“Is the water getting deeper or is it just me?” Ron asked.

Ken didn’t bother confirming his partner’s suspicions. “You’re right,” he answered, gripping one sleeve of Ron’s police jacket. Trudging through the fog, they needed a tether to bind themselves into one inseparable unit. Using their free hands, they flailed around in the encroaching mist. Ken's old hand stung from the various trees he struck. Bark felt sharp as razors at his age.

Still, he was not as miserable as his companion. He moaned how his wife must be going out of her mind with worry. "Might get the idea I'm two-timing her," he grumbled. “Had a friend whose wife got suspicious. She hired a detective to follow him for two weeks. When that didn’t prove his innocence or guilt, she threatened to burn his collection of signed Jack Kirby comics. Woman had them stacked in a burn barrel with kerosene and a match, ready for him to give the wrong answer.” He shuddered. “I refuse to end up like that.”

Ken knew this was mindless worry. Ron's wife was many things. The green of jealousy was not a color she wore. Lady knew she had her man wrapped around her pinky. Besides, she ran a great defensive campaign that formed an impenetrable fence around her husband which no wanton woman would cross. If he remembered right, one broad tried to snatch Ron away. She was the only one to make that mistake. As a cop, Ken wasn't allowed to know what she did but in his retirement, he believed he'd ask her one day.

"What did you think of Brave New World?" he asked at once. When Ron was upset, it was best to keep his companion's mind on anything other than their miserable situation.

"The song or the book?" Ron’s voice answered, disinterest flattening his tone.

"Whichever."

"If you haven't made up your mind, then don't ask." It seems there was no point in Ken’s diverting questions. When the weather was foul enough in Ron’s mind, his entire mood turned contemptible and critical that not even his wife could change. This resulted in his tongue becoming sharper than a freshly honed dagger. "That's your problem. You prattle on too much. Made me hate riding along with you. Never knew what strange topics would hold your interest that day.”

It was better than riding in dead silence, like you wanted, the retired officer thought. Ron didn’t understand how difficult it was to build a rapport with a man that had all the personality of a block of wood some days. At least, he didn’t have to entrust his life to the piece of wood. Anytime he trained a new rookie, he made it his goal to learn as much as he could about the recruit. Before they faced their first crisis, he had to know what made his partner tick. Why did he get up in the morning? What irritated him? When did he prefer to eat lunch? Did he enjoy staring into space? Could he remember the best friend of his high school sweetheart? How good were his checker skills after a long night with little sleep?

Though Ron didn’t know it, thanks to those meaningless conversations Ken knew that he could trust the man with his life. If he didn’t, the pair would wait in the car far from danger. No, he admitted. I would’ve snuck off on my own. After his years on the force, he had an ironclad rule. It wasn’t in the manual and no superior officer would recommend it. Everyone expected policemen to never leave their partner behind. Still, Ken couldn’t hold to that philosophy. If his partner was deadweight and brought too much risk to himself, he never hesitated to ditch his comrade when the bullets started flying. To live a long life, a wise man had to know who he could count on.

Even in Ron’s worst moments, Ken knew he was better than most. Still, that didn’t mean the man never crossed the line. "Maybe if you weren't cooped up in that house of yours, you'd understand how grating you are."

If Ken could've seen him, he would've glared pickaxes into the man. "Watch it," he barked, feeling a fire kindling in his guts. He forced it down, trying to maintain a calm tone. "You don’t wanna follow where that line of thought goes." Anger wouldn't help anything. In times of uncertainty, heightened emotions led to dangerous situations.

"Fine," Ronald grumbled. He muttered a few things that were inaudible to Ken. That was just fine, since he knew that whatever his companion had to say would open a topic of discussion he preferred to leave unspoken. “Any idea where we are?” Ron asked, hissing as his hand thumped against a trunk.

Ken said nothing in return. They had reached Dana's Courtyard. According to Brasil legend, a tribute of Irishmen landed on the isle many centuries ago. Upon their arrival, they found a woman dwelling in the woods all alone. They believed that she was the goddess Dana, appearing before the weary sojourners to dwell among them, showing their gods hadn’t abandoned them. Overjoyed, they built a shrine to the goddess, paying homage to continue receiving her good favor. Scholars believed that the woman was not a divine creature but an island dweller who took advantage of the Irish's superstitions. However, some noticed that there were no other written records of islanders after the arrival of the Irish. Either way, deep in the woods, the remnants of the shrine still remained.

As a child, Ken spent many summers running through the woods alongside his cousins. Most lived across the mainland and it was tradition for everyone to vacation on Brasil to enjoy island life. This habit died not too long after his grandmother. Ken couldn’t remember the last time he spoke with his relatives. Whenever he thought about anyone, he struggled to recall which ones were still above ground. The older one gets, he finds, more often than not, that most of those dwelling in his fond childhood memories were resting in a grave. Just like his old companions, Ken feared his old forest prowess was dead too. He hated to admit it since he spent years bragging about his keen sense of direction in Dana’s Woods.

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“No,” he admitted, feeling his shoulders slump the tiniest bit.

“We should’ve stayed in the car,” Ron huffed.

“And wait for the ocean to drown us in our seats?” Ken asked. Ron made no attempt at arguing against his sound logic, though his muttered complaining slid across the sloshing water. Ken couldn’t blame his companion for being on edge. Every noise rising from the unseen ocean broke his skin out in anxious gooseflesh. Each aquatic creature that bumped against his legs or splashed nearby brought old childhood fears bubbling to the surface. Boys who snuck into the horror movies always grew up concerned over all possible monsters that dwelled under beds, in closets, and underwater. He prayed that no tentacled beast dragged him beneath to feast on his drowning body like a trash-dwelling alien in a galaxy far far away.

Hoping to calm his nerves, his hand reached for the Tiger’s Eye, the family heirloom. Back in his early twenties, before he became a cop, he thought about hocking it. Life was hard. Tiger’s Eye was a rare stone on the island. The peculiar shape of the stone would make it a hot commodity for tourists. Any pawn shop would jump at the chance to make a few bucks off it. He couldn’t bring himself to part from it. After having it for so long, it was a piece of himself and his family lineage. Still, it was more than that. There was a tugging on his heart, beckoning him to not abandon the old stone. From that day on, he refused to be apart from the stone, even when he bathed.

Gazing at the Tiger’s Eye, an odd sign greeted him. The stone had the faintest hint of blue hidden in its burnt orange hue. Curiosity drawing him in, he held the stone before his eye. Gasping, he dropped the heirloom. The stone swung from his neck, the blue flickering. “What’s wrong?” Ron demanded, jerking the coat. Ken said nothing, not believing what he saw. Hand trembling, he reached back toward the stone, which had no signs of its former familiarity. What was this strange rock that he kept since boyhood?

When he lifted it back to his eye, he found the same sight greeting him. This time he didn’t allow his shock to overwhelm him. Taking slow, deep breaths, he took in what he saw through the stone. To his wonderment, he could see the water. Turning his head along with the stone, he found the trees towering overhead and Ron staring his way with a puzzled frown. He stammered, trying to explain this incredible revelation. However, the words couldn’t come out. He continued staring through the stone, taking in this wondrous sight. Within the circumference of the Tiger’s Eye, there wasn’t a single trace of the invasive fog.

Appearing from a faint memory, a little girl held the stone to the sky. She wore grubby hand-me-down pants and an Elvis shirt too big for her tiny body. In one hand, she held her grandmother’s old metal spoon. The Iron Lady needed the finest specter to work her magic. A wicked grin crossed her fat lips. “This blessing of the gods will guide us through the storm. Shine forth that we may find Avalon.”

The memory made Ken shudder. She was right, after all this time, he realized to his horror. He shut out those recollections. They had no part in his current predicament.

Is it witchcraft? he wondered. It was straight from a fairy tale. Hidden in his old grandfather’s library, there was an anthology full of forgotten myths and legends. It was filled with “poppycock and other such nonsense,” at least that was what his great aunty Thelma said. When a day of knighthood ended, he hid under his covers reading the book, absorbing every tale as a sponge does each drop of water. On the day his grandmother passed, he snatched one text from the bookshelf. In his eyes, it was a shame for the book to be sold to a stranger. Within the cover, a small inscription lay scrawled in faint ink. Be vigilant. Time grows short. Seek wisdom. Become a watchman. Those forgotten words came back with such resounding clarity.

“Father, have mercy on us poor sinners,” he murmured, gazing through the Tiger’s Eye again.

"What's going on?" his companion demanded. The coat began to go slack as his splashes got closer. Ron burst through the fog, almost running into Ken.

"We might make it through this after all," he said.

"And just how can that be? Superman give you his eyes or something?"

Ken felt a smile cross his lips. "Something like that," he answered, passing the Tiger's Eye. As soon as the stone left his eye, the fog invaded again, forcing Ken to grope around for his companion. In time, he placed the stone in his friend's hand. "Look through that."

"You make the strangest requests," he said. A second later, he cried out in surprise. "What kinda voodoo garbage is this?" He shoved the stone back in Ken's outstretched hand.

"No idea," he answered, "but we should get through here with ease now." Placing the stone in front of his eye, he looked around for the best path. Nothing stood out in the woods. Having no better course of action, he chose straight ahead. "Follow me."

"No way. I'm not having any part of the Devil's magic," Ron spat, letting go of the coat. Blind, he tried getting away, only succeeding in escaping into the closest tree. Crying out, he fell back into the water.

Ken couldn’t blame him. Despite not being from Brasil, Ron’s mindset fit in with everyone else. Islanders despised anything resembling the occult. Pastor Caleb echoed their concerns, decrying the evils of witchcraft. He warned that mankind had to avoid all manners of wickedness. The sins of the father carried on to the son and haunted his descendants for generations. All the while, the congregation amened every word the man spoke. Tourists wondered why islanders hated magic. They wouldn't if they understood the island’s history.

"Do whatever you want," Ken said, turning away from his old partner. If he was too stupid to realize that the magic stone was their way out of this situation, he could wallow in the water until the entire island flooded for all Ken cared.

“Wait,” Ronald shouted before he took three steps. “Grandma is probably spinning in her grave but if that voodoo rock is what we need, I’ll follow you.” He rose from the water, grabbing a firm hold of the police coat. Ken retrieved his end. Together, with the stone’s guidance, they would make it through as the island was beset by the smothering fog and rising tide.