Summer of Lost and Found (9 page)

All this talk was starting to depress me, big-time, and I couldn't think of a thing to say to make Ambrose feel better, despite my similar situation. I leaned toward him, wanting to put my palm on his shoulder in a friendly squeeze. But as my outstretched arm moved closer to him, he shifted and bent to pick a blade of grass. I dropped my arm, both surprised that I'd had the guts to, literally, reach out and also kind of relieved that I hadn't succeeded. I was too shy to even stand next to most of the boys at my school, and they were a lot less cute than Ambrose, with his curls and bright eyes. I definitely had to get a picture of him, so Jade would believe me when I went back home and told her about his cuteness.

Clearing my throat, I said, “I'm going to look around.” Slipping off my mucky flip-flops, I left them and my phone in the dry sand and scooted past Ambrose to the water's edge. I glanced down the coastline and, a few hundred feet away, saw a bunch of pilings and a sunken dock sticking out into the sound. A small, sturdy rowboat was at the end of it, tied up with a mossy green rope.
So I guess people do leave on boats around here
. I waded to the dock, my toes curling into the pebbly sand to keep my balance. “Ouch!” I cried, my big toe stubbing on something round and hard sticking up from the soft floor of the sound. I pulled my leg out of the water and rested my foot against my bent knee, kind of like a flamingo, to examine it. No fresh cuts, at least. My toe throbbed.

“What happened?” Ambrose asked, standing behind me. He'd moved so quietly through the water, creating barely a ripple, that I hadn't heard him.

“I stubbed my toe on something buried in the sand.” I lowered my foot back into the water. Then I bent down and felt around the muck, trying to find whatever had tripped me up. My fingers trailed through the silt and stone, searching until I brushed something oddly shaped, hard and heavy. I yanked at it, but it didn't budge. “Whatever I stepped on is stuck.” It didn't feel like something natural, like a rock. I wondered . . . Could it be a clue?

The water was shallow enough that I could kneel down and the hem of my shorts wouldn't get wet, so I did. With both hands, I scooped at the heavy sand covering the sides of the object. It felt like some kind of pottery or glass, with rounded edges. I wrapped my hands around it and tugged harder. This time, it popped up out of the sand, sending me backward into the water with a splash.
“Argh!”

“Nell! Are you all right? Oh, what a knave I am, letting you dig that out yourself.” Ambrose moved frantically through the weeds and water, but I scrambled up without his help.

“I'm fine, really. I didn't realize how buried that thing was.” Now where was it, floating somewhere in the water? My soaked shorts clung to my legs; even the back of my shirt was plastered to me. My wet ponytail slapped the back of my neck, and I squeezed out some of the water. There was no use in trying to wring my clothes. I took a deep breath, then crouched to run my hands against the bottom of the sound again.
I am going to find that thing. I did not just fall on my butt in front of Ambrose for nothing.
Whatever “knave” meant, I was the one to feel embarrassed.

“There!” He pointed to the left of my right foot. “I can see it.” Sure enough, whatever I'd uncovered was lying there, already tucked under a soft blanket of silt. I yanked it out of the murk.

Ambrose grinned. “Huzzah! You found it.”

At first I thought it was a vase, but as I turned the object right side up, I saw that the opening was too narrow. Some kind of bottle? The bottom part was round like a globe, but there was a spout that ended with a flared top, sealed in by more crusty goop. It looked almost like a flask—Mr. Cohen has a square metal one that he sips out of when he sits on the stoop, but since he doesn't drink anymore, he fills his with apple juice.

“I can't believe it! It's just a piece of trash. Litterbugs.” I rolled it over in my hands. It wasn't made of glass but of some kind of reddish ceramic. That was hard to tell, though, because it was encrusted with sea gunk and all sorts of scratches. I rubbed off some crud on one side and rinsed the bottle in the water. “See?” I held it up for Ambrose. His eyes widened as he pointed at the object. “What is it?” I turned the thing back around so I could see what made him go pale and quiet. Was there something crawling on it? I tensed up, thinking maybe I'd picked up a sea creature or a bug.

He shook his head. “This—this isn't garbage. It's made of good stoneware.” He let out a little gasp. “Wait—what marks are on that side?”

“Um.” I held it right up to my face. I'd thought the markings were dings and scratches, not script. “It looks like maybe
A, V
? That might be an
E
—it's hard to tell.”

“
A, V,
maybe
E
,” Ambrose repeated.

“Looks like a monogram.” I squinted some more at the marks. “Maybe this was somebody's special bottle.”

Ambrose closed his eyes for a few seconds and raised his face to the sun. “Or a drinking flask. Nell, I think . . .” He opened his shining eyes and stepped closer to me. “It might be an artifact,” he breathed. “From long ago.”

“Are you serious? Here, take a look.”

He peered at the flask while I held it out. “Do you know what this means?”

I shook my head no. The flask suddenly seemed both weightier and more fragile in my hands. I was holding a piece of history. “This is from the colony?”

Ambrose nodded. “I am sure of it. Totes.”

I barely stifled a laugh. “Totes” sounded pretty funny in his accent. “Wait. Why are you so certain? How much do you know about this archaeology stuff ?”

Ambrose's cheeks flushed. “Because I've seen ones
exactly
like this before. At the museum.”

A wave lapped at my shins, and that reminded me of something my mom had said about the colony being close to the water. “Ambrose—unless this flask just happened to wash up here, do you think this means that the site of the colony was somewhere in this area? Maybe the settlement was along this shore.” Maybe I was standing
right next
to the lost colony.

Ambrose bit his lip, kind of adorably, and then said, “I . . . People don't know where their settlement was. But I know this could be an important clue.”

Something told me I should try to clean off more of the flask. Instinct, I guess. I scraped at the goo and rubbed with my fingers for a few seconds, gently, not wanting to hurt it. “Do you want to try?” Honestly, I didn't want to be responsible for scrubbing too hard and breaking it.

Ambrose lightly brushed the side with the edge of his shirt. “Er, give it another rinse,” he said. I dipped it into the water, and it came out much cleaner. So clean that I could see there were even more scratches on the other side.

“Wait, is there something
written
on it?” I could recognize only a few words—like “shipp” and “mutinous,” and “childe.” “I think it's a message.”

“What does it say?” Ambrose's voice rose to an almost-squeak. He hurried over, standing so close to me our cheeks were practically touching. In silence, we stared at the crude lines of old-fashioned, near-impossible-to-read handwriting. More like hand-scratches. The letters looked like those in the old manuscripts at the Cloisters, which the guide had said were in Gothic script. Regardless, it was Greek to me. Except for those few words and something near the top—a Maltese cross, like Lila had told me about. The colonists' symbol for danger.

“Could this be a message from one of the colonists?”

“Let me see,” he whispered. He traced the lines of text. I couldn't make much sense of most of the writing, but one word was unmistakable: the year in the upper right-hand corner. 1587.

“Whoa. Just, whoa.” Ambrose must have seen old-fashioned writing like that at the Festival Park. “Can you tell what it says?” I handed it to him.

His hands shook as he grasped it. “Take it, please,” he said. “I can't keep it steady.”

I cradled the flask, and Ambrose read quietly for a few long minutes. Then he swallowed hard, like he had a big lump in his throat. “I can't understand all of it. But it seems this
is
a message from a colonist—telling his whereabouts.”

“Where did they go?” I practically shouted. Over four hundred years of mystery, and here we'd figured it out so quickly!

He coughed. “N-not all of them. It appears . . .” Ambrose paused. “A group of the colonists left Roanoke.”

I gasped. “And does it say why they marked
C-R-O
on the tree? To tell people that they were going to Croatoan? What was the danger—there's a cross on it!”

He shook his head. “I'm afraid it doesn't say.”

Then it hit me. If we knew the colonists had left, what would be on the island for us to find? “So now we don't have anything to search for here, huh?” The flask was amazing—but had I just lost a reason for us to go exploring together?

Ambrose shook his head. “It doesn't say that they
all
left. I think the writer was trying to reach someone still on the island.”

“That doesn't make sense—why wouldn't the colonists stick together?”

Ambrose's face darkened. “Perhaps some went for help. Perhaps they thought they'd come right back. Perhaps the carving on the trees came later, or meant something different.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “We need more evidence.” The disappointment I'd felt, thinking we wouldn't have much else to look for, faded. Then I had an idea. “Can you see who scratched that message? If there's a name?”

“Hmm. That's difficult to make out.”

“Let me try,” I said, bending awkwardly to get it in the best light. “Hey, is that a letter
A 
?” I swear Ambrose turned a shade paler.

He squinted at it. “Yes, and I think it reads . . . Archard, Thomas.”

I stood back up. “Interesting. Maybe we should show it to someone. Like at the Festival Park. They might recognize the name.” I wanted to do the right thing, but I kind of hoped Ambrose would say no. Now that we had an actual clue from the lost colony, the possibility that we could solve the mystery seemed real. If we told the museum, a lot of people would get involved—but I wanted this to be our thing. Because my hands were still gripping the flask, I crossed my toes that Ambrose wouldn't want to share it, at least not yet.

Ambrose shook his head. “It's better if we keep this to ourselves for now. Only until we know more.”
Huzzah
.

Pesky mosquitoes or sand flies were swarming me, now that I was damp from falling on my butt. “I need to go home and change.” I picked up my phone. Still no bars, but the clock worked. Somehow, it was already three thirty p.m. Mom would want me at the cottage when she got back, so I could help her make dinner. And I would need time to rinse off and hang my wet clothes on the line, so she didn't get overprotective on me and nosy about what I'd been doing all day. “Also, aren't you being eaten alive by mosquitoes?” I hadn't seen Ambrose swat a single one. “I guess you're more covered up than I am. Wearing long sleeves was smart.”

Ambrose nodded. “Believe it or not, there are benefits to these old clothes.”

We crunched down the garden paths, and I felt dizzy every time I glanced down at our treasure.
We really might figure this thing out. I can't wait to tell Dad.
I tucked the flask under my arm and shoved my wet hair off my face. I looked like a hot mess. The heat and humidity still hadn't fazed Ambrose—he must've adapted to it by now.

Before we got to the entrance building, Ambrose stopped on the path. “My house key.” He patted the side of his pants, feeling an empty pocket. “I think I left it over by the statue. Go ahead, and I'll meet you on the other side.”

“Okay.” I yanked open the door. The air-conditioning of the entrance room was bracing. I stopped to take a deep, cool breath.

“Honey, look at you! Did you fall into the fountain?” The lady behind the counter did a double take when she saw me.

I startled, remembering that I was holding the flask and I didn't want her to see it. What if she recalled that I had been empty-handed this morning? I couldn't risk her taking it away. I tucked the flask under my shirt on my right side, opposite the admission lady, and pressed it tightly to my sweaty hip with my elbow. It made a large round bulge under my wet clothes. “Uh, no. I tripped when I was walking by the sound.”

“Poor thing,” she
tsk
ed. “Anyway, did you find your ‘friend'?”

I nodded. “Yeah, he was already out there.” She smiled like she didn't believe me. “Thanks for your help today. Bye!” I dashed out before she could notice the flask-shaped lump.

Ambrose was already waiting once I got outside, lurking behind a shrub. “How did you beat me out here?”

He shrugged. “You were busy talking to that woman.” I
harrumph
ed at that—why did
I
 have to sneak the artifact past the sticker lady? He continued, “So, when can we continue our adventures, Nell? Perhaps at Fort Raleigh?”

The historic site would be a good place to look for more clues and to compare our find to the items on display. But my mom and I had made a deal that to earn my “stipend,” I'd help out with her research three days each week. I'd put it off, so Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I had to work for her. It would be tough to slip away by myself during the weekend—Mom would want to go sightseeing. That meant I had to wait until next week to go exploring with Ambrose. “I have to help my mother with her work. The next time I'll be able to meet up is Monday. Sorry that's so far from now.” We had walked over to where my bike was locked up.