Chasing Xaris (6 page)

G

RAN
was plugging in her coffee machine when I walked into the kitchen after showering off the sand and salt. She gave me a curt nod. The room sounded eerily quiet, and I realized Gran hadn’t bothered to turn on The Weather Channel.

“You’re up early,” she said.

“I’m meeting a teacher to talk about a project for class.”

“Which class?”

“Archaeology.”             

“Oh.”

I cringed at the hollowness in Gran’s voice.

“Would you like some cereal?” she asked. The bags under her eyes looked darker than normal.

“No thanks. I’m going to eat on the road.” I went to the fridge, grabbed the first apple my fingers touched, and darted to the back door. I glanced back at Gran and considered apologizing again for yesterday, but her tense shoulders sent a clear message.

Without another word, I left and drove to school. As I walked across the campus,
I kept thinking about Gran. She was seriously struggling.

I shouldn’t have snapped at her yesterday. She and Grandpa were trying. So was I. That was the problem. So much trying.

They had both changed so much after the accident. They barely spoke of Mom and Dad, and they never spoke about that night. A few months after the funeral, I’d stumbled on a file in Grandpa’s study marked “Miranda’s Accident” with newspaper clippings in it. I’d found the whole file thoroughly creepy, but I’d also realized that Grandpa thought about the accident way more than he let on. He would have been just as riled as me if Ari had told him my parents had been murdered.

With a sigh, I rounded the corner and reached Mr. Whit’s classroom. I peered through the door’s window and saw him sitting on his favorite stool reading a book. Sweet. He was alone.

I glanced at my phone. We only had about ten minutes before people would begin trickling into class. Our conversation would need to be quick.

I pushed the door open and strolled down the rows of empty desks toward my teacher.

“Hi, Mr. Whit,” I said.

“
Hola
Chandler,” he said, smiling. He pulled out his old-fashioned pocket watch and checked the time.

“I came early,” I said.

“Ah.” Mr. Whit tucked his watch back into his corduroy blazer. “Sometimes I get lost in books and lose track of time.” He patted the open books on his lap.

“No worries. It’s the same for me when I’m surfing.”

Mr. Whit smiled and closed his books. “To what do I owe the pleasure,
señorita
?”

“I want to ask you about Florida history. Actually, it’s more legend than history, but it’s, um, interesting.”

He nodded. “Ask away.”

“Have you heard of
Aletheians? It’s an old Florida myth that’s not very well known.”

Mr. Whit’s eyes brightened. “Ah! A fascinating story, but it is rather obscure.”

My chest lifted. “You know it?”

“
Sí
, Jordan Lane presented a report on it in my class last year, I believe.”

That’s right. I hadn’t even made the connection that
Jordan had been in Mr. Whit’s class last year, too.

Mr. Whit stood and strolled to two towering bookcases
on the far side of the room. Rising to his tiptoes, he pushed aside books on the top shelf and pulled down an old leather notebook with a swirl of blue crystals on its cover.

Mr. Whit looked over his shoulder. “In case the cleaning crew gets nosy,” he explained.

Poor guy. He obviously needed a break from the classroom if he got his thrills from hiding books. But I didn’t care about his quirks. I could hug the guy for helping me.

Mr. Whit sat at the nearest desk. “What do you want to know about the Aletheians?”

I slid into the neighboring one. “
Jordan told me a little bit, but not much.”

“Well, if Jordan had come to me, I’d have shown him this.”

Mr. Whit set the notebook on the desk, and I noticed that the blue crystals on the book’s cover were tiny crescent moons.

I blinked. I had seen a gem that exact shape and size on Ari’s tattoo. That had to mean something.

Leaning closer, I studied the pattern of crystals and saw that one in the middle shone slightly brighter than the rest. And, if I looked hard enough, I could catch glimpses of green reflected in the light.

“This journal belonged to Juan Santiago,” Mr. Whit said, “a Spanish captain from the early nineteenth century. His ship sank in a hurricane, but he was saved by an
Aletheian
who took him to the hidden island.”

Mr. Whit opened the notebook, hiding the gem from sight. “
Santiago lived among the Aletheians and wrote about them here. So did his son, grandson, great grandson, and so on.”

He nudged the book onto my desk. I peered down and began to read a page written in…

“Spanish?” I asked, frowning.

Mr. Whit clucked his tongue. “Fear not,
señorita
. I translated Santiago’s journal myself. I’m not fluent, of course, but I have a reading knowledge of the language.”

“You’ve read it? Does
Santiago say how to find the island?”

“Yes, I believe he does.” Mr. Whit paused. “This makes for a good read,
Chandler, but little else. I translated the journal because I enjoy myth.”

I nodded. “I totally get that. I just think it’s interesting.”

“Good.”

Mr. Whit thumbed to the opening pages of the journal. They were yellowed with age. “The story begins with a Greek man named Erechtheus. He was furious about the Ottoman Empire’s rule over his home—hated the idea of foreigners
lording over the land of his ancestors.

“When he heard of Turnbull’s expedition to Florida, Erechtheus gathered his family to make the journey and start afresh in New Smyrna. But life in the colony was hard. There were sicknesses, droughts, terrible tragedies—many things led to its demise in 1777. At that time, most of the colony headed north to
St. Augustine, but not Erechtheus. He led a small band of
familias
south to what the legend now calls Aletheia Island.”

Mr. Whit’s eyes shone with his great reveal.

I smiled, but my mind kept drifting to the gem I’d seen on the cover.

“Erechtheus and the families discovered that this island was different,” Mr. Whit said. “It contained a tangible light called
xaris
.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. Light wasn’t tangible.

“Xaris isn’t like sunlight or lamplight,” Mr. Whit explained. “You can hold it. It supposedly looks no different than a gemstone.”

My ears began to ring. I’d seen xaris before. I so had. It was in Ari’s tattoo—and it was on the cover of the journal in front of me.
             

“The Greeks also discovered
misos
on the island,” Mr. Whit said. “It was a type of stone with great power. Buried deep in the island’s core, the misos stone created a giant shield that hid Aletheia Island between coordinates, between space. No one can detect it—presumably not even modern technology like satellite or sonar.”

I frowned. A stone that hid an island? I had seriously gone insane if I believed
Santiago’s story.

“Mr. Whit, how did you get this guy’s journal?” I asked.

“It was mailed to the history department of my university a few years ago,” Mr. Whit said. “There wasn’t a name or return address, but there was a brief note saying the journal had historical significance and should be preserved. None of the
profesores
were interested in it except for me. I took it with me when I left and came here.”

I pictured Mr. Whit teaching at a college, still in his corduroy blazer and scarf, still with his flair for the fantastical…

“Shall I continue?” Mr. Whit asked.

I nodded.

“Now, if you’re close enough to xaris, the light allows you to see the misos shield and pass through it,” Mr. Whit said.

“So, you’d need xaris to enter the island,” I said.
             

“And to leave it,” Mr. Whit said. “Xaris is rumored to possess other properties, too, like keeping the island’s ecosystem in check. It varies in size. Xaris can be as small as a baseball or as large as a building.”

I blinked. Had Mr. Whit just said that? He seriously didn’t know about the xaris on the journal’s cover.

“So all you’d have to do is find the island’s coordinates, use xaris
to pass through the shield, and ta-da?” I asked.

“In theory,” Mr. Whit said slowly. “Finding the island’s coordinates would be tricky, though. I’ve seen one report that listed potential coordinates. I think the author’s name was… Rex Shoemaker.” Mr. Whit leaned forward. “You do know this is a myth,
Chandler?
Sí
?”

“Of course,” I assured him.

The classroom door swung open and Winnie walked through.

Mr. Whit closed the notebook. “
Hola,
Winifred.”

I stared at the xaris, feeling my heart thump. I’d had nothing less than an hour ago. Now I had the key just inches away from me.

“
Hola,
Mr. Whitaker,” Winnie said.

She shot me a questioning glance, and I waved a quick hello before
turning back to the notebook. But Mr. Whit had already grabbed it and was returning it to the bookshelf.

My insides lurched. I hadn’t been quick enough.

I smiled at Mr. Whit as he returned to his stool, and then I appraised the bookcase. I’d have to borrow the xaris when Mr. Whit wasn’t around. And borrowing and stealing were totally different—I’d return the xaris right after I used it.

I was still staring at the bookshelf when I felt a tug on my elbow.

“What were you guys talking about it?” Winnie asked.

I blinked at Winnie’s face
for a moment before realizing I needed to say something.

“I had some questions about class,” I said.

“Oh. So everything’s okay?”

“Yup.”

It surprised me how easily the lie came. I had never officially decided whether or not to include Winnie in my investigation. But now that I considered, it made sense to keep her out of the loop. Winnie had a habit of taking over things. If she found out I was searching for
Aletheia Island and a bunch of shark slayers, she’d become the chief investigator.

“Miss Bloom,” Jordan said, striding right toward me.

He was wearing a blue v-neck shirt and smiling with his whole face and looking just so… Jordan.

“Totally slept in this morning,” he said. “Did you surf?”

“Yeah.” I sounded breathless and weird.

“How were the waves?” he asked.

“Decent. Knee-high and glossy.”

Winnie held up her hand. “I’ve had enough surfer talk.” She sidestepped Jordan and went to her desk.

I hugged my arms across my chest and watched Winnie sit down, wishing I had gone with her.

“Chandler,” Jordan said. He was smiling. I could hear it in his voice. “Why won’t you look at me?”

I glanced up at him and, sure enough, there was his sly grin.

“I think we should go out,” he announced. As if that was a perfectly normal sentence. As if we hadn’t kissed, and I hadn’t avoided him for two whole years
afterward.

“Jordan,” I began.

“Don’t say no,” Jordan said. “Just… think about it.”

I nodded, but I already knew my answer.

Jordan’s smile faltered. He shrugged and strolled to his desk.

I walked to my own desk, knowing that Jordan had totally read my face. He’d always been able to do that. But I couldn’t date him. There was just no way.

I took a long breath. In and out. I just needed to breathe and focus on stealing—no, borrowing—the xaris. That would be challenging enough. I didn’t need to add more complications to my life. And that’s what Jordan was. A huge complication.

I

didn’t relish the role of stalker, but it was necessary. Mr. Whit had to use the bathroom eventually, and I would be ready. My chance came right after fourth period. I watched Mr. Whit turn the corner and slipped into his classroom.

Thankfully, no students had arrived for fifth period yet. I just needed them to stay away for another sixty seconds until I finished.

I hurried to the back of the room, grabbed Mr. Whit’s stool, and set it in front of the bookcase. As I climbed onto the stool, I glanced over my shoulder. The room was still empty. I stretched my arm to the top shelf, snaked my hand around the front book, and felt my fingers brush against leather.

A tremor raced down my back. I grabbed the journal and pulled it down. My eyes instantly fixed on the xaris, shining brightly among the blue crystals. I pried my nails under the tiny sliver, my fingers trembling, and pulled. A gentle rip sounded as the stone tore free.

I stared down at the xaris in my hand and felt the hairs on my neck prickle. It barely weighed anything. And it didn’t have definite lines like a normal gemstone. As it shone in my hand, it was hard to tell where the xaris stopped and where my skin started.

“What are you doing?” a familiar voice asked.

I spun around, almost falling off the stool, then crouched low to regain my balance.

“Winnie,” I said. “Hey.”

I faced the bookshelf as Winnie’s flats slapped toward me. I grabbed the plastic baggie I’d brought, dropped the xaris inside, and shoved the baggie into my pocket.

“What are you doing?” Winnie asked.

“Just looking through some books,” I said, whirling around to meet her.

“What books?”

“Just regular books.” I stood on the stool again, stretching high to return the journal to the top shelf. Then I jumped to the ground and grabbed Mr. Whit’s stool—all without meeting Winnie’s gaze.

“Why have you been camped outside this door all morning?” she asked. “And what’s with your sudden interest in Mr. Whitaker’s books?”

“He’s letting me borrow one,” I said. “No big deal. I couldn’t find it, though. I’ll have to ask him later.”

I forced a smile and scooted the stool back in place, relieved to have the classroom look normal again.

Winnie followed after me. “You’re acting weird,” she said.
              “I have to step it up at school if I want to get into a good college.”

“So it’s official?” she asked, smiling. “You’re
going to apply to UF?”

“I don’t know.” And I realized I didn’t.

~~~

As soon as I climbed into my car after school, I pulled the xaris out of the baggie and held it in my palm. It felt a little warm to the touch and blurred in my hand, like it was sinking into my skin. But when I lifted the xaris, my hand was unharmed.

I couldn’t believe I was holding light, actual
light
. It was so small and bright—and colorful. Bits of green weaved throughout the blue glimmers.

Where had xaris come from? I should have asked Mr. Whit about its origins. Maybe Ari would tell me. I would definitely see him soon. It was just a matter of time.

I dropped the xaris back into the baggie and sped home. In the kitchen, I saw a note on the counter from Gran. In her crisp handwriting, she reminded me that Grandpa had a conference in
Chicago and that she was driving him to the airport. Sweet. I would have an empty house for a little while.

I bounded upstairs, opened my laptop, and began my search for Ari’s island. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much to go on—only the Shoemaker report that Mr. Whit had mentioned. I typed in “Rex Shoemaker,” “
Aletheia Island,” and all the other key words I’d just learned. The report came up instantly.

I blinked. All of my other searches had taken so much time and had still yielded nothing. This site hadn’t even come up.

After a quick survey, I saw that Shoemaker had made a study of finding Aletheia Island. He’d compiled sailors’ letters over the last few centuries, some reporting that an island had vanished near the Florida coast in the late 1700s. His report also included a map and modern latitude/longitude readings of likely island spots. One of the readings was close to Laney Pier, only a mile and a half out.

That was the spot. It had to be.

I reined in my excitement. This had been too easy. Way too easy. I read and re-read the list of coordinates, but my gaze kept landing on that one reading.

I settled back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. Maybe I’d lost it. Because I was seriously considering kayaking to those coordinates in the morning. Which was crazy. I knew I
wasn’t supposed to believe some random list made by a guy with no credentials whatsoever.

Leaning forward, I searched for more information on
Mr. Shoemaker, but the site was a simple one—it was just the letters, the map, and the list.

Seconds ticked by. I stared at the coordinates. If I kayaked to that spot, what was the worst that could happen? I’d kayaked tons with my parents—I could easily manage a three-mile round trip. Even if this list was completely ridiculous, I’d just enjoy a
Saturday morning of kayaking.

I shut my laptop and let my thoughts drift. What if I actually found the island and just showed up at Ari’s door? He’d be shocked, probably angry, but he’d warm to me. We already had some sort of connection—he’d saved me from a shark and he’d known Dad. If I showed up and surprised him, he would finally have to tell me what that connection was.

Then the doorbell rang, breaking all my thoughts of Ari. I peeked out the window and saw Winnie’s Beetle parked in the driveway. She hadn’t popped in since right after the accident—maybe she could sense something was up.

I should have felt thankful to have a friend like Winnie, but as I trudged down the stairs to greet her, I kept wondering how long she’d stay. I had everything I needed to find Ari’s island except time.

~~~

Gran went to bed right after Winnie left. I tried telling myself that Gran’s early bedtime wasn’t about avoiding me. But that lie was too big to swallow. Tonight had been a sequel of this morning: more silence between Gran and me. Thank goodness for Winnie.

“So where is Mr. Clare?” Winnie had asked, over our dinner of lemon-garlic tilapia.

“He has a conference in Chicago this weekend,” Gran had said, giving Winnie a strained smile.

Silence.

“I’ve heard Chicago is exhilarating,” Winnie had said. She’d looked from Gran to me, then back to Gran.

“Yes,” Gran had said.

More silence.

I cringed at the memory and sank onto my bed, grabbing my phone. If I was going to kayak to Ari’s island, completely alone and vulnerable, I could at least check the weather first. Mom had taught me that much. Dad had always been too lazy to check conditions the night before going out on the water. Instead, he would ask Mom that morning, knowing she had already checked.

Right on cue, my chest ached. Ah, yes. That. I exhaled and saw the conditions would be safe the next morning. Perfect.

As I was setting my phone down, a text from Jordan came through. Another one. He’d been texting me possible spots for our date all day long. At first, he’d stuck to local restaurants and parks but then he’d graduated to increasingly ridiculous exotic places. He’d just sent another.

Jordan:
              Pancake breakfast in Bora Bora?

Chandler:
              Not really into pancakes. Try again.

I set down my phone and began my nighttime routine. As I was showering, I wondered if I was flirting with
Jordan. Probably. Which was really mean. I couldn’t date him, not when I was so messed up. Maybe later. After I’d figured out the deal with my parents’ death and my body wasn’t freaking out on me. Or maybe we should just stay friends. We’d done that for over a decade and it had gone well. Like, really well. But I wasn’t sure I could even swing that right now—or if Jordan would want to.

I closed my eyes and let the hot water wash over my body. It pounded against my skin, and I welcomed the distraction.

After I’d showered, I changed the band-aid on my face and set my alarm for six fifteen. I tucked the baggie with the xaris under my phone for safe keeping. Twice, I lifted my phone to make sure it was still there. When I went in for a third time, I forced my hand back under the blanket. The xaris wasn’t going anywhere.

I wiggled deeper into the soft cotton sheets, dreading the nightmares that
would soon descend on me. That was when I heard a sound outside my window. Faint padding against cement. Footsteps?

I crawled out of bed, crept to my window, and peered down. Nothing but a deserted street met my gaze. It was probably just a neighbor getting home late, but then, I hadn’t heard a car engine or a front door shut.

~~~

My phone blared to life in a series of annoying beeps. I turned the alarm off and rubbed my stinging eyes.

I pushed the memories of nightmares aside and threw my sheets back. The morning had come, and I was about to kayak to those coordinates.

I slipped into my swimsuit, covering it with a lo
ng-sleeve shirt, running shorts. After a quick visit to the bathroom, I slipped on flip flops, grabbed the baggie with the xaris, and tucked it into my pocket. Then I stuffed my phone, sealed in its waterproof case, in my other pocket.

Downstairs, I scribbled Gran a note about my day-long beach trip and left it on the kitchen counter. I had planned tell her in person, but since Gran was avoiding me, I could conveniently write down my cover story instead. I debated signing “
Chandler” or “Love, Chandler.” I opted for “Chandler.”             

In the shed out back, Grandpa’s orange kayak and paddle waited on the wall. Like Mom and Dad’s old bicycles—and everything else out there—the kayak and paddle were covered in dust and cobwebs. I hefted them over my head, out of the shed, and into the yellow light of dawn.

Early mornings usually soothed me, but not today. Every few steps, I glanced over my shoulder but no one was there. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I picked up my pace. Once I was in the ocean I’d feel better.

On the shore, I glided the kayak into the
water and jumped in. Since the waves were knee-high, I only passed a couple of surfers in the lineup. I keyed the coordinates into my phone and saw I needed to head east-ish for a mile and a half.

I paddled forward, and my muscles hummed in time with each stroke. A cool breeze met my face and legs, an
d I was thankful for the long tee shirt. I kept wondering if Ari paddled this whole way to surf every morning.

Just fifteen yards from the coordinates, I still couldn’t see anything but water. A humming sound rumbled somewhere near, and I glanced to my right. A white speedboat zoomed towards me.

I could see the silhouettes of two men, one taller than the other. They were heading right for me.

I tightened my grip on my paddle
. I was in a kayak—they were in a speedboat. I so couldn’t outrun them.

It could be a coincidence they were heading my way. But what if they were after me?
Why
would they be after me?

The boat zoomed closer.

I peered at my phone. I had nearly reached the island, but I still couldn’t see anything.

The growl of the speedboat’s engine grew louder.

Heat coursed through me. I tucked my phone into my pocket and grabbed the xaris from the baggie. One blink later, a wall of red stood just before the kayak.

I screamed and thrust the xaris in front of me, pinching it between my fingers. I squeezed my eyes shut. A roar ripped through my ears. The pressure of thick, heavy waves barreled down on my shoulders, my arms, my knees.

Then the pressure released me.

I opened my eyes and saw a shore about three hundred yards away. An actual shore.

I didn’t paddle. I couldn’t. I stayed motionless in the kayak. Feeling the thump of my heart. Listening for the speedboat’s
growl. But all I heard was the sound of waves slapping against that impossible shore.

I glanced over my shoulder. The speedboat had disappeared, but the translucent red wall was still there. It stretched straight up into the sky, as high as I could see, and hugged the island’s coastline, leaving a
stretch of water between the wall and the shore.

Aletheia
Island. That was seriously Aletheia Island.

A new sensation rushed through me. A wave of joy. Everything
Santiago had said was true. I had found Ari’s island.

I tucked xaris back into my pocket and paddled straight for the pale sand ahead. The beach looked so natural and untamed. Way different than the
Fort Lauderdale beaches. Only a faded clump of kayaks disrupted the sands and palms. They rested in a mound of beach grass that had nearly grown over them.