make a quick exit. He didn’t have to know I had insisted on clutching the torch in case I had to use it.
The light of the torch flickered on the walls above and around us. Grey gusts of daylight were still filtering in from outside, lending the whole cave the appearance of an undersea grotto. Henry’s scarred and rugged face took on a sinister appearance in the semi-darkness.
With a swift motion Henry again pulled off his shirt and placed it at his feet, just far enough away from the fire that it could dry off without getting burned. I could see him quietly eyeing my own soaked shirt out of the corner of his eye, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was obviously wondering whether I was going to follow his lead, but for the moment I played coy and resolved to dry by other means.
Internally I was chiding myself. I should have run away ages ago, yet I was still here. I was afraid, but not just afraid. I feared him, in part because of my bad experiences in the past and in part because of Carrie’s warnings. Yet at the same time I was intoxicated by the danger he represented, the danger he carried with him in every cool glance of his eyes, in every sweeping motion of his broad and muscular arms. I remembered reading stories of gods who came to earth and walked among men, and here was one come to life. Those stories never ended well for the people involved, but for a shining moment they were happy beyond the dreams of mortals.
In the light now, as he sat beside me, I had a better opportunity of examining the tattoo that I had glimpsed from a distance that morning as he stood in the cave’s entrance tantalizingly brushing his teeth. Instinctively resisting the urge to run my hand over his chest, I noted (with what I hoped and half-believed was mere professional interest) that it was composed of the same markings that were on the green amulet.
Wanting to compare the symbols, I let out a long sigh and reluctantly asked him to come closer. His eyes never left my face as I painstakingly copied each one down into my notebook, a process that took all of about 15 minutes to complete.
“Curious,” I murmured. “Where did you get this?”
“What does it say?” he asked, eagerness and concern in his voice.
“I’m not quite finished yet,” I said, “but this line” (and I pointed to a line of writing on the stone that corresponded to a line on his tattoo) “says that the owner of this stone poses no danger to others, as long as he keeps it in his possession.” A flicker of awareness flashed into his eyes. “That seems odd, though,” I went on. “If this was a band of warriors, it seems like they would be trying to get rid of a stone like that, not keep it.”
Henry lowered his eyes. “It makes sense to me,” was all he said.
“Where did you find these markings anyway,” I asked, “if you only recently came into possession of the stone?”
“In all my grandfather’s research on the island,” he said, “these symbols turned up again and again. They were like a musical pattern weaving in and out of my life. According to him, the symbols had belonged to a bear tribe.” He bit his lip, as though afraid to say anything more. “They represented the tribe’s strength and steadfastness in the face of oppression, the way they had protected each other.”
“I think he may have been onto something,” I said, setting down my pen. “The second and third lines here, when translated, say, ‘We will not be defeated. We will stand together. Love unites us. Hate protects us. War saves us. The First Nation bear tribe.’ Not sure what that last part means,” I
The light of the torch flickered on the walls above and around us. Grey gusts of daylight were still filtering in from outside, lending the whole cave the appearance of an undersea grotto. Henry’s scarred and rugged face took on a sinister appearance in the semi-darkness.
With a swift motion Henry again pulled off his shirt and placed it at his feet, just far enough away from the fire that it could dry off without getting burned. I could see him quietly eyeing my own soaked shirt out of the corner of his eye, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was obviously wondering whether I was going to follow his lead, but for the moment I played coy and resolved to dry by other means.
Internally I was chiding myself. I should have run away ages ago, yet I was still here. I was afraid, but not just afraid. I feared him, in part because of my bad experiences in the past and in part because of Carrie’s warnings. Yet at the same time I was intoxicated by the danger he represented, the danger he carried with him in every cool glance of his eyes, in every sweeping motion of his broad and muscular arms. I remembered reading stories of gods who came to earth and walked among men, and here was one come to life. Those stories never ended well for the people involved, but for a shining moment they were happy beyond the dreams of mortals.
In the light now, as he sat beside me, I had a better opportunity of examining the tattoo that I had glimpsed from a distance that morning as he stood in the cave’s entrance tantalizingly brushing his teeth. Instinctively resisting the urge to run my hand over his chest, I noted (with what I hoped and half-believed was mere professional interest) that it was composed of the same markings that were on the green amulet.
Wanting to compare the symbols, I let out a long sigh and reluctantly asked him to come closer. His eyes never left my face as I painstakingly copied each one down into my notebook, a process that took all of about 15 minutes to complete.
“Curious,” I murmured. “Where did you get this?”
“What does it say?” he asked, eagerness and concern in his voice.
“I’m not quite finished yet,” I said, “but this line” (and I pointed to a line of writing on the stone that corresponded to a line on his tattoo) “says that the owner of this stone poses no danger to others, as long as he keeps it in his possession.” A flicker of awareness flashed into his eyes. “That seems odd, though,” I went on. “If this was a band of warriors, it seems like they would be trying to get rid of a stone like that, not keep it.”
Henry lowered his eyes. “It makes sense to me,” was all he said.
“Where did you find these markings anyway,” I asked, “if you only recently came into possession of the stone?”
“In all my grandfather’s research on the island,” he said, “these symbols turned up again and again. They were like a musical pattern weaving in and out of my life. According to him, the symbols had belonged to a bear tribe.” He bit his lip, as though afraid to say anything more. “They represented the tribe’s strength and steadfastness in the face of oppression, the way they had protected each other.”
“I think he may have been onto something,” I said, setting down my pen. “The second and third lines here, when translated, say, ‘We will not be defeated. We will stand together. Love unites us. Hate protects us. War saves us. The First Nation bear tribe.’ Not sure what that last part means,” I
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