by Matt Drabble
Time began to slip into oblivion and she had no idea how long she was running for her life for. Sometimes she would stumble to a staggering walk as her legs burned with the effort, but something would always spook her into running again as she couldn’t help but envisage hands reaching out to grab her and drag her away.
She ran and ran with tears streaming down her face, blurring her vision, until suddenly she burst through a thicket of heavy weeds and exploded back out into the cold night air. She stood panting as her lungs desperately tried to suck in life. Her hands were planted on her knees and she was doubled over in pain.
Finally, she stood up straight again once she had her breathing back under control. She looked around and saw that she was on the far side of the monastery now and closer to town than she thought possible as she could see the glowing lights of town..
She took a grateful step towards safety but a hand snaked out of the dark tunnel behind her and clasped painfully across her mouth to stop her screaming, before dragging her helplessly back into the dark.
Quinn woke up with her own hand clamped across her mouth. She sat up too quickly and fell from the bed with a loud thump onto the hardwood floor. She scrambled across the room until she reached the wall and threw the window open, gasping for fresh air.
It took her a few minutes before her heart rate would slow enough for her to think clearly. It had been years since she’d last had the nightmare and she’d thought that it was dead and buried for good. She supposed that coming back to this place would give the dream life again; so much for expensive therapy.
Once she had control of herself again, she returned to the bed and sat down on top of the covers, knowing that sleep would evade her for the rest of night.
That night had stayed with her for a long time afterwards. Her excursion through the catacombs had ended with her emergence into the night and a slow walk back to town; it was only in her dreams that she had been dragged back in.
It had been a long walk home, and she had only ever told one person about what she had seen that night - her best friend.
The only thing she had feared more than the Niners had been her own father, and if he knew that she’d snuck out, then she thought that maybe his temper would finally completely snap and his beating wouldn’t stop until she was dead.
Over the next few days and nights, she had slowly convinced herself that she hadn’t really seen what she thought she had. Blurred images ran through her dreams. Sometimes she was the one bound to the table, other times she was the one holding the knife to the lamb’s throat.
Quinn stood up again as goosebumps ran up and down her arms. She wrapped herself in the bedclothes and moved over to the large bay doors that opened outwards. She walked through out onto the balcony and waited for the sun to rise.
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Casey’s served as one of the town’s few focal points. She served booze, food and offered accommodation to the few overnight guests that Clayton received.
Casey Parker was a straightforward woman with little in the way of patience or tolerance for those who would waste her time. She’d been born on the island and she’d be buried here with a whole lot of people wasting her time in between.
She slammed her fist against the cooker as the gas choked and spluttered.
“Sonofawhore,” she snarled as she slammed the cooker again and added a kick for good measure.
This time the gas steadied and she lit the burners.
“Better.” She nodded curtly.
“Hello?” A voice called out from the dining area, but she ignored it.
“SERVICE!” The man bellowed this time, and Casey slammed the iron skillet down that she’d just picked up, imagining that it was the newcomer’s head underneath.
“What?” she snapped as she emerged out of the kitchen.
The man before her had checked in last night along with the Quinn girl. The girl was an islander. As far as Casey was concerned, if you were born here, you were an islander. It didn’t matter if you left the same day or how long you were gone. Likewise, if you weren’t born here, then you were a newcomer, regardless of how long you lived in Clayton.
“Well?” she demanded when the man didn’t respond immediately.
“I was after breakfast,” he said, flustered by her attitude.
“Whatcha think I was doing?” she said, exasperated.
“But I haven’t ordered anything.”
“You get what you’re given, and you’ll be thankful for it!”
With that, she slammed her way back into the kitchen, leaving the speechless man behind.
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“I’d like to say that you’ll get used to her, but that’d be a lie,” Quinn said as she moved into the room behind Haynes.
“She get much business with that attitude?”
“Well when you’re the only bar on the island, I guess people haven’t got much choice.” She shrugged.
“What’s she cooking in there?” Haynes whispered. “And will I have to eat it?”
Quinn chuckled as she reached for the coffee pot set up on the bar counter. She poured a large measure, drank it and then quickly refilled the cup. She needed the energy boost.
Haynes joined her at the one table laid up with cutlery and they waited in awkward silence. Shortly after, Casey exploded out of the kitchen door, booting it violently open before striding across the room and slamming two plates down on the table in front of them.
“Could I get a...?” Haynes started, but Quinn quickly silenced him with a hard glance. “Looks lovely,” he said, altering his words.
Casey stormed off without a word, and Quinn tucked into the breakfast before her.
“What is it?” Haynes asked.
“It’s good, trust me.”
He poked around his plate before slowly starting to eat. There was an assortment of blackened meats on the plate, swimming in grease, along with several eggs.
“Good,” Haynes finally said with a mouth crammed full. “I don’t normally eat anything big for breakfast.”
“It’s the island air - always sparks the appetite.”
Quinn ate quickly before pushing her plate aside. In truth, she hadn’t much mind for food that morning, but she knew that it was going to be a long difficult morning and she needed the fuel.
The bar door opened at that point and Dale Clayton walked in. She noticed that he was walking awkwardly as though he should be using a cane but was trying to act otherwise. It was typically vain of the man from what she remembered.
“Casey? Coffee, my dear,” Clayton called out as he entered.
“Get it your bloody self,” she spat back without coming into the room.
“Thank you kindly,” Clayton said for her and Haynes’ benefit. “Don’t you worry, Mr Haynes,” he said softly as he sat down. “The island will all change once your development gets underway. Old fossils like Casey and her ilk will be a thing of the past.”
“I don’t know. Tourists like a bit of local colour,” Haynes responded.
“Quite so! A themed resort, if you will,” Clayton said in a sickening crawling manner.
“So are we fit?” Haynes asked as he stood and walked away from the table towards the door, not allowing Clayton to drink his coffee.
“Just waiting for one more.”
The door opened at that point and the fourth of their party entered just as they all reached him.
“Mr Haynes, this is our local law enforcement, Constable Bowman.”
“Caleb?” Quinn couldn’t help but blurt out as she found herself staring at her childhood friend.
“Hello, Quinn,” he responded.
There was an awkward moment between them where she didn’t know whether to hug him or kiss him or shake his hand. In the end, they did a clumsy amalgamation of all three.
“You got big,” she said, grinning as she looked up at his towering frame.
“It happens.” He grinned back.
They stared at each other, neithe
r knowing quite what to say after nearly 20 years apart. Amusingly, Quinn found herself arching her back to make her look thinner in a rare moment of vanity.
“Are you two getting a room or can we get going?” Haynes demanded irritably, and the moment was broken.
CHAPTER 3
Two sides to every island story
Solomon Abel looked out across the fields and said a silent prayer of thanks to the Earth god for the bountiful harvest bestowed upon them. There would be an abundance of food to be eaten, stored and sold this year, and as usual he took it as a sign that they had pleased the gods once more.
He was an imposing man. He stood at a broad six feet 7 inches and most on the island had to crane upwards to look him in the eye. His hair was snowy white but kept short in a tidy manner by one of the Order. His gaze was piercing with a blue so pale it was almost translucent.
Apart from his impressive size, which had not waned despite his 86 years on this earth, it was the aura that he cast out which silenced a room as soon as he entered.
It had always been that way, ever since he had been a young boy. His mother had told him that he had been touched by God as a baby, and while he forgave her misguided views on religion and a single god, she had not been wrong about him being touched by the heavens.
He returned from his morning stroll out across their land. He took the walk every morning upon sunrise, a constitutional to give thanks and welcome the approaching day.
There was bad weather on the horizon, he could feel it. The air was electric and the elements were gathering strength out to sea. It was a feeling deep in his gut and his gut was never wrong; the storm was coming, and it would be a bad one.
He wore comfortable farming garb: dungarees and a plaid check shirt. The robes of the Order were only necessary for official ceremonies, and in truth, he found them more than a little cumbersome.
His hands were thick with the dirt of the land and that was how he liked it - his hands in the soil and the sun on his back. There was no better way to spend a day than in the service of the gods.
“Father?” a woman’s voice greeted him as he strode back through the gates.
All of the brothers and sisters called him Father; it was an apt moniker.
“Yes, Sister Abigail?”
“Will you be taking breakfast this morning?” the young woman asked shyly.
“I have already taken my sustenance. Thank you, child,” he answered warmly.
Sister Abigail was an attractive young woman with a kind soul and had already started to attract interest from several potential suitors. In the Order, it was the Father’s job to arrange unions and, as in most things, his word was law.
The sister bowed slightly before taking her leave with blushing ruby cheeks, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
There were a lot of thoughts these days and many of them were sour. Try as he might to embrace the glorious days ahead, there was a storm brewing on the horizon. Every omen seemed to be pointing only one way and it troubled him greatly. It was hard to believe sometimes, especially on such a glorious morning as this, but trouble was coming, and it was big enough to swallow them whole.
He spotted Brother Torvan over on the far side of the courtyard deep in conversation with Brother Tunstall.
Torvan was his right hand and had been for many years now. Torvan had been a wayward child with a heart too eager to run to anger, but Solomon had always seen potential in the child and had taken him into his inner circle.
He saw a lot of himself in the boy. Despite Torvan’s proclivities for violence, he was a charismatic young man who drew others to him with ease.
Solomon crossed the courtyard and was a little troubled to see Torvan send Brother Tunstall away when he spotted him coming.
“Good morning, Father,” Torvan greeted him warmly.
“Anything I need to be aware of?” he asked, nodding in Brother Tunstall’s rapidly retreating direction.
“The brothers and sisters are growing nervous, Father. There is an ill wind blowing in our direction; we can all feel it.”
Solomon hid his surprise at such an open display of questioning, even from his right hand.
“There is talk?” he asked as he looked back at the main building, feeling the eyes inside watching.
“Word from town is that they are sending someone here. Some newcomers arrived at the docks yesterday.”
Solomon sighed heavily. Of course he knew all about the newcomers - or, more accurately, the one newcomer and the one returnee.
He suddenly felt old. A rush of tiredness hit him hard, and not for the first time, he worried about the future of his family. Torvan had never quite managed to shed the darkness that was undeniably part of him and Solomon’s blind faith towards him had not been repaid.
“Father? The newcomers?”
“They will be here soon.”
“Here!” Torvan exclaimed, close to panic. “We have to... we have to prepare... I can have – what - maybe 12 strong brothers to man the gates.”
“Easy, Torvan. This is not a day for violence.”
“The hell it’s not, Father! They are coming here to try and take what’s ours, and I promise you, they will only find death waiting for them.”
“That is not our way, Brother.”
“Then maybe it should be. This is our home, Father.”
“The gods will protect us. They’ve always provided.”
“But they’re coming here… to our home… to our church! They’ll soon be at our gates!”
“Enough, Torvan.”
“I say we show them our strength. I say we show them our steel and our blades.”
“Enough.”
“I say we take the newcomers and show them and the whole island that this is our land and we’ll defend it with our blood.”
“ENOUGH!” Solomon roared, loud enough to send a scatter of birds flying up into the air off the tall stone walls.
“I don’t know why this darkness still lives in you, my brother. I have prayed and I have prayed to all the gods to take this pain from around your heart but it still lives on there. We will welcome our guests, Torvan. That is our way; that has always been our way. It is not up to us to judge those who do not believe. Their judgement will fall from a much loftier perch.”
Solomon reached out and placed a hand on Torvan’s shoulder. They were much the same height with similar builds, as was often the way with fathers and sons.
Torvan’s mother had been a kind and gentle soul so Solomon could only blame himself for the darkness that lived within his son. Marriage was a pious union within the Order, but the taking of last names was only seen as arbitrary.
The love and union between a man and woman required neither to sacrifice their family name. When children were produced, they were allowed to choose a family name to carry forward, hence why his son retained his mother’s surname.
He was aware that outsiders would look upon such a gathering as his with suspicion and vile thoughts, but the Order was a calling, a devout one. There was no abuse here, no deviant behaviour; they loved each other like a family and he had loved his late wife.
Esmeralda had been the softest of butterflies and once the gods had decided to recall her to the heavens, Solomon hadn’t taken another. His wife was dead.
She had gifted him a strapping son in Torvan, an heir for the Order, a leader for the next generations to follow, but he had always been a troubled child, too quick to anger and too slow to love. More and more now Solomon was starting to worry about the future when he was no longer in control.
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Quinn rode up front as Caleb drove. Haynes and Clayton both seemed to favour the back seat of the 4x4. She guessed that they both preferred being driven to doing the driving.
“So...,” she started and then trailed off.
“Yeah...,” Caleb replied, staring ahead a little too hard.
There was an uncomfortable silence between them, one that surprised her in spite of the ye
ars that had passed.
They had grown up together and had been best friends, as close as siblings. Her only fond childhood memories revolved around Caleb. He’d been the only one who could make her laugh, and that had been a precious commodity as a child.
Her father had always been quick to anger with a quicker fist, but her mother had kept him in check and spared her the worst of his wrath by taking so much of it onto her own shoulders. After her mother had succumbed to cancer, there had been nothing to shield her from her father.
As they drove, she felt like it was all coming back to her in hard waves, no matter how much she tried to block it out. She realised now that she’d been monumentally naive in hoping to get on and off the island unscathed.
“Been a long time,” Caleb added to the silence growing between them.
“I know... I should have written or… you know..., something.”
“Yeah..., me too.”
He took his eyes off the road for a second and they met hers and suddenly they were both laughing. It was a moment that broke the chasm between them and something else started to slowly seep into the gap.
“So you got married,” he stated.
“Yep, married and divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was a dick. Besides, he could never make me laugh.”
“Jesus, Quinn, I missed you,” Caleb said, suddenly slapping a hand down hard on the steering wheel in pent-up anger at the waste. “I know how tough things were, especially with your father being... well, being the way he was. I understand that you had to leave, but you were my friend - hell, my only friend - and I missed you.”
She was touched by his words. They had just been kids. Islanders forged strong bonds; it was something about the isolation. She had been in her early twenties when she’d gotten out and her friend was the only thing she regretted leaving behind.
“So what about you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“Married? Kids?”
“Nope. Just never happened, I guess.” He shrugged.
“No prospects on the island?”
