Strong Like the Sea, стр. 5

Silly kid. I turn for the path but spy curved lines in the stone on the seaward side of the wall. I shade my eyes and more lines appear. No—not just curved lines—they’re carvings!

Whoever built the wall spaced pillars evenly all the way across, and on every pillar, shallow carvings rise from the sand and reach in gentle curves for the sky. Between the pillars, the builders left out blocks here and there, like square windows to see out from the yard. I tilt my head and study the delicate shapes worn and discolored from years of salt, sand, and surf. The grooved shapes seem random at first, but then the whole picture clicks inside my head—palm trees!

The curved lines form palm trees growing from a rounded beach. A different tree carved on each pillar. They’re old and shallow, which is probably why I never noticed them before.

I never would have seen this from my spot on the path. It was too far back to see around the corner of the wall. I must’ve counted wrong or started from the wrong place or—

I groan. That’s it.

When my glasses fell off, I stepped backwards to pick up my hat and started counting from there. I subtracted one step before I ever started counting. Of course I ended up short of where I needed to be.

The wind tries to snatch the scroll from my hands as I roll it out, but I hold it tight and turn it over to see the watermark on the back. A palm tree—styled in the same curving lines as the one at the corner of the wall. And beneath the tree . . . a square.

Missing bricks on the bottom mirror the pattern of square “windows” on the top, though from the pattern it seems most of them are buried—filled in by sand over the years.

I scoot some driftwood aside and kneel beside the first carving to brush sand away from the base of the wall, clearing off the part that looks like a beach line, then dig down.

The carving might be old, but it’s easy to see why Mom would use it as part of her clues. It looks almost the same as our family symbol: a palm balanced on a circle. We’ve got an embroidered tapestry of it on the wall at home with the words “Rise Where You Stand” stitched down the side. Whatever she wanted me to find, it’s got to be here.

I grab a flat piece of driftwood for a mini-shovel and scoop tiny piles of sand to the side. Another couple scoops, and sand that had been clinging to the wall collapses to reveal the hollow corner of one of those empty squares. Laying the driftwood aside, I reach in and scoop sand from the square until my fingers hit something metal.

With a fierce grin I clear the sand away and pull a tin lunch box from the hole in the wall.

“Yes!” Made of tin or made of gold, it makes no difference to me. Mom hid it, and I found it. It’s perfect.

I wipe off what sand I can. No rust yet, so it hasn’t been there long. But when I turn it over to see the back, something heavy slides from one end to the other and bangs against the side.

What did Mom hide in here anyway?

I reach to open it, but a tiny lock dangles from the latch with writing scratched into the metal. Rubbing the lock clean with my thumb, I read: Not Yet.

Biting my lip, I hesitate. If it said anything else, I’d think it was a clue and start looking for whatever comes next, but this feels like the end. I found it. But Mom says not yet. So. . . why wait?

. . . And what’s in the box?