by Shawn Mackey
Anyone with their sanity in check would relate this information before petty complaints. Given the last few weeks, I feel more comfort from the hill’s whispers than the people of this damned town.
I returned to the fields with my mother. The crops have been thoroughly ravaged by the quakes, but in time, we will repair. Even the children have been put to work, and since their parents are either dead or inbred backwater bastards, my burden is doubled by keeping a watchful eye on the lovable nitwits.
I managed to clear quite a bit of debris from the cave’s mouth. I am afraid there is much left, probably pieces of rock too heavy for ten men. I hear the flute through the cracks, and though Kantos will not respond to my call, I know he is waiting for me to clear the path. Hopefully the drunken louse will grow tired of his own laziness and help.
Most people would buckle under the strain of such an ominous presence. It is not without moments of dread, but I welcome the occasional dark flashes. My days are so mundane, I even welcome the pangs of unpleasantness. I hear frequent mutterings, nothing close to coherent, like a voice underwater—just a few words to cause alarm, then nothing. I can feel it in the air. It is heavy, much like the moment before a rainfall.
I will move a bit more debris tonight. Between this and tending fields, I have been finding no trouble sleeping. I could grow accustomed to the peasant’s life, which would include only me, my work, and the faint murmurings of the landscape’s ghost. I feel as though the cave’s breath is in each breeze. I smile at the swaying grass, for she is letting loose a great sigh of relief. The rocks blocking her mouth are gradually cleared by a new friend. I must get to work. Imagine having a mouth jammed tight with pebbles and lacking the fingers to pry them out or the tongue to spit. I would surely reward the one who rid me of such a burden, even if it were a tiny mouse. He would gorge himself on cheese and curl up in my warm pocket. We would never part, me and my little vassal.
I apologize for my rambling nonsense. Take it with a grain a salt. Speaking of which, I must gather food for the children. As long as they remain well, life in this silly town is not so bad.
I decided to skip sleep and push rocks instead. A foolish decision I must not repeat. I was exhausted by sunrise and did my work poorly all day, longing for the moment my head could meet the pillow. The day is done, and yet, here I am, scribbling another entry. I do not have much to report. Really, this is all just a waste of ink. I suppose I felt the need to write due to some imaginary obligation to you. Take heart. We will speak at length tomorrow.
Entry 43
A pair of fools tried to leave the island on a raft. No one gave a damn until they tried to bring along their child, Russell, who became a student of mine shortly before the disease outbreak. We watched those fools construct the laughable little boat out of sticks and string. They were harangued for wasting effort on a worthless endeavor a few times, but nobody stopped them, since it would prove equally useless. The couple was obviously on the verge of madness. Perhaps this project would get it out of their system.
The boy cried the moment his father placed him on the raft. Then he got a splinter between his fingers and the cries grew to an unbearable pitch. This caught the attention of a few others, including my uncle and Aiden, on their way to the cave. My uncle made a lame attempt at trying to dissuade them from leaving. They declined, and the others continued on their way. Fewer mouths to feed, they probably supposed. The brief exchange infuriated me to an unreasonable extent. Poor Russell’s life was at stake.
I marched up to the couple and screamed all sorts of heinous insults in regards to their parental duty. When Russell cried again, I slapped his mother and father. The latter knocked me over with a slight shove, then pinned me to the sandy beach. In the entire minute it required for Aiden to arrive, quite a bit of sand filled my mouth and nostrils. I thought he was really going to suffocate me.
A single punch to the face laid him out. His wife leapt onto Aiden, and my uncle arrived just in time to break up the conflict. Too bad the raft was left unscathed. In hindsight, I should have shred the bindings.
After brushing off and calming down a bit, I was told to explain my actions. I did so in a courteous and eloquent manner. Russell’s father said the nearest land was a day’s journey, that they would arrive home long before Walter’s next appointed visit in four days. My uncle assured him that it was a three day journey on a first-class vessel, nigh impossible on shoddy raft. He called my uncle a liar.
Gerald stepped in, and initially, I thought he was playing devil’s advocate. When he mentioned my uncle’s loyalty to the old regime, it seemed like an accusation stemmed in a long-harbored distrust. The other two men agreed with this statement, while Aiden stayed neutral.
And so the fools left on their raft. I begged Russell to swim ashore, watching him cry all the way until he turned into a speck on the horizon. This speck started to grow, and for a moment, it seemed they had a change of heart. The occupants shouted at the onlookers, their voices scarcely audible over Russell’s shrill scream. It was clearly a plea for help. The raft lay still on the tide, budging neither forward nor backward, no matter how hard they beat their oars against the waves. This lasted until dark, when the vessel seemed to collapse into the ocean, swallowing all three. Four hours later, Russell’s body washed ashore. Just before sunrise, the bodies of his parents were found half a mile apart. The message was clear: no one was permitted to leave this island.
My uncle got into another fight with Gerald, and before it could come to blows, he walked away. Fiona calmed down her fuming husband while I chased after my uncle. It took some begging for him to finally speak.
He admitted to taking part in the Luther conspiracy, but not the murder. It was his idea to place the bones in the effigy, leading to it being treated as a sacred object so that it would not be damaged. Luther had been communicating with a third party for additional resources, intent on building it into a full-fledged city. Our home country would be in shambles by then, he insisted. Before a final deal could be made, the mayor had made a rash decision.
The people of this island had every right to kill him, my uncle said, and though Gerald was suspicious of him, he had no solid evidence. In his own rage, my uncle could act rashly. Hiding will only reinforce his suspicions, I retorted. That is why I needed to act as a go-between. He planned to keep productive during his exile by exploring the northern side of the woods and living off the land. Even with Walter’s upcoming provisions, we would be short on supplies.
I told this to my mother and Aiden, who went on to tell others. Before rumors could spread, I confronted Gerald. He apologized for putting my uncle’s life at risk, and to me for convincing Russell’s family to leave. He went on to heap compliments and gratitude for helping his wife save Patrick’s life. I appreciated his sincerity and hoped he could spread some of those kind words to my uncle. He grunted and shook his head.
It would do no good. My uncle needed a chance to brood, and the surrounding woods were the best place this island had to offer—as long as it did not go on for long. Walter was due, and we have no better negotiator than my shrew uncle. Also, those working to rebuild the houses will see how sorely this community needs his architectural skills. It was not a pleasant decision, but certainly the perfect one.
This gives me an excuse to continue my daily ventures. There is still plenty of rubble to remove.
Entry 44
I brought my uncle a blanket and fresh bread, courtesy of Mother. He refuses to return until tomorrow at noon, when Walter would arrive with the next shipment of supplies. He could easily negotiate a ship large enough to carry whoever wished to leave. I do not think he intends to be among them. One more night in the wilds would do him good, he said.
I thoroughly explained the last few weeks, unable to meet his gaze out of embarrassment. I was relieved to find out he believed me, though he would not admit to seeing the face during the storm. Did I break some unspeakable agreement? I vividly recall them pointing and rema
rking on the sky’s countenance and trembling with fear. Was it so traumatic?
And though he believed my every word, I saw his eyes well up with tears. I had never seen my uncle distressed, so this alarmed me a great deal. He asked if I had smeared a trail of animal blood that night, and if I had done so, my reply would stay between us. I stuck with my story and could not help wondering if he thought this was a game. The worry was dashed when he admitted to hearing an infant crying at frequent intervals, day and night. He has searched frantically for the source, but to no avail.
He assisted me in removing some of the rubble. We accomplished a night’s work in an hour. When I heard the song, I did not ask my uncle, nor did he ask if I heard the infant. There is something unsettling about traveling the hills with another. Alone, I feel the full weight of danger upon my shoulders. With my uncle, I feel the weight of us both. Not because of concern, since I know that neither life is truly at stake, but something else. I suppose it would be similar to sharing a dream or a dreaded secret. I would avoid his as fervently as I would avoid the detection of mine. The prospect of such an unholy mingling makes me shudder.
We worked silently, excluding a particular moment when he asked about Aiden and our plans for the future. I did not mince words. He just let out a grunt and continued to move rocks. I wanted to stay with him for the night—it is wrong for him to be alone for so long, especially on such a cold night—but I knew he would refuse, and I could not honestly say I would prefer it to a warm bed and time with you.
My uncle was close to the mayor’s circle, but more as a representative of the people. After all, he worked as hard, if not harder, than the rest. That meant the world to people like Gerald and Aiden and all the others who slaved away at coal digging. The mayor did half their work and Paul none at all. The latter would have been excused by a saner lot due to old age, but such is the price of the mob violence.
I think my uncle will step up and become something like a leader. These men refuse to receive orders, though they will not turn down sound advice, which my uncle has in abundance. Of course, we may lose most of the community if Walter lends a boat. I would not be surprised if our numbers dwindled to less than a dozen. Smaller numbers have dwelled in less hospitable ground. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure we stay. Even if the next quake splits the island in two.
All that is doubtful. Walter will not take a single passenger without an exuberant pay and will laugh heartily at the prospect of lending a boat to war criminals. Who better to understand our operations than a fellow rogue? I will appeal to his softer side. At the very least, he can take the children. If that requires me to make sacrifices, then so be it.
Entry 45
My uncle and I waited at the beach for Walter to arrive at the appointed time. The wind was a bit rough, gentle compared to the storm, but enough to warrant worry. The townsfolk were desperate for supplies, and some were delusional enough to expect a ride to the nearest port. It was late in the day when the ship appeared on the horizon. My uncle let out a sigh. I looked over to find him worried. For good reason: a group of busy bodies accumulated at the hill connected to the beach’s edge. They saw me watching them, whispered amongst themselves, then wandered back toward town.
Walter’s promptness was needed more than ever that day. The mayor was not around to reprimand onlookers, forbidden to deal with the ship. Even worse, most had finished their duties, leaving a majority of the town unoccupied. As the ship reached the shore, I scanned the area for onlookers. None in sight, which meant they were well hidden.
The whole dealing went wrong from the start. Walter noticed the mayor’s absence, speaking to us from the ship’s bow instead of lowering the plank. My uncle explained the past two weeks in detail, leaving out the more outlandish aspects, yet revealing the mayor’s betrayal and murder without discretion. Walter nodded through the whole story, his lips twists, struggling to hold back a grin. When my uncle asked to allow safe passage for a select few, he finally had the opportunity to let out a laugh.
He would let us aboard right there for free, given his long relationship with these island folk, and to me for my good looks, but not a single other. I asked for the children, as well as a single parent for each child. He shook his head, the playful malice gone from his expression. Half the children today, and the other half next time. This prompted silence, and with it, a glimmer of hope. Walter turned from the bow and walked toward his crew near the cabin.
My uncle clasped my shoulder and smiled. The negotiations were clearly in our favor. He would take half and find a way to take the other half as soon as possible. Walter had a heart buried somewhere beneath all that crassness, and I had no doubts it had an especially soft spot for children in jeopardy. It was difficult to gauge the crew’s assessment from our distance, but it did not seem overwhelming negative. One of them suddenly pointed at us, as though in alarm, causing the rest to look. They simultaneously rushed toward the plank, pistols and daggers in hand.
The entire town, or very close to it, converged behind us. The children stood in the front row, held by their parents. They all stepped forward, making pleas and begging to at least take their children. The crew sheathed their weapons and quietly chatted amongst themselves. It was clear to anyone with a sound mind that our favor was going to be granted in some capacity.
Somebody mentioned the disease outbreak, lifting up their son’s shirt to reveal pox scars. They went on about the sickness, how it only affected the children, and if confined to this island any longer, another bout would return. Walter immediately dismissed the entire affair, and out of desperation, some of the parents threw sand at the ship’s hull, a sight far more pathetic than it sounds. Eventually, one of them skimmed the edge of the beach for rocks and pelted the crew.
Walter fired a shot in the air. It was loud enough to frighten the fools into submission. His business with us was over, but due to his gentle heart and hitherto lucrative relationship, he ordered his crew to leave the usual shipments. People waded into the water to beat their fists against the hull as the men hurled crates from the bow to the beach. During the chaotic uproar, my uncle managed to exchange words with Walter, though the surrounding noise was too loud to decipher their short conversation.
The townspeople remained orderly enough to allow for the crates to be carried away. This would be their last transaction, my uncle told us, but with time and hard work, we would become self-sufficient again. The houses would be finished before autumn, the food stock fully resupplied, and the cavern fully charted by winter. A year from now, we would be far more prosperous than ever.
Later, I asked my uncle if he believed these claims; it was as equally possible as perishing in the winter. His only guarantee was housing in a month. Sleeping under the stars lost its luster after the mosquitoes realized my legs were quite delicious. Fire repels all but the most meddlesome insects.
He gave me a bottle of ink stuffed between a fresh blanket, along with a warning for dealing with men like Walter. They did not volunteer to take me on board for the company, I assured him. The mere allusion to their intent discomforted my uncle. He awkwardly walked off, leaving me to assess my supply of ink, while Aiden went over our food, a task usually designated to me.
Since the start of our correspondence, it never occurred to me that my ink supply would run completely dry. I should spend less time traversing the woods and more time looking into alternative writing methods.
I should research much more than that. Chances are high most of us will not survive the winter. Suppose I do: who will be left to pamper me? In case you did not notice, I am far less clever than I admit. In matters of survival, even the simplest of these rustics can expose me as a fraud.
Survival will be the subject of our new curriculum. These children must be taught the basics. What if the plague returns in a mutation potent enough to infect their parents? They will need to tend to themselves in isolation. Next time, I fear it will be far more lethal than an extravagant version of the chi
cken pox. Not only will I pass on something of value, but I will learn with them.
Even with all my rambling, I fear my supply of candles will run out before ink and paper. It may be some time before we speak again. Let our rendezvous be sparsely timed and more intimate, else I go on being a long-winded hog. I am stuck tending to the fields the remainder of this season, leaving me more tired than usual, more prone to tangents than the meat of the matter. This started as a confession, and over the months, morphed into something more like a log of this community. These people need a voice to chronicle their experiences. I am awful at fieldwork and mediocre as a teacher, but do not let it be said that this community existed without a scribe, even if she is a redundant swine.
Good night, my beloved.
Entry 46
There is no shortage of hilarity on our humble island. Since the housing problem is nearly settled, leaving an abundance of extra workers, a group was sent to the cavern to assess its condition. The project had been altogether abandoned, but with winter quite a way off, it did no harm to check the full extent of the earthquake’s damage. The result would dissuade them, my uncle claimed, having sent the more rambunctious ones away. It was more of a morale boost to show how easy their current task was compared to the one ahead.
The experiment proved to be the most fruitful failure in world history. A few hours later, the men returned with barrels and buckets of gold coins. The entire cave mouth was brimming with treasure. The amount returned barely dented the literal gold mine—more than enough to fill an entire fleet of ships. Frederick, a miner for the majority of his past life, authenticated the metal.
