Kadota (Love Trilogy)

CHAPTER SEVEN

...

DEVON

...

'The Island.' You couldn't speak of it openly, not without the fear of being heard by the wrong ears. Our society thrived on an unspoken code of silence, a tangible dread that silenced the mention of the island beyond your most trusted circles.

However, my father had a peculiar thirst for the unspoken, the untouchable. Wesa, his most faithful ally, often engaged my father in long talks behind the closed doors of his office. Each time, the topic invariably migrated towards that mysteriously dark place. Wesa's curiosity seemed contagious, fueling my father's passion for the island and its legends shared by our Three Great Eye Races.

Tonight was no exception.

"The people, Dev... They don't vanish into thin air," my father spoke, his usually strong voice laced with an uncanny guilt. "They're transported. The Hounds send them to the Island."

I allowed the ominous words to sink in, churning an unsettling wave of uncertainty within me. He didn't just suggest; he stated it as a fact. This certainty in his voice stirred within me a dreadful question, "Are they left there to die on the Island?"

"No, Dev. Not to die... but to survive and make a living. Or...," he paused, exchanging a mysterious glance with Wesa before continuing, "yes, to die too. In most cases." The depth in his eyes reflected the grim truth. "Now, the real criminals cast away to the island are chaotic and rebellious. And then, there are those who were victims of their government's political whims."

He lifted his glass, took a heavy gulp of the amber liquid that wavered in its depths, and added grimly, "These 'innocents' are often recruited and trained in that brutal environment."

"But...why?" I interjected, flabbergasted and utterly unable to comprehend their fascination with the debt of the Island's secrets.

"That's the mystery... the puzzle that I've spent all my career in the Capital trying to unravel," replied my father.

Wesa and my father had been engrossed in their private conversation for the most of the evening. I had anticipated their talk to wield serious implications. Yet, never did I envision bearing witness to a conversation so shrouded in obscurity, intrigue, and the ominous Island.

Now, more than ever, worry clung to me. The unsaid words, the mysteries of the Island, and the unsettling interest my father and Wesa shared - questions danced in my head, and an incessant worry tugged at my heart.

The true enigma and the curse of the Island extended beyond its geographical borders - it infected minds and lives, gracing them with an inexplicable allure and an ever-growing dread. And with the unfolding conversations and revelations, I found it increasingly difficult to keep the creeping sense of worry at bay.

...

Mom is reading to me before going to sleep almost every night. And while Wesa usually reads history books to me, she always chooses something more... Interesting. Fascinating adventures, heartbreaking romance novels and so on. Mom does that since I can remember myself and it is never changing tradition of ours. My favourite one. I love listening to her smooth, melodic voice, telling me stories or simply reading me father's scientific reports. I can't read by myself... Simply, because I've never learnt to to do so. Not because I didn't want to! I'd give a lot just to be able to read on my own. Father explained it to me when I was a kid that I am special and some activities that other kids my age can do easily can be of a great complexity for me. Such as reading and writing. I can't do that. As soon as I look at the book pages, my vision gets blurry and I feel a slight nudging inside of my head. Once I tried to overcome that nudging by concentrating more on the letters and ended up fainting from a headache attack. My friends at that time laughed hard on me. I cried... Since then, I had only one friend who never mocked nor laughed at my inabilities - my dear Wesa. After the first fainting my mom never lets me even close near the books, always reading them to me before bedtime instead.