Fables & Other Lies

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” His voice was resigned, and even though I’d been hoping he’d shut up, a part of me felt bad. I knew what it felt like to speak and not be heard.

“How many times have you been to Pan Island?” I opened my eyes and looked at him.

“About five. Mostly for haunts and excavations.” He nodded at my camera. “Is that why you’re visiting again?”

“No.” I gripped the camera a little tighter as the guilt gnawed at me.

In the last six years, Pan Island had received over 12 million tourists. Pan was tiny and cloaked in mystery, or at least it was before the tourists decided to make it their stomping grounds, and I was partially to blame for it, with my photographs and social media engagement. The bus stopped moving with a loud squeak. Even the tires were tired of carrying unwanted people through these unpaved roads.

“The ferry leaves in ten minutes,” the driver called out. “I tried to make it as fast as we could, but the stops . . . ” He shook his head, shooting a salty look at Doña Mercedes, who scoffed and proceeded to set him in his place.

We got off the bus and collected our belongings, walking over to the ferry and showing the attendant our pre-purchased tickets.

“So, what brings you all the way out here?” Martín walked faster to catch up to me.

“I’m from Pan.”

“You’re kidding.” He eyed me closer, looking at me up and down. “You don’t look like you’re from Pan.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that.” I rolled my eyes. “What exactly does a person from Pan look like? What does a person from anywhere look like nowadays for that matter?”

“You’re right.” Martín nodded slowly. “It’s just, I’ve never met anyone who’s actually from there. I mean, aside from the business patrons, and they’re not exactly the most welcoming unless they want to rip you off.”

“Well, I don’t think they approve of people excavating.” I shot him a look. “If there was gold in our caves, we would have found it by now.”

“The Guzmans maybe.” Martín scoffed. “They’re the only ones with access to those caves.”

I swallowed hard and kept my eyes on the ferry as we walked on, and then on the ground to make sure I didn’t slip. My Gucci loafers were a cute token of my work ethic, but they were not boat-deck approved.

“The old man Guzman died,” Martín said after a moment. “Is that what you’re here for? It’s crazy that his funeral will take place at the same time as Carnival.”

“It is crazy.” I sighed heavily. “But people die all the time. Especially on Pan Island.”

“Yeah.” Martín’s amusement suddenly dulled. “A few friends of mine died in that boating accident two years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“They were fishing off the coast of Dolos. I told them it was a bad idea, but they did it anyway.” He glanced away.

I followed his gaze to the beautiful Dominican sand and swaying palm trees we were leaving behind. How many people had sailed away from that island to hop over to mine only to never return? Too many, and the amount who had sailed away from mine to hop to Dolos Island and came back was far greater. People didn’t make it out of Dolos. Not unless they were invited and one could only get invited this week. The week of Carnival.

“Have you ever been?” Martín glanced over at me.

I shook my head. It wasn’t a complete lie.

“So, you’ve never met a Caliban face-to-face?”

“I can’t say that I have.” I let out a laugh. “You talk about them like they’re some mythical creatures and not just another rich family.”

“No. The Guzmans are just another rich family.” He shot me a pointed look that made me glance away briefly. “The Calibans are the stuff of legend.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Only because of the Guzmans.”

“You mean because of the curse the Guzmans set on them.” He raised an eyebrow right back.

“I don’t believe in curses.” I rolled my eyes. “My point is, they’re just people.”

“People you’ve never met.”

“People I have no intention of meeting, ever.”

“Damn. You’re a Guzman, aren’t you?” His brown eyes searched mine for a moment. “Hey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not.” I swallowed and looked away, back at the palms that were now nearly out of sight.

I used to take pride in my family and our name. We’d fought for freedom against slavery and became free people, we’d taken part in women’s suffrage and built our own town, and yet, the Guzman name had been reduced to one thing: the war between our family and the Calibans and the supposed curse that plagued their island and the water between ours.

“I’m sorry,” Martín said, “I know Maximo Guzman was a very important member of your family.”