Austin paused, as if considering whether or not to continue the conversation.

“Remember I told you never wanted to work for the Dark Ones?” he finally said.

“What kind of dragons?” I tensed.

“Not dragons, the Dark Ones – that’s ‘their’ name. Is that clearer?”

“Uh-huh. I see. I didn’t want to do it either, so what?”

“The fact is, when I missed my chance for freedom in the White Room, I didn’t know that things weren’t as hopeless as they seemed. I had a job in a casino, where I was afraid every minute that I would end up on the street as a penniless outcast. Then ‘they’ would have easily destroyed me, and I would have joined the ranks of the Shadows, because there is simply nowhere to fall below. I tried to escape, but every time I ran into a wall of rain. It always happened near the temple on the shore, and one day, when I ventured in, a monk came out to meet me.”

“An older one with glasses?” I clarified.

The artist nodded:

“He invited me for a cup of tea, asked me who I was, where I came from, and how I got here. I told him everything and added that I hated working in the casino, but didn’t know what else to do. The monk asked me what I wanted to do. I said that I dreamed of taking up painting again. ‘What’s the problem?’ he wondered. ‘Paint if you want!’ ‘I’m afraid I won’t have anything to live on.’ I said. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he replied. ‘Just do it! And try to recapitulate your past life, think about your mistakes, why you came here. It will help.’”

“We talked for hours,” Austin went on. “I can’t say my doubts disappeared right away, but at least I realized that I wasn’t alone.” “Did you visit him often?” “No very often, I didn’t have enough time. I had to work harder to pay off my debts faster. But I listened to the monk, I bought paints and canvases, and little by little I began to paint, until one day I felt that I was coming alive.”

After paying off his debts, Austin quit the casino and moved into the “Mangrove Hotel”. From that moment on, did not depend on anyone, he drowned his mediator and earned his living (or, as he joked, his death) by selling his paintings which he signed as Elias Immortales.

“But why a pseudonym?” I didn’t understand. “Are you ashamed of it?”

“It’s not shame,” he explained, “but the desire to be myself. I assure you, if I signed with my real name, sales would skyrocket. Unknown paintings by a famous dead artist! A sensation! And here some guy is painting some tree, so what? There aren’t so many connoisseurs of my works on the web.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It did at first. And that was the thing that got in the way of painting the most. But I asked myself, do I want to seek fame again? No. I’ve had enough of that life. Now I just like to paint, as I did in my childhood, when the process itself gives me pleasure, and whether my paintings are bought or not is not so important. I like to work in silence, taking my time, watching how the light changes, how shadows fall, sunlight, how the waves glare. If someone besides me needs it, fine, but I will paint even if no one will ever see or understand my paintings.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“I don’t know” I said uncertainly. “I wouldn’t be able to write just for a desk drawer.”

“Maybe that’s why you haven’t tried it?” He gave me a sideways glance.

I wanted to remind him of my journalistic achievements, but I didn’t. Yes, I had written stories and interviews for the paper for many years, but the book remained in my dreams...

O maybe I had nothing to write?

“No” Austin said. “You just didn’t know how to do it, and weren’t willing to learn again, with no guarantee of success. So you convinced yourself it would be easier to hide down a rabbit hole and die quietly.”

“What bullshit!”

“It’s not bullshit, and you know it.”

“So what should I do?” I frowned.

“I think it’s time you started writhing. You already have experience and a lot of time.” Austin replied. “Who knows, maybe that’s why you’re here.”

“Oh yes, ‘they’ brought me here to tell the world about the Island. Do not make me laugh.”

“Do you remember Romashkin?” he asked suddenly.

I wish I didn’t remember him!

“And your last conversation?”

I pricked up my ears.

“I think he said something about new life. Heck!” I clutched my head. “So he was one of ‘them’? A Wish-Master?”

Austin shook his head:

“Romashkin never served the Dark Ones. He’s an Undercover Angel, so to speak.”

“Oh, wow! And what does that mean?”

“He knew you were being watched, but ‘they’ had doubts about whether to kill you or milk you.”

“How did you say – milk me? What am I to ‘them’, goat?”

“Not literally, weirdo. It’s more profitable to milk some people than to kill them. Proschelygin thought that you would be more useful in the press service and it would be better to let you live, but Romashkin managed to convince ‘them’ otherwise.”

“So I’m here by his grace? Good angel, damn it! He seemed such a nice guy...”

“Don’t be angry with him. He gave you a chance.”

“Thanks! Did I ask him to?”

“Actually, you did.”

“Oops!” I slapped my forehead. “But I had no idea what the offer was.”

“Yet you said yes.”

It was true, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I asked Austin how he and the others knew all about me; was there really a dossier on every newcomer to the Island? Turns out, yes, the Dark Ones have a personal file on everyone, but it’s not accessible to everyone. The monk could look into it, so he’s the one who told Austin my story.

“Who is he? Undercover Angel or Dark One?”

“Neither. He’s much more complicated.”

“Can you tell me who he is?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Yeah, that’s what I thought! Keep wandering, Vik, like a hedgehog in a fog, and maybe one day you’ll find the truth. But Romashkin is like that, huh? A benefacror! I’d rather work for Proshchelygin as a press secretary; at least I’d be alive now instead of hanging out with dead people from all over the world. But who knows what’s worse…

To be continued