Well … Galapagos was as wild and distant as it was possible to be.

Could this thing, swooping in huge circles above, be a living example of one of those fossils? As I bobbed there, praying I wouldn’t be discovered, it was the only explanation I had.

I forced myself to stay in the water long after the flying predator had disappeared inland toward the smoking summit of the volcano.

I had once heard Captain Fitzroy and Mr. Darwin talk about how, back in 1525, a Spanish priest had been blown off course in the Galapagos—a bit like me—and had named the islands after the twitchy currents and the mysterious fogs: Las Islas Encantadas.

The Enchanted Isles.

If a colossal sky beast needed a secret home, the Galapagos was the place for it.

These islands appear paradises for the whole family of Reptiles.

—CHARLES DARWIN,
BEAGLE DIARY

When the sun disappeared, I finally dared to untangle myself from my seaweed camouflage and haul myself ashore once again. The wind had died, and the moon was half-full, with scraps of silver clouds crossing it wearily. I couldn’t bear the thought of being seized by the sky beast again and dropped out to sea, this time in the dark. My lips were cracked from salt water, my ears were ringing, my fingertips were the texture of tree bark.

I’d now lost both boots, but I was in one piece.

I stumbled across the rocks, shaking warmth back into my arms. Where I’d swum farther along the shoreline there were fewer iguanas. Instead there were scuttling red Sally Lightfoot crabs covering the rocks like a moving rag rug. The sound as they moved strangely reminded me of my Sunday School teacher’s clicks of disapproval: tut, tut, tut. I needed shelter. I crouched for a moment, scanning above for any sign of the sky beast either inland or out to sea. I was safe for now. Then I spotted something rolling in the surf. I knew that shape …

I staggered back into the waves, scooped up that battered old fiddle case—still closed, with its wax seal unbroken—and hugged it to my chest. In that moment I would not have been happier if I had found a knife, fire flints, or anything else I so dearly needed, because now I was not completely alone.

Mr. Darwin might not be awful keen on my tunes himself, but sailors love a shanty, which was how I’d ended up on board the Beagle in the first place. It wasn’t the most tuneful of instruments, the young sir was right about that, but it had been my da’s.

“If you can survive, Scratch, then I can too,” I whispered. There was a hitch in my voice because despite what the fiddle meant to me, I knew it must surely be ruined. Still, best be grateful for what I’d got.