Steel

2 RETREAT

Lying in a hammock tied between two palm trees, a closed book in her hands, Jill thought about Errol Flynn. And Zorro, and lightsabers, and what it would be like to fight from the rigging of a sailing ship. Really, though, she was still thinking about that slow half a second and fourth place.

She could still feel the moment, staring down her opponent, the weight of her épée pulling at her hand, her arms and legs itching to move. She only fought for electronic points, but she could imagine she was some blazing hero. But the hero wasn’t supposed to lose by half a second. She’d been afraid to tell Coach Martin that she did want to compete in the Olympics—the modern equivalent of battling pirates on the high main, as she saw it. But what if she got close and missed, like she had in the tournament? How empty would she feel, then? What if, after all was said and done, she just wasn’t good enough?

A mild sea breeze blew. The palm trees creaked and the hammock swayed, just a little, reminding Jill that she was supposed to be relaxing. A month after the tournament, the family—Jill, her parents, younger brother, and even younger sister—was in the Bahamas for spring break. Their plane landed two days ago in the middle of the afternoon, and when they emerged into the open, the sun blazed, and Jill squinted and ducked away like a mouse creeping out of a dark hole. Her parents rented a car in the colorful town of Nassau with its old forts, sparkling resort hotels, and rows of cruise ships; then they drove the family out to a tropical village and a vacation house they’d rented for the week. Beach, sun, swimming, snorkeling, golf, hiking, and all the rest.

But Jill had spent almost two days now lying on the hammock, pretending to read, and thinking too much. She’d only been to practice a couple of times since the tournament—usually, she went nearly every day. Coach Martin said it was fine to take a little time off, and they’d talk about a new training schedule when she got back from the trip. That would be in a week, and Jill would have to have an answer. Did she want to keep going? Try again next year, like Coach Martin had said? Go back to practicing every day—so she could come in fourth? But it wasn’t about winning, or the medals, or all that. All the familiar clichés. She was supposed to be doing this because she loved it. She had to keep reminding herself.

“Jill!” her mother called from the house. “We’re going to the beach, don’t you want to come?”

Sighing, Jill squinted at scattered beams of sunlight shining through palm fronds. “Not really.”

The next time Jill’s mother spoke, she was standing at the house’s back doorway, shading her eyes and looking out. Slathered in sunscreen, she had on her one-piece swimsuit, a towel wrapped around her waist, and flip-flops on her feet. She already had a tan and seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Jill, this is a family vacation. Come to the beach with us. You can bring your book.”

“I don’t really feel like it.”

Mom put her hands on her hips, and her brow furrowed. Her “concerned” face. “What’s wrong?”

It would have been easy to say nothing. Jill shook her head. “I should have won that bout.”

“You’re still on about that? You’ll win next time.”

“But what if I don’t?”

“Jill, don’t worry about it, you’re supposed to be on vacation. Now come on.”

Clearly, her mother wasn’t going to let her mope at will. Giving in was easier than arguing at the moment. Jill went.

The bright sun, soothing white beaches, and picture-perfect views of palm trees and bright blue ocean didn’t do much for Jill’s mood. Gray skies would have suited her better. But she tried to make a good showing, for her mother’s sake: lying on a towel on the beach while eight-year-old Mandy and ten-year-old Tom ran around screaming, splashing in and out of the waves. Her siblings kept yelling at her to join them, that the water was warm and she should try snorkeling, it was so clear and they could see rocks and fish and shells and everything. At least they were having a good time. Mandy hadn’t stopped talking since they arrived, going on and on about sharks and seashells and where they should go looking for pirate treasure. That was after the visit to the Pirates Museum in Nassau. Apparently, the island had been covered with pirates some three hundred years ago. Jill kept telling her that all the pirate treasure had been found a long time ago, and real pirates didn’t bury treasure anyway. Mandy didn’t care; she was still going to talk about it.

Jill hadn’t even put on her swimsuit, but wore a tank top and clamdiggers. Her one concession was going barefoot, and she dug her toes in the warm sand.

Her father had gone to play golf. Her mother stretched out on a lounge chair beside her, sipping from a fruity drink with a paper umbrella and a pineapple rind sticking out of it. Jill had asked for a taste, and her mother had refused. “It’s got rum in it,” she’d said.

Maybe the trip would be more fun if Jill were old enough to drink.

Reading in the sun, even wearing sunglasses, gave her a headache, so she set the book aside and tried to take a nap. Then she gave up on the nap and stood. “I’m going to take a walk.”

Her mother blinked awake—she’d managed a nap. “Where to?”

“Just down the beach,” she said. “I’ll go for a while and turn around and come back.”

For a moment, her mother looked like she might argue. But she didn’t. “All right. Be careful.”

Jill started walking.

The beach wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty, which she would have preferred. Lots of families seemed to be on vacation, as well as couples of every age. People, greasy with sunscreen, lay on towels and baked on the sand. Some played volleyball. Some, like her, walked barefoot on wet sand, at the edge of where the waves reached. She kept going, past the people, to where the more attractive, sandy portion of the beach narrowed, and palm trees grew almost to the water. Voices fell away, drowned out by the sound of waves. She kept walking.

She could understand how someone could lose herself, walking along a beach. It was meditative: the roll of the waves, the repetitive movement of water and patterns of froth that traveled back and forth along the sand were constant, along with the noise—the rush, splash, echo of always-moving water. Beautiful, entrancing. It never changed—but at the same time the pattern the breaking waves made was always different, and she could just keep watching it. The waves, the surf, and the ocean that went on to a flat horizon.

Walking in sand was a lot of work. Her feet dug in, slipping a little with every step. Her legs had to push harder. This was a good workout. Then again, she was probably moving faster than she needed to. You were supposed to just stroll along a beach, not march. She didn’t care. She didn’t mind sweating.

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.