Devil's Rest
Devil's Rest is an unusual name for an island, especially one of great natural beauty. Located just two miles off the coast of northeastern Massachusetts, it bears little resemblance to Devil's Island, the notorious penal colony in French Guiana, believed by many to be its namesake. Devil's Rest can best be described as a paradise on earth, consisting mainly of several small farms, a number of weathered saltboxes and Cape Cod houses inhabited mostly by craftsmen, artists, farmers and fishermen, and a handful of public buildings clustered together on a cobblestoned thoroughfare that runs parallel to the island's western shoreline.
Unlike the larger and more populated islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard to the south, Devil's Rest is no tourist-infested vacation spot. There are no motels, bed and breakfasts, restaurants, gift shops or public beaches on the island. You won't find a celebrity erecting a multimillion-dollar beach house and jacking up the price of property. No commercial artists or photographers venture to its shores to capture its natural beauty on paper, canvas or film. This is due in no small part to the fact that there isn't a ferry service that connects the island with the Massachusetts mainland.
The people of Devil's Rest—who refer to themselves simply as "islanders"—were all born on the island and rarely leave it for any reason. Like the Amish in Pennsylvania, the Devil's Rest natives live in their own private world, one much different from the one most Americans inhabit. There are no cars on the island; hence, there is no traffic or noxious fumes fouling the fresh sea air. Although there are a handful of generators that produce electricity when it is needed, the island is completely devoid of telephones, televisions, computers, stereos and other modern conveniences. Consequently, there is no quieter or more serene place on earth, and the islanders fully intend to keep it that way.
Of course, this in no way means that the indigenous people are either ignorant or backward. On the contrary, they are all too familiar with what is going on in the world beyond Devil's Rest's shores: terrorism; political corruption; crumbling world economies; crime and violence in the communities, the homes and even the schools; discrimination; and drug trafficking. It is precisely because they do know of all these evils that they choose to turn their back on the world and ask only to be left in peace in their personal, private Utopia.
The only islander to travel to the mainland on a regular basis is Mordecai Cooper, who runs the general store. It is not a typical shop; rather, it is a co-op where the locals barter goods and services as opposed to purchasing them with currency. Once a week Mordecai fills his boat with crops grown by the island farmers, fish caught by its fishermen and goods made by its artisans. He then sails to the mainland to sell these products and, at the same time, to purchase any necessities that cannot be grown or made on the island itself.
There is but one non-islander residing on Devil's Rest. This part-time resident maintains a large, secluded home on the eastern shore, a good distance away from the year-round, native inhabitants. A wealthy and influential man in the "outside" world, he visits the island whenever he feels the need for the serene sanctuary it offers him. Although the islanders are all aware of the man's existence, very few of them have even actually seen him. He comes and goes unobserved, keeps to himself whenever he is in residence and takes no part in the life of the community.
There exists an understanding between this worldly man and the people of Devil's Rest. The islanders respect his desire for privacy and his need for peace and quiet, and he in turn acts as a buffer between them and the people on the mainland. It is a symbiotic relationship that has existed for many years, one all parties concerned cherish and strive to maintain at all costs.
* * *
One warm and sunny summer afternoon a small but nonetheless expensive yacht dropped anchor on the southwestern shore of Devil's Rest. Wade Vernon, the handsome twenty-two-year-old son of Charles Thornton Vernon, the multibillionaire Wall Street investment banker, had been sailing along the New England coastline with three of his friends when he spotted the tiny island from the deck of the yacht, a college graduation gift from his parents.
"What's that?" he asked, perplexed.
"I may be wrong, but I think it's called an island," Mark Shepherd, Wade's best friend, sarcastically replied.
"No, shit, Sherlock," Wade said. "But what island is it? And how come it doesn't appear on any of these charts?"
Mark, indifferent to the geography around him, shrugged his shoulders.
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"Why don't we go have a look?" Wade suggested. "What do you say, girls?"
Bored with sunbathing on the deck of the yacht, the four young friends hoped they might find things more exciting on land. Thus, an hour later, they were stepping out of the dinghy onto a pristine beach as though they were explorers venturing out on virgin, unclaimed soil.
"This place looks deserted. Are you sure there are people living here?" asked blond and buxom Bambi Stocker, who was the latest in Wade's long line of girlfriends.
"There must be something here," Wade opined as he scanned the trees that bordered the empty beach. "Look, there's a path. Let's take it and see where it leads."
The dirt walkway led to the center of the small town, where the young people encountered several local residents in front of Mordecai Cooper's market. Their reception was not a warm one. Wade and his friends were met by the shocked, inquisitive gazes of the islanders, who were unaccustomed to outsiders encroaching on their territory.
"I guess they don't see many strangers here," Mark presumed.
"That's an understatement if ever I heard one," Wade laughed. "These people are staring at us as though they were a pack of nuns and we were a group of Hell's Angels riding Harleys through their convent."
"Hi. How are you folks all doing today?" Mark called to those islanders within earshot.
No one bothered to answer him.
"People aren't very friendly around here, are they?" Wade asked the man nearest to him, a farmer who had come to town to deliver eggs to Mordecai Cooper.
Without uttering a reply, the middle-aged farmer rudely turned away and continued unloading crates from his wagon.
"Maybe they're all deaf and dumb," giggled Bambi, jutting her scantily clad breasts forward as she spoke.
"As the reigning Queen of the Dumb, you should know all about that," Mark joked as he grabbed her firm, rounded buttocks, a gesture that did not bother her boyfriend one bit.
"Did you get a good look at this place?" Wade asked Mark. "It reminds me of Gilligan's Island. There are no cars, no streetlights and not a single telephone pole."
"Maybe this is some kind of historic tourist attraction like Plimoth Plantation, Connecticut's Mystic Seaport or Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia," Mark suggested.
"Or maybe it's like Brigadoon," offered Mark's girlfriend, Clarice Laughton, who wasn't much brighter than Bambi Stocker.
The girls' lack of intelligence didn't bother Wade or Mark since neither of them dated women based on their brains.
"What are you talking about?" her boyfriend asked as though annoyed that she had voiced an unsolicited opinion.
"You know—Brigadoon," Clarice explained. "It's that movie with Gene Kelly. The one where he's hunting with Van somebody-or-other in a Scottish town that vanishes overnight and comes back every hundred years."
"There's something really weird going on around here," Wade declared, paying no attention to Clarice's talk about mythical vanishing Scottish towns, "and I intend to find out what it is."
"Oh, no!" Bambi groaned. "Here we go again."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Clarice asked.
"I've seen Wade when he gets like this. Trust me. It never ends well."
"Hey, Grandma," her boyfriend called to an elderly woman standing on the steps of a small, one-story clapboard structure that served as the town's library. "What do you people do for a good time around here?"
By way of an answer, the woman turned without speaking, entered the Devil's Rest Library and shut the door behind her.
"Hey, get back out here," Wade yelled angrily. "I'm talking to you, old lady!"
"Don't worry about her," Mark urged. "Let's just get out of here. It's early yet. We have time to sail to the Vineyard. I know a place there where the girls won't get carded."
But now it had become a matter of pride to Wade who, as the only child of one of the wealthiest men in the country—if not the world—was used to people fawning over him and obeying his wishes. No one ever dared displease him for fear of incurring his father's wrath.
Furious at being ignored like a misbehaving child, he entered the general store, looking for someone to intimidate. The first person he spotted was Mordecai Cooper.
"Are you going to give me the silent treatment, too?" he belligerently challenged the island's storekeeper.
"Of course, not, young man. I'd be glad to speak to you. What can I do for you folks?" Mordecai asked politely.
"You can start by telling us where we can get something to drink on this island," Wade replied, wondering if Mordecai would dare ask him for proof of age.
"If it's hard liquor you want, young fellow, you best go to the mainland. I'm afraid you're not going to find any here."
"Oh? And why is that?"
"Because there isn't any alcohol on the island. The people who live here on Devil's Rest don't like to drink."
"A regular bunch of holy rollers, aren't you?" Wade asked with derisive laughter, finally beginning to enjoy himself. "Tell me something, old timer. Do you really enjoy living out here on this godforsaken island like it was still the dark ages? Wouldn't you like to go to Boston and catch a Red Sox game? Maybe get a few drinks down at Cheers? Perhaps even a little—you know ...."
He drew the hourglass figure of a woman in the air with his hands.
"Surely, your church doesn't prohibit all forms of fun," Mark added.
"It has nothing to do with religion. Being islanders, we're cut off from the rest of the world, so we live life the way it suits us."
"Which is how?" Wade asked, continuing to taunt Mordecai.
"Peacefully and quietly."
"Is that so? I guess if my friends and I were to make a little noise, you'd call the cops on us, wouldn't you?"
In a display of adolescent-like behavior, Wade deliberately upset a stack of metal milk cans and sent them crashing to the floor. Mordecai remained remarkably calm, which further annoyed the spoiled young intruder.
"There aren't any police on Devil's Rest," the storekeeper explained. "And if there were, there aren't any phones to call them with."
"No police department, huh?"
Wade then viciously kicked over a large can of kerosene.
"What about a fire department?"
Laughing, he tossed his lighter onto the floor, igniting the spilled kerosene.
"Nope. We don't need a fire department either," Mordecai coolly replied, making no attempt to extinguish the flames. "Nor are there any politicians—no civil servants of any kind. Mr. Flurice takes care of everything for us."
"Is that so? This Mr. Flurice fellow sounds like a pretty important guy. My father is a pretty important guy, too. Maybe you've heard of him: Charles Thornton Vernon."
Mordecai shook his head.
"Sorry, the name doesn't ring any bells."
Mordecai's composure caused Wade to lose some of the wind in his sail.
"Maybe your Mr. Flurice has heard of him. He may even know him personally."
"I wouldn't be at all surprised. Mr. Flurice knows a great many important people," Mordecai said in a tone of dismissal. "Now, perhaps you and your friends should run along before you do something to get Mr. Flurice mad."
Wade was infuriated by both Mordecai's words and his condescending attitude. How dare this common shopkeeper speak to him as though he were a child, a mere nuisance?
I'll show him! he thought and then proceeded to throw an old-fashioned temper tantrum.
Grabbing a sledgehammer from the store's assortment of tools, Wade smashed dishware, bottles, eggs—anything he could destroy—in order to vent his rage.
Meanwhile, Mark and the two girls, bored with being mere spectators, began taking part in the wanton vandalism.
"Tell me, old-timer, just what do you think your Mr. Flurice is going to do about that?" Wade bellowed.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You kids are just asking for trouble," Mordecai said with thinly veiled disgust.
"Why, you old bastard! Don't you know who you're talking to?" Wade swore and, out of control, sadistically swung the hammer at Mordecai Cooper's head.
Bambi fainted, and Clarice leaned forward and vomited all over a pile of broken eggs as the shopkeeper's head split open, and blood and brain matter splattered onto the fresh fruits and vegetables that were stacked near the front counter.
"Damn it, Wade! I can't believe you did that. None of us can get any reception on our cell phones out here. How are we gonna call your old man to get us out of this mess?" Mark cried, with no regret or apparent concern for poor Mordecai.
"Don't worry about it, man. Everything is cool. There are no police on the island, remember? What can happen to us?"
"Come on, let's go back to the boat anyway," his friend advised.
"That's fine with me!" exclaimed Bambi, who had quickly recovered from her faint. "This place is starting to give me the creeps."
"Yeah, me, too," Clarice added, wiping her mouth and looking at the spreading fire. "Besides, if we don't get out of here soon, this building is going to burn down around us."
But just as Wade and his friends were about to leave, they heard a deep, disembodied voice resonate through the smoky, burning general store.
"I'm afraid you can't leave now," it said. "You should have gone quietly when Mordecai Cooper asked you to."
The voice seemed to be coming from all around them as if the general store were equipped with a Dolby surround-sound system.
"Who are you? Where are you? Show yourself," Wade demanded.
"In this whole world, there is only one place I can go for some peace and quiet, and that's here on this little island. Then you come storming through here wreaking havoc and leaving bloodshed in your wake. Did you really think you could get away with this deplorable behavior just because you're Charles Vernon's son?"
"Who are you? How do you know who I am?" Wade yelled.
"I know all about you. I know your parents coddled and indulged you your entire life and that the minute you can't have things your way you throw a tantrum just like a spoiled two-year-old. Well, I won't allow that sort of bad conduct on my island."
"You're that Flurice guy, aren't you?"
"That's just what the people here on the island call me. Actually, that name is an anagram of my real name."
"A what?" asked Bambi, who had difficulty understanding words containing more than two syllables.
"An anagram, airhead," Mark explained impatiently. "That's where you rearrange the letters to create another word."
"Correct, Mr. Shepherd," Mr. Flurice said.
Now the voice seemed to be coming directly from the center of the conflagration. As the four young people turned toward the fire, the figure of a man emerged from the flames. For the first time in his life, Wade Vernon knew the meaning of fear.
"This is my island, my refuge from a world overpopulated with tiresome, pathetic humans like you and your father."
"Devil's Rest," Mark muttered, finally having fit the pieces into the puzzle. "Flurice is an anagram for Lucifer."
"That's right," the devil laughed. "Devil's Rest is my little getaway, my oasis in a desert of humanity. After all, even God himself rested on the seventh day. Isn't that right, Mordecai?" he asked the dead shopkeeper.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Flurice," the shopkeeper replied.
The four young people, flabbergasted, turned to gawk at Mordecai Cooper, who was miraculously alive and well, without so much as a scratch on him. Then they turned back toward Lucifer. To their astonishment, the flames were gone, and there was no smoke or fire damage anywhere. Nothing was burned; nothing had been broken. In fact, the general store looked just as it had when Wade and his friends first entered it.
"Don't be too surprised, kids," remarked Mordecai, smiling serenely. "As the old saying goes, the devil always takes care of his own."
* * *
Four days later a small but expensive yacht ran aground on the shore of Cape Cod, just south of Provincetown. Although the boat was undamaged, Coast Guard personnel discovered the bodies of Wade Vernon, Mark Shepherd, Bambi Stocker and Clarice Laughton, all burned beyond recognition, on the yacht's lower deck.
No one ever learned who or what killed those four young people. Sadly, the Coast Guard, the Massachusetts State Police and the team of private investigators hired by Charles Thornton Vernon were unable to unearth any clues as to the time and place of their deaths. Nor could any of them explain the strong odor of brimstone that emanated from the charred bodies.
Salem once had a place on Devil's Rest, but he couldn't get into any trouble there, so he returned to the mainland.
