The water around the island was slick with oil. It shimmered in rainbow patches on the surface, choking the seaweed that had begun to grow near the shore. The debris from the submarines floated in the trough of the waves—twisted metal, plastic casing, fragments of uniforms. The island's roots had crushed them efficiently, but the pollution remained. Nature could absorb energy, but it couldn't digest steel so quickly.
Ezra stood at the water's edge. He held a long pole made of hardened grey wood. He used it to push the heavier pieces of wreckage away from the reef. If the oil reached the sand, it would kill the roots. If the roots died, the shield fell.
Behind him, the village was waking. The usual morning silence was broken by the sound of hammers. Not metal hammers—wooden mallets. They
