The Island 17

The crossing was treacherous as the relentless chop of the waves threatened to tip the dugout canoe and dump its passengers into the deep blue depths of the straits. The two men paddling worked constantly to keep the boat balanced while the old shaman sat at the front as still as stone, his eyes fixed on the island ahead. Their captive was seated in the middle, naked except for an amulet made of wood and feathers hanging around her neck, with her wrists bound together and her arms bound tightly to her sides. The leather straps chafed at her skin but she sat silent, her brown eyes focused on a faraway point.

Halfway across where the two great waters met, the shaman nodded off to sleep. The woman closed her eyes and began whispering old words of a forgotten tongue. The wind picked up and the waves grew in height and frequency. Large swells struck the canoe broadside tipping it precariously as the young men shouted in fear. The old man awoke and stood, spreading his arms to the skies and chanting until the wind died down and the water became still. He turned to look at his captive and she answered with a laugh. Then he spoke a word so ancient her voice was stolen. His legs trembling, he slumped down in the canoe. The paddlers bent low, putting more weight into each stroke, anxious to reach the distant shore.

By mid-morning they arrived at the island and began their trek inland with the shaman at the lead. There were no paths to follow. Several times the old man would stop and kneel down to the ground, his hand digging into a leather pouch. Small bones were cast upon the dirt and studied carefully before a new direction was chosen. It was only after they had made it up the stone cliffs did their trek become easier.

It was late afternoon when they stopped in a small clearing near the center of the island. The forest of pines surrounding them had fallen silent. No birds sang, no insects buzzed, and no wind stirred the tall trees. The sunlight, so brilliant and warm when they were on the shore, was now flat and cold. The shadows lost their sharpness as the men drove a long wooden stake into the ground.

Their captive was lashed tightly to the stake, the leather thong crisscrossing between her breasts. She watched in silence as the men used large, flat stones to dig a shallow trench creating a wide circle around her. Twigs and dried grasses were gathered and placed in the trench. The shaman sprinkled a white powder sparsely over the kindling as the sun slunk towards the horizon.

Time was getting desperately short. She focused on the younger man, her eyes roaming over his smooth bronze skin following the lines of his taut muscles. As if he could feel her gaze, he stopped his work and turned to face her. His eyes locked on hers and his arms fell limp.

Free me,

her eyes commanded.

Free me and you can have what no man has yet touched.

She smiled and spread her legs, her nether lips parting to reveal her nectar glistening in the fading light. His jaw became slack but she could see the hunger in his eyes.

Kill the old man and the other will flee and then our flesh can be joined as one. Together we can rule the skies above and the earth below.

The young man believed the lie and reached for a fist-sized stone lying near his feet.

The shaman nodded once to the older man who buried his hatchet at the base of the young man's skull. As the body fell to the ground she turned her gaze to the other. He would not look at her, however. The light drained slowly from the world as the sun disappeared into the great sea.

With a word green flames leapt from the trench, surrounding the woman. The shaman disrobed and stepped naked into the ring of fire, oblivious to the intense heat. He approached the woman and removed the amulet from around her neck. Her voice was restored and she told the old man he would die on this island.

As it must be,

he answered. He held a bone knife high overhead and offered a prayer to the great hunters in the sky, thanking them for their gifts and asking for strength. He lowered the knife and his head and waited for their answer. Silence pressed in on them on all sides until an owl screeched in the forest. He stepped forward and, gripping her hair with his free hand, swiftly pulled the knife across her throat. Her blood spilled out in a great black rush and her last sight was of the old man collapsing, lifeless, at her feet, her blood drenching his skin. The great darkness swallowed her.

Rachel awoke with a start, clawing at her throat. Panic consumed her until she realized the wetness she felt was the sweat coating her body. Her room was sweltering in the August heat, the small fan humming futilely. She sat in the darkness a few moments listening to the distant clomping of horses pulling carts through the narrow streets of Mackinac Island. Her roommate, Amanda, stepped out of their small bathroom with a towel wrapped around her.

"Another one of your dreams?" Amanda asked as she flipped on the light. "What were you this time - Colonial woman or runaway slave?"

"Native American, I think." Rachel swallowed hard. She could still feel the icy heat of the knife slicing her throat. "Must have been a long time ago because the land looked so different. The water was so much higher."

Amanda pulled the towel off and turned her body to check her figure in the mirror. "Was it about the island?"

Nodding, Rachel told her as much of the quickly fading dream as she could remember. For the past several years she'd had recurring dreams about Mackinac Island in which she felt an irresistible pull towards the island but always failing to reach it. This dream, though, was new. Instead of hearing its siren song and longing to reach the island, she had been a captive, taken there against her will. There was no sense of joy or relief upon reaching the shore, only fear and fury.

Amanda pulled a matching set of panties and bra out the dresser and slipped them on. "I swear, someone could write a research paper about you and your dreams." She tugged on tight fitting shorts and dug around in the drawer until she found a clean t-shirt. "By the way, you've been unfired. Patrick saw what happened and really laid into Dennis in the middle of the dining room right after you left. Said he would be willing to testify as a witness against the guy who grabbed your ass and that you were only defending yourself. Most of the customers applauded when he was through and Dennis looked like a beaten dog."

"Patrick did that for me?" Rachel was incredulous.

"Yeah, he can be a prick but apparently he's a righteous prick."

"Huh, I'll have to thank him when I see him tomorrow."

"Actually, you can thank him in about half an hour. He's hanging out with us tonight."

Rachel shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Go on without me. I think I'll stay in and read."

"Sorry, but you don't have a choice." Amanda looked in the mirror and fussed with her hair. "It's not a group of people, just Patrick and Shane. Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky and lose your V-card tonight." Rachel snorted disapprovingly. "I'm kidding," Amanda added quickly. "We're just going to hang out in the upstairs lounge, drink beer and play Euchre or something."

Rachel frowned. "I've never gotten a good vibe off of Patrick. There's something about him that feels, I don't know, not quite real, like he's an actor playing a role." She thought for a moment before going on. "Sometimes, when I glance at him and he thinks no one's watching I swear I can see a whole different person, like someone's hiding under a façade."

"Come on, you have to be there," pleaded Amanda. "Otherwise Patrick will be a third wheel and it will be awkward for him."

Rachel mulled it over. "I guess it wouldn't kill me."

"Don't worry, I'll watch your back." Amanda turned and looked at Rachel and smiled a wicked smile. "Although, I'll probably have my hands full with Shane."

"You'll likely have more than just your hands full," Rachel shot back.

Amanda tossed a towel to her. "You need a shower. You look like you just ran a marathon."

***

Situated between the Upper and Lower Peninsulas of Michigan where Lake Huron meets Lake Michigan, Mackinac Island is a popular vacation spot. Although the island covers less than four square miles in area and is home to less than five hundred permanent residents, close to one million tourists visit the island each summer and at the height of the season fifteen thousand visit each day. People come from all over to visit the historic fort and Grand Hotel, ride bikes or horse drawn carriages around the island, hike, golf, and sample the famous fudge. The main attraction is there are no automobiles allowed on the island. Hotels, retail shops, candy shops and restaurants line the downtown at the harbor to accommodate the tourists and those businesses hire a slew of summer employees.

The employees live in dormitory-like housing located off the main streets safe from the eyes of tourists. Many employers provide housing but deduct costs from the paychecks. The dark underbelly of idyllic Mackinac Island is that employers don't pay much in wages and will fine workers for a variety of offenses, a system that is sometimes abused to the point where a worker may owe his or her employer come payday. Which is why, on a Saturday night past midnight after a long work week, Rachel, Amanda, Shane and Patrick sat in a dimly lit lounge on the third floor of the dorm drinking and quietly discussing the ill treatment of the labor force, a frequent topic among the workers.

"Paulie over at O'Grady's was fired," Shane announced. The other three shook their heads in amazement.

"He was their best worker," Amanda noted. "What happened? He wasn't he stealing, was he?"

"Worse. He had asked for last weekend off, which they gave him, to attend his brother's wedding. At the last moment they changed the work schedule and then he didn't have it off. He went to the wedding anyways and they fired him today, after his shift ended, of course."

"Why would they do that to him?" Rachel wondered.

"Simple. Paulie was practically running the place and was popular with the other workers," Patrick said. "Management probably felt threatened by that so they got rid of him."

The room fell silent. Rachel finished her warm beer and grimaced. It was too damn hot in the dorm and there was no air conditioning and no breeze to offer any relief. In the distance she could hear the drunken laughter and yelling of patrons walking down Main Street. At least some people on this rock were having fun.

She thought again of her dreams and of the irony that when she first landed on the island last May she had felt – nothing. There had been no sense of arriving at a special destination, no feeling of finally being at home, no excitement, just disappointment. Rachel had spent her limited free time that first month exploring the island and, while it was beautiful and exceptionally peaceful in the forests, she had found nothing that made sense of her dreams.

She had met Amanda and Shane, though, and hit it off with them immediately which kept her summer from being a complete bust. They were sharing the easy chair, their bodies pressed together in spite of the heat. They had been dating for most of the summer and were still in the I-can't-keep-my-hands-off-of-you phase. Footsteps outside announced the arrival of another tour group.

"Ghost tour coming through," announced Patrick as he looked out the window. "Looks like that weirdo Michael is leading them." He shook his head. "I will never understand that guy. It's strange how he talks to girls in all those character voices. We should fuck with him."

It was a cruel irony that after dealing with tourists all day, the employees living here had to put up with tour groups trudging up to their dorm twice nightly as part of the Haunted Mackinac tour. The dorm, being near the edge of town, was one of the last stops on the tour and it was expected of the inhabitants to remain quiet and courteous while the tour was being conducted. Failure to do so meant a reprimand and a likely fine. Patrick, obviously feeling rebellious, stood at the window and cleared his throat to address the crowd.

"Leave Michael alone," Rachel scolded. "He's just doing his job and working for tips like the rest of us. He doesn't mess with you while you're tending bar." Patrick looked at her, surprised. She went on. "And the reason he uses those voices to talk to women is that he's really shy."

Patrick raised his hands in mock surrender and sat on the couch opposite Rachel. "Sorry, I didn't know." He pulled a fresh beer out of the cooler, opened it and offered it to her. "Peace?"

After a moment's hesitation, she accepted the beer. In spite of her earlier reservations Rachel was warming to Patrick. Sure, he was rash, presumptuous and lacking in some social niceties, all of which were due to his very direct manner in interacting with people, but he usually changed his behavior once he learned he had offended someone. Another fault was that the offense had to be pointed out to him; Patrick seemed incapable of recognizing slights on his own. On the other hand, he was especially charming tonight and, as usual, easy on the eyes with his boyish face and tall, athletic body. Patrick was over a foot taller than Rachel and weighed probably twice as much as her. He was in good shape – hell, great shape, she had to admit – without being overly muscular.

Rachel held the cold bottle to her forehead before taking a drink. "Have you taken one of those tours?" she asked. Patrick shook his head. "It's pretty cool, actually. You learn a lot of local history, some of it colorful, that you wouldn't learn elsewhere. They throw in a few ghost stories to keep the crowd hooked."

"The ghost stories any good?" Shane asked, coming up for air.

"Just the standard fare about soldiers, widows, and jilted lovers. A lot more corny than scary," she added.

Shane nodded. "You know, I heard from a few locals that there is a real haunted house on the north side of the island. Someone had built it back in the 70's as a resort. It didn't do a bad business but it never really took off, either. Anyway, the problems didn't start until they had to dig a new well. Something went wrong and a worker was killed. Shortly after that the owner went bankrupt and the house fell into disrepair. Whoever owns that property now hasn't done any upkeep and doesn't live there."

Amanda narrowed her eyes. "That's not much of a ghost story."

He shrugged. "One guy told me that local kids dare each other to go to that house at night and anyone who's been there will swear there is some sort of malevolent presence."

"Sounds cool. We should check it out," said Patrick.

"Yeah, I'm definitely going sometime before I leave for school," Shane responded.

Patrick stood, shaking his head. "No, man, I mean tonight, like, right now. It's too fucking hot in this place to do anything. It'll be cooler outside."

"Yeah, it is like a sauna in here," Amanda agreed.

Rachel frowned. "Do you know where it is?"

"Pretty much, I guess. It's on the north point just off the highway. It's almost all state park up there so it should be easy to find on a map." Shane crossed the room to retrieve a guidebook from a side table. He sat on his haunches and spread the map on the coffee table. After a moment he pointed to a location. "There!"

Sure enough, just to the east of the point, there was a small, yellow rectangle denoting private property bordered on three sides by green indicating state park land.

Patrick stood and smiled. "Shane and I will get some flashlights and meet you two at Main Street."

***

Highway M-185 is the only state highway in the United States that does not allow motorized vehicles. The highway, built for bike traffic, is an eight mile long, narrow ribbon of asphalt that follows the shoreline around the entire island. The road is wider and lined with street lamps in town but the lights end just past the last resort on the east end of Main Street. After that point the only illumination is from above. On this night the skies were clear and the almost full moon shone enough light for the four bicyclists to see.

"He likes you," Amanda stated matter-of-factly to Rachel as they rode along. The boys were fifty yards ahead of them, weaving their bikes back and forth across the lanes and laughing non-stop. "Patrick's been hanging on every word you've said tonight."

"He's not exactly my type," noted Rachel.

"I don't think you have a type," Amanda said and Rachel grunted in agreement. "Look. He doesn't have to be Mr. Right. Just relax and have some fun tonight. It won't kill you to have some fun."

"I think you're reading too much into this," Rachel said, not wanting to get her hopes up. "And I'm certainly not his type. Guys like him don't go out with girls like me, at least not in public."

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself." They rode on in silence before Amanda added, "Did you thank him?"

"Ah, shit, I forgot. I'll talk to him about it when we get to the house."

"You know," Amanda offered, "there are ways of thanking him without words." She stood on the pedals and pulled away from Rachel.

"Slut!" Rachel called after her, laughing.

Shane and Patrick had pulled off to the side and were aiming their flashlight beams inland. Rachel stopped alongside Amanda and looked at the decrepit house set far back from the road. The trees, shrubs and grasses on the lot had become overgrown and hid most of the house from view.

"There it is," Shane remarked.

"Damn," Patrick added. "I've jogged by here maybe a hundred times and I've never noticed it before."

"Maybe it can only be seen at night," Rachel joked.

Patrick and Shane led the way, forging a trail through the brush, followed by Amanda and Rachel. Long blades of grass nipped at Rachel's ankles and shins. A large, three story, clapboard-sided house with a long balcony running the length of the second story loomed up out of the darkness. The window and doors were boarded up on the front side so they proceeded around house. At the back they found a door with the boards pried off. They stood, side by side, regarding the dark opening. To Rachel it looked like a gaping mouth and a shiver ran through her.

"Cool. Come on, let's go find a ghost," Patrick said, and led the way. Shane followed with Amanda close behind, her hands on his shoulders. Rachel brought up the rear.

They walked into a large room with windows facing the backyard. Dust tickled their noses and floorboards creaked under their feet. On the left a door led to a large kitchen filled with oversized and outdated appliances and long countertops. To the right a plain wooden door led to what must have been the main office. Ahead of them at the front of the house was the foyer with a wide staircase leading upstairs. To the left of the foyer was the dining room, bare of furniture but with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Through the foyer to the right was a parlor with empty wooden bookcases lining the walls.

On the second floor they found guestrooms with shared bathrooms and another parlor, and on the third floor more rooms but with private baths. There was not a single piece of furniture in the place. They did discover a shrine of sorts in a third floor guestroom. Hundreds of empty liquor bottles were lined up neatly on the floor, a silent witness to drinking that had been accomplished in that house.

"Perhaps these were the spirits the high school kids were talking about," Amanda noted dryly.

They also discovered shoe prints in the dust (much like the ones they were leaving behind), graffiti, and a couple of used, shriveled condoms discarded in a corner. Rachel wandered back to the second floor parlor and shone her flashlight around to study the graffiti covering the walls. The graffiti was thickest in this room, mostly consisting of declarations of love between two sets of initials, personal insults, snippets of poetry and song lyrics, and the occasional occult symbol.