Fever by Autumn Archer
7
I wake up to an ideal summer temperature under a curtain of white gauze crowning the king-sized bed I’m curled up in. Loose sheets drape to the tiled floor. A result of my less than rested sleep.
Bruce continues to haunt me with his mud-spattered appearance and muted concern. The man is trapped between this world and the next. His soul is lost in limbo without a proper burial. It’s too late for him now, and after last night's escapade, I’m well aware my days could be numbered too.
Escaping the mosquito net, I inspect the triple aspect view. A brass platter tiered with fresh fruit awaits on a rattan table with a jug of icy sunset yellow juice. How it got there without me waking up is a puzzle.
Bruised feet twinge, and my insides clench from a lack of sustenance. I can’t recall when the last morsel of food passed over my lips. My empty belly concaves and ribs protrude. The damage of illness and stress are obvious on my body. I’m drained, mentally and physically.
Barefoot and stiff, I sample the colorful produce. Tangy pineapple cleanses my palate, and the chilled liquid has a tart sweetness like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.
Black trousers and a cotton shirt are neatly folded and waiting on a woven chair. A pair of sandals with padded footbeds sit below. I grunt at the basic uniform.
The outfit makes my temper simmer. I didn’t study at school to wind up as a servant.
Using what little energy I have in reserve, I shunt a hefty glazed door to the side, welcoming the stifling outdoor temperature to attack with moisture. It’s only now, in the light of a new day, that I notice a sunken aqua blue plunge pool with toughened clear boundary screening and a long deck decorated with pastel pink orchids.
If I weren’t a prisoner, this setting would be blissful. A stark reminder of my predicament catches in the reflection of the glass pane. White gauze protects an injury. In the grand scheme of things, I got off lightly compared to Bruce, yet it’s symbolic of the struggle I’ve yet to endure.
My heart dives. I’m so very far from home. Everything I thought I knew is unimportant. Everyone I’ve ever loved thinks I’m dead. El Fantasma has forced me into slavery, to wither and decay. Worthless. Penniless. Unloved.
Well, I’ve got news for him. He hasn’t met Iris Kitson. I pray for bolts of lightning more lethal than an atomic bomb. I beg for a storm of hellish proportions. I petition a wildfire to burn his oasis to its fragile foundations. But mostly, I curse his stoic arrogance, his body of sin and that mountainous ego daring to believe I belong to him.
I’ll do exactly what I’m told. A quick learner, the workings of his dubious business will be my new study. Patience is my only advantage.
A light tap sounds. I rush back inside and hurriedly dress in the ill-fitting uniform. I’d go as far as saying the standard size is unisex, not stitched for a shapely female figure like mine. What should be straight legs cling to my thighs, and the shirt snuggles into my breasts, straining too close.
I peer around the door frame, finding a willowy man who greets me with a friendly nod. “Salvador.” He pokes out his hand. “Call me Sal. I’ll show you around today.”
Tightly wound curls are close to his head, and molasses rich eyes sparkle with hospitality. He’s wearing a uniform not too dissimilar to my own, with narrow hips and thin legs, so the material hangs rather than restricts. A warm amber complexion is smooth and unblemished, not a whisker or wrinkle in sight.
“Iris.” I offer a smile, accepting his courteous handshake.
“I’ll get you a better fitting uniform, miss.”
“It’s Iris, not miss.” My thick Scottish brogue blends the sounds.
His lashes lower. “You are not Iris. El Fantasma was very clear about that.” His gentle tone hints at compassion.
A hot temper zips through my veins. “He won’t let you call me by my name?”
Sal shakes his head, clasping his hands behind his back. “You will work alongside me tomorrow. This morning, I’ll show you the key areas. An induction of the oasis.”
“Where is he?” I demand. “I need to talk to him. This is nonsense. He can’t expect to take away my rights as a human being and my identity, then ignore me.”
Sal’s brow furrows. “You don’t want to make an enemy of el Fantasma. He’s firm but fair if you do as he asks.”
“You’re actually sticking up for him?” I pinch the top of my nose to steady my whirling mind. “Are you brainwashed? I didn’t apply to work here. I need to go home to my family. That man has trapped me against my will for some sort of ego trip.”
I watch Sal’s slow intake of air. “You’ll have the afternoon off. For now, I’ll give you a guided tour of the oasis.” He does his best to sweeten the day ahead. “I’m responsible for your wellbeing during your employment. If you need anything, come to me. Do not try to find him. Do not approach him. Do not ask about him, and definitely do not speak of him to anyone.”
“The less I know about him, the better,” I huff. There is nothing about that man that could be of any significance to me. No redeeming qualities or attributes to make me like him.
“Your hair.” His youthful eyes roam over my hive of curls. “It’s striking. I’ve never met a woman with hair so vibrant.” And just as I think he’s complimenting me. “It makes you stand out. Please tie it up, preferably in a chignon.” He holds out a bunch of elastic ties. “It might be best if you wear a cap. It will shade you from the sun, given your delicate complexion. I’ll see that you have everything you need for your first day.”
I gladly scrape heavy ringlets away from my nape and nod when it’s twisted high to the crown of my head.
“Thank you.” Sal rewards me with a pleased smile. “Let’s go.” He turns away, expecting me to follow him.
I have no choice but to abandon my lodgings and follow Sal under the dappled shade of emergent plants. His wide strides are brisk and inaudible, whereas I amble behind with a grieving heart, feeling muddled and lonely. How did all this happen? My folks are mourning the loss of one person. The daughter. The sister. The friend. I’ve lost them all. Every single person I know, including myself. I’m no longer Iris, the ecologist, not on the outside. I bite my lip, stopping the wobble. This isn't the setting to implode. They won’t know I’m fraying inside. I’ll remain vigilant. Learn about my surroundings. Find the real exits.
“Will I have the opportunity to talk over my terms of service with our employer?” I ask, trying my best to keep up.
“He’s a busy man. We rarely see him. I’d be happy to address any of your concerns.”
Perhaps it's best if I don't see him because my sour mood would strip layers of his cowardly existence. If I open my mouth in his company, I’ll more than likely find myself falling from a helicopter in the middle of nowhere without a jumpsuit.
We navigate the leafy walkway, stopping off at a key location announced by vaulted sunshades and timber beams. Sal guides me around a high-end food preparation facility run by skilled chefs to a treatment room with the most up-to-date equipment. It occurs to me as we tour the temperature-controlled medical facility that all the staff I’ve briefly met are male.
“This is where we collect a guest after surgery. Once they start to come around from anesthesia, they’re escorted back to a different cabin. They don’t even realize they’re wheeled into to a new suite. All the cabins are exact replicas of each other, so if they wander, they’ll be completely disoriented. Guests aren’t permitted to roam around the oasis. Period. They’re confined to an allocated suite.”
“Why do they have surgery? What sort of place is this?” Cabinets alphabetically labeled for supplies such as scalpels, scissors, and syringes wrap stark walls. The welcome reprieve of shade gives me time to sit on a wheeled stool.
“Wealthy men come here to start over. That’s all you need to know. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are all served in their suite at set times. There is room service which is available at any time, day or night. We do not fraternize with guests or hang around unnecessarily. Ensure you deliver the pain relief before they leave here, or you’ll have to go back to their room and risk exposure. Their privacy is paramount. Your professionalism is essential.”
I take it all in, learning how waiting staff and cleaners always ensure client remoteness. Guest rooms lead off the primary structure like tentacles sprawling over acres, peppered in their own section of lush landscape.
The men I meet acknowledge me with a subtle chin dip or a faint smile. They don’t welcome the only female for miles with leering stares or handshakes. Each one returns to work, leaving me as lonely as ever.
Sal leads me to the main thoroughfare and out into the baking heat of the midday sun. “Your job is straightforward. A guest should never see you unless they phone for a specific service. I decide who goes.”
“Specific service?” A roll of sweat glides down my rigid spine.
He slides a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and places them on his nose. “If their dressings need changing, or they want stronger medication. Some guests are high maintenance and others enjoy the solace. If they require medical assistance, one of the team will transfer them to the triage room.” Sal turns away. “Rest up. We start before sunrise.”
“Wait. Please. Answer one question, and I swear I’ll never ask again. El Fantasma. What does it mean?”
Sal glances back at me. “Ghost,” he replies simply. A beep makes him reach for his pocket right away. “Salvador,” he responds in a beat.
A conversation unfolds in Portuguese. Sal’s chin lowers as he listens. When the walkie-talkie cuts out, his lashes lift to find me. “I have to go now. Don’t stray too far. There are eyes everywhere.”
“Hold on a second. Was that him? Is he on the other end of that thing?” I reach forward, snatching the antenna.
Sal’s brows shoot up. “What are you doing? Are you fucking crazy?” he gasps.
I continue to wrestle, prizing the radio from his fingers. “Hello.” I squeeze the button on the side, ducking away from Sal’s swipe. “I demand to talk to you, el Fantasma. You think you can hide behind your dark glasses and hat, and no one will see you for who you really are. Well, guess what? I see you. You’re a bitter and twisted bully.”
Silence
“Are you there?” Being ignored only exacerbates my frustration. Temper seethes through my sorrow, blowing it up into a tempestuous rage. “Coward!” I spit out, spinning around and tossing the radio into the waving palms. There was so much more I should have said. A plethora of malicious remarks and undignified slurs. Yet something held me back. Perhaps it was the niggle of intuition or the vibration of a threat undelivered.
Sal shakes his head gently with an expression of pure disdain. “I’d advise you to get over this tantrum.” He motions to my fisted palms and unyielding posture, ready for a war I’ll never win. “And quickly.”
I don’t appreciate his casual countenance or how he thinks I should give up the fight, the only flicker of Iris that still lives and breathes within me. My jaw clenches, trapping the thoughts I so desperately wish to set free. Those truths are mine for now. My inner wisdom is my consolation. My personal sanctuary where I will rant and rave without repercussions. And I will. I’ll curse this land with every shooting star in the cosmos.
Before he angles away for the second time, eyes like chocolate coins stare right at me. “I’m the closest thing you have to a friend right now. Don’t ask me any more questions about him. He's good to me, and I’ll never break his trust. If I must take sides, it will be his all day long. El Fantasma is the one thing in this rainforest that you should be terrified of. Not the jaguars prowling the undergrowth or the shoals of piranha circling the river for bait, not even the deadliest unseen spider. It’s him. You might think that little outburst of yours was brave and bold or that he’ll succumb to your demands.” Sal almost laughs.
The hairs on my nape prick to attention. “You’re not part of his plan. You’re a problem. Something that can easily be disposed of at short notice.” Sal blows out his cheeks, exhaling slowly. “You’d do well to heed my warning.” His strides carry him to a bend in the path where orchids decorate the rope handrail. “If you get in his way, you won't see him coming for you.” As Sal vanishes, his words scuttle down my spine like a tribe of ants. “He’s not an evil man, unless you make him your enemy.”
He is my enemy already. Doom coats my skin with a dewy mist. I claw at the cramped shirt trapping me into a habitat I’ve grown to resent. Buttons ping and pop when I rip apart the opening, gasping for air. The urge to run slips away when I remember my prison bars––wall-to-wall jungle with more chances of death per meter than the entire Isle of Skye.
Hidden beneath feathery leaves, where no one else seems to walk, I catch a grip of my tested sanity. I should retreat to my room, with my tail between my legs, and stay there until morning like a good girl. Yet the dread of a glass cage and its loneliness crushes my heart one sorrowful beat at a time.
Tying shirt tails across my ribs, I prop against a connecting post and take a moment to reflect. This unusual situation could be worse. My newfound nemesis could have earmarked me for tasks more degrading than assisting patients and wiping down bathrooms.
With Sal’s caution still smoldering, I conclude it's in my best interest to pay attention. I’ll take on the role they’ve forced me to embrace, skimming through the understory, maintaining a low profile, so el Fantasma forgets I’m even here.
I’ll become a ghost too.
