Short Story

TALKING ISLAND

by

Gary Cadwallader
 

A shadow passed over Martin's skull as he knelt in the market square, spreading out his glass works: sparkling barrettes, blue stained plates, shimmering cups. The shadow crossed, somehow causing him a sensation like ice held to his skin. He looked up but could not see the face of the woman. The sun behind her head created an aura that blinded him, silhouetting her in darkness.

"Come to the island," she said. Her voice sounded sheer, airy. Had he imagined it?

He had to look away. The light made a sharp pain just above his left eye. When he glanced back, she had moved on. She walked among a hundred other vendors, never seeming to touch them. Upright. Proud. Haughty. Dark-skinned, her blouse whiter than the sunlight reflected off nearby windows. She was thin, walking fluently, as if her walk was a different language spoken among people he would never meet. No, he thought. She glides like the big hawks in the Andes. His 'Shadow Woman' looked like a full-blooded Indian, her skin the red of a show pony. Her legs were athletic, all muscle taut under satin skin. She pivoted once and stopped to look back at him with eyes that were ebony hollows. Her hair was as long as Martin's arm, straight and black, black, black.

She knew how to wear white. Her short white skirt billowed in the wind and caused changes in him, caused him to feel that pain over his eye again. White blouse that spread across her breasts like the hands of a man. White shoes upon her tiny feet.

He shook his head. He must think of something else.

His desire for this stranger, this Shadow Woman was the kind that could bring no good, maybe make a man go mad. He knew it had only begun. He knew he was weak. Ask Maria. She would tell you.

*

Talking Island rose out of the white fog like a magical black beast, neither graceful, nor quick. Hulking and hooded, it spoke with wind the sound of a thousand whispers. The Shadow Woman, his desire, and the island were all connected like poisonous vines.

The white fog had always protected the island. People didn't go there anyway. It carried old legends and bad karma. Superstitions and dark dreams. Its fetid odor, part animal, part fish, the death smells of decaying flesh was part of its identity. Martin sat in a silver rowboat, leaning on red oars, enshrouded in fog, encircled by muddy water and whispers. He could taste the fog. It too carried the smell of rot and dead carp. It stuck to his clothes like the greasy film in a fry house. He shivered as its wetness bore into his bones.

What he was doing was wrong. But he had been wrong all along. He made vows to a wife. Maria had lost the baby after he hit her. Her once lovely face was now bloated and bitter. She turned him from the bed without forgiveness. Not like before. Now he had to take what was his. It was no longer offered--until this woman. The Shadow Woman. And she had called him to her.

Wrong, he thought. And yet he kept rowing. Rowing towards Talking Island where desire called him, the fever between his legs goading him on. If only Maria had given him something -- some feeling which he could carry with him. But she was distant now. She would not speak to him, even under the weight of his insistent love. She's driven me to this, he thought.

He had a moment's pause. What if the Shadow Woman wouldn't give herself? But she had done the asking...the inviting. "Come to the island," she had said. "Come to the island." And the words were so small compared to their meaning. Haunting words. They drove him crazy. And he fondled the handle of his sharp knife. He would have her, one way or another.

He turned his back to the island and inched through the stinking, white-crusted mist. A new wave of fog came and this one was like slabs of sugar icing and the slippery gray dock and the black skeletal elms beyond it disappeared like wraiths into the wall. The fog re-filled the hole the boat made as it moved.

The muscles under his shoulder blades cramped up. I'm getting soft, he thought.

The mist clung to his back and seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. It was five hundred yards from the dock to the island. Five hundred yards of silent crawling through the white nothingness. Something jumped to the left and a little swell tipped the boat. White froth lipped the green water. And everywhere the stink.

Something bumped the boat and he shivered. Was it a green rock that moved away behind the boat? It looked like the skull of a huge walrus. It seemed like the boat stood still and the rock swam into the mist. And then he was alone again.

The water was brown here. And thick as soup. The sound of muted water slaps mingled with a low drone of nearing insects. He felt drugged. He had to remind myself to row. The shore must be close.

When he looked again, the water was stained red. Bloody clouds in the water mimicked the mist. Behind him the dark island hovered. Something dead lay on the shore with water lapping against its white head.

It was a llama with its throat torn open. It lay at the base of a limestone cliff that rose like a gray prison wall at the east end of the island. The beach was yellow clay, stained orange with the llama's blood.

He looked at the open, dead eyes and gagged as its lolling black tongue bobbed up and down with the tide. The eyes oozed something. The hair was moist and matted. He forced the bile down and listened for a predator. The boat scraped against the sand. The water splashed against stone. He strained to hear what his eyes couldn't see.

A whippoorwill called. A crow answered. Sweat trickled down his back. He felt the rhythms of the jungle. The lake was some alien place, and a mosquito landed on his face. He smeared it silently down his neck, knowing it left a red mark like war paint.

Solitude.

A huge shape materialized over the water, a gnarled tree, a willow so large that its branches draped like a canopy over a church procession. It kept out the fog, and Martin eased the boat into its niche. The bubble of air trapped inside smelled like dirty dishwater. Ashore, the beach was muddy and steep, but it could be a hideout.

Martin's old cowboy boots made sucking sounds in the yellow mud when he grabbed a handful of the willow's stringy limbs to pull himself up. He tied the bow rope lightly around the trunk. A path led upward and to the west.

He listened.

There was an eerie change of sound from water to land. To describe Talking Island, one had to say that things skittered here, or loped, and the sound they made bounced crazily off the distant shore and came back hardened and scrambled.

People said that men went mad living here. They heard things in the night that they shouldn't. Things mortals shouldn't ever hear. Whispers that held your name. Winds that flirted with ears and mind. But that was just people talking. Just stories told over tables littered with empty cups of chicha.

He walked uphill, sliding between patches of fog like a ghost among granite angels.

The first of the Dobermans sneaked in from the side. It came racing in out of the fog-hung trees and took Martin just above the knee. Blood spurted and he went down screaming.

Martin got to his knife and buried it in the dog as it leaped at his face. But then he nearly passed out. Growling brought him to action.

Three more dogs, their ears flat, their fangs bared, came at him. They flew over the hill like leaping large cats. The first one came in low, but Martin stabbed at his head. He felt bone as his knife slid through the dog's eye. The second one got Martin by the free arm and nearly tore off his hand. Once again, the knife swung out in desperation. Blood flew from the animal's neck in great sprays like pressurized paint.

The third dog stopped.

It cunningly watched Martin. Fog drifted between them and the Doberman shifted slightly. Each layer of white allowed it to change position. The dog's eyes were deep black like a tunnel. It growled low in its throat and the sound echoed through the wetness and Martin felt the dog all around him.

Suddenly the growling stopped.

"Are you gone, perro?" he whimpered.

Shut up, he thought. Shut up before he kills you. Martin tilted his head, listening for movement in the fog.

The quiet was more frightening than the growl and Martin knew it wasn't over. He would be brave. There would be more blood on the ground than just his own, he vowed.

The mist thickened to a solid in front of Martin. No, wait. That wasn't fog. It was a woman. A woman in a long white dress. He knew it was the Shadow Woman. She's come to save me, he thought.

The drifting fog made her flicker. In and out of focus she went. It was like a radio station far, far away, in some city he would never know, talking in a language he didn't know. First she was visible, then she disappeared and he realized she was circling.

"Stop where you are," he ordered. "Stop, please." It wasn't brave talk considering he'd come all this way out of desire and now she frightened him.

Sweat rolled down his cheek as he waited for a reply. Where was she now? To the left?

"I am here," she said.

He looked right and saw her dress billow like white sails away from her pretty brown legs. He had a surge of erotic feeling that surprised him.

"I will talk to you...alone," she said. He could hear small wet steps as the dogs trotted away.

Martin could barely see her. He wondered if she were really there or only an after-image burned into his retina by blood and fear. He thought she beckoned him forward.

He stepped forward, his wounds aching as he moved. He was alert for the dogs, but they didn't come. The Shadow Woman was just ahead. He'd never seen a woman look more beautiful. It must be the sensitivity of battle, he thought. He'd never seen a day like this. Enveloped in a world of mist, he felt he was moving inside a cloud of chrome. The world sparkled and quivered around him. His vision extended one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and everything he saw was tinged with silver. It was perfect.

And then he knew he was going to die.

He tried to raise the knife towards her, but his arms were slow and heavy. She glided towards him, as if she could fly, her lips soft and full. She glowed and moisture caressed her cheek.

She kissed him and drove something into his stomach and upwards in one swift motion. She was strong and his rib cage burst apart covering her with blood. He looked down and saw himself opened up like a ripe melon.

Her eyes were soft and passionate. And he could smell her. She was a Chijchipa flower. Her skin was petal soft and he knew he could love her. He loved her now, with his blood. And it flowed like a tidal wave across her white dress. He saw it splash onto her brown skin. The blood burst upon her like a jaguar.

And as he fell away from her, tumbled to the ground, he saw the knife in her right hand. And he saw that she had torn out his lungs.

She smiled. She took a deep breath and blew into Martin's lungs. They expanded with drippy, popping sounds and he could see veins like a thousand spider webs, crossing the two lozenge-shaped balloons. She held them high over her head and screamed.

The dogs came in howling.

§ § §


Gary Cadwallader was raised by Penguinatti Indians in Southern Argentina. Although he is completely bald, the Penguinatti are such great tattooists, even barbers are fooled. Now he makes his living as a magic healer, of sorts. If you have sorts, you may email him at: rmcheal2@aol.com .

Send the URL for this work to a friend!