Lost

by John Wilson

“Talkative, aren’t they?” I say. Annabel just grunts.

  We spend the morning puttering on the beach and kayaking along the shore. The ground is made up of small, sharp rocks that are uncomfortable to walk on. They’re all weathered to the same dull gray color. The main vegetation is round, dark spots of lichen on the rocks and struggling patches of grass here and there. Small areas of startlingly green moss thrive in sheltered hollows and behind bigger rocks.

  The wind has picked up by the time we reach the far side of the island. We settle behind a rock and break open the tea and sandwiches. Annabel has been oddly quiet all morning.

  “Not a lot of plant life for Rob and Terry to collect,” I say, trying to make conversation. We’ve seen the pair in the distance, wandering along the low, rocky ridges inland or crouching down examining things.

  “I’ve been thinking about the Crype Foundation,” Annabel says thoughtfully. “Did you notice that Crype is an anagram of Percy?”

  “Humphrey Battleford’s dog?” My heart sinks as Annabel’s paranoia begins to cloud an otherwise great day. “That’s stretching it. Didn’t you say it also meant something in marketing and is a surname? Isn’t one of those more likely?”

  “Maybe,” Annabel says, “but there’s something else. Do you remember the slogans Enigma Tours uses in their brochures?”

  “Vaguely,” I say. “They didn’t make much sense. Isn’t one about traveling in a ship in the desert?”

  “The first one,” Annabel says. “Travel on a ship of the desert. Camels are called ships of the desert.”

  “That makes more sense,” I say, wondering where this conversation is going. “One was about seeing the dawn, which we’ve done most mornings.”

  Annabel doesn’t crack a smile. “The first light of dawn. And there was one about the sites of ancient wars, but I can’t remember the last one.”

  “Crossing unreal rivers,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Annabel says. “Cross unimagined rivers. A ship of the desert’s a camel. The first light of dawn would be… a beam, a shaft, a ray? Sites of ancient conflicts could be castles, battlefields or wars. Cross a river might be wade or ford. Camel. Beam. Castle. Wade.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, wondering if my friend is suddenly losing her marbles. “This isn’t one of your cryptic crosswords to solve.”

  “No,” Annabel agrees, “but I think it might be a game. What do you think of when you think of camels?”

  “I don’t know. Humps,” I suggest.

  “That’s it!” Annabel jumps to her feet, and I become convinced she’s crazy. She ticks off her fingers. “Hump. Ray. Battle. Ford.”

  I stare at Annabel and remember the familiar face in the helicopter. “You’re right! It was Battleford in the helicopter! But it can’t be. Can it?”

  “It explains a lot. He has the money to buy a travel company. The Arctic Spray might even be the yacht Battleford had off Warrnambool. We never got a good look at it. It also explains why Rob and Terry lied about their flight to Sachs Harbour and know nothing about krill. They’re Battleford’s men.”

  “What about Billy and Martha?”

  “I think they’re camouflage. It’s you and me he wants up here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but he went to a lot of effort to lure us here.” Annabel’s brow furrows the way it does when she’s thinking hard. She turns around slowly and gasps. I jump up, expecting there to be a polar bear charging toward us, but Annabel’s staring out to sea. “There it is,” she says, pointing.

  I follow her arm and let out a gasp of my own. “The island in Jim’s story.”

  “It has to be. A small island with sandy beaches, a ridge running along the center and three pillars of stone. It’s exactly as he described.”

  “They’re not really pillars,” I point out. “More like large rocks.”

  “True,” Annabel agrees, “but it might be a poor translation, or maybe they were bigger 170 years ago. What else can it be?”

  “You’re right. What are we going to do? The Zodiac won’t be back until evening, and we’ll probably leave early tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got the kayaks,” Annabel says.

  “It’s a long way over,” I say, staring at the choppy, gray water between us and the island.

  “It’s not that far,” Annabel says, “and the kayaks are stable. It wouldn’t take us long to paddle over there.”

  “What if the wind picks up more?” I look to the north, where dark clouds are building. “We won’t be able to get back.”

  “The Zodiac will come looking for us, and we won’t be far away. They’ll see us from here. This is our only chance, and you’re right about the wind. We should hurry.” Annabel strides down to the kayaks. Wondering how my worry about getting stranded has turned into a reason to go over there as quickly as possible, I follow.

  At first the paddling is easy, because we’re sheltered by the island. I look back to see Terry and Rob running down to the shore, waving their arms frantically. They’re shouting something, but I can’t make out the words. “Looks like they wanted to come with us,” I shout over to Annabel.

  “At least they’ll know where we are if we get stuck,” she shouts back.

  Halfway over, the water gets choppier, and the kayaks are tossed about. I struggle to keep my kayak heading into the waves. The water is bitterly cold when it splashes up on my hands and face. Fortunately, my jacket is waterproof.

  After about an hour of paddling, we reach the island. My arms ache, and it feels good to get out and stretch.

  Once the kayaks are safely above the tide line, I reach down and grab a handful of sand. It’s coarse and dry and runs freely through my fingers. “We could be on a beach in Hawaii,” I say.

  “Not enough palm trees,” Annabel responds, looking around at the moss, lichen and patchy grass.

  I look back at the island we’ve left. It looks closer than it seemed when I was paddling. There’s no sign of Rob or Terry.

  From the corner of my eye I catch a movement, and I look north to the open water past the island. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m seeing. It’s a sleek, expensive three-masted motor yacht, and it’s cruising away from us. “The Arctic Spray’s abandoning us,” I manage to choke out.

  Chapter Ten

  “There must be a reason,” Annabel says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Battleford’s spent a lot of money and effort to get us here. He wouldn’t abandon us.”

  “Okay,” I say, “but you still haven’t answered my question. Why is the Arctic Spray sailing north?”

  “I don’t know,” Annabel admits. “Perhaps another ship is in trouble, and they got a distress call. They have no way of letting us know. Maybe they contacted Rob and Terry, and that’s what they were trying to tell us when we set off. Anyway, we can’t paddle after the Arctic Spray, so we might as well check this island out.”

  Unable to think of anything better to do, I trudge after Annabel. We head for the highest point in the middle of the island. The ground rises and dips like a series of low waves. The crests of the waves are sandy and support more plants. The troughs of the waves are stony and bare. I plod over the second trough, trying to get my head around the Arctic Spray sailing away, and almost step on something whiter than the surrounding rock.

  As I try to avoid stepping on what I saw, my foot turns, twisting my ankle. A needle of pain shoots through my foot. I cry out and sit down abruptly.

  “What’s the matter?” Annabel asks, hurrying back to my side.

  “I twisted my—” I stop. I’m staring at the thing I injured myself trying to avoid. It’s about two inches long and fatter at both ends than in the middle. I point speechlessly at it.

  Annabel crouches down and peers at the object. “It’s a bone,” she says softly.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It must be from one of Franklin’s men.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Annabel says. “It could be an anima
l bone—a bear, a musk ox, a walrus. And even if it is a human bone, it could be Inuit.”

  “I suppose so,” I say, disappointed by Annabel’s rationality. “But it could be from one of Franklin’s men. I hate to think I twisted my ankle avoiding a walrus bone.”

  “It could be,” she agrees. “How is your ankle?”

  With Annabel’s help, I stand. “It’s sore,” I say, taking a couple of hobbling steps, “but I think it’ll be okay if we take it slow.”

  Moving at a slower pace, we can examine the ground more carefully. At first all I see are gray rocks covered in patches of moss and lichen. Gradually, I begin to see more. In one trough, stones are arranged in a circle.

  “It’s a tent ring,” Annabel explains. “The Inuit placed stones around the bases of their summer tents. When they moved on, they took the tents but left the rings.”

  “How old is it?”

  “No way to tell. It could have been here for hundreds of years.”

  We find a few more scattered bones, which Annabel declares are “probably walrus.” She’s probably right, but I really want the bones to be from Franklin’s men.

  Close to the summit, I spot a pale gray pebble with a curved edge. I bend for a closer look, and my heart beats faster. “I’ve found something,” I say.

  Annabel joins me, and we stare at the broken bowl of a clay pipe. “This must be from one of Franklin’s men,” I say triumphantly.

  “Could be” is all I get from Annabel.

  “Unless your walrus smoked a pipe,” I say, annoyed again at Annabel’s negativity, “it must be.”

  “Clay pipes were very common 170 years ago. It might be from one of the search expeditions.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say, standing up. “You don’t know everything.” I know I’m being unfair, but my anger’s getting the better of me. “All you want to do is show off how smart you are. This is the moment I’ve dreamed of ever since the first email. And now we’re here, on a possibly unexplored island. The answer to the Franklin mystery might be underneath the next rock. I won’t let you spoil that.”

  I stomp my way up the final gradual slope and onto the top of the ridge. The dark clouds overhead throw everything into shadow and paint the world gray. The wind’s getting colder, and my ankle hurts. I slump down beside a pile of stones as the first snowflakes drift past.

  Annabel putters down below, and I gradually calm down. I know it’s dumb to hope that we would step ashore and stumble upon the answer to the Franklin mystery. If it were that obvious, it would have been found by now. I’m partly angry at my own unrealistic hopes.

  I haul off my daypack and open the flask of tea. The snowfall is getting heavier, and the warm liquid tastes wonderful. I instantly feel better and rummage in the pack for a sandwich. Annabel joins me as I take the first bite.

  “Sorry,” I say through a mouthful of ham and cheese. “I’m not angry at you. I’m annoyed at myself. I expected too much. And it’s starting to snow.”

  When Annabel doesn’t say anything, I look up. Is she angry at my outburst? She’s staring, open-mouthed, past my left shoulder. “What?” I ask, twisting around.

  Despite my sore ankle, I leap to my feet, heart pounding. In the midst of the pile of stones not two feet from where I’m standing, weathered with age and partly covered with moss, is a grinning human skull.

  Chapter Eleven

  The snow is falling steadily as we stand and stare at the skull. This is one of Franklin’s men. There is no doubt. This person suffered horribly to reach a shallow grave on this lonely hilltop. He watched his companions die one by one. As his own terrible end approached, did he think of the home and loved ones he would never see again?

  “I wonder who he was,” I say quietly.

  Annabel shrugs. “At least his comrades cared and were fit enough to give him a burial.”

  We step forward and crouch beside the skull. There are other bones poking out between the disturbed stones of the grave. The temptation to dig down to see what’s underneath is almost overwhelming, but we resist. Annabel points to a small, ragged patch of faded blue material. “A piece of his uniform,” she says.

  At last we stand up, stretch and drag our eyes away from the grave. The snow is easing, and the sky is brighter to the north. The three pillars we saw are little more than collapsed cairns of larger stones. “Do you think Franklin’s men built these cairns?” I ask.

  “No idea,” Annabel says. “It’s possible. It looks like they buried at least one sailor up here. Perhaps the cairns were supposed to mark that.”

  “Do you think there might be messages under them?”

  “Maybe,” Annabel says, “although Arctic explorers often buried important messages beside a cairn, not under it. Cairns were markers used as navigation beacons.” She stops talking and tilts her head to stare at the cairns. “That’s odd,” she says.

  “What is?” I can’t see anything unusual.

  “When we looked at the cairns from the other island, they looked as if they were in a straight line, but they’re not. The middle one’s farther back, so they form a triangle.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Annabel says. “Maybe nothing. Go and stand halfway between those two cairns,” she instructs.

  I do as Annabel tells me to, not minding that she’s being smart. This is suddenly the most exciting day of my life. Annabel stands halfway between two other cairns. “This would work better if there were three of us,” she says, “but we’ll try it anyway. Walk slowly toward the cairn across the triangle from you.”

  Again I do as I’m told. Annabel does the same from where she’s standing. We meet in the middle. “Now what do we do?” I ask.

  Annabel is already examining the sandy ground at our feet. “Look around for anything unusual.”

  I kneel and begin scratching in the sand. I find quite a collection of stones before my fingers scrape against something flat. I have a moment of excitement before I push enough sand aside to see that it’s only another stone. It’s bigger and flatter than the others, about as long as my foot on each side.

  I’m about to cover it over when I notice a mark on the surface. I sweep the rest of the sand off and see that it’s an arrow. I can’t imagine why anyone would scratch an arrow on a rock, so I call Annabel over. When I point out the arrow, she howls and grabs me around the neck so tightly that I think it’s a murder attempt.

  “Do you know what this is?” she asks excitedly when she lets me go.

  “Graffiti?” I guess.

  “The British Navy marked all their possessions with a broad arrow.”

  “Why would they want to own a rock?” I blurt out before I realize the importance of what she’s said. “Someone in the British Navy scratched this arrow.” “Yes. Someone scratched this as a sign.”

  “That they hid something important here?” I shout, getting caught up in Annabel’s excitement.

  “I think so.”

  “Can we lift the rock?” I ask, knowing Annabel’s rule against touching any archaeological remains.

  She stares for an age at the rock and then at me. “We could take a quick look,” she says. “If we find nothing, there’s no harm done. If we find something, we can replace the rock and tell someone what we’ve found.”

  Before Annabel can change her mind, I reach down, shove my fingers under the edge of the rock and lift gently. Nothing happens. I work my fingers as far under the edge as I possibly can and heave. The rock flips over, spraying sand on Annabel, and I fall backward. By the time I sit up, Annabel almost has her head in the hole. She’s carefully scooping out sand.

  There is a black package in the hole. It’s rectangular, about the size and shape of a thick book. “What is it?” I ask.

  “I think it’s documents,” Annabel says in an awestruck whisper.

  My heart sinks. “They’re useless,” I say. “If they were once documents, they’re just a solid black lump now. No one will ever be able to read
them.”

  “You’re not looking at the actual paper,” Annabel says, her hand hovering over the hole. “What you’re seeing is oilcloth. It’s made from a ship’s sail, rubbed with oil to make it waterproof. The documents, if there are any, will be wrapped inside.”

  “So they might be dry and readable?” My heart rate is speeding up again.

  “They might,” Annabel says. “They’ve been wrapped carefully.”

  For a moment, I think Annabel’s going to lift the package out and open it. I wish she would, but she sighs and pulls her hand back. “We could destroy something invaluable.”

  That’s when we hear a distant thumping sound. The snow has completely stopped now, and the clouds have moved on. I scan the horizon until I see a growing red dot in the sky. “The helicopter’s coming back,” I say.

  “You’re certain you saw Battleford in the helicopter?” Annabel asks.

  “I wasn’t until you worked out the clues,” I say. “Now I’m sure.”

  The helicopter is heading for the island we landed on that morning, where two figures are waving wildly on the beach.

  “That must be Rob and Terry,” Annabel says. “Battleford’s going to pick them up.”

  “And they’ll tell him we’re over here,” I say. We both look at the package in the hole.

  “We can’t let Battleford find this,” Annabel says. “If he gets his hands on it, it will end up in his collection and no one will ever know the answer to the Franklin mystery.”

  We watch as the helicopter lands and Rob and Terry climb aboard.

  “If the helicopter lands here,” Annabel says, her voice suddenly businesslike, “they’ll have to use that flat area at the end of the ridge. You go down and keep Battleford away from here as long as possible. I’m going try and make everything look undisturbed.”

  “Okay,” I say and head along the ridge. I wish we hadn’t moved the flat stone. It’s going to be really hard for Annabel to make it look like no one has disturbed the ground for 170 years. I feel like kicking myself. Our curiosity may have given Humphrey Battleford the most valuable Franklin relic ever.