Convict Island

by Mark Mosley

  “Jhalon.” Carl? Not even close.

  “Man, I’m sorry. Jhalon. Jhalon, I got you.” He swallowed, then sliced another piece. “How old are you, bro?”

  Was everybody going to ask me this? I had to think about what I’d told Mason. “Twenty-one.”

  “No way, man! You don’t even look like you finished high school. Anyway. We sorta have an assembly line of water goin’. We pull the water that the island provides us, put it in our tank, then take it back. Pretty far out, right?”

  “Totally far out. Man.” Clearly, I am the king at blending in.

  “Right on.” He winked.

  “Why not closer to camp? Seems like a lot of work.”

  “I dunno, man. I guess some people don’t know how to not piss in the drinking water or something. This here is all clean and fresh. You ain’t never had water this fresh in your life.” Adam strolled to a pouch, probably having mastered his inebriated stride as a result of thousands of trips. He rolled a joint in record time and lit it. He took a puff then offered me a hit.

  “No thanks. I never touch the stuff.”

  He looked at me as if I said I hate puppies. “Never? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Because I’m black?” I joked.

  “Because you’ve been in high school.”

  “My momma was a junkie. Didn’t seem appealing. She—”

  Adam threw his hands in the air. “Woah, man. No need to get all real on me here.”

  “Sorry,” I said, embarrassed, but thankful he cut me off before I rambled about how our bellies were hungry but her habit was well-fed. How she had money for drugs but not bills. How we snuck out of four apartments in the dead of night because we missed payments. How I took care of myself, my momma, and my school work while most kids went home carefree.

  “Far out, man.” Adam pulled it back.

  “Do you want me to jump into that assembly line, or what?” I asked. “I thought you were short somebody?”

  “Yeah, but we’ll get to that later, man. Just post up for a minute here with me. Right now, you should chill back and observe, man. No rush. You should never rush, my man. Rushing makes you feel rushed. Know what I mean?”

  It was then that I wondered what the hell this guy got sent to the island for. And I should’ve asked, right then. I could’ve put some things together. Or at least begun the process of connecting the dots that united us all.

  “Right on,” I responded. “Which bungalow is yours back at camp?”

  “Man…” He paused. “Man, I don’t stay there, bro. Too…real. Very cutty.”

  “Cutty?”

  “Sketchy, man. Sketchy. Cutty.” He took a deep breath. “I stay out here, on the outskirts, and sleep like a baby. I go night-night to the sound-machine of the waterfall and the stars as my blankie and a blunt as my paci.”

  I restrained my laughter. “Mason allows that?”

  Adam sent out a smoke screen and squinted his eyes. “The Boss-man Dude? Yeah. I think he sees me as a little worker bee for him, so he’s coo’ with it. Too much negativity in his little village for me, man. Bad vibes.”

  “Cutty.”

  “Yeah, man. Just hella intense. Always trippin’.”

  “Is there like a war going on here? Lord of the Flies style?”

  He looked confused. “Like those short dudes and that shriveled naked guy obsessed with the ring? No man. You don’t even know what you don’t know. And that’ll kill you out here, man. You need to know crap to avoid crap.”

  I laughed. “No, not Lord of the Rings…Nevermind. So…sketchy…what do you mean?”

  “You tryna get me in trouble? You a spy or somethin’ for Mason? Tryna get me ta say somethin’ bad about ole one-eye?”

  I wasn’t sure if people were that terrified of Mason that they feared spies, or if he was messing with me. “Just trying to learn crap about crap.”

  “Good looks. You’ll learn about ‘em, but, I ain’t sayin’ anything. Mason’ll tell ya when he wants ya to know. I ain’t gonna displease him. Gonna be…loyal. He likes loyal. Like a pup.”

  “You think it’s a good group?” I moved on.

  “Couldn’t tell you that, my friend. Can there be any group that’s good on this island? We’re all here for a reason.”

  “What’s yours?”

  He finished his blunt, pinching his slim fingers like tweezers to get all he could. “Man, some things are best left unsaid. Why don’t you get involved now with the water so the other guys don’t get annoyed with you not workin’.”

  There wasn’t annoyance in this suggestion, but he seemed a bit put off by my questioning. It could’ve been because I was killing his buzz, or because I made him nervous. I regretted asking so many questions—he was high, not stupid. But I was desperate to gather information.

  We worked until another group came in with food, then walked to the shade and sat. The hunters gave each of us a large leaf, with lunch inside: a bit of coconut, some raw fish, and something with a shell. Two hunters slid into the jungle. I felt like a student asking permission to leave the classroom, but since I didn’t know the rules, I checked with Adam to see if I could go chat with the hunters.

  “Learn what you can, my little grasshopper. Oh, and don’t be afraid of Darryl’s tattoos, and don’t ask about John’s.”

  “Ummm…okay.”

  The men were on a game trail, bent over, setting a trap. Both were shirtless. One was in the middle of putting a net down. He was a muscular white guy with a shaved head and cuts on his side and leg. I started to turn around after I saw a black swastika tattoo on his shoulder, but Adam’s suggestion rang in my ears. I figured this to be Darryl.

  “Hey, fellas. I’m Jhalon.” I pointed to the trap even though they weren’t looking at me. “What are ya hopin’ to catch?”

  “Somethin’ big,” Darryl said, without looking up from his work.

  The other one finished sharpening a stick and took one from Darryl. “Dinner,” he said in an English accent, jamming the pointed end of a stick into the ground five feet from a net made of vines.

  “Is this one of those net traps that’ll spring and skyrocket, catching the prey in the net?” I asked.

  Darryl nodded, finished hollowing out a rectangle on the other stick, and put it about five feet from the first one. Together, they bent a branch like an arch and tied the line to it.

  “Is that gonna flip up, pulling the net into the air?”

  “Yeah. ’Scuse me.” Darryl brushed past me. He took a different stick, tied another vine to the middle of it, and he and Darryl pulled the branch down flat on the ground. Handing me the string attached to the trigger branch, he said, “Mind tying this for me? Double-knot. Here,” he pointed to a spot on the arched branch.

  I started tying and the British guy interrupted. “Oi! Not yet. First, put the trigger twig down in the grooves of those,” he nodded towards sticks that reached for the sky. John’s voice was authoritative but not intimidating. He was a thinner guy but had abs that would make the ladies swoon.

  “Right,” I said, taking the trigger twig and resting it in the hollowed-out grooves. It fell out. I tried again. It stayed. I got up, proud of myself, and walked the vine over to tie it to the branch, but it fell out again.

  “Seriously?” John asked, looking at me like I was worthless.

  “Take my spot and hold the branch down,” Darryl huffed. He worked some magic. “We’re good.”

  John and I released it slowly, which was a tense moment for me—I’m scared of breaking my knuckles when setting mouse traps. They finished and sat in the shade, each putting their feet flat on the ground, knees up, and arms hugging their legs.

  “What can we do ya for?” Darryl asked.

  I looked at him.

  He read my confusion. “You clearly wanted to chat with us. Whatcha want?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I was a bit thrown off at his abruptness. “Ya know, I’m new here.”

  “Aye,” John said, straightening his l
egs and leaning back on the ground. “We’ve got eyes. Two of ‘em, unlike some blokes ‘round here.” He chuckled and stood like he forgot something, then sprinkled twigs and leaves over the net.

  What sort of idiot wouldn’t see that, right? Some dumb animal…

  I got a view of John’s back tattoo—a bunch of lines of cursive font. Forgetting Adam’s warning about asking, I inquired, “What’s your tattoo say?”

  “Here we go.” Darryl rolled his eyes. “You shouldn’t have asked.”

  “The lad needs some enlightenment.” John smiled. “Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; for those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and—”

  “—For the love of God, would you shut up?” Darryl interjected. He looked at me. “Says this poem every day, I swear. Has it memorized.” He turned to John. “We get it. You’re smart.”

  John continued. “—From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be, much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low and soonest our best men with thee do go, rest of their bones and soul’s delivery Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men and dost with poison, war and sickness dwell—”

  “But not smart enough to avoid prison, ya idiot.” Darryl elbowed me. “Stupid ass over here kills a dude that insisted Shakespeare didn’t write his shit.” He laughed.

  “—And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well and better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.” He bowed.

  “Should I snap my fingers or something?” I asked.

  “Thank Christ that’s over,” Darryl said. “You good now? Get it outta your system?”

  “Did you write that? What’s that all mean?” I asked.

  John smiled, eager to share his literary knowledge. “Good, innit? As if such grand and fluid thoughts could be conjured by my idle brain.”

  “He means the words are too pretty for his dumbass to come up with ‘em. Quit talkin’ like you’re a damn Oxford grad.”

  John continued. “John Donne wrote it, basically wavin’ his bollocks at Death. That Death’s nothing more than a wanker for everything—fate, chance, kings, and desperados.”

  “If my English teachers described poems like that, maybe I would’ve taken more interest,” I said.

  “That’s why we call him John,” Darryl threw in. “Ain’t his real name. But he never shuts up about this John Donne prick. If I could go back in time, I’d kill the dude before he wrote anything, just so I wouldn’t have to hear it every damn day.”

  We all laughed.

  “Right,” I said. “Well, I’m trying to learn what I’m dealing with here, ya know? Curious about this group. Routines. Duties. Drops. Other groups.” I rattled these off fast, hoping nothing stood out as being more important to me than any of the others.

  “Typically,” Darryl said, “new felons are dropped off about once a month.”

  “Except your group,” John added. “We had another group, what…nine days ago? Something like that. Definitely not a month, right?”

  Darryl nodded. John raised his eyebrows at me. “You’re early. Why?”

  “What? You think I decided to be whisked away to this haven?”

  “Were you taken from your school field trip to the museum?” Darryl asked. “You in fifth grade, or have you gotten to junior high yet?”

  “Ha, yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I know—I got a baby face. But yeah, I’m twenty-one.”

  Darryl eyed me like he didn’t believe it for a second, but moved on. “Mason wasn’t happy when you got dropped here.”

  “Blimey,” John jumped in. “Mason wasn’t just not happy. He about lost the plot. He likes everything planned. When a drop day’s coming, Mason sends a search group out to spot ‘em.Sometimes we get to ‘em first. Sometimes not.”

  First surfer-dude talk, then a Brit.

  “What do you do when you get to them first?” I asked.

  John shrugged. “We take ‘em in—like we did with you.”

  Darryl added, “But the fella Mason lost—the dude you took over for water work? Killed by The Splinters.”

  “Or The Solos,” John added.

  “Splinters? There’s another group that fights Mason and you all?”

  “Ay, The Splinters don’t like Mason.”

  “Who are The Splinters?”

  “Badass Mexican gang. Las Astillas.” Darryl stood again and faced the bushes. I heard water splattering the leaves as he relieved himself.

  John jumped in. “Hard to say much else. I’ve not been to their camp.”

  “Has anybody?”

  “Anybody that did never came back. Or didn’t care to.”

  “Is there a special group of workers for pickups?” I asked.

  “Anybody Mason wants. Different people every time.”

  “The last pickup went bad,” I recalled. “Who was in that one? Did they get to ‘em first?”

  “I’m bad with names, mate. We only brought one guy back. Darryl, what’s that new geezer’s name? The bloke that joined us?”

  Darryl walked back to us and sat. “That little skin-and-bones twink? Danny.”

  “Just one joined Mason? Danny?”

  John and Darryl looked at each other. Darryl said, “Well, the last pick-up was a mess.”

  “A real cock up,” John added.

  “What happened?”

  “Had the shite kicked out of us is what happened. The Splinters and Solos took the others from the drop. That’s when our guy—Robbie—was gutted.”

  “Danny’s brother was in the drop too and didn’t come back with us. Danny was upset. And his brother was stabbed and taken.”

  “Stabbed? By one of the other groups?” I clarified.

  “Not exactly,” Darryl corrected.

  I laughed. “I didn’t realize there’s a gray area when it comes to whether or not somebody rams a sharp object into someone else’s skin.”

  “Well, I didn’t see it,” Darryl explained. “Others whispered it was Mason’s fault in some way. I don’t know how. Whatever happened, Mason put a tight lid on the whole thing.”

  So groups fought to bring new felons into their gang. I was in the middle of a constant turf war. I shifted focus. “What do we do when we get back now?”

  “We relax, my friend,” Darryl said.

  “Cheers,” John winked at me.

  We all headed back, small talk abundant from different cliques. Then Masonville came into view and the conversation stopped. Everybody was deathly terrified of Mason, but they must’ve stayed with him for the same reason I did—a lack of options and to avoid being hunted and murdered.

  Chapter 11

  I set my goals for the week: Learn as much as possible and don’t get killed—the second being slightly more important.

  Mason approached me that afternoon when I’d returned from water duty. “Jhalon, we must talk. I have something for you.” He led me to the huts. “You will need a place to stay. You can have Robbie’s old home.”

  I wasn’t thrilled about staying in a dead guy’s house, but when we got to the front door, I played nice. “Thanks Mason. I appreciate this.”

  “Do not mention it, friend.” He shook my hand as if we just closed the deal on a purchase. He left, allowing me to check out my new place.

  It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t anything to write home about. There was a hammock. I’d never been in one, and I approached as if it would attack me. I sat and attempted to swing my feet up and in, but I flipped over and landed on my face. I tried to get out and my foot got stuck and I landed on my face again. Screw the hammock.

  The walls were bamboo laced together with strands of vine, so the bungalow wasn’t very private—you could see through small gaps where pieces of curved bamboo weren’t flush. There was an animal skin in the middle of the floor—it looked like it belonge
d to a big cat. The head was absent, thankfully. I made a mental note not to go outside by myself at night—if I came across something like that, I’d definitely piss my pants.

  I found a small tube of bamboo with a piece of charcoal jammed into the end for a pencil. I should’ve questioned what he wrote about. And what he wrote on. I remembered Mason’s map—Robbie could’ve worked on that with Mason. I laid on the animal skin until dinner that night.

  While eating, I observed Danny—the guy who had lost his brother. He was a skinny black guy in his mid-twenties with a shaved head. He sat, eating like a cow chewing its cud, glaring at Mason. Either Mason didn’t see the looks, or he chose to ignore them.

  After dinner, Mason gathered everyone in a circle. Like a boxing announcer, he called out, “Tonight shall be a showmanship of strength.”

  Based on the level of cheering, everybody else knew what was about to happen, but I was clueless. Xavier stood outside the circle. He took deep breaths and lifted his eyes to the sky, then looked down at flowers in his giant fingers. He turned his back to the crowd.

  Mason yelled, “I apologize for boring many of you with the rules, but we have new members, and I would be remiss if I failed to explain.” He put his hands together. “Two men face off. Any man challenged must answer. You may not turn down the bout. They fight until one surrenders.” He held up his Bible. “I will keep the fights fair. There will be no David versus Goliath here! Now, do we have any challengers?”

  For the love of God, please no…

  Two guys I didn’t know squared off. While the rest of the group was obsessed with the fight, I sidled over to Danny, hoping he had useful information. I interrupted his glaring at Mason, who sat on his throne and observed the match like a king entertained by jesters.

  “Hey, Danny. I’m Jhalon.”

  He nodded but didn’t take his eyes off Mason.

  “Bunch of barbarians, right? Fighting like cavemen.” I laughed. I hoped to get some sort of reaction, but Danny gave me nothing. “I got the cabin up there—fourth on the right as you’re coming down the trail to the field.”