The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

Finally, Nick had to agree. “Yes, it’s invigorating, seeing the countryside.”

Late afternoon on their third day out, as they hiked a bluff overlooking the sea, Barbara pointed ahead. “Look, another of those Moorish watchtowers.”

They hustled down the path worn smooth by the island’s sheep and goat herders. The stone-block tower rose before them, its ochre walls glowing in the afternoon sun.

“This is the finest specimen we’ve seen yet,” Barbara said.

Nick studied the round sandstone structure. “It’s in great shape. Considering how old it is.”

“How old do you think?”

“At least 700 years.”

They walked to the base and eyed the doorway about ten feet up.

Barbara examined the walls. “You can see where the stairwell used to be. If that rope’s secure, we can check the inside.”

“I’ll give you a boost.”

They shucked off their knapsacks, and Barbara stepped into his knit palms.

“Up you go,” said Nick, springing out of his crouch.

“Got it.” Barbara latched onto the thick rope and pulled herself up. She scrambled into an expansive room. “You’ve got to see this. Can you shimmy up the rope?”

“I think so.”

Barbara blinked until her eyes adjusted to the dimness and stepped onto a ledge inside. The interior was a patchwork of rock and brick, with a fireplace and water-filled pit below. A stairway of stone steps a foot-and-a-half wide lined the wall. The stairs twisted twice around the circular chamber and opened to a ceiling portal.

Nick climbed in and took in the space. “Great architecture. Look how they’ve designed it to gather rainwater for the cistern.”

“I’d say we’ve found our home and castle for the night.”

They harvested some broomy brush, hauled several bundles to the tower, and fashioned a cushioned bed. As stars thickened the sky, they dropped onto the bed and slept deeply, exhausted from a day of tramping with the warm sun overhead and rocky ground underfoot.

In the morning, they climbed the interior stairs to the roof. As they ate the last of their bread and figs, Nick studied the map. “We could hike into this little village here. Get more food and water.”

“And find a cove for an afternoon swim.” Barbara stood and leaned over the tower wall, gazing at the sea. From the height of the fortress, she could see the coast’s broad expanse of undulating sandstone cliffs and white-sand coves.

Nick joined her. “I’ve got to take some photographs of this tower. It’s a beauty.”

Barbara pointed to the shore one cove over. “See that fishing boat? With the lateen rigging? Looks like they’re getting ready to go out.”

Nick planted an elbow on the wall and turned to face her. “I’ve always wanted to ask: Why’d you leave your sailor friend for me?”

Barbara worked her lips, considering the many things she loved about Nick. “Because one day you appeared before me—sturdy as stone. Because you know how to take a dare. Because of your manly shoulders. Because you understand architecture. But mostly because I trust you. Like the stars and the sea. Like atoms and gravity.” She eyed him with wry regard. “Enough reasons for you?”

Nick shook his head as if amazed at winning a long-odds gamble. “God, you’re beautiful. In every possible way.”

He looped his arm around her shoulder. They nestled side by side and took in the sun’s rays flushing the rock cliffs.

A distant hollering pierced the air. They twirled around, looked inland, and saw a man with a broad-brimmed hat and the loose-fitting garb of Mallorca’s farmers stomping toward them, gesticulating.

Nick walked to the inland side of the wall. “This doesn’t look good.”

Barbara followed. As the man drew closer, he repeated some reproach, apparently in the dialect of Mallorca, for she couldn’t decipher it. She waved to greet him. At twenty paces from the tower, he stopped and jabbered at them.

They could only look on, half amazed and all confused.

Barbara tried some Spanish on him, but he waved her off. He pointed at the tower, then at himself.

That was clear enough, she thought.

Nick gathered the same. “I guess this is his property.”

She held up her hands to appease him and said to Nick, “It’s not like we’ve done any harm.”

“Let’s pack. And pronto.” Nick bent over, grabbed the canteen, and made a broad gesture of putting it in his knapsack.

That seemed to satisfy the fellow, for he ceased his clamor.

Nick turned to her. “Can you get the rest of our gear while I gather this stuff?”

She scurried down to the chamber and crammed their blanket and belongings into her knapsack. Nick joined her, and they carried their packs to the opening and tossed them down. The man came around to the opening side of the tower. He stood there, his weathered brow creased like an accordion, watching their every move.

They let themselves down by the rope and hitched their packs over their shoulders. Signaling him with conciliatory waves, they hustled down the ridge trail.

“Too bad I couldn’t chat with him for a bit,” Barbara said. “I might have learned a few choice words of dialect.”

“Just as well,” said Nick. “Not the sort of thing you’d want to report to your mother.”

They took the first path into the interior and, in an hour, found the village they’d spotted on the map. They treated themselves to brewed coffee, filled their canteens, and bought some cheese, dried fruit, and a loaf of crusty bread.

Setting off again for the island’s ridge, they hiked four to five hours until the sun reached its apex, and the day’s unseasonable warmth slowed their pace and reddened their tanned faces.

“If we don’t find a way down to the water soon, I’m going to jump off this cliff,” said Barbara.

They slogged atop the rippled bluffs that separated them from the sea, their heavy packs grating against tired shoulders. Finally, they spotted a dip in the ridge, a place where a path led down to one of the many coves lining the island’s perimeter.

Barbara turned down the red-dirt path, sweat stinging her eyes and her legs wobbly from exertion. Once on the