no longer see the island. We were essentially in a wandering maze, only the cobalt blue sky to show us there was another world outside the reeds. And then we broke out of the reeds to the higher ground of the island proper and the end of the tidal creek. After we landed at a rickety wooden dock, built on stilts to allow for the tides, we found ourselves in a relatively treeless area, on bare, compact sand with numerous buildings spread about — mostly sheds and garages — and lots of ATVs. It was really quite ugly and I wondered what I had got myself into. Trevor had scooted off the boat with lightning speed, after a lightning fast “Welcome to the Compound” speech, and disappeared into one of the outbuildings. But David stood nearby, presumably waiting for a ride, just as we were.
Even at 6:00 at night it was blisteringly hot. The tangy smell of the salt mixed with the pungent decaying smell of the mud and the ugliness of the landing area made it difficult to believe that this was, in fact, a beautiful island, or so Duncan had said. Martha and I found a tiny scrap of shade to hide in and waited. We heard them before we saw them — the unmistakable roar of engines with mufflers no longer used to heavy labour. It wasn’t long before two ATVs came barrelling around one of the sheds and stopped in front of David, who was lounging against a picnic table incongruously placed so it had a view of one of the sheds. David slowly rose to his feet as a woman with gossamer blonde hair and a scary pale face extricated her considerable girth from one of the ATVs and glanced over at David before taking in Martha and me and our luggage. “Good thing we brought the trailer,” she said.
I glanced at the ATVs. One of them was pulling a rusty, dilapidated, old wooden trailer. It didn’t take a calculator to see that two large women, me, David, our luggage, and the other driver were going to tax the taxi service. And I knew what that meant. Being the smallest, I’d get the trailer. The other driver waved at us as he got off the ATV and walked out of sight behind one of the sheds. I watched in curiosity as the woman more or less ignored us and limped over to welcome David, cane in hand but not being used. She stood square in front of him for a long time, seemingly searching his face for something, before abruptly reaching out and giving him a hug. David stiffened at first and then melted into the hug as if they had been doing this dance all their lives. I wondered how they knew each other, this tall thin man and this tall fat woman.
Before I could muse on this question any longer David called over to us. “Meet Stacey. The best damned researcher this side of the picnic table.” We stared at him and he laughed. Stacey was frowning but then finally found her manners and we all shook hands.
“You’re the Indigo Bunting lady, right?” Her voice was soft and high, like a flute on the wind. It seemed at odds with her large size.
I nodded.
“Been here before?” She was holding her cane in her right hand, as if she was about to stab someone with it. It was an odd way to hold a cane.
“No.”
“Only two real rules. One: make sure you know the location of everyone’s study site. We don’t want you barging in where you aren’t wanted.” Which sounded as though it was everywhere by the tone of her voice. “And two: never ever break the first rule.” For some reason she made me feel as though I was back in kindergarten and getting my knuckles rapped — metaphorically speaking of course — by the time I arrived in kindergarten they had long since stopped rapping little knuckles. I wondered what her research project was. You can tell a lot about a scientist by what they are studying. I realized in hindsight that it would have been a good idea to get a list of all the people and their research projects. I’d have to search them on the Internet. I had been told there was Internet on the island. I just hoped it was high speed. Stacey motioned for us to load our luggage and, as Martha and I struggled with Martha’s suitcase, she and David stood huddled together.
It seems we were waiting for the second driver.
“Shit’s going to hit the fan now he’s here.” He’d sneaked up on us and I jumped a mile. I looked at the driver, whose flamboyant hat was hard on the eyes — crimson and royal blue with a lime green logo of a pelican in flight. I thought at first he was about fifteen, but his close-cropped brown hair was beginning to thin so I had to revise my estimate upward to maybe twenty-five.
“What shit?” I asked, knowing he was counting on me to ask. I mean, it was like a red flag waving at a bull. It would have been hard not to.
“Always hits the fan when those two are together. They love to hate each other.” I glanced over at Stacey and David. He was handing her a yellow envelope. She was gripping his shoulder and what little blood had been in her face to begin with had drained away. She dropped her hand and leaned over the picnic table as if she was catching her breath.
“Darcy,” said the man beside me, as if he was talking about buying a head of lettuce. I looked down at him; he was a good four inches shorter than I was.
“Pardon?”
“The name’s Darcy. Who might you be?”
I introduced Martha and myself.
“Right. The Bunting Lady. Well. Welcome. As you can see, Stacey isn’t much of a social coordinator. That’s why I came along.”
I bit my tongue and did not point out to him that he had skedaddled as soon as he arrived and that Stacey had at least stayed put.
He laughed. “Had to pee.”
I looked at him in astonishment.
“What else could you have been thinking?” He laughed again. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I do?”
“What do you do?”
“I’m Stacey’s assistant.”
“And what do you assist her with?”
“Flowers, plants, grasses, admin stuff …”
So she’s a botanist, I thought. Methodical, detailed. And probably not a risk-taker, at least not in the field.
I was about to ask what she was working on, but he broke in. “Better get those two back to the research station before they either kill each other with affection or with venom.” David and Stacey were hugging again. He winked at me and called over to Stacey to get a leg on, which seemed a little cruel given the state of one of her legs.
As I had expected, I got the trailer. I arranged myself well away from Martha’s killer luggage. One wild ride around a corner and it was likely to pinion me. We were barely out of the compound when the island showed its other face, the one you want to look at and live with forever.
It was a riotous mass of towering live oaks and hip-high palmetto, where the roads were mere trails, packed sand carpeted with live oak leaves. You could almost see the breadcrumbs if you tried hard enough. It was easy to imagine that nothing had changed on this island since the days of Columbus. No signs of civilization except for the trails. Not even electrical or telephone wires marred the view. I lay back against the head of the trailer and looked up at the magnificent oaks, leaves carving a lacey pattern in the sky. As we drove down the trails the only thing out of place with this timeless, ageless island were the ATVs.
My reverie was broken by Martha, who was yelling at me. “Darcy says the island residents formed a co-operative and designed the development to have a tiny environmental footprint. No paved roads, underground hydro wires, and none of the cottages are allowed to be seen from the beach.”
It took her multiple tries to get this across to me above the roar of the ATVs, which
