The Island

by Peter Benchley

  Maynard said, “I thought these were ‘sporters.’ ”

  “That they are.” Baxter winked. “But sport is always in the eye of the sportsman, isn’t it?”

  Justin had moved down the aisle. He stood at a case filled with pistols. “Dad! Look at this.”

  Baxter smiled at Maynard. “Looks like your boy’s found a friend.”

  Justin was excited. “That’s the James Bond gun!”

  “Right you are, son,” Baxter said. “Walther PPK. A real fine starter gun.”

  “Starter gun!” Maynard said. “When I was a kid, we started with single-shot .22 rifles.”

  Baxter nodded. “But when you and I were boys, all you had to know how to shoot was rabbits and your odd snake. You didn’t have to worry about when they were gonna come over the hill.”

  Maynard did not ask who “they” were.

  A shot exploded, then another, then a third. Maynard grabbed Justin’s arm, prepared to throw the boy to the floor and fall on him.

  Baxter laughed. “It’s just folks practicing out back. An in-house range lets the customer try out the merchandise before he buys it. Saves us a lot of hassle in returns.” He turned to Justin. “Would you like to shoot that PPK, youngster?”

  “Boy, would I!”

  “Hold on . . .” Maynard said.

  Baxter was already unlocking the case. “Comes to about a dime a round. You won’t find a better buy anywhere.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. There’s no obligation.” Baxter winked again. “Course, when you squeeze off a few with a PPK, it’s like eating potato chips. It takes will power not to keep on squeezing. This gun talks to you.” Baxter pulled the slide back, checked the chamber, released the clip, and replaced it. “What did you say your name was, youngster?”

  “Justin.”

  “Well, Justin, why don’t you carry this for me?” Baxter passed the pistol, butt-first, to Justin.

  Justin grinned uncontrollably. He looked up at his father.

  Maynard smiled reluctantly and nodded his head. He had been sandbagged.

  Baxter took a box of bullets from a drawer and led Maynard and Justin to the shooting range behind the store.

  Baxter was an expert instructor—deliberate, explicit, and patient. He watched Justin shoot five shots at a target fifty feet away. Four missed the target altogether, the fifth was low and away from the scoring ring. Then he showed Justin how to correct his grip, how to aim, when to hold his breath and when to release it. Of the second group of five shots, three were on the target.

  By his sixth group of five shots, Justin was putting all five in the scoring ring, and three in the two-inch black circle at the center.

  Maynard shot ten rounds slow-fire—all ten on the target, four in the black—and ten rapid-fire—six on the target, two in the black.

  “Not bad,” Baxter said.

  “Rusty.” Maynard was pleased with himself, despite himself, and proud of Justin, and surprised at how easily he had been seduced by the sensations of shooting: the smell of potassium nitrate and silicone preservatives, the feel of the textured grips on his palm, the sight of the holes appearing, magically, in the target at the exact instant he pulled the trigger.

  Walking back into the store, Baxter took Maynard’s arm. Maynard recoiled, but Baxter pressed closer. “That boy is a natural.”

  Maynard nodded. “He did well.”

  “Well? That PPK was made for him!”

  Maynard said nothing. He was amused to feel himself consumed by an adolescent itch to own the pistol. Gramps had raised him with guns, had taught him to use them and respect them. Of all the fatherly things Gramps had said to him over the years, Maynard was proudest of a note that had accompanied a target pistol Gramps had given him for his eighteenth birthday: “I’d trust you with a loaded pistol any day before I’d trust half your friends with an automobile.”

  Maynard knew that what he was feeling was a combination of nostalgia and atavism—here was his son learning the rituals of firearms, preparing himself for manhood. If there was something primitive, tribal, about the sensation, it was nonetheless genuine. Maynard knew all the arguments for gun control and agreed with most of them, though he was convinced that, on a national level, gun control was a hopeless crusade. But he had never agreed with those who claimed that guns were good only for killing. Maynard had killed nothing in his life except rats and diseased rabbits. A gun was one of the few pieces of machinery that could impart to its operator challenge, satisfaction, pride, and dismay. There were not many experiences more frustrating than to sight in on a beer can nestled in the sand a hundred yards away, to squeeze the trigger, to see the can still sitting there. And there were few things more fun than seeing that same can rise from the sand and spin through the air with a ping and a whir.

  Justin came alongside Maynard and took his hand. “Man, it sure would be neat to own that pistol!”

  Since Maynard was sure there was no way he could meet any of the legal requirements for purchasing a handgun, he thought it safe to agree. “It sure would.”

  “Well!” Baxter beamed and patted Justin’s shoulder. “It appears that Master Justin has got himself a gun.”

  “I do?”

  “Not a chance,” Maynard said.

  “No?” Baxter stopped. “Why not?”

  “We don’t live in Florida.”

  “That is a problem.”

  “I knew it.” Justin was crestfallen.

  “Even if we could buy it, buddy,” Maynard said, “we couldn’t own it. Not in New York.”

  “We could keep it at Aunt Sally’s. It’s okay in Connecticut.”

  Baxter was not willing to lose the sale. “You don’t happen to have a Florida driver’s license?”

  “No.” Impelled by mischief and curiosity, Maynard decided to lead Baxter a step or two further. “I don’t drive. Only licensed drivers can buy guns?”

  Justin’s eyes registered the lie, but he kept silent.

  “No. If you have proof of residence, that’s enough. A rent receipt, for example.”

  Maynard took his wallet from his pocket. “Let me check. I just might have one.” He went to a nearby counter. Justin followed, but Baxter hung back, ostensibly to search through a drawer for a box in which to pack the pistol.

  Leaning on the counter, with his back to Baxter, Maynard tore a blank page from his pocket date book. He printed in block letters: “Received from Mr. Maynard the amount of $250, in full payment of rent for the month of May on apartment 206.” He added the date and a fictional address and signed the paper in a florid script, “Molly Bloom.”

  “I found one,” he said to Baxter.

  “Terrific!” Baxter took the slip of paper and, without looking at it, stuffed it in his pocket. “I’ll take care of the paperwork later.”

  “You’d rather I didn’t use a credit card.”

  “It might be awkward.”

  “A check?”

  “Fine. But make it out to cash. Simpler that way. A round number.”

  Maynard smiled. “How round?”

  “Let’s see . . . the pistol, plus, say a hundred rounds of ammo . . . make it out for two hundred. I’ll make change.”

  Maynard started to write the check. “Uh-oh. I forgot one small detail. We have to get on a plane tomorrow.”

  “To New York?” Baxter said. “No problem. Put it in your checked baggage. They don’t X-ray.”

  “No. To Turks.”

  “Turks!” Baxter laughed. “No problem! Here.” He reached in a drawer and produced a shoulder holster. “Carry it with you. There’s no security on those flights.”

  “What about customs?”

  “They’ll search your bags, but unless they think you’re smuggling something, they won’t touch your person. Here’s a piece of advice: Take some contraband, and declare it at the airport.”

  “Like what?”

  Baxter leaned close and whispered in Maynard’s face. It wa
s an effort for Maynard not to back away from Baxter’s sour breath, and he barely heard Baxter’s suggestion. But he nodded as if he had heard every syllable.

  C H A P T E R

  6

  Katherine stepped outside to ring the dinner bell. It was a beautiful evening, sparkling clear, with enough of a southerly breeze to keep the bugs down. She scanned the sky for clouds but saw none. There had been no rain in two weeks. The cistern was low, and all water, scooped up in buckets, now had to be boiled, for it had a greenish cast and was populated with living things.

  Still, with the dry weather her arthritis had bothered her less than it had in years, and for that she was grateful. Feeling grateful, she felt selfish, and, feeling selfish, guilty. She resolved to pray for greater strength.

  The sun had touched the horizon and was moving down quickly, squashing into a swollen pumpkin. She reached for the bell cord, then withdrew her hand, deciding to wait for a few more minutes. Tonight would be a perfect night for the green flash: The horizon was a straight line, free of clouds. In a year here, she had seen the green flash only twice, both times on nights like this. None of the others had seen it, and she knew they thought she had had a private experience, a revelation intended for her alone. Perhaps she had, though she had read mariners’ accounts of seeing the green flash.

  The sun was almost gone. Katherine widened her eyes to thwart a blink: The green flash was quicker than a blink. The last of the yellow light vanished, and then—there and gone—a brilliant pinpoint of emerald.

  Now light drained from the sky, spilling over the western horizon, leaving a mantle of blue-black speckled with stars.

  Katherine smiled, wanting to interpret the green flash as a good sign. If the weather held and the cargo was worthwhile and the engine was sound and the captain was sober, the paquebot would be along in a few days and would collect the people. She would have two weeks alone before the next group came. No one to listen to, no one to instruct or bandage or cook for. Again she felt guilty for her thoughts.

  This was a good group, really, pleasant and more self-sufficient than most. But after a month of scrub and briers and bugs and guano and heat, the children were restless and ornery. Prayer might soothe the adults, but it was not enough for the children.

  She rang the dinner bell and turned to go back inside. She glanced downward, and suddenly she shrieked and leaped backward onto the sand. A scorpion crouched on the top step, its hooked tail stabbing forward and back, exploring for something into which to inject its venom. Katherine threw a handful of sand at the insect, and it scuttled away into the brush.

  She shuddered. She would never get used to scorpions, God’s creatures though they might be. They were nasty, ugly, unpredictable vermin. Their sting was beyond painful: It was sickening and sometimes—to the allergic or the old or the very young—fatal. Two of these children had been stung, and one had proven to be severely allergic. Had it not been for Katherine’s pharmacopoeia, the child might well have died.

  She saw two children running along the beach toward the building. She went inside.

  They were all members of a mystical fundamentalist religious sect. Some were polygamists; some, like Katherine, were single and ascetic. They came from the States and Great Britain. This was (for the polygamists especially) their only safe haven. They applied a year or more in advance, and, in turn, they were granted a month at the retreat.

  The retreat had been built twenty-five years earlier, and it was still the only building on the island. It was a concrete blockhouse, fifty feet across and shaped like a five-pointed star. One point was occupied by the resident matron. It was divided down the middle into a small bedroom and a private chapel. In each of the other four points a whole family could live—four commodiously, six comfortably, and ten or twelve in cramped, suffocating misery, which served to increase the speed with which the parents became irritable and the children impossible.

  This group was manageable. Counting Katherine, there were twelve people resident in the star: two couples, each with two children, and a woman with identical twins.

  Katherine was glad there were no practicing polygamists in the group. For all their piety, they tended to be a difficult lot—sensitive to every nuance, always ready to take offense, masters of the imagined slight. Suggestions were received as criticism, criticism as condemnation.

  The center of the star was a large circular room, divided in the center by a rattan rug. On one side were half a dozen bamboo chairs, two kerosene lamps, and a bookcase filled with Bibles and other religious material. The other side was the kitchen, which consisted of a driftwood table and a huge, walk-in cooking fireplace. The sole electrical appliance in the star was a refrigerator, powered by a gasoline-operated generator, which was used to store drugs and milk.

  Three women stood at the table, preparing a conch chowder. The men, who had dived up the conch from a wooden skiff, sat on the cement floor, and with hatchet and knife, removed the animals from their shells and cleaned them and sliced them and passed the edible pieces to the women.

  The children straggled in, one by one.

  By the time the chowder was ready, the only light in the room came from the embers of the cook fire. One of the men lit two kerosene lamps and placed them on the table.

  “Everyone here?” Katherine said as she placed bowls of chowder on the table.

  A child’s voice replied, “Josh and Mary are still outside.”

  “Doing what?” asked a man.

  “They were getting eggs.”

  A woman said firmly, “They heard the bell. They know the rules.”

  “There’s plenty to go ’round,” Katherine said cheerfully. “They won’t go to bed hungry.”

  “Serve them right if they did.”

  Holding hands around the table, they said grace.

  They ate noisily, gnawing the rubbery conch and soaking up the juices with balls of bread.

  The door swung open, and a boy stood framed in the doorway, panting. “There’s a boat coming!” he said.

  Katherine froze. Boats did not cruise this shore, certainly not at night. Blades of surf-chiseled rock stuck out from the land for hundreds of feet, many of them inches below the surface. In daylight, it was a dangerous course for a cruising boat; at night, it was suicidal.

  “So what?” said a man.

  “A fisherman, I imagine,” said another.

  The boy’s mother commanded, “Gome sit down.”

  Katherine said to the table, “Shush!” Then, to the boy, “Is it passing by, Joshua, or coming this way?”

  “This way, ma’am. Right for the cut.”

  A man said, “I’ll have a look,” and he stood up.

  “Stay there,” Katherine said. “I’ll do it.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Stay there, I said!”

  The man did not argue. He sat down.

  Katherine went to the boy and whispered, “Where’s Mary?”

  “We were gathering eggs. She found a baby bird. Said she wanted to find its nest and put it back.”

  Katherine passed the boy and went outside. She looked toward the cut, a narrow slash in the rocks that ended in a pocket of beach no more than twenty yards wide. She could see the island’s skiff careened on the sand.

  The boat was a couple of hundred feet offshore, a dark smudge against the black water, angling slowly in toward the cut.

  It could be a local boat, Katherine told herself, a fisherman caught at sea by an adverse breeze. Or a Haitian poacher, looking for a place to hide for the night.

  But then the boat moved into a shaft of moonlight, and her hopes died. It was the same boat.

  For the past ten months, she had striven—through force of will and devotion—to convince herself that the boat had not been real, that what had happened had not really happened. It had been a test, a grotesque metaphysical nightmare designed to further forge her faith. She had come almost to believe that. Now the only thought that came to her was, Have I sin
ned so much?

  As she watched, the pirogue turned into the wind. The lateen sail luffed and was lowered. Paddles poked out from bow and stern and swept the water.

  Katherine sprinted to the nearest corner of the star and searched the darkness for the missing child. She did not dare call out.

  She went back inside and shut and locked the door.

  Her heart was pounding. She took several deep breaths and said, as calmly and sternly as she could, “Listen to me, all of you. You must do exactly as I say. No time for questions. I’ll say only this: Anyone who disobeys is telling God, ‘The time has come to take me.’ ”

  She pulled back the rattan rug. Underneath was a wooden trapdoor, flush with the cement floor. She lifted it and set it aside. A ladder led down into a black pit.

  “Empty the table into here,” she said. “Everything.”

  The table was cleared quickly and silently. Bowls and plates and cups made little sound as they landed in the sand at the bottom of the pit.

  “Now . . . everybody down there. Fast. Don’t fall.” She helped a child locate the top rung of the ladder.

  A man muttered testily, “I think we have a right to—”

  “Shut your mouth!” Katherine said. “Unless you want to die, get in the hole.”

  “But where’s Mary?” a woman whimpered.

  “She’s in the brush. When you get down there pray to Almighty Merciful God that she stays away.”

  When they had all descended into the pit, Katherine knelt on the floor and spoke to them. “Be very still. No coughs or sneezes. If you pray, pray silently.” She shut the trapdoor and replaced the rug.

  She checked the table one last time, brushing away bread crumbs and mopping up drops of chowder with the hem of her dress. Then she unlocked the front door and stood on the rattan rug, her hands folded in front of her, praying.