Alejandro Cruz's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Two weeks later, Alejandro stood on the new boat's plank deck and watched his island grow from a green smudge into a shape with edges. Mather had built well. The flat bottom skimmed the chop. The single sail pulled hard in the morning wind. Alejandro had three days of food, his machete, rope, the hand drill, and two waterproof bags. He also had a problem he had not said out loud to the carpenter. He had never set foot on the island. He did not know where the fruit trees grew thickest. Three days of supplies could burn away fast in the wrong bay. He steered wide of the east shore. From town he had watched the water there churn white against the rocks. The current ran hard and wrong. He circled south instead and found a strip of sand between two black boulders. He drove the boat up, tied the bow line to a root, and stepped onto the island for the first time. The beach smelled of salt and rotting fruit. That was a good sign. He pushed into the trees with the machete low. Palms rose in tangles. Mango branches hung heavy over vines. But the grove was not one grove. He walked ten minutes and the trees thinned. He walked ten more and hit a wall of thorn. He turned back, sweating, and understood he could spend a full day just circling and learn nothing. He needed to see the island from above. He climbed the tallest palm he could grip and got maybe twelve feet before the trunk shook him off. He landed on his back in the sand. He lay there swearing at the sky. Something moved in the brush. A slim meerkat stood on its hind legs at the tree line, a dark band across its eyes like a mask. It stared at him a long moment, then turned and trotted inland along a track worn smooth by small feet. Alejandro stood up, dusted off, and followed. The track led to a clearing. In the middle stood the wreck of a wooden tower. Beams had snapped and slumped. The roof lay tilted on the ground. But four legs still held, and a broken ladder ran up one side. Someone had built it to watch from. Someone had been here before him. He climbed carefully. Halfway up, on a plank shielded from rain, he found what he wanted. Faded paint. A crude map of the island, with clusters of small circles inked in three places. Fruit. Marked. Counted by a stranger's hand years ago. Alejandro grinned and traced the nearest cluster with his thumb. He climbed down fast. He had his bearings now. But the map raised a colder question he could not put down. If someone had already worked this island, why had they left? And were they coming back?