Wicked Luck

by Shannon L. Maynard

11. MID MORNING: THE REVEAL

  Ava

  Dax is facing me. I watch the water drops fall from his wavy hair and roll down his chest, slowing across abs that act like speed bumps. The drops lead to a small trail of hair below his belly button, trailing down to his shorts hung low on his hips. I look away before he can think I’m staring, but not fast enough, and now a crooked smile has formed on his lips. He’s asked me what I think of his castle but every time I try to look at the natural rock formation, my eyes are drawn back to him.

  “I’ve never seen anything so amazing,” I say respectfully. “I can’t take my eyes off it.”

  “I was talking about the castle,” he says, and his lips twitch as he tries to keep from laughing.

  My face flushes, and I hate him a little more. “So was I,” I tell him. “It’s the only thing in front of me worth looking at.”

  I meant to punish him, but now he looks even more amused.

  “Would you like to go inside?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?” Confusion shows on my face. “We can go inside?”

  “Of course,” he says confidently. “There’s a secret entrance. You can go inside any castle if it’s allowed. Or in this case, if you know the password.” A sly grin crosses his lips. “So… do you know the password?”

  I cross my arms in protest. He’s so annoying. Why does everything with him have to be a game? I sigh a deep breath and sarcastically blurt the only thing that comes to mind. The password whispered into my ear by a boy on the beach many years ago.

  “Palomino.”

  I expect him to burst out laughing and allow me at least two more chances to get it right. But he doesn’t laugh at all. In fact, all traces of a smile vanish from his face and for half a second, I think he’s upset by my lack of effort. He takes a step toward me and just as quickly as his expression disappeared moments ago, his face now explodes into one of pure happiness.

  “You remembered,” he says with a satisfied grin, his voice full of awe and reverence. “It really is you.”

  I blink, and then his words register, conjuring up a pleasant recollection in the back of my mind. Happiness pours over me, and I smile back at him. Dax takes another step forward, studying my face as though he’s seeing it for the first time. Our eyes meet with mutual recognition, sharing the same treasured memory, and all my hate and irritation vanishes. He was my first friend. And as incredible as it seems, my one wish of seeing him again has come true, like I finally managed to twist luck and alter it to go my way. Suddenly, a happily ever after seems less like an unachievable dream, and more like a realistic possibility.

  I was never one for make-believe. It seemed so irrational and silly. Even as a child, my imagination led me to only dream of realistic goals in my future and the destiny I was determined to choose for myself. With one exception. This had been the one time I’d gotten caught up in an imaginary world, a fairy tale so magical I’d wanted it to really exist. And the person responsible for breaking down my wall of serious practicality, the star of the fairy tale, is standing before me now.

  Maybe I’m in a coma—or worse, maybe I really am dead. Dax takes both of my hands in his, anxiously waiting for me to respond, but words escape me.

  I was eight years old the first time I went to the beach. The sound of the water rolling onto the shore, the squawking of seagulls, and the screams of delight mixed with the laughter of other children are etched into my brain like it was yesterday. I can recall the smell of the air—damp and salty, the scent of fish and seaweed the water left on my skin, and how I crunched my toes as the receding waves pulled away at the sand beneath my feet. I was humbled by the vastness of the ocean and intimidated by the power and strength of the waves crashing around me. But what I remember most about that day was not the sight, smell, and feel of my surroundings.

  My father and I were walking along the water’s edge to look for shells and came across a marvelous sand castle built by a young boy and his father. Judging from the size and complexity, the work of art must have taken them all day. They were working on the finishing touches, adding intricate details using small sticks.

  The boy was about my age, copying his father’s every move, and my father and I joined a small group of bystanders to marvel at the castle. When the pair finished, they stepped back to admire their masterpiece as the onlookers dispersed. My father struck up a conversation with the boy’s father. He was fascinated by his artistic design.

  The boy walked up to where I stood holding my father’s hand.

  “Do you wanna come see our castle?” he asked me.

  Being home-schooled meant I didn’t have much interaction with other kids my age, and this left me lacking in the conversation department. I looked up at my father rather than answer him myself.

  “Can she talk?” he asked my father.

  “Yes, she’s just a little shy,” he told him with a smile, and then he bent down to look me in the eye. “Go on, honey, he wants to show you his beautiful castle.”

  He held out his hand and waited for me to take it. His friendly eyes matched his warm smile, so I hesitantly let go of my father’s hand to take his. Then he turned and ran towards the castle, pulling me behind him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, after telling me his.

  “Ava.”

  “Ava? That’s a weird name,” he said, and then he laughed.

  We sat down in front of the entrance to his castle. I craned my neck and squinted into the blazing sun to see the top. The enormous fortress stood as tall as my father with multiple towers of different sizes, notched walls, and winding staircases. A drawbridge led to the gatehouse in front, and a moat of water completely surrounded the citadel of sand. I listened attentively as he showed me the different parts and their purpose.

  “That’s the keep,” he said, pointing to the main tower in the center with pride. “My dad says it’s the heart of the castle. It’s the most important part because it’s where my dad and I would live. He’s the king and I’m the prince, of course.

  He lowered his finger to some vertical sticks that blocked the main entrance inside the gatehouse. “This is the portcullis. That’s to keep out enemies and princesses,” he told me, and then hurried to clarify. “Well, you know, enemies and sister princesses that get on my nerves. Princesses from other kingdoms would probably be okay… if they knew the password.”

  I remember looking at him strangely.

  He ran out of patience waiting for me to ask the question he expected me to ask. “Well? Don’t you want to know what the password is?” he asked, looking at me intently with eyes as blue as the hotel pool I’d swam in earlier that morning.

  I nodded my head shyly.

  “It’s Palomino,” he whispered in my ear, even though there was no one around to hear but me. “But don’t tell anyone, because it’s a secret.”

  My parents talked with his dad for hours, which meant I spent the majority of the day with him. He became my first friend. I didn’t say much after telling him my name, but he didn’t seem to mind. He did enough talking for the both of us. I followed him around in the sand to search for treasure and then, before I was ready, it was time to go. I cried, not wanting to leave my new friend and his castle behind.

  The next year when my parents asked where I wanted to spend summer vacation, I requested the same beach in San Diego, California, and told them I loved the town. And I did. After that, an annual trip to San Diego became a family tradition. But my parents never knew that the real reason I wanted to visit was the hope of running into him again.

  Like all other eight- and nine-year-olds, we created our own fairy tale. He was the prince, and I was his princess. We rode our sand shovel horses across the kingdom in search of treasure, bringing special rocks and shells we collected back to the sand castle for safekeeping. He’d been my brave knight, promising to protect me from the imaginary, fire-breathing dragons that ambushed us on our way back through the forest. He assured me they’d been sent to
destroy us by his wicked stepsister, as he fought them bravely with his stick sword and Frisbee shield.

  I’d followed his every command, ducking when he ordered and shooting my pretend bow and arrow to assist him in exterminating the dragons. And finally, we retreated to the castle and made it across the moat just in time before the drawbridge was raised and the portcullis lowered, cheering in unison for our victory. We celebrated by sitting down at a feast fit for a prince and his princess, the finest food in all the land, created from sand of course.

  “It’s me,” he says now. “Dax. I showed you my sand castle on the beach when I was nine and—”

  “I know,” I reply with reverence, remembering everything about that day, especially the part of me not wanting to leave. “How did you know it was me?”

  He smiles a big smile. “When you told me your name, I thought of that day and then decided it was just coincidence. But when I saw the pictures you drew of your parents, I recognized them and knew it had to be you. I just didn’t expect you to remember.” He glances down at his feet. “I’ve thought about you a lot. Even though it was ten years ago, I remember that day like it was yesterday.”

  My face is suddenly hot. I’m feeling awkward and a little embarrassed by the fact that the one day we spent together as children meant as much to him as it did to me.

  “Do you want to see inside?” he asks again.

  I smile at Dax and nod, feeling childlike, as if we’re back on that beach again. We walk under the falls to a wall covered in winding, green overgrowth. He lets go of my hand and grabs a rope made of woven vine that hangs to the side, and pulls downward using a pulley he’s carved out of wood. Instantly, a portcullis begins to rise, made from small branches beneath the green, exposing an opening into the small mountain he calls Daxwood Castle.

  I peer inside while he finishes tying off the rope, and then he motions for me to enter. The tunnel opening extends for a few feet before opening up into a massive room. This cave is four times the size of the one we came from on the beach, and this ceiling is extremely tall—giving it a castle-like feel. High up on either side of the walls, small crevices allow bits of sunlight to peek through the cracks, enough to dimly illuminate the inside of the cave. Small trickles of water run down the walls in various spots and seep into the floor. I look around in awe.

  The entire room is filled with furniture, and I step towards a massive, rectangular table in the center of the room, large enough to hold a feast for a king. Made from long planks of wood, it’s held together by some long strips of vine. The base of the table is formed from two massive sections of tree trunks, cut at the point where the branches fan out like fingers, seeming to balance the table top like a gigantic hand.

  “Did you make this?” I ask in shock.

  “Yeah. It gives me something to do. Here, sit down.”

  He pulls out a chair at one end of the table. He has carved the back from a solid piece of wood in an ornate pattern like the one I saw on the canoe. Across the table on the opposite end sits another identical chair.

  “This is unbelievable. How did you carve this?” I run my hand across the intricate design before sitting down.

  “My father had a knife strapped to his belt.” He pulls the knife from a discreet spot in the hollow wood quiver that contains his arrows and holds it up. “This knife has saved my life many times, as well as my sanity. Without it, I might have gone crazy by now.” He removes the bow and arrows from around his chest and sits down in the other chair. “Come to think of it, that may be what’s wrong with Roxy.” His laughter echoes around the room.

  “So no one knows about this place?” I ask in a quiet voice, afraid of exposing us even though I know there’s no one around.

  “Roxy doesn’t. She has her own special place. I followed her there once. It’s near a waterfall too, but definitely not as cool as this.” He grins. “She never follows me though. In fact, she makes an effort to keep her distance.”

  I feel empathy for her situation. “Isn’t she lonely?”

  He leans back and puts his feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankles. “She has her multiple personalities to keep her company,” he says with a wink, his dimples prominent.

  “What about the tribes?” I ask. “Don’t they know about it?”

  “The Lambai Tribe knows, but they won’t come onto Anwai territory unless they’re provoked or are visiting Chief Anwai on official business. And the Anwai don’t come here because they think it’s the sacred house of the spirits. I asked the chief about it once and he told me I should stay away, warning me of making the spirits angry.” His laugh lacks concern. “So I guess it’s just Prince Daxton and Princess Ava like the old days, except the castle isn’t made of sand and the fire-breathing dragons have been replaced by flesh-eating cannibals. Unfortunately, the wicked stepsister still exists.”

  He looks away from the knife he twirls in his fingers to smile at me, and for some reason, his look makes me blush. Without warning, he flings the knife at a wooden bull’s-eye across the room. The knife lands in the center with a thud, causing me to jump.

  I smile at him before quickly looking away at the other furniture around the room. There is a couch carved out of a large tree trunk and on either side are matching chairs. The set surrounds a small fire pit in the floor. Behind Dax, I notice a counter-like table protruding out from the wall, supported by small tree trunks. In front, there are three intricately carved bar stools made from tree trunks as well.

  “You’re so talented,” I say, admiring his handiwork.

  “Thanks.” He stands up. “You haven’t seen the rest of the castle. Come on.”

  I follow him to a small opening. Ducking to walk through another tunnel, we step into a smaller room with an enormous bed in the center. And like the last room, the sun peers in through a tiny opening in the rock wall. I walk to the hammock-like bed floating above the floor, secured to tree stumps at all four corners, and drag my hand across the weave, made from tiny, braided vines, and then hesitantly sit on one side. The pillow is made from the skin of some unfortunate marsupial and stitched around the edges with fine strips of bark. I squeeze it with curiosity to figure out what’s inside.

  “Bird feathers,” he says, answering my thoughts. “Go ahead. Try it out.”

  I tuck the pillow behind my head and stretch out across the bed. It’s surprisingly comfortable. “Wow, I’m impressed,” I tell him, and then notice the expression on his face.

  He’s blinking and fidgeting and staring at me, as if he’s not sure if he’s imagining a real girl lying across his bed.

  Embarrassed, I get up and walk to what looks like a sink against the wall. An inverted turtle shell rests on top of a hollowed-out, waist-high log, and the humble vanity is placed strategically under the opening in the rock.

  “When it rains, the bowl fills up,” he says before I can ask.

  He’s still standing near the doorway of the room with his hands hung low on his hips, like he’s afraid to step inside his own room with me here.

  “Anyway, I have to go hunting before Roxy gets so hungry she comes looking for me. Make yourself at home, relax, and I’ll be back in a while,” he says.

  I follow him back into the main room where he hurries to retrieve his knife, and then he hastily slings the bow and arrow over his shoulder before heading for the main entrance to leave. Worry starts to sets in and I tag along, half walking and half running to keep up with him. He grabs a spear he left stuck in the sand and goes around to the other side where the canoe is hiding in wait.

  “Dax?” I say in a panic, and he turns around. “Can I come with you?” The question comes out sounding a little more desperate than I intended, and I don’t know which one of us is more surprised. Hours ago, I would have given anything to be rid of him, and now I want to beg him to stay.

  He shakes his head. “Next time, I promise. No offense, but you’ll slow me down. Plus, your fluorescent shirt might scare off the animals and dra
w the attention of some hungry cannibals. Don’t worry though, you’re completely safe.”

  He retrieves the canoe, and then turns like he’d just had another thought.

  “And please don’t do anything stupid. Just stay here. After I’m done hunting, I’ll snoop around a little and see if I can learn anything about Preston and your friends. I promise.”

  I nod, watching him climb into the boat and start rowing across. The distance is short enough to swim, but would be a difficult task while holding a bow and arrow, not to mention a spear. He stashes the canoe on the other side and climbs the small wall of rocks. He dips under the green foliage, and then he’s gone.

  I head back to the castle, feeling a little disheartened. The wooden couch in the main room welcomes me and after sitting, I glance around. Behind the counter that juts out from the wall is a small door made from sticks woven together at the top and the bottom. Another door is underneath that one, and both are attached to the wall with vine that is strung through small loopholes in the lava rock. I walk over and open the top one to see inside. There’s a pocket in the rock, almost like a recessed cupboard, and sitting inside are dishes carved from wood. I have to squat down to peek in the other cupboard. I expect to find more wooden dishes but instead, I find a small passageway, so tiny that I’ll have to crawl to see where it leads.

  The tunnel is dark because my body blocks the light from the room behind me. I crawl a few feet and debate backing out the way I’ve come, but then some light appears ahead of me. In a matter of seconds, my head pokes through the opening, into what looks like a room full of pirate treasure. I stand up to brush myself off and then spin around slowly, gawking at the endless trinkets and miscellaneous items.

  This room is smaller than the other two but considerably brighter. The large gap above me lets in a lot of sunlight, highlighting the glimmering gold and silver on some of the objects. They are sorted into piles with similiar things grouped together. There are some books, random shoes and clothes, and lots of dishes—mismatched but unbroken, set together with jewelry and a few tools. Scattered all around them are various coins, and not all of them are American.

  A violin is propped against the wall next to a collection of empty glass bottles. Behind them, an empty champagne bottle tips to the right against a worn and faded buoy from a ship. The combination of the two items causes a lump to creep up in my throat as I remember the magical night Preston and I spent on his sailboat. The night we shared our first kiss. The memory is too painful. How did we spend our last moments together? I struggle to recall the events right before waking up on this island, but I still can’t remember what happened after I got on the plane. What if Preston is really gone? The ache in my chest is unbearable. I rush out of the treasure room and into Dax’s room where I collapse on his hammock bed and cry.

  Dax and his castle managed to take my mind off Preston until my stupid curiosity dragged it back up. And Dax isn’t here to make me forget that Preston is missing, even though I cling to a sliver of hope that he survived and will come looking for me. A slim possibility, but better than the alternative—accepting the fact that Preston, Kirk, and Anna are all dead and have left me to survive on my own.