Oracle--Fire Island

by C. W. Trisef

  The scene was like a marriage ceremony. Two parallel rows of guards stood facing each other like the ends of pews, the gap between them creating a sort of aisle. At one end lurked Bubba and Miss Carmen, with Ret’s loved ones huddled beyond them, straining to see the proceedings. At the other end was nothing but a perilous precipice—the diving board of death.

  Ret started down the aisle. Besides the occasional gurgling from the volcano, the only noise was the sound of his slow footsteps on the dirt. The sentinels stood as still as stone. Bubba and Miss Carmen exulted silently. Mr. Coy and Ishmael steadied the girls’ trepidation. Ret walked with his head high.

  “Wait!”

  An urgent plea interrupted the ritual. Hastening to the site was Lionel, only somewhat recovered from their strenuous hike. Clearly in pain, he hurriedly hobbled to the gathering and stopped in front of Bubba and Miss Carmen.

  “Take me instead,” Lionel begged.

  “Lionel, no!” Ret refused.

  “Please,” Lionel persisted, falling to his knees, “let the boy go.”

  “Who is this?” Miss Carmen asked with disgust.

  “I am a true friend of Ret,” answered Lionel. “Please, take me in his place.”

  A few steps away from the groveling, Mr. Coy glared at Ishmael with a face that was approaching panic. “Ishmael,” he hummed through his teeth, trying to conceal his alarm, “what’s going on with Lionel?”

  Ishmael shrugged vehemently, ignorant of any wrongdoing.

  “Why is he acting so noble?” Mr. Coy interrogated with the same singsong voice.

  “Because he’s a good friend,” said Pauline, almost willing to support Lionel’s offer.

  Bubba lightly kicked Lionel’s leg and said, a bit humiliated, “Get up.”

  Lionel obeyed, then grabbed Bubba by the collar and pled, “Please, please! I’ll do anything. Just let him go—let him live!”

  Flustered by Lionel’s forwardness, Bubba ordered, “Guards! Seize this man!” A pair of guards fell on the scene. With great difficulty, they pried Lionel from Bubba.

  “Take him away,” Bubba instructed.

  “No! Please!” Lionel persevered, all the more emphatically. “Ret, save yourself. No one can survive this—it’s suicide.” With unexpected strength, Lionel escaped the guards’ hold and lunged for Bubba, who was saved when a second pair of guards restrained the unruly protestor.

  “Gag him!” barked Bubba. “Lock him up!”

  “Coy! Pauline!” Lionel entreated. “Don’t let them—”

  A guard shoved the butt of his dagger in Lionel’s mouth as they carried him down the volcano and out of sight.

  Back at the ceremony, the atmosphere was one of shock. Among those in attendance who knew him, Lionel was a man of high repute whose opinion carried a fair bit of weight. In direct response to Lionel’s claims, Mr. Coy, to say nothing of the livid girls, was beginning to doubt the idea of Ret’s voluntary plunge. He couldn’t help but feel at least partly responsible for Lionel’s radically honorable behavior, a sentiment that sent Ishmael into a fearful flurry, wondering if he had administered too much extract to Lionel.

  Back at the aisle, even Ret was getting cold feet. He trusted Lionel; he was a true friend indeed. But was he right? Was there, perhaps, a better, less dangerous way? He consulted his scar, which shone ever brighter, rekindling his confidence.

  Scared but assured, Ret crept the last few, vertiginous steps until he reached the edge of the launch pad. He peered down into the treacherous throat of the volcano. Like a salivating tongue, a sea of lava lapped the sides of the narrow funnel. He swallowed, his own throat slightly clogged by his lingering second thoughts.

  “Wait!”

  Ret spun around in a flash to learn who had cried. Paige had burst between Bubba and Miss Carmen, sprinting toward Ret.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” moaned Bubba at the presence of yet another protestor. He signaled for the guards to restrain Paige, but before they could do so, the entire scene erupted in waves of dirt. Ret buried both rows of guards in two tsunami-like waves of earth. As the soil was settling, Ret ran towards Paige, not slowing until their lips met. Despite the flying dirt and ash and smoke, they professed their love with an honest kiss. For all to see and with no one to interfere, they prolonged their treasured moment out of fear for the unknown future.

  Then, withdrawing, Ret turned around, broke into a sprint, and dove off the edge.

  Chapter 13

  All in Ashes

  Paige’s heart leapt with Ret. Her lips still moist and longing, she stood motionless, incapable of exhaling the breath they had just shared. Her fondest wish and worst fear had both come to pass in the selfsame moment. Even though her heart had faith in Ret’s survival, her mind mocked such irrational ruminations. As if in spite of her agony, a great calm came over the volcano. Its hunger at bay, the shaking and smoking ceased now that it had something to chew on.

  Paige ran to the edge and fell to her knees. Peering into the unforgiving throat of the volcano, she yelled, “Ret!” There was no response but the echoes of her own plea.

  “Now let us go, flame boy,” Mr. Coy demanded of Bubba, holding out his still-bound hands.

  “Sorry,” said Bubba unapologetically, “but I don’t think I will.”

  “Untie us this instant,” Pauline ordered.

  “I’m afraid that wasn’t part of the deal,” Miss Carmen smirked.

  “But you agreed to free us!” Mr. Coy reminded angrily.

  “Precisely,” said Miss Carmen. “And so, you’re free to go.” She daintily fluttered her fingers as if shooing a meddlesome pet.

  “Ciao!” Bubba smiled as he and Miss Carmen began to walk away, snickering devilishly.

  “Why you—” Infuriated, Mr. Coy charged towards them. A pair of guards planted themselves in his path, their weapons extended. Like a giant fist, Mr. Coy wielded the volcanic rock clasped around his hands, snapping the guards’ spears like twigs and delivering powerful blows to each. With a shriek, Miss Carmen fled Bubba’s side as Mr. Coy pinned him up against a wall of rocks.

  “Let us go right now,” Mr. Coy threatened through clenched teeth, “or I’ll—”

  Mr. Coy paused at the sound of a curious noise. Coming up the trail were the reverberations of a rhythmic sort of tapping, something being struck, again and again, against the hard ground. All eyes slowly turned to face the landing, anxious to learn the cause of the eerie ticking.

  “Lord Lye,” Bubba breathed with deference when the culprit of the clicking finally emerged.

  Having never seen the age-old nemesis for themselves, all the Coys and Coopers knew about Lye was what Ret had told them. From a distance, he seemed to them but a frail beggar, hunched and harmless, relying more on his cane than his own two legs. As he slithered nearer, however, the details of his hideous features became, unfortunately, clearer. Like a character from the early days of television, everything about his person was either the darkest of black or the palest of white. The train of his dark robes was laden with dust from his ascent of the volcano, while his long hair from head and beard shone vibrantly. The only color to besmirch his visage was the yellowing of his pointed fingernails and the yolk-like whites of his eyes. Like the talons of a vulture, he clutched the top of an ivory-colored, spirally-twisted cane, eternally glued to his hand.

  “Ret wasn’t kidding,” Paige whispered to Pauline, both petrified with fright at the sight of such a gruesome individual.

  Less discernible and, therefore, perhaps more alarming was the subtle shroud that had fallen upon the scene. Like a freak storm driven by the wind, a cold and creepy air heralded Lye’s arrival, swallowing the sun and swirling the clouds. It was as if nature hid her face and shut her doors at the presence of such a vile creature.

  Lye waved his cane at Mr. Coy, who still had Bubba propped up against the wall. Overcome by some strong force, Mr. Coy was repelled and forced to abandon his chokehold. Released, Bubba flocked to Lye and knelt at his feet with obei
sance.

  “Ret has been terminated in the volcano, my lord,” Bubba informed his superior.

  “Excellent,” Lye hissed. “Return at once to the excavation site and resume operations. I suspect lava levels are already receding, exposing tunnels and tubes that haven’t been uncovered in centuries.”

  “It shall be done, my lord,” Bubba vowed. “And the prisoners?”

  “I will tend to them now,” said Lye, “as well as the misfit I passed along the way.”

  “Lionel,” Pauline whispered, worried.

  “I left instructions with your men to take him onboard my ship,” Lye explained to Bubba. “He’s an old friend, and we have a lot of…catching up to do.” He smiled, exposing his sharp and yellow teeth in remembrance of his feigned friendship with Lionel, which spoiled in Sunken Earth.

  “Very well, my lord,” Bubba submitted.

  “Now, back to work!” Lye growled. “All haste! The prize is in sight.”

  Linking arms, Bubba and Miss Carmen scurried down the volcano, their gaggle of guards following.

  Lye hobbled over to where the only remaining people on the summit were gathered. There stood Pauline and Ana, Mr. Coy and Paige, and Ishmael. The women naturally huddled close to the men, though all were in suspense of what Lye had in store for them.

  Lye stopped in front of them and began to search for something within his robes. “I believe I owe you my thanks,” he said with unsettling pleasantness. Then, upon retrieving Ishmael’s pack, outrage ensued.

  “Where did you get that?” Mr. Coy bellowed, lunging at Lye. “None of that belongs to you—you thief, you good-for-nothing—”

  “Now, now,” Lye said playfully. With another wave of his cane, an invisible hand squeezed Mr. Coy’s neck, depriving him of the ability to breathe or speak. Falling to all fours, Mr. Coy strained painfully for several seconds, choking for want of air, before Lye finally relinquished.

  “Does anyone else have something to say?” Lye queried rhetorically. The others held their tongues.

  “Now then,” Lye resumed, “as I was saying…” He pulled Ret’s stone shoes from Ishmael’s bag and slipped his own feet into them. “…Please accept my deepest gratitude for locating this second pair.” Then, removing a bottle of ointment from the pack, he added, “And this fire retardant will be most useful. Coy cream, is it?” The more Mr. Coy frowned, the more Lye smiled.

  Lye uncorked the bottle of cream and emptied it, using his cane to suspend it midair in a single glob in front of him. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he vaporized the cream and covered himself in it.

  “Many thanks,” Lye mocked Mr. Coy. Enraged but purposely speechless, Mr. Coy spat at Lye’s feet, at which gesture Lye promptly sent the spit back into Mr. Coy’s mouth.

  Turning to Ishmael, Lye said, “A promise is a promise.” With his cane, he tapped Ishmael’s clasps, which incinerated in an instant. Ishmael caressed his aching wrists. Mr. Coy glared at his assistant, this time truly without words at such perceived treachery.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Lye, “I have an element to collect.” Given the wobbly nature of the shoes, he made his way over to the rim of the volcano with caution. The crater was like a funnel, with sloping sides that drained to the volcano’s throat. Instead of diving headfirst as Ret had done, Lye chose instead to gradually descend by walking around the periphery in a swirling, whirling manner. Like a cross-country skier, he trudged through thick layers of ash, greatly aided by the long, thick spikes of the shoes. When he finally disappeared from view, his onlookers found their voices.

  “Traitor!” Mr. Coy roared, stomping towards Ishmael. “Liar!”

  “But, sir—” Ishmael cowered.

  “How could you?” Coy asked heatedly, adding a pinch of sorrow to his anger. “After all I’ve done for you and your family…”

  “I would never—” Ishmael quivered in the face of Mr. Coy’s indignation.

  “I should’ve known better than to trust you,” Coy regretted, rife with resentment, “you and that conniving sister of yours—once a criminal, always a criminal!”

  “It wasn’t me,” Ishmael swore sincerely. “I promise—”

  “Oh? Then who tipped off the old geezer, hmm?” Coy interrogated, getting in Ishmael’s face all the more. “It wasn’t me; it wasn’t Ret; and you and I both know it sure wasn’t Lionel.”

  A perplexed look came over Pauline. “Since when are you vouching for Lionel?” she wondered of Mr. Coy.

  Coy winced, regretting the words he had just uttered. “Great,” he muttered to Ishmael, “now I have to explain the extract to the shrew!” He turned around with a pretended face of untroubled lightheartedness. “All it took was one trip abroad together,” he fibbed, “and now Lionel and I are just peachy.” Pauline wasn’t buying it. “BFF’s,” Coy added with a desperate smile, almost questioning his own words.

  “Do I look stupid to you?” Pauline asked.

  Coy considered it for a moment, but before Pauline could snap back, he confessed flatly, “We’ve been drugging Lionel.”

  “You’ve been what?”

  “It was merely integritas extract,” Coy explained to soften the situation. “It ennobles a person; makes him trustworthy. Perfectly harmless, I assure you.”

  “Humph!” Pauline snorted disbelievingly. “It sounds like you need a dose of your own medicine.”

  “I am trustworthy,” Coy asserted, offended. Then, pointing at Ishmael and again railing on him with raised voice, “He’s the one who betrayed us!”

  “Ben, if you would just listen to me—” Ishmael pled desperately.

  “Get out of here!” Mr. Coy hollered, his eyes filling with tears. “Just—just go away!” Mr. Coy motioned to the trail down the volcano. “And n-never come back!”

  With sad countenance, Ishmael picked up his picked-over pack and slogged away, mournfully looking back more than once.

  Down in the volcano, one step away from fully entering the throat, Lye paused to overhear the irate conversation. Then, smiling with self-satisfaction, he continued.

  Fuming, Mr. Coy returned to the three girls, avoiding eye contact, and sat down heavily. For a moment, it seemed as though everything that could go wrong had gone wrong: Ret’s existence was unknown, Lionel was likely slated for torturous questioning, Ishmael had proved to be confederate, and Lye was winning his own game; to say nothing of themselves, still enchained and stranded on a remote island. Claiming responsibility for it all, Mr. Coy was teetering with depression just as Ana was tottering out of it.

  “You didn’t listen to him,” Ana said numbly, her face still in pain. She earned all of their stares. It was the first time she had spoken since they landed on Fire Island.

  “You didn’t even let him explain,” she added, obviously addressing Coy’s interaction with Ishmael. “You were so fired up that you abandoned all reason, and now you’ve done something that you’ll regret.” She spoke not out of condemnation but, oddly enough, introspection. “I know,” she admitted, “because that’s exactly what I did.”

  “Oh, Ana,” Pauline mollified, swooping in to soothe her daughter.

  “No, Mom, it’s true,” Ana countered with maturity. “You told me not to go with Miss Carmen. You warned me that it wasn’t a good idea. But did I listen? No.” Pauline said nothing, confirming the truth of Ana’s words. “I was so wooed by Miss Carmen—so blinded by my own desires—that I couldn’t see the danger. And now look at us. This is all my fault.” Her ducts were too depleted to emit any more tears.

  In this moment, Pauline wished for nothing else than to put her arms around her grieving daughter, but her bounds dictated otherwise. She simply nestled into her shoulder as tenderly as she could, a gesture that Paige mimicked on Ana’s other side. Meanwhile, Mr. Coy, alone and cooling, pensively digested Ana’s valuable reflections, acquired at a high price.

  * * * * *

  “Framed!” Ishmael cursed as he trudged along the trail from the volcano’s summit. “I was fra
med!” He was moving rapidly down the steep path, his pack bouncing on his back. “I’m innocent!” he maintained, mind racing. “I’ll prove it!” He harbored no animosity toward Mr. Coy, directing it instead at his phantom accuser.

  Returning to the island’s lowlands, he set out in search of the excavation site that Lye had mentioned in his instructions to Bubba. Rounding the base of the volcano, he discovered a small settlement on its east side, a little ways from one of the only beaches on the island. Resembling a long-term campsite more than a legitimate establishment, the settlement surrounded what was obviously the excavation site: a deep hole in the volcano’s side. The sounds of picks striking rocks and shovels scooping dirt filled the air, with a never-ending stream of guards filing out of the quarry to dump countless loads of excised dirt and ash.

  Ishmael tiptoed toward the camp’s only enclosure, which was little more than a weathered tarp wrapped around stakes like a teepee, hoping it housed Bubba. It was perched atop a mound of moved dirt so as to overlook the operation. Ishmael snuck into the compound. As the ground was littered with fallen moai, he scurried from statue to statue, not drawing an ounce of attention to himself, for all guards were aiding in the archeological effort.

  And what a curious effort it was! The team seemed bent on reaching the volcano’s core not from its top but rather through its side. Undoubtedly the accumulated product of centuries’ worth of toil, they had carved a considerable gorge out of sheer rock. Their path bore evidence that they had struck lava on several occasions over the years, as large pools of once-molten rock had oozed out of the mine. With every inch, their endeavor grew in precariousness, a danger felt most by the excavators along the frontline. Like termites, they chipped away at the volcano’s belly, and though their armor absorbed much of the heat, a special unit had the charge of dousing sizzling rocks and seeping magma with seawater. It was a complex operation of monstrous proportion, performed by provincial people by primitive means.

  Ishmael crept behind the crude hut, crouched near the ground, and laid his ear against its side.