Atlantic Pyramid

by Michelle E Lowe

  Gavin’s expression turned sour but he said nothing. Instead, he headed inside the hut. I followed him with my eyes only until he vanished.

  The brightening sky pulled my attention away from the hut. I noticed a pattern to Gavin’s visits. He always seemed to appear while I was exhausted and too hazy in the head to get a grip on his presence. But I couldn’t understand why his spirit haunted me. I wished Lafitte had given me a better explanation.

  The morning sky was vibrant again, just as it had been the morning before. Without the fog, the view was clear, but as soon as the sun began to peek over the horizon, the fog arrived, covering the scene with a gloomy gray mist. Yet I saw tanker ships on the horizon, some tilted sideways, others capsized. The massive white sails of galleons reached toward the sky. Hundreds of boats and airplanes lay scattered about. Calling it a junkyard was apropos.

  I heard loud clicking noises as the Shark Hunter flock flew over the village. I expected them to swoop down for another kill, but they made a circle before landing on the beach. Their clicking and shrieking was ear-piercing, like thousands of spoons tapping against ceramic dishes.

  Paddy emerged from his hut, shouting, “Shut it, you damn birds! Get the hell outta here!”

  The Irishman jumped over his porch railing and threw stones at the flock. He didn’t frighten the birds. Instead, he was forced back to his hut when a group flew in his direction. He screamed, flinging his arms to block their attack.

  I wanted to assist him but I noticed a man standing by my own railing. For a split-second, I thought it was Gavin. I jumped back before I realized it was Dominic, who also watched the show.

  As Paddy ran toward his hut, Dominic murmured, “Ah, Paddy, you certainly have the luck of the Irish in you.”

  Paddy bolted into his hut but emerged a moment later, swinging a broom at the birds. Dominic watched for a few minutes, then turned to me and said, “Guten morgan, Herr Sharp.”

  “Morning.”

  “How was your first night?”

  “Actually, it was my second, and it was fine, thanks.”

  A horrendous scream interrupted our conversation as Paddy was chased back inside by one of the birds he whacked with the broom.

  “Paddy sometimes lets his emotions outweigh his good sense,” Dominic said.

  I took his word for it.

  “I overhear you speaking to someone a little while ago,” he said, leaning against the railing. “Is someone with you?”

  “No,” I replied evasively.

  “So, you come in a plane?”

  “What? Um, yeah, a Cessna Skyhawk.”

  “I come on the freighter, Anita, in 1972. The storm brought us in, like it bring everyone else in. We end up on other side of the island. I didn’t care for the people there, so me and the rest of the crew go to South Village. Some stayed, but others come to North Village. Miss Houghton welcomes us here. She’s a wonderful woman.”

  He lapsed into silence and I decided to change the subject. “My boss, Jason Starr, flew Hawk jets during the Gulf War.”

  “Starr had been a good man and a good friend. He insisted that we call him by his last name—not Mr. Starr, just Starr. He’d loved to tell stories about students vomiting in flight or discovering their fear of heights during their first time in the air. He was also prone to mood swings, which sometimes got us into trouble in bars. Even so, I wished he was on the island with me.”

  “You miss this friend?”

  “I guess, even though I haven’t really started missing anyone yet.”

  “That’s because you don’t accept that you not going anywhere.”

  His words stung. I hadn’t yet accepted that I would be stuck on this island forever. It didn’t seem possible. After all, the fog wasn’t a wall and there were no guards to force anyone to stay. If I was really immortal now, I had plenty of time to figure out a way to escape. I was determined to explore every option before surrendering all hope.

  “Have you ever tried getting out?” I asked.

  “Nearly everyone does, and by the looks of you, I am sure you will too. Just do not get killed when you do.” He set his sights on my hut. “You decide to stay here, even with Mr. Pine down there?”

  “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “You could put a plank over him and then set potted flowers on it. That is how many people handle their dead.” He turned to go and said something that sent chills up my spine. “This place can take a toll on a man. If time don’t do it, the things living on the island will.”

  I climbed down the long staircase, heading for the beach. My mouth felt grainy. I really wanted to brush my teeth, but I had neither a toothbrush nor toothpaste. I had a bag of toiletries on the plane but I didn’t look forward to going back to retrieve them. I cursed myself for not bringing them with me.

  I thought about what Dominic had meant when he’d said by the looks of you. Was he referring to my youth or had he been on the island long enough to spot a dumbass? I was an energetic young man, a big kid, really, unable to sit in one place for any length of time. Because of my active lifestyle, I was in great shape. Maybe that was why Dominic assumed I’d eventually try to escape.

  As I passed Paddy’s hut, he peeked out the window and called, “Psst! Hey, new bloke, are those bleedin’ birds gone?”

  I looked to where the flock was clicking away at the waterline. “They’re down on the beach. I think you’re safe for now.”

  His head vanished from the window. A moment later, his front door swung open and he emerged holding a candle. He had scratch marks on his shoulders and arms, and bled above the left eye.

  “Are you all right?” I asked as a goat followed him out.

  “Aye, it was just a little scuffle.”

  He plopped down on his patio chair, reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts, and brought out a pouch of tobacco. He began rolling a cigarette in a brown leaf. “I guess I should’ve known better than to mess with them bloody birds, but I never did have much sense.” He pointed his chin to the other patio chair nearby. “Have a seat, lad.”

  I sat while Paddy rolled his cigarette. He lit it with the candle. “Want one?”

  “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”

  He exhaled and patted the goat’s head. “If it’s your health you’re worried about, it won’t make much difference here.” He took a drag, looked me up and down, and added, “It’s a good thing you and I came here in our prime, unlike some poor buggers, like ole’ Carlton. He’s gonna be in that old, wrinkled, fat body forever. Can you imagine?”

  “Was he sick when he came here? Is that why he’s so pale?”

  Paddy scratched his chin. “Y’know, I really can’t say.”

  I shuddered at the thought of being locked inside such a body for eternity, especially in a place loaded with so much danger. But living in a community like North Village gave him a better chance.

  “’Course I wouldn’t want to be a kiddy forever, either.”

  “What about women? Can they get pregnant?”

  “Nah, lad, the way you came in is the way you stay.” He examined a wound on his arm. “There’ve been a couple of cases of women who’ve arrived pregnant. Sad story there.”

  “Why? What happened to them?”

  “The first was at the turn of the century. A lady sailing with her husband on their yacht when the storm got ’em. She was two months pregnant and always sick. The baby never grew. She threw up and felt fatigued for a solid year. She couldn’t stand it anymore and forced herself to have a miscarriage.”

  “How did she do that?”

  “With a stick. She survived but was miserable for years afterward because she kept seeing the fetus everywhere she went. She now lives with her husband in South Village.”

  As the goat wandered away, I asked, “Is that your goat?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. She keeps coming here. I think she likes me, but I want none of that.”

  “What about the other pregnant woman?”

&n
bsp; “She arrived with her mum and dad on their yacht back in the seventies. Nice girl, barely out of her teens. She was eight months pregnant when she arrived. Her child didn’t grow but she didn’t want to get rid of it. About eight years ago, she hung herself.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. She was melancholy after being pregnant for so long and never able to see her child. It’s just another sad story in our history book.”

  I sank into my chair. Paddy slapped me on the arm. “Don’t look so miserable. Here, let me get you something to drink.”

  He went into his hut and came back with a glass bottle. I assumed it was water and gulped it down. It was alcohol and burned my throat like hot coals. I coughed as tears filled my eyes, my faced flushing.

  I handed the bottle back to him, and it was several minutes before I was able to choke out, “What the fuck is that stuff?”

  “Good whiskey, eh?” he said, laughing loudly. “Made it meself. Since inherited Miller’s Tavern after the man got himself killed some time back, I’ve taught myself how to brew. Ol’ Miller had built his own brewery in the basement of the tavern.” He snorted. “Funny, I didn’t want the place, but s’pose someone’s gotta take it, why not the Irishman, eh?”

  “I’ve never tasted whiskey like this before.”

  “That’s ’cause the ingredients I use here are different from those on the outside. I’m sure you noticed a strange aftertaste in the wine.”

  “I did.”

  “It’s the same with other alcohol. Same with tobacco and food. It tastes about right, but different. That’s just the way the island works. We have to make do with what we’ve got.”

  I rose unsteadily and made my way to the end of the pier, where I stepped onto the beach. The dark grains of sand felt good beneath my bare feet. The anglers already stood beside the still ocean, each holding a pole. I stopped next to them but not one of them acknowledged me.

  “It might help if you put some bait on your hooks,” I suggested to the woman closest to me.

  Each of them turned their heads in my direction and stared before returning their attention to the ocean. I decided to stroll farther down the beach and eventually reached a spot where I could stand alone and gaze out over the misty water and nearby wreckage. As impossible as it seemed, given everything that had happened since my arrival, there was only one thing on my mind at that moment. Eleanor.

  Although I’d just met her, she’d captivated me in a way I hadn’t felt in a long while. She was interesting to talk to and intelligent. I looked forward to spending the day with her to learn more about the island—and about her.

  I wondered if I should visit her at her hut, but it was still fairly early. I also thought about going back to my place to wait for her there. I feared if she didn’t find me at home, she might change her mind about showing me around. The dock construction would start soon and she might have a lot to do before it began.

  Just as I turned, a figure appeared. I stood motionless as Eleanor’s shapely form drew closer.

  “Ah, Mr. Sharp, there you are,” she called happily. “Are you ready for your tour?”

  Chapter Ten

  Eleanor led me around the village and told me about some of the people. There was Joshua Slocum, from Mount Hanley, who’d sailed solo around the world before he ended up on the island. He still lived on his boat, The Spray, not far from shore. Eleanor also indicated a hut where the captain of the S.S. Marine Sulphur Queen lived near the end of the pier with his new wife, a woman he’d met on the island a few years earlier.

  A little farther up, she pointed and said, “That’s where Mrs. Buckner lived before she went into the forest and came back insane. She murdered poor Mr. Gerald, who’d been a passenger on a Douglas DC-3. We had no choice but to send her to the Southern Districts.”

  “She went insane after going into the forest? How?”

  “There are strange things out there, stranger than anything on shore. That’s why we live on the beach. In the forest, people either run into the Vikings or vanish altogether. And sometimes something eats at their minds.” She paused a moment, then added earnestly, “You mustn’t ever venture too far into the forest, darling. It is very rare people have come back unharmed.”

  “Do people go out often?”

  “Seeing what could happen discourages most from ever leaving the shoreline.”

  I glanced over at the hut. “Is everyone who goes insane violent?”

  “In most cases they’re harmless and can still function in our community. They can perform simple tasks, like painting and prepping food. Some even help in the gardens.”

  “It sounds like you use them as work drones,” I said, then regretted my words.

  She didn’t seem the least bit offended. Fingers crossed, maybe she hadn’t understood what I meant. Before she could mull it over, I said, “It’s good that you give them something useful to do.”

  As we strolled through the village, a young woman stepped out of her hut, carrying a guitar. She sat on a rocker and began to play.

  “That’s Mrs. Jones,” Eleanor said softly. “She and her husband got stranded here in the early seventies. Mr. Jones died, and although she knew about the dead, she buried him anyway.”

  “Didn’t she believe what you told her?”

  “She did, but she wanted him with her. She told me later that the two of them had discussed it and promised if one of them had died, the other would bring them back so they could always be together. After he passed, he taught her how to play his guitar, and now she plays beautifully.”

  As we moved on, I recognized the song: Stairway to Heaven.

  “It was their wedding song,” Eleanor explained.

  Next, she showed me Miller’s tavern. It was built like the huts, only with a wraparound porch and torches outside. A counter circled the single room so the bartender could serve from the center. More chairs and stools sat around the open bar, shaded by an extended eave. I knew I’d visit it soon.

  After the tour around the village, we set off down the beach in the opposite direction from where I’d come the day before. Eleanor took me to a very large garden spanning out from the shoreline, with a huge mosquito net covering it like a circus tent. There were grapevines, tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli, and peppers, each surrounded by sizeable plank cubicles.

  “We dug into the beach and poured soil inside to grow these crops. Since there are no tides, we don’t worry about them washing away.”

  My chest felt tight the longer we walked. I hoped Lafitte was right about getting used to the air and that I’d eventually be able to breathe normal again.

  An Asian woman with a worried expression appeared from behind the garden, carrying several small tools. “Have to get things done. Things to do,” she muttered, scurrying along.

  “That’s Aiko,” Eleanor said as the woman slipped through a slit in the netting. “She went into the forest ten years ago and came back like that. We put her on garden detail because the crops need constant tending. She works the entire day until she gives out from exhaustion.”

  “Jeez, how does she eat?”

  “She picks things from the garden whiles she works. That’s another reason we put her here, so she’ll eat.”

  “Where did you get the seeds to start the first crops?”

  “We managed to find different kinds of them throughout the years.”

  A short time later, I spotted the shower stalls Travis had told me about and the waterfall dropping off the ledge. The water ran off in dozens of directions, its flow looking more orchestrated than natural. It fell into the stalls and formed a soapy stream leading out to the sea. A small bridge spanned the brook. Even though there were many stalls, a long line of people had accumulated.

  “Who are the people in South Village?” I asked.

  “Soldiers, mostly. They’re good hunters, but they’re impatient when it comes to farming. We trade fruits and vegetables for seafood and meat.”

  “What about the village on the
other side? What does it look like?”

  “The Obsoletes? The people there are less than desirable,” she grumbled, “but their homes are quite beautiful.”

  “Do they really live according to the old ways?”

  “Yes. It’s actually good that they stay on their side of the island. They keep to themselves and we don’t go over there.” Her attention was then diverted to something. “Oh, look! I want to show you these.”

  I followed her to a patch of brightly colored flowers, almost like the ones growing on the rock wall near my back porch. They were highlighter-yellow in color, with brown stripes on their petals.

  “Watch this,” she said, stomping on the flowers, twisting her foot from side to side.

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “Not at all,” she said with a smile. “Watch what happens now.”

  She stepped back, and as I watched, the flowers slowly resumed their original shape.

  “They’re very durable. Nothing seems to kill them.”

  “Apparently not,” I said in awe.

  “Oi! Eleanor!” a voice called.

  I looked to see Inglewood trotting toward us. Eleanor waved and said, “Hello, Professor.” To me, she added, “We’re just in time.”

  “For what?”

  “The professor always leaves at this time to feed his Viking.”

  I’d completely forgotten about the Viking girl.

  When Inglewood reached us, he smiled amicably, panting a bit. In one hand, he held a bag. “Well, then, up early, are we?”

  “I’m giving Mr. Sharp a tour.”

  “Oh, that’s right. She doesn’t do that often, you know.”

  I turned to Eleanor to see her face flush. She cleared her throat and said, “Shall we, then?”

  “Of course. Let’s go see Sassy. I’m on my way to bring her some breakfast.”

  “Sassy?” I asked.

  “Trust me, young man, the name suites her. Come on.”

  As we walked along the misty beach, the only sound was the occasional clicking of the Shark Hunters. I had no doubt that Inglewood was intelligent, but he didn’t seem capable of capturing a Viking, even if she was a little girl. “How did you catch her?”