Carrie Vaughn - Steel

She could just keep walking, never go back. She could turn into a beach bum and never make another decision about what to do next. The idea sounded enticing.

When her bare toe scuffed against something hard in the sand, she stopped. It was too heavy to be a shell. Maybe a stone. She knelt and brushed the sand away, feeling for the object her foot had discovered.

It was a slender length of rusted steel, flat, about six inches long and a half an inch wide. It tapered to a point at one end and was jagged at the other, as if it had broken. A thousand people would step over it and think it trash, but not her.

This was the tip of a rapier, the solid shape of a real sword. The original source of the modern, flimsy weapons she fenced with. Every fencing book she’d ever seen had a picture of rapiers like that, to show where the sport came from. This tip must have broken off and might have been rusting in the ocean for centuries, waves pushing it along the sandy bottom until it washed up here. Dark brown flakes came off in her hand. The edges were dull enough that she ran her finger along them without harm—though her skin tingled when she thought about what the piece of steel represented. Was it a pirate sword? Had it broken in a duel? In a battle? Maybe it had fallen from a ship. Looking around, she studied the sand as if the rest of the sword might be lying nearby. She imagined a long, powerful rapier with an intricate swept hilt, like something from a museum or a movie. An Errol Flynn movie. But that was stupid. The tip had broken, and it would have washed away from the rest of the sword a long time ago.

Maybe there was a sword in a museum somewhere, missing six inches. Maybe she should tell someone about this. Maybe the pirate museum in Nassau would want it.

But it was just a broken, rusted piece of steel. What were the odds that someone strolling along the beach would find it and recognize what it was, like she did? No one would want it, really. No one would miss it.

She didn’t know how far she’d come or how long she’d been walking, but she’d left behind signs of civilization. She couldn’t see any roads or hear any vehicles. No boats were visible out on the water, and there weren’t any people. Just blowing palm trees, a strip of sand, and the endless waves. She might as well have been on a desert island. Which made her feel strangely peaceful. Being the only person on an island, looking out at the ocean? Maybe you’d go crazy. Or you might think that you’d finally found some peace and quiet. No pressure on a desert island.

At least walking along the shore she couldn’t possibly get lost. She turned around and started back. Before she came within sight of the first people and buildings, she slipped the broken rapier tip in her pocket.

It was weird; she felt like she had something she shouldn’t, as if she’d stolen something. But she’d found it; she hadn’t taken it from anyone. Maybe she blushed because she liked knowing something no one else did. She liked having a little bit of secret treasure.

Her mother was very into the idea of togetherness. “Jill, you’re going to go away to college in a couple of years. Who knows what’ll happen after that? This may be our last big family trip together and I want us to spend as much time together as we can.”

No pressure or anything.

The day after the beach, Mom planned a boat tour.

“What kind of boat?” Tom kept asking as Mom herded them all into the rental car.

“Will it have sails?” Mandy said.

“Or cannons?” Tom asked.

“No cannons,” their mother said. “It’s just a tour boat; it goes up and down the coast and that’s it.”

Jill’s silence was a contrast to the laughing and joking of the others. She wasn’t encouraged when they arrived at the dock and a banner hanging on the side of the office announced: PARTY CRUISES. The sign showed lots of cartoon pictures of parrots with eye patches holding margaritas in clawed feet. Scratchy reggae music played through speakers. Now Jill was going to be trapped on a boat full of people having more fun than she was.

She hung back and kept her hands in the pockets of her clamdiggers, fingers brushing the rusted piece of rapier she’d brought with her. Last night, she’d put it on the windowsill next to her bed. She didn’t want to leave it alone, as if it might start speaking, whispering cryptic and important secrets, and she had to be there to hear it. Maybe it would be a good luck charm.

The tour company did, in fact, have sailing ships with cannons—fake ships that ran on motors, with fake masts and sails and plastic cannons. The boat for their tour was more mundane, thirty or forty feet long with a cabin toward the front, a clean white hull, a big motor, and plastic cushions on the seats around the outside. Very modern. The oily smell of diesel overcame the salt smell of the ocean.

A dozen people had signed up for the tour, and a dockhand guided them onto the back of the boat—and he yelled at Tom and Mandy to stop running. Jill found a place to sit toward the back and looked over the water through her sunglasses.

Dad picked a place next to her on the boat. The first day on the island he’d forgotten to use sunscreen and had a sunburn that was already peeling across his nose and cheeks. That didn’t keep him from smiling. Today, he had on a sheen of sunscreen and was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shaded his whole face. He also wore a plaid cotton shirt and looked every bit the tourist.

“This ought to be fun,” he said, striking up a conversation.

“Yeah,” Jill said, noncommittal, looking out at the water.

“Mom says you’re still upset about the tournament.” He’d just glanced at her mother, who must have put him up to this. Jill could almost hear her saying, You try talking to her ….

Jill shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it. It was so close.”

“There’ll be other tournaments.”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

“Ah. Your mom and I—I hope you’ve never felt like we’ve pushed you, or put too much pressure on you.”

“No,” Jill said, shaking her head. “No, this is all me. It’s just—I’m disappointed, and everyone else must be disappointed. I was so close.”

“I guess if I said, ‘Winning isn’t everything,’ you’d give me one of those looks, wouldn’t you?” he said.

And she gave him one of those looks, but tried to turn it into a smile. She probably just ended up looking confused.

“Well,” he said. “Try to forget about it for a little while, at least. Try to enjoy yourself.”

Mandy and Tom were now leaning over the side, trying to reach into the water, and Mom was pulling them back to their seats. Jill was suddenly jealous of them.

After twenty more minutes of waiting for people to settle, the boat motored away from the dock, chugging and trailing wisps of black smoke, which seemed ironic, considering they were supposed to be enjoying the pristine scenery. Tom and Mandy may actually have been right—sails and wind seemed more suited to boating in a tropical paradise.

Once on the water, the waves hardly rocked them. They traveled smoothly while the tour guide told them stories.

The guide was a beach bum–looking guy, skin tanned like leather, white hair rough and windblown, stubble for a beard. He looked ancient but seemed younger in the quickness of his movements and the brightness in his voice. Sitting near the cabin, the PA microphone in one hand, he gestured widely, pointing vaguely toward the island or out to sea as he talked about the old weathered forts overlooking the harbor, naval battles between the British and Spanish, and what pirates did to capture merchant ships. More pirate stories. Legends such as Blackbeard had found a haven here. They lived reckless, lawless lives. The words condemned the pirate culture, but the guide had a gleam in his eye.