Chapter Six
Arris and Onorien strolled across the lawn outside the mansion, the late-morning sun shining down on them. Arris was amazed at the perfection of the lawn and shrubbery ringing the perimeter but wondered where the lawn workers were to maintain it. In the few hours he had been awake and living in this fantasy land, Arris had noticed something else: there were no workers, although Onorien off-handedly referenced them. Weirder still, during breakfast, Arris had looked at the chandelier above the table and realized the glass bulbs on it weren’t actual light bulbs, but produced light nonetheless. And, there were no light switches on the walls and no noticeable electrical outlets. If it meant something, Arris was clueless, but, he said nothing. In all the years he’d been in Special Forces, he’d internalized one thing above all, and that was never to reveal learned intelligence to the opposition. Until you knew what your situation was you never told anyone potentially unfriendly what it was you noticed about them, and even then, Arris often kept what he knew to himself. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Onorien stopped near a row of hedges and turned to Arris. “You can stay here at my mansion until the next supply ship arrives. Until then, feel free to explore the mansion, wander the grounds, whatever you feel you need to do to pass the time. I caution you about wandering off the grounds, though. Most of the island is uninhabited jungle, but you’ll want to be careful of the natives, should you come in contact with them, which I wouldn’t advise.”
“Why’s that?” Arris asked, again noticing the odd word choice of “natives” in Onorien’s warning.
Onorien stopped walking and paused. He stared at the tops of the jungle beyond the shrubbery wall, considering his answer. Arris watched the man for some sort of physical “tell” that might alert him to the admonition against meeting the “natives,” but Onorien gave nothing away. Onorien turned, faced Arris and gave a slight shrug.
“They are the descendents of a Dutch slave ship that sank off shore of this island in 1802,” Onorien said, finally. “They are the result of a mixture of the Dutch seamen and Africans who were able to make it ashore, and they have lived quite primitively ever since. None of them have ever been known to leave the island successfully, and over the decades, the resultant hybrid population adopted an odd mixture of African and Dutch cultures, a combination that has poisoned their world view and made them hostile to those of us with fairer complexions, despite the fact that they are lighter skinned as a result of the circumstances of their being marooned on this island.”
Arris thought this odd. “You’ve had problems with them?”
Onorien nodded. “On occasion, though they mostly keep to themselves. But you’re better off steering clear should you encounter them.”
Arris was suddenly dispirited. He wasn’t on an exotic beach resort, but, rather, a private island owned by a recluse apparently eager to be rid of him. Not that Arris wasn’t eager to get off the island; he was, given the circumstances that led to his arrival on it. There would be people looking for him, at least until sometime later that day when they’d call off the search and write him off as dead.
“When does the next supply ship arrive?” Arris asked.
Onorien turned toward Arris and gave a barely-noticeable inclination of the head, meant to convey sympathy. “Next Friday.”
Arris sighed inside. Ten days. Arris wondered if he’d have been “buried” by then and what everyone would do when he showed up, alive. That made him smile. Would they bury an empty casket or just go with a memorial service? What on earth would he be remembered for, he wondered. Almost everything he’d ever done that he thought memorable was classified by the United States military or already buried in the ground. For an instant, he thought of his wife and sons, and then he remembered something and kicked himself for not having thought of it hours ago, when he woke up.
“Oh, yeah, I should have had a survival vest on me when you found me last night,” Arris said, “I’d like to get that back, if I can.”
Onorien cocked his head slightly. “A survival vest? I’m not sure what that would be.”
“Eh, it’s a nylon and mesh vest with a lot of pockets on it, each one containing various survival tools like a flashlight, flares, first aid kit,” Arris said, not wanting to over-describe the contents.
Onorien shook his head slightly. “You had no such vest on last night when we found you. Perhaps the natives who found you first took it. Why? Is it important, somehow?”
Arris shrugged. The “natives” found him first? “Only to me. There’s a radio in it that I could use to get a signal to anybody who might be looking for me.”
“There will be people looking?” Onorien said, turning and casting his gaze away.
“Well, only for a little while longer,” Arris said. “You know, you really should look into installing a telephone or ham radio or something. It could come in handy in a situation like this. Or an emergency.”
Onorien smiled. “I have phones and the Internet in my home in Florida. When I’m here, I like to be in total isolation.”
“Just tell me you have television.”
Onorien let out a small laugh. “No, but I do have an excellent library.”