8. Pippi
My gut squiggled with nerves. Leftover from the ship, I assumed. Because, well, anxiety . It did strange things to the body. Like making it hear voices, apparently.
Because that was the only explanation I had for that weirdness.
But even as we trekked inland, and the whooshing of the sea faded into the distance, my belly still tumbled around itself.
And then I figured it was the island throwing me off kilter. Because the fog was…interesting . To say the least. Very gothic , with the way it draped around the spiky boulders and gravelly soil that made for most of the landscape.
“Is it always this foggy?” a woman asked at one point.
“Oh yes,” came the cat’s drizzling response. “Always. The only place you have a chance of seeing the sun is in the mountains at the northernmost point of the isle. We do have hiking trails—for beginner and experienced hikers. The brochure will give you more information.”
That was somewhat depressing to hear.
I liked a little fog now and again. Liked the surrealness of it.
The way it made me feel as though I’d stepped out of my world and into an alternate dimension where Dracula waited just behind the swirling mist—a nice Dracula, though.
One who was kind and thoughtful and maybe a bit sad, as he struggled with his curse.
I’d always had a thing for a sweet, brooding hero.
But the thought of being consumed in this sticky fog and not seeing the sun, or the moon, or the stars for the entire week’s stay…that was a tough pill to swallow.
It wasn’t the reason I felt off, though. Something else had my emotions in an uproar. I just didn’t know what.
“This is the lobby and Information Center.” The cat’s voice meandered through the smog, reaching us before the blurred shadow of the building emerged.
“As well as Brew & Bites—one of our premier restaurants. Breakfast runs from 6:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. each morning, and dinner begins at 3:00 p.m. As a reminder, a breakfast buffet is included with your stay. Dinner is not.”
“Oh, wow,” Jackson gruffed as the building came into focus. “ That’s ugly.”
I pursed my lips, almost, but not quite, agreeing with his assessment. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s unique.”
“Yeah. Unique and fugly.”
“I wonder if it’s that color to help people see it through the fog?”
The building was a sprawling Georgian-style structure, all rigid with harsh lines. But instead of the traditional brick, this place was made of pumpkin orange stone and framed with pastel yellow window casings and doors.
That orange was something. Something I wasn’t sure I liked, but I commended it. Bright colors were fun, and that orange was like a splash of sunlight against the slate grey island.
The inside, however, was a bit generic.
A sweeping set of French doors led us into the lobby.
Three candle-lit chandeliers hung suspended from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the shimmering black marble floor.
Glittering clusters of mahogany furniture were placed strategically around the room, offering lots of plush chairs for people to rest in, and plenty of tables to hold their food, drinks, or other knickknacks.
Each table had a tired-looking vase of flowers, and a few bland historical-type paintings hung from the walls.
The cat bounded on top of an expansive lobby desk and turned his back to us. Like, “I’m done with you, stupid peasants. Bother someone else now.”
A large chalkboard took up most of the wall behind the desk, and a piece of chalk was scribbling names in big uniform letters.
Jackson and I both spent several seconds ogling that piece of chalk. Because it moved by itself.
“Magic!” Jackson squeezed my shoulder excitedly.
“Welcome!” A tall woman, with sleepy green eyes, stood behind the desk, waving at us.
“We understand many of you have traveled a long way to be here and want to get to your rooms and rest. We’ll have you there as soon as we can.
To expedite this process, please check your name as it appears on the board—if you have trouble seeing or reading the board, kindly let a staff member know.
If all looks well with your party, you’ll see a cabin number appear next to your name.
We ask that you please line up according to your cabin number.
Cabins W1-W50 on my left, and E1-E50 on my right. ”
“That’s really freaking cool.” A tall man with short-cropped brown hair clapped his hands, amazement pouring off him. “How does it know all our names, though?”
The woman dragged her drowsy eyes to him. “We know the names of everyone who sets foot on the isle, Mr. Blakehurst.”
Mr. Blakehurst blinked at her and then burst out laughing. “So freaking cool.”
“There’s us, babe!” Jackson jabbed his finger to a line at the bottom of the board.
Pippi Long. Jackson Taylor. E20.
Slight scuffling ensued for several minutes as people shifted to the right and left of the desk and sorted themselves into numerical order.
Lots of “what number are you?” questions fluttered around.
Some people emoted tendrils of frustration—at being delegated near the back of the line or having to keep asking about cabin numbers—while most teemed with excitement and awe.
My stomach kept doing its odd wriggling, though. Even as Jackson wrapped his arms around me and pressed buoyant kisses to my brows and cheeks.
Something was off. But what?
“Very good!” the woman called when the shuffling lines stilled.
“We’re going to bring you up in order and get you checked in.
Once you receive your key, kindly proceed through this door.
” She turned and pointed to a four-panel door to the left of the desk.
“There will be transportation outside. Your bags are already in your rooms.”
I did my best to ignore the jiggling in my belly as we checked in and received a pair of old-fashioned brass keys, before we were ushered out the door to await our ride.
“Please stay behind the railing,” a tall and slightly gangly female attendant droned to the clusters of people coming out the door and fanning out along a ramp.
Jackson and I shuffled into place behind a family of six—a haggard-looking man and woman in their mid-to-late forties, and their exuberant crew of four children, all under the age of ten.
“Mom! Mom!” the youngest boy called as he bounced up and down along the rail. “I see it!”
“You don’t see nuthin’,” his older sister snuffed.
“I do too!”
“Do not !”
“DO TOO!”
Jackson heaved a big sigh. I patted his arm and gave the children’s mother an empathetic smile as she chided the youngest one for screaming.
“You’ve a beautiful family,” I said.
She looked up, surprised, and gave me a big, proud grin.
“But I see it for real! Mom! Look!” The youngest boy thrust his arm between the pillars of the railing and pointed into the fog.
And there was something there.
A big something.
The heavy kerthunk-kerthunk-kerthunk-kerthunk of hooves clattered against the rocky terrain as two enormous black horses punched through the mist and trotted to the end of the ramp, where they came to a synchronized halt.
“A horse-drawn carriage!” one of the kids squealed.
The two horses were strapped to a big wooden wagon—spacious enough to seat several dozen people, with room to spare.
But the thing was…
They weren’t horses.
Horses didn’t usually have horns.
“Are they unicorns?” I breathed, turning to Jackson.
“Alicorns,” the attendant said in an uninterested voice—the tone of someone who’d delivered a spiel one too many times. “They’re quite docile, I assure you, and would love a head scratch or two, if you are so inclined to do so. Although we warn all travelers to mind their horns.”
“We try to mind our own horns.” The bulking beast on the right snorted.
“But we lament at their placement,” added the one to the left. “We have no sight directly in front of our eyes. If one were to wander too close, they may not be seen.”
The words were spoken lightly. Amicably . But they almost seemed threatening, because the beasts looked so malicious.
A silken coat of black fur blanketed the alicorns’ hefty bodies, but the long feathers fanning out over their fetlocks were a moss green.
That same green dyed the ends of their flowing manes.
And each had a twisted emerald-and-black horn—easily two feet long, if not more—protruding from between their eyes, where they apparently had a big blind spot.
“Elmas and Aeolus are two of the ten domesticated alicorns on the isle,” the attendant added, no doubt noticing the nervous silence smothering our group.
“I am Elmas.” The alicorn on the right bobbed his head in a curt introduction. “For those who wish to not traverse the island on foot, you need only to call me or my herd.”
“Each cottage has a bell outside the door,” Aeolus added. “If you wish for a ride, all you need to do is ring it.”
“Fret not”—Elmas lowered his head, whuffling out his nostrils gently, as his mossy green eyes scanned the worried crowd—“We shall see you safely to your cottages.”
The attendant walked around to the back of the wagon and slid a ramp down. “There are benches on either side, and the wagon is wheelchair accessible. But please let me know if you need help with boarding.”
And so, we took an alicorn-drawn wagon across the island to our room.
Which might’ve felt old-fashioned—as though we’d walked right out of the twenty-first century and dropped into an era of horse-drawn carriages and fashionable top hats—if it wasn’t for the alicorns.
Those big, otherworldly, majestic animals looked ridiculously out of place harnessed to a rickety wooden wagon.
But they were amiable, as they trotted around the island, stopping at each cottage and waiting patiently while people gathered themselves and offloaded. When questions were asked, the alicorns answered in friendly, upbeat voices.