by Tanya Allan
Marine III
Island of Dreams
By
Tanya Allan
Marine III – Island of Dreams –
Copyright2016 Tanya Allan
The author asserts her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone.
The Author
With enormous experience of life, the author brings to life some of the nastier sides of the human condition, with many of the better attributes. Having started writing as a teenager, but never publishing anything until the half century loomed, Tanya successfully brought together elements of the real world, her dreams, fantasies and failed aspirations to breathe life into three-dimensional characters and situations that warrant further attention. Known for producing happy endings (for the most part), but also keen to see true justice is seen to be done, which unfortunately doesn't happen as often as it should in real life.
Now concentrating on writing, the author enjoys foreign travel, family, faith and furry friends.
Books by Tanya Allan
Her AMAZON.COM PAGE: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004VTB5OQ
A Chance would be a Fine Thing (Knox Journals Book 1)
A Wedding and Two Wars (Knox Journal Book 2)
A Fairy's Tale
A Girl can but Dream
Amber Alert
A Tale of Two T’s*
Behind The Enemy - Book 1
Beginning's End – Book 2
The Candy Cane Club – Book 1
Dead End – Book 2
Dragons & Stuff!
Emma*
Entirely Blank
Every Little Girl's Dream #
Rise to the Challenge
Extra Special Agent
Fast Forward with a Twist
Flight or Fight
Fortune's Soldier
Gruesome Tuesday*
In Plain Sight*
In The Shadows
It Couldn't Happen, Could it?
Killing Me Slowly*
Marine I: Agent of Time*
Marine 2: A very Different Roman
Marine 3: Island of Dreams
Modern Masquerade
Monique*#
Monique (L’edition francais)
Queen of Hearts*
Ring the Change
Shit Happens - so do Miracles*
Skin*
Tango Golf: Cop with A Difference
The Badger’s Girl
The Hard Way*
The Offer
The Other Side of Dreams
There's No Such Thing as a Super Hero
The Summer Job & Other Stories
The Torc (Book 1 – The Emerging)
To Fight For a Dream*
Twisted Dreams*
TWOC - A Comedy of Errors
Weird Wednesday*
When Fortune Smiles - Book 1
Changed Fortune – Book 2
When I Count to Three #
Whispers in the Mind* - Book 1
Whispers in the Soul* - Book 2
*Paperbacks can be found here: http://www.feedaread.com/profiles/368/
# = Published on KOBO.COM
Author’s note.
Unlike the previous books in the series, this book is told through the eyes of several different people. Often, different people see events in a different way; yet subjective views are so much more meaningful than the objective third party narration.
Ed Ryan is still the focus of attention; however, others are equally as important, as you will see.
This, the third in the series, introduces us to more characters, one of whom we will see a lot more of in future books. However, just in case you haven’t read the previous two books, this one takes place upon Ed’s return from his second mission into the past. (See - Marine 1: Agent of Time & Marine 2: A very Unusual Roman)
Ed, a senior US Marine Sergeant has been told by a US Navy doctor that his active days are over, as his knee replacement is just not up to the task of an active service Marine. Having been given special leave by his Commanding Officer, Ed is on way to meet up with an old Marine buddy who is running a charter boat out of Florida. The charter is of a British scientific expedition to a remote island upon which some natives have been discovered who have been out of contact with the rest of the world for at least two centuries. Believed to be the descendents of a wrecked slave ship, the scientists seek to identify from where they originated by studying their language.
Ed never got there, as he was targeted and recruited into a mysterious Time Corps, dedicated to patrolling the streams of time and preventing illegal interference with the time line.
He finds himself propelled into the past at the time of the Napoleonic wars, as a woman. No sooner does he return from that one when he sets off once more to the old days of the Roman Empire.
However, after returning from his last successful assignment in the beginning of the second century AD, Ed is now allowed to carry on with his life and to actually take a well-earned vacation.
It turns out that a vacation is not going to happen, as the natives have a single racial memory of the men with white skins – that of the slavers who stole their ancestors all those years ago. Combine that with the news that a hurricane is on its way to the island mean that Ed is about to have to deal with a lot more than he initially expected.
However, Ed, and his new friends discover a lot more to the islanders’ history and culture than they anticipated. Some of which have the ability to change lives –is it for the better?
You decide!
Once again, my heartfelt thanks to Tom Peashey for his tireless editing skills.
Prologue
(& End of Book 2 – A Very Different Roman)
It was strange standing in the parking lot by the diner where I first met Michael.
It felt like it had been a long time since I was last here, and as I walked towards my mustang, it was hard to realise that it had just been the previous evening that I had gone to that shack and started the adventure of a lifetime – two lifetimes!
The sun was shining, and the trucks rolled by on the freeway oblivious to all that had occurred to me. I glanced at the diner to see the same plump waitress serving the truckers their breakfasts. I was almost tempted to drop in for a coffee, just to announce my return to the real world, but decided that it would never be as nice as the coffee that I had taken just a few minutes ago in the centre when I said farewell to Michael.
“No rush, old man; just use this to call us when you feel you want to come ba
ck,” he said, passing me what appeared to be a normal cell phone.
“Oh, it’s perfectly normal, except my number is already plumbed in and you won’t find it in any of the books,” he said, chuckling.
“What if there’s a rush job that you need me for?” I asked.
“We will know where to find you. Just enjoy yourself, try to forget us for a while.”
I laughed.
“Some hope.”
“We can eradicate Jane and Layla, just so you can focus on being you again. You can have some or all the memories back whenever you like.”
“No thanks, the memories help keep me sane.”
“Okay, then. Good luck.”
Moments later, through that gut-wrenching experience I had been through before, I ended up in the shack and alone this time.
It took me a few moments to reach the parking lot, to see that nothing had changed in my absence.
The car was as I had left it, with my holdall in the back. I slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. I almost expected it not to start as I’d been away for such an age. But then, I hadn’t, had I? It had been just a few hours for my car.
Minutes later, I was heading south once more with the sun on my face and wind whistling across where my hair should have been, had my scalp not been shorn.
I felt the ache in my knee and knew that I was home, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. Hell, I knew it, but didn’t have to like it.
I wondered what sort of people I’d meet on this little adventure. I hoped they’d be okay, as most academics I met were of a different mentality to me.
I settled down and relaxed, letting my mind rummage through the memories that I had accumulated. I was inordinately pleased that I had chosen to keep them, as most of them made me smile, even if I cried a little too!
Chapter One
The Linguist.
It was very late by the time I finished the paper, nearly two in the morning. The one thing I hated about academic institutions was their predilection for reams of papers that no normal person ever had the time to read. I knew for a fact that this tome would be probably read properly by a handful of people. Many students would skim to the parts that they would find relevant, but for most of the world, it would never see the light of day. However, universities are full of such people, who are anything but normal. I should know, as I am one of them.
After printing off the last page and saving my file to memory stick, I switched the PC off and turned out my desk light. It took me a while to put the pages in order and place them in the binder, which then went in my briefcase by the front door of my flat.
As I did so, I noticed an envelope on my mat. I didn’t recall seeing it there when I got in at 6pm, and I hadn’t heard it arrive.
It was simply addressed to me as ‘Dr. Gillian MacLeish’. There was no address, neither was ‘by hand’ or anything else written on it. I frowned, as in an age of email and telephones, mysterious notes were rare. But, as I said, universities are full of strange people.
I opened the note and read it.
Dear Dr MacLeish,
I apologise for contacting you in this manner, but I am in a bit of a rush. I was given your name by Professor Hyndman from Oxford, who assured me that you are the best in your field.
I am setting up a small expedition to an island near the Caribbean, off the northern coast of Venezuela.
This island, which is very small, is particularly difficult to land safely on, and for many years was thought to be uninhabited, and uninhabitable. It appears that a people group have been living there with no contact to the outside world. They are believed to be the descendants of the survivors from a slave ship that was wrecked in storms in the early nineteenth century.
My personal field of expertise and interest is primitive religions, and their development and evolution through displaced people groups. I have done extensive work with various tribes in Africa, and traced their descendents into other parts of the world through their religious practices and beliefs.
As a linguist, specialising in the African tribes’ dialects and languages, and the Afro-Americans’ language development, I thought you would be interested in joining the expedition.
The funds have been authorised, and I am seeking to take an anthropologist, a linguist, and a medical doctor as well. This group may still be living in conditions that have remained unchanged since the original survivors arrived there.
If you are interested, then please call me on the number below, at any time between 0800 and 2200.
Russell Whiteman
I had never heard of Russell Whiteman, but it was too late to check up on him now. I put the note in my briefcase and went to bed.
The alarm woke me at 07:30, but I felt as if I had not been to bed. I dragged myself to the bathroom and showered. I dried myself off, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
It is a funny thing to despise oneself, but I do. I have done so for an awfully long time.
Being now thirty-four years old, as I looked at my too-pretty face and delicate feminine figure, I wondered how fate happened to build me so. I had always been a tomboy as a little girl, where my Dad had been the centre of my little universe.
I was brought up on a farm in Scotland, so from my earliest memories, I recall the joy of riding across the fields on the back of an old motorbike and shooting in the woods. My four older brothers spoiled me rotten, as I just wanted to be like them. I wanted to do what they did, liking what they liked.
This was fine until I was about eleven, when my body decided to do something else. While boys of my age grew upwards, I grew outwards. Where they developed strong shoulders and sturdy legs, I grew breasts, developed an hour-glass figure and long fine legs.
My mother was inordinately pleased as I became so ‘pretty’. She kept telling me I had a figure to die for. However, she didn’t understand, no matter how often I tried to tell her that I wasn’t interested in clothes, in makeup and trying to catch me a boy who would in turn make me become yet another baby factory.
In a way, I was fortunate as fashions in the 70s were sufficiently vague and androgynous to allow me to dress comfortably, but rarely in the manner that my mother would like.
I can remember the day she took me to one side and asked if I was a lesbian.
She seemed not at all re-assured when I answered in the negative, because she then asked me, “Well, why haven’t you got a boyfriend?”
I hadn’t thought about it. So I did, realising that I had loads of friends who were boys, but none of them were interested in me as a girl, or maybe they were, but I regarded myself as just one of the group, one of the lads, if you will. Indeed, I had very few female friends, as I had nothing in common with any of them.
Sex?
This was the strange bit. I knew I was a genetic female, yet I wasn’t sexually attracted to men, and neither was I attracted to other females. However, in my dreams and fantasies, in which I invariably tended to be male, then and only then did I imagine having sex. The stranger thing was that my partners were always female, and they never had faces. Occasionally, I would fantasise about males, but this caused me some stress and anxiety.
I almost had a lesbian fling once, out of curiosity. I’d been at university in Oxford, where Candice was another student. She was openly bisexual, and at a party one evening, we had danced together. Too much drink reduced my natural inhibitions, and we ended up snogging on the dance floor.
Initially, it felt oddly right kissing a girl, but when I remembered that I was supposed to be a girl as well, it felt wrong.
I chickened out when she invited me to join her in bed.
I was one screwed up person!
As a result, I immersed myself in my studies, qualifying from Oxford with a first in French and African Languages. I then went to Paris and studied there for a couple of years. As I became interested in the West African dialects in particular, I went and spent some time travelling the various regions of West Africa, becoming a specia
list in my field. I had travelled extensively in Ghana, Senegal, The Gambia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Togo, Guinea and Cote d’Ivoire.
I accepted a position at Edinburgh University on the faculty, so was able to lose myself in the research and interests that I had developed. I did some teaching, but as I was getting increasingly bored with the academic life, I had negotiated a year’s sabbatical, to try to focus on what I really wanted to do. Therefore, this mysterious letter may be the beginning of something exciting!
I became aware that my nickname amongst the undergraduates and even amongst other staff members was ‘The Ice Maiden’.
I had long since decided that I was just an unlucky quirk of fate, and just decided to make the best of what I was. There was no room in my life for a male partner, and I shuddered at the very thought of ever becoming a mother.
A very butch girl once approached me, having decided that I was fair game and was quite offended when I rebuffed her attempts to seduce me.
I dressed, as usual, in jeans and a tee shirt, with a thick sweater and a black leather jacket. I had a nice pair of Cowboy style boots that a friend had bought in America for me. I wore no makeup and no jewellery, except a signet ring my father had given me when I turned eighteen. I had not even had my ears pierced. I kept my blonde hair short, as it was so much easier to deal with.
I had a quick piece of toast and a glass of orange juice, and then off by motorcycle to the University. I always got a thrill riding my Kawasaki 900 into the college, as few people expected a 5’6” female to be the rider. I wore a black helmet with black visor. I loved to watch the surprise on people’s faces when I took it off.
