Cindi Myers - Her Secret Treasure

Once she started down the path, the dense undergrowth muffled the sound of the wind and blotted out all but the weakest rays of the sun, which filtered through the canopy overhead, bathing her in a watery green light. The air was heavy and humid, redolent with the scent of growth and decay. Though last summer the jungle had been hacked away to allow space for the passage of two people walking side by side, new growth crowded in on both sides, so that Sandra could barely squeeze through in places.

As she neared the center of the island, the noise of the birds increased, a cacophony of screams and whistles and honks louder than any freeway gridlock or rock concert riot. Along with the noise came the stench of the thousands of birds that nested and fed on the rocky heart of the island. Sandra covered her mouth and nose with one hand and held on to her hat with the other, the video camera swinging from the strap at her wrist, hitting her shoulder with every step.

Passionata’s Tower rose from the center of the clearing, a squat, crenelated fortress three stories tall, built of the same gray volcanic rock as its surroundings, the surface pocked with white bird droppings. On an elevated platform beside it sat a large tank to collect rainwater, the only source of fresh water on the island. Last summer, some visitors had constructed a gravity-fed shower beneath the tank. It had provided a nice alternative to the cramped bathing quarters on board ship, and helped to conserve the fresh water they’d brought with them.

Sandra paused at the edge of the clearing and focused the camera, pleased with the shot of the tower rising up against a dramatic bank of threatening clouds. One of the afternoon squalls common during the summer months was blowing in. Exactly what was needed to add interest to her video.

Satisfied she’d captured some good exterior footage, she darted across the clearing to the shelter of the tower entrance. Birds whirled and screamed around her, and she resisted the urge to run away from them.

Once in the tower things were better, though the stench was worse than ever. She pulled her shirt up over her nose and mouth and turned to investigate the three-hundred-year-old structure.

Interest soon displaced distaste as she surveyed the space in which she was standing. A short passage from the doorway opened into a spacious round room or hall. Weather-worn rock provided both flooring and walls, but Sandra could imagine a time when the rock had been covered with tapestries or velvet drapes, the floor strewn with rugs woven in India and Turkey.

A stone stairway hugged the far wall. After filming the first floor, Sandra started up the narrow risers, following them around the outer wall to a second room that was almost as large as the first. Empty except for a few pieces of driftwood and a pile of shells some previous visitor had left behind, this would have been the public rooms that served as an office/living/dining area for the pirate queen. A single rectangular window six feet tall and three feet wide provided a spectacular view of the bay. From here Passionata could have seen the approach of any ship, whether friend or foe. She’d have welcomed the return of her own fleet, and prepared for battle with her enemies.

Sandra raised her camera to her eye and filmed the stark interior, imagining it furnished with a heavy carved table and chairs, and cushions on the window seat. She could almost smell beeswax candles burning.

With growing anticipation, she hurried up the final flight of stairs to the room at the top of the tower. This would have been Passionata’s bedroom, she was sure. This room was smaller than the other two, but featured two windows, one looking out on the harbor, the other in the direction of the coral reef just offshore.

She stepped into the room as lightning flashed and rain began to fall. Large drops pelted the tower and splashed through the windows to pool on the concrete floor. Thunder shook the air and Sandra startled and backed up against the wall. Laughing at her own jumpiness, she raised the camera and began filming this room, as well, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red, and lowered the camera to look. But only gray stone met her gaze. Blinking, she shook her head, suddenly dizzy. The sweet scent of lavender filled her nostrils. Did lavender grow on the island? Had the rain brought the scent into the room?

She closed her eyes a moment and leaned against the wall, trying to regain her equilibrium. She put one hand down to steady herself, then recoiled at the sensation of some soft fabric, like a brocade.

She opened her eyes again and stared at a massive canopy bed that occupied the center of the room. It was draped in mosquito netting, the mattress covered with a red satin comforter much like the one she had on the ship. The concrete of the floor was obscured by a thick layer of red and gold rugs, and red draperies fluttered at the windows.

Her heart raced, and she struggled to breathe as she stared at the scene. None of this had been here seconds before. Was she hallucinating? She pinched her thigh, hard, but though she flinched at the pain, the room remained richly furnished. The scent of lavender was stronger now, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Her head began to throb, and she rubbed her eyes. What was happening to her?

She opened her eyes again, and choked off a scream. Gray stone walls and gray concrete floors surrounded her. The rain continued to pour in through the window, bringing the scent of mud and fish and tropical foliage. But no lavender.

She turned and raced down the stairs, moving as fast as she dared down the narrow risers, heart thudding painfully, fighting panic.

It was raining hard by the time she emerged from the tower. The birds were silent, roosting, the only noise the wind rattling the palm branches and raindrops splattering on the rocks. Within seconds, she was drenched, but she scarcely noticed. She had to get away from here, back to the safety of her ship.

She started toward the path, but a blinding flash of lightning and crack of thunder stopped her. One of the tall coconut palms split in two, crashing at her feet, green coconuts falling around her like bombs.

Her scream rose above the sound of the storm, and once she’d started, she couldn’t make herself stop. Shrieks rose from her throat, an almost welcome release of the panic she’d been fighting. She was soaked through, shaking and absolutely terrified. The only consolation was there was no one here to see her falling apart.

“Sandra! What are you doing out here in the storm?”

The shouts startled her. She whirled and saw a man advancing toward her, a tall, broad-shouldered figure, his features blurred by the rain. Unsure whether this was another hallucination, she squinted, trying to bring him into sharper focus. He was closer now, and she made out dark-blond hair plastered to his head—hair like her dream man’s. Her gaze moved across his shoulders, down his chest…he was naked, rain running in rivulets across well-defined muscle, glistening on the dusting of hair on his chest and between his thighs.

“Sandra, what are you doing here?” he demanded again. “Are you all right?”

He took her by the arm and shook her gently, and for the first time she realized this was no phantom of her imagination, but Adam, and he was very wet. And very naked.

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