The Islanders

by Wesley Stein

  THE

  ISLANDERS

  WEsley stein

  

  © 2020 Wesley D. Stein

  The Islanders is one of three pieces in a stand-alone collection that also includes a novella and a short story. The two companion pieces can each be enjoyed on their own, but all three together add a richness to the story arch.

  In the sultry short story, you’ll read the about the origins of the saga’s villain, Juliet. In the novella, you’ll discover how Juliet, with the help of two men, built her own island civilization in Triad of The Islanders.

  For more Islanders content, like maps and artwork, visit Wesley Stein’s Amazon Author Page.

  

  For my sister, Jennifer. Your strength inspired the creation of a heroine.

  For my nephew, Brandon.

  

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The biggest thanks goes out to my wife, Melissa. Thank you for reading after me, listening to me, and believing in me.

  Thanks to the beta-readers, who wished to remain nameless. Good writing requires great reading, and you’re all great readers. 

  “Time's the king of men;

  he's both their parent,

  and he is their grave,

  and gives them what he will,

  not what they crave.”

  -William Shakespeare

  

  Chapter 1

  SHIPWRECKED

  We had no choice but to kill him. He was taking us out to sea. To him we were only bagged game, three landed fish for his sport. We’d be raped, drowned, or sold into a life of sexual servitude. He was taking us far from the ship, to the middle of the ocean. We had no idea where.

  I had kept his attention, while Joanna clubbed him in the back of the head with an emergency rowing paddle. Jacey joined us to help toss his body overboard. Our freedom was not as hard-won as we had thought it would be.

  Despite the pillowcases tied over our heads and just a sliver of moonlight, we’d been able to discern his shape and movement. It was fortunate that our hands had been bound in front of us instead of behind our backs.

  His body splashed into the black water and our boat kept speeding on without him. First, a sense of relief came over us. Perhaps the worst part was over. But after, when we had untied one another and removed our hoods, relief turned to anxiety. We found ourselves lost in a dark sea with no hope of navigating back to the ship.

  It didn’t matter. The ship was no safer than the escape boat. The men with guns were in control. They had stowed us away like cargo. We'd been trafficked across the South Pacific Ocean until one of them snapped and tried to take us for his own. Now it was just the three of us. Sisters.

  Joanna’s oldest, Jacey is in the middle, and I’m the youngest. My name is Jennifer.

  From the stern, Joanna steered the boat while I watched over the bow for any sign of land, another boat, a rescue. Jacey sat between us, crouched over her knees, still sobbing from the fear she’d endured under the hood. The waves were getting bigger and Joanna slowed the motor. We hoped the sun would rise soon but it seemed to be getting darker.

  “Is a storm coming in?” I asked as I shifted my gaze skyward. The stars were disappearing and clouds were crossing the faint glow of the new moon. Joanna looked up, the motor slowed even more.

  “Maybe,” she answered. Jacey looked up too, fearful of rain coming. Joanna reassured us. “Might be a good thing though,” she said.

  “How’s that?” I asked. Jacey regarded Joanna, she wanted to hear the answer too.

  “We’ll have fresh water to drink,” Joanna replied. “Plus, any lightning in the distance will help us spot a shoreline.”

  Jacey and I both scanned the horizon, already searching for a flash. There was nothing. The waves kept rolling past us, our boat rising up and down like a carnival ride. We kept waiting for the rain. But the storm never came. The lightning never came. The fresh drinking water never came. Only the wind.

  We pushed the dinghy as far as the gasoline would take us, but ended up adrift with only the oars to move us. None of us bothered to row. Instead we crowded together and embraced one another.

  This trip had been about finding answers, getting closure. Whatever that meant. We’d come to the islands as therapy. We’d planned to finally mine to the core of our family issues and put them behind us. All that changed when we were kidnapped at the port.

  When the eastern sky began to reveal itself in the darkest of violet, my spirits suddenly lifted. The sun would rise soon. Joanna shot up and grabbed the oars. Within a few minutes the violet sky was changing to lavender and we were scanning the horizon for land. Jacey's spirits remained flat, despite the impending sunrise.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. It wasn’t the sun, but the reality of our situation that dawned on her. With no sign of land we’d soon bake in this little boat. I was already getting thirsty.

  As if she’d been cued, Jacey piped up.

  “I’m thirsty,” my sister lamented.

  “Me too.”

  “We all are,” Joanna said from the back. “I’m sure it will rain soon.”

  “Rain?” Jacey asked. Her eyes were filled with tears again. “That sucks. If that’s the only way we're getting water, to survive a storm in a tiny boat, that sucks.”

  “I know it sucks, Jacey!”

  “Check the storage compartments,” I interjected. I didn’t want things to get out of control. I didn’t know much about seafaring, and I didn’t know if this boat had storage compartments, but I was certain we shouldn’t argue and panic during an emergency. We should find solutions.

  I pointed beneath Joanna.

  “Look under the bench.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded, then stood and checked her seat. Sure enough, each side lifted from a hinge in the center of the bench.

  “Yes!” Joanna screamed. Jacey and I shifted toward her.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Did you find water? How much?”

  “Not water,” Joanna answered. “Fuel!”

  Beneath the bench on which Joanna had been sitting were two large gas tanks, each connected to the boat’s motor by a length of clear tubing. The tubing came together at a valve, which was turned toward the gas tank on the right. Joanna dialed the valve counter-clockwise and watched the fuel fill the clear line on the left. She pulled on the motor a few times. It sputtered. She tried again after sliding a choke lever to one side. The engine sputtered and died. She tried again and moved the lever again. The engine started.

  Within seconds we were idling over the waves. When the sky’s lavender had shifted to pink, the sun whispered at the horizon. The sea calmed and Joanna accelerated, raising the boat onto a plane across the peaks of the wave crests. The wind was in our hair and it felt like there was hope again. I leaned over the bow and felt the spray of the saltwater in my face. I rode like this for a long while, imagining a busy shoreline appearing ahead, one lined with hotels and beachgoers.

  More time went by, maybe an hour passed, and my hope began to fade. I rode with my head resting on my arm, feeling the bumps of the small waves beneath me. But when I happened to raise my eyes, choosing for a moment to look up from my gloom, I saw it. Ahead of us, like a giant sleeping in the distance, was a dark island

  Joanna steered the boat closer to the island and we could see an ocean of green trees. The landmass didn’t appear huge, only a couple of miles from the eastern shore to the western shore. But the island was large enough, with a high peak at its center so that we couldn’t tell exactly how far it went on to the north. The shores were sandy but there were submerged black rocks, jagged and ominous, dotting the beach. The water was crystal clear. I could see fish swimming below as I leaned over the bow.<
br />
  Jacey was beside me now. She almost smiled; at the beauty of the water, at the beach, at the fish, but stopped. There was nothing to smile about today.

  Joanna motored the boat closer to the shore and idled around the rocks, until we were docking onto the sand. I climbed out and helped Jacey over the edge of the boat. It felt amazing to step onto the solid ground. I could see the relief on my sister’s faces even if there was little hope. There was less hope as we surveyed our surroundings and realized we were stranded.

  “This is crazy,” I said. “I can’t believe this is happening. How did we get here?”

  “Just stay calm,” my big sister urged. “We’re going to be okay.” I nodded but I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  “Okay, so what do we do?”

  “Let’s look around,” Joanna said. “Find some water, and firewood, maybe a cave.”

  “A cave?” Jacey Asked. “I’m not going into a cave.”

  We pulled the boat further onto the shore, dragging it through the deep sand with everything we had. We decided to walk further down the shoreline toward the hills that led up to the mountain. I thought it must have once been a volcano. My sisters agreed.

  Along the way we spotted crabs ambling to hide and we saw fish jumping beyond the surf. Ahead of us the jagged black rocks extended up from the ocean and formed a crest. The crest sloped toward the hills at the base of the mountain.

  After climbing the sharp rocks with care, we had topped the crest and could see another beach below us. This one was wider and home to fewer rocks than where we’d landed. The crest flattened out closer to the tree-line so that a strip of rocky black was carved from the top of the mountain peak to the ocean. An eruption long ago had made these lava flows and we used this one as a highway, racing up the mountainside with ease.

  At the first low summit we turned and regarded the beach from where we’d come. We could see most of the southern coastline now, our small boat stationed in the sand. Joanna kept moving uphill, hoping to see far enough to spot a stream. Jacey and I were hesitant to leave sight of the boat. I’m not sure why.

  We walked up the hillside further and soon had a better view of the island's entire southern half. The volcano had formed ridges across the land, effectively splitting the island into thirds. From the center of the ridge, a line of tall treetops connected the forest to the ocean. Joanna perked up, thinking it must be a stream.

  “Trees grow taller next to the water,” she said, pointing out the snake of foliage among the jungle below. “That’s a freshwater stream.”

  “Let’s go!” Jacey said. She stood to her feet, more hopeful. Joanna nodded.

  We hiked down the side of the ridge and into the thick undergrowth among the trees. It was a small misstep, our first mistake.

  The mosquitos were instantly swarming us and there was not a clear path. Joanna was trying to bushwhack a trail by hand but the going was slow.

  We didn’t see any sign of animals except a few birds. We decided to retreat, turn back toward the ocean, its direction discerned by the open skies through the top of the palms. We needed to regroup and find a better route to the stream.

  We popped out of the trees a few minutes later, happy to see the coast. The familiar crest of jagged black rock was now to our left and the small boat which had brought us here was to our right. Except it wasn’t.

  The boat was gone.

  There was no sign of it, no tracks, no marks in the sand where it had been dragged along. It had simply vanished.

  “What the hell is going on?” Jacey asked.

  “Where’s our boat?” I followed. Joanna was already pacing back and forth, rubbing her temples.

  “That’s not possible,” she was saying. “We left it here. There’s no tide.”

  “What happened to it?” I asked. “Did someone take it?”

  “Who?” Joanna replied. “Who else is here? Where are the tracks?”

  “There are only two possible explanations,” I said. “Either someone stole it or it drifted back out to sea.”

  “There’s no tide!” She replied. “If it had drifted back out to sea we’d see it floating out there right now.”

  “Then someone took it,” I said. “Tracks in the sand or not.”

  This time, Joanna didn’t argue. She looked past me, toward the trees and the rest of the island beyond.

  “Let’s go in there,” she said, pointing inland. “We’ll find the stream, maybe find our boat, and find a way to stay alive. Someone will find us. Okay?” Jacey and I exchanged a glance. “Okay?” Joanna asked again.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Jacey nodded her head. I was happy to have a clear plan and thankful that my big sister was taking charge. I needed that and I’m certain Jacey needed that as we began the hike into the trees. We were confused, nearing dehydration, and exhausted from a night at sea with no sleep.

  Joanna led us to a game trail leading deeper into the jungle. We knew we’d have to circle the island, at least for a while, if we were going to find water. The game trail made it easier than before. None of us knew what had carved it but whatever it was had followed the path of least resistance. Joanna was confident the path would lead to water.

  “Animals need to drink too,” she’d said.

  We hiked behind her, Jacey then me, for an hour. Our pace wasn’t slow but nor was it furious. In no time at all, we had safely covered much ground. We’d also been hiking gradually uphill, toward the inland volcano, so our view of the coastline was growing wider. We could see more of the southwestern shore, and the hilltop ahead provided an open view. We headed there as quickly as we could.

  Joanna topped the hill first and turned to us with an enormous smile. We smiled back hopefully.

  “Water!” She called out. “Look!”

  Jacey and I caught up with her on the hilltop and tracked her sightline down to the western shore. She was pointing to a place in the sand where a stream had carved a miniature canyon then spread to form a delta of several miniature canyons. Joanna traced the stream toward the trees and found the line of trees that marked the river. We could hike straight ahead and hit the stream.

  “Let’s go!” Joanna said.

  Jacey ambled after her, down the hill and toward the leafy palms. I followed them, cautiously optimistic about the water.

  We picked up on the trail again, not long after we’d reentered the thick valley. We were hiking at a fair pace when Joanna slowed then stopped. She held up a fist. Jacey stopped and looked back at me. I shrugged.

  “Did you hear that?” Joanna asked us. We listened.

  At first I could hear nothing, except my breathing. But then there was a rustling sound in the undergrowth ahead. We all heard it. Joanna crouched. Jacey and I followed her lead. The noise was getting louder. Whatever was causing the commotion was coming toward us.

  Joanna was scanning the surrounding brush. Then she leaned over and picked up a small forked branch. She looked back at us with a warning. Her eyes were saying, get ready.

  It was a wild boar.

  It appeared suddenly on the trail in front of us and we all jumped. Jacey screamed and ran toward me. The boar saw her and gave chase, snorting and nosing at the dirt with long tusks. Jacey ran past me and I leaped out of the way as the boar followed her. But Joanna came behind it with the branch, yelling.

  “Hey! Over here! Come get me!”

  The wild hog didn’t turn. Jacey left the trail and tried to circle the animal. It disappeared into the thicket ahead of her so she doubled back and ran toward us.

  In a moment the boar had reappeared. But Joanna stepped forward with the branch and jabbed at it until it turned and ran. We plopped down in exhaustion. Jacey was crying again.

  “Jesus,” Joanna said.

  I nodded. Together we patted Jacey on the shoulder. We took a few minutes to catch our breath, listening to the rustling of the boar as he distanced himself from us.

  Then Joanna resumed leading the way down the trail, thi
s time using the branch to thwart any surprises.

  We hiked another half-hour, somewhat faster than before, until we spotted the tall trees which marked the stream. Soon we could hear the sound of falling water and our spirits soared. Jacey finally smiled and I wanted to cry with relief.

  We ran.

  The game trail led straight to the water, just as Joanna had predicted.

  But when we arrived at the banks of the stream, our hearts sank. This wasn’t freshwater at all. What flowed past us in a narrow torrent, was a burnt-orange fluid, almost brown. There were flecks of debris floating in it and strings of black and red sinew swirling on the surface.

  Joanna bent and cupped her hands. What she held was not potable. It even smelled bad, like death. None of us, regardless of how thirsty we found ourselves, could stand to drink the tainted water.

  The stream was flowing from atop a hill marked by a bluff of stone. From there the water fell from terraces at different heights, a collection of tiny waterfalls.

  “What do we do now?” I asked. No one answered. Joanna spun and surveyed our surroundings with her hands on her hips.

  “There has to be freshwater somewhere on this island,” she said.

  “This is the freshwater,” Jacey said. “It’s polluted somehow.”

  “Let’s move upstream,” Joanna suggested. “Maybe we can find the source of the contamination and drink from above it.”

  We agreed and started upstream.

  The creek was shallow but we couldn’t see through the murky water. We walked, ankle-deep, in the stream or along its banks for a while. We climbed over rocks and fallen timber, through bushes, and under vines in pursuit of the headwaters. When we had hiked for over half an hour, Joanna finally stopped ahead of us.

  “Oh god,” she lamented. “Look.”

  A tall wall of stone rose before us, an outcropping of rock at the base of the mountain. Water fell from atop the outcropping, down twenty feet, where it landed in a majestic cascade of dirty foam.