by Kyle Warner
I feel bad but it’ll pass. It always does.
But when the kid takes off his boots and leaps into the water behind me, I sort of pause.
What’s the pause mean? I wonder. To better examine my feelings about the situation or to give the kid a chance to catch up?
Putting the paddle back into the water now would feel cruel. I can leave a man to burn but I cannot leave a child to drown. I got ethics, what can I say?
The kid pulls himself onto the lifeboat. He coughs up salt water and shivers.
For some reason I ask him if the water’s cold. He just looks at me. I put the paddles back in the water, moving us away from the sinking inferno.
I don’t have much hope for my survival—our survival, I mean—but I’d say we have a better chance than that poor lot playing with fire back there.
The fog is thick and the ocean is endless. I didn’t think to bring food or water. We’ll likely starve.
I wonder if death by fire wouldn’t have been so bad.
4.
The kid says his name is actually David. At least I was close.
David says he comes from Ireland. “Born and bred,” he says and he does so with pride. He told me his family name but I forgot it the instant the name left his lips. It didn’t seem important to ask him to tell me twice.
“The captain said I had talent,” David says. “He said I made the best stew he ever had. And he had a lot of stew in his life, so that meant something. He hired me then and there, took me from that kitchen Mr. Barton owned. And I was glad to be out of there, you know? Mr. Barton was a mean drunk with only one and a half legs, having lost one to cannon fire, but he was still fond of kicking me around, both literally and otherwise.”
I was tempted to throw the kid overboard so that he may focus on swimming as compared to rambling on and on. First, I tried a more subtle approach.
I ask him, “Will you please shut up so that I might figure out just where the hell we are?”
The kid closes his mouth and turns away from me.
I have no actual way of determining where we are. Of course not. I’m no navigator. The navigator was dead down at the bottom of the ocean. I just want the kid to stop talking.
I watch the waves and study how the fog makes love with the wind.
I think of my lady Mary.
Everyone is entitled to one true love in their life and mine is Mary Hankins.
Met Mary at a costume party down the way from a pub. She comes from a rich family with ties to the Navy, but that doesn’t matter. She was this golden thing, all feathers and flash. She didn’t dance with all the men but all the men danced with her—I would beg you not to correct my meaning.
I didn’t have the money for a costume but the party had free drink, so I would not be denied entrance. I smeared white and red paint on my face, plucked the feather out of a chicken’s ass, and called myself a Cherokee.
The party guests treated me with scorn. I treated them to up-close looks at my black and gold teeth.
Mary got passed to me by mistake in the hustle of a big dance. She was in my arms and the drink was on the floor before I even knew what was happening.
I remember seeing nothing but her eyes and her smile. That was enough to know that our futures would be forever intertwined.
I took her closer and kissed her longingly. People gasped at first, but they clapped when she wrapped her arms around me and returned the kiss.
Doesn’t get much better than that, in my experience.
I think of her removing her mask and I frown.
I cannot recall her looks just now. I know that she is beautiful, not just to me but to every man in town. I think she is like the sun, vibrant and bright and charitable with her life. Her hair is blond. Her bosom is considerable. Her character is charming and flirty.
Her face is but a blur…
The ghost who holds my heart troubles me, so I think on something else: the lifeboat’s supplies.
In addition to my sword and flintlock pistol, the lifeboat has a potato bag of supplies. I empty it onto the floor. There are three flasks for water, all bone dry. There is rice but no means of cooking it. A trio of apples, no longer fit for human consumption, now acts as the hosts for worms and rot. I do, however, find a compass and telescope.
David is sniffling with his head hung low.
“Quit your bawling,” I say.
“Those poor animals,” David says. “First they get sick then they burn and sink.”
“Hmm.”
“Do animals like lions go to heaven?”
“Fuck…”
The boy goes silent. I secretly thank him.
The compass says we are heading east. It’s not helpful, considering we have no idea where we are, but I appreciate knowing something.
The telescope offers up a magnified view of the fog. Useless. I put it aside for later.
At least it’s not hot, so we won’t need to drink. Not yet.
Don’t drink the ocean, my Papa always told me, you’ll go mad with the phobias, then it’ll kill you.
The rippling waves didn’t look dangerous like Papa said. Quite inviting, in fact. Still, I’ve always trusted Papa’s truths, as they’ve not led my astray thus far.
“Look!” David shouts.
I follow his finger to the sky and beyond the fog there is a gull riding the winds.
The only gulls in the middle of the ocean are dead gulls… or ones near land.
We must be close to shore.
We might survive this yet.
5.
I awake chewing on sand.
It takes me a moment to figure out that it’s not a dream, that I’m on the beach and that the surf is tickling my toes.
I sit up and gaze out at the ocean—it’s never looked so big and unhappy to see me—then turn to see birds playing in palm trees behind me.
I stand and brush the sand out of my hair. The lifeboat is tied to a tree, empty except for the oars.
David’s nowhere to be seen.
There are footprints in the sand and I follow them until they reach the rocks. I’m a sailor, not a ranger. I can’t track shit.
My head hurts. There’s needles behind my eyes and I’d like a drink—preferably rum—but I’d settle for water. Maybe there’s a pond somewhere.
But where am I?
Beyond the trees are rocky hills featuring very little vegetation. I’m gonna climb one and get a lay of the land.
The birds hoot and holler at me when I pass the tree line and leave the beach. I tip my hat to them, saviors that they are, but I’d beg them to shut their beaks if they were smart enough to understand.
The foliage is thick. The ground is hard and brittle. Doesn’t make sense. Being so close to the shore should make the dirt moist, but this stuff is crumbling beneath my feet like we’re miles from the coast and in the worst kind of drought. Further confounding matters is the fact that the leaves are green on every tree. There is no drought here. So, why the brittle soil, then?
The jungle is thick. It clings to me, blocks out the sun. Feels like drowning in the deep. I look back and the bright beach is still visible between the swaying fronds. It beckons to me. The ocean, however unforgiving, seems willing to take me back.
I want to return to the beach and take my shoes off, feel the sand between my toes. I like that feeling. I want it now more than ever.
I’m just about to turn away from the sand and keep moving on when I notice that the birds have stopped their play.
I scan the trees until I spot one of them.
It’s this blue and yellow thing, just hanging out in the branches above, and it’s staring down at me like I’m not from this earth or something.
“What?” I ask the bird.
He doesn’t reply.
I find a rock and throw it at the bird’s head. He flies away but he’s quickly replaced by two others. Then a third and a fourth.
They’re up there not making a sound, just watching me like I got no r
ight to be on their island, like I’m an intruder and they mean to tell on me.
Fuck ’em.
I swat away leaves and push onward. The branches leave their marks on my face and arms. I shrug it off. Got no time to worry about being pretty.
The trees thin and I see a hill of dirt.
I reach the hill and start climbing. There are fewer trees here, which means there’s less foliage, but there’s also fewer footholds and the hill is steep.
I manage.
Rocks tumble away when I put my weight on them. They hit the trees and send the birds flying. I reach the top of the hill. It’s not the tallest hill on the island but it gives me a good vantage point.
The island isn’t big. I can see all its edges. There are no signs of human life or any kind of encampment. No fields for veggies. No livestock. Nothing but the birds above and a whole lot of green.
No sign of David, either.
I frown, realizing even the birds have fled.
I’m about to start my climb down when my foot pushes through the brittle dirt and falls into a hole. I pull it out and look down.
The hole is deep, leading down into the dark of the apparently hollow hill. I push a rock into the hole and listen as it knocks on the walls before it plunks into liquid below.
Water.
I get down on my knees and widen the hole.
Can’t see nothing down there, but there’s no mistake there must be some water of some kind. An underground lake? A flooded cave?
How do I get down there to drink it though?
I stand back up and look around—and then I notice the other hills. They all got holes at their tops, too.
Strange. Like volcanoes. What, water volcanoes? I heard of geysers, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t that.
My gaze falls from the hills and looks at the island below. The soil looks strange even from far away. It’s brittle and light colored in the shadow of the trees.
Takes me a moment to discern that it’s not just shadows I’m seeing.
There are holes in the dirt. Holes in the jungle floor, too.
The holes are everywhere. Some of them even catch the light of the sun, letting me know they go down deep.
It’s like the island has gone to rot and it’s falling apart.
A human scream breaks the silence.
6.
If David isn’t dead then I don’t know what to do for him. If he is dead, then I’ll probably say a few words of remembrance. The uncertainty leaves me feeling lost. Don’t like it.
I followed the screams to a hole.
The potato bag of supplies was ripped open and scattered all around the hole’s edges. I found blood, too. It was fresh. I know it’s human because I recognize the smell. It’s probably David’s but I’m not going down the hole to check for verification.
Been standing next to that hole for the better part of an hour, tracking the sun’s descent on the horizon. Got my sword out. It’s shaky in my hand as my arm grows tired.
I stopped asking if David could hear me some time ago. It’s obvious he won’t be answering.
What’s got me worried is how many more holes there are on this island. I stuck my foot down one of them earlier in the day—even thought for a moment about jumping in for a drink. That was stupid.
Feeling outnumbered. Feeling unprepared.
Feeling vulnerable.
The birds are still up in the branches, watching me like they know something they’re not telling.
Got one shot for my gun. I consider using it on the bird I’ve determined to be their leader—he’s a proud little asshole of a parrot with a bad head bobbing habit—but I stop myself, thinking it would be a terrible waste.
I’m not tired, not really, but my body begs me to sleep. I know what that means. I’m shutting down. Don’t got the sustenance that’s required. Gonna die soon if I don’t drink something, but I don’t feel comfortable turning my back on the hole that David disappeared into.
Maybe it’s my imagination but I don’t think the birds are the only ones watching.
I think there’s something down that hole staring up at me. It’s quiet, whatever it is, because I don’t hear its breathing and there’s not much else to distract my ears but the wind in the trees.
Must investigate.
With one hand aiming the pistol at the hole, I slowly stab my sword into the darkness.
Nothing happens.
Just a hole.
If there’s anything down deep, I don’t have the reach to cut it and it doesn’t have the reach to cut me.
I call a truce with the darkness and put my sword back in the scabbard, then I grab up the supplies that I can use and walk away.
Walk away, yes, don’t run, but get away from the hole just the same. Watch your step. Holes are everywhere. Don’t flee from one only to trip and fall into another.
I walk back to the beach and the birds follow my progress, flitting from one tree to the next. My constant companions.
The tide has risen since I awoke in the sand. The sun calls it quits and does its suicide dive into the ocean. The moon’s no replacement; its white glow only makes me feel cold.
I sit on the rocks and watch the waves rolling in. Behind me, the birds are chirping happily, proud of me for following their advice and escaping the jungle alive, I guess.
I keep my back to the trees. I let the holes know I don’t care. If they’re watching me, whatever they are, I hope they know what they’re signing up for by messing with me.
Thinking about David. Or was it Daniel? Anyway…
Good kid, I guess. Never thought so highly of his cooking like the captain seemed to, but what can I say? I got discerning tastes. The captain, on the other hand, was a fool prone to losing his way. He’s dead now. I’m not. So it goes.
I do wish there was a body, not just blood. Can’t bury blood. But then, I guess he is beneath the ground, so that’s a burial in a way, yes?
Yes.
What happened to poor little David? The more I ponder the question the more certain I am that he was taken—that there is something down those holes—that something really was looking up and watching me.
I heard tales of cannibals in the lost islands of the world.
They’ll abduct a woman or a child and do ’em up like a roast boar. They care for nothing. They wear bones of the people they killed, bones and scalps ripped from the heads of the dead. They’re more demons than man and worse than any shark or tiger or bear.
I figure there’s some truth to the stories, but mostly sailors just like to talk about what scares them in hopes that it might scare other people, too. It’s their way of justifying their fears and remaining men, I think—it’s a great comfort knowing that countless others fear the same monsters that you do.
Truth is, I fear them, too.
Naturally, I think, we should fear the monsters that look like us.
I’d rather be eaten by wolves than have a man that looked a little like my cousin tear into my calf muscle with a fork and knife.
All the same, I’m not scared of the holes and the things I am certain live within them. I’m wary of whatever took poor David, but I’m not scared. I take this to mean that deep down I know I’m not dealing with cannibals or anything human.
This island is host to something else entirely.
7.
Got a problem here.
I found David.
It was the smell that woke me. Didn’t mean to dose off, but I was tired, so there it is. When I woke, I found I wasn’t alone on the sand.
They left David’s guts on the beach. Crabs came from the surf to pick through it, dragging coils of intestines into the water, while the birds dined on his stomach.
Flies tiptoed around the claws and beaks to do their own nasty business. There must have been a hundred flies, I think. Soon they’d lay eggs within David’s innards to strengthen their numbers.
I stand and kick sand over the gore, scattering the living creatures.
>
The birds squawk as they flee back to the trees, then everything gets quiet again, just the sound of the rolling waves.
I stare upwards, watching the birds with bloody beaks stare back at me.
A twig snaps somewhere in the jungle.
Sword drawn, I spin to face the thing that left me such a wonderful gift while I slept.
… But nothing’s there.
“Come out!” I cry.
Only the birds reply, squawking like hecklers in a crowd.
The sun has not breached the horizon and the jungle is dark. The space between green foliage seems impossibly black, like a quicksand made from shadow and hunger. If I step into the jungle now I may never emerge again.
More twigs snapping, then movement.
I tense with my sword ready and my hand not far from the pistol.
Something flies from the shadows—too fast—and hits me in the chest.
Weakened from thirst, the blow is enough to knock me off my feet. I scramble to regain my composure and confront my attacker.
I find myself staring into David’s eyes.
His head rests in the sand where I had stood. The skull was raggedly severed beneath the chin. His eyes are wide with a frozen fear. His mouth hangs ajar and I can see his tongue is missing.
I cry out. Don’t know why. It’s savage and horrible and I can’t stop from shaking. I kick the sand and swing my sword angrily at the dark. If any other man had seen me, he’d have thought me mad, but my outburst seems completely justifiable in my mind.
I stab the sword into the sand and draw my pistol, shouting, “Show yourself!”
The jungle refuses to respond and even the birds are silent.
Had enough of this. The identity of whatever haunts me does not matter. It killed David. I didn’t even like David, but I have decided to take his murder personally.
I grab my sword and step bravely through the leaves, abandoning the safety of the beach.
Darkness envelops me. It’s like a blanket of frost, chilling my spine, making me fearful and anxious. The sword feels both too short and too heavy, an unwieldy weapon for a man lost in the dark.
Twigs keep snapping. I have to stop my advance often just to see if it is my footfalls that are making the sound.
