Rising Water

by Wayne Stinnett

  “True,” Mitzi replied, with a knowing grin. Then her features changed. “But some of di people coming here to go to di Onayan commune almost need to be carried. Like dey was possessed by jumbee. I have a cousin in Road Town; a policeman. Dey found a woman’s body last week up on Little Thatch. A woman with a blue shirt.”

  “Drowning?” I asked.

  “He don’t think so,” Mitzi said. “Di woman was missin’ her head, both hands, and both feet.”

  My new job was to look for situations where people were exploiting others or the environment. And this was sure starting to smell like one of those.

  At a light tapping on the door, a slight man sitting at a desk looked up from the book he’d been reading. He removed his glasses and turned the book face down, placing his glasses on top. With dark brown hair, gentle green eyes, a lithe build, and slightly Asian features, he was a strikingly handsome man.

  “Please enter.” His voice was soft and serene, much like his features.

  The door quietly opened and a woman entered. The pale blue sarong she wore was simple. It hung loosely, wrapped around her body just below her arms, and tied behind her neck. She walked quietly on bare feet to where the man sat at his desk.

  “They have returned, Onay.”

  “And the new couple?”

  “Resting quietly now with the others.”

  The man rose from his chair and came around the desk to where the diminutive, fair-skinned woman stood. He put his hands on her bare shoulders, and held her at arm’s length, gazing into her ice-blue eyes.

  “Very good, Sunna. You will see that they are kept sedated tomorrow. We can’t have people just leaving because they think they want to.”

  Sunna Johannsdottir had been the man’s personal assistant, secretary, and confidante for four years. Her responsibilities were many and varied. She oversaw the seven leaders of the multi-national sect, who in turn kept the people busy, happy, and productive.

  “And the other new arrivals?” he asked the Icelandic blond beauty.

  “They are acclimating well,” Sunna replied, holding the man’s gaze. “Six men and eight women will be ready to go to the farm in a week.”

  “Bring this new girl to me,” he said, turning back to his desk. “I will meditate with her, and perhaps she can convey to the boy why they should stay.”

  “Yes, Myoo.” Sunna turned and with a wicked grin, left the office.

  Onay went back to his leather chair and picked up the book, replacing the reading glasses to balance on the end of his nose.

  After a few moments, Sunna returned with the girl who had tried to leave with her boyfriend. The Reverend looked up as the two women approached. The younger one wore the traditional long, blue garment that all newcomers wore. It was lightweight, with short sleeves, a modest V-neck and three buttons. It ended just above the knees. She couldn’t have possibly reached her twentieth birthday yet. A flower, still blooming.

  “Please have a seat.” He motioned toward the chair opposite him, then looked up at the tiny blond woman. “That will be all, Sunna.”

  “Yes, Myoo,” Sunna replied. She moved the girl in front of the chair and helped her to sit.

  The Reverend watched. The girl’s eyes were heavy and stared down at his desk. No, not really at it, but through it to the floor, or perhaps the bare sand below the house. Sunna left and quietly closed the door as Onay continued reading.

  After several minutes, he placed a small strip of blue linen in the book and closed it, placing it on his desk along with his reading glasses.

  “What is your name?” he asked the young woman. His voice had a tranquil quality that immediately put most people at ease.

  The girl blinked and she looked up, as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes were soft and brown, what some would call doe eyes, but dull and unfocused. She was otherwise very pretty, with long hair the color of spun gold hanging across her shoulders in front and back. Her high cheekbones and erect posture spoke of a strong European lineage and good upbringing. Her hands were folded primly in her lap.

  “What is your name?” he asked again, his voice still gentle and reassuring.

  “Phoebe,” she mumbled softly.

  “Phoebe,” Onay repeated softly, as if savoring the feel of her name on his tongue. He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “That is a very pretty name. I think it suits you very well, Phoebe. Do you know who I am?”

  Phoebe’s eyes tried to focus but didn’t quite get there. “No,” she whispered.

  “I am Myoo.”

  Again, the girl’s eyes tried to focus, a vague recognition appearing there for just a moment. Then it was gone. Her hands moved to her knees, palms up, the tips of her thumbs touching the last two fingers in the prana mudra of ancient India. This mudra helped to activate dormant energy in the body and aided the awakening and enlivenment of the personal prana, putting one more in tune with the prana around them. Prana was the vital life force within all living things. Onay smiled.

  The girl’s eyes finally met his and her visage became noticeably calmer. “You are the Myoo,” she breathed.

  Onay stood and went around the desk. He took Phoebe by both hands, and delicately helped her to stand. “Come with me.”

  Leading her across the room, he stopped at a large, round mat on the floor. It was pale blue like the sky, soft, and thick. The mat was located in an alcove of the room, surrounded by a low, moon-shaped sofa, which was made of the same soft, blue material. Above the sofa’s short backrest, clear glass rose, curved into the same crescent, from the sofa to the ceiling.

  Beyond the glass were the rugged cliffs. More than fifty feet below the precipice was the dark, immutable sea, waves crashing against the jagged shoreline. The sea stretched out to the horizon, where it met the stars.

  Releasing the girl’s hand, Myoo stepped out onto the center of the mat. He turned so that he was looking along the edge of the cliff and extended a hand to the young woman. She stepped out onto the mat and faced him. Her features had calmed.

  Myoo unfastened the loop on the shoulder of his simple blue dhoti and pulled the end of it down off his shoulder. With a gentle sweep of his arm, the floor length robe was folded, and he placed it on the couch behind him. He wore nothing under it.

  Gently, Onay unbuttoned the girl’s tunic and pushed it back off her tanned shoulders, letting it fall to the mat. “We will meditate now.”

  The sound of the anchor rode clanking across the rollers seemed loud in the predawn light. I’d decided to stay in the BVI for a day or two, which necessitated a visit to one of the ports of entry to the north. John still doubted that what I’d seen had been a gun. But I was certain of it, and something about the woman on the cart bothered me. Though her features seemed nearly catatonic, I sensed fear. I wanted to get to the bottom of this cult group, or whatever it was.

  The nearest customs office was six miles north in Road Town, on the island of Tortola. I was leaving early so I could arrive there when the office opened at 0830, and hopefully be back by early afternoon. While there, I wanted to see the larger compound John had mentioned.

  Mitzi had told me that the people within the compounds called it the Onayan Commune. They even called themselves Onayan, taking the last part of the name of their leader, Gilbert Mashonay. I guess it was better than Mashers. Everything she told me brought to mind the Rajneeshee cult that had sprung up in Oregon back in the ’80s.

  The ride across the still waters of Sir Francis Drake Channel took less than an hour. Clearing into the BVI took longer. I used my real name and passport, as I’d done in Antigua. I finally found my way outside to hire a taxi for a tour.

  “Do you know where the Onayan Commune is?” I asked the driver, as I climbed into the front seat of the van.

  He looked over at me, about to put the van in gear. “You know someone dere?”

  “Would I h
ave to?” I asked, arranging my small backpack on the floor between my feet.

  “You just don’t look like di type who wants to go dere.”

  “I just want to see what all the hype is about.”

  “I know where it is,” the driver said, dropping the van into gear, and pulling away from the curb. “But I tink dey won’t let you past di gate.”

  The ride took nearly as long as the crossing, the roads getting progressively poorer as we went. After passing through Parham Town, the road turned north and became so rough I thought the van might lose a wheel. Or the nut behind the wheel.

  Occasionally, I could see glimpses of the sea off to the right, as the road climbed and wound along the rocky eastern coastline.

  “Di turn off is jus’ around di next bend,” the driver said. “Di gate will have people dere, and dey will not let you in.”

  I took a $100 bill out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Slow down once we’re out of site of the gate and I’ll jump out. Come back to the same place in exactly three hours and there’s another hundred in it for you.”

  The driver took the bill and looked over at me, almost running off the road. “I tink dat you are a crazy mon. But I will do it.”

  As we passed the turnoff for the commune, I glanced over. The fence was set back off the road, but visible in places. Beyond the gate stood a small building. A man in a blue shirt leaned out of a window hinged at the top and propped open, watching us pass.

  A few seconds later, I spotted a grassy shoulder on the left side of the road and pointed to it. The van slowed and I opened the passenger side door. Hitting the ground, I rolled across the grass and came up into a kneeling position. The van continued over a rise and disappeared. Hearing and seeing nothing, I scrambled into the jungle on the same side of the road as the compound.

  I knelt in the damp earth and studied the fence before me. The barbed wire was supported by a post and I noticed that the top wire was wound around ceramic insulators—an electric fence. The three lower strands of barbed wire had no insulators, and I assumed only the top one carried a charge.

  As I pushed down on the second strand, it gave just enough that I could carefully put one leg over the wire. I cautiously slipped my body between it and the electrified strand above, then pulled my left leg through.

  Squatting on the other side of the fence, I opened my small backpack. I’d come prepared. In minutes, I pulled on a pair of dark woodland camouflage pants over my shorts and then a camo shirt over my T-shirt. I pulled off my worn Topsiders, stuck them in the pack and laced up my black jungle boots. Using water-soluble camo paint, I quickly streaked my tanned face with black lines to break up the outline, then pulled on my boonie cover.

  Before leaving, I took a handheld GPS from my backpack and marked my position. Then, moving off toward the south, I made my way slowly and deliberately toward the gate, so as not to make a sound, while always remaining out of sight. Having instructed Marine snipers and scouts in the art of cover and concealment during my last years of service, it came naturally.

  The guard shack came into view, and I slowed my pace. I wanted to see if I could garner anything there before proceeding. If there was more than one sentry, they might talk amongst themselves.

  I watched for a moment at a discreet distance. I heard no voices. Through the window, it appeared as if there was only one guard, a lanky man with long, blond hair and a scruffy beard. Cautiously, I moved closer. Regardless of what John said, I knew at least one of the Onayans was armed. It was highly likely that a sentry would also be armed.

  Getting low, I moved closer still. A sound from across the main road froze me and I dropped to a prone position on the loamy ground, all senses fully alert.

  The guard stuck his head out of the window opening again. The window was propped up by a stick wedged in the frame. That gave me an idea. Whatever the sound was across the road, the sentry dismissed it and pulled himself back inside.

  Slowly, I crawled along the access road until I was twenty yards from the shack. I hefted a rock about the size of a baseball and watched the shack. The guard was looking toward the road where the van had disappeared fifteen minutes ago.

  I threw the rock high over the shack, and it crashed through the bushes on the far side of the approach road then rolled through some brush for a moment.

  The guard leaned out and looked in the direction of the sound. I quickly sprinted across the access road and dropped to the ground on the other side. Methodically, like a shark moving toward an injured fish, I crept toward the shack. When I reached the back of it, I moved around under the side window opposite the door, which faced the main road.

  Hidden from view at the corner beside the propped-up window, I stood with another rock in my hand. After launching it across the road, I stepped out, poised and ready. When the guard stuck his head out, looking away from me, my right fist came down hard on the side of his head. He never saw what hit him and collapsed over the windowsill.

  Quietly, I removed the stick propping the window open, dropped it on the ground below the unconscious man, and lowered the window on squeaky hinges, until the frame rested on the man’s shoulders.

  I proceeded around to the door and stepped inside. The sentry wasn’t going to wake up any time soon, and if someone found him before he woke, they’d assume he’d dislodged the stick and the heavy window frame had struck him on the head.

  A clipboard hung on a wall by the door. There were entries on the top several sheets; dates, times, names, and an occasional note. Most were logged at regular six-hour intervals—the changing of the guards. There were a few other entries at odd times, some with more than one name. Many of the names were foreign, but some seemed American. None were familiar to me. The latest was at 0557, with the name Ronald Olafson, who, I assumed, was the sleeping sentry. He was due to be relieved at noon. That gave me an hour. More, if my subterfuge worked.

  Against the back wall was a small desk with two drawers. The top one held an old instamatic camera, along with dozens of pictures of different people, all dressed in the same blue clothes. I flipped through them.

  No, they weren’t all dressed the same. Each was wearing the same blue, but most were just wearing T-shirts. A handful included men and women wearing clothes with a little more style, eastern-looking garb.

  A beautiful blonde with striking blue eyes caught my attention. In the margin at the bottom someone had written Sunna Johannsdottir, which I assumed was her name. Her features were straight up Northern European and the camera angle suggested she was shorter than the photographer. In fact, she looked no bigger than Boone’s girlfriend, Emily Durand, from the sunk Wavy Davey.

  Another picture was of a man with dark brown hair, wearing some sort of blue robe or toga. The word Onay appeared at the bottom. Gilbert Mashonay was a handsome man, with gentle features, green eyes, and an easy smile.

  The pictures must be how a new sentry might recognize someone wishing to gain entry.

  The bottom drawer contained a holstered Glock 34. So much for there not being guns on the island.

  I unholstered it and checked the action. There wasn’t a round in the chamber, though the magazine was loaded. It wasn’t in the greatest shape either; probably hadn’t been cleaned and oiled in over a week. Removing the slide quickly confirmed that. So much for readiness.

  Underneath the gun were a number of black cloth bags with drawstrings, each big enough to hold a gallon of milk. There was little else in the shack.

  Leaving the outpost, I moved along the side of the road, staying just inside the tree line but keeping the double ruts of the road in sight. It wound its way up a hill and soon, I could hear sounds. I crossed the road and continued up the hillside until I reached it again, switching back as it rose up to the top of the hill. I trotted across the road once more and disappeared into the lush foliage.

  The sounds grew louder. I crossed t
he road one more time, where it began to level off near the summit. Finally, I could see a clearing ahead. It was a terraced farm.

  Low to the ground, I crept from tree to tree, staying in the shadows. The crops directly in front of me were row after row of various vegetables. Then I noticed that every third row was a long line of dark green, leafy bushes. The wind shifted and I could smell it. Mitzi was right. They were farming marijuana. I knew the smell.

  Further along, I noticed that there were several rows of small trees, trimmed to about thirty or forty feet in height. There were people working there, all of them wearing the same blue T-shirts the sentry and the girl on the cart had worn, as well as most of the people in the pictures. I moved steadily closer.

  The workers, an equal mix of men and women, weren’t busy in the branches, trimming or harvesting fruit. They seemed to be concentrating more on the trunks of the trees and the bases around them. A few of them were digging in the ground beneath the branches.

  They looked like ordinary trees, similar to sycamores, but with rounder, more pronounced three-bladed leaves. They grew like Japanese maples, with many thin branches reaching straight up for the sky, giving the tree the shape of a champagne flute.

  Curious, I removed a small camera from my pack and took a few wide-angle pictures, then zoomed in close on the workers, to get photos of each one’s face. I took pictures of the trees themselves, focusing for a tight shot of the leaves. The workers seemed to be carefully stripping small bits of bark from the trunks. My angle was a little uphill, so I couldn’t really see what the others were digging for, but they all had wicker baskets.

  Checking my watch, I saw that I only had about an hour to get back to the pickup point. I turned and started making my way down the hill. When I reached the road, I waited. The guard was probably awake by now, or his relief had arrived. I listened carefully but didn’t hear anything, so I sprinted across the road and disappeared into the dense woods again. I continued down slope until I reached the road once more.