Arcene: The Island

by Al K. Line

  Never missing a stride, Arcene reached up above the trees into the smoke-filled sky, moving away until the air was clear and pure, and through The Noise she hunted for a suitable temporary companion. There, a simple sparrow, flapping manically and squawking at the fire below that ravaged its home. Arcene carefully entered the creature's mind, asking politely if she might stay just for a moment, at the same time calming the tiny mind so it wouldn't feel afraid.

  An agreement was made, a mutual pact, not with words or even thoughts, but something deeper, stranger, communication on the most basic of levels. Arcene thanked it, and with the least amount of coaxing needed she turned the bird's head first left then right, scouting out the vicinity and finding which way to go to beat the fire and get free.

  The little body had an innate sense of direction — connected to the magnetism of the planet it always knew where it was and how to get where it wanted to go — and as Arcene said farewell and gave her thanks, leaving the creature a little calmer, thus better able to cope with the disruption below, she carried a glimmer of that leftover ability back into her own body and mind.

  She couldn't speak for the smoke, couldn't call to Leel, so touched her mind as gently as a feather and told her to turn slightly to her right and continue running. They would be free soon enough.

  Arcene followed, knowing they were mere minutes away from open land that led to scrub, then sand and dunes, then the sea. They were at the coast, and out in the water was the last glimpse of the setting sun, bright orange and talking of fire and death, setting behind the strange silhouettes she had seen from the balloon. It was an island. How interesting.

  No time for that now, get free first.

  Arcene crashed through lush undergrowth as the fire licked on all sides and the smoke grew heavier. She followed Leel, but then she was gone, disappeared. Arcene was close on her heels and before she knew what to do or what her options were she was grabbed by the ankles, slammed flat into the soft earth and dragged underground by strong hands with nails that dug deep into her skin.

  She didn't even have time to scream, couldn't if she wanted to — her lungs were too full of smoke and her throat was hoarse.

  Darkness dominated as the fire roared past above. It was cool in the earth.

  Arcene coughed; she was pulled deeper.

  Leel whined far below.

  A Pleasant Stroll

  Picus always found this time of year the most pleasing. Past the height of summer yet not quite autumn, a hint of the cooler weather to come, fresh breezes laden with salt and mysterious smells from far off places. With the transition of the seasons, new birds came to his home, brightly colored creatures attracted by the microclimate of the island, making it their temporary residence.

  This was a stop on their way south to warmer countries, but for a few months every year they stayed, clearing out the bugs from the extensive grounds, stripping the trees and the plants bare of pesky creatures that harmed the gardens and filling the air with their excited chatter as they called to each other and made their plans for migration.

  It was when the place truly came alive. Picus too. The salty tang, the music of the birds, the plants in full bloom. Right now, this very moment, it was as close to perfection as Picus had ever known.

  It meant work, and a lot of it.

  Luckily for him he had the little helpers. Picus was far from alone on the island, and he knew he would have gone mad long ago if he were. When The Lethargy first came to his attention he had dismissed it as just another one of those ridiculous stories on the TV, a parable hinting at the waning morality of society, their greed and empty ambition.

  But as he watched the news, and the stories continued, and he felt the change in his daily life, he understood it was more than just catchy headlines and meaty propaganda by the latest government trying to support their tax cuts, the reduction in benefits for the poor, or the cessation of new home building and the declining wages and the increased food prices. No, this was real, this was happening. People were genuinely giving up.

  It was more than despair because of the lack of jobs, and the commute that took longer and longer as people couldn't afford to live in the cities where they worked. People really had been taken over by the mysterious illness that slowly took hold and never let them go.

  After a few months of it first being mentioned on the news Picus took it seriously and eagerly awaited any mention of it, but as more data was gathered by the multinational conglomerations that clawed desperately to stop their bottom line sliding day after day as fewer people turned up for work, or those that did sat for hours in a stupor while The Lethargy took hold, mention of the mysterious condition actually lessened.

  The Internet was the same: where it was once the focus of discussion, people hardly spoke of it, or anything else.

  Unlike many of his generation, Picus had embraced technology wholeheartedly and, along with much of the population, cursed when his connection became patchy. At first, the Web had been abuzz, little else was discussed on social media platforms, but then it faded.

  People were drifting away, unable to feed themselves, tend to their most basic needs, and if they had no family or willing friends then they would be dead in a matter of days. Some succumbed suddenly, but far worse were those that zoned in and out of the illness, coming to and fully aware of what was happening, unable to do anything to stop it.

  The suicide rate skyrocketed once there was no more denying The Lethargy's existence. Commerce ceased, banks shut down, money was worthless and technology was pointless. TV channels were replaced with static as there was nobody left to run such complex operations, and tiny pockets of the Web were all that remained as servers became corrupted.

  Most concerning of all was that Picus' life, his happy life, became well and truly disrupted.

  For months, maybe even a year before anyone had realized what was happening to humanity, he'd noticed a decrease in visitor numbers to the island. It was always an easy life outside of the main summer season, and he welcomed the respite. He lived permanently on the island, the caretaker and general manager of the whole enterprise, but there were always people. You could never wander the vast, steeply terraced gardens and parks without bumping into somebody from the mainland no matter the season, time of day, or the weather.

  But it waned, and the first summer The Lethargy was mentioned he'd already grown concerned. Visitors were half what they should have been, even before people panicked and stayed indoors, thinking it might offer some protection from the disease — nobody knew if it was airborne, in the food or water, or passed by human contact.

  There were no more planes in the sky — who would risk flying when the pilot could zone out at any moment? Borders were closed — the passengers could be contaminated and worsen the growing crisis in the country they would arrive at.

  No, before any of that the visitors lessened, and Picus had panicked about the security of his job of the last twenty years. At thirty he had the coveted position of overseeing the running of the most popular tourist attraction on the west coast of England, guardian to a monument built seven hundred years previously. The island was half a mile on its shorter side facing the mainland, almost a mile on its longest. Barren, rocky, with cliffs extending high out of the water as if it had broken off from the coast and sailed away for safety. There were no beaches, no pleasant strolls along its perimeter, it was all sharp rock and crevices, craggy peaks and inhospitable before it had been tamed by man.

  A large home had been built at the summit, parts carved from the rock. Not a castle as such, more a collection of rooms built into the existing, jagged structure of the island, connected by walkways, odd turrets seemingly built on a whim, mismatched windows and doors of all sizes. It was eccentric, much of it impossible to understand in terms of function, but over the following centuries, as occupancy changed, it had been tamed, terraces large and small hacked out of the rock, hardy plants grown in sheltered pockets. The patches of soil that existed were im
proved with seaweed and animals were brought to the island to roam the steppes, their dung fertilizing the ground, and as more centuries passed it turned into a paradise of plants that would grow hardly anywhere else in the UK.

  Beautiful, and dangerous at the same time.

  It had been a private retreat for its entire history, first by single, monomaniacal men, then the perfect fortified keep for various landlords and wealthy individuals, a monastery, and for a brief spell in the early twentieth century a tourist attraction before it fell into decline and was then slowly restored once it passed into the hands of a trust.

  Picus had been there right at the beginning, overseeing work that would take decades to complete, but he thought himself the luckiest man on earth to live and work in what felt like paradise, far away from the problems on the mainland. An escape, if he was honest about it, somewhere he could immerse himself in work and forget about his life up to that point.

  Now it had been over three hundred years and the work still wasn't finished. He doubted it ever would be as there was always more to do, and that was exactly how he liked it.

  A man who didn't work was no man in his eyes, and the island was his life's work. Forgotten by the few people that managed to survive centuries of The Lethargy and the chaos that followed right after, the island was an ancient relic of the past that had returned to life, been beaten back down and risen again under his care, and it had been worth it.

  The birds sang, the plants shone in the clear, clean light, the storm of the day before forgotten, although there was a lot of tidying up to be done. He walked along one of the upper terraces, passing from gravel path to carved steps, and meandered around jagged outcroppings where tiny alpines, carefully placed and cared for lovingly, gave splashes of beauty against the obsidian rock that would cut you like a knife.

  Picus breathed deep, took in the scent of flowers and salt. He spread his arms wide, facing the emptiness of the sea, and smiled.

  It was going to be a good day.

  I am a Mole

  Arcene clawed at the walls as she was dragged deep into the bowels of the earth, but the compacted soil of the tunnel walls meant she got little purchase. When she did, and her descent slowed, the insistent tugging became rough, yanking her free, fingernails full of dirt, her sword scraping the sides as her knees scuffed against the dirt and her hair became tangled around her throat as if her body had revolted and wanted out.

  "Lemme go, lemme go. You'll be sorry... I'm not happy about this at all."

  The only reply was a strange mewing noise from beneath her, presumably her attacker that for whatever reason was rather insistent on dragging her further into the sweet-smelling soil far beneath the fire she presumed was still raging above. At least she wasn't burnt to a crisp, but whoever heard of being snatched like this? It was like she was starring in one of those stupid zombie movies she'd binged on for a while until she gave up and moved on to things where she could at least suspend her disbelief.

  "Stupid zombies. How could they move without their nerves firing and their hearts beating?" Arcene realized it was a strange time for such conjecture, but it had always bugged her and now was probably the most apt for such reflections. It couldn't be, could it? There couldn't be zombies buried in the ground, just waiting to snatch an unsuspecting passerby and, what, suck her brains out through her nose? Munch away on her ankle, or reach into her belly and pull out her intestines like sausages?

  Haha, there's no such thing as zombies.

  Truth be told, Arcene had seen no end of strange things, lived in a place about as bizarre as a home could be: The Commorancy, a fantastical environment that held wonder after wonder, where people could spend hundreds of years in rooms, learn how to Awaken and leave with powers and understanding of the very fabric of reality that made a mockery of everything they had once believed. So, well, anything was possible. But zombies?

  "Huh?" Arcene realized the pressure on her legs was gone. She was still, and while she'd been pondering the existence of the walking dead she'd been dragged into what felt like a rather airy cavern where she was now sat on her sore bottom, a funny wet feeling at her ear.

  Huh, huh, huh. Slurp.

  "Leel, stop licking my ear, you daft dog." Arcene reached out in the gloom and patted the head of Leel, her head bent down low so she could reach Arcene.

  Woof!

  The sound was sucked up by the earthen walls as if echoes didn't exist so far underground, like noise wasn't welcome and silence prevailed.

  "Um, hello?" Arcene shifted in the cavern but nobody answered. She heard scuffling across the divide and to their left, but for some reason Leel wasn't growling or attacking. "What is it, girl? Are you afraid?" Leel carried on licking. "Stupid dog, they could be zombies."

  Leel panted heavily, the run from the fire making her breathing wheezy, or was that her own breathing? Arcene realized she sounded like a zombie herself, throat raw and rattling like she had gravel in her mouth. Her lungs burned, but as she focused the feeling lessened as the cilia in her lungs worked overtime to expel the tiny particles causing damage.

  More noise, this time closer, as if someone, or something, was shifting nearer, shuffling along the floor toward her — to feast on brains?

  For the second time in a day Arcene forced her pupils to expand and let in what little light there was. "Ugh, what the... Hello?" Less than a foot away, a strange creature stared at her with eyes so pink and tiny they were almost lost in the fleshy face, features nondescript and smooth with bloat. The skin was as brown as a walnut, hair was little more than stubble, the rest of the body clothed in some kind of waxy material as dark as the face.

  The person, if it could be called that, smiled, or at least did an approximation of the expression of welcome, revealing surprisingly white, and very sharp looking teeth, the two upper incisors long and extending beneath the lower lip even with its mouth open.

  "I. Am. A. Mole. Andiliveina... Hole," came the meaty sound of a voice, words slow then garbled, like speech wasn't big on the agenda around these parts.

  "Um, sorry, what? You're a mole and, er, I missed the rest."

  "I live in... A hole." The face poked forward, now so close their noses almost touched. The little pink eyes looked sore, raw around the lids and weepy as the creature peered at Arcene, clearly almost blind in the darkness and not used to needing much in the way of vision.

  "Oh, right. Um, how do you do?" Arcene lifted a hand to shake, but was left hanging. The creature squinted at her, then at her hand. Arcene wiggled her fingers and thrust her hand out further.

  The thing that had dragged her under nodded almost imperceptibly then extended its own hand. The skin was black, the fingers short and stubby, well muscled and criss-crossed with veins. What appeared to be long claws took the place of fingernails but as Arcene peered at them, squinting in a facsimile of her strange savior, she realized they were actually fingernails, of a sort. They were as long as her own fingers, but creamy, thick like Leel's claws and even deadlier, judging by the finely honed points.

  "Um, maybe best not to." Arcene moved her hand away hurriedly before she got a finger or two sliced clean off, not to mention the infection that would result from a cut from such dirty claws. "You really are a mole, aren't you?"

  The mole man, or mole woman, boy or girl, it was impossible to tell, rocked back on its haunches, eyes closed, probably to rest from the strain. "I... Am... A... Mole. And. I—"

  "Yeah, you said." Arcene waved away the words that were clearly a real effort for the mole creature, and leaned back, suddenly aware how tired she was, but with a start she turned to her right — there was a strange sound, someone else was here. No, it was just Leel. Was she asleep? She was! Asleep after being captured by a mole thing and escaping fire and falling from a hot air balloon. She was asleep! Well, maybe it couldn't be helped, it had been a busy time of it, and no doubt.

  What now? What do I do now?

  "Um, thanks for saving us from the fire, that was very k
ind of you. How did you know?"

  "I. Am—"

  "Not big on conversation then? That's okay, silence is nice."

  Leel continued to snore; Arcene stared at her host, the mole man/woman. It rocked gently then sprang up, darted over to the wall, plucked something pink and slimy from the earth and slurped it down greedily.

  Ugh, it eats worms. It's fat from eating worms and who knows what else?

  The creature returned on all fours, wide body wobbling beneath the waxy clothes, and resumed its position in front of Arcene, eyes open again and staring at her, as if waiting for something. Arcene had no idea what to do, and that was not normal — she always knew her next move so felt very uncomfortable with her indecision. The thing seemed harmless enough though, if a little odd even by her standards.

  "I. Am. A. Mole. And. I. Live. In. A. Hole."

  It went on like that for hours.

  Lovely Light

  "Ugh, eh? Wassat?" Arcene thrashed about wildly, an arm smacking into something soft and wet.

  Yowl.

  "Oops, sorry, Leel, must have nodded off." Arcene sat up and rubbed at her eyes, caking them in dirt and grit so they streamed, making her almost as blind as the mole person. No, it wasn't just that, she had fallen asleep without allowing her pupils to reset properly so now they were sore as hell and she was lucky she hadn't damaged them permanently.

  Panic set in. What if she had? What if she would forever be as blind as a creature that lived in the dark, unable to see her son, look at pretty flowers and marvel at the world?

  She wiped at her eyes more carefully, dislodged the dirt and slowly they cleared — she was fine, she could see what was appropriate for someone in a deep hole, which was next to nothing at all, the only light coming from looking at reality via The Noise, where little creatures shone green and only her and Leel were anything of substance.