The Treasure of Maria Mamoun Read online

  The bright afternoon sun shone through the tent and filled the cabin with soft light. Maria placed her little bouquets in the blue-enameled coffee mugs about the cabin. The sweet scent chased away the mustiness. She aired the cushions out on the sunny beach, then remade the beds and fluffed the pillows. She cleaned the windows with vinegar that she’d taken from the kitchen, then scrubbed the sink with baking soda (again, borrowed from Hattie’s kitchen supplies) and seawater. Freshened and cleaned, the cabin felt quite homey.

  Now she sat at the tiny table, reading. She liked the warm smell of the wood and the cool smell of the ocean, and she liked the gentle rocking motion. The noise was constant: creaking timbers and blowing wind, waves slapping the hull, but it was all good noise, calm noise. With all the noise, the cabin wasn’t nearly so lonely as the empty cottage.

  True Pyrate Tales told of many pirates, privateers, and wealthy merchant vessels in and about these waters. Quite a few of them had wrecked, but only the Whydah had been found. There was an intriguing chapter about Captain William Kidd, who had started out as a privateer, but had turned pirate. Supposedly he buried gold at Money Head on Hog Island not too far away, and maybe another treasure on Nomans Land, an uninhabited island a few miles south.

  She slid the book away and pulled Captain Murdefer’s map from her backpack. She wondered if Mr. Ironwall and his cousins might have found the treasure if they’d had the chart. They had a sailboat, and the skills to sail it and permission to camp for days at a time, but no chart. She had the chart, but no boat or skills or permission to camp. And no helpful cousins.

  Twice twice two,

  Then twice that more.

  Take one from the first,

  The Queen treads upon the door.

  What did it mean?

  She sighed. The afternoon sun shone rainbows through the stained glass window. Maria packed up her books and charts and garbage. The treasure would have to wait for another day. Or forever, unless she found a way to get to the outer islands. Maybe Frank knew someone with a boat. But if she spoke to Frank, he’d tell her mom, and she’d say the treasure didn’t belong to her and even if she did find it she couldn’t keep it. No, it was definitely not something to get adults messed up in. She would have to do it herself. But how?

  As she climbed over the Privateer’s rail to the dock, she saw the answer to her questions. The dinghy. It was the sort of boat that didn’t require sailing skills. She’d already inspected it. It had both its oars; its hull was sound. It was small enough for one person to handle. There it lay, overturned on the deck, just waiting for her.

  But it would have to wait some more. What had Mr. Ironwall said? It’s not too far to the outer islands? She figured she would need a whole day to get there and back. And she needed to pack supplies: food, a shovel, warm clothing. She would do it tomorrow. She would be the sort of girl who had adventures.

  17

  A BOY RAISED BY WOLVES

  Maria woke the next day ready to row to the outer islands. She’d packed her backpack with supplies the night before and ran out the door as soon as Frank arrived with Brutus. She made a lame excuse to her mom—she and Brutus wanted to take a long walk, so if she didn’t come back before Mr. Ironwall’s nap, she’d take Brutus to the cottage for the afternoon—buying nearly the whole day for herself. Even if she didn’t have time to dig up the treasure, at least she could figure out which of the outer islands held the treasure.

  But first Maria would have to get the dinghy in the water.

  Flipping the dinghy onto its keel wasn’t too difficult, but lifting the prow up onto the sailboat’s rail made her legs shake. Then she tied a long rope from the dinghy to a post on The Last Privateer. The last thing she needed was the rowboat to float away when she dropped it over the side.

  It splashed more loudly than she expected. Maria peered over the rail. The boat had landed in the water right side up—she hadn’t been sure that would happen when she shoved it over the rail from behind—but there it was, bobbing against the hull of the Privateer. She untied the dinghy’s lead rope and then climbed off the Privateer, onto the dock, pulling the little boat close. Brutus followed and sat patiently, awaiting further instructions.

  “We just need to get in, Brute,” Maria told him.

  Brutus needed a lot of coaxing with dog biscuits to enter the rowboat without her, but she had to get him in first so she would have both hands free for the launch.

  The boat rocked precariously when he jumped down. He looked up at her, panting. As soon as she climbed aboard, feeling a bit clumsy now that she was buckled into a life jacket she’d found on the sailboat, he licked her as if they’d been separated for days.

  “You’re such a chicken, Brutus,” she told him. He licked her again, spun around, and lay down on the life jacket she had brought for him.

  Maria tied her backpack tightly to the bench so it wouldn’t go overboard if things got rocky. As a precaution, she’d put Captain Murdefer’s map and the modern chart in plastic bags and then zipped them into another layer of plastic bags, inside the deepest compartment of her pack.

  The tide was out and the water was calm, with only tiny waves breaking on the beach. She had figured the rowing part wouldn’t be so hard. But rowing proved more difficult than it looked on TV. She hadn’t realized how much coordination was required to keep the oars in those little metal U-shaped locks. They kept lifting up, slipping out and slipping in. She was about fifty feet from the dock, trying to stay close to shore, when she lost her left oar altogether. It floated just out of reach, and no amount of paddling with the right oar got her any closer.

  “I’m just going to get the paddle, Brute. You stay. Stay!” She fixed him with a serious look and eased herself over the side and into the waves.

  The cold water took her breath away, but her life jacket kept her afloat. Brutus stood on the bench, barking.

  “It’s okay!” she told him. “Just stay. I’m coming back. Stay!”

  He didn’t stay. He jumped in after her. And then, as if he’d suddenly decided it was too cold, he tried to climb into her arms.

  “Get off me, you big dummy!” Maria shoved him, but he refused to budge.

  Her struggle to push him away pushed the boat away instead, and though Maria had a hold of the lead rope, she couldn’t simultaneously pull the boat back, grab the oar, and deal with the increasingly agitated dog.

  “Let go of me!” She grabbed at the side rail. The boat tipped and Brutus put his paws on the rail also, as if he could climb back in.

  “No! Get away.” Maria tried to hold the boat upright, but the dog was too heavy and too persistent. As he kicked her face with his hind paws and struggled to climb back in, water came in over the rail and the boat flipped over completely. Brutus fell back and began swimming in panicked circles.

  “You total idiot!” Maria yelled. She grabbed at the rowboat’s slick sides, struggling to hang on to the round hull, but there was nothing to hold on to. Brutus, too, tried to climb unsuccessfully onto the overturned boat, and then, when that didn’t work, onto her shoulders. She felt herself being pushed under. She took a deep breath, held it, and—

  Her feet touched the bottom.

  It wasn’t that deep after all. She’d been kept off the shallow floor by the life jacket. But the dog was still holding her under the water. She pushed his hairy bulk toward the shore and kicked off the bottom. As soon as she surfaced she grabbed the lost oar. Then she hunted for the other, found it, and grabbed that, too. But now Brutus was bearing down on her again—determined, it seemed, to climb back on top of her. She tried to swim away, but found it was too difficult with the oars in hand. She was about to let them go when someone whistled from shore.

  Brutus abandoned her, swimming mightily for the beach. Maria watched as the dog reached the beach, shook, and went running to the figure who now knelt and rubbed Brutus’s head with both hands. She realized it was Paolo.

  Maria bobbed about alone, rescuing the boat and the oa
rs. Brutus’s new buddy watched without helping. He even looked as though he was laughing! Then he began throwing a ball for Brutus! And Brutus, the traitor, ran joyfully into the waves to fetch it. Suddenly Brutus, who was the biggest chicken when it came to swimming just moments ago, happily paddled after the ball, ignoring her.

  And Paolo ignored her, too.

  Though her soaked clothes weighed her down and the waves knocked her about, Maria finally dragged the boat onto the sand and threw the oars beside it. She untied her sodden backpack and laid it on the sand to dry.

  Brutus came over and dropped the tennis ball at her feet. Relieved of his fuzzy green burden, he lifted his leg and peed on a hunk of seaweed.

  “Thanks for nothing!” she yelled at Paolo when he followed. “You could have helped!”

  “I did. I got the dog to lay off you.” He picked up Brutus’s ball and threw it again. The dog bounded after it. “Besides, you looked like you could handle it.”

  Brutus bounded up to him, dropped the ball, and wagged. He shook vigorously, and then danced around the boy.

  “Brutus, come,” Maria commanded. “Come!”

  The dog ignored her, jumping and fawning at Paolo. She’d been walking Brutus for ages! And now the beast acted like she was not even there!

  “He wants to play more,” Paolo said. He threw the ball into the water. Brutus plunged happily back into the ocean up to his neck, turned, and paddled after the floating ball.

  “Stop doing that!” Maria said. “What if he drowns?”

  “He swims better than you,” Paolo said. “Why were you stealing that rowboat?”

  “I wasn’t stealing it,” Maria said. “And it’s certainly none of your business.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not your rowboat. And you were taking it. Kinda like stealing.”

  “What are you doing here?” Maria said.

  “I’m fishing.” The boy jutted his chin at an ancient fishing pole lying on the sand.

  “So?”

  “So, you can be on any beach on this island between the high tide and low tide line if you’re fishing.” He picked up the pole. It didn’t have any fishing line in it. “What’s your excuse?”

  “I was walking my dog.”

  “In a rowboat?”

  Maria shrugged.

  “And that’s your dog like that’s your boat,” Paolo said. “I’ve known Brutus for years. He just wants to play. That’s why he was climbing on you in the water. He thought it was a game. If you knew him better, you’d’ve known that.”

  When Brutus returned, Paolo took the ball from the dog’s mouth and held it to Maria to throw.

  “That is disgusting,” she said.

  Paolo shrugged and put the ball in his pocket. Brutus tilted his head and looked disappointedly at his empty hand. Paolo rubbed the dog’s ears and got a slobbery lick in return.

  “You’ll need help getting that rowboat back on board,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t want your help.” She didn’t like his tone. And she didn’t like him.

  “Fine.” He looked around the empty beach. “Go ask someone else for help.”

  Maria grabbed the prow of the boat and began dragging it toward the dock. She didn’t get very far until Paolo lifted the stern. She marched angrily toward the dock as if she didn’t notice he was helping her. But together, they walked the dinghy out the length of the dock to The Last Privateer.

  “You know, I’m just trying to be nice. You’re really impossible to be nice to.” Paolo raised the canvas tent wider to make space for the dinghy. “Lift it over the rail, so it doesn’t scrape.”

  “I know. I’m not an idiot.” Maria carefully held her end off the rail and climbed aboard. Paolo followed with his end and together they laid the rowboat gently on the deck.

  “Anyhow,” Maria said, “I don’t need you to be nice to me.”

  “I bet you have, like, no friends,” Paolo said.

  “I have a ton of friends back home,” Maria said.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “How would you know?”

  “’Cause I have no friends and I know what it looks like,” Paolo said, matter-of-factly. “You should get some dry clothes on. You’re going to get sick.”

  “I don’t care.” Maria felt embarrassed and stupid, and very, very cold. She would have to go home to put on dry clothes. And Paolo stood between her and the cottage.

  “You’re weird,” he said. “First you steal the old guy’s rowboat, then you act all snotty. What’s your deal?”

  “I don’t have a deal.”

  “I’m really, really not dangerous,” Paolo said. He climbed back under the tent, jumped onto the dock, and jogged back to the beach. She followed behind, a good distance off. Poor Brutus, confused, did not know who to follow, so he bounded back and forth between them.

  “Anyhow, you don’t need to worry about me telling the old guy,” Paolo hollered back at her.

  “Why do you keep calling him ‘the old guy’?” Maria said. She clipped Brutus to his leash.

  “’Cause he is old. He’s going to die soon,” Paolo said over his shoulder. “And leave you high and dry.”

  “What does that even mean?” Maria said.

  “It means your mom better be good at keeping him alive. Or she’s out of a job, and you guys are homeless.” He picked up his fishing pole and headed toward the mansion.

  Brutus pulled against the leash, as if he wanted to follow Paolo. But Maria tugged back. There was no way she’d let him anywhere near that jerk again.

  18

  CAPTAIN MURDEFER, REVISITED

  The next morning, Frank brought the bicycle and a brand-new helmet to the cottage.

  “Sorry it took so long,” Frank said. “I decided she needed a lick of paint.”

  “No, it’s beautiful,” Maria said, staring at the gleaming red machine. “I can’t wait to try it.”

  Anything would be easier than rowing a boat, she figured.

  But after an hour, Maria had scraped her right knee and the palms of both hands and torn her pants. She’d also caught her right sock in the bicycle chain, crashed into a tree, skidded out several times on the clamshell driveway, and bruised her elbow. And still, she could not ride without wobbling and falling over.

  She gave up. Then tried again. And gave up all over again. Maria figured she was the only twelve-year-old in the world who couldn’t ride a bike. It was humiliating. She felt as though she’d been trying all day without improving.

  That evening, by the time Frank and her mother pulled up in the golf cart, Maria was covered in dirt, scabs, and grease.

  “Maria, habibti!” Celeste clucked worriedly over her. “What happened to you?”

  “I’m trying to learn how to ride this beast.” Maria gave the bike an angry kick.

  “Maybe it would be better to just walk?” Celeste suggested. “Or ask Frank for a ride.”

  “I want to do things by myself! I’m sick of being a hothouse flower!”

  “A hothouse flower?” Celeste said. “What is this hothouse flower?”

  “A canned string bean. A wimp! I want to be normal. Normal kids go places by themselves. Normal kids ride bicycles!”

  Celeste sighed. “Well, okay. Show us what you can do.”

  Maria approached the bike with trepidation. She swung her leg over the center bar. Then she remembered the kickstand, and she tried to kick it up with the bike between her legs. Big mistake. She fell sideways onto her already-scraped knee, with the bicycle on top.

  “Why do this to yourself?” Celeste asked.

  “She’ll survive,” Frank said. He helped Maria up. “You just have to get moving in order to balance. You need momentum. Here—you get on and I’ll help you balance.” Maria climbed on again. “Now push off the ground—kick with your foot and then bring it onto the pedal. Keep your handlebars straight—don’t turn until you’re really moving. And then just a tiny shift on the handlebars to start your turn.”

  He held th
e seat while Maria began to pedal.

  She felt wobbly and scared, but then suddenly she straightened out and was going.

  “I’m doing it! I can ride!” She took a wide turn around the beetlebung tree. “Look at me!”

  “I can’t,” her mother said. But she was looking, and almost smiling. “If you’re going to stay out here and help her kill herself,” she said to Frank, “I’m going in to see what Hattie left in the fridge. She always gives too much food. You can stay for dinner if you want.”

  Frank’s neck reddened. “Well, I guess I could stay a little while and teach Maria some more.”

  “That would be nice,” Celeste said as Maria coasted to a stop in front of them, at the last moment putting her foot down to stop herself from tipping over. “Instead of leaving her alone to die. I’m just saying.” Celeste’s eyes twinkled.

  Maria had never seen her mother laugh, but sometimes she did kid a little, like she was kidding now. It meant she was in a good mood. She’d been in a lot of good moods lately. Definitely more often than back in the Bronx.

  Frank spent the rest of the evening helping Maria ride, until she could mount, turn, brake, and dismount all by herself. They quit only when it became too dark to see. Then they sat around the tiny kitchen table, sharing Hattie’s lasagna, green salad, and peach cobbler.

  “That poor guy has to drive all the way up-island,” Celeste said after Frank left. “That was very nice of him to help you like that.”

  “He is very nice,” Maria said.

  “Yes, maybe.” Celeste gathered up the dirty dishes and took them to the sink. “Tonight he definitely went beyond the call of duty.”

  “So I can ride the bike off the estate now, right?” Maria asked. “Frank taught me everything I need to know, and Hattie says the bike path is perfectly safe.”

  “Yes, fine, fine, all right, as long as you wear your helmet,” Celeste said. “But if you kill yourself, don’t come crying to me.”