The Island Mission

A Trojan and Camille Short Story

Part One

Trojan woke up with a start. His muscles were bunched up, sweat gathered on his forehead from the same dream that he’d had for the past three nights. He released the air from his lungs, willing himself to relax. It wasn’t real although it felt like it. As quietly as possible, he moved the duvet and got up, smoothing it out behind him. His wife lay sleeping, her long blonde hair spread over the pillow. The sight of her peaceful face soothed his soul. He pulled his fingers through is own black locks before padding across the thick luxury carpet towards the sliding door where he stepped outside onto the balcony of their condo.

The sun was just rising across the water, its golden rays dancing on the ripples of the ocean in the bay that lay down below. The bright blue pool at the back of their complex lay quiet, waiting for the sun to strike it to bring warmth to its depths. Trojan inhaled the fresh salty air, placing his hands on the railing as his gaze travelled over the numerous yachts moored in the bay. Their own private yacht was nestled somewhere between the rest. He hadn’t seen it before since it was part of the inheritance Camille received from her late father. They’d come to the island to manage the assets there. Their plan was to sell most of it and only keep one residence and possibly the yacht.

He sensed Camille behind him before he heard her. She came up next to him and nestled in under his arm. The morning air had a faint chill, but the temperature would soon be above twenty degrees even though it was September. They’d chosen to come outside of the tourist season although there was a significant amount of people who still travelled to Majorca right around the year.

She smiled and thought: It’s beautiful isn’t it?

Trojan replied in his head: Sure is.

Did you have the same dream again? She soundlessly enquired.

I did. His forehead creased again. I wonder if it’s someone here on the island.

We’ll have to keep our eyes open. Camille tightened her arms around him and he returned the hug. Communicating via telepathy was one of the gifts they’d kept after his transformation.

Time passed quickly that morning and by lunchtime they were ready for a break. Finding themselves in one of the popular areas with a flea market full of colourful clothes and tourist-focused goods to buy, they decided to lunch at one of the open-air restaurants overlooking yet another bay with giant palms swaying in the breeze. Trojan leaned back after clearing his plate in record time.

“Wow, I needed that.” He patted his stomach and Camille smiled at him as she finished off her salad.

“I love watching you enjoy your food these days.”

He smirked, “Better than in the beginning, right?”

She rolled her eyes, “Oh yeah. I prefer my man a little more cultured.”

He leaned closer to her, his muscles flexing as he pretended to growl, “I’m still wild at heart.”

Camille fluttered her eyelids, “Don’t I know it and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

She noticed a group of young women throwing imperceptible looks their way. They were clearly ogling her muscled, tall, better half. She took his hand across the table. That was one thing she loved about him—he was oblivious to other women and had eyes only for her.

His deep voice broke into her reverie, I’m not oblivious. Her eyes widened at his voice in her head—sometimes she forgot about the whole knowing each other’s thoughts thing—as he continued, I choose to have eyes only for you. Our unity means more to me than anything else in the world.

She completed his thought, And to me too.

Relaxing back in the chair, which looked like it was made for a dwarf, he asked, “So what have we got planned next?”

She flipped her sunglasses back onto her eyes so he couldn’t see the mischief hidden there, with a deadpan face she said, “I thought a spot of shopping would be in order.”

His eyes widened, “Shopping?” He sat up straighter, his bushy brows knitted together, “You know how much I like shopping?”

“I know, you’d much rather jump off a bridge, but since you love me and I like it when you accompany me, you’ll have to survive for an hour.”

“I’m going to get you back for this later.” He mumbled.

They paid their bill and strolled hand in hand. Camille headed for the area with the stalls since it was nearest to them. The long main street with all its interesting shops would be next. Trojan was dressed in designer brand cream shorts and a deep green golf shirt. Camille’s desert-sand summer dress looked like it came from the stalls they were approaching, but it was from her favourite boutique in Paris. She wasn’t above appreciating the different styles and materials displayed though, finding the linen particularly lovely.

Trojan trailed in her wake trying not to show his boredom. He didn’t care much for what he wore but Camille had trained him in the importance of keeping up appearances. Even though it didn’t matter to them personally it was valuable for business and connections. He did enjoy seeing her face light up when she spotted something she liked, though.

They walked through the racks of clothes into the next stall which seemed to contain much of the same. A woman in her twenties came out of the depths of the stall smiling at them. She wore a colourful purple hijab that left only her face exposed. Her face…

Trojan stilled next to Camille while she conversed with the woman. His gaze was fixed on her taking in her light brown skin and dark eyes. It felt like she was more African than Spanish, maybe from Algeria?

The short conversation between Camille and the woman ended with her returning to the small table with a chair which she occupied at the back of the stall. As Camille looked through a rack near her, Trojan edged closer to the woman pretending to be browsing himself.

He spotted a small boy who looked around 18 months old in a pushchair near the small table. He had dark curly hair with light olive tinted skin. His eyes grew larger as Trojan moved closer to him. His thumb moved towards his mouth and he sucked on it desperately as the giant man crouched in front of him.

“Hello little one.” He tried to use his softest voice but it still sounded loud in his ears.

The lady moved closer, placing her head on the boy’s head. She said something to him in a language which sounded Arabic. Whatever she said seemed to reassure him. Trojan wondered if she told him that this giant wasn’t going to eat him. He smiled at the boy and was rewarded with a tentative grin around his thumb. Standing up, Trojan tried to ignore the pang inside him. He focused instead on the woman.

He tried to converse with her in French, “My name is Trojan and yours?”

She replied, “Nafisa.”

“Nice to meet you Nafisa. You have a gorgeous little boy here.”

Motherly pride swept across her features, in halting French she said, “He is my pride and joy.”

“Where are you guys from?”

In an instant her pose became guarded as she nervously tugged at her hijab. “He was born here.”

Trojan tried to sound innocent as he questioned her further, “Does your husband own this shop?”

Horror filled her face for a split second, “Non.” She hesitated, glanced at her boy then back at Trojan, “I’m not married. I work for the owner of this shop. He takes care of us.”

There was so much more Trojan wanted to ask. He wanted to tell her about his dream but that would probably freak her out. Giving her his widest smile, he said, “My wife and I are just visiting to do some business on the island, but if you ever need any help, here’s our card.” He’d fished out a business card from his wallet and placed it on the table.

She looked at him and then at the card not taking it. Dipping her head, she asked, “Why would you want to help us?”

He shrugged, opting for a nonchalant look, “I’ve seen a lot of people being taken advantage of in your position and let’s just say that doesn’t sit right with me. We like to help where we can. Changing the world for the better one life at a time.”

She took the card off the table and slid it into her jean pocket. “Thank you.” She avoided eye contact but looked down at the soft curly head of her son, touching him fleetingly.

Camille came up to them with a few items in her hands. Nafisa smiled broadly and helped her with the transaction, even throwing in a free soft scarf which she insisted on giving them.

As they walked away Trojan couldn’t resist a look over his shoulder back at her. Her face had lost its smile and now looked downright sad. It took all his self-control not to go back and force her to tell him what was wrong.

They started going down the main street and Camille entered a shop with beautiful kitchen accessories. The cutting boards made from olive wood were beautiful as well as the colourful patterns and pictures of Majorca on the merchandise. As soon as they were inside the shop where fewer people were, Camille asked him silently, What’s going on?

She’s the woman from my dream.

Camille gave an audible gasp. “What?”

“I know right.” Trojan pushed his fringe out of his face. I just wish I could ask her directly what’s wrong.

Tell me again what she says in your dream? Camille silently asked while she pretended to study the spoons on the shelf in front of her.

She keeps repeating her cry for help in between sobbing. In my dream she had chains on her hands and feet like a prisoner.

Camille’s face took on a look that he recognised. His wife was going to get to the bottom of this. Warmth expanded within him at having such a partner.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, We need to find out more about who she works for.

With nothing planned for the afternoon, they spent it trying to find out about the woman and who she worked for. From one of the other stall owners they learned his name—Hugo Martin.

They also found out that Nafisa worked at the stall from 7am to 7pm every single day of the week. That was their first clue that something was wrong in her life. Working like that while having a young son you took care of was wrong.

The stall owner seemed overly eager to give them information, especially after they offered him a monetary reward. The man was in his thirties and owned his stall himself. He seemed to be a local who had worked hard to have his own little business. He spat as he spoke about the illegal immigrants taking work from good local folk like himself. His opinion of Hugo was that he was the lowest type of scum who’d do anything for money. Apparently, he had stalls all over the island manned by workers whom he paid very little. The man who didn’t want to give them his name, hinted that Hugo had other shadier dealings too and didn’t want him to find out he had snitched on him.

Trojan and Camille hung around out of sight, pretending to enjoy the beach view with ice creams around closing time. The eating-out places near the stalls worked well to hide them from view. Nafisa packed everything up and locked up before scurrying down the sidewalk past the beach pushing her son’s stroller. She didn’t even stop to enjoy the view. Trojan realised with a shock that her little boy hadn’t really left his pushchair all day.

They trailed her, hanging as far back as they could so she wouldn’t spot them.  There was a gangly, sleazy character who met her across the road and seemed to escort her further until they disappeared into an alley that led to an apartment building behind the front row of shops.

Camille released a frustrated breath. “We can’t follow them in there.”

Trojan only nodded; his jaw clenched.

His wife took his hand, “Come on, let’s go back to the condo.”

He smiled down at her, pushing back the worry about Nafisa, “I seem to remember I owe you some payback.”

Her cheeks flushed, “Now that you mention it, I couldn’t bargain for a foot massage, could I?”

“Hmm, you want a slave do you?” As soon as he said that the reality of Nafisa’s plight ploughed through them both again and the sombre mood returned.

They trudged home in silence. Before going into their condo, Camille glanced up at Trojan, “We’re going to help her. God brought us here for that very reason.”

Trojan touched his heart, “I know. We need to trust Him to show us the way.”

“He will.” They both felt the burden on them lift slightly along with the joy of knowing that with God all things were possible.

To be continued…

If you don’t know Trojan and Camille you can read their story in the novel: The Seer. Available worldwide on Amazon or directly from me if you are in the UK. Just e-mail at: clara@claraberge.com