by Kerr, Toni
"Hell no! I don't want Donovan anywhere near this place. Besides, we have it under control. We're just monitoring him at this point, which isn't hard to do when he travels so slow."
"But maybe we're missing something?"
"If someone wants to find the village through this boy, all we have to do is make sure he doesn't get anywhere near it." Oliver smiled mischievously at Dorian, sending a shiver of dread down her spine.
"What?" she asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
"Tell the trees to relay a warning the instant he steps into the forest, then come get me." He looked at Gram and his smile faded. "We don't need the Makai when we have our own army of eyes and ears at every possible location. No one ever suspects the trees."
16
- CROSSING THE LINE -
TRISTAN STARED ACROSS THE OCEAN, desperately willing the sun to rise. The waves were non-existent in the shelter of the crescent-shaped inlet. He huddled under the quilt for what seemed like hours, too cold to do anything but blink.
When the sun finally showed itself, he judged the shore to be facing northeast. The thought made him smile. Who needs a compass?
Tristan got to his feet and scouted the area for food, hoping to get some circulation in his toes before moving on.
If he never found a soul, this beach would be his home base. The other shorelines had sharp rocks and unstable logs, but this beach welcomed a person with soft sand and plenty of light driftwood. He might even find enough to construct four walls and a roof. Of course, surviving would assume he could find a food source. He wondered how long a person could last on water alone.
An hour of stumbling along the forest line passed before he reached the end of the inlet. Rocky cliffs made his path more dangerous, forcing him to backtrack several times for alternate routes. Eventually, the shoreline leveled out again.
By late afternoon, after an unplanned nap in the sun, Tristan stripped to shorts to survive the heat. He still couldn't find anything resembling food and started chewing leaves, sticking with the least bitter.
An arrangement of rocks caught his attention. He headed toward it, thinking it just might be the first real sign of inhabitants—it resembled a small gravesite. Closer, he noticed gray ash within a circle of stacked stones, bringing ceremonial sacrifices of small children to mind. He stirred through the remains with a pointed rock, relieved at not finding hints of bone.
"No way," he whispered, as the memory of the location weakened his knees.
The fire pit was his own from...he couldn't remember how many days ago. He dropped all his gear as realization swept over him—he'd just circled the entire island without seeing a single thing hinting at civilization. Nothing to indicate anyone ever existed on the island before him.
Tristan held the bowl to his chest. Did Charley the redhead give it to him? With instructions to make the gunk, and he just couldn't remember making it? He sat on the duffle bag and faced the forest. The last obvious place to go, but if he did….
Hadn't Alex warned him not to?
Unable to lean toward pro or con, Tristan turned to face the ocean. He was too physically and mentally exhausted to do anything except slide to the ground and give up.
* * *
Tristan opened his eyes when he heard a sound that didn't fit with the ocean. The sun hung lower on the horizon. He heard the sound again and searched the sky, feeling a bit stupid for suspecting the falcon that turned up at the oddest times.
Something ducked behind a bush in the line of trees. Tristan stood, weighing the risks of pursuing while the explosion of black dots in his vision cleared.
The lack of food was getting the best of him, he knew. It could have been a bird landing on a branch, or it might have been a person. He set off toward the spot.
Another movement caught his attention. A person turned away, then dashed deeper into the forest. A tan colored hood partially covered his head and long chestnut hair hung straight on either side. He appeared tall and broad shouldered, mid-twenties for age, and gave the definite impression of being male, despite having long hair.
Tristan smiled, relieved for the clarity of his thinking despite his clumsiness. Besides that, the man had a familiar face. Tristan stopped at the line of trees to consider his actions carefully. Why had he made such a conscious effort to stay out of the forest? He glanced over his shoulder to where his bags sat in the rocks. He wouldn't be surviving for much longer if he stayed on the beach.
Before he could change his mind, Tristan crossed the line and ran into the forest after the man. But there was no trail to follow. No crumpled grass, no disturbed dirt. Tristan stopped to get a sense of direction. Standing in a small meadow, circled by bushes and trees, it occurred to him that he might have just fallen for some sort of trick put on by the natives.
A face appeared to be watching him from behind every third tree, in every direction. Even the air seemed to be waiting for something. Black masses flickered in his vision, taking over in the same quickening rhythm as his heartbeat. Tristan dropped to his knees, trying to hold his hair out of his face.
Captain Alex's words came to mind: Better yet, kill me first.
17
- FORKS IN HIGH PLACES -
A FIRE CRACKLED a few feet away, holding back the cold night. Tristan's quilt, warm and dry, was tucked around him. His head rested against his rolled jeans. The waves whispered, not far off. Tristan looked for faces of natives in the outer rings of firelight, but saw nothing.
His bags were both nearby, untouched. Three forgotten granola bars practically glowed in the light, stashed in the mesh pocket. How could he have missed seeing them before? He stretched to reach one and sat up to unwrap it, still searching for the glint of watching eyes.
The man in the forest had seemed real enough, but maybe he'd officially gone batty. If not by isolation, then by the lack of food. He was pretty sure the waves were making fun of him, not to mention the fact that he'd chosen this over a paying job.
Tristan finished the granola bar and stared at the fire with no memory of making it, then gazed at the brilliant masses of stars. How familiar they all seemed.
When he woke again, midmorning brightened everything. The smoldering fire put off an amazing amount of heat. Previously, he'd wake to dead-cold ashes and a soggy quilt.
Two granola bars remained stashed in plain sight. Tristan took one out and wondered how long he should make it last. A day? Two days? He took one bite and put it away, spotting the bag of rusted fishhooks and fishing line he'd stolen from the ship.
His mouth gaped. "How could I forget?"
Excited by the thought of actual food, Tristan began searching for worms, finding a nice fat one under a log along the edge of the forest. He wrapped the line on a stick and discovered that if he tied a rock near the hook he'd get better distance on the cast.
After a solid hour of losing more than half the hooks, he remembered fish weren't only in the ocean. He packed his belongings and faced the forest, without feeling the usual apprehension. With any luck, he'd have half a day to find shelter and a stream to fish from.
Fears resurfaced when he followed his own tracks to an area of flattened grass—proof that he'd entered the forest before. He'd convinced himself he'd dreamt the strange event.
He looked around for signs of people. Someone must have moved him to the beach. Unless he made it back by himself and couldn't remember. He took a shaky breath and continued into the brush, in the direction he would have gone if he'd been able to follow the man.
He soon came upon a clearing where a sweet scent filled the air, making him light-headed and giddy. Three fruit trees clumped together in the center. He dropped his baggage and gathered perfect…pears? Peaches? Apples? Not a clue. The fruit's sweetness drenched his mouth. Never in his life had he seen or tasted anything so heavenly.
Tristan stuffed a few in his bags, wherever space allowed, wondering if this small grove was part of the natives' trap. Had he just poisoned himself? He'd alr
eady eaten two. He tossed the cores to the thicker brush and snuck away while he could, careful not to leave an obvious trail.
* * *
Hours of wandering deeper into the forest passed before Tristan could no longer ignore the sensation of being watched. He slowed his pace and made a point to study every shadow, finally spotting a large bird bending the tip of a fir tree. "I don't believe it."
Tristan shook his head and looked for the sun through the trees, determined to keep his sanity and find a place to camp before dark. A sugar rush might explain such a hallucination—he turned back to the fir tree to test the theory. The bird was still there, as plain and real as could be. The falcon.
"Are you following me?" It might be the wrong falcon or not a falcon at all. Tristan squinted to see it better, doubting it would move. "Can you fly me off this island?"
The bird glided from its perch, landing gracefully on a low branch at eye level. Its feathers glimmered in deep shades of reddish-brown and ginger, with black stripes lining its tail and wings, white feathers at the arching joints. Its golden-orange eyes held a mischievous gleam.
Tristan smiled—half in awe, half making an agreement with himself to follow the bird no matter where it led. As if spoken aloud, the falcon flew from branch to branch, deeper into the forest, waiting for Tristan to catch up.
The falcon led Tristan in a new direction, the incline becoming steeper with each step. The temperature dropped. Wind blasted through the trees, making it even colder. Tristan stopped to add more clothing for warmth and pulled out his flashlight.
A steady downpour began and the soft dirt of the mountainside became slick with mud. The weight of his bags seemed to keep him from making progress on the steep terrain. They'd be lost forever if he left them behind. He never should have come this way in the first place.
"Do you think I'm a freakin' mountain goat?" Tristan yelled into darkness, having no idea where the falcon waited. "There'd better be a warm cave up there!"
The dim flashlight lit the falcon in a nearby tree. "Great," Tristan muttered and glumly trudged on. Without thinking, he scooped a handful of mud and threw it at the traitorous bird. It flew away, but not before being hit square in the chest.
Tristan sighed and turned off the light, continuing upward in a show of faith.
"Sorry!" he called, hoping the falcon stayed within hearing distance. "It was an accident!" The statement sounded oddly funny and he laughed.
Tristan tried to regain composure and seriousness. "Okay, I lied. It wasn't an accident. I forgot you were a bird." The statement seemed more true but funnier than the first and he couldn't help laughing again.
Just as fast, his mood became serious in questioning his sanity. Was he seriously following a bird without question? He shook his head and sat on a decayed log to eat the last of the granola bar.
* * *
Slipping as often as not, drenched with mud, Tristan made it above the trees. The terrain grew rockier and less dark. Rain lightened to a drizzle. Backlit clouds thinned out, exposing a partial moon.
An annoying banter of squawks came from somewhere nearby. Tristan hit the flashlight against his leg to coax more power. It flickered on wet rocks at his feet, but definitely not far enough to find the falcon. Within seconds, the flashlight didn't work at all.
"Too bad," Tristan replied to the bird, not understanding any of its intentions and no longer caring. His muscles trembled with fatigue and anger seemed to get him thinking again. Why on Earth would he expect a warm cave at the top? A big rock blocking the wind was his best chance for shelter. The falcon couldn't possibly expect more from him tonight.
He'd just gotten past the torment of being cold and wet, drifting into a numb oblivion, when something hit his chest. It made a metal clanking sound as it bounced against the rocks at his side. Startled, he fumbled with the flashlight. The falcon screeched and Tristan spotted a tarnished fork wedged between rocks before the light flickered out.
"People?" Tristan asked, squeezing his hand between rocks to reach the fork. "This isn't really a good time for me."
The falcon landed at his feet and began pecking at his shoes.
"Fine!" Tristan stood, unsure of how far the falcon would go to make him move. "Have it your way."
Tristan stepped carefully, stopping often to wait for the sliver of moon to reflect on rocks. "You're probably good at seeing in the dark," he said miserably, complaining as much as possible.
He began a slick zigzagging descent until a wooden tapping sound stopped him. He held his breath, waiting to hear it again.
Through a break in the clouds, faint moonlight fell upon the shingled wall of a building. Shocked by the sudden appearance of an actual man-made structure, Tristan flattened himself behind a boulder, afraid he'd already been spotted.
The falcon shrieked and pecked against the wooden window frame.
Tristan stared at the moon, debating what to do. Someone might be sleeping inside. He watched the falcon disappear into the square of pitch-blackness and fly out through an empty door space, disappearing into the night.
"Abandoned?" It did sort of look rundown. Tristan couldn't tell if it was a house, a shack, or a shed.
He approached the structure slowly, wishing his flashlight would make up its mind to be dead or not. If there was a door, it was already open. "Hello?"
Nobody answered.
Tristan tested the floor with one foot before shifting more of his weight. It seemed sturdy enough to walk on. He shook the flashlight again and spotted a tangle of rope hanging from one wall to another. The structure seemed deserted. He let the backpack fall from his shoulders and inadvertently bashed his shin against something hard.
He hoped the structure served as someone's storage place and searched the duffle bag for his quilt, spilling handfuls of fruit in the process. Water dripped from everything, probably making his bags twice as heavy.
Tristan sank to the floor, determined to stay awake in case someone walked in. But what did it matter? He was freezing and dozing by first signs of dawn. He'd probably die of pneumonia before starvation.
In the dim light, the ropes strung between walls looked like a hammock—he tested the stability and climbed into the netting. Getting caught might be the only way to survive.
18
- BAD SMOKE SIGNALS -
THE RUSTIC SHACK GLOWED with a warm, greenish light. The entrance didn't have a door and Tristan couldn't tell if the window frame had ever held glass. For a table, a large slab of wood balanced on a wide stump. Three smaller logs served as chairs.
A single wooden shelf sagged above a long counter, extending to the far wall. In the center of the room, a pile of chopped wood sat beside a woodstove made of brick.
A broom leaned in a corner, its bristles in a cracked bucket, and a skillet rested in a stainless-steel sink. All the cupboards under the counter were bare, and in a drawer to the right of the sink, Tristan found a wooden cigar box half-eroded by mice. A rusted spyglass and a broken compass lay inside. He returned the box to the drawer and explored the rest of the room, deciding to risk starting a fire.
The natives couldn't be all bad if they tried to lead him to the little orchard. He felt fine, so the fruit didn't appear to be poisonous. Hallucinating might explain the event better, maybe induced by a breeze carrying the sweet scent. But he couldn't explain waking on the beach, unless it was a message from the natives to stay on the beach.
Tristan stepped outside to look for kindling. The surroundings stopped him dead.
The shack balanced on a ledge with a steep cliff on one side and sheer rocks to the top of the mountain on the other. Tristan walked carefully along the narrowing pathway to an area of full sun, surprised he hadn't plunged to his death in the dark of night.
He leaned against a boulder, letting the heat radiate into his bones. The path he'd used the night before led up and around the mountain. It also sloped to the forest below, zigzagging to a crystal-clear lake, surrounded by rolling, tree-covered
hills.
There were no other signs of civilization.
Changing his mind about the fire, Tristan went back to the shack with a new plan. He dumped all his belongings onto the table and repacked everything washable into the duffle bag, being sure to include the water jug, hooks, and fishing line.
The trip to the lake went faster than expected. He waded into the water and did his best to wash his clothing and quilt, tossing cleaned items to a rock jutting outward toward an extreme drop-off. He waded in deeper to dunk himself, determined to work the mud and tangled matting from his hair. When the washing was done, he climbed onto the rock to wring everything out and lay in the sun.
At the end of the rock, Tristan gazed into the depths of the lake, dwelling on the falcon and who might have built the shack.
Since a ferry dock didn't seem to exist, he considered using the spyglass at the top of the mountain, where he might spot an airstrip cut in the trees—if there were still people who traveled back and forth to the mainland. If not, well....
He wondered how many years it had been since the captain's visit. What happened to the people and the ferry? Was he destined to end up like them?
Tristan shut the questions away and woke a short time later, sunburned. He thought of building a large fire to send smoke signals if he happened to see an airplane.
In the lake, several large fish swam about eight feet down. Tristan raced for a worm and unwound a short amount of line, staying away from the water's edge as he let the hook sink. Within seconds, a fish threatened to pull him in. He yanked it out, sending the poor thing flying into the bushes when his line snapped.
He'd never actually killed a fish, but he had to become a hunter if he expected to survive. He washed his hands, left his belongings, and hiked up the mountain with the fish as he recalled an infomercial he'd seen about knives—how they'd gutted and filleted a fish for demonstration.
