Marsh Island

by Sonya Bates

  Jake tried to stand but stumbled over something lying near his feet. It was the box they’d dug up. He must have dropped it when he tripped over the log. Well, he’d brought it this far, he wasn’t going to lose it now. He picked it up, tucked it under his arm and looked around to get his bearings, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

  Which way should they go? Back to the stream? Just thinking about it made Jake’s insides turn to mush. It might not have been Alfred Marsh in those bushes, but something had been there. He would have to find another way back.

  “Let’s go,” Tommy whined.

  “I’m thinking,” Jake said.

  He looked around for something to climb. If he could get up high enough to see the tent, they could find a different way back to the campsite. That big pine tree at the top of the hill might work, he thought. But he didn’t get very far. He’d only taken a couple of steps when he spotted something strange in the bushes. He moved closer and peered through the trees.

  “Come on.” Tommy tugged at Jake’s shirt again.

  “Just a minute,” said Jake. “There’s something in there.” He took another couple of steps and shoved a branch out of the way to get a better look. His breath came out in a long low whistle.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  OLD MAN MARSH

  Jake pushed his way through the bushes into a clearing. It wasn’t very big, but it was large enough to provide shelter for a small round hut.

  “Wow,” said Jake. “I bet this was Alfred Marsh’s hideout.”

  The hut was made of sticks and mud and leaned a little to one side. Jake moved closer.

  “Let’s go,” Tommy said, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

  Jake ignored him. “No wonder no one ever found Alfred Marsh. You’d never know this place was here.” The ground crunched under Jake’s feet. Clumps of clay and ground shells lay scattered in front of the door.

  I’ve been shipwrecked on a deserted island, he thought. I built this hut with my bare hands. I live on nuts and berries and creek water. No one knows where I am. No one will ever find me. A bird whistled, and he glanced back into the trees.

  “Don’t go in there, Jake,” said Tommy.

  The walls of the hut were cracked and brittle. Jake reached out and the mud crumbled under his fingers. How long has this been here? he wondered.

  “I’m just having a look,” Jake said. The door was woven together with vines. It hung crookedly over the opening. Jake pulled it open gently, afraid it might fall off the doorframe.

  The first thing Jake noticed inside the hut was the smell. He wrinkled his nose. The stale and musty air smelled a bit like smoke. How long since anyone has been here, he wondered. Am I the first person to enter since—? The door fell closed behind him with a loud CLUNK, and Jake jumped.

  He laughed at himself, but the butterflies in his stomach wouldn’t go away. It was cold and dark. Little slices of light filtered through the cracks in the walls. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a pile of gray ashes on the dirt floor. Was this from Alfred Marsh’s last fire? he wondered. His scalp started to prickle.

  “Come on, Jake!” called Tommy. “This place is giving me the creeps!”

  Jake moved farther into the hut and squatted next to the ashes. What would it have been like to live here, alone in the woods? No tv, no videogames, no telephone, not even a toilet. Hunting for food, hauling water from the stream. Who would want to live like that?

  Jake shivered. Alfred Marsh, that’s who. Alfred Marsh, who had once been a rich and successful man. Alfred Marsh, who had come to this island and never been seen again. A cold draft blew across the back of Jake’s neck. He swung around. Had something moved? He heard a scream.

  Jake’s blood turned cold. He jumped up and dashed out the door. “Tommy!”

  Tommy was nowhere in sight.

  “Tommy!” Jake called again.

  No answer.

  Jake shoved his way through the bushes and back to the pile of leaves he’d been sitting on before. He had told Tommy that he wasn’t scared. He had yelled at him and called him a wuss. Well, he was scared now.

  “Tommy! Where are you?”

  “Jake!” Tommy’s voice was faint.

  Jake barreled through the trees toward it. This was all his fault. Tommy had wanted to go back to the tent, hadn’t even wanted to go exploring. But no, Jake had to go snooping around in the hut. If anything happened to him—

  “I’m coming, Tommy!” he yelled.

  “Help!” The voice was louder. More like a scream than a yell.

  Jake ran faster. His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe. He crashed through a bush and fell into a knee-deep pool of water. The stream! In a flash, the cold creepy feeling washed over him again. It was the same feeling he’d had when they dug up the box downstream. He had to find his brother. He plowed through the water and scrambled up the bank.

  “Tommy!”

  “Jake! Hurry!”

  “TOM—” Jake stopped so suddenly he almost swallowed his tongue. He felt like an icicle had stabbed him in the heart.

  There was Tommy, backed up against a rock. His face was white, and his eyes were bugged out of his head. But it wasn’t the look on Tommy’s face that sent a chill through Jake’s bones. It was the shadowy figure in the trees, back hunched, arms stretched toward Tommy.

  Chapter Five

  SPOOKED!

  “Leave him alone!” Jake shouted.

  The man whirled around. Cold hard eyes bore into him.

  Jake froze. Only the hammering in his chest told him that he hadn’t turned to ice. Run! his mind screamed. But Tommy was trapped against the rocks. He couldn’t leave him.

  The man took a step forward. He had a dirty gray beard and horrible black teeth.

  I am a warrior, Jake told himself. I am strong and brave. I can protect us.

  Suddenly he remembered the box clutched under his arm. He hurled it at the man’s head.

  “Run, Tommy!” he screamed.

  Tommy sped past, and Jake took off after him. There was a shout, and the sound of heavy footfalls.

  Jake ran faster than he’d ever run in his life. His legs pumped like the pistons in a monster truck. “Faster, Tommy!” he urged.

  The ground was rough and uneven. Jake stumbled as the ground dipped beneath him. Up ahead, Tommy slipped and fell. Jake thumped down on top of his brother and then scrambled up, pulling Tommy with him. There was a crash behind them.

  “Quick! To the top of that hill!” yelled Jake.

  They clambered up the hill, half running, half stumbling. Jake glanced back, expecting to see the dirty scowling face of the stranger. Was it Alfred Marsh? It couldn’t be, his mind told him. But something inside him told him it was.

  They sprinted the last few meters to the top, gasping for air.

  “We have to find Dad,” Jake said. “Look for the tent.” His eyes combed the hillside. The tent was down there somewhere, hidden in the trees. They had to find it. It was their only hope.

  “I don’t see it anywhere,” cried Tommy.

  “Keep looking!” snapped Jake.

  He could feel Tommy close beside him, his body tense. Jake was feeling panicked too. Where was the tent? He heard a shout. The voice was closer than he’d expected.

  “It’s got to be here. It’s got to,” he mumbled.

  He spotted a small patch of blue.

  “There it is!” he shouted. “Come on!” He grabbed Tommy’s hand and sped down the slope, ducking around trees and jumping over rocks. Branches grabbed at his shirt and scratched his arms, but he didn’t care.

  They were almost at the campsite. Dad would be there, and he’d take them home, off this island and away from whatever was haunting it. Home, where Mom and Grandpa were puttering around in the garden, waiting for them to return, eager to hear about their adventures. Home, where exploring meant a trip downtown on the bus, where he could buy a drink and a hot dog at the corner store. Home
, where Alfred Marsh stayed in stories where he belonged.

  Jake could see the tent.

  “There it is, Tommy! Hurry.”

  They sprinted toward the campsite.

  “Dad! Dad!” they called out.

  Jake burst out of the bushes, tripped and fell to the ground. Tommy tumbled down on top of him.

  “Jake! Tommy!” Dad helped them to sit up. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried.”

  “Dad, you’ll never believe it, we—,” said Jake.

  “There’s ghosts here, real live ghosts and—,” said Tommy

  Both boys stopped. A shadow moved on the side of the tent.

  “Beg your pardon,” said a deep voice.

  Jake’s head jerked up. He saw trousers smeared with mud, a dirty gray beard and dark beady eyes

  Chapter Six

  GHOST?

  Jake couldn’t believe it. They had escaped from the stranger and raced to the campsite. How could the man have made it to the tent so fast? Jake leaped to his feet. “Leave us alone!” he shouted. “Go away! We haven’t done anything to you!”

  “Jake!” Dad put his hand on Jake’s shoulder.

  “But Dad, it’s—it’s—”

  “Chris Mumford,” said the man. He stepped forward and tipped his hat. “Marsh Island Historical Society.”

  Dad shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “You mean—you’re not Alfred Marsh?” asked Jake.

  Dad stared at him. “Jake!”

  “Let me explain,” said the man, hiding a smile behind his hand. “I came across the boys up at Marsh’s Hut. I do a bit of work up there, preserving the historical site. Think I gave them a fright. The young fella here took off so fast I was afraid he’d get lost in the woods. Had to follow him for a bit, till his older brother here found him.” He touched the side of his forehead where an angry red lump was forming. “Didn’t mean to scare them.”

  Jake took a closer look at Chris Mumford. He was wearing khaki cargo pants and hiking boots. His beard was gray but flecked with black and neatly trimmed. There was a backpack slung over his shoulder. He smiled at Jake. Mumford’s teeth were straight and white. Jake squeezed his eyes shut. How could he have ever thought this was Alfred Marsh?

  “Ha!” Jake laughed a fake laugh. “You didn’t scare us, not really. We were only fooling. Right, Tommy?”

  Tommy didn’t say anything.

  “Right, Tommy?” Jake gave him a nudge.

  “Oh. Yeah,” said Tommy, his voice almost a whisper. “Only fooling.” He took a step away from the stranger, moving closer to his father.

  Chris Mumford smiled. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I just wanted to make sure you got back okay.”

  Jake nodded. He felt about as dumb as a slug with a head cold. Alfred Marsh! What had he been thinking?

  “We’re grateful for your concern,” said Dad, putting an arm around Tommy. “They’re fine. Nothing a bath and a few Band-Aids won’t cure.”

  “Good, good.” Chris Mumford smiled at Jake again and his eyes twinkled. “Oh, and by the way...” He took off his backpack and rummaged around inside. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  Jake stared at the dirty wooden box. He remembered the cold, clammy feel of it in his hands, and their race through the woods. He swallowed.

  “Uh, yeah, sort of.” He looked at Tommy. “We dug it up down by the stream.” It must have been Chris Mumford we heard in the bushes, he thought. He was probably trying to stop us from digging up the box. “Um—I’m sorry about your head.” He gestured toward the lump on Chris Mumford’s forehead. “And about digging up the box. We didn’t know about the Historical Society. We’ll put it back, just like it was.”

  “Oh no you won’t,” said Chris Mumford.

  Jake looked up. The man was smiling!

  “We’ve been looking for Marsh’s treasure for years. In fact, there’s a reward for its recovery.”

  Jake couldn’t believe his ears. “A reward?”

  “Yep, five hundred dollars. And if this box contains what I think it does, that reward is all yours.”

  Jake grinned. I could be a hero, he thought. Discoverer of the lost treasure of Alfred Marsh. I’ll be famous.

  Chris Mumford set the box on the ground and knelt in front of it.

  “I’ve been waiting thirty years to see what’s in this box. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  Carefully, he pried the lid off the box with his pocketknife, taking care not to damage the wood. Jake held his breath as they all leaned forward to see what was inside.

  At first he couldn’t see anything. Chris Mumford reached his hand in and drew out a folded piece of paper and a wad of dirty cloth. Unwrapping the cloth, he pulled out a small stone. He whistled softly.

  “Do you know what this is?” he said, holding it up.

  Jake squinted at it. The stone was about the size of a golf ball, dull and gray, with little red patches all over it. His shoulders drooped. He’d been imagining gold or diamonds or stacks of money or something. Not a hunk of stone that looked as if it belonged in Tommy’s rock collection.

  Jake shrugged. “It’s just a rock,” he said.

  Chris Mumford shook his head. “If I’m not mistaken, this is no ordinary rock.” He unfolded the paper. “Yes, just as I thought.”

  “What?” said Jake. “What is it?”

  Chris Mumford held the stone up high. As the sunlight struck it, the red patches seemed to glow with an inner light. “This,” he said, “is the famous Marsh Ruby.”

  “Marsh Ruby?” said Jake. “As in Alfred Marsh?”

  “It is the same family, yes,” said Chris Mumford. “Alfred’s great-great-great-grandfather, Charles Marsh, discovered this stone in 1754. It was a major discovery of the time. But the stone disappeared a year later and was never seen again. Everyone thought it had been stolen. The family must have been hiding it all this time.” He shook his head. “There was a rumor Alfred Marsh brought a family treasure out here to the island. To protect it from the debt collectors. I never imagined it was the Marsh Ruby.”

  Jake looked at the stone more closely. “What’s so special about it? It doesn’t look like it’s worth very much.”

  “It just needs some polishing,” said Chris Mumford, wrapping it in the cloth and putting it back in the box. “Believe me, this stone is worth plenty. And this letter proves it’s genuine.” He gestured to the yellowed paper in his hand before placing it carefully next to the stone.

  Closing the lid of the box, he tucked it under his arm and slung his pack over his shoulder. “This is a major find for the Historical Society. Thank you, boys. I’ll come back with your reward check tomorrow, and you can show me where the site is.” He shook hands with Jake’s dad again and turned to go.

  “Wait!” Jake called. “You don’t need us to show you where we dug up the box. You saw us at the stream...didn’t you?”

  Chris Mumford looked at him in confusion.

  “We heard someone in the bushes. That was you, right?” Jake said.

  Chris Mumford shook his head. “No, I’ve been up at the hut all morning. It was probably just a bird.”

  “Yeah, a bird,” said Jake, glancing at Tommy. He remembered the dark shadow behind the tree and the chill on his neck. Whatever it was, it definitely hadn’t been a bird.

  Chris Mumford winked at him. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to think they’ve seen Alfred Marsh on this island. But I’ve been working for the Historical Society for a long time. There’s nothing spookier here than a few bats in Smuggler’s Cave.”

  “Smuggler’s Cave?” said Jake. “What’s that?”

  The man smiled and scratched his beard. “Well, that’s a story for another day,” he said. He raised a hand in salute and disappeared into the trees.

  “Sounds like you two have had quite a morning,” said Dad, clamping a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Do you still think camping is dull?”

  Jake peered down the trail after
Chris Mumford. The woods were quiet. The man had left as silently as he’d come.

  “No, this island is definitely not dull,” Jake said. He looked over at Tommy and winked. “But, if you don’t mind, I think we’ll hang out around camp for a while.”

  Tommy’s face broke into a grin. He tried to wink back, but he looked like an orangutan with a toothache.

  Jake laughed. Brothers could be such a pain. He threw his arm around Tommy and ruffled his hair. “How about we roast some marshmallows?” he said.

  Sonya Spreen Bates is a Canadian writer living in Australia. As a child, when she wasn’t riding horses, she loved to read and daydream and scribble down short stories that she never dared to show anyone. As well as being a writer and a mom, Sonya also works with children with communication disorders. Marsh Island is her first book with Orca.