The Island

by Jill Jones

  It still might be irrelevant, but something was better than nothing.

  Jack grabbed the telephone in his room and dialed the number. His heart pounded as he heard the first set of double rings. They sounded very far away. The phone rang again. Again. And again. Discouraged, Jack was about to hang up after the seventh time, when someone lifted the receiver.

  “Halloh.” It was a man’s voice, heavy, mature. Gruff.

  “My name’s Knight. Jackson Knight. Who is speaking, please?”

  “Who d’ye say is calling?” The man sounded surprised.

  “My name is Jackson Knight,” he repeated. “I’m calling from London.”

  “What d’ye want?”

  “I’m an investigator. There’s been a murder, and this number was found at the scene of the crime.”

  Dead silence. “Must be some mistake,” the man said at last. “Ye’ve reached the wrong number.” And he hung up.

  Jack sat on the bed, perplexed. He was certain he had dialed the number correctly, but when he tried again, there was no answer. Either he had misdialed, or whoever had answered the phone wanted to avoid his call. Instinct told him it was the latter.

  Where had he called? He looked at the number on the paper. If it were the United States, he could determine the general location by the area code. Was it the same here?

  It took only minutes and a couple of phone calls to pinpoint the location of the number. “That is in Cornwall,” the phone company representative had told him. “In a town called Keinadraig.” She paused, then added, “I say, but that’s odd. It appears to be the only number listed for that entire village. Must be one of those very remote little places.”

  Cornwall. Jack didn’t know British geography well, but he thought Penzance might also be in Cornwall. There’d been a train ticket from Penzance among the dead woman’s belongings. Jack’s cop consciousness snapped to attention. He did not believe in coincidence.

  Obtaining a tourist map from the hotel where he and Garrison were now registered, one close to the hospital and as far as possible from the scene of the crime, he soon verified that Penzance was indeed in Cornwall. And not far away, a few miles south along the coast, lay a tiny island and a village called Keinadraig. He studied the map, noting it was illustrated by a cartoonist. There were whimsical drawings of points of interest, caricatures of castles, lighthouses, monoliths and ruins. Drawn in the waters just off the island of Keinadraig was a humpbacked dragon, with a notation written in an archaic style: “Here there be dragons.” Jack allowed a tight smile as he folded the map, but it did little to cheer him.

  The next morning, he was on the motorway, headed south and west in a rental car, the map open on the passenger seat to his left. He reached Penzance late in the evening and parked the red Nissan in front of the train station. He had bet on some long shots before, but this was by far the most unlikely SWAG he’d ever checked out. That’s what his fellow narcs had called a lead that was little more than a hunch—a silly wild ass guess. SWAG.

  His timing could not have been better, however. The night manager was just coming on duty. Jack gave him one of the cards he’d had printed before Garrison had insisted he come to work for Odyssey. It read: “Jackson Knight, Private Investigator.” He showed the man the police sketch.

  “Oh, indeed, I do remember her. Just th’ other night she came in lookin’ like a scared rabbit. ‘Twas after midnight when she got here, and she sat up all night waitin’ for th’ first train t’ take her into London. I offered her a cup of coffee,” he went on, “but she said no. Kept lookin’ over her shoulder, like somebody might be after her.”

  “Did you recognize her as being from around here?”

  The man shook his head. “No, not that I recall. But Penzance is a big place.”

  “Ever hear of a place called Keinadraig?” Jack asked and saw the man’s eyes narrow ever so slightly.

  “Aye. Keinadraig’s a village down th’ coast a bit. Out on an island. Don’t know much about it, just heard some rumors.”

  “Rumors?”

  “Oh, th’ locals like t’ tell tales, y’know. Some say th’ Dragoners, that’s what they call ‘em, are still pagan and worship a dragon. Others say they’re descendants of Merlin. Whatever, they’re an odd lot.”

  Dragoners.

  Here there be dragons.

  “They worship a dragon?” Jack said, raising his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose that’s why they’re called Dragoners.”

  The station manager laughed. “Oh, no. ‘Tis nothing that dramatic. ‘Tis just because Keinadraig in Cornish means ‘back of th’ dragon.’ There’s a high ridge on the south side of the island, looks kind of like a dragon’s back. I guess that’s where th’ name came from. At any rate, a long time ago, locals took t’ callin’ them Dragoners, and th’ name stuck. We see little of them actually. They come t’ town t’ buy what they need and t’ sell their fish and handcrafts. But mostly they keep t’ themselves and th’ old ways, although I know they have electricity because my nephew helped bring it out there.”

  Electricity. And a telephone?

  The man’s description of the Dragoners reminded Jack of the Amish and their benign avoidance of the twentieth century. Then his thoughts took a darker turn as he recalled a cult in Southern California he’d once had to infiltrate. The neighboring town folk had considered them “an odd lot,” too. Jack had found them downright terrifying because of the dogmatic brainwashing they had practiced. The station manager had told him the young woman had appeared afraid, like someone might be following her. Had the murdered girl been running away from a cult environment?

  Jack jotted his cell phone number on the back of the card. “Thanks for the information. I’d appreciate a call if you remember anything else.” He returned to the car, encouraged that his SWAG wasn’t so WA after all. He was certain the victim was from Keinadraig. But he was disconcerted by what else he’d learned about the island.

  The only way to find out was to go to there, but it was too late in the day. Taking a room in a waterfront inn, he called Garrison to check on Brad’s condition. Garrison had taken up a round-the-clock vigil by Brad’s bedside, as if through the sheer power of his will he could bring his son back.

  Maybe he could, Jack mused as he hung up the phone after a short conversation. Garrison had told him that although Brad’s condition hadn’t changed, he was still alive. It was more than the doctors had expected, and it renewed Jack’s determination.

  I’ll find the sorry son of a bitch…

  Keely stared out into the night. She could see the flicker of torches as the villagers gathered in the square. She did not cry, for she had no more tears left within her. She was not angry with her uncle for carrying out the excommunication ceremony, for such was part of their law, and keeping the law was Alyn’s job. She knew that he’d put it off for as long as he could, hoping Genny would return.

  But the time had come to uphold the law, and shortly, the woman who had grown up here, who had been beloved by everyone, would cease to exist. Her best friend, Genevieve Sloan, would be cast out of Keinadraig, unable ever to return.

  Keely heard the sound of a single drum begin a slow, solemn cadence and saw the glow from the torches stretch upward along the High Street as the bearers began their processional to the circle of stones, where Alyn would speak to them, words of both condolence and warning. The excommunication rite would normally be the responsibility of the Healer, as the spiritual leader. But Ninian had collapsed, enfolded in her grief, so the duty fell to Alyn.

  After the speaking, the villagers would torch the wood that had been stacked in the center, a pyre that symbolized the physical body of the missing girl. And when the flames died, Genevieve Sloan would exist no longer.

  Distraught, Keely turned away and went down the stairs to sit in the darkness of the pub room. She would not participate in the ceremony. She could not bear it, for she could not bear the thought that even if Genny returned, Keely would not be allowed to speak w
ith her. It was the law.

  For the first time in her life, Keely questioned the law. What she’d once accepted as reasonable and venerable now seemed archaic and unnecessary. There had been no plague anywhere that she knew of for hundreds of years. True, their tradition had provided a safe, protected place for their people, but now, Genevieve was being made an outcast. And for what? Tradition?

  Keely quaked with anger and no small amount of fear. Not fear of the Dragon, or the laws, or tradition, but rather fear of the disturbing rebellion that boiled within her. She wanted to go screaming up the hillside and put a stop to the ritual. It wasn’t right that this should be happening. Not to Genevieve.

  But what could she do about it? The ways of the Dragon had governed the lives of the people of Keinadraig for centuries. She had little expectation that things would ever change. She inhaled a deep breath, trying to calm her troubled soul.

  Change.

  Did she really want change? Change was a frightening thing. Mayhap it was better to keep to the old ways. On Keinadraig, the Dragoners remained safe, protected, untouched by the dangers of the outside world.

  Yet nothing Keely had seen of that forbidden world had seemed particularly dangerous or threatening to the people or the traditions of Keinadraig. Granted, she had seen little. Just tempting glimpses of a life very different from her own when she and Genny had been entrusted to take a catch of fish now and then to market in nearby Penzance. While in town, they’d always lingered long enough to experience for a short while the wealth of unfamiliar sights and sounds of the outside world—the unbelievable array of food and other commodities at the supermarket, the temptation of frosty ice cream cones at a small café, the scandalous tabloids and romantic magazines sold by street vendors.

  As budding young women, they were entranced by the shiny cars speeding down the streets, the provocative dress worn by outsiders, the trains that offered to take them to faraway places with names like Brighton and London. On the return trip to Keinadraig, they would swear that someday, when they grew up, they would leave the island forever and find romance and adventure in the wide world that awaited them.

  Keely bit her lip. Oh, by the Saints, how wrong they had been to entertain such foolish daydreams. If Genevieve hadn’t known where to run, then she wouldn’t have run.

  A sound reached her ears, carried on the light breeze through the open window. It was a thin, high, youthful voice, singing the familiar words of the ancient ballad:

  Away, hide away, on this distant shore,

  Let ne’re a stranger in thy door.

  Keep your secret safe, hidden in the mist,

  And let no one leave who be Dragon kiss’d.

  Keely wanted to cry out in anger and disgust. It was Erica. How could she? How could she so eagerly join in the ritual that would damn her own sister from ever returning? The sound of her voice soured, ringing out bitterly in Keely’s ears as she continued.

  A sailor man from across the sea

  Was found half-dead at the Dragon’s feet,

  They took him in, put him on a bed,

  And in the morn, they did find him dead.

  In her mind’s eye, Keely could see Erica, always watching everything she and Genny did with a spiteful stare. Always finding fault. Always whining for what her older sister had. As she was whining at the moment, singing their island’s history in a self-righteous tone.

  Then one by one, they too did fall,

  Struck down by his plague that did touch them all,

  When their poor souls did at last depart,

  They were cleansed by the fires in the Dragon’s heart.

  Keely rose and went to the window, wanting to shut it, to shut out the sound, and the story. For she knew where it would lead. But the air was too hot, and she did not wish to endure her pain stifling in the darkness. Erica’s voice became a taunt in the night.

  Then up from the flames in the sacred ring

  Rose the Dragon fierce and to them did sing—

  Always before, the tale of how the sacred Dragon had sung out the laws to the first Healer had warmed her heart and brought her a solid sense of peace and security. Now it chilled her to the marrow.

  The Healer. Genny was to have become the Healer. But now…Erica had wished out loud many times that she would become the Healer instead of Genevieve. She was next in the familial line, so Keely guessed that when she was old enough, she would get her wish. The thought made her shudder. Erica was cold, uncaring about anyone other than herself. How could she ever take Ninian’s place? Talk about change…

  Keely dropped her head and cradled it between her hands as Erica began singing one of the verses that had been added by some bard much later than the original refrain.

  ‘Twas a miller’s son ran off to sea,

  Suddenly, the song raised the hair on Keely’s arms. Hearing this part of the ballad always stirred unsettling emotions within her. From the time she was born, she had been surrounded by a village of people who loved her and cared about her, as was their way toward one another. Theirs was a gentle village, quiet, serene. Each man, woman and child had his place in the scheme of things, and no one questioned it.

  Nothing bad ever happened to the villagers, except, according to the song, when someone like the miller’s son, John, broke the law.

  And then, if the ballad could be believed, the Dragon awoke and exacted retribution in the most mysterious and violent of ways. The deaths were always “accidental,” but everyone knew that somehow they were caused by the Dragon who had taken his revenge.

  The violence wreaked upon lawbreakers was too great a contradiction for Keely to accept. She doubted if those terrible things had ever really happened to anyone. Rather, she believed the stories had been made up as entertainment by her more primitive ancestors, or at worst, contrived to make sure the people didn’t stray from the law.

  A few minutes later, Keely heard Erica launch into the last verses of the long ballad:

  To the Dragon’s back a young man came,

  And Timothy Jenkyns was his name.

  A chosen one for an island bride,

  But his scorn for her he could not hide.

  He took her coin, took the Dragon’s kiss,

  The wedding vow was all he missed.

  He ran away, thought he’d not be found,

  But the morning tide brought his body, drowned.

  Without warning, a memory surfaced from the deep recesses of her mind, and Keely drew in a sharp breath. It was a dark and frightening memory, vague and still half-hidden, but she struggled to see it. It was something she had secretly witnessed as a child, here in this very room. She recalled her father and her uncle Alyn and some other men arguing about something. Something that had to do with a young man named…

  …Timothy Jenkyns.

  Chapter Three

  After a restless, mostly sleepless night, Jack showered and dressed and made his way to a boat rental service at the busy docks in Penzance where he hired a boat.

  “Ye familiar with these waters?” Kevin Spearman, owner of the concession, asked as he filled out the paperwork. “Or would ye be needin’ a guide?”

  “I’m just going to the island.”

  “St. Michael’s Mount?”

  “No. Keinadraig.” Jack peered across the water, squinting in the morning sun, but the mists obscured the island in the distance.

  Spearman jerked his head around and frowned. “Keinadraig? What are ye goin’ there for?”

  After what the station master had told him, Jack wasn’t too surprised at Spearman’s response. He gave the man his card and showed him the dead girl’s picture. “Do you know her?”

  Spearman took a quick look at the drawing, then shook his head. “Never saw her before,” he said quickly. Too quickly, Jack thought. “What d’ye want with her?”

  “I want to know who killed her.” Jack saw the man’s face lose some of its robust color. He went on, curious to know if the man was lying. And why. “She was murde
red in London, and I have reason to believe she comes from Keinadraig.”

  Spearman looked away and returned to his paperwork. His hands trembled slightly. “They’ll not welcome ye out there, y’know, especially comin’ with that kind o’ news. If it was me, I’d not risk it.”

  “Risk it? Are they…militant or something?”

  The man scowled. “No. But they don’t like outsiders, and there’s been rumors from time t’ time about outsiders meetin’ with certain…accidents. What difference does it make anyway whether the girl was from there or not? She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Jack was shocked. “Wouldn’t they want to know if one of their own had been murdered?”

  Kevin Spearman gave him an enigmatic look. “From what I’ve heard tell of them and their peculiar ways, it seems t’ me they might not.”

  Uneasy, Jack thanked the man and paid for the boat. “If I don’t come back by sunset, send a posse,” he said, only half-joking, as he stepped into the boat.

  Spearman did not laugh.

  Keely awoke with the same lump of despair around her heart that she had taken to bed with her the night before. Woodenly, she dressed, pulling on a long skirt and a knit short-sleeved jersey. Like all of her clothes, they were conservative, this a dark blue, the skirt adorned with tiny white flowers. She glanced in the mirror and sighed at the image reflected there. The skin around her eyes was puffy, her face strained. She brushed her thick black hair, grateful for the natural curls that bounced back in healthy resilience. That helped somewhat.

  But Keely Cochrane didn’t much care about her appearance this morning. Didn’t much care about anything. With Genny’s departure and subsequent excommunication, Keely’s world had cracked wide open, and it threatened to split apart unless she could find a way to hold it together until her spirit, severely daunted after last night’s ritual, could mend.