Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  "Stop him! He's killing Roush!" a convict shouted.

  Neither guard was willing to touch him in the frenzy he was in.

  "Do something, you bloody bastards! He's killin' mi!

  The guard raised his rifle and pointed it at Peter's head. The other pushed the rifle aside. Taking his own weapon and turning it butt forward, he brought it down on Peter's shoulder. Peter's back straightened, but he did not get off Roush. The guard hit him again and again, finally driving the rifle butt into Peter's cheek and knocking him off balance.

  "Get him now!" the guard shouted. "Tie his hands. Good God, be quick before he starts again."

  Peter was locked in a gaol cell. The scarf was still crumpled in his hand, once more stained and bloodied.

  The chaplain came in an hour later. "Get on your knees."

  Peter fell to his knees. He spent the night there, his mind blank, his back aching and straining until he was trembling from the effort to stay upright. The in-defatigible minister droned on reading passages from the Bible and his book of prayers. Intermittently he stopped, placing his hand on Peters clammy brow. "Repent."

  "I repent."

  "Beg forgiveness of the Lord God, thy Savior."

  "I beg forgiveness."

  The minister looked at the barred window and saw finally the first muted shades of dawn. "I have spent the night with you, sinner, doing my best to make you aware of your depravity. Your immortal soul has been so blackened by the influence of Lucifer you were driven to take the life of a fellow Christian, loved by the Almighty Father."

  "He is dead?" Peter asked in a flat voice not really caring, except that he would hang if Roush died, and then it would be finished.

  "He is not dead, but very nearly so. You have been blessed with another opportunity to release yourself from the vicious evil of your sinful life. Repent," he said, hand on Peter's brow again, waiting.

  "Repent!" he repeated.

  "I repent." Peters head was down so the minister would not see his eyes grow watery and think he had been touched either by God or Lucifer. "I repent," he said again, barely audible.

  "Are you now willing to attend to the convictions of the Holy Spirit?"

  "I am."

  "May God see fit to bless your efforts to walk in holiness before the Lord. Fill the sense of vacuity of your mind with thoughts of Heavenly good."

  The minister ended his night's vigil. He turned with gravity toward the watchful sentry. "Sin has a dreadful hold on this mans soul. He cannot keep his thoughts toward the Lord, but perhaps we can take some comfort in faith that this night has made him see the error of his ways. I shall speak to the commandant after I have seen the other man involved. Perhaps God will grant that a glimmer of blessed enlightenment shall come of this night's work."

  The following morning Peter was taken to Grummet Rock. Grummet was one of several large rocks that dotted the area. Its dark craggy bulk protruded from the sea some distance from the mainland, solitary and stark. The guards shoved Peter ahead of them. He stood listlessly staring out at a flat slate ocean, drained of all thought and feeling. He paid little attention to the guards, but moved obediently when they ordered him. They fastened two iron rings connected by a short heavy chain around Peter's legs. In the middle of the chain was a leather strap, which split to^form a T, buckling around his waist. The entire contraption was affixed by another longer chain to an iron ring deeply set in the rock. Checking supplies from a list, they gave him an iron pot, and some wood and food rations for a week, then beleaguered him with tales of other men's experiences on Grummet Rock. Satisfied their assignment was duly discharged, they left him.

  Solitary confinement was not given lightly, as it kept a convict from working. Its duration was never

  less than one week and usually longer. It was used as a punishment only when flogging did not seem sufficient to quell the criminal spirit of a man.

  To the layman and the uninitiated, it seemed hardly credible that there were cells into which sane men could be solitarily confined from which they would emerge idiots. But it was true. Grummet Rock was one of them. One recalcitrant convict was chained to Grummet Rock for two years; a forgotten man who finally learned to forget.

  Either by mans design or nature's quirk, cell-like caves were gouged into the the rock side. It was into one of these Peter was put and left.

  Solitary meant little to him the first few hours. He watched the slow massive movements of the sea, then became mesmerized by the smaller swells within the larger heaving motions. He lay back relaxing against the warmth of the rock, his attention turning to the sky as the morning sun crept upward.

  Later he began to notice the heat of that sun. He walked around the rock as far as the chain would allow. The sun climbed higher. He removed his blue-striped prison shirt, then as the sun became merciless, put it on again. The surface of the dry rock glowed white. The sun blazed overhead shooting shards of blinding light off every wave. It beat down on his bare head, making his scalp prickle with sweat, then itch as it dried.

  The few thoughts and memories that haltingly began to form in his weary mind withered and died in the suns unrelenting assault. Peter moved restlessly, searching his surroundings, for what he knew not. He covered his throbbing head with his hands. Unable to stand still, wanting shelter from the sun, he continued his wandering around the rock, like a captive animal moving as far as the chain would allow. The heat

  made him irrationally angry. He attacked the chain, pulling on it in a determined rage to yank it from the rock. He was sweating, his head throbbing, his hands raw when he finally gave up, sinking to the hard, hot surface. He looked up into the painfully blue sky until his eyes hurt and teared. Alone on the rock there seemed to be nothing. He had no past. Living this day meant being consumed by a sun and a sky that had no end and no relation to man as he conceives living. To think of tomorrow was unendurable. To think at all was unendurable. He turned to his stomach, pressing his forehead against the hot surface, his eyes focusing mindlessly on the intricate grain of the rock. He fell asleep only to awaken from a dream that he was being branded again. The sun-hot metal of the irons burned into his ankles and wrists. Automatically he pulled at them, rubbing swollen welts from the heat and strain. Frustrated, feeling desperately trapped, he shouted obscenities at the sun and the sky. He stood on the rock screaming with an outraged soul until he had no voice left. Defeated and beaten, he crept inside to the cool dampness of the cave.

  The heat of the day vanished so quickly Peter thought he had only imagined it. Darkness fell over the rock and the ocean blinded him to the possibility that anything existed outside himself and the rock. Throughout the night the wind howled, roaring over the rock. He was sleepless, shivering from fright and cold as he guarded the small fire that the guards had started for him. The cold wet winds made the fire flicker, sending mad, hideous shadows dancing about the cave walls.

  Civilization was sheared from Peter. His disorientation was so complete he couldn't think what was real and what was not. Had he ever lived among people?

  Had he? Or had he dreamed it? Was it part of the longing dreams that tortured him?

  He was no longer sure. The enormity of his isolation on the rock filled his mind and terrorized his senses. The turbulent water had lost the sound of peaceful rhythm he had always associated with the sea. Wave after wind-driven wave thudded against the rock, showering water over the surface. The rock's surface was now black, its great bulk looking alive, its shiny slippery skin glowing in the darkness. Peter thought he could feel it move with the motion of the sea. Common sense told him he could see nothing outside the small golden circle of his fire, nor could he feel it move. But still he felt it, and his mind went mad imagining himself chained within the gaping mouth of a giant sea beast.

  In the morning, with the sun gentle and reliable in the sky, he felt better, even able to laugh at himself for his self-created nightmare monsters. He felt foolish, as though he had reverted back to childhood days when as a
little boy he would imagine goblins in the night shadows of his bedroom. But as the day wore on and the sun climbed to scorch him once more, and when his head began to pound with the heat, the goblins and monsters seemed more real than did his reasoned thinking. By afternoon despair had consumed him. He knew now what "alone" meant. It was not being lonely, nor was it merely being cut off from natural communication. It was this. It was being put on a solitary rock in the midst of a white watered sea beyond sight or sound of land or men. It was the greatest and deepest of all humiliations he had suffered. Thrust down on him was nature's total superiority to a lone man. He was less significant in the scheme of the universe than the rock on which he was

  chained. And he was made aware of his insignificance day and night.

  God had meant man to band with others of his kind. But Peter had been condemned to survive outside the family of man. And now he stood naked in the knowledge that he was nothing. He had been left to the wind and the elements, unwanted and undeserving of participation with humanity. To the civilized world he was as unnecessary as he was to nature. No one would gaze on him as they had when he was flogged on the triangles. Cruel though he had thought it then, their jeering curiosity had been a form of caring. They looked. They laughed at him. They exhorted his sinfulness. They had cared. Here, he was put away for no one to look at him, no one to care, no one to think of him, no one to know if he lived or died.

  Far in the distance Peter could see whales periodically. The great shining black beasts were beautiful at first sight. But, as with all his surroundings, they soon became threatening and fearsome, accentuating his isolation on the rock.

  That night his primitive imagination took hold of him again. Try as he would he couldn't keep hold of rational thought. He became certain the rock was being beaten away by the crashing angry sea. Every roaring sound became a piece of Grummet tumbling away into the ocean. In the pitch blank blackness of a starless night, he was sure there was nothing left but the small ledge of his cave. Cursing himself for his primitive fears, he cowered at the back of the cave afraid to go to its edge to prove his fears false.

  The third day he spent his time outside the cave, not watching the movement of the water which now frightened him, but peering instead at the surface of the sea. He searched the horizon for anything that

  moved, any sight that meant someone was near. He saw nothing all that day.

  By nightfall he was claustrophobic and nearly hysterical. The monsters came nearer. The walls of the cave closed in on him, and the sea terrified him. He prayed that night, begging to be allowed to write the letters he had never written, pleading to be allowed to see another human being, promising to repent in any way anyone asked of him. He dredged up every sin of his life, hating himself, fearing that he had forgotten some evil of his character that would prevent him from being absolved. He cried and prayed throughout the night until the words he spoke were not words at all.

  The fourth day was as empty as the preceding one. And he feared that God too had abandoned him. Not one ship was seen, no rowing boat, no man, no whale, nothing. Nothing. For as far as he could see there was nothing. He couldn't stop trembling. The blazing heat of the sun no longer bothered him. He didn't even realize it was there. He was cold so deep inside that no heat could touch him. He stared at the edge of the rock considering throwing himself over its side, no longer able to reason that it couldn't be done due to the chain that anchored him to the rock.

  That night Peter felt an inner agony he couldn't begin to identify for it touched too deep within. He hurt physically and mentally for the presence of another human being. He could endure the knowledge of his worthlessness. His strength had no meaning for it was too puny to meet the challenge of wind, sea, or sun. His mind and language were useless for there was no one and nothing to understand. He needed someone to understand with a passion so deep and driven it was beyond thought. He needed someone in order to be real himself. He clawed at the sky, then at the cave

  walls, his body writhing in the pain of loneliness. Crying, he lay flat on the floor of the cave, touching every part of his body, trying to imagine it was some-ope other than himself he touched and who touched him.

  The fifth day he spent like an animal on all fours, trying to seek out any warm spot on the rock, imagining it was the warmth of human skin. He kissed the rock, his hands roving over the grain, feeling the curves of its rough surface sensual and pleasurable against his own pliant body.

  During the night he was cold. The fire had gone out. He couldn't see anything inside the cave. The sea lashed with a cold heartless fury. Peter curled in a tight ball against the back of the cave wall, going mad.

  On the sixth day two guards came to drop off new supplies. Peter sprang from the cave as the guard climbed up the edge of the rock. He grabbed hold of the man's hand, laughing and kissing it. The guard slapped him back-handed across the mouth. Peter fell to the rock kissing the man's feet.

  From below in the boat, the other guard called to his partner. "He all right?"

  "Berean?" The guard laughed.

  "Yes ... is he alive?"

  "Sure he's alive. Bonkers as a loon in May. CTmon up here and take a look. I'd never have thought Be-rean would take solitary this way."

  The other man began to climb the rock. Once his head and shoulders were above the surface, he stopped. He made a face of disgust at Peter groveling at the guard's feet* "Get in the boat. We'll report it to the commandant."

  "Shouldn't we take him back? They're never going to get him back to work if we don't get him off this

  rock. They say he can work like a team of oxen if they give him enough of the lash. They're not going to want to lose him."

  "We've got no orders to release him. Get back in the boat."

  The other guard stood for a moment, fascinated by Peter. "Funny which ones solitary breaks. Take Be-rean here, a-loner from the start. The triangles didn't do a thing to him. The arrogant son of a bitch just took his medicine and went back to work as unrepentant as ever. Six days on Grummet and look at him. He's a pussycat. Come here, Berean. Let Gene get a good look at you."

  Like an obedient dog Peter got to his feet, standing as near the rock's edge as his chain would allow.

  "Don't stand near him, you fool. You don't know what he'll do. He damn near killed the last man he attacked," Gene said.

  "Ahhh, he's not going to do anything, are you, Berean? Look, he loves me." The guard reached out touching Peter. Peter stood, his eyes closed in ecstasy. The guard jumped down to the ledge of the rock and got back into the boat.

  Peter opened his eyes, staring in horror. "Don't leave me! Please! Don't leave me."

  They could hear him screaming as they rowed back to the mainland.

  Four days later they returned for Peter. The commandant had finally ordered his release and considered it a favor, for his solitary was to have lasted two weeks. He was being released after ten days.

  By the time the guards returned for Peter, he was afraid of them. He was afraid they weren't real. He was afraid they were more of the strange creatures who had begun to haunt him, airy men and women

  who danced before his eyes and reached out with warm hands until he leapt to his feet trying to embrace them; and then they disappeared, leaving him alone grasping the air.

  He had learned the air people would stay with him as long as he didn't attempt to touch them. Any company was better than none. He forced down the desire to be touched, taking comfort in the fact that the air people at least shared his solitude by being there.

  As the guards came forward to release Peter's chains, he backed fearfully away from them. He didn't dare let them touch him. By their touch they would vanish, and he'd be alone. He could no longer stand being alone. He'd give up anything rather than be alone. With disorderly speed, thoughts flashed through his mind. The air people were trying to trick him into touching them. They wanted release from this loneliness as he did. They wanted release. Only he had the power to release them
. He wouldn't give it Power exercised by the powerless. He laughed, delighting in his newfound eminence. Cunningly he sat back and watched the guards from the corner of his eye so they wouldn't know he saw. As long as they didn't know how badly he wanted them near him, they wouldn't be so likely to leave him.

  The guards finally had to rush him, pinning him to the ground. One held him screaming and writhing as the other took the chains from him. To make him manageable they had to bind him hand and foot and carry him to the boat. Peter lay in the bottom of the boat raving and crying in rage and despair all the way back to Sarah Island.

  The doctor sedated him and put him in one of the solitary cells in the prison hospital. When they had him reasonably calm, he was examined by the doctor and found to be sound of body considering that he

  had eaten virtually nothing. He had hoarded his food fearing the day he would have no more and no one would ever return to him. As to his mind, the doctor shrugged, unconcerned. "Most of them get over it sooner or later. He is a life-term man, isn't he? Well, then, youVe no worry. He's better off as he is. He obeys what he's told, so he understands. You'll get many a good day's work from him."

  When Peter returned to the barracks there were three letters waiting for him. Two were from Stephen telling him of the May house, and one was from Callie telling him about Hobart Town, but he was incapable of reading them. He stared at the letters, not even daring to pick them up. He was as frightened of them as he was of everything else.

  The criminal spirit of Peter Berean was broken. It was hoped that conversion would follow.

  Peter was sent back to the sawmill the next day. In the harness he found security. In the work he found a mindless solidity that helped camouflage the deep despair of being despicable and alone*

  Chapter 37