Chapter 8
The Magical Adventures of Moonie and Sola - The Starglass of Onamar
Whispering Pines is buzzing like a kicked beehive. Radios hum from open windows, neighbors call to each other across lots about batteries and water. They close shutters, hang plywood over openings. They are preparing for the worst. But no one knows where the storm will land. The only thing certain is that it’s out there. Gaining strength.
My mother finishes her third trip around our trailer. She has made sure that every single shutter is closed and latched tight.
“The wind is gusting,” she mutters. “Where is your father?”
I shrug, even though I know that it’s more of a statement that a question. She knows that Papa is at the docks, helping board windows and making sure every boat is tied down. He said he’d be back once the work was done.
The sky is still bright, but it feels wrong - thick and twitchy, like it’s holding something back. And it smells sharp - of sea, salt and pine.
Down the street, I can see Trish standing in her driveway, hands on hips barking orders at Dave as he tries to secure his fancy new grill to a post underneath their carport.
Moonie is nowhere in sight.
I take a deep breath and let out a sigh.
“You’re not going back out,” my mother says without turning. “Not until the storm passes. I don’t care what Vivian has you wrapped up in. This is serious, Sola.”
“I know,” I say. But it doesn’t matter. My mother doesn’t know anything about what we are really doing. I catch her eyes as we enter our home, and I want to tell her everything. But she won’t believe it. She’d just make fun, like Papa and Mr. Winters.
From the living room, I hear Kent Howard’s voice, he sounds more nervous than a weather man should.
“...still too early to say exactly where Agnes will make landfall, but conditions are rapidly changing. Residents if all coastal towns - from Fort Meyers to the Big Bend - should be ready for anything.”
My mother stays in the kitchen, but I hear her suck in her breath. She’s worried.
I head down the hallway to my room.
“Mija, please,” my mother calls after me. “Stay out here with us. Just in case.”
But I ignore her and plop down on my bed, arms crossed. The air in here feels thicker than usual. With the shutters closed, it’s like the room itself is holding its breath.
Truth is, this happens every year. More than once - the panic, the worry, the precautions. And still, the storms never hit Calypso.
I stare up at the ceiling, watching the shadows ripple from the fan’s slow spin. I know it’s going to be dangerous out there - really dangerous - but we made a promise. We gave our word.
I am mad.
Not at my mother. Not really. Just mad. I’m mad at Trish. Mad that Vivian just gave up when they told her to sit tight. Mad that the fisherman still has the last piece, and we are stuck inside while the veil between worlds is collapsing.
My Abuela steps softly through the doorway - she looks like she is gliding. Her scarf draped around her shoulders like always. She doesn’t say my name, doesn’t look at me right away - she just lets the silence settle.
She leans close, voice low and whispers, “When the veil grows thin, niña, there is beauty the world forgets. Time softens. True colors return and all the worlds hum the same song.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a smooth, sea-worn stone - one of those she keeps only when she says they’ve spoken to her. She places it on my nightstand like it belongs there, like it always has.
“The birds know,” she says, almost to herself. “They remember the music.” She turns to go, but before she steps out, she turns back to me. “The moment the worlds touch, eso es el milagro.”
She smiles as she closes the door, leaving only the scent of her rosewater and the echo of something bigger than I can name.
I sit with it for a moment. Let it wrap around me. “That is the miracle.” I repeat her words.
But then I hear Lynira’s voice in my mind, clear and as cool as the water where we first met her. “Your world is not ready to remember just yet.”
And maybe she’s right. But maybe she’s wrong. Maybe it’s exactly what our world needs.
Tap. Tap.
That wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t a tree branch.
I turn toward the window just as the shutters swing open. And there she is - Moonie - her hair a wild halo, her hand pressed flat against the glass.
She dangles a silver key next to her ear, gives me a wide grin and mouths, “Got it.”
My heart leaps straight into my throat.
I slide the window open just enough to hiss. “Are you crazy?”
She shrugs. “A little.”
“That’s Mr. Cooper’s --”
“I know. Took it off the hook when no one was looking.” She holds up a burlap bag, the Starglass gives a soft blink from inside.
“We’re already in trouble! What if we get caught?”
She gives me one of her looks. Not a smug one, but a serious one. The kind that says, ‘we don’t have time’. And I know she’s right. Because the storm isn’t the only thing that is coming.
I slide the window all the way open and swing my legs over the sill, landing with a thud in the patchy grass. A gust of wind hits my face - cool and charged - it steals my breath.
A sudden rush of shadow moves above us. Moonie and I both look up. Birds. Hundreds of them - sweep across the sky in a wide spinning arc. Not away from the Gulf, not inland. They’re heading toward the storm.
“Do you see that?” I whisper, pointing. The birds know. Is this what Abuela meant?
Moonie watches them, her smile fading just a little.
“They’re not supposed to do that, right.”
“No,” I say. “Not usually.”
The wind gusts again, whistling around the corner of the trailer. I close the window and latch the shutters tight. It feels final. Like we’re crossing a line we can’t come back from.
And then we’re running, sneaking between trailers, ducking under low-hanging awnings, past the radio waves carrying news of the quickening storm. Agnes is now a full-blown Hurricane. We make our way over the short fence that leads to the gravel lot behind Whispering Pines.
The sky grows darker, the clouds low and heavy - brushing the horizon. The boats in the Calypso Bay Marina bob, bumping against the docks with dull, watery thunks.
We sprint down the dock, shoes slapping wood, hearts - we stop short.
Vivian and Mr. Cooper are already there.
Vivian hunches over the boat and yanks open the storage hatch. Mr. Cooper stands near the motor, patting down the seat cushions with both hands like he’s checking for loose change.
“If you’d just remember where you put things.” Vivian snaps.
“I did put them somewhere!” Mr. Cooper barks back. “I always put them where they belong!
‘Well, clearly not this time!’ she says as she glances up.
We duck behind a boat two slips down, pressing our backs against the hull, holding our breath. Her eyes graze right past us and for a second, I think she see us, but she turns away.
Inside the burlap bag, the Starglass gives off a continuous glow. Not bright enough to give us away, but enough to set the fabric pulsing with light. Moonie passes it to me gently. As soon as it touched my hands, I feel the vibration, like a longing that is not mine, but somehow it is. And it’s pulling toward something.
“We don’t have time to keep looking,” Mr. Cooper says. “The boat will just have to stay tied here.”
We peek around the hull. They work in silence now, securing the boat then heading up toward the launch where Mr. Cooper’s truck and boat trailer wait at the edge of the dock.
As soon as they are out of sight, we run and climb onto the boat. Moonie shoves the key into my hand.
I blink. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“You know how to drive a boat, right?”
I stare at her. “No! Why would I -- ?”
“Your dad takes you out on his boat all the time.”
“Yeah, but he never lets me steer it!”
Moonie looks stunned. “I thought for sure you could. I don’t know how, either,” she admits, shoulders sagging.
“But I do!” a voice calls from behind us.
We both spin around and see Vivian climbing onto the boat, her hair whipping in the wind, eyes blazing.
“But we have to hurry,” she says. “Mr. Cooper thinks I’m in the grocery store.”
She glances around once more, then start untying the ropes like she’s done it a thousand times.
Within minutes, we are slicing through Calypso Bay, heading straight toward the barrier islands. The boat bounces across the waves, but Vivian keeps it steady, her hands firm on the wheel.
“Which way?” she calls out.
I don’t get a chance to answer.
Overhead - another flock. Then another. Birds, by the thousands, soaring in long arcs toward the horizon. Gulls, terns, hawks - even inland birds we don’t normally see near the coast. All of them, flying together, on one great formation.
The burlap bag in my lap grows hot. The Starglass glows brighter than it ever has before, and it is pressing against my arm, like it wants to move. Like it knows.
“Follow the birds!” I shout. “Eso es el milagro!”
Vivian turns the wheel without hesitation. We chase the birds, bouncing across the surf, the barrier islands rising in the distance like shadows.
Then - we see it. The fisherman’s boat. It floats just offshore, the dark silhouette of Nerivion’s cage hangs from the netting gear. He glows from withing - bluer than before, pulsing like a beating heart. The fisherman stands on the bow holding the final piece of Starglass toward the sky.
A strong magnetic pull takes over. The waves bend, swell, twist into a spiral. The barrier islands shudder. The boat lurches sideways. Everything shifts. The water beneath us begins to swirl, a whirlpool forming out of nowhere, swallowing the horizon.
We are so close. But not close enough.
The Starglass screams against my chest, but I can’t move.
We failed.
Moonie grabs my hand. Vivian throws her arms around both of us. We cling together, the three of us, huddled in the center of the boat as the wind roars, the water churns and the sky above cracks open.
The whirlpool spins faster. The water rises up around us like it wants to swallow the whole world.
I close my eyes.
Not because I am scared, but because I want to remember this moment. The feel of Moonie’s hand in mine. The way Vivian holds us like we are her own. The hum of the Starglass still burning against my chest.
“When the veil grows thin, niña, there is beauty the world forgets.” Abuela’s words echo through me. Not as a warning, but as a promise.
Maybe we’re not being swallowed at all. Maybe we are being invited. If this is the end, I want to carry it with me. But deep down, I don’t think it is. I think it is just the beginning.