Forbidden Island an Island Called Sapelo Read online

  The drive home was grueling as always. An accident snarled traffic, and two men had squared off pointing and shouting. One shook his fist in the other’s face. I took a detour through a bad section of town—a ghetto of the worst kind. Just past a corner where drunks and bums loitered, I spotted a shop with no name that had amulets and dolls hanging in cracked windows. Perhaps Murphy was on to something with this unconventional medicine thing. If Rikard offered Murphy deliverance from his illness, could he save my daughter as well?

  Inside it was dark and smelled of incense. An old black woman came from behind a curtain of glass beads and walked over behind a counter, where she leaned on her elbows.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  “What do you want?”

  “Do you have any books on island medicine?”

  “You don’t know nothing ’bout roots.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I need a book.”

  In the gloom, a cataract on her left eye glowed like milk glass. I walked over to a wall where a black straw doll with orange eyes hung. The old woman shuffled out from behind the counter, as if her feet were cracking.

  “Shamen put people in trances don't they?” I said, touching the doll.

  “Yes, all the time,” she said, tilting her good eye toward me.

  “Can a shaman bring someone out?” I asked, letting the doll swing free.

  “It is a hard thing,” she said.

  “All I want is a chance to awaken my daughter. She’s been in a trance for five years. Modern medicine’s no good.”

  “I know. Your daughter,” she commanded, “how is it she sleeps for five years?”

  I told her about my promotion, the call, and my wife’s accident. I told her I had the chance to spend the summer on Sapelo and I told her about Rikard.

  “Ah, Forbidden Island,” she said. “That is a place not for you. All right, I will help you.” She hobbled over to a shelf and pulled out a black book.

  “You study this book. Take it to Sapelo, but you must return it.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  She stared at me with her good eye.

  “Give me your hand.”

  I gave her my hand, which she studied.

  “What’s yo name,” she asked.

  “Slater Watts.”

  “Bad things haunt you. Now listen to me. You must take the right things to Sapelo. Cut two locks of your daughter’s hair. Place them in a bag. Take something from her bedroom, something she loves. Get a vial of her urine.”

  “I don’t know how that’s possible,” I said.

  “You will find a way. Next, you must go back to the car where she was hurt. Cut two squares of cloth from the seats where your wife and daughter sat. Not just any two squares but squares stained by their blood.”

  The car rested in a junkyard, the graveyard of rusted automobiles and repository of unspeakable horrors. I thought I’d never have to see it again.

  “Now you must get one more thing. You must get the cell phone your wife handed to your daughter. Do you know where it is?”

  My heart quickened at the thought of touching that phone. “I locked it away in a drawer.”

  “Take these things to the shaman. He may show you his powers. He may not. I am helping you for one reason only.”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “The power we have exists in two forms: good and bad. What you want is good. Now leave and always look over your shoulder on Sapelo. Forbidden Island is not a place for a white man, especially a city boy.”

  ***

  Back in traffic, I touched the dusty old book and the possibilities electrified me. The people around me seemed lost in conversation, oblivious to the river of steel flowing around them. Along both sides of the highway, light poles ran to the horizons like immense fences, which they were. An island with green palmettos, no roads, no traffic, no power, and no cell phones … I liked that.

  Rikard’s powers renewed my hope of awakening Brit. I had never thought of shamanism as a way of awakening my girl. Perhaps her coma was nothing more than a trance. Rikard the trance breaker—that was reason enough to risk whatever dangers Sapelo held. Everything that mattered to me waited on Sapelo, a final chance to save my girl, a great story perhaps, and if it all came to nothing, I would, at least, have escaped the traffic and crime. The coast surely would be cooler than Atlanta, and no one could contact me. Solitude would be mine.

  I stopped by a bookstore to buy some books on the Golden Sea Islands where fragrances of coffee, paper, and ink greeted me. Beneath a mural of dead authors, couples sipped lattes, their hushed conversations blending with the soft rustle of paper. I looked around the bookstore. The people there seemed happy enough with their day-to-day lives. They were fine with being dependent on electricity and, in fact, would not know how to live without it. They were accustomed to the blaring of car horns, the ringing of telephones, and the chirp of computers. I didn’t think they would give up a summer to do what I was considering.

  I found a book on island medicine and several on the Sea Islands. One book had a crude map of the Georgia-South Carolina coast as its end papers. All the islands were named except one: a large island shaped like a woman’s high-heel boot with a small waterway dividing it. Was that my destination?

  Forbidden Island had to be like the photographs: beautiful, gold, and green, an ever shifting mass of sand and vegetation where survival of the fittest was everything. This Darwinian oasis of dunes, maritime forests, and salt marshes would be like nothing I knew. The island would be in the words of the environmentalists, “pristine.” In the words of Murphy, “murderous.”

  I thumbed through a few pages. The Sea Island’s legacy had been wild rice, indigo, and cotton. Descendants of slaves clung to their African heritage such that the soul of Africa—the legacy of tribes—had soaked into the islands’ sand and taken root. Now their language, music, skills, and cuisine shot up from island sand. I came across “Gullah” and “Geechee,” words I had heard but never thought much about. They were pleasing to the ear and rolled off the tongue with ease. “Gullah,” “Geechee.”

  The idea of escaping to a wild island excited me. There would be neither microwaves nor ovens, just a campfire. I’d drink rainwater. And there would be no lights at night, simply the stars. That I could go back in time intoxicated me. I expected to pay a price for the privilege of escaping civilization. What if a diamondback rattler sank his fangs into me? Or what if a hurricane headed straight for the island? How would the natives take to me? Many things would be out of my control. Murphy was right when he said, “sleep on it.”

  ***

  That night I went into a deep sleep, a sleep not even the clamoring city could break. I dreamed about the seashore, saltwater, root doctors, sand dunes, Spartina, and sawgrass. The sea and its crashing waves rolled through my sleep. The marsh ebbed and flowed through my dreams. Campfire shadows danced across the dunes and a black velvet sky with brilliant stars wheeled above. I dreamt the oldest and best dream—flying. I soared on outstretched arms over green marshes, dune lines, and across the foaming surf toward Africa.

  I awakened more refreshed than I had in a long time, and the drive into work was better than it had been in a long time too. The city was trying to seduce me into staying but fate was pulling me in another direction. I would cast my fate to the island winds. I went straight to Murphy’s office where he spun to face me.

  “So Slater, what’s it to be?”

  “You’ve got yourself an island adventure writer, but on two conditions: give me an eight-page cover story and give me the copyright thirty days after it’s run in Southern Escape. Take it or leave it.”

  Murphy rolled back and forth. “It’s quite unusual to turn over copyright to a staffer. This is a work for hire, you know. But, I suppose beggars can’t be choosy, and hell, you may not live long enough to write it. Agreed.”

  “Put it in writing. I’ll take my own camping gear. The magazine can expense any other supplies
I’ll need.”

  “I’ll draw up the agreement this afternoon.”

  “You’ll be glad we’re doing this story, Murphy. Readers can escape city life with an article like this. I’m ready to go. Summer’s nearly three weeks old already.”

  Murphy rolled over and shut the door with a nudge from a wheel, then he spun and seemed genuinely happy for once.

  “Let’s have some coffee. There’s the rest of the story as they say.”

  Murphy poured coffee from a low-slung cart designed for him. Then he rolled back and forth, as if contemplating exactly what to say. The sweat on his brow glistened, and that peculiar frost dusted his skin.

  “One cream, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Now you cannot tell anyone what I’m about to divulge. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “If you back out, I want your resignation, but I know you won’t. Your little girl needs you. Well, she needs your company insurance more than you.”

  “Just tell me the rest of the damn story.”

  “My brother, Mallory, is missing on Sapelo,” he said. “I want you to find him.”

  “How did your brother end up missing on the last wild place in America?”

  “He went to Sapelo to study the occult. He’s a professor of parapsychology at Savannah College. He could never get all those Sapelo stories grandmother told us out of his head. I do believe that’s why he chose to study things beyond the realm of human understanding. He said he’d be there for two months—but that was sixteen months ago. His daughter hasn’t heard one word from him since he left, but, then, like I said the island has no power, no phones. Here’s the most recent photograph of him. Take it.”

  “That looks like you.”

  “We’re identical twins, but other than looks we have nothing in common. We had a falling out over my father’s estate. Mallory felt I had sweet-talked my father into giving me a larger share of the estate. Truth is while Mallory was away studying to be a Ph.D., I was home caring for dad, day and night. He couldn’t feed himself, couldn’t go to the bathroom. Dad rewarded me and things turned nasty. Mal and I haven’t spoken in seven years. It’s time to put all that behind us. Find Mal and bring him to Atlanta.”

  “What if he’s dead?” I asked.

  “If he’s dead, bring his body back.”

  “Well, let’s assume he’s alive. What if he won’t come to Atlanta?”

  “I have something that will change his mind.”

  Murphy rolled over to a cabinet and slowly worked its combination lock until its door sprung open. Then he used a key to open a recessed compartment and pulled out a plastic-sealed carton like Fed Ex uses.

  “Give him this. It’s personal. Very personal. That’s all I can tell you. Don’t leave the island until you give Mal this package. And guard it at all times. Let no one, and I mean no one, touch it but you.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked, noting its dimensions, a foot square at least and three inches deep.

  “Let’s just say it’s a peace offering. Just deliver it to Mal and don’t worry about what’s in it.”

  I reached for the package but Murphy held onto it.

  “Not yet. You realize I’m giving you a marvelous opportunity here. A rare chance to get away from the city, a chance to write your ‘real’ story, and a chance to do the boss a big favor—you can kill three birds with one stone.”

  He thrust the white, plastic-coated package toward me.

  “Killing birds sounds a whole lot easier,” I said, taking the package from Murphy’s trembling hand. “A missing brother sounds like a job for the law.”

  “I told you no law enforcement agency has jurisdiction on Sapelo because of a situation the federal government won’t resolve.”

  “No law in a complete wilderness? It sounds more like Africa. It’s hard to believe the federal government won’t just take it over. I can’t imagine bureaucrats turning away some new land they can administer.”

  “Oh they want it all right but it’s not going to happen anytime soon. Bad politics. What do you think would happen if the federal government said it was taking over the Cherokee Indian Reservation in North Carolina?”

  “The Indians would march on the Capitol and the media would crucify the government. How about your Sapelo islanders or do you call them ‘Sapelanders’? What would they do if the government took over their island?”

  “I don’t call them anything. As for takeover, it’ll never happen.”

  “How does a subtropical island remain unexploited in this day and age?”

  “It goes back to the Civil War and Reconstruction.” Murphy resumed his pacing, rolling back and forth, relishing his role as lecturer. “In 1876, blacks had political control of the South, and the presidential election was a mess. Neither Rutherford Hayes, the Republican candidate, nor Democrat Samuel Tilden had a majority in the Electoral College. Tilden needed one vote to win the presidency. In South Carolina, the presidential race was too close to call. South Carolina’s old guard white leaders made a deal beneath the table with Northern republicans that would let old slave owners and ex-Confederates retake the power they’d lost. Withdraw federal troops from the South, they said, and South Carolina would give Hayes the presidency. The Northern Republicans agreed but they threw a condition into the mix—former slaves could live on Sapelo, at the time a South Carolina possession. The deal was struck. Hayes was sworn in as president of the United States March 3, 1877, and freed blacks soon settled on Sapelo.”

  “Georgia must have a good reason to dispute South Carolina’s claim to Sapelo now,” I said. “That was 130 years ago.”

  “Yes. By law, the Savannah River’s channel determines the boundary between the two states. In the 1870s, the channel meandered to the right of Sapelo, giving South Carolina claim to the island. Over the last hundred years, the channel has shifted far to the left, allowing Georgia to reclaim what it lost. In 1998, Hurricane Sharon cut a channel right through the middle of the island. So, now, Sapelo is like two islands.”

  “Two lands of milk and honey up for grabs,” I mused.

  “Paradise? Not in the 1870s. Blacks were eager to go to Sapelo to escape the Ku Klux Klan, which had been terrorizing them on the mainland. The Klan didn’t care much for taking boats over to the island, and besides, it was far easier to do its dirty work on horseback. The natives still don’t trust outsiders, above all, whites. Mal’s department chairman warned him not to go to Sapelo but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’d better. If I put you in a time machine and dialed you back 130 years, it would be no different from what you’ll find on Sapelo. Rikard is the sole white person on the island and even he claims to be black. He heals, kills, and thrills people with his thoughts. Write about it.”

  “Where does the mysterious Rikard live?”

  “I have no idea. That’s your problem. And another thing. You should know the island is a graveyard of sorts. A writer from National Geographic, Andrew Lauder, a black man, went down there three years ago to do a piece, “The Africa Nobody Knows.” He vanished without a trace. He probably drowned. Maybe alligators ate him. I don’t know. People disappear into thin air on Sapelo. That’s why locals on the mainland call it ‘Forbidden Island.’ It’s run over by alligators and snakes and washed by dangerous currents. Storms blow in with a fury from Hell, and drifters, losers, and pirates take refuge there.”

  Murphy poured another cup of coffee and eyed me. Flakes of that bizarre frost fell from his brow. He rolled right up to me and put his afflicted face in mine. Even in the throes of disease, he was defiant.

  “So, tell me, Slater. Have you got the guts to go to Sapelo because if you don’t, I accept your resignation—”

  “The Hell I will. Let me show you something.” I took Murphy’s wheel chair by its handles and rolled him to the window and tilted him over.

  “Look down there,” I said. “Traffic stacked up everywhere. People knifing an
d shooting each other. Rapes, suicides, and murders every night. People crammed into cheap apartments like rats. Wrecks and fights. People slashing young mothers to death and getting away with it. Some breathing space sounds good. Sapelo can’t be anywhere as dangerous as Atlanta. I’m going and when I return, we’ll both have one hell of a story, a story worth dying for.”

  Murphy rolled back, spun, and wheeled over to his desk where he shuffled through a stack of business cards, squinting to read one with camera art on it.

  “This photographer, Cameron, lives in Columbia, South Carolina. You worked with him a few years ago on the Magnolia Gardens piece. I’ll call him, tell him you’re heading his way, and work out some rates.”

  Murphy rolled up into my face and spit his words at me. “Don’t say I never gave you a ‘real’ story.” Keep my missing brother between you and me and whatever you do, guard that package with your life.”

  THE CONTINENT’S EDGE

  And so it began, an utterly unforeseeable turn of events. On the anniversary of my wife’s death, life had sent me a wake-up call: a bouquet of balloons from a dead woman that led in a way to a chance to waken my girl from her trance. There was no way in hell I’d not go to Sapelo, Forbidden Island, or whatever else it was called, and besides, I was ready to get the Hell out of Atlanta.

  After loading up all my camping gear and buying some supplies, I called my daughter’s institute, Guardian Angel, to ask Mary, a nurse who loved my daughter as her own, if she would stay after work to talk to me.

  Guardian Angel’s tree-lined sidewalks, fountains, and statutes gave the place an inviting air and the building’s rock facing made it seem warm but the place never failed to give me the chills. I signed in and asked to see Mary.

  Traditional starched whites rustling, she came down a long corridor.

  “Slater, it’s so good to see you.”