The Island

by Jill Jones

  “Garrison here.” The voice sounded thick.

  “Garrison, it’s Jack. Did I wake you?”

  There was a long pause, and Jack thought he heard the sound of lamp switch. “Yeah, but that’s okay. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Penzance. There’s lots to brief you on, but first, how’s Brad?” Jack held his breath, dreading the expected answer that Brad was gone.

  Garrison exhaled heavily. “He’s still alive, Jack. But there’s been no change. He’s still in a coma.”

  Jack allowed himself to hope. “What do the doctors say?”

  “He might never come out of it. Or if he does, he might be a vegetable. They’re not optimistic, but they say he has a slim chance of recovering. It’s…that’s…what’s keeping me going.”

  It was enough to keep Jack going, too. “How are you? Where are you right now?”

  “I’m okay, just tired. I’m at the hospital. They’ve put a bed in the private room so I don’t have to go back and forth to the hotel.” It was late and Jack was exhausted, so he was probably imagining it, but there seemed to be an unnatural restraint in Garrison’s voice.

  “Have you talked to Sandringham?”

  Another long pause. “Yes. We spoke at length today.”

  Jack waited, but Garrison offered nothing further. Something was wrong. “Have they come up with anything?” he probed.

  “Nothing substantial. They’re still scratching their heads.”

  Something was not being said. Something important. “What is it, Garrison? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s…nothing. Nothing of any consequence. We have a few things to talk about when you get back, that’s all. What about on your end? Have you found out anything?”

  Jack told Garrison what he’d learned about the murdered woman. “Give Sandringham a call in the morning and fill him in, will you? I’ll be back soon, but he’ll want to know the woman’s ID right away.” He paused, then said, “Goodnight, Garrison. Get some rest.” Then he hung up the phone, deeply disturbed. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his gut. Sitting on the bed and removing his shoes, he wondered what it could be. Well, he thought, leaning back against the pillows, he’d find out soon enough. He’d leave for London tomorrow morning, make his own report to Sandringham, and turn the investigation of the people in Keinadraig over to Scotland Yard. Let them deal with Alyn Runyon and the “Dragoners.”

  And Keely?

  Jack regretted what he would have to do, for in addition to bringing the police, it could bring another very scary kind of outsider to the island. If Scotland Yard came to Keinadraig, could the media be far behind? If nothing else, it would rock the little world in which she existed.

  Jack undressed and took a shower before dropping wearily into bed. He turned out the light and slipped between the cool sheets, hoping to escape his troubled thoughts in the respite of sleep. But behind closed eyes, Keely Cochrane loomed, cloak-clad and provincial, artless and hauntingly beautiful, seemingly from another age and yet more alluring than any modern woman he’d ever met.

  What was she really like? he wondered. What had it been like to grow up in that isolated, cloistered society? How vastly different her life had been from his own childhood spent in the city of Los Angeles. How vastly different their lives were now. While his world embraced a global economy and high technology, her world apparently consisted only of a tiny island and a small village of superstitious folk whose lives were ordered by old legends and, unfortunately, fear perpetuated by tradition. Yet she was not ignorant, nor uneducated. She was just…sheltered. And naive.

  Like Sleeping Beauty, unfamiliar with the ways of the world that existed outside her tiny kingdom.

  Jack wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for her, trapped in such an archaic society, or envy her for the simplicity of her life. He suspected that Genevieve, the “dreamer,” had left in search of the reality of the modern world. Would Keely ever escape? Did she even want to? Jack wished that if and when Keely Cochrane chose to leave the island, he could be there to protect her while she learned the ways of the world. She would be like a time traveler, thrust from a medieval world into the fast pace of modern society. A dangerous world where she, like Genevieve, would be acutely vulnerable.

  Maybe it was better she didn’t want to make that leap, he decided, tossing fitfully and becoming entangled in the bedclothes. Maybe her world was preferable to his after all.

  Keely sat in a chair in the dark, hugging her pillow for comfort. From the tall, sashed window on the second floor of her cottage she could see the glow of lights from Penzance. Staring across the black expanse of water in between, she felt for the first time in her life like a prisoner of the island.

  Her uncle had forbidden her to leave, even to make a market delivery. He had withdrawn permission for her to take an excursion in one of the fishing boats, something she’d always enjoyed on a Sunday afternoon. She never went to any specific destination, usually just around the island to enjoy the sun and fresh air. But that was to be denied to her, at least for a time, as a reminder of her “duty.” She resented that he was treating her like a child.

  Soon, Alyn himself would leave the island, but only for as long as it took to find a suitable husband for her. Keely could guess his thinking—if she were married and “settled,” she would forget any notion of disobedience. For Keely knew that was what upset Alyn the most, that twice in one day she’d dared to challenge his authority.

  Keely loved her uncle, and she did not mean to be willful. She was not asking anything beyond reason. Only that Genny’s existence be acknowledged, and that she not be forced to marry. Not just yet.

  Alyn had other ideas on both subjects. And Alyn was the Keeper. And the Keeper was obeyed.

  It was the law.

  And suddenly, Keely hated the law.

  She threw her pillow across the room onto the bed. She hated not being trusted by her own uncle. She hated the notion of being forced to marry and “breed.” She hated being confined on the island. Most of all, she hated what had happened to Genny.

  And she hated that fear of a similar fate would always keep her on Keinadraig.

  Gazing toward the mainland, Keely thought it as far away as the moon in the sky above. Was the outside world really the evil place her people had always been told? Certainly the stranger named Jack had not seemed evil. He had, in fact, shown great kindness and compassion for her sorrow.

  But the outside had been evil to Genny. Keely shivered and pulled a light shawl around her shoulders. Never had she been so torn and confused. She lay across the bed, unable to sleep, feeling numbed at the dismal prospects life held for her. She recalled what Genny had said that night. I wish ye would come with me. There is no future for ye here.

  Poor Genevieve. There had been no future for her out there either.

  Other words echoed in Keely’s mind. Come with me to London. I’ll take you there and bring you safely home again.

  If only that were possible. If only she could go with Jack, just for as long as it took to see to Genny’s proper ceremony. If she had that, then maybe the rest of what she faced in life would be easier to accept.

  Picking up Jack’s card from where it lay on the small table that stood by her bed, Keely held it to her cheeks and closed her eyes, allowing herself the briefest memory of their embrace.

  Memories. And this card. They were all she had of him. All she would ever have.

  She’d best get Jack Knight out of her head once and for all, she told herself firmly, replacing the card on the table. Forbidden thoughts like these would only lead to trouble.

  But sometime later, when she fell asleep, she dreamt of sunshine and freedom, and a man named Jack.

  The next morning dawned bright but hazy, and Jack took breakfast in the small dining room of the inn overlooking the bay, directly across from the docks. To the southeast rose the historical landmark of St. Michael’s Mount, for many years a holy place, now a private residence as well as a tourist attractio
n. Due south, scarcely discernable through the haze, was the mysterious island of Keinadraig.

  The waitress, who introduced herself as Maggie Evans, poured him a second cup of coffee. “From America?” she asked, engaging in friendly conversation.

  He nodded, and she smiled. “Guessed by the accent. What part of America?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “My, my, Los Angeles. That’s a ways off from here. What brings ye t’ Penzance?” She spoke with much the same quaint Cornish accent he’d heard on Keinadraig.

  “Business.” Jack decided to take this opportunity to get yet another local opinion about the Dragoners. “What do you know about the island out there, Keinadraig?” he asked, nodding toward the windows.

  He saw a shadow of a frown cross her otherwise pleasant, round, plump face. “Ah, not much, sir. Folks ‘round here have few dealings with that place.”

  “Why?”

  She gave an uncomfortable little grimace. “They’s not like th’ rest of us,” she said, resting the coffee pot against a chair back. “Keep t’ themselves, they do.”

  “I’ve heard they believe they’re protected by some sort of dragon.”

  Maggie Evans shrugged. “Word ‘round here is they do believe in some old laws handed down from ancient times, supposedly from a dragon, although most folks think th’ dragon must have been th’ symbol for their king. Whatever, th’ laws forbid strangers t’ go there and Dragoners aren’t supposed to leave.”

  Jack laughed grimly. “I learned that when I went there yesterday.”

  She gave him a disbelieving look. “Ye went there? Whatever for?”

  Jack took out the police sketch of Genevieve Sloan. “I’m a private investigator. I was looking for information about this woman. Do you recognize her?”

  The waitress studied the picture for only a moment. “Oh, aye. She’s a Dragoner, all right. She comes here from time t’ time deliverin’ their fish t’ th’ market. She and her friend sometime stop in for a bite, y’see. What’re ye needin’ her for?”

  Jack had her undivided attention now. “She was killed in London a few days ago. I was just trying to get some information on her.”

  “Killed? In London? Oh, my! What was she doin’ way up in London?”

  “I was hoping to learn that myself,” Jack said, folding the picture and replacing it in his pocket. “Seems she just ran away.”

  Maggie shook her head and took a swipe at the far end of the table with her rag. “And she’s dead now? Maybe th’ tales are true, then.”

  “What tales?”

  She came a little closer to him and lowered her voice. “‘Tis only a rumor that I heard from my cousin who heard it from a boy in her village who narrowly escaped being recruited t’ wed a Dragoner.”

  “Recruited? What are you talking about?”

  “From time t’ time, it has been necessary for th’ village t’ bring in new blood, t’ keep from inbreedin’, y’know. When that happens, th’ old man they call th’ Keeper comes t’ th’ mainland and finds a husband or wife for th’ person out there needin’ a mate. Well, he came t’ my cousin’s village up on th’ moor yonder, and he made arrangements for this boy t’ wed a Dragoner. Gave his family quite a sum of money, he did, before takin’ th’ boy off t’ th’ island. His family feared they wouldn’t see him again, because that’s what’s happened in the past. Once wed into th’ Dragon society, an outsider becomes a Dragoner and doesn’t come again into th’ outside world.”

  Maggie leaned a little closer, warming to her tale, and Jack listened in astounded silence.

  “But th’ boy let it spill that cancer was prevalent in his family’s bloodline. The Dragoners are only after what they consider ‘pure,’ y’know. When they found he wasn’t good enough for them, they returned him t’ his parents, but he claims they threatened him that th’ Dragon would seek his death if he revealed any of what he’d seen or heard.”

  “Death?”

  “‘Twas what he said. He was afraid for his life, because they’d sung him a song while he was in Keinadraig, an old ballad of some kind, telling of tragic deaths that had come t’ those who broke the laws of the Dragon and warnin’ him he might meet th’ same fate.”

  Jack’s heart stopped beating for a moment. A ballad. The song he’d heard in the cave? He’d read the words above the gate, but wondered now if there was more to the song than he’d heard or read.

  “Where can I find this boy?” Jack laid money on the table, but Maggie did not touch it. She glanced around nervously. “He doesn’t live ‘round here anymore. Moved away shortly afterwards, didn’t want no one t’ know where he went.” She topped off his coffee. “Look, I’ve…I’ve probably said too much. I must get on with my duties,” she said and hurried off toward the kitchen.

  Jack stared out at the water, contemplating what he’d just learned. The woman’s story confirmed much of what Keely had told him yesterday about the ways of the Dragoners. Only Keely had left out the part about the enforced marriages.

  Why?

  Had she not wanted him to know about the cult like method of finding new blood for their closed community? Was she ashamed of it? She’d said she didn’t know why Genevieve had run away, only that she thought she had been running from...

  From what? An enforced marriage?

  Had Keely known that all along, and lied?

  Suddenly, Jack had a whole new set of burning questions, and there was only one place to go for answers.

  Keinadraig.

  Keely’s dreams faded and reality set in when she saw Alyn leave in the morning in one of the larger boats with another villager. She put her hand to her throat. She knew where he was going. And she dreaded his return.

  Soon she would be trapped forever.

  “No!” She breathed it as an oath. She would not marry now, no matter if Alyn brought her the most handsome, clever man on earth. It was not her will to marry now. It was her will, and her desperate need, to heal from the recent tragedy, to put Genevieve’s terrible death behind her. Then, perhaps, she could bear to do what Alyn asked. Why in the name of the Saints couldn’t he understand that?

  Bathing and changing into fresh clothing, Keely headed up the lane to Ninian’s house. She respected the Healer’s need for privacy in this time of mourning, but there was no one else she could talk to, and Keely was in urgent need herself of an ear for her troubles. Maybe the wise woman could give her some guidance.

  She entered the small house without knocking, as was her custom. She and Genny had come and gone freely between their two houses all their lives. The cottage seemed eerily quiet. Keely tiptoed past the small, tidy sitting room and into the tiny, familiar kitchen. Herbs hung in fragrant bouquets from the rafters, their leaves drying for later use in Ninian’s many healing concoctions. Although Keinadraig supported a small clinic with some modern medicines, most Dragoners trusted the old ways and turned to the Healer who knew the magic of nature’s remedies.

  “Ninian?” Keely called softly, but there was no reply. She saw that the door to Ninian’s room was closed, and she hesitated to knock. Still, she had not seen Genny’s mother in several days, and Erica was nowhere in sight, so she decided to make sure the Healer was all right. She knocked, but there was no response. She turned the doorknob quietly and went into the room. The curtains were drawn and an extra blanket had been hung at the window to further close out the light. The air was warm, stale and close, scented with a faint herbal odor.

  Ninian lay on her bed, fully clothed. Her face was to the ceiling, and she lay very still. Alarmed, Keely rushed to her bedside, but she was reassured when she saw the even rise and fall of her shallow breathing. She appeared to be in a deep sleep, and Keely was not about to disturb what peace she might find in slumber. Ninian’s pain must surely be greater even than her own, Keely thought, closing the door behind her, wondering what it must be like to lose a child.

  Suddenly, Keely was aware of the sound of someone humming. She went to the back door and s
pied Erica at play beneath a tree in the back garden. She opened the door and caught the familiar tune of the ballad, and as she watched, the girl, who had celebrated her own Dragon ceremony only a year ago, performed the same ritual with a doll. She had set up a circle of rocks and built a small fire in the center. She was speaking to the doll. Keely was startled to recognize the words of the ritual, which the law allowed only to be spoken by the Healer. She saw Erica take a small object from her pocket, grasp it with tongs used only for the sacred rite, and hold it over the flames. Shocked and unable to move, Keely witnessed the girl administer the kiss of the Dragon to the neck of the toy. The acrid aroma of scorched cotton brought her to her senses.

  “What are you doing?” Keely charged at the girl, furious that she should make a mockery of the ritual.

  Erica turned and her face blanched before she managed to hide her surprise behind her usual sullen demeanor. “Nothing.”

  “Give me Ninian’s ring,” Keely demanded.

  But the girl only stared at her defiantly and slipped the ring, now cooled, into her pocket. “‘Tis not your ring. It belongs to my mother.”

  “It belongs to the Healer of this village. No one else is allowed to touch it. You know that.”

  “My mother is not well. I am to be the next Healer. I was…practicing.” Her claim to the inherited honor rang with defiance, which Keely tried to ignore. She was more concerned about the first part of her statement.

  “What’s wrong with your mother?”

  “She’s asleep. She took a draft after Alyn told us what happened to Genevieve.” The girl looked up at Keely through slitted eyelids. “She has been sleeping a lot since her dear Genevieve left. ‘Tis like she does not wish to awaken again.”

  Discomfited by the girl’s pronouncement, Keely wished she’d checked in on Ninian sooner. She held out her hand. “Give me the ring, Erica,” she said. “Then put out that fire and come with me. We must help your mother.”

  The girl hesitated, glaring at Keely, then gave over the ring. “Ye may take the ring now, but soon I will be the Healer,” she hissed. “I, not ye.”