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."
