Free The Treasure of Maria Mamoun by Michelle Chalfoun Page A

rump from behind. “I promise you lots of doughnuts,” she said, as he placed one big paw, then the other, on the side rail. “But you have to go over. Up-up!”
    He knew “up-up.” It was the command Mr. Ironwall gave him to get into bed. With one hard shove from Maria, he vaulted over the rail and onto the deck. She scrambled in after him. They sat, wet and shivering, listening to the rain beating on the canvas.
    â€œThere has to be something here we can use to dry ourselves with,” she said. And then she saw the cabin.
    It looked like a little wooden shed sitting in the middle of the boat. It had round porthole windows and two swinging doors with a brass latch between. A lovely, unlocked latch. Maria opened the doors and peered in.
    It was even darker below. She groped the wall for a light switch and found nothing. Maybe there wasn’t electricity. She didn’t have any idea whether sailboats typically had electricity. Other than the ferry that had brought them to the island, Maria had never been on a boat before. And even if there had been electricity back when Mr. Ironwall sailed it, it probably would not be working now. The boat looked as if it had been ignored for a long time.
    A steep staircase, more like a ladder of four steps, led below. She started down, and Brutus whined anxiously behind her.
    â€œI’m going to leave you up here while I go downstairs—okay, Brute?” She tied the dog to a rail. “Just be good.”
    The air below smelled stale and damp. It grew darker with each step. Once down, Maria stretched her hands in front and on all sides, feeling her way forward. Things scattered on the floor tripped her feet, and she brushed her elbow against something glass that fell and shattered. That stopped her. This isn’t safe, she told herself. Mr. Ironwall had warned her. Doors that are shut must stay shut, for our safety , he had said.
    But she didn’t feel like she was in any danger. To her, people were danger; Bad Barbies were danger, not quiet abandoned places. And she knew she was completely alone.
    Her hand brushed a set of wooden drawers. Inside, she found a stub of candle and an old metal cigarette lighter. After a few attempts she got her candle lit and used it to find three other candles.
    The flames flared and settled, and then a soft yellow glow filled the small cabin. Everything in it looked old and unnecessarily fancy. A half-size replica of a pirate ship, Frank had said. A thick layer of dust coated every surface and cobwebs draped the corners. Along the wall, lanterns hung on pegs—clearly they were the lights, though they were empty of fuel. In the bunks, the cushions smelled of mildew and their lumpy-looking mattresses felt damp. In the forward area of the cabin, behind a curtain that crumbled in her hands when she moved it, Maria found a stained glass window. It depicted a similar boat under sail on Caribbean-blue waters, beneath an orange sun. Green islands framed either side. Behind the ladder was an area that contained controls of some sort: dials, gauges, buttons, and a fancy-looking radio with a handset.
    Something glinted on the floor under the ladder. Maria picked up a key. A skull and crossbones wrought in silver adorned the key chain.
    Maria figured it was the key to the engine, and indeed, the hole for the ignition looked to be the right size. But she didn’t have the courage to try it. She knew nothing about engines—her mother didn’t even drive, living all her life in cities with excellent public transportation. And so Maria had no idea what happened when you put ignition keys in ignitions, other than somehow engines started up—and that was the last thing she wanted to make happen. She turned the key over in her hand, and then, for some reason, she slipped it into her pocket.
    Maria located the glass she’d broken—an old Coca-Cola bottle—and carefully picked up the biggest pieces and