What the Trees Were Hiding

It was Priya who said what they were all thinking.

"Someone else is on this island."

"Or something," Otto said, which was not helpful.

"Things do not make fires," Sam said. "People make fires."

Priya checked her phone. No signal, which she had expected given the fog and how far out they were. She put it back in her pocket and looked at the treeline. The smoke was still rising, slow and steady. Not a large fire. More like a cooking fire or a campfire kept going on purpose.

"We should find out who it is," Sam said. He was already moving toward the trees.

"We should be careful about finding out who it is," Priya said, following him anyway.

Otto wrote something quickly in his notebook and then followed them both.

The trees were mostly wind-bent pines, their trunks leaning away from the sea, their roots gripping the rocky ground. The ground between them was covered in dry brown needles that made a soft sound underfoot. The light inside the trees was grey and dim because of the fog. Everything felt very quiet in a way that was not exactly peaceful.

They moved slowly and did not talk. Priya kept her eyes on the smoke. Sam kept his eyes on the ground ahead. Otto kept his eyes everywhere at once and twice grabbed Sam's arm when a bird moved in the branches above them and made both of them jump.

The fire was in a small clearing near the centre of the island.

They stopped at the edge of the trees and looked.

The fire was small and well-made, built in a ring of stones the way you built a fire when you knew what you were doing. Next to it was a canvas backpack, old and patched in several places. Next to the backpack was a tin mug and a tin plate. Hanging from a low branch was a waterproof jacket, dark green, dripping slightly as though it had been wet recently.

There was nobody there.

"They stepped away," Otto whispered. "Recently. The fire is still going well."

"We should not touch anything," Priya whispered back.

But Sam was already walking toward the fire. Priya made a frustrated noise and followed him. Otto stayed at the treeline, notebook open, writing things down.

Up close the camp looked like it had been there for more than just a day. A rough lean-to had been built against a large flat rock using pine branches and what looked like an old piece of sailcloth. Inside the lean-to was a folded sleeping bag and a row of tins lined up neatly against the rock. Priya counted them. Seven tins. Enough food for several days at least.

"Whoever this is," she said quietly, "they planned to stay."

Sam picked up something from the ground near the fire. It was a small leather notebook, dark with age, its cover worn smooth. He opened it carefully.

The pages were covered in handwriting, small and neat, written in pencil. And every few pages there was a drawing. Maps, mostly, but also sketches of the island from different angles, the kind of careful drawings that someone made when they wanted to remember exactly what something looked like.

"Put it back," Priya said.

"Look at this," Sam said. He held a page open toward her.

The drawing on the page was of the island itself, seen from above as if drawn by a bird looking down. It showed the rocky spine, the trees, the small beach where they had left the boat. And on the eastern side of the island, at the base of the rocky cliff, there was a shape marked with a circle and two words written underneath it.

The words were: THE DOOR.

The three of them looked at each other.

Then a twig snapped somewhere in the trees behind them.

None of them moved.