The Dangerous Doors of Shannon Anderson

Chapter Eight

In some small part of my mind I knew venturing alone into a near-pitch black jungle was a questionable decision. And it certainly wasn't the relaxing beach I'd been expecting. But something compelled me to walk towards that glow, like those stupid bugs that are attracted to the light on the bug zapper, but when they finally attain their goal, zap, barbecued bug. I know what they say about the cat and everything, but I couldn't help it. I was curious.

I felt my way forward slowly through the grass, the orange light flickering in and out of sight as the grass swayed. Were man-eating panthers nocturnal? Oh God, they were cats, they probably were. I walked faster.

I could see now that the orange light was a low-burning fire. A fire meant people, and who knew what kind of people inhabited this island? I'd only run into that barmy kid with the gun last time I was here, but hadn't he said something about savages?

I finally stepped out of the grass into the clearing, and seeing the tree - that tree - I suddenly did not care what people had built the fire, only that I wanted to meet them immediately. They would have made excellent scenic designers.

A great tall tree with an unimaginably wide trunk and an arched canopy full of leaves stood smack in the middle of the clearing. High up the trunk, just below where the canopy began, was a sort of nest. A man-made nest that jutted out from the trunk like a donut on a stick. It had a wood floor and a cloth roof, with ropes and planks all around the perimeter that served as a railing so you wouldn't just go careening off the side if you slipped. It was easily the most badass treehouse I had ever seen, if for no other reason than the scale of it. It was huge.

Someone - or something - stirred within the treehouse. There was a creak, followed by footsteps, and then the silhouette of a tall, lean boy appeared on the far side of the balcony. Between the firelight and the moonlight, I could see him fiddling for something in his pockets. A steady, thin stream arched over the rope railing, puddling in the dirt far below. He was peeing. Lovely. I stepped backwards out of the clearing back into the tall grass, making a conspicuous rustle as I went.

The figure stopped peeing abruptly and turned straight towards the spot where I was hidden in the shadowy reeds. Then he vanished into the dark side of the treehouse from which he had originated, and promptly returned with a pistol in hand, which he cocked and pointed straight at the clump of grass I was hiding in.

How come every time I came here I ended up with a gun in my face?

But then something made the boy lower his pistol. He whistled like a bird and waited. Oh God, was he calling for back-up or something? I am not a man-eating panther, I wanted to shout.

He whistled again. I whistled back. At least then he would know I was a person, not a wild animal, and hopefully that would be enough to keep him from shooting me in the face.

Upon hearing my whistled response, the figure stooped down and released a wood-and-rope ladder from the floor of his abode, which he slid down with all the speed and grace of a python.

The fire illuminated him fully as he walked towards me, pistol still in hand. He had coppery hair and a tanned, freckled face with high cheekbones, and good God, his arms. He looked as if he'd built the entire treehouse himself. How he was clean-shaven I had no idea, but seeing the treehouse, he'd probably fashioned a razor out of bamboo shoots or something.