Bonnie Isle
by Richard Ong
As the wolves surrounded me with their gleaming eyes and smothered me with their heavy scent, I remembered. Lying here sprawled in a clearing deep in the woods, I remembered the time, just a day ago, when as an up-and-coming land surveyor for a prestigious multinational, I had eagerly embarked on a project in British Columbia to make a name for myself in the company.
“Did you say the island is haunted?” I asked the innkeeper with more than a tiny bit of skepticism.
“Yup,” he nodded grimly as he replied. “Anyone around town will tell you that Bonnie Isle is no man’s land for the last hundred and twenty-six years! You’d be doing yourself a mighty big favour reconsidering your trip to that place.” The big man grunted as he tip-tapped his light pen on the registry pad to calculate my bill.
“That’ll be two-oh-seven for the room plus fifty for the meals, Mr. Donnelly,” he said. I handed him my card and the innkeeper smiled sympathetically when he recognized the gold emblem embossed in its centre.
“Ahhh.. ‘Jefferson Estates.’ You’re not exactly the first from that outfit who tried to do some surveying on Bonnie Isle, are you? If memory serves right, your company also sent a poor chap who came running back out in a few hours white as a sheet and looking like the devil’s hot on his trail. Tried to warn him, but like you, he just wouldn’t listen.” He slowly shook his head and mumbled something unintelligible, before printing out the receipt and handing back the card to me.
“Well, he has his own problems to work out,” my voice was even as I looked at the man straight in the eye. “I for one, couldn’t care less for any of this supernatural nonsense. This project has been delayed far too long and I intend to carry it out to the letter.” As I turned to leave, he suddenly reached out and grabbed my left shoulder in a grip so strong that it yanked me off my heels.
“It has been said that the island is protected by a powerful totem — the totem of the wolf,” whispered the innkeeper in a voice both hollow and grave. Turning me around with effortless ease using that same hand on my already bruised shoulder, he forced me to look into his eyes.
What I saw stopped my heart, for they were not the eyes of a human being. The hall grew dark as if a cold, damp shroud enveloped the inn. The only source of light remaining was the pair of glowing orbs illuminating the distorted face of the innkeeper. “Listen well, Mr. Donnelly. Listen well and heed my warning.
“Bonnie Isle owes its name to the Scottish merchants led by Lord Andrew James McKinley and his English wife-physician, Dr. Eleanor Strand,” said the innkeeper. His voice sounded detached from the bearded mouth that moved in front of my face.
“Legend has it that in 1882, they befriended a mysterious tribe of Indians called the Manatoo, when they saved the life of the chief’s daughter.
“In gratitude, the fifty settlers were warmly welcomed by the Manatoo into their home. The Scots, for their part, chose a clearing in the centre of the island to build a modest manor called McKinley Hall as a dwelling for their lord and lady. It even housed a clinic and an apothecary’s conservatory for the good doctor to treat everyone, including the Manatoo.
“Both settlers and natives lived in harmony long after the death of Lord McKinley. Being the strong wife that she was, Dr. Strand carried on her husband’s wish to maintain the fine relationship between the Scots and the Manatoo. She even offered to adopt and care for the chief's daughter as her own — childless that she was — just before he passed away.”
There was a brief pause as the innkeeper’s voice wavered and the glow in his eyes dimmed.
But only for a moment. He looked up straight into my eyes and the ferocity of the fire in them rekindled anew with an unmistakable anger in his voice.
“Tragedy struck this little island of paradise in the summer of 1885. The gold rush which started in California had finally caught up here in the north where much of the land was still a frontier. Riding the crest of this wave was a renowned religious zealot named Elijah Smith, who led a rabble from the south searching for placer gold among the Queen Charlottes.
“When they landed on Bonnie Isle by mistake, they thought that they had been beaten to the chase by the Scots. A terrible conflict ensued that lit up the island. No one knew exactly what happened afterwards except that neither the Scots nor Elijah’s thugs were ever seen again.”
I winced as his grip tightened on my shoulder. The innkeeper pulled me closer to within inches of his face. The smell of his breath reminded me of the stench of the decaying corpse of a rat that I once discovered in my attic back home. I could almost feel the bile work its way up my throat as I fought hard to keep the nausea from overwhelming me.
“Some say that the very same Scots still walk the land to this day with their native friends. Some have also said that creatures of the night which could tear the flesh from bone guard the island from unsuspecting trespassers. Beware, Mr. Donnelly. Take my advice and leave while you still can.”
He suddenly released his hold and I fell on my back against the wooden floorboards of the inn. All the lights came on and I still gripped the receipt when I bolted out through the front door.
Half an hour later, my launch approached the misty shores of Bonnie Isle across Hecate Strait. I quickly secured my boat to a rickety old platform which probably once served as a pier back in the colonial days of Governor Douglas.
Upon reaching the edge of the forest, I paused and inhaled a gasp of amazement at the sheer grandeur of this island. The fresh air that greeted me was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. The breeze which carried it had the scent of an old growth virtually left untouched by man since time immemorial.
My heartbeat quickened my pace into the woods as I imagined my career about to make a most favourable turn... when I suddenly emerged into the most beautiful place on the face of this planet.
All around me, the peat-covered ground was layered by scores upon scores of the most colourful display of wildflowers ever assembled in one setting. It was a horticulturist’s dream come true with its naturally grown collection of trilliums, orchids, dogwoods and salmonberries, to name a few.
Towering above this fragrant blanket were the largest red cedars I’ve ever laid eyes on. Judging from its diameter and height, I estimated one tree to be at least seven hundred years old! Placing my hand reverently on its soft reddish-brown bark, I was suddenly stricken by the thought of heralding the death of one of the last remaining old growths in North America.
Jefferson Estates, however, would make a killing out of this lumber for the next five years. The prospect of a brighter future had never been so near to me. So why did I feel like I was about to commit the most heinous act of sacrilege?
A sudden gust of wind chilled the air around me and I instinctively tugged at the sleeves of my shirt. There was a rustle of leaves on my right, freezing me in mid-stride. A movement among the shadows caught the edge of my vision and I knew that I wasn’t alone.
A long, unearthly howl tore through the silence of the woods making my heart leap a yard or two. I quickly gripped the hilt of my knife as the setting sun reminded me of what the innkeeper said about creatures of the night.
And that’s when I heard it. At first, it started out as a low rhythmic hum. Then, the hum became a steadily rising sound of drums ritually thumped at regular intervals. The strange drumbeats seemed to come from everywhere all at once, making it impossible for me to pinpoint their location.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The sound of drumbeats continued in response.
“Hello?! My name is Daniel Donnelly. I just came here to—” A low growl, followed by a flash of white on my left, made me lose my voice. A second growl, followed by another on my right, prompted me to yank the skinning knife from my belt. The growl quickly became a snarl when I saw the pair of glowing embers above rows of sharp, ivory teeth. The creature howled once again and I ran.
Panic overrode my senses. I stumbled and ran for what seemed like an eternity, crisscrossing between brambles and trees, tearing my clothes to shreds; but no matter how fast I ran or which direction I went, the barks and snarls continued to close in on me.
Suddenly, the ground gave way from under my feet and I found myself desperately clawing for a grip before sliding deep into a man-sized trap and hitting my head against the wall. The last thing I saw before darkness enveloped me was a pair of golden eyes looking down at me. On the edge of the pit was silhouetted the shape of a wolf.
I felt her hand caress the side of my cheek, the smell of lilac faint upon her skin. She whispered my name — a soft breeze within the tempest raging in my head: “Daniel...”
I opened my eyes and saw a beautiful angel leaning over me. Her young, doleful eyes belied the years behind her youth. I sat up too quickly and my head started to spin. Steadying my hand against what I mistook to be a pole of some sort, I suddenly became aware of my new environment. Instead of the hole I fell into, I found myself sitting up on an ornately adorned four-poster bed in a room dimly lit by a lamp.
Moonlight shone through a window; I must’ve been out for quite a while! Rubbing my fingers against my temples, I decided to ask the usual query: “Wh-who are you? And, where am I?” But she was gone, though I could swear I never heard her walk out of the room.
What I heard, instead, was the sound of music being played on a piano. I slowly got up, found my shoes beside the bed and tentatively went out the door. Grabbing one of the lamps that hung from a nearby wall, I threw the light on my surroundings and was overwhelmed at what I saw.
In the dim glow of candlelight, this house was a veritable art museum. Numerous oil paintings of people and places graced the walls around me. Walking down a widely curved staircase, I examined richly carved Victorian furnishings accentuated by silken fabrics and velvet curtains in what I judged to be the main hall of the manor.
Then, as if drawn by some inner voice, I walked towards the entrance of another room and gazed up at the large portrait of a bearded man dressed in grand military regalia.
I found myself staring at the proud face of the model for quite some time before I realized that the resemblance between the man in this portrait and the innkeeper was almost uncanny. Could they have been related?
Mounted beside the portrait was a marble bust of the same man with an inscription that read, “‘In honour of Lord A. J. McKinley.’ McKinley!?”
“My late husband. Did you know him, mister...?”
“Uhh.. Daniel. Daniel Donnelly, ma’am.” I hadn’t realized that I was speaking out loud. The lady sitting behind the grand piano was an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-thirties. Under a shock of auburn hair neatly tied up in a bun, her face reminded me of an English teacher I once had back in La Jolla. She quickly rose and smiled as she strode towards me.
“Please, come into the drawing room, Mr. Daniel. Forgive my thoughtlessness. I’m afraid that after all the trouble we’ve been having of late on the island, I have been remiss in my duties as lady of this house.
“My name is Eleanor. You’ve doubtless met my adopted daughter, Kanahoki. It was she who rescued you from the pit that my men dug for our protection.”
Then she stopped and a look of concern came over her. “Are you ill, sir? You seem positively pale just now. I am a physician. Let me take a closer look at you.”
Without realizing it, I instinctively backed away from her. “You... you said your name is Eleanor. Eleanor Strand?”
“Why, yes! Do I know you, sir?”
Did I know her?! It all started to come back to me: what the innkeeper had said back at the town of Kirby about the first and only settlers of Bonnie Isle and about the “modest” manor built by the Scots for Lord Andrew and Lady Eleanor Strand McKinley. Did I know her? What in the name of God had I stumbled into? This must be a dream and I must still lying with an injured head inside the pit.
A loud crash shattered my reverie, and the dream became a nightmare. We both looked back at the broken pane from one of the drawing room’s windows and the fire that lit up the rug from the iron torch that came through it.
Eleanor quickly tore down the drapes to smother the flames while I stood dumbfounded near the entrance, unable to move. Another crash came, though this time at the main hall. Several footsteps pounded towards us and a scruffy, middle-aged man roughly shouldered passed me through the entrance.
“Dr. Eleanor!” he shouted amidst the rising cacophony of explosions coming from outside. “You have got to get away from here, lass! Elijah Smith and his band of brigands have broken through our defenses and they insist that we hand over the gold we’ve never had. Ian and Carlyle are dead. The natives are barely holding their own. But these miners pack enough gunpowder to torch the island. Come now, lass! We haven’t got much time!”
“No! I shall not leave the place which my husband spent years to build. I will not endure this. I won’t! I won’t!” All around us, the fire and smoke had already spread throughout the room, while Eleanor frantically tried to smother them all with her hands, but to no avail. An errant flame suddenly caught the hem of her gown which quickly spread through the garment.
A scream erupted from behind, shocking me out of my paralysis. Kanahoki, the Indian girl that I had met mere moments before, came rushing forward to save her adopted mother. I quickly tackled her to the ground and rolled ourselves to a far corner while she kicked and scratched like a wild beast against my embrace. But I held onto her tight and waited and prayed for the nightmare to end, waited desperately until the smoke overwhelmed me to a sweet, dark oblivion.
I awoke bathed in fresh new sunlight amidst the ruins of a place long since gone. Lush wildflowers abounded in the land where a great manor stood a hundred and twenty-six years ago.
I looked up at the wolf pack that surrounded me from the rocks and finally understood. Against all rationale, it was the only thing that made sense. The Manatoo! Somehow, they managed to recreate the events which led to this tragedy for my own enlightenment. In order to save their people, we must first save the land that is their life and soul.
The white wolves howled in unison one last time and I knew that my life would never be the same again.
Copyright © 2011 by Richard Ong
