The Island of Death

Usually when they traveled, he'd badger her: "Do you have the tickets?"

But this time she was the badger. "Do you have the letters?" ...when they packed the day before. Before they got in the town car, before they got on the flight, halfway through the flight, at baggage claim in Munich and Athens, at the car rental, at the ferry, and now at the hotel.

He'd smirk at her. "I thought you had them." A momentary look of anxiety would flit across her face, and then she'd scowl at him and slap his arm. And then she'd grin and kiss him. It made him so damn happy to tease her, and she allowed herself the luxury of indulging that ridiculous joy.

Under the last name Beckett, they booked into a little 10-room hotel in Corfu, Ble Ilio, just steps away from the beach. They'd timed it carefully. The moon was waxing, and the second night they were there, it would be full. The hotel had blindingly-white, cracked stucco walls and cobalt-blue doors. Kate had finally found something bluer than Rick's eyes, but only just barely.

The spare, sweet little room had a cool, polished wooden floor, tile around the doorways, and the blue doors. She had a thing for doors. They set down their bags with a mutual sigh: Here we are. She said, "Do you have the letters?"

This time he really took advantage. "Search me."

She did, extensively, finding exactly what she wanted although perhaps it would never have worked on paper. Afterward, they showered in an old clawed bathtub. A looped rail was hung with a clammy curtain that clung to their skin if they got out of line. They huddled together under the low water pressure, and Kate said, "You could always take a shower by yourself if you're having so much trouble fitting in the tub."

"Mrs. Castle, where's your sense of fun?"

She dropped the soap deliberately and smirked, "Down there somewhere, Mr. Beckett."

Out in the courtyard, old Nikos vaguely heard them giggling and splashing. His hearing was muffled, as if they were a block away, yet the sound was clear in his mind, like the tinny recording on an old speaker when you'd actually heard the concert and your memory just fills in all the scratchy spots. Nikos was stooped with age, brown and lined, the last few hairs hidden under a traditional sailor's cap, but his hands were still strong. He liked to repair nets, which kept his arthritis at bay. He smiled to himself, remembering. "Newlyweds."

"What, Pappou?" The boy reminded Nikos of his own little boy so long ago, but actually his son had died at nineteen in that second war, the other big one, leaving a seventeen-year-old widow pregnant and alone; he'd kept her on at the inn and finished raising his grandson when she died of cancer a decade later. Now this child, Titus was three or four more generations down the line. Nikos had lost track, all the descendants moved on, only young Karolos (now 45) and his sweet English wife left to run the inn, as well as Karolos's brother Stavros off on his boat. Maybe little Titus would run the inn someday. Maybe he would go off into space and become an Imperial Stormtrooper. Hard to say. Nothing lasts forever, including an old man's train of thought.

"Nothing," the old man smiled toothlessly. The boy was playing with a remote-control car. When it smacked into the kitchen garden at center of the courtyard, its hard little plastic wheels and fenders released the scent of bruised rosemary and oregano. Sun-warmed, the air itself seemed alive and perfumed with herbs and sea and hope and dreams.

Kate and Rick got out of the shower and dried off, then collapsed onto the springy, sproingy, bumpy, lumpy, hilariously noisy bed. Rick rolled over on his back and grinned up at the ceiling.

Kate said, "I think this is what's referred to as 'rustic charm'."

"Accent on 'rust'."

They napped a while, then spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the island. Over on the west side, they found a nice place to eat freshly-caught seafood, pasta, and crusty bread kissed with olive oil. They took a walk out to the waterfront and watched the sun set over the Ionian Sea. Kate gazed out over the water, which had turned to a molten gold. "It's been a long time since we were in L.A. together," she smiled. "Always seems so strange to see the sun set over the ocean."

Rick nodded. "Feels so backwards to us New Yawkers. Did you make it to Santa Cruz when you were at Stanford?"

"Only to the beach part. I'm not that crazy about boardwalks. But I loved Monterey."

Rick's eyes crinkled into an open, unself-conscious smile. "Sea otters."

"See otters? Where?" she shaded her eyes and looked out over the water.

Rick chuckled. "I love it when you're even worse than me."

When the evening's cool breeze picked up, they drove back to the hotel. Despite weariness from their travels, time was precious and they didn't want to miss anything. They stayed up late, chatting with the few other hotel guests (all of them British except Rick and Kate) and the owners. Karolos was old Nikos' great grandson and aside from attending cooking school in France, had lived on Corfu for much of his life. Beatrice (aka Bea) was an English charmer who'd first come to the inn as a child, then returned on holiday when she was 35, took one look at the widowed Karolos, and never looked back. Bea had a degree in finance, and it was her touch that kept the inn running smoothly, leaving Karolos to do what he excelled at: amazing cooking, and storytelling. Despite the Greek economy (and quite a few of the mattresses, apparently) being on constant verge of collapse, they were doing reasonably well. Titus, their mop-headed little boy, was seven, and fond of toys that made noise at 6 a.m. Earplugs were provided free of charge.

Rick and Kate finally turned in for bed when the moonlight left the courtyard. Despite the lumpy mattress, they had very intriguing sex because they were trying to stay so damn quiet. Tuckered out, they slept like logs. In the morning, Rick had a little trouble straightening up. "Feels like I slept on a Slinky," he grumbled. Kate rubbed the knot in his lower back, and he purred contentedly.

She said, "You want to get the kinks out?"

"Kinks?" He grinned.

After a delectable breakfast with plenty of strong, hot French press coffee, eggs, homemade pastries and locally-grown fruit, Karolos and Nikos took their guests down to the 30' boat docked at the Marina. The boat's name was Iremia, and she was a sweet little thing with an enclosed cabin. There they were introduced to Stavros, Karolos' brother, who was about five years older but otherwise a carbon-copy, with olive-brown skin and his curly gray hair buzzed short. Stavros actually lived on the boat, and made daily trips ferrying tourists and supplies out to Vidos, a tiny island ½ mile east of Corfu, where the Serbian War Memorial perched on a low knoll. In 1915, under threat of death or conscription into the German army, thousands of troops and civilians - many of them orphaned boys - had made a long, daunting trek on foot, in rain, mud, and snow, over the mountains through Montenegro and Greece. They'd found a refuge of sorts on Corfu, and the sick or injured were isolated in Allied hospitals set up on Vidos. Castle and Beckett stared across at the little island, where despite the Allies' best efforts, hundreds of war refugees had succumbed to disease and injury.

She said, "It doesn't look like the Island of Death now."

Stavros said, "Oh, most of the old hospital buildings and armaments are gone. It's nice there now. Quiet."

"Island of peace," Kate said dreamily. Rick squeezed her hand.

The water was calm and so clear they could frequently see the bottom tinted a deep, sparkling blue. The old man spoke quietly, his black eyes squinted nearly shut against the water's glare. Stavros translated:

"I came out with my father three times a day, bringing bread and big kettles of fish soup, oranges and olives. The Serbian refugees had to be isolated here, so many were sick and starving. Men and boys who had to carry one another when they could barely walk themselves. The Allied soldiers buried the Serbs at sea, over there where the water was deeper. So many."

He paused and cleared his throat. "It was with honor, but it was a terrible thing all the same, the bodies wrapped in burlap and weighed down with stones. Nobody wanted to eat the fish caught in those waters, but it was lean times, everyone was hungry. We had troll lines off the back of the boat, and we made good fish stew out of anything we caught – except shark of course. Maybe the dead would have been proud that they could give something back to the living. They were brave men, the Serbs."

That was sobering. Castle said, "Thank you for telling us." He spoke more directly to Nikos, but Stavros had to translate. "Do you mind my asking, how old were you?"

The old man shrugged. "I was born in 1906. November." Then he and Stavros laughed at the astonishment on their faces. "I would rather wear out than rust out."

Kate asked, "Did you get to know any of the refugees?"

Nikos responded, "Toward the end of 1915, when the sick had either died or gotten better, my father let me come onto the island. Sometimes we would bring bottles of wine, and the men who had regained their strength would come out for fresh air, drink and tell stories. They would sit in the sun, reading newspapers or letters from their homes. They would laugh, and talk, and tell stories. Sometimes a man or boy would cry, or if they heard a loud noise..." The old man's voice shook, then he mimed cowering, head buried beneath his own arms a moment.

Rick said, "Did they ever celebrate?"

The old man chuckled. "Oh, yes. When you look death in the face too much, you either fall down or you get up and dance." Nikos' face erupted into a chuckling mass of wrinkles. "They tried to get the nurses to go off with them, but most of those girls were too smart..." he winked at them. "The smartest girls, they knew how to have a good time. I think there were a few quiet little weddings that year."

Stavros glanced up at the sky, checking the sun's angle. "Armistice day is almost here. You were wise to come now. In two days the island will be overrun, and the water full of red carnations."

"In memoriam?"

Stavros and Nikos nodded. Nikos said, "Every day I am surprised I am still alive, but perhaps I will make it to the centennial after all."

Rick said, "What's the secret of your endless youth?"

"Fish, cigars, and regularly getting my clock wound..." he made a little motion with his hand, and the four of them roared with laughter. Rick looked closely at Stavros, suddenly realizing he had translated this discussion on a hundred boat trips if not a thousand, yet he was the soul of patience and the laughter was genuine. Stavros clearly loved the old man, loved his life. Rick's own father, distant and mysterious, crossed his mind. So many stories, never shared. After a moment he felt Kate's knee bump his, and her hand spread over the top of his, squeezing gently. He gave her a little smile, always grateful for her quiet support. She understood about the things one can miss from one's life.

They spent the day on Vidos, eating lunch at the little cafe, where they left Nikos and Stavros to rest a while with the old friends who ran the place. Rick and Kate took a hike to the highest point, drinking copious water in the dry, cool autumn air. The view was simply astonishing: The 360º view of the Greek coastline, Albania to the north, Corfu, and the vague hint of Italy's coastline to the west.

Afterward they collected Nikos and Stavros, and went to the Serbian memorial museum. They spent hours poring over the old photographs, watching the short videos and slide presentation, and asking questions of the docent. His name was Gavric, a small, sad-eyed man with a comb-over, who clearly had vast knowledge of the subject despite some limitations in English. After greeting Stavros and Nikos as old friends, he showed them around the rooms, which were not so large and not as climate-controlled as one might hope. There were mannequins wearing uniforms from the war, paraphernalia and weapons in glass cases, arcane-looking medical supplies, photos on the walls (some original, some enlarged copies with captions), many books, and file drawers full of letters. Some of the more delicate documents had been preserved on microfiche. A middle-aged, professorial man sat at one of the fiche stations, squinting at the text as he cranked the images forward and back. There was a slide carousel that smelled of burnt dust and made a loud clacking noise from one slide to the next, projecting grainy sepia images on a dark wall. The genocide against Serbia had been something of a prototype for the Holocaust of World War 2. Some of the images were hard to bear: scattered bodies; starving children; hollow-eyed soldiers with fierce mustaches; stacks of bones, sorted in a weird attempt at order; matronly women hanging from a neat row of gibbets along a village promenade, their starched, folksy aprons a stark contrast to the brutality and senselessness of their deaths.

There was a collection of photos from the Vidos Island hospital, varying in tone from nightmarish to pathetic to humorous. Old Nikos pointed proudly to a photo of a group of boys, himself the youngest, playing some kind of kickball. They were all skinny legs and sharp elbows. He said, "They were the last of the boys to go back to Serbia. One of them promised to write me. I got a few letters, then nothing."

He looked suddenly tired, and Stavros took his arm. "Let's sit a while, eh, Pappou?"

They found a bench. Kate tapped Rick's backpack gently. "Do you have our letters?"

This time he didn't tease her. "Of course." He pulled out the documents, and they walked over to Gavric, who was reading a paperback mystery novel at the front desk.

Rick glanced at the docent's book and hid the slight disappointment. Patterson's latest, translated into Serbian. Gavric looked up with a pleasant smile. "Do you have any further questions?"

Kate said, "We wonder if you would find this interesting." She handed him the portfolios containing the scanned letters, photos, and translation from both Richard and Aleksander.

Intrigued, Gavric took the portfolios and gave them a quick once-over. "Ohhhh..." he murmured, with a strange mix of excitement and regret. "Where did you get this things?"

Kate and Rick exchanged a glance. "They were in the family. They're the reason we came."

"I am so glad you come now, tomorrow I would be so busy to look." Perusing the documentation, he chuckled in delight. "Ah, you know Ms. Ziglar?" He chuckled somewhat lasciviously. "I meet her at a historian's convention a few times. A real Velma, if you know what I mean..."

Kate frowned a little. "Uh..." and Rick gave her a gentle dig in the ribs with his elbow.

"Once the glasses come off, it is time to open another bottle of wine," Gavric sighed pleasantly at the memory. "She had these letters translated, I see. And it is a masterful job on the conservancy. That must be Misha Balovik's work. Oh, my. I bet he peed kittens at these naughty men."

He started reading, becoming more and more enthralled as he compared the two sets of letters. His hand was actually shaking a little, and he had to blow his nose. Kate said, "We'll just – feel free to read it over. Let us know if you have any questions."

Gavric laughed. "That is my words!" He went back to reading.

It was hard for both of them not to hover, for some reason wanting to watch every reaction. Finally, Beckett hauled Castle outside into the late-afternoon sunlight. The sun would soon disappear behind the high ridge of Corfu. Feeling a little jet-lagged, Rick went for an old wooden bench on the front porch. It had three little brass plaques in English, Greek, and most likely Serbian:

"This oak bench is the last remaining
salvaged from the main hospital on Vidos.
Dedicated 1989."

The bench was warmed by the sun's last rays, and Kate curled on her side next to him, her head on his thigh. He stroked her hair, and soon they were sleeping like babies.

Gavric wiped the tears from his eyes and looked around for his guests. Stavros had started the slow task of walking Nikos back to their boat, and the old scholar at the microfiche bid his good evening, heading back to the waterside cafe where his own boat was moored. Gavric stepped out onto the porch and stared at the sleeping couple on the bench, then shook his head and stole back inside. Seeing them on that old bench sparked a memory. He went to a certain file, and found one old photo among the thousands. It was from page 6 of the London Weekly Gazette, November, 1915: two weary soldiers sitting on that same wooden bench. The British soldier had his left arm in a sling but was strong and hale; the Serbian soldier lay asleep with his head on the other's thigh, and the Brit had laid a hand tenderly on his friend's shoulder. It was captioned humorously:

"The British infantry serves as a jolly good pillow in a pinch!"

Of course they were not the same people. How could they be the same people? That was almost a hundred years ago, soldiers become friends, exhausted from nights of shell-shock, disease, the stench of death, and pain. This couple was spoiled and rich and hadn't a care in the world. And she was a woman. Gavric chuckled and called himself a ridiculous old fart.

When the sun had gone and the sky turned the color of ripe peaches, the cool breeze awoke Beckett, and she turned on her back, smiling up at the underside of Castle's jaw. "Hey, there."

"Mmm," he mumbled. "The loveliest woman in the world has her head on my lap. How do these things keep happening to me?"

She stretched and sat up. "Must've played your cards right in a past life," she grinned.

Gavric poked his head out. "I am just locking up. You would like your letters back?"

Beckett and Castle exchanged a look, and she said, "Oh, no, they belong here."

"Really?" the little man's face lit up. "But they are family letters."

Rick shrugged. "We have copies, and there are backups at the New York Public Library."

Gavric shook his head sadly, "I should not keep these." He gestured around the room. "Half the items here are falling apart because of salt water in the air." He handed the original letters back regretfully.

Castle said, "Would you like the scans and translations?"

"Oh, yes! But..." he coughed delicately. "We do not have money budgeted for more purchases."

Kate glanced over at a vase of red carnations, labeled for sale as memorials to cast on the water. They looked slightly wilted, their crimson petals tipped with burgundy. She said, "May I have one of these in trade?"

Gavric beamed. "I would be most grateful for that arrangement."

Kate snapped the carnation off its long, blue-green stem and sniffed the petals. "Cloves and honey," she smiled. She tucked the flower behind her ear. Gavric locked up the museum and they walked down the path, chatting about life in general. He had a wife and two grown children, and a dog named Lucky. When Gavric took a fork in the path to another dock, they waved goodbye with a smile and a "Thank you!"

Rick and Kate walked on together down the stony path, holding hands. The moon was up behind Vidos, casting a silver glow on the sea around it, but they were still in the island's shadow.

Back on Iremia, Stavros was fishing with a lantern – not strictly legal, but certainly productive – and had a nice haul in two big white plastic buckets. Nikos was bundled up in a puffy down jacket and covered in a fleece blanket with a World Cup 2011 insignia emblazoned across it. He was a bit dozy; it was hard to tell whether he was asleep or awake. He glanced up the path and said quietly to Stavros, "Do you remember the ghosts?''

Stavros chuckled. "Which ones? The island's full of them."

"The dancing soldiers. On the beach." The moon lit up the water now, the island's shadow shrinking back on to the sand. "They're back."

Stavros squinted in the back. A couple of tall, pale figures moved together through the trees, walking slowly. He murmured, "Those aren't ghosts. That's just the Becketts. Look, they're holding hands."

Rick paused and kissed Kate, then came down the dock and tossed his backpack gently onto Iremia's stern bench. He pointed briefly toward the little beach. "You mind if we take a moment?" The two Greek men nodded and smiled. Rick returned to his wife, and they jumped from the dockside onto the beach, laughing softly, staggering a little as they regained their balance. The moon peeled the island's shadow back from the silvery sand, and in its light, they danced.

Nikos said, "I have not seen that in years."

Stavros' mouth had gone dry. "Not since I was a little boy. But it's the same place." He took a long pull from his hip flask and handed it to the old man, who took a swallow and smiled.

"Foxtrot," said Nikos.

On the beach, Rick stopped moving, and Kate stared up at him. She shivered, seized with the same cold that swept over him.

He said, "I can't... I'm afraid to take my eyes off you, but I also want..." their arms were around one another then, so tightly, his kisses landing on her hair, her forehead. He bent and their mouths met, eyes open. It was beyond sex or love or lust or need or wanting. He picked her up, her legs wrapped around his hips, and if she could have climbed inside of him and made a nest out of his heart, at that moment she would have done it.

And then, of course, she realized she already had. She whispered, "Rick."

"Kate."

"About that empty nest?"

He kissed her. "The one I haven't dared to tell you I'm dreading?"

"That one." She kissed him back. "Let's go fill it up."

He laughed, just the sound of pure joy, and rocked her. "Yes, yes, yes," he whispered.

He set her down, and they walked up the beach together, hand in hand, then took the little stairs up to the dock (much easier to jump down than to climb up.) They came down the dock more quickly, still feeling that chill. Beckett stepped down into the boat, with Castle steadying her, and as their eyes met, he was swamped with irrational fear, afraid to let her go, over even an inch of that shallow blue-black water full of ghosts. She felt it too, mirrored it, that panic out of nowhere, a coldness and darkness that threatened a second to sweep her away on an inexorable current. He said, "Together, this time." Their hands grasped tightly, and he stepped off the dock and into her arms. She pulled the red carnation out of her hair, and it floated away on the silver water, taking the last of their loss with it.

Stavros put up his fishing gear and handed them a blanket. They huddled into it, and Iremia pulled away from the dock where Richard Rodgers and Aleksander Danilovic shook hands goodbye, almost a hundred years ago, without ever revealing the love they hid in their hearts.

They left the Island of Death behind. Together, this time.