The Sentinel Stands

     Larken looked out the window as the plane started its descent. Eight hours over the ocean and they were so close. The excitement washed away the fatigue of the flight and she looked at her mom.
     She had just woken up and was shaking out her long auburn curls. At forty-three, her round cheeks still made her look about five years younger, and her blue eyes caught the morning sun, giving them an almost ethereal light. Larken still marveled at how different they looked. Her chestnut hair was straight, except for her bangs. One summer her bangs turned curly, and just her bangs. So she’d spent a few years straightening them until they grew out. Now, they added waves to the front, the softness framing her heart shaped face. Depending on her mood, her hazel eyes could turn green or brown. But what she and her mother did share were curves. When she was younger it had been rough not being rail thin like so many of her peers, but as she got older she came to appreciate who she was and what she had. Her grandmother and mother made a point of raising her to be comfortable and confident in her own skin, and she was grateful to them for it.
     Larken took her mother’s hand and said, “Well rested?”
     “It’s the only way to fly,” her mother replied, with a sleepy smile.
     The sleeping pills had worked like magic and knocked her out for the majority the flight, which was a relief. Her mother’s nerves were raw, and Larken had gotten the distinct impression she’d tried to sabotage the trip. Things kept happening; problems with the passports, which Larken easily resolved, issues with time away from the job. In fact she’d been almost uncooperative with the Blakes, who’d bent over backwards in their eagerness to meet them. At first her mother had declined the invitation of a visit, saying she didn’t want to impose upon family she’d never met, and suggested the possibility of meeting halfway. Since that was either in the ocean or Greenland, Larken refused. She wanted to see the island her family had lived on for hundreds of years. Then her mother kept pushing the visit back until Larken threatened to go without her. When the Blakes hinted this particular week wasn’t the best time, her mother jumped on it, insisting this was the only week she could get away, blaming her job. Larken had been bewildered by this, it wasn’t like her mother to be so standoffish and difficult. Unlike Larken she didn’t seem at all thrilled about finding their roots and the family that came with.
      The green of England filled the window and Larken practically pressed her face against the glass, the joy she felt reminiscent of that first phone call from the Blakes. Her grandmother’s family. Her family.

   She'd been surprised to find a box full of newsletters from a brewery, and more from a distillery in her grandmother's attic. Her grandmother never drank beer, and only had a single glass of scotch on special occasions. Nothing else was in the box, and while the newsletters from the brewery went back for twenty years, the ones for the distillery went back over forty. Curious, Larken had looked up the Shaughnessy Distillery. Located on the Island of Frith, off the coast of England, the distillery had been producing single malt and blended scotches and whiskeys for hundreds of years. While not as well-known as some of the more famous brands, among scotch aficionados Shaughnessy was highly prized and sought after. She’d flipped through the newsletters and decided to get her grandmother a bottle of single malt for her birthday. It wasn’t affordable, but she’d picked up extra shifts at work and managed to get it in time.

     In hindsight her grandmother’s reaction made sense, but at the time it had confounded Larken and her mother. She’d opened the box and just stared at the bottle of scotch without saying a word. Her hair had hidden her face and after a couple of minutes of silence she’d asked where Larken had gotten the scotch and why Shaughnessy in particular. When Larken told her about the box in the attic, she’d finally looked at her, tears in her eyes. She told her she was grateful for the thoughtful gift and apologized for her reaction, telling them Shaughnessy had been something her parents loved dearly. Larken’s grandfather had grabbed the bottle, poured them each a small glass, and all was well. But the next time Larken was in the attic, the box with the newsletters was nowhere to be found.
      Two and a half years later, after the cancer had ravaged her body, her grandmother passed away. Her grandfather had packed up a box of keepsakes he felt she should have, and Larken had been touched to find the only photo of her great grandparents within. She’d been obsessed with it when she was little, studying each of their faces trying to see herself reflected in their eyes, lips, hair, even hands. She’d even taken it out of its frame once when she was ten, something she wasn’t supposed to do, and discovered it was part of a larger photo. There was a partial foot on one side and half a hand and foot on the other. Her great grandparents had been carefully cut out. When she’d asked her grandma about it, she was scolded for breaking the rules, and told the other people were friends of her parents, and there was no reason to keep the entire photo intact. For a child that was a reasonable explanation and she never brought it up again. But when she’d put the photo on her dresser, something about it bothered her. It was nothing she could pinpoint, and for weeks she’d look at it, trying to figure out what kept nagging at her. Then, one night, she really noticed at the background. She’d taken it out of the frame and examined every inch. Her great grandmother was sitting on a bench in front of her great grandfather, who had his hands on her shoulders. Behind them was a white stone wall. That’s when she made the connection.
     She’d grabbed her laptop, pulled up the Shaughnessy Distillery website, and clicked on their newsletter icon. When she’d looked at the most recent photo, she saw the same white wall and curved stone bench her great grandmother was sitting on in the photo. Every photo was the same. Two representatives from four families were always present. The Deerings, Waldrens, Blakes, and Cullens; the proprietors of Shaughnessy Distillery, and, to her surprise, Wolf's Head Brewery. Larken had grabbed various photos of herself, her mother, and grandmother and scoured the faces of each person, questioning, for the first time, what she'd been told since she was a little girl.
     Orphaned at thirteen, due to a tragic car accident, Alice Simone refused to become a foster kid, and stayed under the radar of the authorities until she was eighteen. At nineteen she had a daughter, and worked tooth and nail to build a life for herself and her little girl Darby.
     Larken didn't tell her mother about her suspicions. She decided against it until she had actual evidence to back them up. So she'd researched genealogy sites and the families from the distillery photos. She'd found Alice Simone came out of nowhere, no history until showing up in Chicago in 1974. Researching the families from the Island of Frith was like falling down a rabbit hole of myth and legend. So weeding out truth from fiction presented it's own problems. That is, until she found a site that had every photo taken for the Shaughnessy Distillery newsletter back to the 1930s.
Seeing her great grandparents smiling back at her with the others all around almost brought her to tears. John and Belinda Blake did indeed die in a tragic car accident. Their obituary, printed in the Bellhaven Times, was short, but mentioned their brothers and sisters, and a thirteen year old daughter, Maura. Further research revealed Maura disappeared from the island at age sixteen, and was never found. 
     Larken had sat on the information for a few days, and then, instead of going to her mother, she emailed everything she'd found, as well as photos and information about herself and her mother, to Dorian Blake. His email was listed as a contact for Shaughnessy Distillery. She'd known her mother would be angry for not coming to her first, but she'd wanted to know the truth, and she didn't want to wait.

  The wheels touched down and Larken’s heart raced, the nervousness and excitement making her stomach flutter. As they taxied to the gate her phone vibrated. She opened the text and smiled.
     “Lilly says welcome. She’s been tracking the flight and can’t wait for us to arrive. They’re already cooking up the feast for tonight.”
     “I’m glad you two have gotten so close already,” her mother said, turning her own phone back on.
     Larken was tempted to tell her she could be close to their family members already too, but bit her tongue. Her mother was keeping the Blakes at arms length until she learned more about why her own mother ran away and completely changed her identity. The explanation the family gave wasn't enough for her, and while Larken could somewhat understand, she preferred to give the Blakes the benefit of the doubt. Especially since her grandmother, who was stickler for honestly and integrity, had lied to her about their family her entire life.
     Once they disembarked and retrieved their luggage Larken started leading the way to the train station. "We need to get on the Heathrow Express to London, so we can catch the next train to the coast."
     "You don't say?" her mother said, a hint of laughter in her voice.
     "Alright," Larken said, without slowing. "I can't help it. We're here. We're actually here!"
     Her mother smiled and picked up the pace, and they managed to get on the express right before the doors closed. Once they got to London Paddington Station, Larken searched the schedule and found a train to  Bellhaven was leaving in less than ten minutes.
     "Come on," she said. "We can make the train and get there even earlier than expected."
     "Are you sure you don't want to take a side trip into London?" her mother asked. "We could take a ride on the London Eye, see Buckingham Palace?"
     Larken stopped dead and said, "London? It's almost four hours to Bellhaven as it is, and we're supposed to meet the whole family tonight. They're making a huge welcome feast for us. Are you serious or just messing with me?"
     Her mother's eyes got really wide, and she said, "Me? Mess with you? Would a mother do that to her daughter?"
     Before she could give her sarcastic retort, her mother rushed off saying, "We better hurry or we aren't going to make your train."
     "My train," Larken mumbled. "Sure."
     They got on the train with minutes to spare, and Larken pulled her phone from her pocket and texted Lilly, letting her know they were on their way. Once the train started moving Larken finally relaxed or tried too. The train kept picking up speed and she looked at her mother surprised.
     Her mother grinned and said, "Not like the Metra back home is it?"
     "Holy crap," Larken muttered. 
     The countryside flew by and Larken loved every moment. Everything was so green, and listening to the various English dialects, as well as a few people speaking French and Italian, filled her with joy. She'd always hoped to travel and now she was in England. A phone rang behind her and the woman who answered sounded just like Aunt Vi. It brought that moment back so crystal clear, she lived in the memory, replaying the conversation in her head as if it were yesterday instead of eight months ago.

     “Hello?”
     “Hello. May I speak with Larken Simone?”
     “This is.”
     There was a moment of silence and then a woman said, “Larken, I’m Victoria Blake. You emailed us about your grandmother Alice.”
     Larken sat down on the edge of her bed, heart pounding. “Yes.”
     “I want you to know you’re on speaker phone,” Victoria said. “So many of us wanted to be the one to call we decided we’d all do it.”
     “All of whom?”
     “Your family.”
     “Really?” Larken said, jumping up. “Are you sure? My Grandma said she was an orphan, and when I found the newsletters from the distillery she told me that Shaughnessy meant a lot to her parents. She never told us about anyone else.”
     “Maura’s father John was my brother,” Victoria said. “And from everything you sent us, there is no doubt your grandmother Alice was our Maura.”
     “You said you found newsletters from the distillery?” a man asked. “Forgive me Larken, I’m Dorian.”
     “Going back over forty years,” she replied.
     “She kept track of family,” someone muttered.
     “What about my great grandmother’s family? Larken asked.
     “She was also a Blake,” Victoria said.
     Larken’s stomach dropped and she felt slightly nauseous. “Oh.”
     “Not like that dear,” Victoria said, amused. “The two were so far removed from one another they may as well have been from entirely different families. The Blake family tree is quite large and has produced many branches. Some are closer to each other than others.”
     “So why didn’t she tell us about you?” Larken asked, not really meaning to go there yet. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. I’m just…”
     “Confused?” Dorian said. “Torn?”
     “Yeah,” Larken said. “That about sums it up.”
     “When Maura’s parent’s died, she was devastated,” Victoria said. “We all were.”
     “I’m so sorry,” Larken said.
     “That’s very kind of you dear,” Victoria said. “Thank you. Over the next couple of years we tried to give her the love and guidance her parents would have wanted, but without them, home stopped being home. Everything reminded her of what she lost and she withdrew from us all. One day she went for a walk, and never came back. We searched for her.”
     “For years,” Dorian said. “But we never found a trace.”
     “What about Darby?” Victoria asked. “I’m surprised we haven’t heard from her.”
     “I haven’t told her yet,” she replied. “I didn’t want to say anything unless I knew for sure.”
     “I’d say it’s time then,” Dorian said. “We’d love to talk to her as well, and arrange for you both to come home for a visit.”
     “Home,” she’d said with a grin. “So I’m English then?”
     There was general laughter all around, and more than one person chimed in with, “Islanders are islanders.”

     "What?" her mother asked.
     Larken hadn't realized she said islanders are islanders. "Sorry. Just thinking out loud."
     Her mother pulled a book on the history of Bellhaven and the Sentinel out of her bag. "You should try and get some rest. Maybe even a little sleep."
     Larken smiled and said, "I'll try."
     She laid her head back and looked out the window while her mother read. But rest was elusive. She was too excited, after all, for the first time in twenty-one years, she was going home.

                                       ____________________

     Thomas was about to get in the car when he noticed a change in the air. He looked towards the woods and shifted his perception. Six of them were hidden in the brush, their yellow eyes on him. It was like they knew. 
     Howling had been heard all over the island the past few days. Even a few of the tourists had noticed. They'd been appeased easily. The winds being the most logical and believable explanation. The secrets of the island were many, and the existence of their yellow eyed brethren was one of the most deeply guarded.
     Thomas smiled and said, "I'm on my way to the Sentinel. I'm bringing them home."
     They didn't respond, but he didn't expect them too. Thomas got in the car and drove for Howling Bay. He need to get the boat ready and head for Sentinel. They were only an hour away. 
                                       ____________________

     Larken snapped awake. It felt like she'd just closed her eyes.
     "Bellhaven," her mother said, with a smile. "I don't know if sleeping for half an hour is going to be very helpful."
     "I'll be fine," Larken said. "Let's get to the Sentinel."
     Her mother laughed and grabbed her bags. The rolling hills of Bellhaven surrounded them, and even though they couldn't see it, the smell of the ocean was carried on the breeze. Signs pointed every direction and when Larken started walking up the hill, her suitcase rolling behind her, her mother laughed again.
     "We can get a ride to the shore you know?"
     I want to see it from the top of the hill," Larken said, over her shoulder. "The old Bell house has the best view, and it's where Bellhaven began. If you looked at the history Aunt Vi sent us, you know there are more than a few Bells scattered throughout the family tree."
     "I wish you'd been this interested in history when you were younger," her mother said. "It wasn't your strongest subject."
     "If it were as fascinating as our own, I would have been," Larken replied.
     The street was filled with shops and cafe's, the stretch between the train station and the Bell house, a main tourist thoroughfare. It was summer, but the temperatures hovered in the low seventies for the most part, which made their hike up the hill easier. Before they even reached the top, the peak was visible.
     Coming up over the ridge, Larken stopped, the old gate to the Bell house on her right. A path wound around the house, enabling people to look inside the widows and see the home as it was when the Bell farm became coastal property. 
     "The storm has passed, and the sentinel stands."
     Larken looked at her mother, who was standing in front of a grey stone monument on the other side of the gate, at the exact place Marcus Bell said those words. They were chiseled into the stone, with the names of those lost on one side, and a tribute to Marcus and Maggie Bell on the other. 
     In the late sixteenth century a solar eclipse plunged the countryside into darkness, terrifying the populace. Some believed it was a portent of death, and in a strange twist of fate, death followed two days later. Heavy storms ravaged the hills, culminating in a series of earthquakes that redrew the coastline. The loss of life could have been catastrophic, but Marcus and Maggie Bell rode through the torrential rains, rounded up everyone they could, and brought them back to the Bell family farm. A few families refused, choosing to ride out the weather on their own. They all perished when the earth opened up. Those who'd taken sanctuary with the Bells survived.
     The most popular myth was a witch made a deal with the devil, and he dug his hand into the earth and dragged away her enemies and those innocents unlucky enough to get caught in his grasp. Other's swore it was the hand of God, punishing the citizenry for their wickedness. But regardless of the myth, and there were others, the sloping hillside leading down to the water resembled a curled hand. 
     Low tide meant boats dotted the beach on one side of town. When the tide came in they'd be in fifteen feet of water. Summer was when the water in the bay was the calmest, and at it's lowest level, exposing the causeway that connected the town to the Sentinel during daylight hours.
     "The Sentinel stands," Larken whispered, her eyes on the peak that gave the island it's name.
     A quarter mile away, a thick, high wall surrounded one side of the island, protecting the buildings from the rough waters. The other side of island was sheer rock and jagged cliffs, which absorbed the brunt of the ocean's fury. 
     The causeway was full of people going to and from the island, on foot and by shuttle bus. No one was allowed to drive their cars to the Sentinel. The only vehicles on the island were owned and operated by the few residents who made the Sentinel their home. Further out in the ocean, obscured by monolithic rocks rising out of the churning water, was the Island of Frith. Larken's heart swelled and a smile spread across her face. Home was so close.
     She joined her mother by the monument and read the dedication. "How did they know?" she asked. 
     "According to the Bells, they saw fissures after one of the quakes, and none were on their land. They were a well respected family, and thankfully most people listened." Her mother smiled at her surprise, and said, "I read about it on the ride here. So I don't suppose you have any interest in exploring Bellhaven?"

 Larken shrugged and her mother said, "I figured as much. Let's head for the causeway then."
     "Look at it Mom." Larken pointed to Frith and said, "Isn't it beautiful."
     "It's about half a mile away, that's tough to judge," her mother said. "But from the photos, yes, it's beautiful."
     They made their way through town, stopping every so often to snap a photo. The town was bustling with tourists and vacationers, the legends of the area bringing in a steady stream of visitors in the summer months. 
     The causeway was much wider than it looked from the top of the ridge. A railing separated the walkway from the road, giving the walkers plenty of space. Two narrow lanes were used by the shuttle busses and the occasional delivery truck. The gate was down, blocking the road, and people were lined up alongside for one of the red shuttle busses.
     "Let's walk the causeway," Larken said.
     Her mother shook her head and said, "We just walked from the train station, dragging our luggage behind the whole way. No thanks."
     "If you'd like to walk the causeway ladies, we can take your luggage on the bus and have it delivered to whichever inn you're staying at."
     They both looked at the smiling guide, one of three at the shuttle stop. Covered in freckles, her bright green eyes welcoming, she had a pad of tickets and pen in hand, ready to take their information. 
     Larken smiled brightly and looked at her mother.
     "Alright," her mother said, with a sigh. "But we aren't staying on the Sentinel. We're going to Frith."
     The guide nodded and said, "We'll have your bags taken to the ferry Miss Simone. Will you be going directly there, or are you going to spend some time on the Sentinel?"
     "We're going to the monastery," Larken replied. "To pay our respects."
     "I understand," the guide said solemnly.
     She wrote out the tickets and attached them to the luggage. Darby and Larken Simone, were clearly visible, and Larken exchanged glances with her mother.
     "Enjoy your time on the Sentinel ladies. Your bags will be at the ferry when you're ready to go to Frith."
     "Thank you," her mother said. "And your name?"
     "Katherine Cullen," she replied. 
     "Nice to meet you Katherine," her mother said.
     "You too, and welcome home."
     They swung their military satchels, Larken's brown, her mother's green, over their shoulders, and started walking. The causeway was packed with people, many stopped taking pictures. Larken leaned over the railing getting a closer look at the exposed seabed, marveling that where she stood would be completely underwater by sunset.
     "It really does look like a hand scooped out a chuck of the coast."
     Larken turned around to see her mother taking a picture of Bellhaven. "It really does," she agreed. "It's hard to imagine Frith was once the coastline."
     "It was closer to an archipelago," her mother said. "The Sentinel was the divider between the mainland and the series of islands leading to Frith. They were all attached, so boats were never needed, but now-"
     "Frith is completely isolated," Larken said.
     "And the killing stopped," her mother said.
     "So much cruelty," Larken said, her eyes drawn to the old monastery. 
     An ancient keep halfway up the Sentinel, it was abandoned and falling into disrepair when an order of monks moved in. They were a cloistered order devoted to prayer, and rarely interacted with their neighbors. Over the years their numbers grew and so did the monastery. Buildings were added until it dominated the highest hills on the Sentinel. But when the power of the church and their various orders declined, the monks were forced out by the local lord and it was used as an outpost. The witch hunts, which swept through England, turned it into a place of horror and death. The hardest hit were those on the outer peninsula, what would become the Island of Frith. 
     The water level rose as they got closer to the island, and the walls seemed to tower over the causeway, sentinels in their own right. While there were docks for the ferries, they were shielded from the weather in an alcove on the north side of the island. 
     They walked up the gentle rise to the gate, the empty stone towers on either side staring down at them. Once inside, the street split. North was a paved road, leading to the docks, the few hotels on the island, and a park and gardens. To the south was a cobblestone street that ran a winding path through, shops, restaurants, art galleries, and historic sites. No vehicles allowed. The streets were too narrow, and cars ruined the medieval aesthetic. The buildings that weren't original to the Sentinel were still designed to fit the time frame of the monastery at it's height. 
     They followed the signs for the monastery, keeping to the main thoroughfare, which was a slightly broader avenue than the side streets that zigzagged upward, disappearing into the maze of hills and buildings. The road suddenly opened up into a square filled with people enjoying the various street performers. Live music drifted out of the Wolf's Head Brew Pub, a tall, three story building overlooking the square. 
     Two Wolf’s Head brew pubs were on the Sentinel, the Big Brew Pub, and the Little Brew Pub. Simple names, and profitable for merchandizing. The Big Brew Pub, serving seasonal previews of Wolf's Head beers, was one of the main draws on the island, and it was packed. The second floor balcony overlooked the street, and the rooftop was filled with what looked like a private party. All the doors on the ground floor were open, and servers were moving among patio tables while two musicians played from a small stage inside. The bar was three deep, and every table full.
     “How about some coffee?” Larken said, looking at the coffee shop across the street. “You slept most of the flight, I didn’t.”
     “I offered you a sleeping pill,” her mom said, crossing the road to the coffee window.
     “I know, but they make me feel groggy.”
     They got two coffees and leaned against the wall listening to the music drifting out of the pub. The singer was gifted, her voice haunting and powerful. Larken didn’t know the language, but it wasn’t necessary to understand the beauty, joy, and tragedy of the song. All of a sudden an itch manifested between her shoulder blades and she looked up and down the street. Then she caught it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a guy staring at her from one of the balcony tables. She looked up, meeting his gaze unflinching, and he smiled. A split second later the older man to his left asked him a question and he turned his attention to their conversation. Larken got a good look at his profile, fair was fair. Sun kissed, loose brown curls framed a lean face, with thick eye brows over light blue, almost grey, eyes. He had a creamy complexion with just a touch of a caramel, and the way he moved in his chair, with a fluid grace, kept drawing her gaze. He looked her age maybe a year or two older, and he seemed to be charming the four people sitting across from him and his older companion. They were all nods, smiles, and laughter. He caught her watching, and met her gaze this time.
     “Touché,” she said, hiding a smile behind her cup.
     “Still sure about the monastery?” her mother asked.
     “We should,” Larken said. “It’s part of our history, and if we don’t do it now, we probably won’t do it at all.”
     Her mother slipped an arm around hers and said, “Let’s go then. I'm hungry and if I see one more meat pie we're grabbing a table at the pub.”
     “Aright,” Larken said, glancing up at the balcony. But he was absorbed in his conversation and didn’t see her walking away.
                                       ____________________

   Darby caught the exchange, but didn't let on. She'd taught Larken not to wilt under another's gaze. She always told her to face those people head on. Larken took that advice literally, and flipped the tables on them. Darby glanced over her shoulder and spied the young man's eyes following Larken. When he noticed he was caught, he gave her a smile and a friendly nod before returning to his conversation.
     "Bold," Darby said under her breath.
     "What?" Larken asked.
     "Nothing," she replied.
     The road's snake like pattern took them past a cluster of homes that had sprung up beneath the monastery. Families who'd looked to make their living by providing the few goods and services the monks couldn't provide for themselves. People were walking through the homes and visiting the Old Smithy, which had a blacksmith working and answering questions for the tourists.
     Beyond the houses were terraced gardens, where the monks grew most of their herbs and vegetables, a few still used to showcase what was grown at the time. After the gardens, they walked through an avenue of green grass before reaching the modest stone fence that separated the monastery from their neighbors.
     The moment they passed through the gate a chill wind ran down Darby's back. Her step faltered and Larken looked at her questioningly.
     "Deja vu," Darby said. "For a split second it felt like I'd been here before, and not in a good way."
     Larken's eyes brightened and she said, "Maybe you were. Whose to say you didn't meet a terrible fate here like so many of our ancestors."
     Darby shook her head and said, "Maybe. But you don't have to look so excited about it."
     Larken was open to all possibilities and didn't discount anything. Darby was proud of her for being so open minded. But when it came to death and the soul Darby was a big believer in once you're dead, you're dead. No heaven, hell or reincarnation. But she had no proof, so she never claimed to know for sure. Something Larken took to heart.
     The visitors center was a scribing room that had been turned into a gate house by the soldiers occupying the outpost. Guided tours were the only way to see the entire complex, otherwise tourists had to stay to specific areas. Darby and Larken joined a group of ten facing a woman with thick, carrot red hair, pulled into a side braid that hung over her shoulder, highlighting her name tag. Dressed in khakis and a blue shirt and windbreaker, Karen Bell informed everyone of the rules, asked for patience and consideration while she was speaking, and beckoned for them to follow.
     The history regarding the monks was interesting and painted the picture of an abbot who was at peace with the folks around the monastery. The monks were aware that the families on the peninsula weren't as sold on the Christian faith as they appeared to be, but they didn't admonish or condemn them. They prayed for them, and that was it. Once the tour left the monks behind and focused on the witch trials, people got quieter and the smiles disappeared.
     Karen led them into a room with a large, but simple, wooden table on one side, and a fireplace on the other. "When the witch hunter was summoned, he took this room as his office. This is his original desk where he wrote extensively about his methods in rooting out agents of the devil, getting them to confess, and the manner in which they died. "
     Darby crossed her arms, unable to comprehend the hatred that drove the man and his accomplices.
     "He also wrote about the origins of evil and how the devil was constantly waiting for the opportunity to seduce the weak willed and feeble minded. None of his works have been published, nor are they on display. Our ancestors refused to allow the man a legacy beyond being the butcher he was. So they took down the names in his ledgers, and everything he'd ever written was locked away, only shown to academics and authorities when the Sentinel was opened to the public."
     "Ancestors," Larken said. "So it's not a coincidence your last name is Bell."
     Karen looked at her and said, "The Bells were the only family split asunder by the quake. When the islanders of Frith made contact with the mainland, it was a Bell reaching out to another Bell. The Sentinel and Frith are both private islands owned and operated by my family, and the rest that populate the island. Our ancestors did what was necessary to guarantee the safety and freedom for generations to come. We honor that by being caretakers of the islands and their histories."
     Karen smiled and led them out of the office, and down a long staircase.
     "Did what was necessary has an ominous ring to it," Larken whispered.
     "The witch winds?" Darby said. "It's just another myth."
     "Howling and screams heard the first night of the storm," Larken said. "And then no sign of life or bodies when people we're finally able to land on the Sentinel all those years later. I know the screams are unconfirmed rumors, but a lack of bodies and any evidence about what may have happened makes it seem plausible. The witch hunter was never heard from or seen again, and neither were the soldiers."
     "Well there was an earthquake, and the waves were high," Darby said. "It's more than likely they tried to escape and got swept out to sea. But I agree, howling and a witch's righteous revenge have the right amount of mystery and horror to perpetuate a Roanoke style conspiracy."  
     Karen stopped in a low lit antechamber with a long hallway beyond. The air felt damp, and the dim light deepened the shadows in the corners, making the room seem smaller than it was.
     "The two families that summoned the witch finder weren't spared his interrogations," Karen said. "Much to their surprise. They wanted land, and we're willing to see others killed for it. But they underestimated the zealotry of the witch finder. His fevered righteousness saw evil all around, and he believed himself a warrior of God, sending the souls of the damned to hell in preparation for the second coming of Christ."
     She motioned for them to follow and led them down the hall. "The families on the peninsula had never been very pious, paying the required lip service to keep up appearances, and no more. Many of the women were healers, making them targets of a tyrannical system which vilified all folk remedies and those who practiced them. Certain physical characteristics were used as identifiers which made entire families suspect. Take me for instance. I’m left handed and a red head, marks of the devil. I would have been brought here and tested, and then most likely killed. Parents forced their children to learn to use their right hands to spare them. They used dark dyes to erase the red from their hair, and if it was curly they did everything they could do to pull it straight. Curls were a sign of pagan worship, and a pact made with evil.”
     "I've got the trifecta," Darby said. "I'd be doomed."
     "And you're a woman," Karen said. "The witch finder held up St. Augustine as the ultimate authority on men, women, and their relationship to God. Women were always suspect."
     She turned a corner and they made their way down an even narrower corridor, forcing them to walk two abreast. They ended up in the middle of the group and Darby was suddenly hit with an intense feeling of claustrophobia. It was strange and disconcerting. She’d never been claustrophobic, but the walls kept pushing them together, and she felt like she was being herded to hell.
     Karen’s voice suddenly rang through the hall. “If you feel like the walls are pressing in, you’re correct. The hall was designed to psychologically torture while being led to the purification chamber.”
     “Are you alright?” Larken whispered.
     “It’s effective,” Darby replied.
     Karen opened a thick metal door and led everyone inside. The moment Darby entered she felt nauseous and stepped to the side averting her gaze. Purification chamber meant torture chamber, and the devices around the room told a story of horrific cruelty and suffering. Once the last person was in the room she slipped back into the hall.
     “Everything alright Mum?” Karen asked, from the door.
     “I’ve seen torture devices before,” Darby replied. “Once was enough.”
     Karen gave her an understanding smile and turned her attention to the others, ready to answer questions if need be. The cold and damp were already worming their way into Darby's bones, and she imagined what it must have been like for the accused, locked in cells, listening to others beg and scream. The claustrophobia returned and Darby headed back the way they'd come. When she got to the antechamber, she turned right and walked outside to their final destination. The fresh air and blue sky above pushed the claustrophobia away and she breathed deeply, chalking it up to a day of travel. She stepped away from the door and got a good look around.
     The courtyard was surrounded by three buildings, and a high wall with a walkway for soldiers. Vibrant green grass covered every inch, except for three spots. Two circular patches of loose rock were on each end of the yard, while a raised earthen mound was surrounded by the grey stone that dominated every corner of the monastery. A chill ran down Darby's spine and she shuddered. The two patches were where stakes had been driven into the ground. The earth underneath the rock was blackened from fires that ran almost daily towards the end of the witch finder's reign. The earthen mound was once a deep pool where witches were tortured and drowned. Underneath the walkway was a gallows, a simply built wooden contraption with room to hang four at a time. 

     But none of the stark reminders of the evil done there were what drew Darby's attention.  Across the yard was a memorial to the victims of the witch finder's war. Dark grey stone worked till it shone was surrounded by a mosaic of rocks. Bright colors of yellow, blue, and green were set among grey, brown, and black, painting vivid portraits of four different women and one man. Etched into the dark grey stone were lists of names, and Darby was hit with such an intense sorrow tears welled up in her eyes. As she got closer, she saw the lists were first names under the family surname of those lost. 
     "Ah, I see Miss Simone beat us out here," Karen said.
     Darby sighed and almost shook her head. Another person who knew exactly who they were. It was strange and a little disconcerting.
     "Everything alright?" Larken asked.
     "Yea," she replied. "So much tragedy and loss visited on the innocent. History repeats itself again and again."
     "Not anymore," Larken said. "At least not on our island."
     "Our island?" Darby said.
     Larken smiled sheepishly and they both studied the memorial. There were so many names, and a good portion of them were Blake. It was difficult to wrap her mind around. Knowing her ancestors were almost wiped off the face of the earth by a man claiming to be God’s representative.
     "What about the Earl?" an older man asked. "Why didn't he stop this?"
     “He acquiesced to the witch finder,” Karen replied. “Keeping himself and his family safe. By the time the earthquake isolated the island, one fourth of the men and two thirds of the women who lived on the peninsula had been tortured and put to death. The witch finder believed the devil resided in the hearts of women, and only with the heavy handed and strict guidance of men could their evil inclinations be kept at bay. Women were unclean and a burden to all righteousness men because Adam didn’t take control in the garden. Humanity paid the price for Eve’s wickedness, and by humanity he meant men.”
     “Jesus,” Larken muttered.
     “In the name of,” Darby said.
     "Who are the people in the mosaic?" Larken asked. 
     "They were the last to loose their lives here," Karen replied. 
     "The five who cursed the witch finder?" Larken asked, getting a closer look at their faces.
     "So the legends say," Karen said, with a smile.
     "A witch's righteous revenge," Darby said quietly. The legends called it the witch's revenge, she added righteous. It felt way more like justice than revenge to her.
     Larken's eyes suddenly widened and she grabbed her hand. "Do you see them? The sun on the right and the moon on the left? They meet at the top and bottom of the mosaic."
     Darby was about to say no, when all at once she saw them. "Oh my God," she breathed. "How did I not see that before?"
     "What do you see?" a woman asked.
    "On the left is a sun, the rays shining outward," Larken said. "On the right is a crescent moon, and they meet at the top there, and at the bottom they intertwine. It's so beautiful."
     Quite a few people moved about, squinting, trying to see what she described, but after a minute or two they gave up, and gave both Darby and Larken funny looks.
     "It's said only a child of the island can see the dedication to eternal life within the mosaic," Karen said, her eyes twinkling. "Welcome home ladies."
     Darby laughed and said, "Thank you Karen."
     People gave them even funnier looks, a few looking doubtful, and others slightly jealous. No one else could see it though, no matter how hard they tried. It was bazaar.
     Once they started back down the path to the town center Darby's stomach reminded her she hadn't eaten since the day before. Coffee didn't count. “Do you want to get some lunch before we head for the island? The family is supposed to gather at six, so no one could fault us for eating now.”
     “It’s tempting,” Larken said, her gaze drifting upward as they passed the Big Brew Pub. “But I’m sure the family will have something for us to eat. Or we could get a quick bite at Mona Bell’s. It’s supposed to be the best place to eat on Frith, even better than the brewery, according to some reviews.”
     Darby smiled, fairly certain Larken was itching to get to the island as fast as possible. The whole, long lost family living on a mysterious island, had her imagination in overdrive. She’d been corresponding daily with the Blakes, overjoyed at having a huge extended family suddenly there.
     Darby glanced at the balcony but the young man was gone. “Alright then. Let’s get to Howling Bay. I’m starving.”