother for her approval of an idea. Hey, can we make a fire tonight? We can cook food with sticks like they did in the olden days. I’ll get all of the firewood. You won’t have to do a thing. Robby looked at his mother with anticipation and hope, Please, Mom! Please! I know Dad’ll wanna make one too, after he gets back from fishing. Pleeeaaase?!

Fine! But you better not go too far in your hunt for firewood, okay?

Yes, yes, of course! Thanks Mom, you’re the best! Robby hugged and kissed his mom and then sprinted back out of the kitchen, unlatched the deadbolt and was off to hunt down some sticks for his fire. Just as he was in the process of running down alongside of the cabin, he saw his dad returning from his fishing excursion, on a nearby path. Robby saw the net of fish that his dad had caught and ran up to him out of breath. Wow Dad! How, how are you? Did you catch all of that yourself?

Hey son, I’m good and yes I did catch all of these beauties today! We’ll have a good supper tonight. So, what’s up with you? Why are you all out of breath, son? Your mom hasn’t been working you too hard now has she? The muscular man, about forty-eight years old, let out a hefty chuckle, and a great big smile enveloped his handsome face. Even though his sideburns dripped with sweat, his hazel eyes twinkled with happiness and lit up his entire face. Being a Michigan fireman for almost twenty years, Machiavelli took great pleasure in saving lives.

Speaking fast, as though his tongue was trying to win a marathon, Robby rambled on with a giant smile, No, no. I was out all day collecting stones and shells that I’ll show you later. But right now I’m going to collect sticks for a fire. Mom said we could build a fire tonight outside and cook food on it. I’ll be back! Robby sprinted down onto the path from which his father had just returned.

Okay, that sounds like fun, Robby’s father mumbled and let out a chuckle. I don’t understand how that boy can keep going. I swear he’s a machine, he said under his breath.

Robby’s father trekked up the hill to his oak cabin, with his net of pre-skinned fish. Farah dear, I’m home, and boy do I have surprises for you! he hollered.

I’m in here, Mac! Farah called from the kitchen.

Machiavelli, hands behind his back with his heavy net of sole, made his way to his bride of twenty-one years. Wow, it smells great, whatever it is. What is it?

It’s some wild rice and onions and peppers. So, what’s my surprise? she said interested in what her husband was hiding behind him.

Mac grinned and brought the slimy net around to his chest.

Wow—and I was expecting a kiss! That’s a lot of fish. How many are there? she grinned.

Fifteen! he replied.

That’s wonderful! Oh, we can cook them on the fire tonight.

Yes I know. I saw Robby outside running to get firewood, he seemed pretty excited. Probably the most excited I’ve seen him since we got here.

Well it was his idea and yeah, he was pretty homesick for a while there, but you know the city’s constant action can do that to you. To tell you the truth, I think it’s good for us to get out of the city limits every once and a while. Remember before we were married how we used to go on all of those country adventures?

Yeah, those were fun.

Even if they were for a day at a time, they helped us get rid of our problems.

Yeah that’s true, he answered, while leaning over the sink washing the meat he had skinned off of the fish.

Did you know Robby was gone all day hiking around the area? I just hope— but before she could finish her sentence a door slammed shut in the other room.

Mom, Dad, come help me! Robby urged, yanking on his parents.

They both followed him outside to his huge pile of brush and logs. Oh honey, this is great, his mom chuckled —but in order to start the fire we need little sticks too.

Okay, I’ll be back! And within seconds he was out of sight.

Panting, Robby jogged into the forest depths for more kindling. After having run the length of about eight times the size of his body, he stopped and quickly knelt to the ground. He could hear a distant knocking. Stretching his pale neck to the sky, Robby perked up his head and the knocking stopped. He waited a few seconds and then went back to finding his kindling, which had indeed been a very difficult task to ask. These woods were not like any ordinary forest; they were extremely crowded and yet they seemed untouched. Branches never died nor did squirrels ever go hungry. The knocking started up again, this time louder than last. Robby jumped up in protest and swung his head back in a circle. But as he jumped up he made just enough noise that the knocking stopped. He froze in place while gazing into the sunlight that almost blinded his young eyes and decided to wait until he heard it again. For the longest time nothing neither knocked nor stirred. Then, just as Robby was about to give up on his excellent frozen position, the knocking began again. Resting high in the sky on a solid branch, Robby barely saw the stately bird pecking away at the bark of the tallest tree.

He slowly and stealthily reached his left hand into his sweating rear pocket for his miniature, homemade slingshot, while his right palm worked on grasping a smooth piece of sea glass still in his pocket from his earlier collection.

He carefully slid his nimble fingers over his wooden piece of art that he had crafted earlier that afternoon. After gently placing his ammunition into its leather pouch, the boy reached his long arms into the gleaming sun and pulled back the coarse leather to make a shot at his antagonist. The lonely piece of mahogany sea glass shot out fast and far. As it flew the ancient glass tried to glisten, but couldn’t because of all of its prolonged years aging on the dark ocean floor. The bird started knocking for its last time and was quickly silenced after getting the air smacked out of its body. A loud snap rang through the dead air. The pileated woodpecker commenced its long drop from the highest limb. Tumbling through the dry wind, its feathers whipped and thrashed about trying to regain stability but failed miserably. The innocent, severely injured bird impacted the dirt with a harsh smack and severed bones.

"Yes! Robby jumped and shouted, That’s got to be a record! Wow! I never thought I’d actually make that shot in a million years, and the sea glass is still intact, swweeet." Robby mumbled on to himself as he examined his prey and his half bloodstained rock.

Robby! Robby! A sweet yet worried voice carried itself among the tree tops. Come on home now!

Coming! Coming, Mom! Robby yelled back, as he got up from the living dirt and brushed himself off. While picking up miscellaneous kindling he found along the way, he returned his slingshot to his pocket and started back.

The only problem was that Robby had disrupted the perfect balance of this once sacred, untouched forest and for this he would pay nature’s price.

Carrying his victory along with his collected kindling up the semi-steep hill that led out of the forest, an echo of his footsteps resounded itself. The wind now picked up from its silent pace and began to gust back and forth around Robby’s head, moving his blond hair left to right and then back again. Just as he reached the top of the clearing that led to his parents’ cabin, his tired legs tripped over each other and he stumbled to his hands and knees.

"Owww!" he cried and climbed up using the stability of a nearby maple. He slowly made his way up to the larger branches he drug in earlier, and dropped the kindling and the woodpecker. Robby sat down wheezing, proud of his triumph and yet very out of breath from the homeward trek.

Farah heard her son panting from the kitchen. She poked her head full of blond curls outside of the cabin doorway, Hey, you’re back she said, happy to know her son was okay. She noticed his heavy breathing and went to get him a large glass of ice water. Here honey, drink some water, she urged. The boy gulped down the water, catching a couple of oval ice cubes in his mouth, like boulders deterring water in a river.

A couple seconds later, Farah caught sight of the bird. Ughh! What—what did you bring home and why?

Robby answered mumbling with his mouth full of ice, I shuut it all by myseff.

What?

Robby spit the ice cubes back into the cold glass, Mom, I shot it all by myself, with only my hand slinger!

Your what? she questioned.

Robby reached back and grasped his slingshot from his pocket, Look! See! I made this earlier with my bare hands! And then I went looking for firewood and saw the bird far up in a tree and shot it with sea glass. Don’t you think that is so awesome, Mom?

However, as she gazed at the practically dead woodpecker lying next to her feet, all she could respond with was a Huh?

Mac came out to see what all of the commotion was about, Hey Dad, look what I shot down with only my hand slinger! Pointing to the motionless creature lying about a foot from his toes, Robby professed his victory, So can we cook it too tonight? Please! It’ll be fun! Come on, pleeeaase?

Farah looked at Mac, It’s up to you, honey. I have no idea how to cook a bird.

Robby turned his puppy eyes up to his dad, Please Dad!?

Ha ha ha, Mac chuckled, Okay son, but I don’t want this to encourage you to kill innocent animals. Besides, we all enjoy being able to watch nature evolve don’t we? So, as long as we have an understanding, okay?

Yes Dad. Sorry, I didn’t even think it would work shooting it with my hand slinger. It was an accident, Robby covered.

That’s okay! And it’s called a slingshot Rob, you know that? his dad said, correcting.

I know but hand slinger sounds much cooler! Robby countered.

Mac chuckled and gave one of his great big mammoth smiles, "Okay son,