by Ryan Graudin
. Morris Island Light. Door.
Why would their grandmother write that? He wished he could sit down and ask her, wished so hard it made his chest feel achy.
“The lighthouse is pretty far away.”
He pointed at the photograph in Marisol’s hand, where Morris Island Light jutted out of the waves. For a while, he’d saved pictures of all the places he’d been, recording details on the back just like Nana did. But he’d never had her gift for telling stories about them afterward, and it had ended up feeling like a collection of lost things, a reminder that the people and places in his life would be taken away. Replaced. Lost again.
Eyes ahead, don’t look back. This was the best thing Jake could do. The only thing, really, which was why he threw away his photographs during the move to Madrid. It was one less box to lug.
“Por favor,” Marisol sniffed. “I think Nana would want us to go, and this will be our last chance before . . .”
She trailed off just as Jake’s mom appeared in the doorway.
Aunt Cara hovered behind her. Their mothers looked like the identical twins they were—their brown hair pulled back in ponytails, their noses dusted with freckles like his. Marisol got her warm brown skin and her black hair from her dad—Uncle Mache—and Jake got his blond from his dad, though he only knew that from photos. His father had been gone since before Jake remembered, and he’d long ago decided not to care.
When his mom saw them gathered around the picture of Nana, her expression softened. “You miss her, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Marisol.
Jake slipped the map into his pocket and shrugged, then immediately felt like a jerk. He just preferred not to talk about people and things that were gone.
And then Uncle Matt and Aunt Jayla’s car pulled up, and that was the end of the peace and quiet. Soon there was a flood of uncles and aunts and cousins hauling luggage and exchanging Hey Y’all!s, stampeding up the stairs, causing so many floorboards to creak that the house felt on the verge of either collapsing or waking up from a long slumber.
Mom and Aunt Cara and the rest of the grown-ups convinced Uncle Todd and Uncle Pierre to sleep in Nana’s room.
“She wouldn’t mind!” Aunt Cara insisted. “And look at the twins. Veronica and Angeline must be a foot taller than last year! Give them their own room, and you take Nana’s.” The girls agreed, even looking up from their phones to join the debate.
And then there was a cookout in the backyard as dusk drew the golden sky into velvet blue. Burgers sizzled and cicadas serenaded the Beruna clan from the surrounding marsh. The family made almost as much noise, exchanging stories both old and new. Tales of their recent adventures—hikes in the Andes and scuba diving with sharks in the Bay of Biscay—soon migrated into memories of Nana. Jake found Marisol beside him again, and the two of them sat in silence as smoke drifted up toward budding stars.
Eventually Mom caught him yawning—the flight from Madrid had been a long one, all the way to Dallas, and then to Charleston—and he got sent to bed. He shared a little room with his mom off the rambling, winding passageways of the beach house.
As he lay awake, listening to bugs bat against the window screens, his narrow bed tucked underneath a bookshelf crowded with old encyclopedias, he thought of his clean, white bedroom in Madrid. The apartment the American embassy had given them was airy and neat—exactly like the apartments all the other diplomats had. Someone who worked at the embassy had lived there before them, and someone else who did just the same would live there after them. The beach house, though—every inch of the place, from its dusty knickknacks to the rickety crab dock, was undeniably Beruna.
It was the closest thing he’d ever felt to home.
Jake woke to discover a ticklish gray light coming in through the windows—it was probably somewhere a little after six in the morning. A breeze whispered through the screen, and outside the window it caught at the frayed edge of the sunshade so it fluttered back and forth.
Ticka-ticka-ticka-tick.
Perhaps the sound was what had woken him. He glanced over at his mom’s bed, but the only thing waiting for him there was a set of rumpled sheets. She was up already. He decided he’d shower later—he’d only get sandy and salty today anyway—and climbed out of his own bed to grab the clothes he’d dumped on top of their suitcase.
He pulled on the same pair of blue shorts he’d worn yesterday, and found a white T-shirt that said International School of Paris on the front and L’École Internationale de Paris on the back. It was from Mom’s posting in France a few years ago, and it was starting to get snug. He should probably throw it out. He shoved his feet into his sneakers and turned for the door.
He met Marisol on the landing, and she offered him a huge yawn and a sleepy grin by way of good morning. One of the things he liked best about Marisol was that she didn’t try to fill silences that didn’t need filling.
They made their way down the stairs in one of their companionable silences, past Nana’s many pictures and maps, all jostling for space, only ever allowing glimpses of the splashy wallpaper behind them. Jake could see more flowers now, since Aunt Jayla had started unhooking frames from their nails, revealing squares of unfaded wallpaper beneath.
“Morning!” she greeted them at the bottom of the stairwell. “Watch your step! I think these boxes multiplied in the middle of the night. The study is a maze, and I can’t even remember how to get to the kitchen from here!”
“We can find it,” Jake assured his aunt. “All we have to do is follow the smell of Uncle Pierre’s famous biscuits!”
Aunt Jayla inhaled, her face lighting up at the golden-bready-butter scent. “Ah, yes! Bring one back for me, will you? I’m going to need some serious fuel to start stripping this wallpaper.”
“You’re tearing down the wallpaper?” asked Marisol.
“It’s too bright for most people’s tastes.” A sad sigh left their aunt’s lips. “But that was Nana for you. . . .”
Marisol’s lip quivered as she looked down at the pile of photographs. Jake grabbed her hand before she could start distributing frames again.
“Come on, Mari,” he said softly. “Let’s hunt down some breakfast.”
Aunt Jayla was right—there were so many boxes. Too many. Piled so high they looked straight out of a page in a Dr. Seuss book.
Jake walked past these towers on tiptoe, waiting, just waiting for one of them to fall. His heart felt so heavy. His throat cluttered. He rounded his shoulders, pushing his hands down into his pockets . . . where the fingers on his right hand brushed something unexpected. Paper. Huh?
He pulled whatever it was out and turned it over.
Oh. Jake hadn’t thought twice about his grandmother’s map since stuffing it into his pocket—out of sight, out of mind—but now that it was here in his hand again, Marisol’s words from the day before returned.
I think we should search for Nana’s treasure. Let’s go on an adventure of our own.
Suddenly being on the open ocean didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
In fact, it seemed a lot better than tearing up Nana’s wallpaper or watching Marisol’s eyes get misty.
He paused by the door to the kitchen.
“¿Qué?” Marisol tilted her head. “What is it, Jake?”
“I think we should take Uncle Pierre’s biscuits to go.”
Fortunately, the family dinghy was already tied to the crab dock. Uncle Todd and Uncle Pierre had rescued the boat from its off-season tarp in the yard last night, and it now floated in the creek’s muddy waters. All around marsh grass swayed, a vivid green Jake never saw anywhere else. Between that and the fingers of rust streaking the dinghy’s battered tin, he felt as though they were about to set off into the unknown, instead of across the water they’d swum in all their lives. The orange life jackets he and Marisol strapped on only strengthened this feeling, wrapping around their chests in tight hugs, filling their nostrils with the faint, musty scent that came with years of being put
away damp.
The sky was a clear blue, without even a hint of a cloud, and the morning air was almost still, save for that same breeze that had set the blinds outside his window fluttering.
He tossed a shovel and a bag of biscuits into the dinghy first, then hopped in himself, one hand on a piling for balance, another offered to help Marisol, who instead chose to sit and wiggle her way off the dock. If she got any splinters she didn’t show it.
“Untie the mooring line, will you?” Jake asked, because she was closest. “I’ll get the engine ready.”
Marisol worked the knot free, and Jake turned toward the heavy black engine strapped to the stern, currently raised so the propellers sat above the creek. He unclipped the motor, lowered the blades into the water, and nodded to his cousin. Marisol gave a tug on the rope, and it slithered off the horn cleat just as the boat nosed out into the water.
They were loose.
Jake couldn’t help feeling nervous, even though he’d taken out the boat with Uncle Todd countless times last summer. He knew how to push the catch into place. He knew where to grip the ignition cord. He also knew that none of the adults would be happy he was doing these things by himself.
Well, he wasn’t happy they were selling Nana’s house. . . .
Jake shoved these thoughts aside and grabbed the cord. The trick was to pull as quickly as possible, like starting a lawnmower—not that he’d done that many times, moving from place to place, mostly apartments.
He grit his teeth and counted down: Three, two, one, pull!
The engine coughed twice, spluttered, then fell silent.
“That was close!” Marisol sat on the edge of her seat, staring toward the house. “Do you think the grown-ups heard?”
No, Jake thought, his frustration finding a voice inside him. They won’t notice we’re gone either. They’re too caught up wrapping Nana’s dishes in newspaper and stuffing them in boxes. His jaw clenched again. He squeezed the starter handle. Three, two, one . . .
This time his pull was enough. The engine coughed hard, then roared to life with a throaty spluttering, before it settled into its usual soft putt-putt-putt.
“¡Vamos!” Marisol squeaked.
Jake pushed the lever to move the engine into first gear, steering carefully along the banks of thick pluff mud, where fiddler crabs waved uneven hellos. These creeks were a maze, weaving in and out and through the bright grass, but he’d navigated them enough with Uncle Todd that he could find his way to the ocean without thinking twice.
The waterways grew larger and larger, until they reached the inlet. Bleached ghost trees—the same ones from Nana’s photograph—twisted out of the sand behind them, and the abandoned lighthouse lay dead ahead. Murky waves lapped around the little dinghy as the cousins motored toward it.
Long ago, according to Nana, the structure had stood watch over an island much like Folly.
“Morris Island went all the way out there,” she’d said. “And you could walk straight to the lighthouse. That’s what it was for, of course—shining a light to make sure ships didn’t hit the beach.”
“But what happened?” Marisol had asked. “Now it’s all the way out to sea, just sticking up out of the water.”
“The currents shifted. The shoreline moved,” Nana had said. “The sand slowly washed away. But the lighthouse was made of stronger stuff, and it held firm. It’s guarding a lost land now, if you like, a place that used to be there.”
The idea had sent a delightful shiver down Jake’s spine, as so many of Nana’s stories did. Now, he looked ahead to the lighthouse, which stood tall above the sea. It was a deep red brick, and about halfway up he could see a faded white band, where once it had been painted, and another above that. At the very top was the light itself, like a giant iron lamp, a guardrail around the edge.
“Any guess on what the treasure might be?” His cousin leaned into the breeze, her curls blowing everywhere. “Pearls? Bolivianos? Rubies? Chocolate?”
“Chocolate! Definitely!” Jake hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed when they unearthed nothing. Otherwise he’d have to figure out how to distract her from this distraction. “There’s some back at the house for later. You know, just in case . . .”
Marisol’s expression reminded Jake of a feeling he’d tried so hard not to feel at Nana’s funeral—like his heart was a soda can inside a fist. Every drop squeezed out, every side crushed.
“I know this is silly,” she said softly, “but it feels like something Nana would do. And if she were going to bury treasure, it would be somewhere near the house.”
The wind was picking up, he realized, the waves choppier beneath the boat than they had been before. But the cousins weren’t far from the Morris Island Light now, and Jake carefully steered into the lee of it, the waters a little calmer where the lighthouse’s bulk protected them from wind.
Marisol grabbed the rope tucked into the bow, holding it in one hand with a big loop at the ready. The base of the lighthouse was shored up with a rusty wall designed to keep sand in and curious people out. In fact, there were two red-and-white signs above the lighthouse entrance, each reading DANGER: NO TRESPASSING. The door itself was a forbidding metal grate.
This wasn’t enough to deter some previous visitors, who’d left large hooks hammered into the wall. Marisol stretched out to loop their rope over one.
Jake cut the engine, and the boat bobbed in the sudden silence. The cousins both tilted their heads back, taking in the crooked bricks and streaked iron above them.
Above and above and above.
The sun made Jake’s eyes smart as he craned his neck back, and suddenly reaching the lighthouse felt more dangerous than exciting. The hooks leading up to its base looked slick with salt water. How were they supposed to climb without hurting themselves? And even if they reached the door, what would they see? Rust? It had probably been very different when Nana had visited all those years ago.
Even if she had left chocolate it would’ve melted by now, Jake mused.
Abruptly the boat pitched, and he almost fell backward off his bench. Marisol grabbed his arm to keep him steady, and he felt his cheeks redden. But the little dinghy was rocking properly now, the waves gathering in speed and size.
The sky above was still a clear blue, but the wind had picked up much, much more than either of them had expected. Jake’s stomach twisted uneasily, but it had nothing to do with the rocking of the boat. If the waves kept growing like this—their tops starting to break, shivers of wind wrinkling them as they rose and fell—he and Marisol would be in real trouble.
Marisol’s hair had turned into a snarl of knots tangling across her face.
“Maybe we should come back when it’s calmer,” she said uncertainly.
Jake was already scrambling for the engine.
“Be ready to cast off the mooring line as soon as I get it started,” he called over his shoulder. He could see the whitecaps chopping across the inlet, and he was beginning to wonder how he was going to steer the little boat safely through the surf.
And what their parents were going to say if they found out he and Marisol had taken the boat out on their own.
He pushed that question aside, grabbing for the engine cord and giving it a quick, clean yank as a burst of spray hit the back of his neck with a cold splash.
The engine coughed and fell silent.
He yanked a second time, and it felt like pulling the cord through molasses. His muscles strained and his shoulder ached, but the engine didn’t make a single noise.
The boat rocked again, and Marisol gasped behind him. Then: “Jake, hold on!”
He grabbed for the bench at the back of the boat, just as the bow surged in against the rusty iron barrier with a loud, echoing clang.
“Mari! Are you okay?”
“I’m okay!” But her voice had a shake to it, and he was pretty sure his had as well. He grabbed for the cord and tried again, and then again, ignoring the burn in his arm, the sharp line across his pal
m where the cord dug into it. But the engine wouldn’t so much as cough, let alone sputter to life.
The boat rocked dangerously. He’d never gotten seasick before, but his stomach lurched again as he turned to Marisol. “Mari, I can’t start it, and I think it’s going to flip over if the waves get much bigger.”
As one, they turned their gazes to the towering wall above them.
There was nothing for it.
They had to climb.
3
Marisol
TREASURE HUNTS WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ADVENTUROUS, RIGHT?
Already this felt like something out of Nana’s stories. The stolen boat, the lashing waves, the lighthouse windows gaping with shadows too dark for daytime. Marisol shivered when she stared at them, but that could’ve had something to do with the wind that was whipping her hair around her face, splashing waves against the boat with loud slops.
“We have to climb.” Jake sounded shaky. She couldn’t blame him. There were seven hooks between the mooring and the top—a bad fall, if either of them slipped.
Marisol didn’t mind heights. Rock climbing with Dad in La Paz was one of her favorite weekend activities. She loved swimming too, but the combination of water and footholds was no good.
She stretched to grab the second rung, which was as slippery as she feared, slimy with green algae beneath her fingers. But the soles of her outdoor sandals held firm when she pulled herself up.
One hook, two, three.
When Jake left the dinghy to follow she could hear the boat colliding with the barrier. Tin on iron: BANG. Saltwater mist stung Marisol’s eyelids, urging her to hurry to the top, and she might have but for her father’s constant climbing advice: Tranquilo con la ruta.
She passed the English version down to Jake. “Just be calm on the route.”
“Eyes ahead, don’t look back!” he yelled in reply.
Marisol wasn’t sure this meant the same thing.
She pushed forward anyway.
By the final hook, she could no longer hear the crash-crash of metal. A glance below revealed Jake’s face, pale enough for her to count every freckle. Their boat—along with their picnic and their shovel—was half under the waves, which kept growing angrier, spitting foam higher and higher.
