2.

CROOKED
Fifteen years later, Gemma was standing at the helm of the the Mystic Reed. The sun lit up a
bright blue mid-day sky. The saltwater sprayed her glasses with every dip of the bow. After
years of sailing the open ocean, she found it refreshing. Milo, being a land mammal in both
nature and disposition, found it annoying. He had resigned himself to the squawks of
seagulls, the smell of barnacles, and the fact that every single thing on their boat was
constantly wet. But, the saltwater stung his nostrils, and that ruffled him the wrong way. He
had no choice, though, on such an important mission, but to brave the onslaught from atop
Gemma’s shoulder and help with their search. 

Gemma peered forward over the right side of the boat, which is called the starboard, as her
uncle had taught her soon after her parents left. Then she peered over the left side of the boat,
which is called the port. She always remembered which was which by reminding herself that
‘left’ and ‘port’ have the exact same number of letters. ‘Starboard’ and ‘right’ have an
extraordinarily different number of letters, and therefore were not a part of her memorizing
technique. 

“I don’t see anything, Milo,” she said with a frown, wiping her glasses clean. They were
speckled with saltwater again by the time she spoke again. 

“That sea merchant told us the Forgotten Island would be right here!” she exclaimed. 

Milo wrapped his tail around her neck and slid it down to point to the dark blue compass still
hanging around her neck, slightly rusted, but otherwise intact. She opened up the cover and
tapped the glass. There was a jagged silver needle laying lifeless inside, just as it always did.

Gemma looked down and sighed. “You know that thing doesn’t work. It can’t tell East from
West or up from down. I need to remember exactly what that merchant said.” She began to
mumble. “Across the Mossy Channel, due south of Heart Mountain, three days onward… oh
what’s the use!”

Milo leapt onto the steering wheel as Gemma walked back to the stern of the boat and looked
out across the water. “It’s called the Forgotten Island for a reason. It’s lost to the world!”
Her hand instinctively gripped the railing as the boat shook and shimmied. It slowed to a stop
within seconds. She spun her head around to see Milo with his hands and tail in the air. This
was often his pose when he wanted to make it clear that what had happened was not his fault.
It was almost just as often the case that it was.

Gemma looked over the side rail again and saw a dark patch of land that hadn’t been there at
last glance. It was a small oval island. They had run aground. 

Milo hopped down from the steering wheel and swung over the side of the boat. Gemma’s
feet found the wooden rungs on the Jacob’s ladder and stepped down to the thin shoreline. 

She bent and grabbed a handful of sand. It was blue. A deep blue. And dark green as well.
Mixed together, it was the exact color of the ocean.

“Remarkable,” she said, looking around. “This must be the Forgotten Island, Milo.”

Less impressed, Milo grabbed a fallen coconut from the ground and started pounding it on a
nearby stone. The coconut tree it came from was one of only three trees on the island. The
second was a slightly larger coconut tree with equal or better quality and sized coconuts. The
third was significantly smaller than the first two, did not grow any coconuts, and was not a
coconut tree. Apart from the trees, Gemma spotted a simple hut, with a frond-thatched roof,
covered on all sides by vines. Next to it was the entrance to a small cave, handmade from
brown stones. 

Milo struck a victorious blow, splitting the coconut in two. He drank the water inside greedily
then offered Gemma the other half as a snack. 

“Thanks anyway, Milo,” she said. “I’d rather go check out that hut.”

Gemma couldn’t help staring into the dark mouth of the cave as she pushed in the hut’s door.
It dislodged from the frame in a sloppy commotion and fell to the floor. 

“Sorry…” Gemma said to no one at all as they stepped on top and entered. She had decided
long ago that manners are manners whether someone is there to see them or not. 
Milo finished the coconut meat and threw his shell onto the hut floor. He had decided long
ago that he was a lemur and, therefore, manners did not apply.  

Gemma spotted two windows and tore down the faded green vines covering them. The
sunlight burst in to reveal a metal pot, suspended over a compact fire pit. She bent down and
held her hands close to the wooden embers.

“It’s still warm,” she said with a suspicious tone. “Someone was here recently.” They looked
around to confirm that despite the discovery, they were alone inside the hut. Milo picked his
coconut shell up again and placed it on top of his head, just to be safe. Behind the pit there
was a small circular table with a dusty chair pulled out. It looked to Gemma as though the
seat had been dusted off by a large hand. A quick lap around the room uncovered an empty
tin box and a set of clay bowls, but nothing more exciting. Gemma walked to the nearest
window and stared out.

“Should’ve known that sea merchant was a liar. There’s nothing valuable here. We got
hornswoggled, Milo.”

Milo looked up at her indignantly.

“Okay,” she conceded, “I got hornswoggled.”

Three weeks earlier Gemma sat at a lonely table in the shadows of Starlight Tavern, with
Milo by her side. She didn’t enjoy the loud bard music or unruly patrons, but it was the best
place in Harbortown to conduct the shady administrative business that came along with
treasure hunting. That is to say, it was the only place that allowed the kind of people she
needed to meet. Across from her sat one of those very people, known to her only as the sea
merchant. He was a handsome mustachioed man with a tricorn hat, and at that moment, he
had her rapt attention. 

“It’s up to you,” he said with a smile and a sip of his drink. He had a smooth way of talking
that made even the saltiest words come out sweet. Gemma didn’t trust him one bit. She took
his words with a grain of regular-colored sand, but she was listening.
Milo stared at the merchant with the fierce protective glare that only a true friend possesses.
Unbeknownst to Gemma, it had been two minute since he last blinked. 

“And how do I know I can trust you?” she asked with an eyebrow raised. 

The sea merchant laughed. “You don’t, friend.”

Gemma studied his smile. The lines next to his eyes. The piece of corn stuck to his teeth that,
had he been a true friend, she would have mentioned to him as a courtesy.