Paradise Island by Charmaine Ross Page B

would sometimes sit and watch her cook. She would make a stew in a large steaming pot over the open fire in the kitchen’s hearth. Other times she would use the huge, blackened oven to bake bread, or roast their dinner. Always there was a friendly fire that warmed every corner of the snug little kitchen.
    He opened his eyes and half expected to see his mother’s smiling face as he often woke head down on the kitchen table. “Gregory, you fell asleep over half peeled potatoes,” she would gently scold then give him a wink and a piece of bread and send him to play with his friends while she finished cooking.
    There was no such comfort here. Although the fire was a gentle one, contained in an open hearth, it was in a foreign room that was filled with murky, shifting shadows. He tried to focus. But his vision blurred and spiraled into dark, indistinguishable shapes.
    Gregory lifted his head and winced when a shot of heated pain blasted through his head. He rolled onto his elbow, felt the back of his skull and found a tender lump the size of an egg. That was the reason why he remembered nothing between blacking out and waking … wherever he was.
    His vision cleared a little and he found he was in a darkened, dirty little room, no more than a hovel. The fire was in the center, surrounded by a rough circle of rocks. Above it, on an iron skewer, balanced a small blackened pot. Steam spewed from the top, followed by an unpleasant smell. There was little else more, save a small three legged chair, a rough handmade table that held a collection of dirty glass bottles on its top.
    The sun found holes, creating pockets of dappled light in the small space. The roof was no more than thin layers of bracken. The walls were made of straight twigs, bound by smaller branches knotted together. There was a narrow triangular door from which bright daylight streamed in.
    A soft body stirred next to him and he looked over his shoulder to see who it was. Estelle. Her silken auburn hair streamed over her shoulders in cascading waves, a perfect frame for her delicate face. He rolled to face her, picked a silken strand from her shoulder and let it glide between his fingers.
    She opened her eyes and became alert in a second. Her body tensed and her autumn eyes locked with his. “Where are we,” she hissed, sitting up next to him. She had woken better than he had.
    A shadow moved from the entrance and he was on his feet, Estelle followed and they were facing an old woman who didn’t seem surprised at all they were in here. She was old beyond guess, her face was wrinkled so much that deep lines beneath her eyes and around her mouth nearly folded over on themselves. Her skin was yellowed and thin and reminded Gregory of melted wax that had pooled at the bottom of a long burnt candle.
    There was a lump behind her neck that caused her to bend forward, unable to stretch to her full height. She was dressed in rags. The black material was stained with ingrained dirt and mildew, the smell of which assaulted Gregory’s nostrils the moment she stepped into the hovel. She clutched the end of a stick with a thin, claw-like hand. The skin on the backs of her hands was blotted with large brown stains. On one hand a scab formed a raised, red-brown lump on her knuckles.
    She blinked at them through light blue, watery eyes. Her mouth opened in a toothless smile and she cackled without humor. “Awake, I see,” she said.
    â€œWho are you and where are we?” Gregory demanded.
    The old woman shuffled into the hovel and stirred the pot over the fire. “Full of demands, too,” she said in a dry, paper thin voice. The old woman was in no rush as she stirred the mixture from the pot. She leant over the mixture and sniffed. Satisfied, the old woman picked up two wooden bowls from the table and filled them both with the steaming brew and handed one to each of them.
    â€œEat,” she said.
    Gregory smelt the contents which