Woban Island

Bill Ingersoll


Text (C) 1988 & 2019 Bill Ingersoll / Published November 2019 / Image source: goodfon.com

You bEGIN STORY

We've all got our own path,

We all know there's no turning back.

We've all got a piece of the map,

But with the mountain in view, we say "I don't need that!"


There are many paths to the same summit,

If you don't like the one you're on you can stray from it.

Just look out for steep cliffs or you might plummet

'Cause there are many paths to the same summit!


Who-oah! Who-oah! La-de-da-da-da-da!


—— Root Shock

Next page.

As you pace back and forth at the boarding gate to your plane, you notice a thin man in a plaid suit sitting alone against the wall. He is looking straight at you just as your eyes first land on him. You have no idea who he is, and you never saw him arrive — which is surprising, considering how quaint and garish that old suit is.


The man furtively looks away the moment your eyes make contact. He feigns interest in the copy of the New York Times he is holding in front of him, but as you look more closely you see it is yesterday's edition. Clearly, something isn't right here.


Suspicious, you decide to keep an eye on him — of course, without appearing to do so. You pretend to scan the passenger waiting area as if bored and impatient, which is hardly far from the truth. You hate flying, and especially the need to arrive so early just to pass through the TSA screening. This morning you left your midtown apartment at an ungodly hour, hailed a taxi to avoid the morning commuter traffic on the subway, and then arrived at LaGuardia only to find that the security lines are not as long as you feared — leaving you with too much down time to kill before your flight.


But worrying about being watched gives you something to do, like a game you can play to pass the time. You let your eyes wander restlessly across the room, flitting from person to person, the advertisements on the wall, and the people buying coffee from the high-end retailer a short distance away — always making sure you note the man in the plaid suit each time you glance in that direction. In reality your nervousness is not that much of an act; being surrounded by so many people usually has this effect on you anyway.


Now, though, you can use it to your advantage as you watch the man you think might be watching you. Between the airline poster on the wall urging you to book a flight right away to Paris, and the businesswoman with the laptop bag at her feet and the Nook in her hands, you get a good look at the man in the frumpy suit reading yesterday's paper. He can't possibly be that interested in the latest Trump scandal or Albany corruption charges — if he was, he would have made a point to pick up today's edition of the Times.


Indeed, you are pretty sure you catch him looking back at you more than once. All of the other passengers who are waiting for the morning flight to Boston are occupying themselves with their iPhones or their tablets or their spreadsheets, but this one man with his tragic sense of fashion is clearly as interested in watching you as you are in watching him.


Your attention shifts to the paper ticket in your hand, which you've been thumbing all this time. A flight to Boston, paid for by the wealthy investor who insists you pay him a visit as soon as possible. When you first got the email from Walter Berringer two days ago, you thought it was a hoax. But then he forwarded you today's flight information, and you knew this was for real. Berringer's reputation as a collector of rare artifacts and valuable objects is well known; most visits with him prove to be quite interesting, or so you've heard.


Does the nervous man in the plaid suit know where you're going? Maybe he is somebody you should avoid….


__________________________________________________

Next page.

You know the plane will be boarding soon when you see first the pilots, and then the flight attendants, head down the gangway. Two hostesses busy themselves behind the podium, reviewing the passenger manifest and issuing one or two last-minute boarding passes. Then they begin the process of letting the passengers board the plane, business class first.


Walter Berringer didn't spring for a first-class ticket, so you have to wait a few more minutes for your chance to board the plane. But as the last of the business people are presenting their passes to the hostess and rushing down the gangway, you notice the man in the plaid suit stand up, tuck his paper under his arm, and then slowly move closer to where the line is about to form. In other words, he is now standing not too far from you.


"Now boarding Rows 22 through 38," the attendant politely announces over the PA, but most of the remaining passengers are already standing in anticipation. The line quickly forms, with you near the front — and Mr. Plaid Suit several spots behind you. The attendant helps you scan your boarding pass, and then you follow the gangway down to the narrow confines of the waiting 737.


Your ticket shows you have been assigned Row 30, Seat C, which turns out to be an aisle seat on the port side of the plane. A woman in her thirties is already settling into the window seat, giving every indication she'd rather nap than chat with her fellow passengers. That suits you fine. You stuff your carry-on bag into the overhead compartment and plop into your seat, with one empty space still between you.


A moment later Mr. Plaid Suit ventures his way down the aisle, squeezing past other passengers and counting the rows carefully. Then he looks up and sees you, and the flash of recognition across his face is unmistakable. He smiles as if he has spotted an old friend, and makes his way straight for you.


Really, do you know this guy? Someone you knew from high school, maybe? Is there anyone on your Facebook friends list with such a horrific sense of style?


Or:


Does this stranger know more about your meeting with Walter Berringer than you do?


He approaches you, still wearing that polite grin. "I believe that's my seat, 30B."


You look at the empty seat next to you, realizing that you're about to have a closer encounter than you expected. You stand up so he can scooch by, and he settles between you and the woman in the window seat. He doesn't even pay her any attention.


And for the moment, he doesn't say anything more to you, either. He is carrying no luggage you notice — nothing other than that day-old newspaper, with a headline that tells of stale developments in the impeachment proceedings.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

It is not until the plane is in the air and cruising high above Connecticut that the man finally folds his newspaper and sticks it in the pouch with the airline magazines in front of him, as if someone else on the next flight might be interested in reading his outdated copy of the New York Times. You now wish you had brought something to read yourself, so that you could feign immersion and avoid eye contact with him at all cost. But he fidgets in the seat to your left, as if he is anxious to get your attention. You try your best to appear lost in thought, pretending to be enthralled by the sight of the two flight attendants wheeling a cart down the aisle, pouring out cans of soda and juice into clear plastic cups for thirsty passengers, seat by seat, row by row.


"I know where you're headed," he finally says.


You turn to look at him, hoping your facial expression is displaying the proper amount of disinterest. "Oh?" you say. "Isn't everybody here heading to Boston?"


"You know what I mean," he says, unfazed at your attempt to be acerbic.


"I'm afraid I don't, actually," you try again.


"I am referring to 46 Van Ness Street," the man says.


You are unable to control your expression of surprise — 46 Van Ness is the address you were given for your meeting with Berringer later this morning.


"Never mind who I am," he continues. "It's you I've come here to see."


Mr. Plaid Suit has a surprisingly deep voice for such a small figure, and his nose sticks out twice as far as any nose should, like an awning over his thin mustache. Unlike most men his age, he has made no attempt to hide his balding dome, either with a hat, with implants, or by shaving his head altogether. And his breath smells like an onion bagel.


How much does this guy know about your meeting? To be honest, you know next to nothing yourself; you just know that Berringer pays well, and you'd be a fool to pass over an opportunity to work for him. Sometimes in your line of work, it's best not to know more than you have to, or before you need to know it.


But now you feel as though you're at a distinct disadvantage. The only thing about which you are certain is the need to not say a thing — for fear that you might reveal too much, or reveal how little you actually know.


Sensing your apprehension, Mr. Plaid Suit continues. "I know where Berringer will send you, and I can get you more pay for your troubles."


You look the man square in the eyes. As he smiles, two golden teeth shine in the subdued light of the plane's cabin.


This early flight was not completely booked, and there is a seat three rows ahead of you that is empty. Perhaps you should relocate. You're pretty sure that if you stay here, you'll be at the bottom of Boston Harbor about an hour after the plane lands. In your experience, strangers like this who come out of nowhere and try desperately to get your attention never lead to anything good.


__________________________________________________

You move to a new seat.

This guy is just way too creepy, and although the flight to Boston will be short, it is still more time than you want to spend smelling that bagel breath… or, for all you know, looking at the photos of you he has stored on his phone.


"I'm sorry, I'm not interested," you say as you quickly get up and grab your bag from the overhead compartment.


This action gets the attention of one of the flight attendants. "We are not ready to land yet. I'm afraid you'll need to remain seated, unless you are using the lavatory."


You take your things anyway and approach the attendant. Speaking softly, you say, "The guy next to me was bothering me. Is it all right if I take this seat right here? It appears to be empty."


Her eyes light up in horror, and you see her looking in the direction of Mr. Plaid Suit. You can only imagine what conclusions she is drawing.


"By all means!" she says to you, helping you put your bag in the compartment above your new seat. "Would you like to file—"


"No, that won't be necessary," you say.


"Well, all right. Just let us know if there is anything else we can do." And again she gives the man with the big nose an icy look.


That was too easy.


The rest of the flight passes uneventfully; your new neighbors appear to be a young couple visiting Boston on their honeymoon, so they barely notice you. You get a coffee from the drink cart and spend the rest of the trip sipping it in peace until it is gone.


When the plane lands, the attendant who assisted you gestures to you to come forward while the "remain seated" light is still on. She allows you to disembark before anyone else, and so you sail through an empty gangway and exit through the gate, where the passengers for the next flight are waiting anxiously to board the plane you just left behind. Thanks to the attendant, you have a long head start on Mr. Plaid Suit, so you do your best not to squander it. There is no need to visit the baggage return, since everything you need is in your carry-on.


You've also already arranged for a ride into the city. As you reach the glass doors leading out of the terminal, your phone trills with an incoming message: the Uber you hailed a moment ago is about to arrive.


It is easy to spot the bright orange Crosstrek with the driver named Doug. The Subaru pulls up to the curb near the waiting taxis, and Doug the driver gets out. "Are you heading to 46 Van Ness? My name is Doug, but the app probably already told you that. It's good to meet you! Let me help you with your bag."


Doug looks like he is auditioning to be a model for an L. L. Bean catalog, with a red checked shirt over a pair of khakis. He seems rather young to be doing Uber gigs on a weekday morning; you imagine his other job must involve the late shift in some corporate cubicle. He seems to be extremely eager to please you, though. Maybe he is in alliance with the flight attendant?


__________________________________________________

Next page.

"It's a shame about the Sox," he says as he drives you through downtown Boston. "I mean, they finished .519. That's a winning season! But they were still nineteen games behind New Yahk. It was a wicked crazy season. Do you know what moves Henry plans to make for next year?"


You haven't the slightest idea what he's talking about. Socks? Five nineteen — was that A.M. or P.M.?


"I'm sorry. Who's Henry?" you say.


"John Henry, the owner of the Sox. I thought you'd know."


"Never met him. What's the matter with his socks?"


"Well that's the question right there, isn't it?" Doug says. "If you ask me, the problem is the pitching staff. Those clowns in the bullpen couldn't throw a strike to save their life. And name one thing that Sale did this year, except burn through a good chunk of the payroll. But if you want to get to the fundamentals of it all, the real problem is Dombrowski. He took a championship team and ground them into the mud. Do you know if Henry plans to replace him with a real GM anytime soon?"


"I wouldn't have the slightest clue," you say.


"I guess the only real silver lining in all this is that New Yahk just got their pin-striped butts kicked by the 'Stros. It's not every year you can say that. But still, you know? Last year the Sox became World Series champions in Los Angeles. All the way over on the other side of the country. I was looking forward to them doing it here at Fenway this year."


"You know, I don't really follow baseball that much," you say, finally getting a grasp on the subject of this long and rambling monologue. Sports fans are among the biggest bores you've ever met.


"That's real funny, considered you hired me to drive you to the players' entrance to Fenway Pahk. What are you anyway, the wise ass who cleans the cups?" Doug's warmness toward you has apparently nosedived.


"Fenway? I'm heading to a meeting with a guy named Walter Berringer at 46 Van Ness Street."


"Yeah, I know, 46 Van Ness. This is Ipswich. Van Ness is the next right."


You look out the window and indeed see the back end of a brick building with avocado-green trim. Multiple signs proclaim this to be FENWAY PARK: HOME OF THE BOSTON RED SOX. Beyond the portion of the building that you can see, there is a larger structure with towering banks of lights and the back sides of at least two scoreboards. A chain link fence disguised with images of various baseball players keeps the general public at arm's length from a delivery area. Then as you drive further and make the right onto Van Ness, all you see is a long brick wall that seems to run the length of an entire block.


"Look, I don't know who you are, and maybe you don't either, but it looks like that broad over there is here to meet you," Doug says.


He pulls up toward the curb at a point where the brick wall gives way to a brown fence. It encloses an otherwise unpresumptuous, narrow space under a green stairway. A gate is open and a slender woman is approaching the Crosstrek. She waits for you to roll down the window.


"You are very punctual," she says. "Walter is waiting for you upstairs. If you grab your things I will take you to him."


As you exit the Subaru, you say to Doug, "Thanks for the lift!"


"Yeah, yeah, no problem." He's not even looking at you, though; he's craning his neck to see what's behind the gate.


"My name is Meredith," the woman says. "I hope you had a good flight."


She is wearing a gray dress suit, with a stiff skirt that ends just above the knees. Even with high heels, her head barely reaches your shoulder.


"It was Walter's idea to greet you here," she continues. "I think he wants you to be impressed."


"I might, if I knew the first thing about baseball," you say.


"Well that makes two of us. This way, please."


You follow Meredith inside the brown gate, and she stops to close it behind you. She has to leverage practically her entire mass to do so, but the gate cooperates and latches shut with a resounding clang. Doug is still waiting outside, probably hoping for an invitation to join you. It never comes.


"So this is the players' entrance?" you say.


"Yes. I'd show you around the team clubhouse, but I don't know where anything is. Walter's place is clear on the other side of the park. Come, through here."


She motions you through a nondescript door, which leads into a short service corridor. There is another door at the far end. Meredith all but throws her weight against the bar handle, and the green door swings out. It reveals a dark concourse, with green-painted steel beams everywhere, and shuttered vendor stalls down each side.


"Follow me, please."


The door swings shut behind you, and you follow your guide down the corridor. It is like being in a cavern, with nothing but hard surfaces all around and very little light. At times the ceiling is low and angled, leaving you to infer that you are directly below the stadium seating. All around you are signs for expensive domestic beer, hot dogs, pizza, and T-shirts, but every stall has been closed up for the winter. Meredith walks at a steady pace, her heels clopping against the hard floor. The sound reverberates off the concrete and steel, clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop, as if the sound she makes is a calculated part of her fashion statement: a loud presence to compensate for a small stature.


"So you're Mr. Berringer's assistant?" you ask.


"Heavens, no. I write for the Boston Globe. My editor assigned me to do a feature story on him, but it can be hard to get information from Walter sometimes, so it's been a very long project. It seems like I spend more time here than anywhere else."


"How long have you been at it?"


"About three years now."


After what seems like half a mile, you reach an elevator. She presses the button, and the doors open instantly. "After you," she says.


The elevator ride is over after just a few seconds. The doors part once more, and Meredith steps out first. She turns and gestures to the right. "This way, please."


You are now in a hallway, with a carpeted floor and closed doors at regular intervals — but only on the left side. Photos on the wall show baseball players doing basebally things. It looks like a sports-themed hotel.


"Walter Berringer lives here?" you say.


"Effectively, yes. The management would probably prefer that he didn't, but some people can be hard to refuse, if you know what I mean."


Just then you realize that one door down at the far end of the hallway is open. Meredith is about to offer one of her polite directives to "follow me" again, but you decide to break with tradition and start walking down the hallway before you are instructed to do so. The clopping of her heels is much more muted on this carpet as she hastens to catch up.


At first it sounds as if people are talking up ahead, but you soon figure out that it's a talk radio program; two men are dissecting all that went wrong for the Red Sox in the recently-ended season, with the insinuation that it can all be blamed on some guy named Dombrowski. Based on what you remember of the Uber ride, Doug the driver would probably agree.


The radio snaps off when you reach the door. "Come in! Come in!" a man says from somewhere inside.


The room is one of those luxury suites where well-heeled fans and corporate outings come to watch ballgames. It resembles a hotel room, but without beds. The suite is long and narrow, with large windows down at the far end overlooking the playing field. It has an open floor plan, but each section between the door and the front balcony is devoted to a single purpose. First comes the pseudo-kitchen, with places to present food but nothing other than a microwave to prepare it. Next comes a central space arranged like a den, with leather furniture focused on a wall-mounted TV. Then just before the wall of windows there is a high-top table, like the kind you might find in a bar.


The decor of this suite is its most unusual feature, though. So far, all of Fenway has been a shrine to the Red Sox, with photos of players making heroic plays everywhere you look. Not so here. A pair of old paintings hangs over the sofa, both fairly large. One depicts a man and a woman; he is standing, she is seated, but both are dressed in black. The ruffled collar and lace cuffs on the woman are exquisitely detailed. The larger painting depicts a small boat, crowded with people and rocked violently by a splashing wave. As you lean in you recognize the figure of Jesus at the rear of the boat, a point of calm surrounded by the wild tumult.


Beneath the two masterpieces, and framed as if it too were a prized artwork, is one of those old blue-on-white Rhode Island license plates, this one bearing only a single character: a numeral one.


"Ah, I see you are admiring my Rembrandts." 


__________________________________________________

Next page.

You turn to see your host entering the suite from the balcony overlooking the ball field. He is a stout man, and sharply dressed considering the informal setting in which he lives, as if there were a Men's Wearhouse somewhere in the stadium. Obeying the fashion of the day for people wishing to display an air of worldly sophistication, he wears his hair just a little long, with no effort to hide its grayness. Likewise for his beard. In his hand is a glass filled with melting ice.


"Those were among my first acquisitions," Berringer says, joining you in front of the paintings. "Back in '90. A partner and I went in on this, ah, project together. I kept the Rembrandts, he took the Vermeer and the Manet. We liquidated the rest of the collection — discreetly, of course. But I invested my share of the proceeds, and almost thirty years later, look where I am."


If you're reading between the lines correctly, you're pretty sure you are looking at stolen artwork. Many of the people who hire your "acquisitive services" are proud to show off similar possessions. You learned a long time ago that it's rarely a good idea to question the scruples of your employers.


"Who is the couple?" you ask, pointing to the portrait of the man and woman.


"A Dutch merchant and his wife; I don't know the names. But look at the naturalness of the poses, and look at the photorealism in the ruffled collar she's wearing. Stunning! I never get tired of looking at it. Can I get you a drink?"


"Um, sure," you say. "What about this other work? I recognize Jesus, but I'm not familiar with the story it depicts."


Berringer has taken his glass to a stand next to the TV, on which a variety of whiskey bottles are arrayed. "Jesus calming the storm on the Sea of Galilee," he explains as he pours you a drink and replenishes his own. "It's from Matthew, chapter eight: 'And they went and woke him, saying, 'Save us, Lord; we are perishing.' And he said to them, 'Why are you afraid, O ye of little faith?' Then he rose and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm. And the men marveled, saying, 'What sort of man is this, that even winds and sea obey him?'"


He hands you your whiskey. It seems rather early in the day for whiskey, but in your experience it's often a good idea to follow the lead of a potential employer.


"I admit I'm not a spiritual person," Berringer continues, "and the day I acquired it I saw only its monetary value. But it's grown on me since then; I rather like the idea of the powerful man making things happen and stunning his followers. Now, it's a nice day out; would you care to join me outside on the balcony?"


You follow your host out a glass door to the set of private box seats overlooking the stadium, directly above first base. Berringer gestures for you to sit in the front row. You see Meredith taking a seat at another high-top above, just outside the door, with a notepad in hand as if she were planning to record your conversation as research for her newspaper article.


"This is a nice view, Mr. Berringer," you say. Actually, Fenway looks rather forlorn with no people in it. The grass has been mowed recently, but there is no longer any need to paint the baselines. There is a manual scoreboard out on the large, green wall looming over left field, but all of the stats it displays are now well over a month out of date. It is so quiet you can hear the traffic on the Mass Turnpike beyond the wall.


"Please, call me Walter." He sets his glass down on the concrete railing in front of you. "I love this place, and I don't think I'll ever get enough of it. Aside from being a Red Sox fan, this place reminds me of my philosophy of life. Do you know what that is? It goes like this: The world is a giant field on which contests are decided, not unlike baseball: forces in dynamic opposition, always in competition with each other, struggling for dominance. One force advances, the other suffers a setback, and then the field is cleared so the next inning can begin. Life itself is merely a game, and like any game there are those who play, and there are those who call the plays. I see myself as one of the latter; I set the roster, I signal the pitches. With my strategic view of the playing field, I can anticipate where the ball will be hit. As the team's skipper, I give purpose to the people playing the game."


"That's interesting," you say. "I've never thought of it that way." You take a sip of the whiskey, but your palate can't process the bitterness before lunch. Your glass joins Berringer's on the railing.


"But enough about that. I'm sure you're wondering what this is all about."


"A job, I presume."


"Yes, most certainly. As you can see, I am a collector of valuable things. Rare things. Things that people desire to own. Those two Rembrandt paintings, that Rhode Island number one tag, this suite — these are all merely examples, just the slightest hint of my overall collection. But now there is something else I must have."


"Oh?"


"Tell me what you know of Woban Island," he says.


"Wow, Woban," you say. "I think I read about that recently. Woban — it's next to Auri Island, isn't? That place they just discovered in the South Pacific?"


"Indeed. Good memory. Imagine, in this day and age, there are still new places on Earth being discovered — places so new they appear on no maps."


"I'm starting to see why you called me here," you say.


"Your family has always been adventurous. You yourself have done jobs twice before in the South Pacific, according to my research. Thus I am confident you possess exactly the skill set required for this job."


"What exactly is it you want me to find?"


"Something priceless, of course. Not the type of thing I'll ever find on Amazon or eBay."


"But of course."


"Let me tell you a story," Berringer says. "Two years ago, a research boat looking for sunken World War II battleships gets blown off course by a typhoon. They land on an island that appears on none of their charts, inhabited by people who speak a language like no other. The Auri Islanders are mostly peaceful, but they point across a wide channel to the neighboring island, which is dark and rugged. Once the researchers crack the language, they figure out the natives are warning them about another fierce tribe of three-eyed warriors. 'Don't go there, the Wobans are sworn to protect the Stone of Vul-Kar,' that kind of thing."


"I see."


"And indeed, such a stone does exist."


"Have you seen it?" you ask.


"Well no, not personally. But I have reason to believe that an old acquaintance of yours did: Beatriz Paya-Vallejo. You know her, correct?"


Cripes, Beatriz! She is a rival adventurer from the north of Chile. The two of you have crossed paths more than once, in places like Nepal, Mali, and Tunisia. None of your encounters have been friendly ones. In most cases you were each working for competing collectors, which meant you were both after the same prize — and in the early years, she was too often the one in possession of whatever valuable object you had been sent to obtain. Because of her, you missed out on a few too many payouts and was almost laughed out of your profession. But also because of Paya-Vallejo, you learned to up your game and become better at what you do.


"Beatriz is looking for the Stone of Vul-Kar too?" you say. Three-eyed warriors are one thing, but if your old nemesis has beaten you to the island then you don't give yourself very good odds.


"Well, she was," Berringer says. "Beatriz was the first person I hired to obtain the stone on my behalf. I got a call from her satellite phone saying she had located the stone and somehow managed to trick the Wobans, but she never appeared at the rendezvous point. She simply disappeared."


"This is a fascinating story, and I think I see where you're going with this. But what exactly is the Stone of Vul-Kar?"


"Well... it's... it's... I'm not really sure, if what you're looking for is a precise description. My understanding is that it's a big purple gem, unlike anything currently known. But here's the important thing: quite a few people want it, including people I know. Rivals of mine, who are putting their own people on the island as we speak and mounting their own expeditions. The whole thing is a game, and I intend to win it. The question for you is, do you want to play it on my behalf?"


"I suppose the answer to that question depends on how much it will be worth my trouble," you say.


"I was thinking an even million," Berringer says. "Assuming that's agreeable. A quarter million payable now, the balance upon the successful retrieval of the item."


He snaps his finger, and Meredith clops her way down the steps to the front of the balcony, a bank check in her hand.


"Deal?" Berringer says.


Indeed, this would be quite the payout, if you're successful. With that kind of money, you could treat yourself to quite the vacation afterward. There are benefits to being good at what you do, and it's satisfying to see that your skills are valued by people like Walter Berringer.


"Deal," you say, accepting the check.


"Very good. Let's finish these drinks, then. To celebrate."


You oblige. This time the whiskey tastes perfectly sweet to your palate.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

Two weeks later, you are on Walter Berringer's private yacht in the South Pacific. It is now early November; when you left New England there were hints of oncoming snow in the air, but here, out on the open sea, the weather is sunny and almost uncomfortably warm. Meredith seems perfectly pleased with the setting, however; she is lounging in a deck chair soaking up the sunlight like a lizard, her dress suit replaced with a pastel bikini. There is a colorful cocktail of some kind beside her, on a stand right next to her ever-present notepad.


You can see her through the window as you peruse the maps that Berringer has provided you. They are sprawled out across a table inside the yacht's main salon — four large sheets, each covering a different quadrant of Woban Island. You had been under the impression that such things didn't exist, but nevertheless here they are.


The yacht is just hours away from Woban Island, and you are starting to feel the excitement of the moment. By this time tomorrow you should be in the field, bushwhacking your way up some previously unknown mountain, stealthily evading the native population while seeking the stone that will ultimately make you a millionaire. 


It has been quite the interesting journey getting to this point. It began with a trip to an REI store located just a few blocks away from Fenway, where you stocked up on gear and provisions for your expedition. With a quarter-million dollars in your bank account, you decided to upgrade all of your gear: a new backpack, moisture-wicking clothing, solar-powered lamp, trekking poles, new boots, gaiters in case the island is muddy, and most importantly, a new tent. They also had a lightweight folding rocking chair set up as a display model, weighing only a couple pounds; it was tempting, but silly considering the nature of your trip, and so you passed on that one. You also looked at a top-of-the-line GPS, but that turned out to be rather pointless since it had no maps of your destination.


Then, a few days later, you boarded a plane for Honolulu — business class this time, with Berringer and Meredith as traveling companions. While your employer prepared his luxurious yacht, the Big Papi, for the voyage south of Hawaii toward Woban and Auri islands, you enjoyed some downtime exploring Oahu, particularly the various forest reserves on the island's north shore, where you sought to immerse yourself in the type of environment you expect to find on Woban. One day after returning from one of your hikes, Berringer presented you with the maps you are examining now. "I had a contact at Hickam Field print these off for me," he explained.


Now the Big Papi is sailing toward a spot just off Woban Island's northeast coast, where you plan to take an inflatable runabout to shore. You and Berringer selected the landing location after perusing the maps, deciding that this part of the island seemed to provide the best landing area and the most direct route to the island's main summit, where the Stone of Vul-Kar is supposed to be. Always a sucker for a good topographic map, you have been scrutinizing these for most of the time you have been at sea. 


"If you keep this up, you'll have those maps memorized by the time you make landfall." It's Berringer, strolling into the salon in a silk robe, his customary empty glass in hand. He has been resting in his stateroom, but is now heading to the liquor cabinet to pour himself another bourbon. Now that you are nearing the islands, you've noticed that he has stopped offering to pour you a drink as well — best not to dull your edge.


"Good afternoon, sir," you say. "Yeah, according to this northeastern quad the route looks so easy. I don't see what all the trouble is. Drop me off in the morning, let me do my thing, and make sure you have dinner ready for me when I return that evening."


"Ha, if only it would be that simple." He takes a seat to your right at the table, whiskey glass in hand. "This whole part of the island is crawling with Wobans, and this part down here is rugged wilderness. According to the intel I picked up back at port, you're going to have company in those hills: people like you, hired by people like me, all with one objective in mind. You can be certain some of those people will be dangerous."


"Do you know exactly who I might encounter out there?"


"Just rumors, I'm afraid, but reliable ones. Here, I wrote them down."


He pulls a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and hands it to you. Unfolding it, you see a list of three names jotted down in Berringer's scratchy brand of penmanship:


Gary Gaffney


Dr. Brian Bolt


Martian Pop



"Do these names mean anything to you?" he asks.


"No," you say, "but are you sure about this last one? Martian Pop?"


"I thought you might like that one," Berringer says. "Yeah, that's a real name. He's Romanian, so my guess is it's not actually pronounced 'Martian Pop' in Romania. Pay close attention to this Gary Gaffney fellow. He might be working for a rival of mine back in Boston, and he's already been on the island for a few days. I'd be very unhappy if he got the Stone of Vul-Kar first."


"The way you're describing it, it's a crowded field on which we're about to play," you say. After all of this time with Berringer, you've started to speak in terms of sports metaphors, too.


"There may be others as well — rogue players that nobody knows. There were some vague reports last week of some young couple running around trying to steal a boat. And there is also a research team from the University of Chicago camped out on the southwestern shore of the island."


"Sounds like it will be quite the party if all of us get together at the same time."


"I'm trying to make it sound dangerous," Berringer says. "We've only known about this place for less than three years, and already people have gone missing. You're good, but this job isn't going to be like digging up caribou antler carvings from the thawing permafrost outside Nome. This place is going to try and kill you. Now let's talk about the Wobans themselves—"


"Walter, I'm hungry. What do you got around here to eat?" It's Meredith, entering the salon from the aft deck where she has been sunning herself, notebook in hand. She reeks of coconut-scented sunscreen.


"You're too late for lunch, too early for dinner," Berringer says rather gruffly. "Why don't you go to the galley and see what Cookie can scrounge up for you."


Meredith has been quiet for much of the voyage, nursing a grudge over some unknown grievance. She glowers at Berringer for a second, but he's not looking and doesn't see it. Then she sullenly leave the room.


"So what's the story with her, anyway?" you ask. "Three years is an awfully long time to be writing a newspaper article."


"You noticed that too, huh?" he says. "The truth is she reminds me of someone I used to have a crush on in high school. As you know, I acquire things. The key to acquiring people is to let the person you're acquiring feel at all times as if they're exercising free will. It tickles me, though, that her last name is Nowitki. She really does strike me as being witless sometimes."


That evening, as the three of you are in the dining room enjoying a swordfish dinner, the captain of the Big Papi makes an announcement over the intercom. "Sir, we are about to move into position five nautical miles to the northeast of Woban Island, just as you directed."


"You must be eager to see the place," Berringer says to you.


"Actually, yes," you say. "But it can wait until after dinner."


"Nonsense. I'm curious myself. Let's head up to the Skylounge Deck and take a look."


The three of you take your drinks — coffee in your case — up to the observation deck just below the bridge. Woban island is just ahead, a dark landmass occupying much of the horizon. Your first impression is that it is much bigger than you expected; a landmass that evaded detection for centuries should be little more than a speck of dirt, you had thought. But this is several miles in breadth, with a range of mountains rising darkly into the sky. From here, it is unclear which of them is the main summit atop which the jewel is located.


"My, my. It looks like we have some company." Berringer is not looking toward the island, but off to starboard. There is indeed a small speck of red on the ocean waves, moving in a straight line toward the Big Papi. "Meredith, honey, go and get my binoculars. They're in my stateroom, desk drawer on the right."


Meredith looks at him for a moment with silent resentment, but turns to obey the request when she determines that no "please" or "thank you" will be forthcoming.


"Who do you think it is?" you say.


"I was about to ask you the same thing," Berringer says. "I wasn't expecting any company. I assume you weren't, either."


You're about to say something about a Woban coast guard, but decide against it; all of the evidence seems to suggest that Walter Berringer possesses an underdeveloped sense of humor.


A moment later Meredith returns with the binoculars, handing them over to Berringer without saying a word. He lifts them to his eyes.


"It looks like a runabout," he says. "Two people. I don't see the mother ship, though."


He hands the binoculars over to you. It takes you a moment to find the incoming craft through the lenses, but when you do you see a small inflatable boat, much like the one at the rear of the Big Papi awaiting your use in the morning. This one is red instead of white, however. It is too small to have traveled very far on its own, and you agree with Berringer that there should be another yacht or something somewhere out in that direction, but you see nothing.


"Could just be someone marooned here, looking for a ride home," he says.


"It could be the competition, coming to scope us out," you say.


"Well if that's the case, then at least we know they don't have the stone yet."


"They could still be dangerous, though," you say. "I doubt they'd just be making a social call."


"If they're in trouble, then we need to help!" Meredith says, breaking her silence.


"What do you think?" Berringer says. "You're the one with the keen instincts for this kind of situation, right? Should we stay and see if they need our help, or are they up to no good? I can have the captain move us further away." 


__________________________________________________

You move away.

"You've spent most of the day trying to impress on me just how dangerous this place will be, Mr. Berringer," you say. "If you're leaving the decision up to me, then I say let's keep our distance."


"Call me Walter. So you don't think this is something we need to stick around and see?"


"I don't think they're here to bring us fresh-baked cookies, no."


Berringer pulls what looks like a wireless phone out of his pocket. "Mark, I need you to set a new course," he says to the yacht's captain. "We have some uninvited company approaching from starboard. Put some distance between us."


The Big Papi promptly begins to veer to port, putting the small boat well behind you. To continue tracking their progress, the three of you need to relocate to the aft observation deck just behind the main salon, where Meredith spent much of the afternoon sunbathing. Whatever that little craft is out there, it is probably powered by nothing more than an outboard motor, whereas the yacht is a large ocean-going vessel. You easily outpace it, and after half an hour you can no longer see your would-be visitors.


You and Meredith return to the dining room to finish your dinner, followed by Berringer sometime later. "The captain thinks we are safely out of range of that small boat," he says. "But to be safe he has ordered one of the crew to keep watch and make sure we aren't approached again."


"I hope they're all right," Meredith says, her bitter tone suggesting she is returning to her sullen state. "I think it was irresponsible not to offer assistance."


"That's what the Coast Guard is for," Berringer says. "We're here for a specific purpose, so let's not lose sight of that."


"I couldn't help but notice we were traveling for quite a while at a high rate of speed," you say. "Where does that put us relative to my planned landing location on the island?"


"Yes, you are correct, we are now out of position."


"By how much?" you ask.


"By several miles. In the morning we can reassess the situation and decide whether we can return to our preferred landing point safely or if we need to pick a new one."


You spend the evening packing your gear, so that you can throw it in the runabout first thing in the morning and set off on your mission. In the quiet of your cabin, isolated from the weird and moody drama that has been occurring between Berringer and Meredith lately, you look over your maps one more time. If you have traveled further down the shore to evade whoever was in that red inflatable, it means you are probably now closer to a more dangerous corner of the island, one that is more likely to be populated with Wobans. The concept of three-eyed people still boggles your mind; supposedly they are fierce, with claw-like fingernails to complement their almost beast-like behavior. It all seems too fantastic to believe, like something out of a bad Saturday morning cartoon.


When you are ready to call it a night, you fold the maps and slip them into your backpack, safely enclosed in a watertight case.  


__________________________________________________

Next page.

But when you awake in the morning, your entire backpack is missing. You thoroughly scour your cabin, and then start off on a search of the rest of the yacht. Maybe the crew brought your gear down to the waiting runabout while you were still asleep.


"Meredith is missing." It's Berringer, intercepting you on your way to the aft Sun Deck, where the inflatable craft was to be prepared for your departure.


"What?" you say.


"First thing this morning. The crew had set one of the runabouts out, ready to be launched. When no one was looking, she took off."


"The runabout isn't the only thing she took," you say. "Someone took my pack from my quarters."


"What was in it?"


"Everything — my gear, my supplies, the maps, the satellite phone. Everything."


Berringer is seething with anger. "All this time, and she has been plotting against me! I'll bet you she plans to get the Stone of Vul-Kar for herself. I hope she has arranged a ride home, because there is no way I'll ever let her set foot back on this boat."


"So does this mean my mission is over?"


"Of course not. It just means you must beat that witch to the stone at all costs. The crew is already prepping the second runabout, and I'll have the captain outfit you with whatever we can assemble from the ship's stores."


The thought of venturing off into a dangerous territory so underprepared makes you uneasy, but Berringer has become an unstoppable force. Before, this mission was fueled by little more than run-of-the-mill greed, but now with Meredith's apparent defection it is clear that he also has wrath on his mind; it will take more than the simple possession of a purple gem to give him satisfaction.


Captain Mark does all that he can to make up for your lost provisions. "Cookie didn't have much by way of dehydrated food, like you requested," he says. "He did have this bag of pepperoni sticks, and he said you can have as many of these apples and bananas as you want."


If you're going to be eating pepperoni, there better be plenty of latrines strategically placed across the island.


"We have no tents, no sleeping bags on board, and certainly no portable camp stoves like the one you described. But here's a spare tarp we came across, some nylon cord, and a whole box full of matches. We put these in a Ziploc baggie for you to keep them dry."


In the end, you are equipped with a mishmash of found items, which are laid out across a table in the crew's mess. Someone contributes half a dozen liter-sized bottles of Aquafina water, although you'd be lucky to be able to carry two. Normally you'd purify water pulled from a stream, but your mini filter was among the items that Meredith stole.


"What about a small bowl for boiling water?" you say, but Captain Mark comes back with a saucepan and a tin cup as the best items he could find. One is way heavier and bulkier than what you prefer, and the other is way too small for boiling water in useful quantities. However, since your options are limited you take both.


As much of this as possible is crammed into Captain Mark's personal backpack, which is scarcely bigger than a school book bag. The blue tarp has to get tied to the outside of the pack. You can only hope that Meredith is appreciative of all that brand-new REI gear you bought her.


Despite its small size, the black backpack feels heavy and uncomfortable when you put it on, and you doubt the fabric was designed for this kind of weight. But it's the best you're going to find under the circumstances, and Walter Berringer seems eager to get you onto the island.


He stops you once again on your way back down to the Sun Deck.


"Here, take this." He presses a small pistol into your hand. "I know you don't normally carry a gun, but I think we all know this is a special situation."


What does he think you're going to do — seek out and murder Meredith Nowitki on his behalf? You're not sure how to respond, so you decide it's best to say nothing.


The runabout is a small inflatable boat with seating for six or eight people, and probably not much bigger than that red boat that tried to approach the yacht last night. It is floating in the water just to the rear of the Big Papi, with two crew members standing ready to help you push off.


"I know these aren't ideal circumstances," Berringer says, "but I'm sure you've been in worse situations. When you track her down, take note of the look in her eyes. I will be very interested in knowing every detail."


It is almost as if that the events of the morning have shifted his priorities, making him more preoccupied with Meredith than the Stone of Vul-Kar. He does realize you're not an assassin, right?


One crewman helps you into the runabout, while the second hops in behind you and starts the outboard for you, as if you have never been in a boat before. With the roar of the engine in your ears, you can't hear Berringer's final words to you. You just smile and wave, and then motor away from the yacht. 


__________________________________________________

Next page.

The water becomes extremely clear the closer you get to shore, like a window onto the ocean floor. However, your focus is the island ahead of you, which appears dark even in broad daylight. There is a long beach in front of you, with a ridgeline rising behind it to the right. None of it looks familiar to you, as this is not the part of the island you spent the last few days memorizing with the maps. For all you know, you are heading straight toward a Woban village.


You and Berringer never did verify your new location, and so even if you still had the maps you would only be able to guess at which part of the island you are now approaching. All you know is that the jewel is said to reside in a ruined temple on the highest peak, which sits in a mountainous region on the south side of the island. You do indeed see a peak that matches the description: flat-topped with near-vertical slopes, somewhat like Devil's Tower in Wyoming. Getting to the top of such a mountain should be an adventure in itself, but you can only assume that there is a way up to the temple ruins that is not obvious from afar.


It is a long and anxious boat ride to shore, since you have no idea who (or what) else might be listening to the sound of your outboard motor. Nevertheless, you see no sign of movement on the beach ahead of you. Nor do you see the other runabout that Meredith stole.


You run the small inflatable boat onto shore, and then hop out and pull it the rest of the way out of the water. With no satellite phone to call for assistance should you need it, this white craft will probably be your only ticket off the island, when the time comes to return to the Big Papi. Looking around, you see quite a few footprints in the sand other than your own, telling you this beach is indeed a well-traveled thoroughfare. This motivates you to pull the runabout all the way into the bushes at the edge of the jungle, where you do your best to hide it. You note that the location of this hiding spot is just to the left of a large palm tree, which leans low over the beach before making a distinctive upwards curve; hopefully this natural landmark will help you find your boat when you return.


Then you look around at your surroundings. You intentionally landed close to that ridgeline you saw from the water, with the hope that this would put some distance between you and the nearest Woban village. You also noticed at the time that there seemed to be a pass straight ahead through the hills, which you theorized might be the most direct route to the base of the largest mountain. To get there, you'd have to follow the foot of the ridge up into the foothills for at least three miles, probably longer. The problem is that you have no idea whether any trails lead in that direction; if they do, none start here on the beach, at least. This means there is a good chance you'll have to bushwhack through thick brush to get where you want to go, and that is always a slow and arduous process.


The closest thing to a clear trail that you find begins to the right of where you stowed your boat. It leads up a steep and rocky slope, and you can only assume it goes all the way up to the top of the ridgeline. If it happens to follow that ridgeline once it gets there, then it too will lead you toward the foot of the big mountain, where your future wealth awaits. You'd make better time on a trail than you would bushwhacking through the jungle, even if the trail along the ridgeline would be longer.


But here's another thing you ought to consider: trails exist because they are used frequently by people — and on this island, the people who most concern you are the Wobans. If you could manage to avoid them as much as possible, you'll be having a good day.


Decisions, decisions. While you are pondering your options, you look back out at the ocean. The Big Papi is five nautical miles out from shore, holding its position while it awaits your return.   


__________________________________________________

You bushwhack straight toward the pass.

The shorter route is the better route, you decide, especially if it means you will be less likely to encounter any natives. The one setback is that your compass is one of the items that Meredith took when she absconded with your backpack. Normally you would set a bearing and follow that until you reached a recognizable landmark, but now you will have nothing but your own sense of direction to guide your way.


The jungle vegetation is just as thick as the stuff you encountered back in Hawaii, if not more so. Then it gets much worse. Just a quarter mile from the shoreline you reach a patch of jungle that looks as though it was recently leveled by a typhoon. Strong winds have tossed the trees about like matchsticks, snapping them in half or pulling them up by the roots. The swath of destruction extends as far as you can see, both straight ahead as well as to your left and right, meaning you see no easy way around. The best you can do is push straight through and hope that conditions get better on the other side.


But it feels as though you are trapped in a horizontal forest, with downed trees that you must either scramble over or crawl under. And as you venture further into the blowdown, you encounter an explosion of new growth. Often when an opening appears in an otherwise thick forest canopy, the newfound sunlight results in a sudden growth spurt for the young trees that had been lurking in the shadows. The saplings compete with each other in a race to the sky; those that grow tall enough to become canopy trees will probably live longer than those who get trapped in the shade again.


You have arrived during the early phase of that race for dominance. The brush is incredibly thick, and you feel like a fly trying to free yourself from a spider's web. If there is an end to the blowdown zone, you are unable to see it. You are unable to see much of anything more than six feet in front of you, for that matter. On the other hand, with all of the thrashing that you're doing, if there is anyone within earshot they must be perfectly aware of your presence. Bushwhacking in these conditions is a completely inelegant way to travel.


It takes nearly half an hour to make two hundred feet of forward progress through the downed trees. The typhoon damage is extensive, but it does eventually come to an end — the fallen trees become fewer and farther between, and the underbrush becomes less obnoxious. It is like a button has been pressed and the forest conditions have been reset to what they were when you first got started. You can't believe you called this stuff "thick" at the time; compared to what you just survived, you are now hiking through paradise.


Then the unexpected happens: after all that pointless struggle, you stumble across a clear trail. Wide and obviously well used, it comes in on your left and continues forward exactly in the direction you want to go; it is like you have rubbed an enchanted lantern and the genie has granted your wildest wish. With a trail to follow, your pace will be so much swifter.


But wait — what's this?


You stoop down to examine the muddy surface of the trail a little more closely, and there, plain as day, are two sets of fresh footprints. Bare footprints, made by feet that would wear size fifteen shoes — if Wobans wore such things. You have never seen a member of the island's native population before, but you don't have to be an expert to know only a Woban could have left such tracks. They are pointing forward, meaning that you are following behind the individuals who made them. All you can do is hope they are far enough ahead to be unaware of your presence.


Of course, you do have that pistol that Berringer insisted you take, but you're not sure how that will help. For starters, he gave you no additional ammunition, so you can only assume you have a maximum of six rounds. And sure, if you were jumped by two Wobans you might be able to defend yourself by firing an equal number of shots… but that would only draw the attention of even more Wobans. You really wish you had tossed the gun in the ocean before you made landfall, because the only thing it will do is get you killed.


Up ahead you see that the trail enters a clearing. You fear at first that you might be approaching a settlement, so you stop and listen for any signs of movement, any signs of people. Nothing but the sounds of the lush forest surround you. So cautiously you step forward, discovering that the opening is nothing more than a small meadow buried deep in the forest. A growth of yellow flowers makes this a place of quiet beauty, and the air is thick with a sweet, balsamic scent.


What you fail to see, though, are the two Woban hunters who had stepped to the side of the trail when they heard you coming, and are now lying in wait on each side of the meadow. You have no way of knowing this, but each is armed with a long spear, and each hunter is adept in the use of his weapon. While you are pausing to take a swig of water from one of the Aquafina bottles, and while you are momentarily disarmed by the beauty of this little glade, each Woban hurls his weapon. To them, you are nothing more than an intruder who has been caught trespassing in their territory.


Their aim is true, and you fall to the ground. Water pours out of the crushed plastic bottle in your hand, soaking into the soil.


THE END