Tenk was a fishing village of no more than 50 ramshackle shelters and huts that huddled together in an unplanned mess, more or less in the middle of nowhere. It crouched just behind the sand dune at the back of a gently sloping beach. Here it could avoid the worst of the winter weather whilst still keeping the waters of the bay in clear sight. The gentle curve of the white sand swept out lazily to meet a rocky northern and southern headland at its ends. These headlands were themselves the extremities a single highland range which bent far inland. These highlands formed an almost unbroken wall that effectively isolated Tenk from the hinterland. Though a few dusty tracks meandered into and out of the village they soon petered out amongst the bushes.

The folk of Tenk were a hardy and self-reliant bunch that, despite their utter isolation, did their best to craft a simple yet comfortable life. Though they scraped a few meagre crops from the sandy earth behind the beach, they principally owed their existence to the excellent fishing in the bay. Though it would have been easy to catch more fish they only ever caught enough for their own needs. Anything else would have gone to waste. There was never any passing trade and if they had gone to the effort of taking their catch to the nearest town down the coast they would have found no buyers. Nobody was interested in fish from Tenk.

The people of Tenk knew this and they knew why. It was not that the fish were bad, the continued health of this community of fisher folk vouched for the good quality of the fish themselves, it was to do with where the fish had come from. Not Tenk, nobody gave a damn either way about a crap hole like Tenk, no it was more to do with the bay where Tenk sat, Traakenholt bay.

Traakenholt sat just off the coast. A casual glance might have suggested that the island was a final rocky promontory beyond the end of the northern headland. However, the briefest of inspections would have made it clear that this was wrong. The island didn’t resemble the highlands in any way. They were a dusty ochre whereas it was a sleek black. Rather than the jumbled and crumbling slopes of the hills, its sides were vertical and smooth, resembling walls more than cliffs. Even the rocks at its base had resisted the action of countless waves and had remained resiliently geometric and sharp edged. Crucially, just before the short headland sunk into the water it kinked slightly to the north so that even if its rocks had extended further out to sea they would have passed well to the north of the island almost as if trying to avoid contact with it.

In short, Traakenholt looked misplaced in the bay as if it were a toy that had been left behind by accident. A truly gigantic toy left behind by something hugely powerful. This impression was heightened by the fact that the top of the island didn’t look like naturally formed and weathered peaks but almost as if it had been constructed. Indeed, if you looked long enough from certain angles, the craggy peaks and cliffs began to take on the shape of towers and ramparts and in the right light you could almost believe it was a giant fortress or castle.

Not that the people of Tenk spent much time gazing at it. Though the image of the island was woven into the fabric of their everyday lives, an occasional reassuring glance was always enough. A quick look to get the boat positioned in the bay for the best possible catch. A brief glimpse through the trees to help find the way back to the village after gathering berries in the back country. A sideways glance to accompany a muttered curse when a basket of clean laundry got spilled onto the dusty floor.

They always kept an eye on it but, despite living and dying almost within its shadow, they would begin to feel un-easy looking at it for too long at a time. Strangely, though they also often spoke of the island in passing, they never used its name. Phrases such as, ’The island shall be gone before that ever happens!’ or ’May the island’s peace grace you.’ were commonplace and many on oath was sworn ’On its Rocks!’, but if ever a child were to actually utter the name ‘Traakenholt’ they would receive a frightful scolding from their parents. Indeed, the island was used as much for discipline as reassurance. Children were told that the occasional eerie screams and screeches that might be heard coming from the island at any time of the night or day were the wails of wicked children the island had taken from their parents and imprisoned. It was an effective threat when chasing a disobedient child off to bed. No infant was ever foolish enough to doubt or challenge this story. The way the conversations of the grown ups died, to be replaced by nervous looks, whenever the screams were heard was proof enough that this was no idle fantasy.

So it was that though the people of Tenk never wanted to be too far away from the island they always maintained a respectful distance. In fact, though they sailed close to it on occasion, nobody in living memory had ever actually set foot on the island.

Until today that is.

A tiny craft was making its way across the surface of the bay. The morning had broken with a clear bright sky but also an unusual southern wind that had whipped the bay up into a nasty chop. Normally, this would have made it too dangerous for such a small boat but the route had been carefully chosen to avoid the worst of the treacherous swell.

The cousins had carried the little shell along the beach above the surf line until they had arrived at the northern headland. Here they had clambered over the jumbled rocks to the far side where the water was calmer. Then they had rowed out along the headland keeping in its shelter for as long as possible. Once they had arrived at the tip of the promontory they immediately turned sharply into the wind. It had been hard work making way up wind against the chop but from this angle the boat was able to attack the waves head on and this minimised the risk of being swamped or overturned. After a short burst of exertion across open water they had got into the lee of the big island where the march of the rolling waves was broken. The sea was much calmer here and the great monolith of Traakenholt provided excellent shelter from the wind. This improvement in the conditions brought with it an increase in speed and the craft began to make good progress.

Trivian wasn’t feeling at all comfortable as he sat in the front of the small row boat gripping the gunwale tightly. However, his fear and confusion had little to do with the water around him. Despite his tender age he had been out in far worse before. Storms and angry seas are a fact of life for any fisherman and, just as with all other fisher sons of Tenk, Trivian had already accompanied his father on fishing trips in conditions much rougher than this. In fact, especially now in the lee of the island, he would have been quite happy to stay out on the water all day long rowing up and down with his companion. It was the imminent end of the journey that was causing the nausea. Looking forwards towards their dreadful destination was out of the question and staring at Wallic’s back and the haven of the shore beyond was not much better. He sat astride his thwart and gazed out to sea at the distant perfection of the horizon. He tried to empty his mind and supress the feeling of panic that kept welling up in him.

Wallic, on the other hand couldn’t wait for them to finally get there. He was already tired from having to row the narrow boat alone and they had barely got half way yet. This was Trivian’s challenge to complete so he didn’t really understand how he had ended up doing all the heavy work whilst Trivian just sat there doing nothing. Neither boy spoke. Trivian had nothing to say and Wallic was too busy huffing and puffing as he lent on the creaking oars. Indeed, they didn’t even make eye contact whenever Wallic briefly glanced over his shoulder to verify they were still heading the right way.

As they got right up close to the island the wind dropped completely away and the sea became perfectly calm. The water sparkled like diamonds where the catspaws caught the sunlight. Wallic began looking over his shoulder far more frequently and eased his rowing to let the boat glide forward almost silently. Eventually, he gave a sigh of relief as the prow of the boat bumped up against the rocks at the water’s edge. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm their arrival before turning round on his thwart to face forward and address Trivian.

“Well? Off you go then!” and he waved his hand at the island. Trivian glanced at the rocks before looking back at Wallic. He didn’t say anything but his eyes were big and watery like a dog’s when begging for tidbits. Wallic wasn’t having any of it. “Go on! If you waste time then you forfeit and I win and you know what that means.”

“What? Says who?”

“Says the rules!”

“What rules? Since when?”

“Since forever. That’s what the rules always say.”

“That’s not what we agreed!”

“What we agreed was ‘You get on the Island or I win’. So, get on the Island or I win!” Now Trivian felt more like a kicked dog. Even worse, he could feel the tears welling up as panic started to take hold but then as he looked back at Wallic and saw the smile of gleeful satisfaction his resolve suddenly hardened.

“O.K. but hold the boat steady whilst I’m stepping off. If you make me fall in the water it ends and it’s your challenge next.” He wiped his eyes on his tatty sleeve.

“Aaaah, is somebody a little cry baby now? Want your Mummy?” Wallic was enjoying twisting the knife. In response Trivian just stood up and turned away to the front of the boat.

“Just shut up and hold the boat steady!”, he commanded over his shoulder before stepping cautiously out of the boat onto the smooth black rocks of the island’s shore. Even though the surface of the slab was almost perfectly flat the sea lapped rock was slick with algae. A slip would lead to a nasty fall and that was the last thing he needed right now. Gingerly, he shuffled to the back of the block where the next higher level presented itself. It was too high a ledge for him to simply step up onto but easy enough for him to climb up on hands and knees. This slab was much higher and there was much better grip in the dried algae. He stood up, his confidence growing, and looked down at Wallic.

"See? I’m on the island", he spread out his arms, "It’s not so bad after all. Here I am on the island and nothing’s happened. Now it’s my turn to think of the next challenge for you!" Wallic didn’t like the way this was going.

"No!", he said, "No it’s not over yet, you haven’t done it all yet!"

"What! Of course I’ve done it! It’s your challenge next!"

"No, there’s more to it!"

"Why is there more to it? You said onto the island, I’m on the island! There isn’t any more to it."

"Yes, there is, there is more to it because….", Wallic’s eyes were desperately searching the island for something that would make the challenge more difficult and cause Trivian to baulk or fail, "because….", and then his face lit up with a satisfied grin as he saw his opportunity, "because, I said I went INSIDE and SAW the bad children wailing!" Trivian’s face went grey and the cold lump reappeared in his stomach.

"What? NO! Anyway I can’t go inside, there’s no way in!" Wallic couldn’t help grinning in satisfaction as he pointed.

"Yes there is! I got in didn’t I? Over there, look!" Trivian turned to look where Wallic was pointing.

"I can’t see anything." He had only glanced, he didn’t really want to see it.

"Look again there’s a doorway." This time Trivian took a closer look and made out an opening in the cliff. He realised that though he had indeed noticed it before he had simply taken it for a cleft in the rocks. Now on closer inspection it was clearly a small doorway of some kind. Trivian looked back pleadingly at Wallic. Wallic remained determined. "Go on! In with you. Stop wasting time. Or say you are too scared and lose the challenge." It was clear that Trivian was out of options. He girded himself and cautiously clambered over the jumbled blocks towards the opening. As he slowly approached, it became clear that the opening had once been a great portal. However, it was now misshapen as though the blocks had been disturbed by some violent event.

Close inspection of the blocks around the opening revealed intricate hand workings, engravings in unfamiliar scripts and carvings of strange beasts. Trivian stood and gazed at them hoping to decipher something that would enable him to break off the challenge without a forfeit. Try as he might he could make no sense of them.

"Get on with it you coward!" Wallic’s goading shout from the relative safety of the row boat shook him from his contemplations. With a final longing glance back at Wallic and the boat he turned and with a deep breath stepped up on to the threshold.

He stood still for a moment blinded by the shadows before him feeling utterly vulnerable silhouetted in the doorway. He was convinced that at that very moment some terrible force would smite him down or drag him into the depths to join the wailing children. He waited, tensed and holding onto, what he was sure was, his last lungful of air, prepared for his fate. When nothing happened he allowed himself to exhale slowly. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness in front of him and what he could see helped him relax a little bit more. From where he was standing a floor of closely laid stone extended about double the width of the doorway and stretched forward into the shadows. At the back a flight of steps leading upwards could just be made out. Though it was too dark to see where they went he took solace in the fact that they were going up rather than down. They obviously didn’t lead to the dungeons of the wailing children. Well not directly at least. He glanced back at the little boat floating in the bright sparkling water.

“O.K.,” he shouted, “I’ll just go inside and look at the dungeons. Wait for me!” and, waving to Wallic in a show of bravado, he stepped out of the sunlight.

Now in the middle of the floor he wasn’t sure what to do next. He couldn’t just go straight back outside again. He would have to wait a reasonable amount of time so that Wallic would have to believe that he had been to the dungeons and seen the wailing children. But how long and how to measure the time? The walls of the space were quite plain and smooth. There were no pebbles on the floor to count or kick about. His eyes wandered back to the stairs. That was it! He’d climb to the top of the stairs and then come back down again. It would take some time and if Wallic did come snooping he would find him gone. That would make the story really believable. With the boldest strides he could muster he walked across the floor and up the stairway.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4.