by Kerr, Toni
Tristan inhaled a shriek. The freezing water leveled out at his waist. He held the bag above his head to keep it dry. "I can't do it!" He turned to get in the raft, but Charley had already reversed the engine, making his way to deeper water. "You can't leave me out here!"
"Sorry, mate. Walk when the waves are low, jump when they pass. Get out of the water as soon as possible. Good luck!" Charley turned the boat and sped away.
"You can't do this!" Tristan couldn't watch the raft, too concerned with the approaching wave. His legs were already numb. Two waves passed before he could get himself pointed toward shore.
With timing and balance, Tristan inched his way when the water was low, jumping a few feet with the waves, dreading the landing and undertows. A wave dropped him into a hole with no footing. His baggage weighed him down, keeping him underwater until the next wave slammed his knees and shins against sharp edges.
Tristan let go of the duffle bag to use his hands on the rocks, scrambling to get reasonable footing before the next wave and undertow could pull him out farther. The bag hadn't gone far; it almost knocked him over when the next wave came.
Nearly frozen, Tristan swung the duffle bag toward shore. It landed where taller rocks kept it from rolling. Tristan pushed himself faster, slipping and falling more often than not, driven by the fear of something bloodthirsty nipping at his heels, drawn by the trail of blood from gashes he could not feel.
Shallower water proved more challenging—quicker rushes with slimier ground and sharper rocks. Tristan slowed his pace for safer footing and when he reached the duffle bag, he threw it onto the rocks above the waterline. Watery blood oozed from his hands.
The straps on the pack bit into his shoulders. He twisted to get it off and launched it, willing to sacrifice everything inside. The tethered water jug bashed against a rock.
Shaking uncontrollably, he used barnacles for traction and pulled himself up the final embankment, spotting his pack in a shallow tidal pool a short distance away. He was too frozen to crawl toward it, and instead faced the setting sun.
The water was warmer than the wind and for a moment, he considered getting back in. The ever-crashing waves held no sign of bloodthirsty monsters, nor the ship named Falcon. Tristan's last thought, lowering his head to a rock for just a quick rest, was of the tide—whether it was currently high or low.
13
- SECURITY BREACH -
"IT'S TRUE!" Dorian skidded to a stop in the cabin. Gram and Oliver leapt from the kitchen table, upsetting stacks of bisque dishes at one end and mixtures of glaze at the other.
"What is it?" Gram asked. "Is it the cave?" She tossed her paintbrush aside and slipped out of her smock.
"There's a boy on the beach!"
"Oh." Oliver settled back into his chair with a bowl and towel. "I thought all the kids left with their parents."
"They did!" Dorian said. "The boy on the beach is a stranger!"
"I thought security—" Gram stopped when Oliver dropped his dish and rushed out of the cabin. The screen door banged behind him.
Dorian sighed and rolled her eyes, taking Oliver's place at the table. "Whoever it is, he looks hurt. I think we should—"
The front screen slammed open and Oliver appeared in the doorway. "You're not going out there." He snatched his jacket from the back of the chair. "Where is this boy?"
"I'll show you."
"For once, Dorian, I want you to do like I tell you and stay put," Oliver said. "Just tell me what side of the island he's on and let me deal with this."
"Southwest."
"You are not to be anywhere near him until I know exactly what he's up to and why he's here. Consider him a criminal or an escaped convict for all I care. He's not to be trusted under any circumstance."
"Until you've cleared him?" Dorian asked.
Oliver glared, then headed for the door.
"Oliver!" Dorian stood from the table, enraged at being treated like a child half the time. "He might need medical attention. And he doesn't look like he's up to anything. He looks…young."
Oliver turned to face her, exchanging his anger for something more patronizing, as if she couldn't possibly fathom anything bad.
"You think age has something to do with intent?" he said. "Do you know anything about what sort of man Lazaro Sabbatini is, and what extremes he'll take if he wants revenge for something?" Oliver unrolled his flannel sleeves and shook his head. "Eric and I will take care of this. No one is to go near this boy. Is that clear?"
"What about the cave?" Gram asked. "We can't risk cutting shifts."
"Cave shifts won't change."
"Maybe if we called a few men back from the search?"
Oliver shook his head. "We'll manage."
"Fine" Dorian gritted her teeth. She watched Oliver leave and picked up the towel he'd been using, dropping herself into his chair. "What if you're wrong?" she asked Gram.
"About what?"
"What if this person is the one we're supposed to help, the one with death on his heels…or however your song went?"
"I don't think so." Gram studied her unfinished work, seemingly running through the lyrics to be sure.
"He hasn't been here long. It's like he crawled up onto the first rock he could reach, way out there. I don't know if Oliver will find him before the tide does."
"Any wreckage?"
"There's a few things laying around, but no boats or planes...nothing."
"I'll warn Oliver. If death is on his heels, it could be Sabbatini's doing. We'll need more people to manage security." Gram set the bowl aside and started cleaning her brush. "I think I'll put this away for now."
"What if we helped him before he brings death. Maybe he'll spare us?"
"A nice thought, darling. But leave this one to Oliver and Eric. They really do know what they're doing."
"This isn't right, Gram. You've always said this island is a refuge." Dorian stood from the table and tossed the rag onto the stack of plates. "If he'd appeared a year ago, would we be tip-toeing around, waiting for him to make the first move? No! We'd be rushing out, wanting to know what happened and if he needed help."
"The world is changing, Dorian. We need to learn why he's here before we expose ourselves, and being vigilant is better than taking action before we know anything."
"But you let Tynan in. This doesn't make sense."
"Tynan sought permission. Don't you see what's happening? This boy breached security and already has you defending him, which means his manner of arrival has worked perfectly."
"Perfect for what?"
"Exactly. That's the question we must answer."
14
- MAROONED WITH A BOWL OF HOPE -
TRISTAN WOKE SHIVERING. Every aching muscle struggled against wet clothes. He gave up expecting to ever get warm and sat up, confused by forest behind him and the coarse sand beneath him. Small pebbles packed into his cuts and scrapes, coating his skin. He searched the surf for the spikes of barnacle-covered rocks and cliffs he remembered clinging to, but nothing looked familiar.
His duffle bag and backpack rested within easy reach—not that he could remember retrieving them—and his jeans were torn in several places, most likely from the sharp barnacles in the surf. After an hour of plucking sand from his wounds at the edge of a tide pool with fingers as numb as his legs, he remembered the matches and hobbled back to his bags.
The zippers wouldn't budge. Tristan hurled the duffle bag against the nearest rock in attempt to bust open a seam. "I get it already!" he shouted to the trees, then faced the ocean. "I made a mistake!"
He eyed the backpack, ready to throw it out of sheer anger, and spotted the jug of water tied to it. Still full. Unbroken. He glanced around warily and noticed a wooden bowl of something green and mucky balanced on a pile of folded cloth.
"Hello?" Tristan called out. Maybe he wasn't as alone as he'd thought, but a careful scan of the trees revealed no one.
He picked up the bowl, nearly dropping it with his unc
ooperative fingers. It reeked of skunk and something dead. Jerking his head away, the bowl slipped from his hold and half the slop spilled in the sand. He scooped up the mess without thinking and flicked the goo back where it came from. Globs clung to his skin. He tried to wipe it off, dreading how the stench would probably linger for days.
Tristan brought his attention back to the zipper on the duffle bag. He threaded a shoelace through the metal tab and tugged with both hands to work it open. But the matches weren't where he thought they should be. He set to work on the backpack with a controlled sense of panic. They had to be somewhere, but what if he hadn't sealed the plastic bag completely? They'd be useless.
His left hand buzzed painfully as the nerve-endings thawed. He couldn't thread the shoelace through the smaller zipper-tab and finally wrapped the tab with denim and used his teeth, pulling and prying in different directions until it finally inched open.
Shaking everything into a pile until the plastic bag fell out, Tristan grinned when he spotted the matches sealed inside. The folded map hadn't done so well. It seemed to be pressed into a sheet of thick pulp. His thumbnail couldn't separate layers, or tell which edges were folded. He returned it to the bottom of the bag and dreaded how important it might be to the right person.
Whoever Gwenna was trying to make arrangements with, they'd failed to find him. The emerald was on its own.
Half settled with a pile of firewood, Tristan ate his second-to-last granola bar while eying the stinky muck in the bowl. He'd forgotten about his hand and hadn't noticed any foul odor while eating—he dared another whiff, then studied his hand more closely. Not only did his hand not smell, but all the scrapes and bruises had healed. His fingers flexed without any pain, while his left hand remained a swollen, stinging mess.
Was it medicine? He dabbed his left finger into the sludge, drawn by the disgust, surprised to find it warm and oddly soothing. The stinging pain sensations dissipated instantly. He examined the pile of cloth the bowl had been sitting on—two strips stretched to an arm-length, much like the ankle wraps his mom used when she needed time off from work.
Tristan smeared a small amount over a cut on his knee. Instantaneous relief! It could have been rotting pond scum, but he scooped it by the handful and smeared the goo over both arms like lotion. It didn't smell nearly as bad with such a great purpose. He wrapped both shins with the cloth strips, tucking in the ends.
The relief wore off as the day lingered, much of it spent huddled by the fire. He walked in both directions from camp, searching for signs of civilization or better shelter. The silence and muffled waves of the island drove him crazy after enduring the roar of the ship's engine. Keeping his fingers plugged in his ears only helped a little.
His clothing and quilt refused to dry by late afternoon and his watch didn't work. He tossed it into his backpack and re-packed.
Assuming the island lay west of any mainland, and that the ferry dock would most likely be built closest to the mainland, he set off to his left, in a counterclockwise, eastern direction along the shoreline.
* * *
Two days of treacherous rocks and desolation tormented every step. Tristan had eaten all his food and topped off the water jug at each stream. "How big can an island be?" Speaking aloud gave him something to hear other than the mocking waves. "I should've gone the other way." He didn't dare look to the forest; there was an overwhelming sensation that the trees saw everything, judging every false move, every bad decision.
Tristan dropped the backpack—it landed on the ground with a clattering metal thud. He searched the duffle for a long sleeved shirt, leaving everything strewn about for airing. Days of doing the same thing proved it a worthless effort; everything made of cloth smelled like mold.
The tide pools were nearly useless for food. Half-inch critters scurried into cracks in the rocks for safety, but there were a few snails he could try roasting. Are sea anemones poisonous? He could cook them like marshmallows, if he could find any.
Near dark, Tristan lit a fire and stayed awake to keep it fed. Alex's thought about never setting foot on the island remained a reoccurring topic of consideration. But so far, besides the mystery bowl, nothing indicated signs of civilization or even the skeletal remains of a ferry dock.
The forest though…maybe it wasn't the trees that made him nervous. Maybe there were people in the trees, watching him. Whatever it was, gathering driftwood for fires was as close as he got. Even then, he kept his eyes averted.
With the damp quilt sticking to his shoulders, Tristan studied the bowl for signs of craftsmanship in the firelight. No stickers, stamps, or signatures on the bottom. The overall condition wasn't weatherworn, nor anything else that might indicate being washed ashore after drifting for hundreds of miles.
Tristan rolled his jeans into a pillow and stared at the dying embers. The natives couldn't be all bad if they'd left the medicine to help him. The bowl gave him hope.
15
- FOREST OF SPIES -
DORIAN HAD JUST FINISHED punching the dough when Oliver's clomping footsteps put an end to the conversation with Gram. Apparently, the man could only walk light as a feather while in combat mode.
"Oh good," Oliver said. "I've been after you for days."
Dorian shut her eyes, wishing she'd volunteered for an extra cave shift instead of helping Gram in the kitchen.
"We had an agreement," he said.
"I'm sorry." Dorian glanced at Gram and covered the dough with a towel, then dished an extra large serving of wild-rice chili with a bit of cheese sprinkled on top. She handed it to Oliver as a peace offering.
Undistracted by food, Oliver kept his glare fixed on her.
She couldn't help glaring back. "I did the right thing."
"I gave you orders. If you approach him again, I'll remove you from this island and the plants will fend for themselves."
"You can't do that," Dorian said, outraged by the suggestion. "They're medicinal! They need guidance and assurance."
"I can and I will," Oliver said. "You seem to forget that plants survive just fine in other parts of the world, without your divine intervention."
"My plants do more than survive and you know it."
"Oliver—" Gram led Oliver to a chair at the kitchen table.
He slammed his hands against the hard surface and refused to sit. "She got there before we did and left him a bowl of medicine."
Gram turned to Dorian with a sparkle of pride in her eyes. "What a reckless, irresponsible thing for you to do."
"You're not helping the situation." Oliver paced. The teacups in the china cabinet rattled with each step. "We didn't know anything when he arrived. She could've been killed."
"And yet, she did what she thought was right."
"Actually, I got there after," Dorian said. "You'd already moved him to higher ground."
"We never moved him." Oliver scowled at the floor and resumed his pacing. "He was at the tree line when we got there, which only confirms…."
"Confirms what? Where is he now?"
"He's still making his way around."
"Do you think it's safe enough for us to bring him in?" Gram asked.
"No. There's a bigger problem. If Dorian didn't move him, we have proof." Oliver paused at the window overlooking the lake. "The kid isn't alone. Someone's traveling with him, though we haven't actually seen anyone. It's more of a feeling, like we aren't the only ones tailing him. And whoever it is, they're good. They aren't leaving any trace of themselves."
"Just like the man who killed off the spring?" Dorian asked, anger rising all over again. "Well, the trees would have recognized him if he was the same person. Maybe."
"Maybe he sent minions." Oliver draped his jacket over a kitchen chair and sat.
"Alpheus would have told me if there was trouble afoot," Gram said. "It's not the Makai."
"Have the trees seen anyone else?" Oliver asked, nodding when Dorian offered the food again.
"They haven't said anything, but I'll a
sk. Seems like they would've told me if they had."
Oliver nodded again. "The kid is definitely hiding something. He's easy enough to read, but parts of his mind are clearly guarded. Very deliberate. Someone named Alex sent him, probably as bait so they can make their move when we bring him into the village. Maybe he's carrying a tracking device, so someone can locate the village or, God forbid, the cave."
"So we can't bring him in?" asked Dorian.
"No way." Oliver shook his head. "He could also be a simple distraction, keeping Eric and I busy and exhausted while they attack." He turned his anger toward Dorian. "You could have walked right into their trap by showing yourself. Then their little scheme would have worked much faster."
"You still think Lazaro is behind this?" Gram asked.
"He's the only one with reason at the moment. On the other hand," Oliver added, "I don't see Lazaro taking this much time and effort. Plus, he already has access to the village through Tynan. The thing is, this kid is awfully naive. Hasn't used a stitch of personal power, not even to keep himself warm or dry at night. He's starving to death, stumbling around half-conscious most of the time, on some foolish quest for a ferry dock to get him off the island."
"A ferry?" Dorian smirked.
"You'd think he'd at least cheat a little," Oliver continued, "if he had orders to play a helpless victim to win us over. So, maybe someone snatched him off the street and he really is clueless. Maybe he's been brainwashed, or he's being controlled by something or someone. Either way, we have to keep the bigger picture in mind."
"Maybe we should make one," Gram suggested. "A ferry dock, that is. We'll borrow a boat of some sort, just so we can get him off the island without raising questions, before he gets in the middle of our affairs. We'll just…take him away like he expects us to."
"He's almost all the way around, but I think it's a fine idea," Oliver said. "Eric can build a dock when he's done with his cave shift. Sooner the better."
"Both of you are exhausted to the bone," Gram said, adding a slice of buttered bread to Oliver's plate. "You need to rest. If you don't want to bring people back from the search, let me call Alpheus. The Makai can do a quick security check and tell us what they think of the child."
