Sacrifice Island

by Kristin Dearborn

  Terry plopped down at their table with a cheerful “Good morning!”

  Alex, still half-asleep, mumbled the same. Jemma smiled.

  “Excited for your first go with the island?” he asked.

  They nodded. It seemed uncouth to express the same level of enthusiasm as Terry.

  “Will you spend the night in the dormitory?”

  Jemma smiled politely. “I’m afraid not. Not tonight, anyway. We’re taking a few hours to get a feel for the place. Not even bringing our gear. We’re going to see what we feel and notice.”

  Terry frowned. “Most of the action happens at night, does it not?”

  “We need the lay of the land,” Alex said. “Stumbling around at night wouldn’t be terribly productive. There’s energy around all the time. We’ll pick something up.”

  Terry looked a bit deflated.

  “I’m sure we’ll have an overnight sooner or later,” Alex said.

  “I’d think sooner would get faster results.”

  “That’s the thing about those ghost-hunting shows. They only feature the payoff, not the weeks or months of research.”

  “Months?”

  “Sometimes,” Alex said. Jemma smiled. This must have been an easier endeavor back before everyone considered themselves amateur paranormal investigators.

  “How long do you plan to stay here?” Terry asked.

  “A month,” said Alex.

  “As long as it takes,” said Jemma.

  Terry looked from one of them to the other. He paused, and Jemma watched Alex read his silence. “Brilliant! This is your home away from home as long as you need it!”

  “Much obliged,” Alex said. Jemma could tell he was waking up, gathering his wits. He scrutinized Terry. “Have you lost your wife?”

  The color drained from Terry’s face, and he lowered his eyes to his wedding band, which he’d been playing with all morning.

  “How did you know?”

  Alex shrugged. “A feeling I got,” he said.

  Jemma stayed quiet.

  “You can…see things?”

  “Only sometimes,” Alex lied. “I mean, I know stuff sometimes. Glimpses. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “Four years next month.” He nodded.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jemma interjected. Alex amazed her with what he could discover.

  Terry stood and went to the railing overlooking the sea. “Your boat is here.”

  Alex changed the subject. “Did you have a hard time finding someone who’d take us to the island?”

  “Not really. I know who to ask. Not everyone thinks it’s a dark place. I’ve been out several times and it can be quite pleasant.”

  “Did you ever feel anything strange, anything off, no matter how quiet, how simple?” Jemma asked.

  “Never.” Jemma watched Alex watch him. His eyes narrowed, just for a moment. They bid Terry good-bye and headed off down the stairs.

  “What are you doing?” Jemma asked.

  “Every so often,” Alex kept his voice quiet, “ole Terry lies to us. He’s incredibly bad at it. I had his tell figured within five minutes of meeting the man. He’s felt something on the island, seen something. I’m sure of it.”

  “How did you know about his wife?”

  “He plays with the band when he gets nervous. He didn’t mention her. If she’d left him, he wouldn’t still wear the ring. Bonine?” Alex pulled the motion-sickness tablets out of his pack.

  Since this was a day trip, they only took Alex’s backpack full of sunscreen, towels and other mundane beach-combing paraphernalia.

  A large Filipino, his skin dark from the sun, tightened ropes on the canoe, a teal vessel with the name Baby Roxanne painted in pink letters on its hull.

  He turned and regarded them, then tossed a cigarette butt into the water. He grinned at them, and Jemma felt her soul grow dark.

  5

  Goose bumps rose all over Jemma’s skin, and she studied the guide’s leering face. She sunk behind Alex.

  The boatman grinned at them, showcasing a gold tooth, and he jutted out a big hand. “I am Mr. Lucky.” He pronounced “mister” as “mistah.”

  “And are you?” Alex shook the offered hand.

  “Am I what?” Mr. Lucky’s thick accent proved easy to understand.

  “Are you lucky?”

  He leered again, his devil grin. “Oh, yes, sir.”

  They paused for a moment, anticipating more information of some kind. When none came, Jemma followed Alex and Mr. Lucky through the ankle-deep ocean. The boat looked like it was moored in deep water, but even out this far, the water only lapped at their knees. Jemma hiked up her skirts. The hem still managed to get wet.

  “Sakripisiyuhin Island, you want?”

  “Yes, sir,” Alex said.

  Jemma declined Mr. Lucky’s extended hand and hauled herself up the little ladder onto the boat. Alex dropped onto the bench under the canopy. The Baby Roxanne comfortably seated ten. Jemma positioned herself as close to the front of the boat as she could get while staying out of the sun. The Baby Roxanne was painted a brilliant shade of teal, made paler by the blue of the sky, and the blue sea stretching out all around them.

  Jemma would have found it beautiful, if not for the man on the boat with them. She could never relax, could never appreciate the vista in Mr. Lucky’s company.

  The boatman poled them into deeper water. Other tours left all around them, smiling tourists with diving fins and snorkels. All the other tour boats had two guides…why didn’t theirs? Out in deeper water, Mr. Lucky settled himself, and the quiet morning exploded with the shotgun sound of the motor.

  “Whisper quiet!” Alex shouted.

  Jemma favored him with a weak smile. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared anywhere but at Mr. Lucky. His negativity washed over her, crept into her pores, wrapped her and caressed her.

  The ride started smooth, but as they left the shelter of nearby islands, the water changed from teal to a steely blue much more familiar to New Yorkers. Alex pointed out flying fish. White caps tipped some of the waves and the little vessel rocked back and forth, its pontoons slapping the water.

  Jemma held the side of the boat and willed the ride to end. She didn’t like boats. As a girl she’d hated motorboat rides on Lake Winnipesaukee with her uncle. Eventually, after years of whining, they’d let her stay at his lakeside house instead, free to peruse her aunt’s collection of Time Life books detailing the unexplained. Her mother still blamed Aunt Lottie for her interest in ghosts.

  Jemma could feel Mr. Lucky watching her, and despite the heat, she wished she wore even more clothes, anything to make herself disappear under his watchful eye. She stole a glance at Alex, who seemed to enjoy the sea spray and lovely weather.

  She tried to focus on the project at hand, the spirit that plagued Sakripisiyuhin Island. She wondered about the island’s history before the European Catholics arrived. Alex pointed, and she followed the direction of his finger. Ahead of them loomed a tall metal cross tucked into a limestone cliff. The man-made structure stood out of place amid the majesty of nature. As the boat drew closer, they could see a wide concrete dock, and farther back, a Soviet-era block building that jarred against the wooden buildings they’d seen in El Nido. They motored past it. Jemma wanted to ask why, wanted to tell the man she was pretty sure this was where they needed to go…but she chose to stare at the water, afraid to sound stupid or draw any of his attention.

  Mr. Lucky looped the Baby Roxanne around and pointed them at a crescent of white beach. He pushed the canoe toward the shore and cut the engine. The boat drifted until the low bottom scraped on the sand.

  “You’ll forgive me,” he said. “I’ll drop you off, then take the boat out to sea. I do not like this place.”

  Jemma barely listened. She considered the land…postcard-perfect beach, framed with tall, jagged cliffs and brilliant palm trees. A dark path led between two towers of rock into the jungle. Framed with gray stone, a Virgin Ma
ry statue rested in a dark grotto. The sun hung low in the sky, and cast the beach in shadow.

  “Ready?” Alex asked.

  Though she was too hot by far, sweating through her clothes, she had to pause and admit the island was beautiful.

  “Ready,” she said. She helped herself down the boat’s rickety ladder, and hoisted her skirts to slog to the beach. She could hear Alex behind her. She worried about jellyfish and stinging things as she walked.

  She stopped. The island carried an aura of stillness.

  “Can you feel that?” she asked.

  “No,” Alex said, stepping onto the beach. He carried his flip-flops in his hand…what would they do if something stung him?

  Dried seaweed and exotic shells littered the beach. The seaweed lay in arcs, perfect impressions of the shape of the waves. Lucky poled the boat back into open water. The only sounds were cicadas and waves, the occasional call of a bird. After the blasting motor of the Baby Roxanne and the thick gasoline and fish smells, the island seemed so clean and quiet.

  Intense peace washed over her. She’d felt some unpleasant places in her time—the English castle, and an Italian restaurant in Lower Manhattan were two of the worst, but this place reminded her more of a desert. Empty. A sanctuary. Her mind wandered, unbidden, to a dark suburban basement and she closed her eyes. She let the island tug the bad thoughts away.

  “What’s he doing out there?” Alex asked.

  She stood up, brushed the sand from her skirts and squinted out at the Baby Roxanne. “Fishing?”

  “No…but he sure seems antsy.”

  Jemma shrugged. In her journal, Rebecca wrote about how much she loved the island, and after a little while here Jemma knew she would too. No wonder they’d considered this island a spiritual place.

  “How does it feel to you?”

  Alex always claimed not to be sensitive. He played poker well: he could discern a person’s tells within minutes of meeting them, and could map out their exact agenda. Like Terry’s dead wife. When she talked to him about it, he only ever smiled, looked at his shoes, and insisted he was merely observant. He watched for things, nothing more. It still helped to ask him what he felt.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Just all right?”

  “Yeah. A little weird.”

  “What’s weird about it?”

  “For one thing, I’m a New Yorker, and I can’t hear another human being. I’ve never heard quiet like this in my life. Freaking me out. And…” He grappled for the right word. “And it seems like a dark place. You said a girl burned herself to death here in front of a boatload of Japanese tourists. I have a hard time imagining the spirits here to be cheerful ones.”

  Alex headed toward the Virgin Mary statue. In her outstretched hands she held a giant clam shell. It looked clean enough to eat from…not even sand filled it. Two more shells sat at the lady’s feet, but were filled with refuse from a hundred tropical storms.

  Mary herself stood peaceful, her eyes fixed on the white shell in her hands, her lips pursed in a solemn, pious frown. The unremarkable statue huddled protected from the elements by a dark little cave.

  They moved on toward a dark jungle path and the air around them turned cool as they moved into the shade. Jemma hovered at Alex’s back and let the lack of sensations wash over her. She wanted to go first, she did. But this was easier.

  They came out of the jungle into a clearing, a big courtyard of sorts for the dormitory. A marble gazebo stood over the Virgin Mary. The statue was identical to the one on the beach, save for the absence of the giant clam shell. This Mary’s outstretched hands were empty. Cool and inviting benches beckoned from the shade.

  “This marble is from the same place as the Taj Mahal,” she told Alex. He ran a hand over one of the pillars.

  The gazebo’s curved roof reflected a blast of white light from the sun. Jemma averted her eyes. Even behind her sunglasses, the light hurt.

  Alex went off to explore, to see if he could get into the dormitory. Jemma lowered herself onto the cool marble of one of the benches and admired the lovely grotto.

  Spirits are sometimes shy, and she hoped sitting quietly might bring some to her. More likely their equipment would pick some up overnight. She couldn’t wait to see what the readings found. But that was a project for tomorrow.

  Alex moved from window to window, peering inside the blocky building. The sounds of the island lulled her, soothed her. So much so that the cacophony of Baby Roxanne’s engine starting, moments after they’d left the beach, startled a small cry out of her.

  Alex sprinted past her, down the little jungle path toward the beach.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  Jemma smiled a little smile. Mr. Lucky was taking the boat back to El Nido. She and Alex were alone on this island.

  Once Alex ran out of sight, Jemma tried to remember a time when she’d been outdoors and not able to see another person. She remembered a time when she was indoors and very alone. That time she pushed away, tamping it down.

  She supposed she ought to go to Alex. She stood, stretched in the sun, and followed the path he took to the beach.

  The white sand lay in disarray. He’d run back and forth, and now he stood panting, wet and covered in sand. The distasteful sound of the Baby Roxanne faded into nothing as the little boat rounded a spit of land and vanished from sight.

  “Easy,” she told him.

  “How can you be so calm?”

  “We’re in paradise.”

  “We’re on an island that drives people to kill themselves. We’re trapped here. And it makes you act weird.”

  “I’m not acting weird. I’m not panicking. It’s a beautiful place. You can’t argue.”

  “You’re right. It’s lovely. That said, I’d like a way off it.”

  Alex seemed afraid. He scanned the jungle. Nothing here would harm them, she could feel it.

  “I thought about bringing a satellite phone, you know?”

  She began to tune him out. “I’m sure we’ll be rescued.”

  He gawked at her.

  “What?” she asked. Terry knew where they were. Besides, this jungle must be full of things a person could eat.

  “I hope he makes it quick.”

  Jemma frowned. He didn’t like her happy. Why did he hold it against her that she liked this place?

  Alex stalked off down the beach, kicking at the sand. Jemma drew deep breaths of fresh air. She couldn’t see the downsides that upset Alex. She hated people; it was her dream to be this alone.

  He came back after a few moments.

  “Okay. We sit tight for a while. Hang out. Relax. Once we have our shit together—or I have my shit together, as you seem unmoved by the fact that we’re marooned—we have to find water. Food can wait, water’s the first priority.”

  Jemma watched the sea.

  Alex flopped onto the sand. The breeze blew it around, and Jemma could feel it in her teeth. Not ideal, but it didn’t ruin the loveliness of the vista. She folded herself in, and sat beside him.

  6

  The sound of a boat out on the water brought Terry to the beach. The Baby Roxanne approached, teal hull bouncing over the waves. This was early. Too early. Mr. Lucky rode in his boat alone.

  A million scenarios darted through Terry’s head. He glanced up at the sun. It wasn’t even noon yet, hours of daylight remained.

  As long as she hides, she should be safe.

  Terry jogged into the shallow sea and waded over to where Mr. Lucky moored his boat.

  “Where are they?” he called.

  “I took them to the island.”

  “But where are they?”

  Mr. Lucky hopped into the shin-deep water with a splash.

  “I took care of them.”

  “You killed them?” Terry lowered his voice. Relief flooded him, like a cooler of Gatorade poured over a winning coach.

  “I left them. She’ll take care of it for us.”

  The relief left as quickly as it a
rrived. For a moment Terry’s thudding pulse overcame the rest of his world. Then it receded. “No. We don’t know what they brought. What they know. They could kill her.”

  Mr. Lucky stared at him with the least expressive eyes Terry’d ever seen.

  “All I care is that they don’t write this book.”

  “If they kill her, they’ll write the goddamn book.” They couldn’t kill her. He wouldn’t stand for it. If they’d come all this way to write the book, they must know her weaknesses, her vulnerabilities.

  “Did they carry a bagacay?” He racked his brain to remember if he saw them carrying a sharpened spear. “Did they smell like garlic?”

  “Doesn’t matter. If they kill her, they starve on the island before they can write a thing.” Mr. Lucky made to walk past him, and Terry stuck his hand out to stop the bigger man.

  “No,” he protested.

  Mr. Lucky pushed Terry’s hand away and slogged toward the shore. Terry stood in calf-deep water, thinking. He had to go out there, to make sure no harm came to Virginia. He wanted to cry. No one paid Mr. Lucky to think; he simply did what he was told. Dammit. Terry hated this helpless feeling, the one he’d felt so frequently over the past four years. Virginia and the people of El Nido played him like a pawn.

  He had to go to her. Couldn’t simply leave her there. His boat, the Virginia, was indisposed, taking three French tourists and a South African on the C tour. He glanced at the Baby Roxanne. What would Mr. Lucky do? What could Mr. Lucky do to him?

  Mr. Lucky made it to the beach and paused to talk to a little Filipino boy. The boy played with a discarded plastic cup, using it to mold shapes in the sand. He smiled up at Mr. Lucky as he passed. Probably a nephew or cousin. Everyone was related to everyone here. Everyone kept a nose firmly planted in everyone else’s business.

  Terry made up his mind and hauled himself up and into the Baby Roxanne. He poled out into deeper water, got the boat turned around, and fired up the motor. Mr. Lucky ran after him, even plunged into the water and swam a few feet, but the Baby Roxanne left him behind. Mr. Lucky gave up, slapping the water with his broad palm and cursing in Tagalog. Terry pretended not to hear. He would save his wife, and no one could stop him.