Dragonfly of Venus

by Susan Ferrier MacKay

  Natasha read, “Twelve families lived here until 1848 when they were evacuated to Canada. The island has remained uninhabited ever since.”

  Huh, thought Natasha. Handa had a direct connection to Canada. That was unexpected information. She examined a map of the island and the direction of a footpath that took visitors past the ruins of Handa’s early settlement. The map advised it was a ninety-minute walk to the cliffs where you could view seabirds. Natasha decided this was where she needed to take the photo of Declan’s final resting place. It would be a dramatic and wild setting, the perfect visual metaphor for their relationship.

  Natasha set off on a singular footpath. It was a rare sunny September day and warm enough for her to break into a light sweat. After half an hour, she could see the stone remains of several ruined houses abutting the path.

  Natasha wasn’t given to empathizing with the plight of others but she couldn’t help think how difficult life must have been for the people who survived here. Not only was it hard to get food but also they had no internet and no cell phones. What a nightmare.

  Curious, Natasha stepped over the threshold of what had once been a doorway. The small room, now overgrown with weeds and grass seemed to be the main room of the house. A gap in the back wall led to two other smaller rooms, bedroom perhaps. In here, families had lived and loved, fucked and fought. A strange shiver ran through Natasha’s body. If she believed in such things she might’ve thought the ancient dwelling haunted.

  A small rock bounced down a decaying wall, seemingly of its own accord.

  “What the hell,” said Natasha. “Who’s there?”

  No one responded.

  Natasha called again. “Hello?”

  The only other form of life appeared to be seabirds coasting on drafts of air high above her head. Natasha noticed bird feathers and eggshells scattered about. They were a messy lot, she thought. Natasha didn’t care for birds.

  As she turned to continue walking, Natasha thought she caught a glimpse of movement in the ruins next door. She must be imagining things. The remote wildness of this place was getting to her. Despite her best attempts to reassure herself she was alone, a frightening thought occurred to her. What if she was trapped on this island with a madman, or even worse, the ghost of a madman?

  Whistling loudly to give herself a sense of bravado, Natasha turned and resumed her journey along the footpath stomping aggressively to let any would-be attackers know she wasn’t afraid. Why were the hairs on her arms standing straight up? Why did she feel she had to turn around every few minutes to make sure she wasn’t being followed? Why did she feel as if she was being watched? Only another hour of hiking then she could take her photos and get the hell out. This place was too spooky for words.

  Natasha temporarily forgot her fears when she reached the far side of the island. The view was spectacular. Torridonian sandstone stacks rose from the sea below like medieval towers.

  Natasha laid on her stomach and took shot after shot until she felt she’d captured the drama of the scenery. She took a few selfies wearing her most tragic expression. She even managed to summon a few tears. This is where her love had perished. The photos of her grieving would be a nice touch for the book.

  Satisfied, Natasha put her gear away. She might have stayed and eaten her lunch but once again her skin began to prickle. Goddamit. Enough was enough. It was time to go.

  Natasha took the path back at an even faster pace than the one she used to cross the island. By the time she got to the ruins she was sweating profusely and somewhat out of breath. But she’d be damned if she was going to stop.

  Natasha thought she heard a noise, a coughing sound. Oh God. There was someone behind her. She could hear footsteps approaching. She daren’t turn around now. She began to run. If I scream, no one will hear me, she thought.

  Natasha ran as fast as her clumsy rubber boots would allow. In the distance she could see the tourist hut. That was where she’d moored her boat. She had to get there so she could flee to safety. Too late. A pair of arms tackled her feet. She felt as if she was falling in slow motion until she hit the ground. All the air was expelled from her body. This was it. This was the end.

  Desperately trying to suck air back into her lungs, Natasha rolled over ready to confront her attacker. She found herself staring at a ragged, bearded wild-man with violet-blue eyes; there was no mistaking who they belonged to.

  Every hair on Natasha’s body stood to attention. She was staring face to face with a ghost. The ghost gripped her arm then muttered some words in a language she couldn’t understand. This was no spectre, no creature risen from the dead. Her eyes widened in horrified disbelief.

  “Declan,” she gasped. “Holy motherfucking shit. Declan. It’s you. What the fuck!”

  Declan was extremely skinny. His ribs poked out from his frame like ice scrapers. His belly was as sunken and hollowed as his cheeks although a matted beard helped to fill out his face and disguise his jaw. He looked extremely confused. He rubbed his eyes several times as if his vision was fogged. He gave himself a pinch, and then he pinched her.

  “Ouch, motherfuck,” said Natasha, scrambling backwards.

  This was the craziest situation she’d ever encountered.

  “Cuidich,” said Declan in a pleading tone, “cuidich.”

  He was speaking utter gibberish. Perhaps he needed a drink. As Natasha’s breathing returned to normal she dived into her knapsack, extracting a bottle of water and a sandwich. Declan took them from her, eating and drinking greedily. Again he spoke words she couldn’t understand. She stroked his face.

  “Declan. Declan. It’s me.”

  Hearing his name again stirred something in Declan’s brain.

  “Who are you?” he asked, this time in English.

  “It’s me. Natasha.”

  “Na-tash-a.” Declan rolled the syllables around his mouth as if he could taste them. Yes, this was someone he knew, this was someone who knew him. How, he couldn’t say.

  Natasha ran her fingers lightly over a red mark blistering on Declan’s arm.

  “How did you get this? Did you get burned by something?” asked Natasha. Declan stared at his arm as if it might belong to someone else.

  “I don’t know. Who are you?” he asked again.

  The reality of this new situation was slowly dawning on Natasha. Declan had no idea who he was, or where he was. In other words, he was at her mercy. Her thoughts spun around like a slot machine then lined up in a jackpot.

  “I’m your wife,” she said, stroking his tangled hair. “I’ve come to take you home baby.”

  “My wife?” Declan examined the raven-haired beauty who seemed so concerned about him. “I don’t have a wife.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Natasha. “It’s me.”

  Declan looked around in a panic.

  “Where are the others?”

  “What others? You’re alone here Declan. There was an accident.”

  Declan had a vague memory of boiling porridge.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” he said. “She did it on purpose.”

  Natasha wondered if he was completely deranged.

  “I have to look for them,” he said. “Fionnaugh. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Natasha. She decided it was best to play along with whatever game was going on in his mind.

  “I expect she’s around somewhere.”

  Declan took in the rubble of the ancient settlement.

  “The house. It’s gone,” he said. He rubbed his eyes again as if they might restore some missing sight. Declan looked at Natasha in alarm.

  “Where’s the barn?” he demanded.

  “Um, it blew away in a big storm?” suggested Natasha.

  “We have to find them. We have to look for them,” said Declan, desperation creeping into his voice.

  “Sure baby,” said Natasha wanting to calm him down. “Where do you want to look?”

  “Around here,” said Declan. “They must be around
her somewhere.”

  “Okay. We’ll take a look and see if we can find them,” soothed Natasha.

  Declan became more and more frantic as they circumnavigated the ruined settlement.

  “I stayed with them. They were here,” insisted Declan.

  “Shh, shh,” said Natasha. “It was all a bad dream. You had a bad dream and now you’ve woken up.”

  Declan wasn’t listening. He stopped at a patch of grassy land behind the ruins and looked at her fiercely.

  “This is where the barn was,” he said.

  The fucking barn again. Natasha sighed. “Yes Declan, this is where the barn was but now it’s gone.”

  Declan dropped to his knees, pulling at clumps of grass. He produced a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and used one of its blades to scrape away dirt.

  “Here. Look,” he cried excitedly.

  Natasha kneeled beside him.

  “What is it?” she asked, not really wanting to know.

  “Look, look,” he insisted.

  Natasha saw that he’d uncovered a grave marker. She wanted to leave this place but Declan clearly wasn’t going to be satisfied until the stone was cleared. She dug in to help him, worrying that her nails were being ruined. Finally, they were able to make out the inscription on the weather-beaten headstones.

  Fionnaugh McNamara May 1, 1830 – Sept 16, 1848

  “She’s dead,” whispered Declan.

  “Yeah, and has been for quite some time.”

  “How can this be true? No, no, it can’t be, it’s impossible,” insisted Declan. “She was just here.”

  He looked around as if he expected Fionnaugh to appear at any moment. He seemed thoroughly bewildered, even unbalanced. Natasha was burning with curiosity as to what all this meant. Whatever it was it appeared to be hugely significant.

  Natasha’s fingers felt through the grass, touching another rough stone.

  “There’s another marker here,” she said, closely watching Declan’s reaction. The next marker was much smaller, clearly a child’s.

  Stewart McNamara Sept 16 – Sept 17, 1848

  “This Fionnaugh died giving birth and her baby died the next day. What the fuck does all this have to do with you Declan? It was more than a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Declan remained quiet. He sat down heavily on the grass as if an axe had felled him.

  “What…what year is this?”

  “It’s two thousand and thirteen,” said Natasha. “September, two thousand and thirteen.”

  Declan was transfixed by the grave markers. He stared at Fionnaugh’s and the baby’s in stunned silence. A baby. Fionnaugh had given birth and died.

  Natasha continued looking around, coming across several other grave markers overgrown with grass. She wasn’t prepared to uncover any more. She’d had quite enough of spookville for one day.

  After several minutes, Declan turned to Natasha, his eyes watery with tears.

  “Take me home,” he whispered. “Take me home.”

  Natasha’s mind had been reeling and scheming.

  “Sure, Declan, I’ll take you home but we’re gonna have to keep you hidden.”

  He looked surprised. “Hidden? Why?”

  “Because you’re wanted. The police are looking for you.”

  “For what?” he asked perplexed.

  “Murder Declan. You’re wanted for murder.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Joan arrived by taxi at the front of the Cumberland Gallery, across from the renovated Art Gallery of Ontario, a building that resembled the inverted hull of a ship.

  The Cumberland Gallery, once a narrow three-story brick house, had been converted into a chic space for art. Glancing up to the second floor, she could see people milling about. This was where Byron’s show was taking place.

  Joan hugged a soft cream pashmina over her shoulders and climbed polished mahogany stairs to the second floor. She estimated about thirty guests were attending. She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and looked around. Byron was chatting with a couple. A cellist was playing Bach.

  Live music, thought Joan, impressive.

  Byron caught her eye and made a gesture that indicated he’d be five minutes. Joan nodded, deciding to peruse Byron’s framed photographs hanging on the wall. She noted many of them sported little red dots indicating they’d been sold. The prices were fairly hefty. Some of the larger ones were $5000. Byron was doing well.

  Joan stopped in front of the biggest photo. At first glance it appeared to be a pale landscape of sand dunes with rolling curves but then Joan saw it was a female body lying half forward and half on her side. Close to her spine, like a road across the desert, ran a shiny scar.

  The next photograph of a body looked like a blue moonscape with the belly button as a crater and below it, the scarred reminder of something removed. Joan examined another photo of a woman’s neck, it’s swanlike beauty interrupted by an angry slash. The next photo was of a man’s face, hidden by shadows with a thin white line running from ear to chin. Byron’s subject was disfigurement.

  Byron appeared beside Joan. He handed her another glass of champagne.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked.

  “They’re beautiful. They’re also disturbing,” she added.

  He nodded, seeming pleased.

  “What made you choose this subject?” asked Joan.

  “We all carry scars, beginning with this one.” Byron pointed to the photograph of a belly button. “We all get them one way or another.”

  “Plus emotional scars,” said Joan, thinking of her twin sister’s suicide and the loss of her son and husband.

  “You’re right,” said Byron softly.

  “Tell me about this one.”

  The foreground appeared to be an Edward Burtynsky landscape of fleshy bleakness. A pale hill rose in the distance.

  “That was my mother’s mastectomy before she died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Joan. “She had breast cancer?”

  “It killed her.” Byron gestured around. “I donate twenty percent of my sales towards cancer research.

  At that moment, a well-to-do looking man in a suit interrupted.

  “Excuse me Mr. Sparks but my partner and I would like to purchase ‘Caesarian’ and we wonder whether you’d mind taking a few minutes to explain the background.”

  “Certainly,” agreed Byron. He turned to Joan. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  Joan moved around the room listening to comments.

  “Damned if I’d have that on my living room wall,” said a man to his wife. They were looking at a photograph of a man’s chest cut from breastbone to thorax in a permanent crucifix. The woman shot him a vile glance. “No, God forbid there’d be anything less than perfect in the house, George.”

  Joan smiled to herself and sipped her champagne. People were clustered in twos and threes chatting. Joan noticed red stickers had been placed on a couple more photographs.

  This is really interesting, thought Joan, Byron is passionate about what he does and what his work stands for. He returned to her side.

  “Do you have any physical scars Joan?”

  Joan laughed. “A small one, on my knee. Result of a skating accident when I was a child. Hardly visible now.”

  Byron nodded. “Yes, they fade but they’re still there as a reminder of something, an event, an accident, an illness.”

  Byron glanced towards the door where a hefty woman lugging a briefcase had appeared.

  “Oh God. The Star’s art critic has arrived,” said Byron. “I must go and charm her as best I can.”

  You won’t have to try too hard, thought Joan. Byron Sparks was about as charming as you could get.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be leaving shortly so I’ll say goodbye and wish you luck now.”

  Byron leaned over and kissed her cheek. Joan caughtthe heady scent of an expensivecologne. As his lips grazed her cheek, he produced two baseball tickets from his p
ocket.

  “A friend has season’s tickets behind home plate. The game is Saturday afternoon. Will you join me?”

  Joan gasped.

  “Yes, yes of course. Thank you. Perhaps I can cook you dinner afterwards?”

  The invitation to dinner had erupted spontaneously but it suddenly made sense. Byron Sparks was intriguing. He also liked baseball.

  “I’d be delighted to accept your dinner invitation,” he said. “Meet you outside gate seven at twelve thirty?”

  “I’ll be there,” said Joan. “Do you have any preferences or dislikes when it comes to food?”

  “None whatsoever,” he said flashing her a smile. “I can assure you my appetite will be intact and grateful for whatever you choose to serve me.”

  The hefty woman from the Star waddled towards Byron.

  “See you at the game,” said Joan.

  Joan’s heart was beating faster than normal as she left the gallery. What had Byron said about never coming on to beautiful women? Joan wasn’t sure she could be considered beautiful, although she thought she was reasonably attractive.

  Oh stop it Joan, she told herself. This line of thinking was ridiculous. Byron Sparks was simply becoming a friend, although…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Natasha gave Declan an appraising stare. His worn clothes and ragged appearance suggested a man who’d been stranded on a desert island. This was big news. Declan Thomas was alive after all. He was at her mercy. She’d have to try and get him back to the mainland without attracting notice. Her newsboy tweed cap would cover his matted hair. She dug into her purse for a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  “Here Declan, put these on,” she said handing him the cap and glasses. Aside from shoddy clothes he looked fairly presentable.