“Did magical elves bring us food?” I asked, grabbing a plate and loading it up. I started gnawing on a piece of bacon immediately.
“Nope, I woke up early and found a grocery store. I needed to feed my sprout ASAP.”
“Aye shmappreciate ish,” I said, mouth full. The pancakes weren’t the best, though. My dad has the magic touch. He makes them in the shape of Mickey Mouse and gets really creative with the chocolate-chip faces. He calls them Evan’s Expressive Pancakes. Mom’s were somewhat lumpy silver dollars.
After I stuffed my face, we got into the car to go find her scuppernong, in the fruit flesh. “Did I already tell you? I’m coauthoring a paper on bioarchaeology methods with a local researcher. If the Grandmother Vine is as old as we think, it’s seen every generation of Europeans in the United States, and probably several generations of Native people prior. I’m wondering if some were caring for the vine, because it’s survived against drought and invasive species and even development in the area.” She was practically bouncing in the driver’s seat.
We drove out of town, and I was surprised at how un-sandy it was everywhere. Roanoke was a very green place, thick with trees—as much a forest as an island. We took a couple of wrong turns, righted ourselves, and then bumped down a gravelly road, marked with a PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING sign. Next to it, on the other side of a chain-link fence, was a big banner touting the future site of the Elizabethan Links golf course and luxury resort.
“Uh, Mom? Are we supposed to be taking this road?”
“It’s fine. The property owner said he’s happy to let me study the vine. It’s the looky-loos he’s trying to keep out.”
I had a hard time imagining why people vacationing would want to drive around to look at an old grapevine. Mom continued, “Also the developers, I suppose. They’re putting the pressure on him to sell his land. If he does . . . we might lose this piece of botanical history.”
Suddenly, Mom let out a gasp and pulled the car onto the shoulder. She hopped out and speed-walked, arms swinging like a little kid’s, over to this huge, gnarled plant thing at the edge of the woods. It looked like the cross between a tree and a branch-bare bush, with ropy gray-brown stalks intertwining around one another and toward the leafy ends. It dwarfed my mom as she knelt down and touched it. “Isn’t this awesome?” To me, it looked like . . . a big plant, and not even with pretty buds.
She motioned for me to come over. I tiptoed around a few piles of deer poo, which I recognized thanks to the “How to Identify Animal Scat” exhibit at Mom’s museum. When I joined her next to the vine, she had some dusty green circles cupped in her hand. They looked like bouncy balls, ones that were filthy from rolling under the fridge or something.
“Look at the grapes! They’re huge.”
I picked one up and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger. “Are you sure you can eat them?” They were always scaring us about poisonous berries at sleepaway camp.
“Remember what I said in the car? You can, and people even make jelly, juice, and wine out of them.” She dusted off one on the thigh of her cargo shorts and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad.”
I circled the Grandmother Vine, careful not to trip over any roots. Mom pulled out her camera and snapped some pictures. I trailed my hand along the smooth surface of the vine as I walked, and a chill ran down my spine. It almost felt like someone was watching us—maybe the guy whose property we were on? The golf-course developers? I glanced around, but I didn’t see anyone through the mess of trees. I pulled out my phone, thinking that maybe the shivery feeling was some kind of signal that I’d gotten a message, from Jade—or my dad. No messages, but I also had no bars. I started walking away from Mom to see if I could pick up a signal.
I wandered toward the woods, twigs and leaves crunching under my flimsy sandals. It was so quiet in the forest, damp and solemn. The air smelled like the best perfume I could imagine: flowery sweet and piney. Sunlight streamed through gaps in the treetops. I heard the faint noise of rippling water. My dad was right about there being lots of trees and brooks. Maybe New York looked like this island once upon a time, when Native people—the Lenape, whom we studied in history—lived on it and it wasn’t covered in concrete.
I heard a noise then, like a soft voice. A whisper light as the wind. Something is here with me, in these woods. I could feel eyes on me again. There is no mistaking that sense of being watched: The nape of my neck prickled, and I shivered despite the heat. I whirled around, heart pounding, eyes darting through the trees. There was a shape, a nontree shape, moving slowly toward me on my right. I froze, all my city-girl street smarts utterly failing me. I hadn’t realized how far away I’d wandered from Mom and the vine. I wanted to cry out for help, but the words stuck in my throat.
A snapping branch broke the quiet as the shape moved forward. I blinked my eyes shut, not knowing what to do. Maybe if I couldn’t see it—whatever it was—then it couldn’t see me. Even though years of hide-and-go-seek should’ve taught me that’s not how it works. I stood as still as possible, wishing really hard whatever it was would go away. Finally, I peeked one eye open and saw it clearly: a deer, a young buck with fuzzy antlers. I let out a shaky laugh as it stepped closer. It was pretty awesome.
“Nell! Where’d you go?” Mom startled the deer, who raised its tail and leapt off into the forest, away from me.
“Mom!” I crashed through the underbrush, wondering how I would’ve woven my way out of the woods if she hadn’t started hollering for me, her voice leading me toward the road. I saw her just beyond the trees. “There was this cool deer. It had little antlers!” I’d only ever seen does at the petting zoo before.
“I must have scared it away—I didn’t see anything.”
I ran up next to her, panting. My flip-flops were cutting into my feet. They’re great for hanging around the park in the summer and showing off nail polish, but I was going to need different shoes for running through forests on Roanoke. I hadn’t followed Mom’s packing instructions, except for all the tooth stuff.
“Ready to go? I have to get back for a meeting with that archaeologist. You can come with me if you want, or you can hang around the house.”
A meeting sounded boring. I thought about the shops we’d seen while we were driving in town. “Could I go to that bookstore instead?”
“I guess. But only there, okay? We don’t know this area well yet.” She started up the Jeep.
I rolled my eyes. I had walked myself home from school every day since the fifth grade. The past year or two, sometimes I came home to an empty house if Dad was writing or researching at the library. Although the building wasn’t empty, because Mrs. Kim was always around, in case I needed anything.
Mom dropped me off at the cottage so I could get my bag. “Text me when you are leaving and when you get home.”
“Mom, really. I’ll be fine.” She leaned down to smooth my hair off my forehead and give me the lightest of kisses on my hairline, like she always does. I have a theory that all moms have a signature kiss, and that is mine’s.
Once she left, I spent a half hour padding around the cottage, peeking into all the nooks and crannies that I hadn’t had the energy to explore last night. It was the homiest non-home I could imagine. All it was missing were the framed photos, vacation souvenirs, and heirloom knickknacks that make people’s houses theirs. When I’d opened every last closet door, I decided it was time to hit the bookstore.
I shuffled down the shady sidewalk, passing a few other friendly white cottages. The buildings and houses on the island were either very East-Coast-islandy—lots of shutters and porches—or English-village-looking, like the theater up the street. The beachy look made sense to me, but the “Ye Olde” one didn’t really. I guessed it’s because this used to be an English colony.
It was hotter out than I expected, at least walking in the sun, and it was a muggy heat. I passed a store with beautiful weaving on display in the windows, a place renting big kites
, and a sandwich shop called Poor Richard’s. When I saw the bookstore up ahead I felt relieved, already anticipating a blast of fresh, cold air-conditioning. The store was in a Ye Olde building, marked by dark brown wood that crisscrossed against white stucco. It had a front porch with a couple of rocking chairs on it, empty except for a sleepy golden retriever. I walked across, a little nervously. I don’t know why; most of the bookstores I’ve been to have always been welcoming places. Still, it felt kind of like the first day of school. I hadn’t talked to a single person on Roanoke yet.
I sucked in a deep breath and ventured inside. The screen door slammed shut behind me, letting out a clattering smack. Glancing back, I could see the poor dog on the porch startle. Inside, a few people looked up from their books and at me.
A blond woman leaned over the counter as I slouched away from the entrance. “Hi! Don’t let the screen hit you on your way in!” She grinned, and I blushed. “Can I help you find something?”
“Thanks. Um, I’m just looking.” I raced over to the first section of shelves I saw and immediately pulled out a book.
“Take your time!” I was intrigued by her accent—the way she said “hi” and “time” sounded more like “ hoi” and “toime.” She didn’t sound like the Southern people I knew in New York. But the woman seemed nice enough. Maybe I’d wait a few minutes, then ask where to find the series that Jade kept insisting I read, the one about a foodie girl.
Before I could study the back cover of the book I’d grabbed, I almost tripped over a person next to me in the aisle. “Sorry!”
“No worries.” A dark-haired girl, about my age, stood up from her browsing crouch next to me. She glanced at the book in my hands. “That book has great research, but it’s kind of boring.” She tipped her head, like she was sizing me up. “What else have you read?”
Was she suggesting I looked like someone who didn’t read a lot? “I’ve read a lot of books,” I finally said. And it was true. I need to have a book at every meal, and when Mom makes me put it aside to “participate in the family dinner,” I find myself skimming the can of Parmesan cheese or the edge of a newspaper visible on the floor. I bristled at this girl I didn’t know acting like I might be the type of person who doesn’t read. I mean, my dad’s a writer! So what if his past couple of mysteries didn’t sell. I turned back to the shelf, my face flushing.
She tapped my shoulder. “Sure, but have you read a lot about Roanoke?” Her scrunched eyebrows suggested she already knew the answer.
Oh. I looked down at the title I’d pulled: Roanoke: The Search for the Truth. I put the book back on the shelf and crossed my arms in front of my chest, hugging my elbows slightly. “I read a couple of travel guides.”
She smiled at me like I smile at Mrs. Kim’s tiny dog when it can’t climb back up the steep hallway steps it jumped down. “Not the island, silly. The lost colony!” I shook my head, wishing that at some point I’d read beyond that sidebar. “Hoo boy. Where were you during history class?”
The way she was acting, like me not knowing all about this lost colony was the most unbelievable thing ever, was annoying. Maybe people in the city have better things to obsess over than long-gone colonies. “We were busy learning about Henry Hudson.” I bet she didn’t know a lot about him, seeing as he was important to New York’s history.
“Right, the sea explorer. His story had a sad ending too. But not a mystery.” Even though she was being kind of annoying, I was impressed. The girl grabbed my hand and led me to the door. “This is a story best told out in the heat, otherwise you’ll get goose bumps times a thousand. Renée, I promise I’ll bring the customer back, okay?”
The woman at the counter grinned and waved at us. The girl pulled me outside to the rocking chairs, the door ricocheting shut behind us. “I’m Lila, by the way. Lila Midgett. And you?”
“Nell Dare.”
Her eyes widened. “Dare?”
Thanks to my mom mentioning the significance of Dare during our drive, this was something I knew. “Yes, as in Virginia.”
Lila looked impressed. “At least that’s ground we don’t need to cover. You’re not from around here, are you?” She climbed into a chair and sat cross-legged on the seat, managing to rock herself back and forth without her feet. I considered walking down the steps and away from her bossiness. But did I want to spend my summer alone? The cottage was perfect for sleepovers, after all. Maybe we could be friends. I sat down in the chair across from her.
“No, I’m here from New York, just for the summer.”
“Welcome. Let me tell you a little about ‘here.’ ” She cleared her throat. “Roanoke. Picture this island, 1587. Wait, no. First picture it a couple of years earlier. People had been living here for, like, ages. Algonquian-speaking people, like the Roanoke tribe, and the Croatoans, too. But the Europeans only found the island in the fifteen hundreds. Pirates and explorers got shipwrecked off the coast all the time; the shallow waters and barrier islands are treacherous. They call this area the”—she paused for dramatic effect, lowering her voice and leaning toward me—“Graveyard of the Atlantic.” Lila nodded slowly, letting her words sink in.
That was creepy, honestly. Pirates and shipwrecks and graveyards, oh my. There aren’t that many cemeteries in New York City, which is something I like. I’ve wanted to avoid them ever since Jade told me that when you walk past one you have to hold your breath and say “Dray Evarg,” or “graveyard” backward, in your head until you’re away. Otherwise, she said, the ghosts of the people buried there could rise out of the earth and inhabit your body, forcing out your soul. I don’t really believe her, but I do it now anyway, just in case.
Still, something about Lila’s know-it-all tone made me want to play it cool. “Hmm” was all I said. Although I was pretty interested in what she was telling me. I sent a quick text to Jade: Met this girl in the bookstore—might be kind of cool. Maybe now I wouldn’t feel so bad about all the time Jade was spending with Sofia.
“Anyway, in 1585 a group of English guys, mostly soldiers and stuff, came over to establish a colony. But they didn’t last long. They were clueless, especially about getting food. Some of the Native people helped them out at first, but things got really bad after the Englishmen killed the Roanoke’s leader, Wingina, in 1586. Eventually a bunch of the colonists went back to England, leaving fifteen behind to literally hold down the fort. Those guys all pretty much died.” I shuddered a little at that.
Lila sat back in her chair, still rocking. The way her eyes shined, I could tell she loved being a storyteller. “In 1587 the English tried a second colony. Sir Walter Raleigh was behind that one. Do you know about him?”
It was a familiar name but I wasn’t sure why. I bit my lip and debated whether I should say yes. But what if she asked me questions about him I couldn’t answer? Impatient, Lila slapped her thighs and whistled. “Here, Sir Walter!” The sleepy dog bounded over and, panting, plopped in front of Lila. “Sir Walter Raleigh is my dog. Aren’t you, good sir!” She petted him on his graying nose and he gave us a doggy smile. “But this good sir’s namesake was an important English nobleman. He sent over the second colony, made up of families. They called themselves ‘planters’ and were people who wanted a fresh start in a new country. Well, new to them.” Lila paused. “Not so much the people already here, you know? My dad always reminds me of that. He’s an archaeologist—and he’s studied the Carolina Algonquian people that lived here long before the English.” That made sense—of course Lila would know everything about this place if her dad researched it. Like how I know a lot about cool plants. It made me feel a little better about seeming clueless in comparison.
Lila kept going. I was starting to feel like I’d stumbled into summer school. “But the second group of colonists still couldn’t figure out how to gather enough food on their own. They depended on help from people like Manteo, a Croatoan man who had sailed back from England with them. This town, Manteo, is named after him, of course. Anyway, it got so bad that the lea
der of the colony, John White, decided to go back to England to get more supplies and stuff. He left all the colonists behind, including his daughter, Eleanor. Her baby girl, Virginia Dare, was the first European born in the United States.”
“I wonder if I’m related to her,” I blurted out. I don’t know why, but I thought that might impress Lila.
She shook her head at me, kind of sadly. “Not likely. I’ll get to that in a second.” I frowned and leaned back in my seat. She was totally lecturing me, but now I really wanted to hear the rest of the story. Also, while we’d been talking Sir Walter had shuffled over and plopped on my feet, and I was enjoying petting him.
Lila glanced to her left and her right, like she was making sure we were alone. Then she scooted her rocking chair even closer to me and Sir Walter, so near I could smell the bubblegum on her breath as she talked. She spoke in a low, serious tone. “So John White set sail for England. He left one hundred and sixteen people behind, because although two babies had been born on the island, one guy had been murdered right before he left.” I rolled my eyes a little. It takes a lot more than mentioning the word “murder” to faze me after living in New York City my whole life.
Lila continued, “There were all kinds of delays, so it took three whole years before he returned to Roanoke. Now, he had told the colonists that if they ever left the island, they should carve where they were going into a tree. That way he could find them. Also, if they were leaving because of danger, they should carve a special symbol, called a Maltese cross.” Lila swished her index finger in the air, drawing the plus-sign shape. By then I actually was on the edge of my seat, in danger of falling onto Sir Walter.
Summer of Lost and Found Page 3
