by C. W. Trisef
“Have you ever been caught in a hurricane, Ret?” Principal Stone asked while signing some paperwork.
“Yes,” Ret replied. Though unsure of what the Principal was trying to get out of him, Ret was no liar.
“Oh, really?” Stone said with great interest. “Which one?”
“Florida. Last year.” That was all the information Ret was willing to surrender.
“Ah, yes,” Stone recalled. “That was quite the storm, wasn’t it? Left a sizeable trail of wreckage strewn up and down the Tybee coast, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ret’s thoughts turned to the tragic tale of Jaret.
“If I remember correctly, that occurred just before Mr. Smith unexpectedly retired. He was the principal of this fine institution then, of course. Would you believe that I convinced him to devote an entire school day to cleaning up the debris?” Principal Stone boasted. “He agreed that such a service project would be an excellent way to end his career in the community. In fact, it was so meaningful that Smith and the school board selected me as his successor.” Ret sat patiently as Principal Stone indulged in his accomplishments. “Yes, the students loved the project, and they found some pretty incredible artifacts, too.” Ret watched the artistic swoops and swirls of Stone’s signature as he turned over another document. “Did you ever find anything interesting in that wreckage, Ret?”
Ret thought for a moment. He pictured how Pauline described Jaret’s RIB washing ashore with himself inside of it. “Yes,” he answered truthfully.
Principal Stone dropped his pen on the desktop. Suddenly enthralled by the conversation, he asked, “Was it…round?”
In his mind, Ret imagined what the rounded edges of the inflatable RIB must have looked like. “Yeah,” he said.
“Did it have any…any markings on it?”
Again, Ret imagined the Coast Guard seals and identification number that Pauline had told him were imprinted on the small craft. “Yeah, I think it did.”
“What did you do with it?” Principal Stone interrogated, now with great concern in his voice. Ret wondered why his high school principal would be so worried about the RIB.
“Pauline put it in the attic, I think,” Ret said. “The Coast Guard let her keep it.”
Principal Stone’s tense face relaxed at this news. He leaned back in his chair again. “Well that was nice of them, now, wasn’t it?” He smiled. “I think I’ve kept you from class long enough, my boy. Have a nice day. Close the door on your way out.”
“But don’t you want to talk about what happened at the football game?” Ret asked.
“Oh, you mean how Tybee slaughtered that group of ninnies on the football field? Wasn’t that game somethin’ else?”
“Not about the game,” Ret said. “About how my sister and her friend were attacked and how Quirk was there and he—”
“Ah, yes, I remember now. I’ll speak to Mr. Quirk about it later today.”
“But—”
“Now off you go,” Principle Stone shooed him out the door. “So much to learn, and so little time in which to learn it.” And he shut the door.
* * * * *
On his way home from school, Ret counted thirty-seven jack-o-lanterns from his window seat on the bus, but thoughts of Halloween fled his mind as he spent the rest of the afternoon at the beach, working with all types and forms of dirt in hopes of rediscovering his so-called “gifts.” The pair of self-made statues, which he had previously sculpted to recreate the scene at the football game, had now been half-eroded by the waves. Their gradual but steady disintegration, coupled with the waning glow of Ret’s triangular scar, caused him to worry that his gifts were fading.
“I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,” Ana sang as she approached Ret, the frown on his face giving away his disappointment after another unsuccessful afternoon of experimenting. “Winter Formal’s just around the corner, and I’ve already found you a date.”
“You what? A date? Ana!”
“Now, now; don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“First the football game; now this?” Ret expressed his displeasure. “What’s Winter Formal anyway?”
“Really, Ret. As smart as you are, I’m amazed how you know so little about the things that are truly important in life,” Ana said. “Winter Formal is a dance—a formal dance, in the winter.” For the sake of peace, Ret had made it a habit of swallowing his pride whenever she pointed out obvious details like that.
“So that means it’s like a quarter of a year away then.”
“Eight weeks, to be exact,” she corrected him. “Girls need time for these sorts of things, Ret. There’s a dress to be found, colors to be coordinated, flowers to be ordered, hair to be done, nails to be painted, groups to be arranged, pictures to be taken—all you have to do is find a tuxedo.”
“Well I don’t want to go.”
“Is that all you ever think about, Ret? Yourself?” Ret’s obstinate attitude melted at such a searching question. He looked up at Ana; her face harbored neither anger nor malice. His gaze returned downward. In that moment, he wished that he could manipulate the sand to bury him with his selfishness. Ana finished her thought, though spoken in a gentler tone.
“What I meant was,” she said, “didn’t you ever think that there might be someone who’d like to go with you?”
“No,” he answered, not even having to think about that.
“Oh, please, Ret. You know, there is one game that you lose at every single time. Do you want to know what it is?” She had Ret’s attention. “The dating game. You’re awful at it.”
“So who’s my date?”
“Paige, of course,” the matchmaker informed. The idea of attending a school dance suddenly did not seem so bad to Ret. He knew Paige; Paige knew him; and they felt somewhat comfortable around each other.
“She doesn’t like to dance, does she?” Ret asked his burning question.
“Oh, Ret, she’ll do anything you say.”
“Unlike someone else I know.” They exchanged humored looks.
“Now, I told Paige that you’d stop by her house in a week or two to formally ask her to attend the dance with you and to ask her dad for permission.”
“Ask her dad for permission?” Ret restated with disgust. “What, are we getting married or something?”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea,” Ana retorted. “The pleasantries, Ret, the pleasantries.”
“But he’s Mr. Coy. If he doesn’t like me, he’ll whip out one of his machetes and cut my legs off.”
“I guess we’ll save some money on your tux then, won’t we?” There was yet another game that Ret could never win, no matter how hard he tried: arguing with Ana. “And besides, if he gets unruly, just bury him in dirt.”
“Funny,” Ret said straight-faced. “So who’s your date?”
“I haven’t found one yet,” Ana replied, sounding a bit frustrated. “A traditional black tux simply won’t go with my dress, so my date must be willing to wear a powder blue tux.”
“Terrific,” Ret rolled his eyes. “I can’t wait to go now.”
“Well then,” she said, standing up to leave, “it’s getting dark, and Mom will have supper waiting for us.”
“You go on ahead,” Ret said.
“Okay, but don’t cry when there’s no gumbo left,” she teased, purposely kicking over one of Ret’s eroding statues and walking backwards so she could still face Ret while talking to him. Ret could taste their favorite meal on his tongue when he spotted a pile of broken glass directly in Ana’s path. Her next step positioned her foot directly above the sharp pile.
“Ana, watch out for that glass—” Ret yelled, extending his right arm to point at the imminent danger. Just before Ana’s foot came crashing down on the pile, every shard of the broken glass shot into Ret’s extended hand like a yo-yo recoiling up its string. Ana stumbled, not sure of where to step when she couldn’t locate the glass anywhere beneath her.
“Whoa,” Ret said with
exhilaration. After several hours of failed attempts, the same phenomenon that had occurred the other night had happened once again, except this time in reverse.
“Your hand’s not even bleeding,” Ana observed with awe, considering how forcefully the pointed pieces had collected themselves in his hand. The scar, whose light had almost completely faded just minutes ago, now shined brightly again, reflecting through the glass kaleidoscope in his grasp and creating shadows that danced on their astonished faces.
“Looks like it only works when someone’s in danger,” Ret hypothesized.
“Oh, Ret,” Ana giggled, “you’re like my own little superhero!” She gave him a hearty hug, knocking him over while still clutching the glass. Then she ran off towards home. “Best of all,” she stopped midway to yell back to him, “you don’t have an arch nemesis like all the other superheroes!”
That’s when Ret realized he had forgotten to tell Ana about his visit to Principal Stone’s office.
CHAPTER 5
COY MANOR
The days were getting shorter now. Each morning, the sun seemed to sleep in a little longer than it had the day before, and, after increasingly briefer work days, it seemed to end its shift a bit earlier every evening. Ret observed how this gradual, almost imperceptible change affected everything. Day after day, when boring homework gave way to distraction, Ret would stare out his bedroom window, which he always kept open. Even if it was only slightly cracked ajar, it served as a sort of outlet for him—some way to keep in touch with the outside world.
From up the street, he watched a flock of birds suddenly emerge and take flight over the sea, no doubt chasing summer, which had fled south for the winter. Moments later, Ret learned the cause of their departure as Ana came striding toward the house from that direction. He listened as she shut the front door and came bustling up the stairs. Ret could tell she was headed for his room.
“Paige tells me you haven’t asked her to the dance yet,” she stated, leaning against the door jamb with her arms crossed. Ret sighed and let his head fall to his desk. Despite his best efforts to postpone the task, he was unwise to think that he could fool the Grim Reaper.
“Come, Ret,” she called, as a master would its dog. “Come.” He slowly turned his head to shoot her a perplexed look. “We’re going to take care of this right now.” After another sigh, Ret rose to his feet, well aware that there was no way out of this one.
While Ana waltzed through the backdoor of the house, Ret dragged himself along behind her. They made their way down the family’s private boardwalk toward the water’s edge. Ana’s footsteps sounded like a horse’s trot on the wooden planks of the narrow bridge that spanned the marshland from the Cooper’s backyard to the placid shores of Tybee Creek. Ret’s trudging, on the other hand, resembled the slogging of a sloth.
Tybee Creek was the name given to the small inlet of water that flowed along the south shore of Tybee Island and joined the Atlantic Ocean at the island’s southeastern tip. Directly across the creek sat another plot of land called Little Tybee Island, though more than double the size of its namesake. Unlike its sister island, Little Tybee was truly surrounded on all sides by water, making it largely inaccessible, for there didn’t exist any sort of bridge to span the creek. As such, and for as long as anyone could remember, Little Tybee had always been a pure, uninhabited nature preserve.
Only in recent years was someone known to be living on Little Tybee. The news started out as a rumor that quickly circulated through town. Most people balked at the idea that someone would be so bold as to intrude on their prized preserve, which was a source of great pride for the locals. But there was no denying the shipments that began to arrive on the island. Dozens of ships brought load after load of tools, building materials, and heavy machinery. Helicopters lowered cargos of boxes, bundles, and crates. In time, a group of concerned Tybee citizens appealed to local law enforcement, only to learn that, while the details could not be disclosed, whatever was happening on Little Tybee had been approved by the federal government. As such, the only thing that the people could do was observe from afar the day-to-day goings-on of their anonymous neighbor. Even from their closest vantage point a few thousand feet away, they could see the walls of an elaborate mansion being erected on the most prominent hillside of Little Tybee Island’s northeastern shore.
And then a new student showed up at school one day. At her teacher’s request, the little, blond girl stood and introduced herself to her middle school class. When asked what part of the island she had moved to, a hush fell over the students at her answer.
“Little Tybee Island,” the innocent voice replied. The room became alive with whispered conversations of curious children. Even the teacher was taken aback, for no one had known anything about the mysterious inhabitant of Little Tybee Island, let alone that there were two of them. All that was known was rumor. The students kept their distance from their new schoolmate, except for one girl in her class.
“Sometimes the greatest blessings lie behind our fears, Ret,” Ana told him as she finished recounting the story of the first day she met Paige, who quickly became her best friend. They had nearly reached the other side of Tybee Creek now. Ana had spent the short trip reminiscing out loud while Ret silently manned the oars of the kayak. He could paddle to Paige’s house in his sleep, having rowed there and back countless times as Ana’s private gondolier. It was difficult for Ana to navigate the swift currents and avoid the shoals when the tide withdrew, and Ret enjoyed the physical exertion anyway.
When the nose of the kayak ran ashore, Ret jumped out and heaved it on the sand with Ana patiently waiting until the craft came to a complete stop.
“I’ll wait here until you get back,” she informed him.
“You mean you’re not coming with me?” Ret asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “I can’t do everything for you.” So Ret turned and started up the hillside, shuffling through sea oats and various other dune plants on his way to Coy Manor.
To classify the Coy residence even as a mansion would be a bit of an understatement, to be sure, for it more accurately could be described as something akin to a palace. It was obviously not the designer’s goal to conceal the structure or have it blend in with its surroundings, so boldly did it stand out and tower above even the tallest of oaks and pines on the island. Ret concluded that there seemed to be every style of architecture—ancient or modern—present on the manor: flying buttresses casting their gothic shadows on stained glass windows; medieval turrets with their conical tops pointing heavenward; rows of marble pillars standing with pride in their Greek heritage; painted domes and unsupported arches appearing to defy gravity; a futuristic cable system supporting a large balcony that protruded from the cliffside and hung over the crashing waves below.
The landscape matched the impressive and varied construction of the home. One section boasted enough kinds of fruit, vegetable, and herb to feed a small country. In a separate part, exotic trees drooped their broad leaves above the still waters of a lagoon. Another corner featured dozens of varieties of palm trees that swayed back and forth in the breeze and scarcely shaded the sun-loving cacti below. A trimmed hedge enclosed a traditional English garden with marigolds bursting at the roots of roses and hibiscus. A series of waterfalls, interspersed throughout the arboretum, fed a large pond, which was replete with reptiles and all manner of animal life.
If observed in pieces, Coy Manor was brilliantly beautiful, but as a whole, it looked very odd. Of a truth, if the entire world were condensed to just a few acres—if all of nature’s creations and humanity’s inventions were compiled into one place—then the result would be Coy Manor. And if this were true, then Ret was very intrigued to see what lie within its walls.
As soon as Ret approached the front gate, an unhappy voice greeted him.
“Vhat ith yourr name,” the repulsed voice snapped. Ret assumed the voice belonged to Ivan, the Coys’ butler, but the gate attendant, whoever and wherever he was, ha
d spoken so quickly and with such a thick Russian accent that Ret did not understand what he had said.
“Excuse me?” Ret replied politely to the gate.
“I thaid, vhat ith yourr name!” the voice repeated, this time with even greater impatience and disgust.
“What about my name?”
“Yourr name, boy! Yourr name!” the Russian voice shouted. “Tell me yourr name!”
“I’m sorry,” Ret apologized. “I couldn’t understand you.”
“Of courth, of courth,” the annoyed voice barked. “No one can ayver underthand vhat ze Rruthian vith ze leethp ith thaying. Eet’s alvays ze poorr leetle Rruthian vith ze thpeech prroblem.”
“My name is Ret Cooper,” Ret answered, interrupting the lamenting voice, which was painful just to listen to.
“I am afraid you are not on ze litht,” the Russian informed.
“List?” Ret wondered. “What list?”
“Ze guetht litht.”
“How many names are on your guest list?” Ret asked, knowing there couldn’t be very many.
“Fourr,” the Russian said.
“There’s only four names?”
“Vhat can I thay? Ve do not receive many guethtth.”
“I can’t imagine why…” Ret muttered under his breath.
“Vell, zith ith unoothooal,” the monotone Russian said, thinking to himself. “One of ourr guethtth iz a Cooper ath vell.”
“Ana!” Ret said. “Ana; she’s my sister.”
“Vell don’t you feel loocky, eh, boy? But, loocky for me, I cannot admit anyone vho ith not accompanied by a guetht vhothe name appearth on ze leetht—in zith cathe, Ana Cooper. Tho I am thorry—not rreally—buth you mutht be going…”
“Ret! Ret!” Paige’s voice yelled as she took command of the intercom.
“Mith Paige, my dear,” the Russian protested, suddenly sounding very polite. “I mutht inseest…”
