The Purgatorium

Chapter Nineteen

Sometime in the middle of the night, the clouds broke. Brock whipped the sleeping bag over their heads, but soon they were drenched, Daphne's newly burnt skin unable to keep her warm in the wind. She shivered all over.

They struggled from the bag and gathered their things with the light on Brock's cap providing little help in the thick rain. The lightning in the distance illuminated the headland as they made their way down toward the east. The rain turned the white stone slick beneath their feet, and, as they scaled down the side, they slipped and half-fell to the next level of rock before finding the path to the beach. They ran across the now-wet sand, past the pier, and through the narrow gaps between the crags, resting for a moment beneath a cliff edge, but because it provided no protection, they ran on until they came upon the sprawling old oak.

They crawled beneath the thick branches and sat with their backs against the trunk, shivering and panting beside one another. Only some of the deluge made its way down to them through the manifold of twisted branches and leaves all around them.

"Are you okay?" Brock put an arm around Daphne.

She nodded. "Just cold."

"The sleeping bag's worthless."

Shivering, teeth chattering, unable to speak, she nestled against his wet, warm body. He lifted her chin and pressed his wet lips against hers, sending shocks of heat through her.

He whispered at her ear, "I'll take care of you. Go back to sleep."

Wrapped in his arms, his warm breath against her neck, she relaxed and, despite the torrent, fell asleep.

In the morning, Daphne was awakened by the sound of her own name being whispered near her ear.

She smiled and opened her eyes and stretched under the oak tree with the damp sleeping bag beneath her head and her own hair tickling the sides of her face with the gentle breeze. The water lapped the shore a dozen yards away, and the sun, low in the cloudless sky, hid behind the rocky bluffs. A hundred birds called out to one another from where they roosted in the thick branches above.

Where was Brock? She sat up and looked around, her stomach clenching.

This is not the haunted side of the island.

The whisper came again, this time behind her. "Daphne."

She jumped to her feet and ran in all directions but saw no one. Could it have been the swaying of the leaves?

Out in the sea, Brock jumped over the waves with his hands in the air, his bare back to her, and he was shouting, "Woo, hoo!" repeatedly.

A smile crossed her face at the sight of his revelry, and she decided she was just tired and edgy and was hearing things that weren't real. She fished through the backpack for more grapes and then, carrying a bunch, walked across the sand to join Brock in the sea.

The cold water crawled up her legs toward her thighs, and she let out a squeal when it reached her waist.

"Hey," Brock said. "You look happier this morning."

"Should we head to Scorpion Anchorage right away?"

"They think I'm bringing you back, remember? They won't search for us for a while."

She popped a grape into her mouth. "Want one?"

"No thanks. Sleep alright?"

"Guess so. You?"

"Best night of sleep I've had in months."

Daphne laughed. "You had your best sleep against an old oak tree during a storm, soaked, cold, and without a proper bed?"