Bermuda Triangle Effect

By Monique Cardinal

On an island south of the Aegean Sea, a sequence of events should not have been recorded. Drawn upon the island by theives, Vienna leaves a shipwreck and enters into the world of the Polyhedron. She meets Anya, who previously lived on the island village, and they share a knowledge that the other orphans can’t, or won’t, understand. Waiting for the right time to exit, Noah beats her to it, which both delays her plans and makes them convenient. It forces her to work with her captor, Wilson.

For Wilson, being honest means disappointing people. It’s time to leave the melancholy world when witnessing a shooting at the village from his hiding location, later to be nearly driven off a cliff via golf cart. A decade after running from his parents in frustration, he returns to the society.

Baila is drawn into a situation she isn’t ready to understand but is committed to Vienna’s mission that will demystify the mysteries of the Polyhedron. In addition to the sporadic fury of the orphans, a family moves into the village overnight from north of the Aegean Sea. Larissa befriends Baila after Vienna leaves and explains why they came, or rather, returned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monique Cardinal
• Release date: Aug 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386451051

Book preview

BERMUDA TRIANGLE EFFECT

Copyright © 2016 by Monique Cardinal

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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

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may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America First Printing, 2015

ISBN 0-9000000-0-0

Thank you Kristen, Michael, Alexa, Mr. Micheaud and Sara for showing me humility in the writing process and being honest with your feedback.

Also for Michelle, Sienna, Kym, Chi Chi, and Tazeem whose words and experiences influenced this story.

In memory of Carolyn Detullio.

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Vienna

From what little memory I have, my family originated from north of the Aegean Sea. Since I was too young to remember names and words, faces and emotions clung to me since the disaster, and they are still as vivid as the rockets of fire that lit up the sky on the last few nights of our voyage.

At the time when I had a family, we went along with four-hundred other passengers on what was our one and only cruise. We were strangers heading out into the middle of nowhere, together, across the azure sea. That’s what I first recall, being under the ever-streaming dome of stars. My brothers and sisters ran up to the railing, gathering around me to fill up as much space as possible, inhaling the cool night sky. I was one of three siblings who were adopted.

Almost all passengers on the ship were taller than me. Annoyed with the fact that they had a better view of the ocean, I struggled onto my toes and begged my father to pick me up onto his shoulders. When he did, I was at the top of the world. Fireworks gleamed in our eyes, spreading their reflective glow to far edges of the unseen world. We owned the sky as the envious waves crashed against the strong ship, spraying our skin with sea salt.

Boom! Boom! Boom! How extraordinary it was!

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As passengers, we were all from different parts of the world, sharing five floors with six-hundred rooms aboard the Grande Santa Maria Cruiser. I could barely reach the rails to peak over the side of the ship, even when struggling on my toes. Still, we all were sprayed by the crashing waves as we ran across the deck, barefooted. We were naïve then, not sure of the night talks the adults had, how the older kids swam in the first floor pool playing glow tag, and how we, my new friends, my siblings, and I played kickball while watching faraway fireworks from the middle of the ocean. They rippled like pouring rain above the palm trees of islands I don’t recall. They glittered in a path, crackling that flickered light across the dim horizon. We breathed under the stars, pointing out various constellations such as Aquarius, the water-bearer, and Volans, the flying fish.

My heart pounded a rhythm parallel to that of drummers in a parade. My earliest memories were with people I hardly knew and those I had seen the day I had been brought to a new family. I don’t remember my birth parents, and I am not sure if I want to. The radiant combination of voices and music, the clinking of glasses, and the pelting of small feet across the drenched deck led to something beyond my future. The surprises to come were less promising than I imagined at the time.

One night, the waves lashed the rails as we held on for the ride that extinguished our peace. Screaming, pushing, pulling, and hoisting ourselves through the portholes at once, I rather jumped into the waves with a board of chipped wood squeezed against my chest. The waves sprang up all around us, viciously

consuming the air we willed to hold on to. The sunset stretched gloriously as the simmering waves engulfed the horizon with vulgar malice. It was only another night that would become another morning. It was as if time was sly and waiting for the tyrant waves to smack our ship under the ocean.

I was among thirty witnesses and many faces lost at sea. I didn’t recognize anyone. They all sounded the same to me, frightened and calling for each other. I didn’t have all the words to scream because words made no sense, but the pounding of the waves and the thundering of my heart and streaks of tears soaking my face did make sense, so I just screamed for the sake of screaming. The sky screamed and howled back.

Torn apart were my words as the years dragged on. Torn apart were our strength, the lives we knew, and the comfort and familiarity. We were neglected in the middle of nowhere, together. We drifted far away from each other.

My future is now. My present existence is washed up onto the Mediterranean shoreline of a dump south of the Aegean Sea, but it won’t last here in the multidimensional panes of glass called the Polyhedron. The sand acts as a belt, strapped around the coral cliffs, and it’s less attractive than the coastline of my native land. Those sands offered freedom and the delicacy of the sand is like slippery silk, bleeding comfort between a visitor’s toes. The footprints made here are brittle and remain for days, scaring away the tides at daybreak. The moon cannot bring light to this sand.

Footprints from elsewhere on sand far away seep into turquoise tides and soften back into a fresh, flat plaster overnight. The cliffs rimming this island consist of bladed teeth rising over a nimble ribbon of azure sky. The blades are sharp enough that a gentle touch breaks skin. From a distant perspective, these nosy blades seek nothing but stoic, limbic trees enclosing the glass Polyhedron. For as long as time may be crawling beyond the cliffs with slow change to come, I will forever remember my will is freedom. One who is a refugee is always a refugee.

The people around me spy on the villagers behind the fence or work during daylight hours in one of the multiple rooms in the never-ending maze of glass. The village is a place that reminds me of a childhood of running around barefoot in the dirt, in and out of fabric tents, and sleeping on thick, woven mats. They are on the other side of the fence and we are in our own little fenced-in area of trees. We are separate. The Society is past the two perpendicular fences, the village having its own closed-in territory. The Society is just larger, and the people there walk on cement paths and live in stone and marble huts. I don’t know what they sleep on.

We behind the glass sleep on threadbare cotton and hard, linoleum floors. I prefer the dirt. It’s softer. Anya agrees. The thieves captured her two years after I was captured. She was roaming the cliffs when they dragged her here. She was paired up with me to clean the sewage pipes for her first several weeks here. The pipes thicken with contamination and harden enough that not even a knife will scrape out the junk. We aren’t offered knives, we receive toothpicks and screws.

At least they didn’t make you use your fingernails, someone told us once. You barely have any.

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Anya asked why I looked sick and I told her I wasn’t. I guess they can be called burns, since numerous patches of discoloration sag in my skin. I don’t like to think about them or how I got them. They are now a part of me, so I have to accept it. There are still dark purple welts along my knuckles. Beside our first encounters, I decided that Anya was someone I must talk to. We remember what humanity feels like.

When it comes to the thieves, one may think unwisely to steal from the refrigerator in the attic, filled with canned food and salted scraps. There is a reason etched in a stone slab on the wall that no one can read. Even for those who can’t read, the warning is clear and concise: none of us are to go up there.

Instead, I boil my own portions of water with the wood fire in the back room, the only one not walled in with glass. It’s a small cave, packed down with clay to cover the moss and algae underneath. There is slight resemblance of fingerprints dried into the cracking surface.

This is the cold room- a simple, small space where I feel secure. As the water sizzles I add mint, honey, berries, and generally anything that I can get from the nighttime scavengers, in particular, Wilson and Anya. Wilson was one of the thieves who spoke to me and is responsible for dragging me here.

The chill never leaves the clay room, even with the flames simmering from beneath the boiling pot. The chill circulates the Polyhedron like whispers of disfiguring dreams and aspirations. The persistent tension remains, haunting everyone that crosses into or out of the Polyhedron. It’s a reminder that is nearly impossible to peel away from. We are in the restricted boundaries of the Polyhedron, and we are not allowed to leave.

I rigidly sit upright at the muffled creak of wood. My toes are bare and frozen. I am lanky like a pole but not weak. My ears perk as I grow familiar with the rubbing of a pocketknife against hardening clay. It’s not who I think it is who appears at the door. I relax.

Aren’t you hungry? Anya asks me, gingerly peering into the room, with awe and relief that she is not the only one awake. Her whisper is a cautious, soft chirp lost in the dim shadows casting over her face. I can’t sleep.

I make some room for her to sit by the warmth of the boiler.

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What did they steal today? I ask.

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Nothing, but the owners are stricter now on us going out. The only exit is the fire escape. We both know that isn’t the only exit, but we deny suggesting the other exit aloud. We can’t trust the owners here. Sometimes we can’t trust the other orphans. When I first arrived, I couldn’t trust myself.

I hate them so much more than I did last week, she confesses, and why does he keep doing that thing like a ghost in a rut all day?

I smirk. She is the least offensive toward Noah and his droll ways. I have no answers.

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Check the mattresses. I heard several cans rolling in the main room earlier. I stop, realizing the sense of mute shock and apprehension as she pivots and gives me a crestfallen look, tilting her head. There shouldn't be anyone listening in on us this late anyway. What should we fear at this hour to need to check? Wait, stay here and have some tea with me. Aren’t you lonely? I don’t mean to get us into trouble if anyone hears us.

Soft talk in the dark keeps us close to each other to the point we breathe in each other’s space. Even the fire isn’t strong enough to ignite our faces.

We hear the boards creak again, louder this time, demanding attention. Each plank imitates the next one and ascends up the attic stairs. As the footsteps retreat, an object tinkers the rail, descending. I put out the flames, the clay room blending into absolute darkness. Anya and I depend on our fingers to feel for our mugs. The ladle spins in its kettle. We huddle in the corner, blocked by shadows. Anya draws away from the steam carefully and retreats to the shadows by me. The door clicks shut. Her fingers brush by mine.

We share a certain kind of knowledge, almost a gift from the outside world. This glass cage is contaminated, congested, and condensed with insects and dust. This is what the orphans know. We all share one thing, and stolen from our dignities, from our families and homes, that shared feeling is loss. Yet for Anya and I, what remains is pride, and from that, stems hope.

Anya has a wondrous language printed on her skin in ebony ink. This is her map that she works on, composed of secrets and codes stolen from the attic. She understands how to get into the private things up there and knows how not to be caught by Igor, who resides behind the attic door.

Streaked across her forehead is the city I believe I was born in. Streaked alongside her forearms are a string of dates, biomes, animals, and which herbs help which sicknesses. It’s funny because I believe that is one of the most admirable qualities she has: her artistic logic.

When should we leave? Anya asks. She keeps track of the maps carved into the canoes brought over by Igor and transcribes them. I don’t wish to see the horded objects upstairs because everyone seems to know my footprints. I never go near the staircase. But Anya is loyal to my vision that can help us all out of this niche. These are the reasons we listen to each other. I just don’t trust canoes after the shipwreck.

Not now. When the fire starts, I respond, certain.

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How do you know for sure that there will be a fire?

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I dreamed of it.

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She gives me a quizzical look.

Was it a fear of being burned that stirred that kind of dream? She whispers skeptically. People always told me that dreams are like the presence of emotions that you don’t feel during the day. When you are happy during the day, you dream of anxiety.

I don’t think this way. I never could. It seems discouraging to.

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I would not be so sure of myself if it were not so real, I insist. It will happen. I can’t predict that it won’t be a dangerous journey. If the dream had to do with what Igor did, I would only dream the fire to be a symbol for revenge. This was nothing like that. It encompassed all of us, the Polyhedron, and maybe the whole island.

The carving is louder, rhythmic. Of all people we try to convince about the unknown world, Noah isn’t patient enough to listen and definitely not wise enough to comprehend.

The rubbing doesn’t stop. It quickens. I take a candle and a lighter and reassure Anya with a hand squeeze before standing up. Three steps forward, I meet Noah's glassy gaze as I touch a bud of light to the candle wick. The rubbing stops, but it will return.

He is blocking the doorway. Expressionless, Noah doubts anyone crossing his path. I shake my head in disbelief and turn to make my way around him. This is a shame. The rubbing continues. It almost feels like a game, us running into each other during the dark hours of the night. The silence breaks again with the constant rubbing. I taste the fresh mint and savor it well. I lay with my head in my arms, feeling that my dream will happen and I hope to sleep until it does.

Noah

For my entire fifteen years alive, the island has been invisible to me, simply unknown.

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Here are nine tarnished glass panes, delicately framed with iron, called the Polyhedron. It’s a sweatshop, a plantation, and a bomb shelter, which are all inaccurate labels. The Polyhedron controls the bombs and dictates the rules while the tribes, defiant to our existing culture that brought forth the island, are in need of a bomb shelter. Interestingly, we, the orphans, are the bombs.

The first warning that we weren't alone was confirmed when the first tribe came. This is why a fence divides the river and dry soil from the mossy banks and thin trees that form a canopy over the Polyhedron. A third group of settling pilgrims took care of a second fence, perpendicular to the first. We, the house of