Echo Island

by Jared C. Wilson

  “Jason,” she said. She was holding out her hand. “Come with me.”

  What was happening?

  He looked at Beatrice’s hand. It was a miracle. The first time she’d ever reached for him. Jason couldn’t refuse.

  So he took her hand. He stood up. And she led him out of the darkness and back into the story.

  15

  THE CHARGE

  Bradley had to think fast. Sprawled on the sidewalk beside the newspaper box, he began scrambling backward as the towering shadow of the man seemed to swoop down onto him.

  “Where’s my daughter?” Tereus repeated, his large hand grasping at Bradley’s ankle.

  Bradley kicked free and launched himself upright, but Tereus closed the gap instantly, and an incredible force exploded in Bradley’s gut. It was the biggest punch he’d ever taken. He was back on the sidewalk, and Tereus was not stopping. The man was standing over Bradley, whose legs were now twitching slightly against the concrete as he desperately tried to catch his breath.

  Tereus reached down, grabbed hold of Bradley’s shirt, and lifted him up. Bradley was not what anyone would consider small, yet the man lifted him like he was a rag doll.

  And then, the adrenaline kicked in. Bradley knew if he was going to survive, he would have to fight. All his senses went electric, rapid-fire, the violence subterranean in him suddenly bursting forth through his will. He grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand and, using it as leverage, pivoted himself powerfully to the right, his right fist hurtling into Tereus’s rib cage.

  It happened so quickly, the man didn’t have time to protect himself. It was the same side Bradley had collided into when he blind-tackled Tereus by the trailer. The man let out an “oof” as he dropped Bradley’s shirt and stumbled over. But just two steps.

  Then he stood back up, and he brought his fists up to fight.

  Bradley jumped to his feet and prepared to do the same.

  They stared at each other’s faces in the dark Echo Island street for a moment, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  Tereus interrupted the stalemate with a flurry of punches that mostly landed on Bradley’s arms and shoulders as he raised them to protect his head. But Tereus was quicker than he looked, and he varied his blows like a boxer, going low when Bradley protected high and vice versa. It took just seconds for Tereus to begin moving Bradley backward.

  But the boy was still on his feet. And while he thought that at any moment the strike would come that broke his ribs or jaw or knocked him out, he absorbed them all, keeping his balance while inching back, and waiting for the right opening.

  It came as Tereus swung his gigantic fist vertically in an uppercut at his jaw. Bradley instinctively leaned right, rather than back, which would have afforded him no leverage at all in a counterstrike. As the ramming force narrowly missed his chin, he swung himself again with all his strength to the right and hammered the man in his wounded ribs. Something definitely cracked this time.

  But he’d now injured his own hand in the strike, maybe even broken a couple of his fingers.

  Tereus grabbed his side, wincing. He let out a low growl.

  Bradley held his right fist in his left hand and tried to will the pain away. Then he thought it would be wiser to run, especially while his opponent was distracted.

  He didn’t have time. Tereus was on him again, quicker and angrier than before.

  At first, Bradley put up a good defense again. As the two grappled into the street, from a distance, you wouldn’t know who was who. But Bradley couldn’t keep up the intensity. His stronger hand was growing more useless as, fighting against the pain, he kept using it against the man who only seemed to increase in strength.

  Bradley ran out of steam. Unable to throw more punches, he covered his head with his arms to protect himself. Tereus’s next punch broke Bradley’s right wrist, so he dropped his hands. The next punch struck Bradley in the side of the head. There was a sharp ringing sound and a bright flash in his head for just half a second before he was plunged into blackness.

  Jason hovered outside the cabin door, looking sheepish and defeated, but curious.

  Beatrice stood just inside the doorway in front of him, greeting Jack with abundant cheer. “I brought him back,” she said.

  “So I see,” said Jack. Craning his neck to gaze over Beatrice’s shoulder, he called out, “And where had you planned to go?”

  Jason didn’t reply, so Beatrice did for him. “He went to a cave on the western shore.” When Jack didn’t answer, she added, “He thought if he just went in there and never left, he could stop the story.”

  Jack chuckled.

  Jason, a little irritated, stepped forward into the doorway. “I don’t like the idea of not having a choice, is all. You have to understand, this is a lot to take in.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Jack. “Wrestling with the story is part of the story. There’s no getting beyond that. In a way, I admire the attempt to force your will upon the story, to control everything. Each of you has had your own version of that, I think.”

  “Yes,” Jason said. “I can see that.”

  “But for every Jonah, vomited to shore from the diseased gills of his very escape, there are perhaps countless corpses bobbing about inside the bellies of fish.”

  “I just want to know,” said Jason, “now what?”

  “The story has won out in your case. At least for the moment. We must make sure it wins at every turn.”

  “See, I just don’t know what that means.”

  “Dear boy, you tried to force your will upon the story. And then you found it bent, did you not, by another?” He gestured to Beatrice, who responded with a playful curtsy. “And thus, you see that there’s no outrunning—or out-sitting, in your case, I suppose—the will of the Author. Now we must make sure that you follow the story to its projected end—that, in effect, your will aligns with the Author’s.”

  “We want to know what to do next,” said Beatrice.

  “Yes,” said Jack. “As I was saying to the young lady before she commenced her mission, the key to navigating any story in which you find yourself is determining what kind of story you are in.”

  “And what kind of story is that?” said Jason.

  “Why, don’t you see?” Beatrice turned to him. “We are characters in a myth.”

  Jason frowned. “What’s a myth? Like a lie?”

  “You must not see myth as corresponding primarily to something untrue,” Jack said, “but quite the opposite. Myths, whether they be fictions or not, tell us extraordinarily true things, sometimes in their most elemental substance.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jason. “Myths, by definition, are untrue. That’s why we say something is a myth.”

  Mostly to himself, Jack said, “What do they teach in the schools these days?” Then he looked full upon Jason’s face and added, “A myth is traditionally a fiction, yes. Something ahistorical. But for something to be a myth, in the classic sense, it must convey truth, and I would say, in fact, a much deeper truth sometimes than other kinds of fictions.”

  Jack paused to gauge if they were paying attention.

  While Jason looked confused, Beatrice’s eyes were bright. She said eagerly, “Yes, go on.”

  “Of course, there are the myths that turn out to be historical truths, after all. See, in the world in which your story is written, there are thousands of myths, just like there are in this world. Some of them are the same. And each of them has some bit of truth in them. But there is one myth that is, if you understand, a true story. A myth that is fact.”

  Jack and Beatrice exchanged looks.

  “But I digress. Let’s discuss this myth you are in presently. Your story is a fictional tale meant to reveal something true. To be a character in a myth is a high calling indeed.”

  �
�Why? What difference does it make to us?” Jason said. “Who cares about any of this?”

  Jack straightened, became indignant. “Who cares? Why, the Author does! That’s who. And so does any reader who’s managed to read to this point. They want to see where it goes next, don’t you see? And if you’re honest with yourself, boy, you will admit that it also matters to you. You care. Or else you wouldn’t be standing here just now.”

  “You mentioned rules,” Beatrice said. “About myths, I mean. What are the rules?”

  “It is something that men in many myths never seem to be aware of. It is why Dante gives himself Virgil. It is why the Author of this story has sent me. To guide the potential heroes along the way through their mystery. You must know a few things to manage well enough.

  “As I said, myths communicate truth of some kind, and by that, I do not simply mean facts. Aside from the one myth, every other myth is a fiction. And yet, myths still tell the truth or mean to. For instance, the subservience of mankind to the gods—his inability to prevail against them, to trick them without recourse—is a reflection of the fatalism of many cultures. What truth is the Author of your story conveying? He chose to tell this kind of story for a reason.”

  “To toy with us,” Jason said. “I mean, he began the story by causing our car to crash and bringing us to this underworld.”

  “Yes, but don’t you see?” Jack said. “Don’t you see how suddenly that put you on a different kind of adventure? One that tells a truth that surpasses even the world you once knew. Walking through death clarifies, making what is passing less real and what is lasting more so. The choices you make here—in this place—in all ways matter more.”

  “But that’s another thing,” Jason said. “If we’re already dead, why can we die in this underworld? As far as we know, Tim has died. What happens then? How can we die again?”

  “It is not the first dying that ends things for all people. It is the second dying that does that. Death here is really death.”

  “It was dying,” Beatrice offered, “that brought us all here.”

  “Precisely,” Jack said. “That end was shared. But you will not all share the second end.”

  Jason wandered over to the bookcase and traced his finger along the spines of the green notebooks. “Beatrice’s father. Is he going to kill us all?”

  “That part has not been given to me,” said Jack.

  “But he wants to.”

  “Yes, that is my understanding. There is something insatiable in the man, and for all the robbery he has done in his life, he continues to think himself the victim. The reason he and Beatrice are here was born of his perverted sense of being owed, a sense of sovereignty, which, of course, you now know does not belong to any of us. And dying did not take that away. He still wants what he thinks is his.”

  Jason looked down for a moment, staring at the planks on the floor. Then he turned to look at Beatrice. One tear jeweled in the corner of her eye.

  “Beatrice,” Jason said.

  When she looked at him, he could see the fear in her face as real and as raw as the happiness there had been just minutes before.

  “Yes,” Jack said. “It’s Beatrice he wants. Or rather, what she represents to him. But you must remember what kind of story the Author is telling. What truth is he telling?”

  “Can’t you stop him?” said Jason.

  “The Author? Certainly not. I am as much a character written here as you are.”

  “No. I mean Tereus.”

  “Ah. I am sorry, but that is not my role. I am the guide, not the hero.”

  “Wait,” Jason said. He was beginning to feel crushed by the weight of the thing.

  “The charge has not been given to me,” Jack said.

  “But I’m not a hero either,” Jason said.

  “Bah!” Jack said. “You’ve been believing that your whole life. Now is the time to act. Now is the time to wonder. Heroes arise when the time comes. What kind of story do you think you’re in, dear boy? The kind where characters sit in caves and sleep their lives away?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, know. Do know. There’s a supernatural vanishing and a dramatic secret. There’s an ocean, a girl, and a great villain seeking to kill you all. Does that sound like the kind of story that wouldn’t have a hero?”

  Jason wanted to ask if he was supposed to be the hero, but he was afraid the answer was no. And he was also afraid the answer was yes. Finally, he said, “What should I do?”

  “Own your part in the story,” said Jack. “After a while, it will begin to feel as though you are writing it yourself. Ask yourself, what good should happen next? Will it, and you can know it is being willed.”

  Jason listened, speechless.

  Jack continued, “It is time to become the person that you are destined to become. There is no other way. What kind of chap do you want to be? You must face that fire. This is the charge.”

  When Bradley came to, he found himself tied to a tree with nautical rope, front-wise but sitting, his arms and legs pulled forward around the trunk and bound on the other side. He lifted his head away and felt the scrape of the bark on his face.

  He pulled with all his might, and his shattered right hand splintered in pain against the binding. A soft yelp slipped from his mouth, and then he heard the crunch of leaves and straining of twigs beneath approaching footsteps.

  There was a hot breath on his ear. “How many of you are there?”

  Bradley turned his face away and planted the side of his head against the tree.

  Tereus grabbed his hair on the back of his head, pulled back, and smashed his forehead against the tree trunk. Instantly, Bradley was dizzy again and on the verge of blacking out.

  “I will kill you right here,” Tereus said. “You think you’re such a tough guy.”

  “I—” Bradley said, but he had to swallow. His eyes lolled and stars shot against his eyelids.

  Tereus pulled his head back again and breathed on his face, “Yeah?”

  “I was gonna say—” Bradley gasped.

  “Go on.”

  “I was gonna say that I have a fever. And the only prescription is more cowbell.” And then Bradley smiled through his bloody teeth.

  Tereus stood up, took a step back, and then kicked Bradley in the side.

  In spite of himself, Bradley began to cry from the pain, choking on his breath.

  The man crouched beside him again. His charred nose was practically on Bradley’s cheek. “You know, I really don’t know what’s happening here. I don’t know where everybody went. And I don’t know where you kids keep coming from. But I know somebody has my daughter. And one of you knows where she is.”

  He cocked his head and continued. “You are a tough guy, aren’t you? Not like your friend. He was a big baby—let me tell you. But you knew that. You knew what a big, fat baby he was.”

  Bradley was looking at Tereus out of the corner of his eye now with a seething rage. He wished he could’ve pulled the whole tree down on top of him.

  “You should have heard him squeal,” Tereus said, “when that fire caught him.”

  Bradley pulled against the trunk again. The pain in his hand shot up his arm into his shoulder. He’d break everything trying to get free.

  Tereus reached around the tree and grabbed Bradley’s broken hand and squeezed.

  The boy screamed.

  The man did not let up. He kept squeezing against the shattered bones, creating new fractures, and said, “Where is she?”

  “Okay! Okay!”

  Tereus looked at Bradley’s bloodstained and tear-streaked face. “Tough guy,” he said.

  “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”

  “I know you will. Tell me.”

  “You—you go south through town, toward the ferry landing.”

  “
Yes?”

  “The woods right on the waterfront to the west of the landing.”

  “Yes, I know them.”

  “Yeah,” Bradley panted. “You go to those woods, stay to the north side, this side of them, right? About a hundred yards along that line, you come to a really big pine tree. And when you come to that really big pine tree . . .”

  “Okay.”

  “And then—”

  “Yes?”

  “And then you shove it up your butt.”

  Bradley started laughing to himself again.

  Tereus stopped and thought a moment. Then he put his hands around Bradley’s throat.

  Jack sat alone in the cabin in the woods, diligently poring over a half-filled green notebook at his desk, a mournful wisp of smoke twirling up from the bowl of his pipe.

  His pen was busy.

  “Tongue of angels,” he muttered to himself. “I can’t say I understand it, but here it is. Here it all is, moving to its inexorable end.”

  He stopped for a moment and spoke into the air, “I’m ready for a rest, I should say,” and then resumed writing, adding quickly as he did, “It’s been ages since I’ve had a walk, you know.”

  Outside, the wind began to pick up. Jack could hear the low whistle of the air throttling through the cracks of the cabin and the rattle of dead leaves nicking against the glass of the window.

  “Oh, is this what we’re doing?”

  A peal of thunder shook the roof.

  The door flung open, and a rush of wind burst into the room, violently rustling the pages of the notebook under his hands. His pen fervently scribbled against them.

  Rising to close the door, upon turning, Jack saw the hulking figure of Tereus filling the entryway.

  “Ah,” Jack said.

  16

  MINUAI FIELDS

  What happens in The Green Notebook?” Jason asked.

  The wind was steadily pushing against Jason and Beatrice as they made a solemn walk across the outskirts of downtown. Rain fell in fat, scattered droplets onto their skin.