With those words he sliced the fillet knife through the air at her in a threatening manner.
“Look, mister, you leave the island, or I’m going to release the dog.”
He glanced at Feathers, who was growling and showing her teeth. She looked eager to go after him, sensing that he didn’t belong. He gestured with the knife again and Barbara, fed up at the stand-off, backed up slightly in order to release Feathers but still on lead. She could drop the rope at any time without hindering the dog or her protection of her home. The man’s eyes widened for a moment, and then, he went to pick up one of the sacks. Reaching into it unbalanced him for a moment, and Barbara took a couple paces forward, the pitchfork in one hand and the tense, eager dog on the end of the rope in the other.
“I said to put that down,” she repeated.
He was surprised she was closer and whipped around, the knife ready in his hand, but she also saw he had one of the guns from their closet in his other hand. Barbara didn’t hesitate. She let the dog go as she picked up the pitchfork and threw it like a javelin, landing in the man’s thigh a moment before Feathers got there. The man never saw the pitchfork coming as he concentrated on the attacking dog, bracing to use either the gun or the knife on her. The intense pain suddenly spreading in his thigh unbalanced and unnerved him for a moment. Barbara followed her throw and reached him in several long strides, knocking the gun hand aside as the man tried to bring it up and shoot the dog that had grabbed at his other pants’ leg. Barbara pulled on the pitchfork handle and yanked it out of his leg. He went down, cowering against the dog and pitchfork attack. Barkley was going crazy tied up at the sheep’s pen.
“I told you to get off our island,” Barbara repeated, knocking the knife out of his other hand as he cowered protectively against the ravaging teeth of the dog. His already dilapidated clothing was taking a savage beating from her. Barbara pulled back, holding the pitchfork protectively and pulling on Feather’s rope as she waited for the man to uncurl and get up. He slowly rose, looking at her wildly through his overly long and greasy hair. As he got up, she gestured. He looked at his knife, the gun, and the still growling and snarling dog for only a moment before he started moving. He began to limp from the clearing, making his way across to the far side and giving the pen and Barkley a wide berth. He was following one of the game trails. Barbara followed behind him, close enough to keep Feathers just one leap behind him but far enough away that he couldn’t turn and grab her pitchfork. Feathers had stopped growling and showing her teeth, watching the odd man intently as they followed. He slowly made his way down the steep slope, using trees to keep himself upright. She could see his pants becoming wet with the stain of the blood from the puncture wounds, some of them from the pitchfork and some, she was certain, from Feathers. They finally came down to one of the steepest climbs to the rocky beach. She remained at the top of the faint trail and watched as he painfully and slowly made his way down. She saw a rowboat, not unlike the ones they owned, and for a moment, she wondered if one of theirs had gone missing and they hadn’t noticed. He got in, pushing against the oncoming tide to start rowing. He stared back at her on top of the hill, her pitchfork in one hand and a practically slavering dog on a rope in the other hand. He made a gesture as he pulled on the oars, heading slowly away from the island and narrowly missing the huge rocks on this side as he went. She watched him long after he was lost beyond the rocks before she headed shakily back to the meadow, letting Feathers off the rope. The dog wanted to return to the deserted beach, but Barbara continued calling her back until she willingly came.
Barbara put the pitchfork back in the shed, untied a nearly apoplectic grown pup, and stood there shaking at what had just transpired. She made her way over to pick up the knife and gun, cocking it and checking the load. It had been fully loaded. She swallowed, wondering if the man really would have shot her or the dog. The thought of the children or Marion finding them like that nearly had her in tears as she lifted the bags back onto the porch. Her legs were still shaking and weak. She put the gun’s safety on before she put it in the waistband of her dungarees. Thinking about the time, she wondered when Marion would return. She checked the bayberries and determined they were more than ready to have the wax skimmed off. She turned off the burner and put the pot back on a cold burner. She noted the wonderful smell of the berries once more and then looked around the cabin for a moment. It was impossible to tell that the man had been there, but somehow, she felt violated. She saw one of the cats, Gray, sitting on the windowsill cleaning his paws and wondered if he had attacked the man.
Thinking about the rowboat, she had to know, so she made her way down from the meadow and checked the rowboats, the canoe, and the Woody. All were in their proper places. She had never thought to chain them up or lock them. She glanced to the west beyond their cove and saw the fog coming in. There were thick fogs in Maine in November and April, and she hoped Marion was ahead of this one. Hopefully, she had seen it rolling in and picked up the children, heading for home before it came in. It was eerie out on the water in a fog, which deadened sounds and made it impossible to see. Driving blind was dangerous, and they’d been very careful to avoid weather like that. She spent a worrisome afternoon waiting for Marion and the children to return, hoping the crazy man wouldn’t reappear, and watching the dogs constantly as she tried to settle down. She returned the bags of cans to their proper shelves, losing a couple of labels in the process. Her shakiness didn’t pass, and she ended up sitting on the porch, watching the sheep, the chickens, the guinea fowl, and the dogs. Only when the dogs settled down, one of them chasing its tail, did she begin to relax.
The trip back was a nightmare for Marion. She’d seen the fog begin to come down the mountain, picked the children up early from school, and headed for the boat. They were out beyond Tourmaline Island when the fog enshrouded them in its misty fingers, slowing their pace to a crawl. She worried that she would miss Whimsical Island completely as not only the fog impinged her ability to see but also the encroaching darkness. Even the familiarity of the trip was no help with the wide-open sea before her. She was sweating in her winter clothing, the children unnaturally quiet as she chugged along. Faintly over the noise of her motor she heard what she thought was another boat, some mumbling, and the telltale sound of oars. It was odd coming out of the mist, but they never saw the boat. She tried peering into the fog, looking for that creak of the oars she was certain she had heard, hoping to stop her boat if she could before she hit them. She slowed to a crawl as she heard waves on the rocks and began looking for the opening to their cove. She missed it twice, turning around as she recognized a rock that meant she had gone too far. Only the fates and a setting sun allowed her to see the opening for a moment, and she gunned her way inside. She was relieved to tie off the boat and hand groceries to the children to take up to the cabin.
“Are you okay?” Barbara asked as she ran down, smiling at the children as the dogs greeted them enthusiastically and heading to help her partner cover the boat.
“That fog was something,” was all Marion said as she put a couple more boxes on the pier and began to spread out the cover. Barbara reached for it, and between them they stretched it across the top of the boat to keep out water and possible snow.
“We had a visitor,” Barbara confessed, picking up one of the boxes after they had covered the boat.
“Oh?” she asked, never imagining what Barbara was about to tell her. The tale filled her with horror, and she hurried ahead. The children were alone up at the cabin, even if they were with the dogs. “What are we going to do?” she whispered in relief as she saw the children had put the supplies on the porch and were taking advantage of the fading light to play with the dogs before going in for the night.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to go across and make a report. If that man reports me for attacking him with the pitchfork or ends up in the hospital later, I want my version of events on paper.”
Marion agreed, and she too was uneasy that th
eir sanctuary, the island, had been violated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Barbara couldn’t make her report the next day. In fact, she couldn’t leave the island for a week due to the intense fog that had come down and shuttered the island. Every bark of a dog and every strange noise had the adults on edge. The children knew something was up with the women but couldn’t quite put their fingers on it. They saw both women go out with their guns to target shoot, and they begged to be allowed to touch the guns. Both women refused, telling them they were not to touch the firearms until they were teenagers.
By the time Barbara was able to get across to Franklin, the weather had begun to turn. Marion had insisted she write everything down that first day while it was fresh in her mind, and it was a good thing. Re-reading it, she realized she had forgotten details and added them. Her final report for the local police was very complete and contained all the details she had written down and copied to their report to make it official. She also turned in the fishing knife the man had left behind.
“Well, that sounds like that old hermit we have seen around from time to time,” the policeman told her, reading the report. “You definitely hit him with the pitchfork?”
She confirmed that she had, not proud of it but glad she hadn’t had to shoot the old geezer. The many cans of vegetables he had attempted to steal were back in their basement, so he knew the layout of their cabin quite well. It was obvious he wouldn’t have been detected had she not seen him go inside. They may not have realized how much he had taken and or noticed the gun missing for a while.
“Do you and Mrs. Whiting know how to use and fire your guns?” she was asked.
“Yes, my husband taught me, and we’ve both practiced.”
“How about the children?”
“We don’t allow them to touch the guns. They are far too young,” she said, sounding like a concerned mother. One thing she hadn’t anticipated was the news of the attack getting around town. Of course, it was exaggerated with every telling until it was well-known that the two crazy women who owned Whimsical Island were gun-toting women, who would shoot trespassers on sight.
He promised to let her know if they learned anything. They sent the report to the state police, but they weren’t hopeful of catching the man.
* * * * *
Barbara tried to put the incident behind her when the police promised to investigate but trying to find the old codger would prove difficult. No one knew where he lived or what he did. Sightings of him were rare, and it was assumed he lived off the land. She knew he stole to keep alive and had probably been stocking up for winter when she caught him red-handed. He had probably seen their basement stores as a bonanza. She now wondered if she should have just let him take the stuff, but when she looked at her own son and her partner’s children, she knew how close they themselves had come to starving the previous winter and decided confronting him was the only option.
They decided to pull the Runabout from the water in order to clean the bottom of the boat and then leave it out for a few weeks as winter had begun to shut down all travel. Using the block and tackle, they pulled the Runabout up on the wood ramp they had built for it, lifting it high enough that they could clean off anything that had stuck to the bottom. It was backbreaking work, requiring the block and tackle they had used on the trees, and they couldn’t go into town while the boat was out of the water. That was okay because some very bad storms came in, hindering work on the boat and keeping them indoors except to check on and feed the poultry and sheep.
“Here is some more wood,” Marion said as she brought in another pile. Even if the wood box was full, they brought wood in each trip, not knowing if or when they would be outside again. She smiled at Barbara, who looked up from the table. The children were listening to a radio broadcast. Brenda was coloring as she hummed along to the catchy songs, and the boys were debating who was more powerful, Superman or the Lone Ranger, while they waited for another serial story to come through on the shaky reception of the radio. With the antennae they had installed in one of the trees, the reception had improved but could still be static filled somedays, especially with the ongoing storms. “What are you working on?” she asked, seeing Barbara writing slowly and surely, in her neatest penmanship. A typewriter was on the list of things they wanted, and Barbara didn’t know it yet, but Marion had picked one up at a used furniture store for Christmas.
“I’m writing the Brownies and the Girl Scouts here in Maine,” she answered.
“Whatever for?” She glanced at Brenda, but she was absorbed in her coloring and humming.
“They have a bunch of groups in Southern Maine but very few up north here, and I’m inviting them to come and use our island as a camp destination for the girls. I was thinking about the school outing and overnighters. It might be fun, and we can give them a good rate. The idea of being on an island might just appeal to them.”
“What about the Boy Scouts?”
“I already wrote them, and I sent letters to the Cub Scouts too,” she said with a smile, tapping the small and growing pile of envelopes she was accumulating for the next time they went to town. It included advertisements they were sending out along with payment for the various magazines and newspapers they had used in the past. They were sending ads to some new ones they had found and were willing to give a try. Some even had photographs they had taken showing off the island.
Marion loved that Barbara handled that side of things for them. She would rather work with her hands than think up the ads. She knew she couldn’t always do the heavy lifting with her petite stature and relied on the block and tackle as well as her sturdy girlfriend for that. Still, she loved working with wood she had found and was looking forward to finding out if she could knit or crochet this winter.
They didn’t get out until well after the new year. The weather was horrible. Each time they thought perhaps they could get the boat in the water, the weather came down and socked them in with more snow, sleet, or rain that froze and caused a dangerous situation. It was a good thing they had plenty of food for themselves, the children, and their animals. They couldn’t go very far. Even hiking in the woods was dangerous. They couldn’t afford broken arms or legs, and the children were restless to go sledding or at least explore their wintery wonderland.
On a rare day when the barometer reading was favorable, they packed up their many letters in a waterproof sack, put the boat back in the water, and fired it up to let it warm up as they readied it for sea travel. They headed across the channel, avoiding their neighboring islands as they counted them, the children shouting out the names in a game they had invented.
Their post was horrendous, the amount they were sending out not nearly as deep as the mail coming in. In fact, it overflowed their box with all the letters, mailers, magazines, and newspapers they had accumulated. They dropped the children off for a rare day at school in order that they could attend to their many delayed errands. There were inquiries for several reservations next summer, and Barbara had thought ahead, bringing stationary, envelopes, and stamps to reply right away as they sat in the town diner and caught up.
“Mrs. Jenkins?” a voice asked as Barbara finished up on their return letters. She looked up to see a state police officer standing there, his hands on his belt and looking all official in his mountie hat.
“Yes, officer. What can I do for you?” she asked, her heart suddenly beating a mile a minute.
“May I join you two ladies?” he asked, gesturing to a chair they weren’t using.
“Certainly,” she said, pushing the chair across from her out with her booted foot. She finished signing the letter, folded it in three, and put it in the envelope printed with their tree and return address. She had already addressed the envelope and glued it shut on her letter, placing it on the small pile of letters they had written.
Marion looked up curiously. She had been reading a few letters from her in-laws, who had been amazingly cordial since the court case last fall. She wonder
ed why the man had sought Barbara out, correctly suspecting it was about the report she had filed.
“This is my partner, Marion Whiting,” Barbara said, introducing Marion politely. “And your name is...?”
“I’m Officer Blakemore, ma’am,” he said, saluting her with a finger to his hat as he removed it and sat down.
“Officer Blakemore,” they both said respectfully, showing their manners.
“I’m sure you are aware that your report was passed on to the state police?”
“They mentioned they would be doing that. Have you heard anything?” she asked, obviously concerned.
“I’ve been wanting to clarify a few things with you. You haven’t been to Franklin in weeks,” he sounded aggrieved.
“Yes, it wasn’t safe for us to leave the island,” she responded, and then, at his look, she explained, “The weather wasn’t conducive to us being off island.”
He looked relieved. For a moment, he had thought she meant the man had come back. He explained the finer points he wanted her to clarify, like how close she had been when she ordered the man to get off the island, when he pulled the gun, when she threw the pitchfork, and things like that.
“No offence, officer, but why are these things important?”
“It helps us determine the veracity of your report and makes sure it was self-defense.”
An Island Between Us Page 31
