A Bridge of Shadow Page 3

  It took Barbara about four hours to finish the translation. When finished, she laid down the pencil and stared at the words she had wrote. She would have probably been done in under two hours, but she couldn't believe some of what had been written. She needed to double and triple check her work to make sure what she was writing was accurate. “This is big,” she muttered to herself. What she had just translated had great historical implications. If the journal was to be believed than a consultation with a historical expert would need to be done in order to verify their authenticity. She scooped up the journal as well as her translations and ran down to the office of Professor Stan Michalek, the resident history scholar at Brenau. She burst through Professor Michalek's door and took a moment to catch her breath, but to her dismay the professor was not at his desk. Snatching one of the sticky pads off his desk. The note was hurried, even a little vague, but she had no time for details. Five o'clock, in my office, come alone.

  It was 5:15 PM when Stan waltzed through her door. “Always fashionably late, aren't you?” she grumbled from behind her desk.

  “Settle down, killer,” he replied with a smirk. “I had a lecture run a little late.”

  Barbara's expression softened. “I'm sorry about snapping it's just that I need you to take a look at this.” She slid the journal and translation across her desk.

  With a quizzical expression he opened the journal and ran his fingers across the pages. “Interesting,” he mused. He picked up the translation, sat across from Barbara and took a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket.

  I am writing this journal from our campsite at Dasamongueponke. My people and I have returned to Croatoan Island after investigating the events at Roanoke Island. I have lost track of time as a result of things which have taken place but I know the year to be 1590. Even as I am writing this, my mind still cannot comprehend the events that have happened on Roanoke Island. I awoke this morning as the early morning sun rose and I prepared supplies to trade with the settlers on the island.

  This has been a daily routine for me as I wished to learn more of the settlers' Christian religion. They have given me cultural artifacts from their lands in return of promises of protection from hostile tribes. I gathered the day's supplies and placed them in the boat and set sail for the colonists. As the boat touched the shore of the island I heard an unholy scream coming from the settler's camp. Our tribal weapons were primitive compared to the settlers and the only weapon I had on board was a spear with a crude iron tip. I grabbed it and ran for the colony. As I approached the tree line surrounding the settlement, I decided to climb a nearby tree to allow myself a view of the entire camp. I needed to be cautious due to recent attacks from the Powhatan tribes. As I gathered myself upon the tree, I was able to view the entire colony. When I looked down I witnessed the source of the scream and my blood turned to ice. There was an English woman whose age could not be determined as her face was covered in blood. She was being held by a tall, gaunt, ghostly figure with long claws and eyes of blood, who feasted on her flesh. I remained as still as night, as to not alert this creature of my presence, when all of a sudden he turned his demonic gaze in my direction. As the sun was my witness he embraced the woman and disappeared before my eyes, taking the woman with it.

  I am unsure how long I sat, frozen upon my perch, waiting for the return of this foul creature. I hoped to see other colonists emerge from hiding, but none ever came. As my eyes surveyed the settlement I could see no movement or life from the small fort they had erected nor from any of their homes. My eyes strained against the daylight in an effort to catch even the slightest movement from the camp. My ears, long attuned to the sounds of the forest, sought to listen for any noise which would return normalcy to what I had just witnessed. Not a single sound could be heard, not the screech of a hawk nor even a deer prancing through the wood. All there was stood an empty camp.

  After a long time had passed and I determined the area safe, I jumped from the tree and dropped my spear in my haste to return to my people. Upon my return, I told them of the creature at the English settlement. Achak, our tribal shaman explained that what I had seen was a Wendigo, a demonic spirit who was once a man but morphed into a hideous creature through acts of cannibalism. He told me it was possible the colonists turned to cannibalism as a result of the recent drought and inadvertently summoned this demonic entity. He advised me to gather some of our noblest warriors and accompany him to the island. With great haste we sailed to Roanoke and made our way to the settlement. Once there, we constructed a great fire and when we were finished Achak instructed us to form a large circle around the fire. He drew ancient Algonquin symbols into the dirt and chanted while dancing around the fire. Eventually his gaze turned toward the sky and a great sweat broke out upon his brow.

  He danced for what seemed like ages until he stopped suddenly and turned his attention toward the forest. His gaze was locked onto the forest for several moments before he turned to me. The ritual was complete. According to Achak, the Wendigo was now banished from the area by the power of our ancestors. He approached a nearby tree along the border of the forest and tore the bark free. Using the tip of a spear he carved a single word into a tree: CROATOAN. I asked him the significance of the word. Achak looked at me through distant eyes and explained that the word signifies a Croatoan ritual of banishment had been performed and the Wendigo was no longer welcome here.

  Achak commanded us to take down the houses and load them into our boats. At the time he said we could use materials from the houses to fortify our camp but later he admitted the haunted spirits of the colonists may be tempted to return to their homes if they had remained. As we returned to our camp, I could not help but think about my friend, John White, who befriended me and taught me his culture. I pray for the souls of Roanoke Island and whoever will read this journal. I will place this book into the chest I received as a gift from John White, as I know that would be what he wanted. I hope the chest can withstand nature as well as time and that it reaches other English settlers. I pray they heed the words contained within. Roanoke Island may be cleansed now, but be wary that the demon who took the colonists away from these lands is only temporarily gone. May God protect future settlers to the island.

  -Manteo 1589

  Stan slowly removed his glasses and placed them on top of the translation. “Barbara, you are much better than me at identifying cultural artifacts. Are you positive this book is legitimate and not some sort of hoax? After reading this Loch Ness and Bigfoot come to mind. I am familiar with the history of Roanoke and of Manteo but I have never read of anything like this.”

  “Stan, you have known me a long time. I have spent hours researching the statements contained in that book. I am a hundred percent certain the chest and the book are authentic,” she said firmly. “But what do you make of the writing and the timeline? Can it be real?” She noticed she had been wringing her hands like some kind of mythical witch about to boil children in her cauldron and ceased immediately.

  Stan put his glasses on and studied the pages for what seemed an eternity. “I can tell you with certainty that the description of events here matches historical documents obtained from the voyages between and England and Roanoke Island. It matches up with documents obtained from the Jamestown colony's investigation into the Roanoke disappearance. Historically, Manteo was a representative of the Algonquins on Croatoan Island, was friendly to the colonists, learned English and eventually even converted to Christianity. If what is in this book is true then this would explain the disappearance of the Roanoke Island settlers which would be bigger than either what you or I can say on the subject. The best course of action would be to take these items to the Dean of Students and get his input on what we should do next.”

  Barbara relaxed a little. “Fine, I will meet up with you in the morning and we will head there together. Do you have a safe place to keep these items?”

  Stan nodded. He returned the book to the chest, closed it and placed it into a cabin
et underneath his desk. “I will see you tomorrow, right?” he asked.

  Barbara nodded and they marched together toward the exit. The paused when they reached the Dean's office. The office was empty because the Dean was conducting a meeting across campus but the television he kept in his office was on. It was tuned to the local news station.

  “We have a breaking news bulletin from our local affiliate WSB-TV Atlanta,” the anchorman announced. “Initial reports are surfacing of a boat accident near Hatteras Island. Preliminary reports state a coast guard cutter received a distress call from the 'SS Zephyr', a fishing trawler based out of Norfolk, Virginia. A spokesman for the U.S. Coast Guard stated the trawler was empty when discovered. Statements from a spokesperson at the time….oh wait, what? Okay I have just been informed we are going to switch live to our station correspondent, Sean Stevens who is live at the scene.”

  “Hold on Stan, let's listen to this.” She pulled him through the Dean's door and watched as Sean Stevens came on.

  “Thanks Bob. Hello folks, this is Sean Stevens reporting live from the coast of Hatteras Island. I have just been told by a representative within the Coast Guard that it has been confirmed the Zephyr had no crew aboard when discovered. I have with me live Captain Tom Benson of the U.S Coast Guard with some more information on the accident.”

  “Thank you Sean. As of right now we have no information on the whereabouts of the crew. All life vests were secured on the ship and the navigational equipment along with the GPS seem to be in working order. We have technicians working on the devices to see if they can discover anything. Below deck, everything appears to be in order and there are no signs of distress or damage. From what we can see the boat is fully functional with no abnormalities in equipment. There was no food or water aboard, and signs suggest the craft was adrift for some time. All flares were present and the radio was in working order. The only thing we discovered was a word carved into a chair on the bridge next to some unidentified scratch marks in the steering controls.”

  “What word was it, Captain,” Stevens asked.

  “Well, the word was 'Croatoan'. As of right now we are not sure what it means. We are investigating to see if it may have been another vessel in the area at the time. We have conducted a perimeter search of the area in hopes of finding–”

  The rest of the news story evaporated as Barbara took a step toward the door. With her hand covering her mouth she looked at Stan in horror.

  “Croatoan,” Stan echoed the word as he continued to stare at the TV, wide-eyed. His hands opened and closed quickly, as if he they suddenly became numb and he was trying to restore blood circulation.

  When he turned to her, a look of horror passed between them. He didn't need to say anything for she knew what he was thinking. The protection of the island was no more. That which was banished had returned. The word escaped her lips before she even realized she had uttered it.

  Wendigo.

  About the Author: Craig Gaydas

  Even though I began my journey of writing at a late age, my desire to build worlds and create characters started at a very young age. 10 to be exact. I enjoyed world building games such as Dungeons and Dragons as well as immersing myself into superhero back stories via the “Marvel Universe” compendiums. I signed on with independent publishing house Creativia in early 2014 and haven't looked back.

  Books by Craig Gaydas:

  The Cartographer

  The Cartographer 2: Reborn

  The Cartographer 3: Timeless

  Vendetta

  The Last Hero

  The Guardian Chronicles

  River of Love

  Eve Gaal

  The guys at work called Lopez a schmuck. They used foul language to describe him, simply because he didn't drink. They also called him a flake because he didn't go to parties and wouldn't chum up to everyone at happy hour. They also speculated about his personal peccadilloes. Either he had a secret drug habit, or they figured he wasn't straight. They imagined him as a crossdressing loner who spent weekends trying on extra-large women's lingerie, after which he'd drown his sorrows with a mail-ordered craft beer kit. As if any of that mattered to how he did his job. Sometimes they took their assumptions too far, because none of the creative allegations were true. At office meetings, they locked him out if he was a minute late or blamed him if the copier broke. Small inconsequential things that actually made Al Lopez laugh, because deep inside he possessed a timid, but well-rounded sense of humor. He also didn't give a hamster's behind what the guys at work thought about his non-existent sex life.

  A college diploma didn't help. Lopez had an air about him that made him seem regal. He had goals—both personal and work-related—all of which he ticked off in his head like a shopping list—each morning. On top of the achievement list or leader board, he maintained his quotas, staying self-motivated, aiming to inspire others with a spring in his step. How could this shy, determined fellow constantly be churning out so much success? The men in the office were bitter fools, jealous of his inner glow and yet, they seemed almost petty about all of it, as if their jealousy had more to do with his elegant suits, buffed up shoes and excellent head of hair. Lopez felt he was a humble man with gallons of faith and a heritage imbued with the promises and prayers of his ancestors, going back hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Solid, unshakable and firm like a rock. Too bad the only person he shared his life with was his sweet, adoring sister, Bonnie.

  The phone in Lopez's pocket vibrated during a meeting. He looked at the message and deleted it. Someone he didn't recognize had text messaged him about a meeting at midnight. Strange and vague, it sounded ominous. “Midnight on the bridge,” it said. “Come alone.” During a lull in the business meeting, he thought about the message and wondered about the bridge. He also wondered why they would want him to come alone. Probably the office morons playing another joke, he thought. He shook it off as a wrong number and closed another deal that day. At six, he descended the stairs and climbed into his luxury car to head home. Raindrops on his windshield reminded him a storm had moved through the city.

  At the first traffic light, his phone vibrated but he didn't pick up the message. It had to be his sister wanting to know why he was late. The two of them were teaming up as good Samaritans in what was, in all honesty, a passive search for love and marriage. They were going to a church-function where they both volunteered, helping the homeless. The implausible idea consisted of the mere possibility that mingling with other do-gooders, might somehow spark interest in someone of the opposite sex. That was the hidden agenda and his calculated plan anyway, but after six months with nothing more than some matronly smiles, he wondered if they should change their approach. Sadly, they didn't like dancing or bars either, which left clubbing out of the picture too. His latest brainstorm centered on a much-anticipated vacation. Bathing suits, sand, sunshine and waves might be the perfect setting for romance. At least that's what it looked like in the travel brochures.

  Typically punctual, a last-minute conference call with an aggravating European investor had made him late. He mumbled a short prayer, hoping his baby sister wouldn't be too upset. At the parking garage, he looked at his phone. “Midnight on the bridge,” it said again. “Come alone.” The clock in his sedan said one minute after seven and by midnight, he hoped to be dreaming of the upcoming Hawaiian vacation. Something made him answer the message, “Why?” When he didn't receive an immediate reply, he got out and locked the car before riding the elevator up to the two-bedroom apartment he shared with Bonnie.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” he yelled, stepping into the kitchen. Silence. He moved into the bedroom and removed his necktie. “Bonnie?” The worst thing about serving at the food pantry was the plastic caps they had to wear–made him look like a geek. He dialed his sister's cell and she didn't answer. He turned on more lights. Glad to be home, he thought about the busy soup kitchen that fills up fast and stays busy until ten. He was worn-out anyway and heard rain hitting the windows, making th
is the perfect evening to stay home.

  After a light dinner and a short workout lifting weights, Lopez relaxed in front of the television in plaid pajamas. He dozed off and began to dream about the mysterious message. The dream took him to the bridge in Seneca Falls or rather Bedford falls, where George Bailey was about to jump into the frigid ocean. “Don't do it George,” he yelled, before Clarence even arrived. Lopez woke in a sweat. He looked at his Omega watch that glowed in the dark. It showed eleven minutes after eleven. He looked around and pulled himself into a sitting position. “Bonnie?” He went to her room and pushed open the door where a nicely made bed with a white coverlet and a lavender teddy bear waited for his sister to come home. She should be here by now, he thought, grabbing his coat and dialing her number at the same time.

  Keys, keys. He jerked his head toward the kitchen, grabbed them and stormed down to his car in order to rush over to the pantry and find his sister. Still no answer but the five notices left by an unknown number still illuminated his message center on his phone. Could the messages be from Bonnie? Nah, it wasn't her number. Exiting the garage, rain hammered his car and he turned on the windshield wipers. Lopez grated his teeth. He figured he'd find out what all the fuss is about by stopping on that bridge on the way home. He prayed again, this time a long personal prayer and then the Lord's Prayer. He asked for forgiveness for being late and working too hard; even for acting smug in front of those who made fun of him at work. He turned on the window defroster to clear up the moisture and made a right turn towards the church where the familiar hall sat in the dark–no parishioners, no homeless and no volunteers. His tires screeched as he entered the large parking lot and looked around. No one–but he had to make sure. By this time, he thought he should call the police, but he reminded himself that his sister was a grown woman who had also finished college. His own co-dependent behavior toward his sibling drove him nuts.