Death Island

by Joan Conning Afman

  “Miles to go before I sleep,” he muttered, quoting Robert Frost’s famous poem, just before his exhausted mind and body gave up and he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  When he awoke, hours later, night was settling down over the forest again. Angry at himself, he realized he had slept the day away, and now would probably spend a sleepless night, waiting for dawn so he could continue his journey. Suddenly he flattened himself against the trunk of the tree; he was not alone. Two scraggly men—tall, skinny, with hair hanging over their foreheads and ears, haphazard beards sprouting from their chins—sat propped up against the other trees, regarding him with interest. He had no idea who they were.

  One of them spoke to him. “The Painter boys,” he said. “I’m Drew. This is my brother, Clay. Remember us?”

  “No,” Danny said, confused and feeling his confusion grow. “What are you doing here?”

  “The question is,” his brother Clay drawled, “what are you doin’ here? You’re about two miles from the Tribe’s camp, do you know that? They could just as well have happened on you out here instead of us. Fast asleep like that, you’d be dead in a second.”

  “Naw, they’d probably drag him back to camp to play with him like they’re doin’ with that Indian kid.”

  Danny’s mind began to clear as the red mist receded. He remembered the long trek through the forest. There was a reason he was doing this … He tried to focus. There was a purpose, there was someone ... Talon! He riveted his attention on Drew.

  He remembered. “Have you seen him?” His voice betrayed his anxiety.

  “Oh, he’s alive, but he won’t be fer long the way things are goin’,” Drew said.

  “Why do you care?”

  Danny’s voice cracked. “I lived with him in the Village—No, no! Not like that,” he explained, as he caught the glance Drew and Clay exchanged, “but for a few months. When he got hurt in the battle with the Tribe, and we built a canoe together, and we almost got away … but Javonne got Talon, and then—”

  He stopped to grab a breath of air.

  Drew’s face registered his surprise. “Javonne got him and he lived through that? How did he wind up as a guest of the Tribe?”

  “Martin said the Tribe waylaid them, attacked Javonne, and while he was busy defending himself, they took Talon. Then they killed Javonne.”

  “Good riddance there,” Clay commented. “But why didn’t Talon run when all that happened? Couldn’t he have gotten away during the fight?”

  “He wasn’t in very good shape,” Danny said. “Javonne threw him against a rock, hard, knocked him out. I got pretty battered, too.”

  “Yeah, we see. You don’t look so good, Danny.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I had to see what I could do about rescuing Talon. I got to thinking of him as a sort of son, maybe the son I would have had someday.”

  “You’re in no shape to rescue anyone,” Clay said. “You can’t do that alone.”

  “No one back at the Village thinks I can do it at all,” Danny admitted, “but I’m gonna try or die in the attempt.”

  Clay looked at his brother, who shrugged in answer to the unasked question. “I don’t like the Tribe much. And they’re pretty stupid, and drunk a lot of the time. I think if we watch and observe, we might be able to come up with a plan.”

  “Always good to have a plan,” Martin said, walking out of the forest and joining them.

  Danny shook his head in disbelief. “You! How do you always manage to show up at the weirdest times?”

  Martin ignored him. He squatted down and joined the circle. “I’ve been by to observe the Tribe and their activities. They’re having a lot of fun, but it’s not so much fun for Talon.”

  Danny felt the blood drain from his face. “What are they doing to him?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Tell me. Tell me!”

  Martin picked up a stick and scratched aimlessly in the dirt. “They’ve got a collar around his neck, and a rope attached to a pole like a leash, and they throw things at him, and hit him with sticks, and they toss him bones and chunks of raw meat for food. Treatin’ him like an animal, basically.”

  “Bear baiting,” Danny said. “People used to do that for sport, actually thought it was fun.” He buried his head in his hands. “We have to help him.”

  “And we will,” Martin said. “Good thing you had that long nap.” He fixed the Painter brothers with a hard look. “You guys with us?”

  Clay shrugged. “Sure, if you got some idea what to do.”

  “I think I do,” Martin said. “I just hope it works. Let’s get closer to the camp before it gets dark. Follow me, okay?”

  Martin led them through the woods with sure steps, finding spaces through the trees and brush that Danny never would have seen. After half an hour or so, he turned back to the other three men and put his finger to his lips, signaling quiet. As they went on, they tried to mask the thud of their footsteps. When they began to hear sounds of human activity—voices shouting and scuffling of feet inside the camp—Martin signaled for a halt. He went ahead, carefully, gliding behind trees like a shadow, fading from their sight. After a few minutes he came back and beckoned to them, and they slid through the trees behind him. Danny gasped when they came to a rock structure, a man-made platform with steps that overlooked the entire camp. He saw the guard lying on the dirt, blood gushing from his back and head.

  The platform had a semi-circular, castle-like wall with crenellations just like the Villagers’, to look out for enemies and fire arrows between. The four men knelt down so they could not be seen but had a good view of the campground.

  A dozen or so campfires made a large circle around a central pole. Martin had accurately described what they had done to Talon. He stood in the dirt, his shorts and shirt torn to shreds, his black hair torn out in clumps, leaving patches of bare scalp. He had a thick vine collar around his neck, and a ten foot leash of twisted vines tethered him to the center pole. The Tribe wore outlandish costumes made of feathers, long grass, and animal skins, and their hair was braided or twisted and decorated with more bright feathers, bones and shells. They had primitive drums made of animal skins stretched over hollowed out tree trunks. Several Tribesmen pranced around the drums, beating them with heavy sticks. In between drumming, chanting, dancing and tormenting Talon, the men helped themselves to a brew, dipping wooden bowls into a large tree-trunk vat of a very potent concoction, judging by how quickly they were all becoming intoxicated. Most of the others—those who were not already sprawled out on the ground in a drunken stupor—danced around Talon and the pole, throwing rocks at him or venturing close and hitting him with a spear or stick.

  Talon defended himself with fury, but Danny could see that the constant abuse had greatly weakened him. He bore a huge blue mark on his temple, and blood ran from it. His arms and legs were covered with dark bruises and red gashes, and his back had lash marks.

  “Oh, God,” Danny whispered, drawing in a sharp breath.

  Martin nudged his shoulder, hissing “Be quiet!”

  They waited. Danny wondered if there were hidden cameras even here, taking pictures. He didn’t see any tiny blinking lights, but he assumed the Tribe would have demolished any obvious devices. Whatever hidden eyes that remained were really well-concealed.

  They waited, and waited. Gradually, the activity wound down, and men wandered away to their huts or platforms, or simply lay down near one of the fires and went to sleep.

  At last, relative quiet and snoring took the place of shouts and grunts, and the fires burned down to embers. “Now,” Martin said in a low voice. He stood up, surveyed the camp from his taller vantage point, and backed down the stone stairs. He went over to a pile of brush piled on the ground and drew out lengths of what looked like thick greasy rope. He divided it into four piles as Danny and the others watched.

  “I hate to ask,” Clay grunted quietly. “Looks like animal guts.”

  Martin beckone
d them down from the platform. “This,” he explained, is a vine that grows down around the rocks by the coast. It has the great advantage of becoming sort of hollow as it dries. You can fill it up with stuff—like grease or something else that’s flammable—tie the ends together, and more or less end up with Molotov cocktails.”

  “Yeah, but what about matches?” Clay asked. “We used all ours up.”

  “I have some,” Martin replied with a casual grin. He put up a hand as Danny opened his mouth. “Don’t ask,” he said. “You don’t want to know.

  “Now,” Martin continued, “the three of you take your pile of Molotov cocktails and pick a side of the camp. The idea is to make a whole ring of fire and drive them out into the forest before they can think what to do. Most of them are drunk, as you probably noticed.”

  Martin pointed to a cleared space among the trees on the opposite end of the camp from where they stood. “That’s their escape hatch,” he said. So stay away from that area. You’ll set fires all around the perimeter of the camp, and I’ll get Talon. Also, they keep their cache of weapons in the shed over there. I’ll torch that then cut Talon loose. I sure hope he can walk, but I’ll get him out. They’ll be on the other side of the camp, so when you’ve done your job, head back the way we came. We’ll have a good head start before they regain their senses.”

  “They’ll come after us,” Clay said.

  “I don’t think so,” Danny replied. “In the first place, they’re not used to being attacked, so it’ll be a total surprise. In the second place, their torches and arrows will all be burnt. When they sober up, they’ll realize Talon is gone, and then they’ll suspect the Villagers, but by that time we’ll be back and can get ready for them.”

  They all nodded. “Are you ready?” Martin asked.

  They nodded again, and Martin pointed to the camp. “Wait to start the fires until you hear my signal. Okay, go to your places.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  At the sound of the first step on the stairway, Paul swore, jumped out of bed, and grabbed his pants, which were folded—neatly, as usual, so the creases would not be disturbed—over the back of a chair. Sarah let out a little yelp and pulled the sheets up over her head.

  Does she think she’s hiding? Charlie didn’t know what to do, but whoever it was—a cop or a realtor wondering why the lights were on in a vacant house—she didn’t have as much to worry about as Paul and Sarah. She slid out of the chair and pressed herself up against the wall behind the open door. Do I think I’m hiding?

  She saw Paul freeze in his tracks, one leg in his pants, the other still bare. Sarah peeked out from beneath the sheets and let out a choking scream, one that hardly seemed human.

  “Nathaniel!” Charlie gasped, unable to believe her eyes. Nathaniel Spencer, suave, sophisticated, in all things calm and composed, his face twisted into a mask of barely controlled fury and, carrying in his right hand—an axe! It had a black wooden shaft and a shiny steel blade and looked a lot newer than the one Danny had been having sharpened.

  He gave her a black look but turned his gaze on the writhing figure under the sheets as he headed for the bed.

  “Whore!” be bellowed, and with one swift motion, he dragged Sarah from the bed and threw her on the floor, where she lay, twisted in upon herself like a rag doll, her screams piercing the night. He struck at her, but Paul, faster than Charlie had ever seen him move, leaped at him, knocking him backwards. The axe cut through the rug and stuck into the floorboards beneath.

  Charlie heard her own screams mingle with Sarah’s as the attacker pulled the axe free and turned on Paul. “Whoremaster! You dare to preach the name of God and then sin in His holy sight!”

  “Nathaniel—listen!”

  Charlie looked around for something to use as a weapon, anything. She grabbed a paperweight from the desk and hurled it at the man’s head. It threw him off balance just enough that the blow he swung at Paul missed, grazing his arm instead and leaving a long, bloody streak.

  Paul yelled in fury and threw himself at Nathaniel.

  They crashed to the floor, punching each other, and the axe slipped from Nathaniel’s hand. As they rolled over and over, Paul getting the worst of it, his opponent punched him hard in the head. Paul groaned once and lay still. Charlie grabbed up the paperweight and again aimed it at the intruder’s head. It connected, leaving a bloody gash as he howled in surprise and pain. Then he was after her, wild fury in his eyes, face twisted into a mask of hatred.

  “Whores! Sluts! All of you!” he shouted, staggering toward her. He grabbed Charlie by her sweater, hauling her close so that they stood face to face.

  “And you! You’re unworthy of serving God in His church. You’re a desecration in His Holy temple!”

  Sarah, naked and terrified, scrambled to her feet and ran for the door. With one easy movement, he hurled Charlie toward the bed, where she fell and hit her head against the wooden footboard, and lunged for Sarah, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her back into the room.

  Charlie, stunned, saw the axe on the floor, close to Paul’s feet, but try as she might, she was unable to force her arms and legs to move. She put all her will into it, and with great effort, began to crawl toward the axe. The attacker beat her to it. Still holding the frantically flailing Sarah by her hair, he threw her down on the floor beside Paul, grabbed his axe, and with one blow, struck Sarah dead. Her blood made her face a red mask and matted her long dark hair.

  He turned on Charlie. He kicked her, knocking her flat again. “You bitch!” he growled and raised the axe. It was as if Paul rose from the dead. Somehow he was on his feet, staggering, bloody, but alive, and again struggling with the attacker, trying to wrest the axe from him. Nathaniel shook him off, as he might have a dog, and Paul, thrown off balance, reeled to one side.

  It all happened as if in slow motion, Charlie recalled later. Nathaniel, head of Session, upstanding pillar of the church raised his axe.

  “Two in one night!” he yelled, his face black with anger. “You would have been next anyway.” He was faster than his size would have suggested, but as he swung the axe, red with Sarah’s fresh blood, Charlie rolled over, his blow missing her. Then Paul was there, no match physically for the attacker, but attacking him nevertheless. The three of them were locked in a life and death struggle. Paul clutched Nathaniel around the throat, kicking at him with a frenzy Charlie had never seen in her husband. Nathaniel forced Paul to his knees, Paul’s efforts to strangle him having no effect at all.

  “Charlie!” Paul cried, his eyes seeking her face. “I’m sorry! Run, save yourself!”

  Those were his last words to her. The axe struck him, and he slumped to the floor. Charlie didn’t know where she found the courage, or the strength, but as Paul died there on the beige carpet, silenced forever, she picked up the small writing desk near the door and swung it with all her strength at Nathaniel’s head. It connected with a sickening sound, and Nathaniel, with an incredulous glare at Charlie, fell backwards across Paul and lay still.

  Charlie sank to the floor. There was silence, except for her labored breathing.

  She stared in horror at the bloody scene. Three dead people, and she herself had killed one of them. She began to shiver. As though in a dream, she heard her own teeth chattering. She crawled over to her husband and, trembling so violently she could hardly manage it, shoved the other man’s body off Paul’s.

  “Oh, Paul.” She stared at the husband she had loved for the twelve years of their marriage. His eyes were open, but his expression was peaceful. She hoped that he was in a better place, being embraced by the love of the God he had served.

  She folded in on herself, hugged her knees, and curled up into a ball like a little girl, giving way to a bottomless ocean of grief.

  She didn’t care when she heard the sirens screeching toward the house. She didn’t move when she heard the official voices and the footsteps pounding up the stairs. She did not resist when the policewoman helped her to her feet, wrappe
d her own jacket around her shoulders, and led her from the room.

  Sometime later, showered and fortified with several pills to help her sleep, she lay in the bed that had been hers and Paul’s. Mindy and Heather sat in chairs pulled up to her side, their faces wracked with concern.

  The church bells began to chime. “That’s for Paul,” Mindy said, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on Charlie’s forehead. “They’re going to ring them on the hour for twenty-four hours, twelve chimes at a time.”

  “For the twelve years Paul was minister here,” Heather said.

  Charlie turned and buried her head in the pillow. It smelled like Paul, and if she tried hard enough, she could feel his arms around her, his body close to hers. She could imagine, even though she knew it wasn’t true, that nothing had changed, and life would go on in the same old familiar way.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Danny stood ready, watching Martin as he glided, silent as a cat, toward the pole where Talon was tied. Talon had slumped to a sitting position as his tormentors gradually abandoned him, too drunk to hit with accuracy any longer. His head lolled against the pole, and blood ran freely from half a dozen gashes on his body.

  He looked up, unbelieving, as Martin bent down and whispered to him, touching him lightly on the shoulder to alert him. Martin slit the vine-ropes with his mat knife and, his arm around the younger man, assisted him to the edge of the woods. They disappeared into the brush, and the night was silent, except for the restless snores and snuffles of the sleeping Tribesmen.

  After a few moments, Danny wondered what they should do. How would Martin get a signal to them? Then it came, the long, mournful howl of a wolf. He knew there were no wolves on the island. Danny was almost amused; the howling fit so well into the normal sounds of the forest, except that it wasn’t normal. He scratched a match and ran along his side of the camp, lighting the homemade Molotov cocktails, one after another, until his armful of vines was gone. Fires sprung up on the other sides of the camp at the same time. Noting with satisfaction the ring of flames circling the sleeping men, Danny turned and followed Martin’s trail into the forest.