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My water taxi slips into a smaller dock away from the larger group. The video concludes just as it pulls into a gentle stop at its slip.
“Please watch your step as you exit. Make sure you dispose of any trash in its proper receptacle. The last boat back to the Inn is at 7:30 PM. Thank you for joining us and enjoy your time on Nusku Island.”
I double-check that I hadn’t magically produced trash while sitting in the boat and step lightly out of the boat. A large sign declares Nusku Island is under the protectorate of both the Firebird and Forest Guardian communities. I don’t need to watch a video to know that means to respect the land—or else.
I gather with a group and follow them in as the gate opens.
What we see is a community that has the same feel as a park. There are cabins around, and in the middle, there is a town square. It reminds me of early colonial cities that I’ve seen on my travels in the Pacific islands. There are little gift shops and museums all built from native woods and stone. The vibe is modern prairie homes-meets-Hobbiton.
Everything fits seamlessly with the natural setting, rather than against it.
“All right folks, let’s gather around here. Once we do our tour, I’ll let you do your thing.” The tour guide, dressed in a cozy fleece jacket, looks barely older than a boy fresh out of high school, yet has the quiet aura of a saint. Then I look down and see that he has the hind legs of a goat.
“Welcome to Nusku Island. I’m Roscoe, and I will be your assigned guide. This island is home to the Firebird community, and also the protectorate of the Forest Guardians. You are among the first outsiders invited to our annual arts festival.”
A gentle round of applause rises from the group. Most look as giddy as I feel. I hope to connect with some of them. If they were invited here, they too must have a tie to the art community?
“The festival will be shut down by early afternoon to give residents time to close up and join us for the feast in the middle of Avalon Vale’s Town Square. Besides, they can better accommodate the crowd.
“It is important for everyone to stay in town after sunset. Among other reasons, the Forest Guardians are doing a controlled burn on the far side of the island and selected sections throughout the forest beyond. I don’t want anyone caught in a place where they don’t belong.”
Even though Roscoe is as sweet as can be, the underlying vibe is clear. This festival is a test run to see if Avalon Vale should continue to be open to the public, as in the human population.
I eyeball the group a second time. They all better be on their best behavior. If anyone causes the Otherkin to shutter themselves back into the mists, I will make it my mission to destroy them.
Or sic Jonah on them. That’s a more effective plan.
I stay away from most of the group because I like to walk around on my own. I take pictures and save them for Jonah later. For all their technology, I still don’t have Wi-Fi or data here. Trying to send a text message is near impossible, let alone a picture.
As I wrestle with my phone, I find myself in an area that looks unfamiliar. I pull up my map and try to situate myself when I hear the steady beat of metal clanging on metal.
I follow the sounds and I see what looks like an old-fashioned blacksmith. As in a blacksmith from medieval times. Except instead of a man in leathers, the person behind the fire pit is a man with majestic wings. They are as big as sails, and he somehow has them tucked behind him.
He has a mohawk of feathers that range from red at the tip to white at the scalp. He seems like a normal human, aside from the wings. His features are more angular, but his clothes seem very modern with a tight-fitting black shirt that stretches over his muscular frame, dark denim jeans that hug his waist and follow the outline of his legs, and tucked into leather boots.
I’ve seen pictures of Firebirds in the scrapbook that Val showed me last night, and several of them had the taloned feet expected of birds of prey. However, this one seems not to have received those genetics.
I don’t want to bother the man; however, his work is fascinating and I don’t know how to get back to the rest of the group.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you could show me how to get back to the festival thoroughfare?”
The clanging continues. I get closer. “Excuse me,” and then I accidentally touch something, and one thing leads to another and something would’ve fallen on me if the man didn’t turn around quickly and snatch it inches from my face. “Do you have a death wish or something?”
“No.”
“So you just like walking into sharp things, do you?”
“No, I just didn’t see it.” I apologize.
“You must be blind.”
What the hell is wrong with this guy?
“No,” I say as patiently as possible. “I just meant to get your attention, and I didn’t see. Can you just show me how to get to Main Street?”
He looks between the map in my hand, back to my face, the map, and then the road beyond, and then back.
Heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks. I don’t need a mirror to show me that my face is flaming red. I hate I can’t hide my emotions, especially anger.
