Isle of Man

by Ryan Winfield

  It’s slow going, sawing through the tough outer bark. Jimmy saws until he’s exhausted, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow before handing the saw to me. I work for half an hour or so and make about half an inch of progress. Then the wire breaks. Jimmy cuts another length of wire, and we start over again. We work for several hours—taking turns, breaking the saw, remaking the saw—then something catches my eye and stops me cold with the saw frozen in my hand.

  “Is it stuck again?” Jimmy asks.

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Over there. Behind those trees.”

  Jimmy follows my gaze toward a thicker grove of coconut trees farther into the island. Several minutes pass, but nothing shows itself.

  “What’d you see?”

  “Thought I saw something over there watching us, but it must’ve been my imagination.”

  “I’ll bet you’s dehydrated,” Jimmy says.

  “I am pretty thirsty.”

  Jimmy walks over to a shorter, thicker tree and looks up at the coconuts hanging there. Before I can ask him what it is he’s thinking, he wraps his long arms around the tree and shimmies to the top and starts tossing down coconuts. I catch them and gather them into a pile. Jimmy slides down the tree and uses his knife to carve holes in the tops of two coconuts, and we stand and drink their sweet water.

  “This is the best water I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Same here,” Jimmy says. “Hey, I thought I saw somethin’ from up there, too.” He nods toward the other grove of trees.

  “What’d you see?”

  “Somethin’ movin’ around in them palms.”

  “Well, let’s get this tree sawed down and get out of here.”

  “Good idea,” Jimmy says, pointing to the horizon where the sun has dropped low, its light already more orange than it was just ten minutes ago.

  We return to the saw with renewed vigor, a silent sense of urgency communicated between us. The second the sun dips into the Atlantic, a cold breeze blows in from the ocean and stirs the palms. I remember the professor telling us high tide was a half hour past sunset. I saw faster. My gaze keeps drifting back to the other grove of trees, and soon there’s no mistaking dark shadows darting low to the ground between the trunks. Jimmy stands watching, too, his knife ready in his hand.

  As the light fades, the shadows moving in the trees grow bolder. They come closer, making quick runs to nearer trees, betraying themselves with squeals and grunts. Soon, they seem to be all around us. My hands are raw and blistered but I keep working through the pain, falling into a kind of frenzy.

  The sky grows dark, the palms sway in the wind. The loud rustling of the treetops mixes with a raucous chorus of strange squeals coming from the shadows, and it suddenly seems like we’re in the center of some haunted hallucination.

  Then the saw jams and the wire snaps.

  I’m about to grab Jimmy and suggest we make a run for it, empty-handed, when there’s a loud crack from the tree as the wind bends it into the cut. It splinters, then snaps, tipping over and falling to the ground with a thud.

  “Let’s grab it and go!” I shout, above the wind.

  Jimmy jogs to the far end and lifts the tree as I kick the cut end free of its base and wrap my hands around the trunk. We stagger off toward the water with our prize.

  It’s heavy work. We take baby steps, making slow progress toward the edge of the hill where I hope we can roll it the rest of the way down to the shore. The shadows follow us, their grunts coming from all sides now and no longer even bothering to stay hidden in the trees. Jimmy is at least six meters behind me on the tree and I can’t hear him over the wind, but I feel him pushing faster, so I pick up my pace. Stronger wind, louder grunts, closer shadows—pushing faster, faster, faster. Then I’m stopped in my tracks by the full weight of the tree as Jimmy’s end drops to the ground.

  I drop my end and rush back to see what’s wrong, but Jimmy is nowhere to be found. The shadows rush at me then and I stagger backwards, seeing them now for feral pigs. They surround me, herding me toward nearby trees. I stop and plant my feet, ready to fight if I have to.

  “Jimmy!” I call out. “Where are you!”

  A particularly vicious pig rushes me, and I see the glint of its tusks in the low twilight. I dodge its slash, but fall to my knees. I’m surrounded on all sides now.

  “Jimmy!”

  The grunts and squeals are deafening. I hold my hands up to protect my face. I see strange flashes through my fingers. Cloven pig hooves. Glinting tusks. Bloated human feet. Before I can make sense of anything, something is pulled over my head and everything goes dark. I’m being strangled. I can’t breathe. I panic—struggling, kicking, screaming. My arms are pinned. My legs being tied. Now strange lights. Where? Lights inside my head. Pulsing. Fading. Blackness.

  When I come to, I’m lying on cold stone with a smelly sack over my head. Something lies struggling next to me. I hear a muffled cry and realize that it might be Jimmy. I nudge him with my elbow.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Aubrey? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. Are you okay?”

  “I dunno,” he says. “Where the hell are we? And what was those things?”

  “Looked like pigs.”

  “I ain’t never seen no pig tie someone up,” he says.

  “Yeah, me either. Shh ... someone’s coming.”

  Padding feet approach, accompanied by obscene grunting and labored breathing. Something nudges me, sniffing loudly.

  “Is this the only two?” a deep and phlegmy voice booms.

  “Seems so, Chief,” is the squeaky reply.

  “You think they’s spies?” a third voice asks.

  “What was they doin’?”

  “They chopped down a tree.”

  “Well, that isn’t any big crime.”

  “But they’s guilty of something for sure,” the squeaky one says. “You know they is.”

  “Why say you that?”

  “They ran from us, Chief.”

  “Well, that tells us only that they’re not very brave.”

  “Lack of bravery aside, sir, they’s definitely foreigners.”

  “Heave ho, then,” the deep one belts out, “pull off those hoods, and let’s have a look at them.”

  I feel hands loosening the rope around my neck, then the sack is ripped free, and I’m blinded by the light of a lantern. As my eyes adjust, three ugly faces fade into view. They’re people, but their features resemble those of pigs. Beady eyes peering out from above upturned noses. Thin lips quivering on mouths that stick out just enough to resemble snouts. The fattest of the three leans in and sniffs my hair, his sweaty nose trembling. “Smells like the sea, this one does.”

  “Mightn’t I surmise, Chief, that they’s came to us across the ocean?” the squeaky one asks.

  “Surmise as you want,” the leader says. “Why should I give a coconut’s care what goes on in that little head of yours?”

  “But from where?” the third chimes in. “There isn’t any other land out there.”

  “Can they talk?”

  “This one was cussing, Chief.”

  The leader pokes me.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Aubrey,” I answer.

  “How about your friend here?”

  “That’s Jimmy.”

  “Are you spies?”

  “No, sir, we’re not spies.”

  He turns to his fellows.

  “They’re polite.”

  “But how do we know they’re not dangerous, Chief?”

  He turns back to us.

  “Are you dangerous?”

  “No sir. We were just minding out own business.”

  “You mean chopping down my tree?”

  “Well, yes. We did do that. But we didn’t ...”

  “Untie them,” he says. “This is no way to treat guests.”

  “But, Chief? We don’t even know where they’s from.”

  “
I said, untie them!” the big one shouts, losing his temper. “Show some small hospitality, I tell you. You’d not have us be thought of as rude, would you? What would the elders say?”

  “As you wish, Chief. As you wish.”

  “We can interrogate them after the show.” Then he grunts and waddles off, moving almost as much like a pig as a man.

  “You heard the Chief,” the squeaky one says to the other, his pride obviously hurt. “Help me untie the filthy things.”

  They lean over us, grunting as they struggle with the knots. When we’re both free and standing on our feet again, the men, if I can even call them that, snatch up their lanterns and herd us from the cave into some sort of passageway.

  The one in front constantly glances back to see that we’re following, and the one behind keeps grunting to remind us that he’s there. They’re much shorter than we are, perhaps because of their hunched backs, and they’re both wearing clothing made from gray, bristly pigskins so that it would be easy to mistake them for pigs themselves if they hadn’t just been speaking.

  I lean forward and whisper in Jimmy’s ear: “Maybe we should try to take them while we can?”

  “Less talking, more walking,” the one behind us grunts.

  The passageway shrinks little by little until we’re forced onto our hands and knees. Claustrophobia sets my heart racing, but the passageway opens suddenly onto a giant crystal cavern like no other cavern I’ve ever seen. And I grew up in one. The cavern is lit by coconut-shell candles everywhere—propped on shelves in the rock, lining pathways on the floor, some even floating in dark pools of water. Their light sparkles on crystal-flecked walls, illuminating stalactites dripping from the ceiling. But much stranger than the cave itself are its inhabitants.

  Pig people. Everywhere. They shuffle around, preparing for some kind of event. Lighting candles. Setting up a buffet. Manning cook fires. Herding squealing children into groups. And there are pigs everywhere among them, too. Pigs rooting around at their feet, pigs snorting and snatching up scraps.

  “This is weird,” Jimmy says.

  “I know it.”

  I feel a hand push me from behind.

  “Move along.”

  We wind our way down into the cavern until we arrive at a place where people sit in rows on the floor looking at a raised slab of stone lit with lanterns. It appears to be a stage. The wall behind the stage is crudely painted as a scenic backdrop, with a misshapen sun hanging in a purple sky. It looks like some scene I might have finger-painted as a child. The strange set is framed with palm fronds, creating the illusion of trees.

  A hush falls over the small crowd as they become aware of us. They whisper and stare. The two pig men sit us on the floor in the front row next to the fat one they refer to as Chief.

  “Hi-dy,” he says, shaking our hands. “I’m William. Sorry about the rough treatment back there. Uh-huh. I am. The boys get excited sometimes. No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “No hard feelings,” I say, “but we really would like—”

  “Hush!” he holds up his hand. “They’re starting.”

  The babbling crowd falls silent as a solemn procession approaches the stage, led by a small boy pounding a pigskin drum that’s hanging from his neck. Behind him is an old man struggling to keep up, his legs swollen and his feet gnarled with gout. Following the old man are several plump girls, wearing only grass skirts and coconut-shell bras, fanning themselves theatrically with dried palm fronds.

  Jimmy nudges me.

  “Do ya see a way out?”

  “I don’t dare turn around,” I whisper back.

  “Shh ... ,” William hisses, holding his finger to his lips.

  The procession reaches the stage, and the old man stands before the crowd while the girls line up behind him. The old man ceremoniously holds up his hands, and the drummer stops. Then he scans the crowd, draws in a long breath, and speaks:

  “Many centuries ago, uh, our forefathers gathered together on a night just like this, uh, possibly in these very caves. And, uh, they begun an ancient tradition that continues to this, uh, very day. We honor them now by refusing to forget their, uh, sacrifice. Their wisdom was greater than ours. Their discipline mightier. Their, uh, spirits filled with holy grace. And so here now I give you their story lest we someday forget.”

  I risk a look around. Everyone’s head is slumped forward on their fat necks, their pig mouths hanging open as they loudly breathe, their eyes locked on the stage. I wish we weren’t in the front row so we could slip away. The old man continues:

  “Once we were a great country. Our ancestors worked the dry and ugly land until they had, uh, produced a vast paradise as close to heaven as, uh, any place can be without being heaven. You could climb a hill under purple skies and look down on endless fields of corn. Streams flowed with buttermilk. Honey dripped from trees, their branches hanging low and offering, uh, sweet meat. But men quarreled even so. And some refused to honor God’s decrees. They were, uh, lazy. They laid down in the mud and rose only to eat and to fornicate.”

  Several people gasp with apparent shock when he says the word fornicate. I notice a few mothers with their hands clamped over their children’s ears. He continues:

  “And soon the land was, uh, reduced to nothing more than a sty. And God was angry. And so He sent the rains.” Here the old man pauses, and the drummer boy hands him a coconut-shell rattle filled with sand. He holds the rattle high in his gout-mangled hand and shakes it, producing a sound effect of falling rain. Behind him, the showgirls look to the cavern ceiling with mimed horror and hold their palm fronds up, as if to shield themselves from the imaginary downpour. He goes on:

  “And the waters rose. Uh. And the lands were covered up. Uh. And the greatest country in history was destroyed by God’s flood. And still the lazy among us laid in their filth, moving only to higher ground when forced by the rising waters. And like so many fish in a draining pond, uh, they were all crowded together in the last remaining bit of dry land, forced to live together with the pigs they had become. And so they turned on one another. Uh. They did. They ate the flesh of their own and so angered God further. And God in his rage sent down the plague. I said plague, I did. Great mechanical birds swept from the purple skies and cut the greedy sloths to shreds. Massive sea monsters rose from the deep and laid them to waste upon the tiny patch of remaining, uh, sand. For little else was left above the waters that covered the Earth.”

  The girls fall to the stage behind him and writhe on the ground, as if being ravaged by imaginary adversaries from above. The old man waves his fat, knobby finger in the air and speaks now in a hushed voice:

  “But the story does not end there. No, no, no. God, uh, took mercy on the few worthy men who remained. Gradually, he slowed the rains. He called the machines away. And peace fell again on the tiny patch of land. That’s when our forefathers gathered here, possibly in these very caves, and renewed their commitment to the decrees of God. Gone are the days of corn and streams of buttermilk. But they will come again. Gone are the days of honey trees filled with sweet meat. But they will come again. Uh. I tell you. They will come again!”

  The crowd chants it back: “They will come again!”

  “They will come again!” the old man says.

  “They will come again!” responds the crowd.

  Someone nudges me, breaking my trance, and the strange surroundings fade back into view. William slurps milk from a coconut shell and passes it to me. I hold the shell in my hand and look at his milky slobber coating its rim. I want to pass it on without drinking, but William is watching me with his beady eyes. I raise the shell to my lips and sip the milk, trying not to vomit as I pass it on to Jimmy.

  The old man holds his arms up.

  “They will come again!”

  “They will come again!” comes the response.

  “We must only be patient, and never forget our history,” he says, his stutter disappearing as his voice rises like someone giving a sermon. “And the
good times will indeed come again. The dreaded waters will lower. Our promised land will be uncovered. The ships and dragons will disappear for good, and we will once again be free to leave these caves and rebuild the great nation of ’Merica!”

  “Rebuild ’Merica!” the crowd chants.

  “I said: rebuild ’Merica!”

  “Rebuild ’Merica! ’Merica! ’Merica!”

  The drummer boy beats his drum as the old man shambles off stage, appearing to move with considerable pain. The girls fall in line behind, shaking their grass skirts and waving their fronds, and the odd procession heads back the way it came.

  I turn to William beside me.

  “Did I understand that right? Do you think this island you live on is America?”

  “Think?” he grunts. “Where else would it be? Come now, it’s time to eat.”

  He leads us through the noisy crowd to the other end of the cavern, where a long buffet is set up on the floor. Coconut shells filled with food line the center, and each seat is marked by a personal trough carved into the stone. Jimmy and I sit where we’re told. William slumps down next to us.

  “That’s my wife, Annie,” he says, pointing to an enormous woman lying across the way. She has a baby in her arms, and the baby is clamped onto her nipple, feeding. Because of the way she’s slouched, her other breast hangs nearly to the floor and a piglet stands on its hind legs suckling, too. I watch as it loses its balance and falls, only to get up and stretch to the dangling nipple again. Even if it weren’t for the piglet, I’d probably be creeped out, because babies are formula-fed down in Holocene II. Jimmy, on the other hand, doesn’t even seem to notice.

  The food bowls are passed around, and everyone reaches in and scoops out portions and slops them together in the troughs in front of them. They eat with their fingers, slurping so loudly that the entire cavern echoes with the sound. Trying not to be rude, I pick out tiny pieces of the least repulsive foods and set them in my trough. Everything seems to be made from two ingredients only: coconut and pork. Bowls of boiled pig feet pass by, followed by bowls of blood pudding. Then a strange gelatinous substance riddled with tiny piglet snouts. Something that looks like liver, something else that looks like tongue. Most of these I let pass without touching.