Echo Island

by Jared C. Wilson

  “A lot of things happen,” Beatrice said.

  “No. I mean, like, at the end.”

  “Oh.”

  “They all live happily ever after, right?”

  “Well . . . sort of. Meleager goes on all these adventures in order to win the hearts of his people. He has to, or his father will kill him.”

  “This is the unnamed god.”

  “Right.”

  “So Meleager promises to turn the people’s favor back to his father. He defeats some of their enemies in battle. He retrieves legendary talismans they believe in. He gets rid of some horrible creatures that prey on the people at night. That kind of thing.”

  “And in the end? He finishes the quests and accomplishes the mission, right?”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said. “But there’s this twist, a little thing at the end that kind of upends everything.”

  “What happens?”

  “Meleager does finally win the acclaim of the people, who now return to honoring his father. And because of that, his father does spare him. But then . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “In the end, he falls in love.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes. And this woman, she’s evil. She tests his pride, basically. She tells him it isn’t fair that his father is getting all the glory when he’s done all the work. She reminds him of all the places he’s gone, all the enemies he’s conquered, and all the times he could’ve died. This woman convinces him that the villagers should be honoring him—basically, worshiping him—instead of his father.”

  “What does he do?”

  “One of the talismans he recovered from the sea is this comb said to have been used by an unnamed goddess.”

  “A comb?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like, for hair?”

  “Yes. Just listen for a second! So he recovers this comb, which is believed to contain supernatural powers because a goddess used it. And once upon a time, one of her hairs was found in it, and some warrior used it as his bowstring, and he never lost a battle, or something like that. The comb was put in a temple to the unnamed god, the one for Meleager’s father. It’s like a shrine. And this woman convinces Meleager to go steal it from the temple and from his father. Really, she wants it, because she thinks it will make her immortal. But she convinces him that he deserves to have it.”

  “So, he goes to steal it, I’m guessing.”

  “Yes. And at the end, his father strikes him dead right there in the temple.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s it.”

  “That’s the end of the story?”

  “Yeah. Well, I mean, it goes back to the slave girls at the fire, but that’s the end of the part about Meleager.”

  They kept trudging forward, fighting against the wind. Jason bit his lip, thinking. Finally, he said, “Well, that’s not inspiring at all.”

  The rain continued to fall in fits and starts, and thunder approached from the distance.

  “I think we’re about to get dumped on,” Jason said. “We can cut through my neighborhood here. I want to see my house one more time.”

  “Don’t say that,” Beatrice said. “Don’t say it like you’ll never see it again. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “I just don’t have a great feeling about whatever it is I’m supposed to do. And I know this story is somehow wrapped up in The Green Notebook, and you just told me that Meleager dies. So, what am I supposed to think?”

  “I think,” Beatrice said, “that you’re supposed to think that anything is possible. That’s the point.”

  Lightning streaked across the sky, instantly followed by the boom of thunder directly overhead. The rain grew intense.

  “Let’s hurry,” Jason said. “We’re almost there.”

  They rushed to the house in the pouring rain, dripping everywhere upon entry, where Jason immediately tripped over something on the floor. It was too dark to identify until another flash of lightning lit up the foyer. It was a drawer yanked from its slot in the entryway cabinet, and beyond it, in that split second of white light through the windows, they could see the entire living room was a mess.

  “What . . .” Jason said.

  “My father.”

  Jason froze. Then he whispered, “Do you think he’s here?”

  “No, I bet not. But I’m sure he came here looking for guns. Or for me. Or both. Did your dad have a gun?”

  “No. My family didn’t really hunt. My dad just did every now and then with buddies. He always borrowed something from them. But—”

  “What?”

  Jason crept through the blackness of the living room, arms out in front of him and shuffling his feet, anticipating obstructions. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he reached the kitchen and could see the whole place torn apart, the floor strewn with the contents of cabinets and drawers. Including a slew of knives.

  He retrieved a long chef’s knife and held it up before his eyes. Then he remembered. “Oh wait,” he said. “My brother.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “He’s got this ridiculous hunting knife. Like a Rambo knife.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s like a real knife with a grip. For hunting, or . . . you know, for combat.”

  “I thought your family didn’t hunt.”

  “We don’t, not really. Scott’s just a weirdo.” Jason smiled thinking about him.

  Cautiously, he climbed the steps, Beatrice following behind. At the landing, he stopped, looking back to his parents’ room.

  Just one more look.

  The first thing he noticed was the sharp smell of perfumes in the air, acidic florals and spices stinging his nose. Beatrice said nothing as he looked over the unmade bed. This floor, too, was covered in the ransacked contents of Tereus’s search. It appeared that Tereus had thrown everything from their closet onto the carpet, and the bathroom looked like a grenade had gone off. All of his mother’s perfumes and cosmetic potions had been swept from their glass shelf, some of them now lay on the floor, others, in cracked vials on the counter beneath the shattered mirror.

  Jason felt suddenly protective of his family. His home had been violated. His parents’ things destroyed. A lightning bolt of rage cracked through his nerves. And he wasn’t sure whom he was really angry with. Tereus? Or someone else?

  Jason walked out and across the landing toward his brother’s room.

  “It smells bad in here,” Beatrice said.

  “Yeah,” he said, and he smiled. It meant his brother was real.

  On his hands and knees beside the bed, he reached under the box spring and felt around under the slats. “Scott kept it under here, hidden between the mattress and the frame because my mom told him to get rid of it.”

  After a few seconds, Jason found it. It was long and olive green, the blade serrated on one side, and the hilt grooved for maximum grip. It was the kind of novelty knife you might find for sale at a flea market or a gas station. Real hunters would not have used it. But it was big and sharp, and it made him feel a bit calmer, sensing what lay ahead.

  “I’m going to change,” Jason said. “My room’s right there. Do you want to see if you can find something in my parents’ room? Your dress is soaked.”

  Indeed, it was. Beatrice simply nodded, returning to the master bedroom to search in the darkness for something of his mother’s.

  Jason changed into dry jeans, a long-sleeved athletic shirt, and his water-resistant windbreaker. He didn’t notice what Beatrice had put on until they’d returned to the front porch to exit. It was a powder blue dress, plain and unpatterned, rather similar to her white one in style—with thin straps over her bare shoulders and a hem to her knees. Jason had never seen it before.

  The rain was falling now in a loud, unre
lenting cascade, and water was pooling along the curbs.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little . . .”

  “What?” she said.

  He wanted to say impractical. Did she really think that was a great outfit for being outside in a rainstorm? Or for whatever it was they were about to walk into?

  Instead, he just said, “Hold on.” He opened the hall closet to rummage around, emerging with a long gray raincoat. “At least wear this so that you don’t get cold and drenched.”

  He moved to help her into it, but she said, “I can do it,” and took it from him to put it on herself.

  Jason looked out the window. “I guess there’s no avoiding this.”

  “No. I think it’s part of the thing,” she said. “The story.”

  Jason let out a big, heavy sigh. Then he stepped out into the rain—Beatrice right beside him—and began his journey to Minuai Fields.

  Jack leaned forward in his chair as if to welcome the bad man in. His brow was arched. A new fire was blazing in the fireplace, but the pleasant crackling of wood was drowned out by the rain beating on the roof.

  Tereus assessed the scene, scanning the room furtively. He was nearly snorting, out of breath but churning with fury. It felt like a trap, though he couldn’t see how. Certainly, the chubby bald man in the corner posed no threat. And there was no place for anyone to hide, really. So he stepped in and slammed the door behind him.

  “Manners,” Jack said.

  Tereus snarled.

  Jack leaned back. “Come in, then. I’ve been expecting you.”

  The man closed the gap between Jack and himself with what seemed to Jack like supernatural quickness. One moment, he wasn’t beside him, and the next, his fists were on the desk and he was pushing his melted face into Jack’s, seething with anger and dripping water into his lap.

  Through the remnants of his singed beard, he said, “Where is my daughter?”

  “It’s remarkable,” said Jack. “You are a formidable adversary; there’s no doubt of that. But terribly banal.”

  Tereus didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it wasn’t a compliment. He wrapped his fingers around Jack’s neck and squeezed, or tried to. He suddenly found his muscles unresponsive.

  “You cannot harm me,” said Jack. “That much I’ve been told.”

  The signals were sending, but they weren’t being received. In his mind, Tereus was choking the old man—his eyes bulging out, his tongue lolling, and his already-red face turning crimson. But in reality, nothing was happening. His hand would not obey orders.

  “Try and try. It won’t work. I’ve been assured.”

  Tereus dropped his hand, then lifted it before his eyes, dumbly.

  “I only wish,” Jack said, “I could pass it on to the children. But I suppose it wouldn’t make much of a story if no one could get hurt.”

  “Who are you?” Tereus said.

  “My name is Jack, though any information beyond that I don’t think should matter much to you. But you are to have a seat. That much I know. I don’t know that it is supposed to do any good, but I’m to have a talk with you.”

  “I want to know where my daughter is.”

  “In due time. For now, I insist. Sit down.”

  Jack motioned at the fireplace. Tereus stared at the hearth for a moment and then, stunningly, complied, turning to place his enormous haunches on the brick. He entirely blocked the fireplace from view.

  “I am meant,” Jack said, “to prevail upon you to turn from your path. I do not expect you to comply. But I must make the plea.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Tereus. He looked like a gigantic child huddled over his own knees. Seated a full foot below Jack’s chair and slumped, his head was still level with the guide’s.

  “And I don’t suspect you will. Nevertheless, I am to make the appeal. And there it is: Cease from your current path. Cease all anger, hatred, and violence.”

  Tereus perked up. The corner of his lip curled.

  “And,” Jack continued, “you must renounce your claim upon Beatrice.”

  At that, Tereus shot up and bolted toward Jack. But again, he ran up against some invisible force, which buffeted him back. He could not even touch the man.

  Jack sighed. “Sit down, you fool,” he said calmly.

  Tereus pressed against the invisible wall, which wouldn’t give. He reared back and rammed his shoulder against it. “You’ve trapped me!”

  “No, you scourge. You’ve trapped yourself. You are free to leave and carry on your path of destruction, which will inevitably lead to your own, whether in this story or the next. But I haven’t yet pleaded with you properly. It is my next assignment and the next thing that must happen. So, please. Sit down.”

  Reluctantly, Tereus complied, once again hunching on the brick lip of the fireplace. This time, however, he fixed his demonic gaze on Jack, waiting for any sign that the barrier might be down. He said, “I just want my daughter.”

  “I know. But Beatrice is beyond you now. She always has been. Her innocence, her purity, her hope. Heavens! Her imagination. With all your strength, with all your rage, you could not keep her from her destiny. Nor yourself from yours. The fate of the boys I cannot see. You may indeed succeed in your bloodlust there. Something tells me it may be that sort of myth. But not so with Beatrice. I suspect, however the rest of it turns out, that Beatrice has already escaped for good.”

  “Stop saying her name!”

  “A name given by her mother, I think.”

  “Stop.”

  “Do you agree, then? You will renounce your violence against the boys and give up your claim on the girl?”

  Tereus stood again, slowly this time. The notebooks had caught his eye.

  Jack said, “That’s a no, then?”

  Ignoring him, Tereus crossed to the bookcase. He pulled one of the green notebooks from the shelf and opened it.

  Jack said, “Don’t bother yourself with those. They are undoubtedly beyond you.”

  Tereus frowned sideways at him but kept the pages open before him.

  “I’m saying,” Jack insisted, “you cannot hope to read what is there.”

  The man now looked fully at Jack. “I can read it just fine,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  Tereus began reading, slowly: “Tim was back at the Bee Market again, shopping. He wheeled a squeaking grocery cart brimming with bags of chips and boxes of cereal up and down the Bee Market aisles, wistfully eyeing each row. The comforting sights of colorful logos and perfectly photographed meals on package after package drew him steadily along. Food made him absentminded.”

  Jack sat up straight. “Fascinating.”

  “Tim had just reached the end of the baking goods aisle when he heard it,” Tereus continued. “A clanging sound from outside.”

  “Well, this is a development I didn’t see coming.”

  “What does it mean?” Tereus asked.

  “It means there’s a great deal more I haven’t been told; I’ll tell you that much! Perhaps it means even the demons understand.”

  Tereus dropped the notebook on the floor and removed another one from the shelf. Scanning random pages, he threw that one down and chose another. Jack watched him mournfully. “And tremble.”

  The beast was catching on. Eventually, he chose the last notebook on the shelf and began flipping through the pages to the end. After long seconds that felt to Jack like long minutes, Tereus dropped that notebook too. “Minuai Fields,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “They’ve gone to Minuai Fields.”

  “Yes, that sounds right.”

  “And what happens next?”

  “I do not know, exactly. It hasn’t been given to me, though I suspect, in one sense, it’s already been written.”

  “Minuai Fiel
ds. Then what?”

  “As I said, I cannot say. It was only for me to implore you to turn back, knowing that despite the warning, you would continue. Not even you can defeat the story itself. But the story’s end is coming soon, and I trust yours along with it.”

  Tereus reached out and grasped the bookcase. He pulled it toward him, spilling all the notebooks onto the floor in a great heap. “That’s what I think of your story,” he said.

  Jack shook his head.

  The bookcase fell over then, landing with a thud on top of its spillage.

  “I’m going to kill them,” he said.

  “They are just boys,” Jack said. And as Tereus retreated back out of the cabin and into the dark deluge, Jack added under his breath, “Though sometimes the battle reveals the man.”

  Despite the new clothes, Jason and Beatrice were both practically soaked through when they reached Minuai Fields. The great expanse of grass rose gently to meet them. It was naturally thin, wispy grass, typically delicate under their feet but now thickened in the rain. Their feet sloshed in the softening earth.

  Jason looked out over the dreary field. The wind cut through it at every angle. In the distance, over the edge of the cliff on the other side, lightning illuminated the ocean.

  “My dad used to bring me here to fly kites.” There was silence for a moment. Then he said, “That’s all I remember about this place.”

  Beatrice glanced up at the sky as if imagining herself as a girl flying a kite.

  “Didn’t you live over there?” Jason said. He was pointing across the field eastward, in the direction where the burned-out trailer still sat below a ridge, obscured by the elevation and the night.

  “Yes,” Beatrice said, but she didn’t even look.

  Something else caught her eye. “What is that?” she said.

  Jason followed her gaze westward.

  “In the trees,” she said.

  It was hard to tell in the distance and in the rain.

  “Do you see it?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  It looked like a pile of laundry against a tree. They began to slog through the ankle-high grass until they knew what they were approaching, and then they ran.