by Rebecca Hale
As I thought grimly about the chance of lightning striking my intended destination, a static-laden voice crackled from the radio.
“Pin,” Manto said with exasperation. “Where have yu gone wit’ my truck?”
I reached for the handset and clicked on the receiver.
“Sorry, Manto,” I replied. “I’ll bring it back when I’m done. I promise.”
“Mek sure yu re-fill thuh tank,” he said with a sigh.
By the time I reached the T-intersection at Coral Bay, much of the earlier chaos had dissipated. The majority of marchers had either returned home or convened on the Freedom Memorial in Cruz Bay. I waved off the few stragglers who tried to flag down the truck taxi for a ride.
Rain began to spit against the windshield as I swung the truck south onto the road that tracked Hurricane Hole’s outer rim. The dark blanket of the advancing squall line billowed over the harbor, smothering the afternoon’s bright sunshine.
I’d have to hurry if I was going to catch up to Hannah before the storm hit.
* * *
Past the shuttered grocery store that demarcated the end of Coral Bay’s sparse settlement, I pressed on the gas, pushing the truck as fast as I dared along the twisting, winding road.
A short stretch of humping hills rose up to meet the truck’s charging tires. Power lines looped from pole to pole, crisscrossing the road in a low swinging lattice. It was as if the truck were riding a roller coaster’s rails; I was merely a passenger, strapped in for the ride.
The island’s arid southeastern climate took over the landscape. The trees shrunk in size, giving way to multitudes of succulents—all manner of cacti and yucca plants that thrived in the hot, dry exposure. The harsh moonscape mirrored the blunt force of the wind whipping through the driver’s-side window as the untamed emptiness of my uninhabited surroundings joined me inside the cab.
The road crested near the entrance to a rough parking lot that served this lesser-known portion of the island’s national park. The trail to the Salt Pond and, beyond, Ram Head, was marked by the park’s signature brown and white signage, but little else.
The looming storm had chased off the few swimmers who had ventured out that morning. A couple of rental cars drove out of the lot as I pulled in, leaving behind just one other vehicle—a beat-up Jeep missing its front driver’s-side door.
54
The Salt Pond
I parked Manto’s truck in the widest portion of the lot in the hopes that I wouldn’t have to reverse it in order to steer back onto the road. I didn’t imagine I’d receive a lot of sympathy if, after having borrowed it without permission, I managed to get it stuck in the mud.
Meanwhile, the cloud bank swept in; its howling wind buffeted the cab as raindrops began to shoot across the windshield. The automatic daytime headlights switched off when I killed the engine, increasing the dim, dreary mood of the location.
I rolled up the driver’s-side window and stared out at the abandoned Jeep. There was something strangely amiss about this already odd situation.
Stretching my arm across to the glove compartment, I pushed the button that released its latch and reached inside, searching for a flashlight. In so doing, my fingers brushed against a worn paper bag containing a small glasslike object. Grinning, I retrieved both the flashlight and the bottle of rum.
“Manto, my friend,” I said appreciatively, “you prepare for everything.”
Unscrewing the lid, I gulped down a burning dose of the sugary brown liquid.
If I hadn’t just closed the window, I would have spit it out.
“Good grief, Manto,” I said, smacking my lips—at least that portion of them that hadn’t been numbed by the drink. “That’s horrid.”
Armed now with the flashlight and rum-weakened inhibitions, I stepped out of the cab and crossed the parking lot to Charlie’s Jeep.
It appeared to be empty, but I approached cautiously all the same. The dampening dirt caked the soles of my flip-flops as I aimed the flashlight’s narrow beam at the Jeep’s front seating compartment. Once I confirmed that it was empty, I turned the light’s focus to the tiny rear seat.
On the cushion lay a canvas toolbox—empty except for a pair of pliers and a scrap of cellophane wrapping. Leaning in, I picked up the wrapper, flattened it out, and held its surface beneath the flashlight.
Enough of the wrapper remained intact for me to read the labeling for the contents it had once held: a special kind of putty used to affix explosive devices.
I found the key beneath the front seat. Tucking it into my shorts pocket, I stepped back from the Jeep and scanned the scrub brush forest that surrounded the edge of the parking lot. I’d found the Jeep; that was the main purpose of my mission—but I still had questions for the mysterious Hannah Sheridan.
My eyes stopped on the trailhead sign.
SALT POND TRAIL
SALT POND BEACH 0.3 MI
RAM HEAD 1.2 MI
* * *
It was a short five-minute walk to the beach, down a wide but steep and increasingly slippery trail of loose rocks and gravel. The path was built up on either side with a dense vegetation of spiny cactus, agave plants, and scrubby trees that, despite their short height, managed to further darken the muddy path.
Wiping the rain from my face, I gripped the flashlight’s metal barrel as the path sank deeper and deeper into the brush.
A few minutes later, the brush gave way to an enormous scallop-shaped cove. Low-rising hills on either side protected this picturesque stretch of sand, which was fronted by a shallow coral-filled bay.
Everyone on the island called this beach the Salt Pond, but that was a bit of a misnomer—the brackish, uninviting swamp of saltwater that leant the area its name was about half a mile off in the brush.
Less visited by tourists due to its inaccessibility—the truck taxis charged an arm and a leg to ferry passengers out this far—the Salt Pond offered some of the island’s best snorkeling. Shyer underwater creatures like octopi, lobsters, and turtles could still be seen here even when those near the north shore beaches had been scared off by hordes of curious swimmers.
On a normal sunny day during the island’s high season, this beach would likely see a small scattering of swimmers. But with the rain now pelting down, it was deserted of human activity. The energy in the sky above roiled the usually placid cove; footprints that had been left near the water’s edge were quickly disappearing.
I set off along the beach, the storm quickly drenching me as the waves kicked sun-bleached pieces of coral up onto the sand. The T-shirt and shorts that I had pulled on over my swimsuit were soon soaked.
Wet and increasingly chilled from the wind, I was about to give up on Hannah and return to the parking lot.
Just then, I caught sight of a movement on the opposite side of the cove, in the rolling hillside leading toward the cliffs above the famous Ram Head bluff.
Through the blinding rain, I could make out only a few details of the human figure climbing the trail. It looked to be a woman with dark curly hair wearing a knee-length sarong and a close-fitting beaded vest. In her right hand, she held the pole of a rake that she was using as a walking stick.
I slapped the rod of the flashlight against the palm of my hand, my confidence surging with the proof that my guess had been correct.
I had found the infamous Amina Slave Princess.
55
Ram Head
The Princess had been waiting for the better part of an hour in the brush at the far end of the Salt Pond’s beach. She knew it was only a matter of time before Pen would show up.
When the Princess caught sight of the resort manager’s soggy form staggering across the sand, she stepped out into the open and waved the rake in the air to ensure she’d caught the woman’s attention. Once the Princess had confirmed Pen’s continued pursuit, she began hiking up the trail leading to the Ram Head cliffs.
With the help of her trusty spear, the Princess easily navigated the narrow rocky
path as it wound through a cactus-strewn thicket of shrubby, twisted trees, heading south toward the mouth of the cove.
A half mile later, the route dropped back to the shoreline and a shorter, less protected beach that was covered about a foot deep in piles of dried coral. The smooth stones clattered beneath the Princess’s feet as she slid across them, the slightest weight sufficient to move their light, hole-filled masses.
At the end of the coral beach, the Princess picked up the next leg of the trail, a barely discernable opening in the overgrowth of ferns and shrubs.
As the path left the shoreline, it scaled steeply upward. The earlier arid vegetation gave way to a barren hillside dotted with the prickly barrels of red-hatted cacti.
With every step of elevation, the Princess was now more and more exposed to the elements. The wind tore at her wig, nearly ripping it from her head; the fabric of the sarong flapped about her bony knees. Gray streaks of armor streaked over the cliffs, rumbling as if in anticipation of the coming showdown.
The Princess laughed off the approaching thunder; she paid no heed to the menacing weather bearing down on the trail.
This was the day she’d been waiting for—ever since that discovery, several months earlier, in the New York library. Nothing could stop her plan from coming to fruition.
I sprinted across the Salt Pond beach to the marker for the Ram Head trail, trying to keep Hannah in my sights. The brown and white sign gave the remaining distance to the cliffs as one mile. Surely, I thought as the wind and rain began to mix with thunder, she wouldn’t make me chase her all the way to the top.
After a stretch of deep sand, the path gave way to the island’s sharp volcanic rocks. Cursing the persistence of the woman on the hill up ahead of me, I clambered over the twisting trail, grabbing on to branches and boulders in my haste to propel myself forward.
Drenching sheets of rain fell out of the sky as I reached a second stretch of beach, this one filled with sun-hardened coral. I glanced up at the cliffs, nearly twisting my ankle on the slick, rolling surface as I searched for the Princess’s fleeing figure.
“You’ll have to stop sooner or later,” I muttered as I caught a glimpse of her flapping sarong in the middle of the cactus field about a hundred yards above. Hannah was almost to the cliffs. Pretty soon, she would run out of island.
Clattering over the coral beach, I staggered into the brush, thrashing around in the ferns until I found a pig trail that led me to the main path. Panting, I raced up the last incline to the cliffs’ bald hump.
Taking care not to slip, I eased toward the precipice and looked over the edge. The waves pounded below, the tentacles of a hungry beast eager for the chance to grind up the tiny morsel of my being. The sea frothed like a mammoth monster, one that stretched hundreds of thousands of miles across, chewing and gnawing at this tiny spit of land—slowly, inevitably consuming it.
Suddenly, a strange singing cut through the wind. It was an odd caterwauling wail, almost painful to the ears. A shuffling of rocks drew my gaze to a frail figure scrambling up the last twenty feet to the uppermost overhang.
A bolt of lightning crashed across the sky, illuminating the person perched on the boulders’ highest ledge…jauntily holding a rake in one hand, waving to me with the other.
I puzzled for a moment at the worn face beneath the dark curly hair. Wiping my hands over my eyes, I blinked to adjust my focus.
Beneath the flapping sarong were knobby knees—and hairy shins.
The scrawny man flashed me a toothy smile as I stumbled up the path to him.
“How-dee, Pen,” he called out cheerily.
I stood there, stunned, before spitting out his name.
“Conrad?”
56
The Impersonator
The wind howled as I stared at Conrad, his ridiculous getup, and his joyful, half-crazed expression. A gust swirled around us, pushing a wet whiff of cannabis into my nose.
“Pen, Pen, Pen,” he babbled as he threw his bony arms around my neck.
I grabbed on to his bare shoulders and shook him forcefully.
“Conrad, what’s going on?”
“Teepee tent,” he trilled out merrily as he released his hold. “The Slave Princess is here to save my teepee tent.”
Hands now on my hips, I continued to stare at him, unable to understand both what he was saying and why it had led him to masquerade as the Slave Princess.
“What?” I hollered with exasperation.
Conrad leaned toward me, his squeaky voice barely audible over the rain.
“I read about the Maho Bay sale in the newspapers, so I started doing some research. I’m pretty good at finding things out, you know.”
He tapped a knobby finger against his temple. “I’ve got sources in law enforcement. I have to stay one step ahead of that district attorney man…”
He noted my pained expression and returned to the topic of Maho Bay.
“Anyway, I stopped by one of the libraries there in New York to see what I could dig up. I got into the Rockefeller archives—they had stuff going way back, some of it to before the transfer. I was reading through a pile of papers that detailed the accounts of the early Danish settlers…”
He paused to catch his breath. “That’s when I found her.”
“Found her? Who did you find?” I asked suspiciously.
“A beautiful woman.” He gestured with his hands to form the shape of an hourglass. “With golden brown skin, luminous green eyes, and”—he pointed to the wig—“curly dark hair. She was the Amina Slave Princess—the real Amina Slave Princess.”
Conrad’s last batch of doobies must have contained an extra hallucinogenic ingredient, I thought with a sigh. I was about to dismiss all this as the rantings of a lunatic, when he issued one last statement that caused me to reconsider.
“The Princess told me to wait for you at the Salt Pond,” he said with a toothy grin. “She knew you would follow me up here to Ram Head.”
With a suggestive pump of his eyebrows, he offered me the crook of his arm and gestured toward the trail.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would find myself nodding with agreement in response to Conrad’s timeworn solicitation.
“Pen, would you care to accompany me to the eco-resort? I’ve got something to show you in my teepee tent.”
57
The Leap
Wednesday afternoon, the storm continued to move across the island, sending its drizzle into Cruz Bay. Few of the day laborers gathered around the Freedom Memorial, however, appeared bothered by the damp weather. Most of the faces in the crowd were turned toward the machete-wielding statue and the green bench beside it where Beulah Shah stood addressing her audience.
The old woman’s hoarse, lilting voice rose above the rain. “When thuh French troops sailed een-to ’Urricane ’Ole and bee-gan their assault on thuh eye-land, the Ameena soon realized they were out numbered…”
From her lookout on the Ram Head cliffs, the Princess tracked the French ships as they sailed around the island’s southeastern tip and headed north toward Hurricane Hole.
The sight of the massive wooden structures instantly brought back memories of her voyage from West Africa. She shuddered with remembrance. She could still feel the rocking, heaving motion of the boat, the dry thirst in her mouth—and the heavy weight of the chains hanging from her wrists and ankles.
But as she continued her surveillance, the trauma of her past was quickly overshadowed by apprehension over her future. As she counted the soldiers patrolling the decks and squinted at the powerful weaponry glinting in the sunlight, a tension began to knit across her chest.
The Princess leaned back from the ledge, her head pounding with the realization of this latest development. She and her tribesmen had controlled much of the island for the past six months, but their reign would soon be coming to an end. The French reinforcements had just tipped the balance—seemingly irreversibly—against them.
The soldiers began
a systematic sweep of St. John, marching in formation through both parched scrubland and thicketed forests. The troops quickly secured the plantations and the main roads, torturing and killing anyone they suspected of colluding with the Amina. A new reign of terror gripped the island—one that appeared headed toward a gruesome, bloody end.
As the noose began to tighten, the rebels faced their unthinkable reality.
They had little choice of what to do next. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide—and only one way to escape the prolonged agony of their fate.
The only question was how to achieve it.
One by one, the suicides began.
The Princess watched with increasing horror as her tribesmen slashed at their throats and aimed pistols to their heads, leaving their bloated bodies to rot in the sun. The empty, frozen faces littered the landscape, abandoned by the spirits that had inhabited their once soft contours.
She knew that she would soon be departing this island, her new home that she had come to love, but she was determined to do so on her own terms—and in a manner that would give her flesh a more suitable resting place.
When the last of her warriors lay prostrate on the ground, the Princess set off into the woods, following a trail that tracked deep into the dense jungle that covered Mary’s Point.
The greenery leaned in over the path, providing cover for the Princess’s fleeing figure; the vines that dropped down from the treetops wrapped around her shoulders as she passed, buoying her with their caressing touch. The rocks and boulders of the volcanic earth pushed up against the soles of her feet, carrying her momentum forward.
After an hour’s brisk hike, she reached a bluff overlooking the island’s north shore.