Sacrifice Island

by Kristin Dearborn

  Terry hoped no one could see his sweat. He had the van; he could be at the bus terminal to meet them when their Jeepney arrived.

  “Do you want to host the ghost hunters? Have some problems at the resort?” She laughed at her own joke, but her eyes remained serious.

  “I’ll keep them in line,” he said.

  “Is there anyone still around who was there in the nineties?”

  “Not that I know of.” Most of them had gone home. Not Virginia. She stayed, and they opened a resort together. Had many wonderful years on the beach.

  A pair of tattooed Australian girls trotted up the stairs. Erica saw her bartender had vanished and hefted herself up from her patch of sun to tend to them.

  “Have fun with the ghost hunters. Keep a good eye on them, Terry.”

  Terry waved and hurried down to his van. He racked his brain about whether there were rooms available. He pulled out his cell phone and called the resort restaurant. Anna answered, his right-hand woman.

  She spoke, always, in a polite, accented monotone. She ran the kitchen and all the housekeeping for the past three years, and the entire resort would have been defunct without her.

  “What’re the best cabins we have available?”

  Any of the other staff would have had to go and check. Anna paused for a split second. “Two and six,” she said.

  “Keep them empty until I get back.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

  He used to think she mocked him with her monotone and aggressive use of “sir” and “ma’am.” He’d come to accept her way of being polite.

  Terry parked at the El Nido bus terminal. A Crayola spread of color painted the sky. A wonderful first impression of the Vista Breeze resort.

  Terry watched and waited.

  3

  The Jeepney arrived in El Nido at dusk. As soon as the brightly colored vehicle came to a stop, passengers flooded out onto the dusty parking lot: the El Nido bus terminal. Alex sat tight and waited for them all to go. He shielded Jemma, who sat hunched as close to the wall as she could manage, her straw purse held as a barrier between them. He never imagined so many people could pack themselves into a vehicle this size. For a few miles from the middle of nowhere to Roxas, there had even been three men hanging on the outside.

  Jemma disembarked last. She watched as two native men hefted her black Pelican cases from the roof of the van. The cases contained their gear: laptops, recording devices, ectometers.

  If Alex was hot—and he was—Jemma must be dying. She wore a loose-fitting long-sleeved black T-shirt and flowing black pants that hid the fact she even had two legs. On her head she wore a wide straw hat. She allowed Alex to talk her out of getting a black one. Her big, dark sunglasses made her look like she was trying to hide from someone.

  “Pardon me?”

  The voice sounded like C-3PO: a neat, prissy, insufferable British accent. Alex ignored it, certain the chap couldn’t possibly be talking to them.

  “Do these crates belong to you?” he went on, caught Jemma’s eye, and pointed at the cases around her feet.

  “Yes,” she said, barely more than mumbling.

  The speaker was tall and thin, with sandy hair heading over to white and a bristly mustache. He wore a light cotton shirt, red and blue plaid faded to pastel. He coupled it with khaki shorts.

  The man perused Alex and Jemma. “Are you folks the…” His voice trailed off. “Are you here to…” He pursed his lips and made a little sucking sound. Alex grinned. Uncomfortable people were so much fun.

  “Are you here to visit the island?” he asked.

  “We are,” said Jemma. Alex laughed.

  The Brit extended his hand to Jemma, but Alex intercepted for her and introduced them.

  “I’m Terry Brenton. Pleased to meet you.” Terry shook hands with a tentative, dry grip. “I’m the proprietor of Vista Breeze resort. Have you found accommodations here in El Nido?”

  Jemma deferred to Alex. He’d read about this place online. There were loads of boardinghouses and resorts in the area, but he seemed to recall this one came highly recommended.

  “I don’t want to swindle you, or put one over on you. I have a certain interest in Sakripisiyuhin Island, and hoped I could be of some help to your project.”

  Jemma lifted her chin. Alex hoped Vista Breeze—and what the hell kind of name was that, anyway?—sat on the more affordable end of the spectrum.

  “All right,” Jemma said.

  “I have two cottages available—or do you only need one?”

  Alex and Jemma stepped away from each other. “Two, please,” they said in unison.

  Terry regarded them strangely—can’t a man and woman travel together without the world assuming they’re screwing? (Answer: no.) “Well, the cottages are oceanfront, and they’re free—unoccupied, I mean—for the duration of your stay. I’ve my van here now, and could take you and your things.”

  Instinct told Alex to shop around. The offer right off the bus couldn’t possibly be the best one. Jemma fanned herself. He could see dark pockets of sweat under her armpits, and heavy dark circles sat under her eyes. She started to consent, and he cut her off.

  “How did you hear about us? How’d you know we’d be here?”

  Terry smiled, a mouthful of surprisingly white teeth that stood out against his tanned face. “This island is a small, quiet place. Word traveled quickly about two writers with a grant to come here. When I heard the project involved Sakripisiyuhin Island, why, I wanted to do everything I could to help out.”

  Red flags triggered in Alex’s head. He was exceptional at reading people, which Jemma told him was a sixth sense of a kind. He chose to believe he was just perceptive.

  “And what’s your interest in the place?”

  Jemma sagged on the cases in the setting sun, and here they stood in the middle of a dusty parking lot. The other passengers had already taken waiting vans or trikes to their accommodations. Alex envisioned a shower, and a cocktail overlooking the water. Then a delicious, locally caught fish for dinner.

  Terry’s smile only widened. “I could talk about the island for hours. My wife stayed there for a short while. We loved it there. I want to be sure you folks do the place right. It’s not all tragedy, you know.”

  Despite Terry’s sincere tone, he cut his eyes to the left as he said the last bit. Strange. “Last question. What’s your charge for the rooms?”

  “Fifteen hundred pesos a night. Air-conditioned, close to the beach, Wi-Fi in the restaurant when there’s power. We’ve got power in El Nido from two p.m. until six a.m. Some of the restaurants or bars in town have generators, but for the most part, during the day, there’s nothing.”

  Alex turned to Jemma. He wished he could see her eyes. He lifted his shoulder, asking her what she thought. She gave the tiniest nod. It all sounded fine. Terry helped load the cases into the back of the van. He scurried around to the driver’s seat. Alex let Jemma have shotgun. She stared out the window, away from Terry, as they drove. They passed striking limestone cliffs, jungle, and small shacks. Chickens scampered into the road, but managed to avoid getting hit. Mangy dogs watched them from patches of shade. Alex chatted about El Nido, and the restaurant’s menu for tonight. The ride took less than ten minutes. Terry told them they had the best of both worlds—relatively easy access to the town and all its conveniences, but Vista Breeze sat far enough away that the nights were quiet.

  “Always wear shoes,” Terry told them. “Rockfish, stinging coral, jellyfish…but it’s infection you have to worry the most about. These are the tropics.”

  Alex smiled politely, but could see Jemma’s profile reflected in the window. She frowned at the passing scenery. The van bumped and jostled them down a rutted dirt road. They drove a bit, then began to pass charming little cottages. When Terry parked the van next to the restaurant, they stepped out to their first good view of the sea. Sunset painted the calm water in various shades of red, orange and yellow. Canoes with outriggers d
otted the water line, and a few people waded in shallow water.

  The restaurant sat on the second floor. They took their shoes off at the door as was customary. White sand stood out against Jemma’s dark socks.

  “Come up to the restaurant to check in. We can get those rooms squared away.”

  Jemma looked back at the pile of gear, as though willing it to still be there when they got back, then followed Terry though a rustic sitting room with many pieces of molave wood furniture. They headed up the stairs to a lovely open-air bar perched over a fantastic beach. In the dying light of sunset, the tall palm fronds framing the sea stood out as black silhouettes. Fuck chasing ghosts, this was fantastic.

  Terry prattled on about laundry, about a cage they kept on the property housing Palawan bearcats.

  “What’s a bearcat?” Jemma asked.

  Terry brightened. “Follow me!” And before they could argue, he hurried down the stairs. They followed. Alex and Jemma kicked on their shoes and followed Terry out into a darkness punctuated by cheery holiday lights. Around the back of the bar sat a cage about the size of one of the little cabins. Terry flicked a switch and two incandescent bulbs came to life. Inside the cage were walkways and branches, loads of things to climb on. On a shelf up near the top sat two furry balls. One remained stationary, apparently uninterested in them, but the other unfurled, stretched, and waddled down a branch to investigate.

  “That’s Mantikayla. That’s Binusang up there, but he isn’t so friendly.”

  Mantikayla looked like a long black raccoon. Her curious little feet pawed at Jemma through the wire of the cage. Her long eyebrows and whiskers were almost white, and she had a white diamond on her chest they could see when she stood on her hind feet. Her prehensile tail stretched almost as long as her body.

  “Want to go in?” Terry asked.

  “Are they friendly?” Alex wasn’t sure about the one with the B name. Every so often he’d pop his head up, flick his ears, then go back to sleep.

  “Yes, please!”

  Jemma could touch animals. She loved their contact and their company.

  Terry let her in. “Be careful. Those two are escape artists.”

  Jemma kneeled down, and Mantikayla climbed on her leg and sniffed for treats. “She smells like popcorn!” Jemma said. Weird.

  “Her name means ‘butter’ in Tagalog. His name means ‘popcorn.’”

  “Do you want to go in?” Terry asked Alex.

  “No thanks.”

  Alex waited patiently for a few more minutes. Terry handed Jemma a piece of mango to feed the bearcat. Popcorn stood and waddled down a branch, but he kept his distance, blinking at them with red-brown eyes.

  “Let’s go see our rooms. We can come play with these guys later,” he finally said.

  Mantikayla finished her fruit, Jemma gave her a few parting scratches, and Terry opened the door.

  “What about Sacrifice Island?” Jemma asked, as they took off their shoes again to head inside.

  “You’ll have to charter a boat. Most of the guides won’t go there.”

  She smiled at him. “Is it really so frightening?”

  “No.” Terry bolstered his words with a laugh, but Alex noticed again how his eyes cut left while he spoke of the island.

  “Who do you suggest we get to charter? We’d like to head out there tomorrow, if it’s possible.”

  “You don’t want a day to rest first?”

  Terry didn’t want them going out there. Alex could tell. It lay buried in his voice; in the way he played with the frayed edge of his shirt, where he cast his eyes.

  “We want to go in the daylight, get a feel for the place. Nothing major, we won’t even bring the gear this time.”

  A beautiful Filipina woman appeared behind the bar. The way her hair hung in her face reminded Alex of Jemma, but this woman radiated defiant fire.

  “This is Anna, my right-hand woman.”

  Anna said nothing.

  “Can you charter Mr. Lucky for tomorrow?”

  She nodded, then vanished on silent, bare feet. Restaurateurs in America would shit a kitten at the idea of having a staff person inside with bare feet.

  “All set,” Terry said, without waiting to hear anything back from Anna. “He’ll be here at nine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Mr. Lucky would never let me down.” He gave them an encouraging smile, but it came across as flat and hollow, setting Alex’s Spidey senses tingling again.

  “Anna! Get me the keys to two and six, please!”

  Alex examined Anna when she came back with the keys. She wasn’t terribly tall, a slender, delicate frame. Thick bangs hemmed in her beautiful face, too heavy for her delicate features. Her eyes were her most striking feature, light tan and so serious. Alex scoped out her ass, hugged in a pair of well-fitting sweatpants, and her honey-colored skin. She handed off the keys without a glance at Alex or Jemma.

  Cabins two and six. Alex kept the key to two for himself, and handed six to Jemma. She smiled. Six was her lucky number.

  4

  Jemma tossed and turned all night long. Once the air conditioner shut off with the power at six a.m., she gave up all hopes of sleep. Outdoor sounds flooded in—barking dogs, playing children, boat motors. It wasn’t disagreeable, simply impossible to sleep through. So Jemma got up. The cabin was pleasant enough: the floors clean, the bed reasonably comfortable. The bathroom was small, but it contained a toilet—which Alex warned her might be a rarity in this part of the world. The shower consisted of a spigot sticking out of the wall in a tiled bathroom. It didn’t much matter what got wet and what didn’t. A little metal shield protected the toilet paper.

  Outside, a gray predawn light bathed the beach and jungle. Jemma shrugged on a flowing black dress and stepped into her flip-flops. Each cabin had a tiny front porch with a molave table and two matching chairs. The furniture followed the contours of the natural wood, making it lumpy and misshapen—but in a beautiful way: tropical and wild.

  Low tide left its impressions on the sand, as Jemma stared out at Corong-Corong beach.

  The boat wouldn’t be there until ten; plenty of time to explore and reread some of the diary. She kept her flip-flops on, as Terry suggested. After his warning, she expected things to surge out of the mud to spear and infect her feet. In a shallow lake at the end of a strange track sat a starfish. Those, she was pretty sure, weren’t poisonous. It was tan and gray and nondescript. Poisonous things were usually flamboyant and colorful. She gently scooped a hand under it, lifting it out of the sand and water. The tips of its five legs curled up and revealed confused, waving suckers underneath.

  One of the resort’s not-quite-stray dogs hovered nearby, plumy tail waving, thinking perhaps this strange woman had food.

  Jemma returned the starfish to the shallow, sandy sea. She found another nearby, then another, then another, and realized the beach swarmed with them. She felt a bit foolish for her earlier enthusiasm.

  She walked to where sand bars ended and the sea began. She dipped her toes in the lapping shallow water, held up her skirt, and gazed at the little boats moored there. Fishermen boarded their crafts, men and children walked on the beach. The dogs raced and played, snapping and barking at one another.

  Jemma made her way back to shore, back to the restaurant to find some breakfast. Alex could sleep through anything, and she didn’t expect him until after nine, when they’d agreed to meet. She reviewed the notes they’d collected as she waited.

  Sometime during the Second World War an American soldier found a spring on the island which he said ran red, like Christ’s blood. The island was forgotten for years until a small group of Catholics, some Filipinos, some Japanese, mostly French, came to believe Sakripisiyuhin Island was a sacred place, hidden away from the world, untouched and unspoiled by the savagery of man. The spring, they said, ran red on religiously significant days.

  In 1980 a wealthy French businessman decided to build a shrine there, importing m
arble from Makrana, India, shaping the stone into several statues of the Virgin Mary. Day trippers would come to quietly pray and meditate under her watchful gaze. A marble gazebo in an archaic Greek style and a dormitory for wayward travelers followed in 1985. The elusive red spring proved hard to find. Every few years someone would mention finding it, then it would disappear for a decade or more.

  Sacrifice Island became a popular tourist attraction for visitors from El Nido—not that tourism was a big draw here in those days. Word of the area’s beauty spread, and for almost fifteen years, the island held its place as a quirky religious site. There was some trouble at the dormitory, sure…a few suicides, but this was almost to be expected considering many of the girls who were sent there were troubled to begin with. Rebecca’s diary detailed some of these occurrences.

  In 1994 the suicides spiked, culminating with a public self-immolation, and Sacrifice Island vanished from the day-tour circuit. After the spate of suicides, including Rebecca’s, the Catholics and tourists alike abandoned the island and it fell back into obscurity. There were reports of strange deaths in El Nido for the next year—1995—but after that, things calmed down. A few more disappearances than normal, but El Nido was an end-of-the-road kind of place for a lot of folks. Come here with what money they had left, and when it runs out…vanish. The island had been abandoned for eighteen years.

  Around 8:40, Alex blundered up the stairs and ordered bacon and eggs.

  Terry walked the beach, out for a morning stroll. “Something about him,” said Alex. “He doesn’t want us on the island.”

  Jemma perked up. “Then there must be something there.”

  Terry headed toward the restaurant.

  “We know there’s something there. It’s a matter of what.”

  Jemma watched the shifting sea, and Alex ate his breakfast.