by Ronan Cray
“C’mon Carter. Keep up,” she shouted as Carter stumbled at the front of the litter. Her rescuers weren’t waiting for stragglers, as if they wanted to be off the beach as fast as she did. Sand doubled the effort required to walk. The early morning sun had already heated the sand intolerably. Her heels blistered with every step.
Since the boats landed as close to the cliffs as possible, they followed a steep upward path. The red wall loomed over them. Strategically placed stones held the sand in place, but it was a far cry from a staircase. Going up was even harder carrying Max. All those yoga classes paid off. She hadn’t built the perfect body for nothing.
She looked up the line. It wasn’t hard to spot the natives. Bright white hair sprouted from every native head. Either they were all old, or Steve Martin had a fan base here.
There were so few survivors. Her boat crew joined another at the beach, making twelve. Most in the other boat were as overweight as Howie. It seemed the only people who survived floated without life jackets, but, then, statistically those who frequented cruise ships were not the adventurous type. Where was Howie, anyway? He must be at the front of the line.
She could see a third boat emptying half-clothed survivors down the beach. That made a total of eighteen. The rest of the boats only carried debris and salvage.
Eighteen souls out of 1200. Incredible. She thought maybe the boats would go back out for more, but already the White Hairs were stowing them in a cave below the massive red wall.
Two million dollars. Two million dollars. She repeated it to herself to keep going. She had to stay alive for it.
They reached the base of the red wall. As they approached, Lauren was shocked. It was man-made. The walls were fifteen feet high, massive and thick, and seemed to demarcate the divide between sand dunes and lava flats. The sand piled up against it, assaulting it, but unable to scale it. The wind exposed black scars of lava at its base. The wall glistened as if wet. It had a deep red hue with veins of orange and white marbling as if built of frozen cubes of beef, reminding Lauren of the Bodies exhibit she’d seen in New York.
“What is the wall made of?” Lauren whispered.
Carter stretched his fingers out from the oar and scraped his fingernails against the wall. He frowned. He couldn’t lift his hand to inspect the fragments without tipping Max out. Instead, he leaned over and licked the wall.
“Salt!”
They followed the base of the wall for some time, heading inland. Finally they reached a portal. To the right, another trail led off into the heart of the dunes. The sturdy oaken hull of a rowboat formed double doors. As the party approached, two men with spears and large, heavy bags at their waists silently opened the doors from the inside. After they passed, the two guards bolted the doors shut again.
Just on the other side of the wall lay a heap of clothing like the sale bin at a thrift store. Lauren and Carter put Max down. She couldn’t wait to put on something with sleeves to ward off biting insects. Carter tempered her delight when he observed, “It looks like Dachau. Where did all these clothes come from?”
For the next ten minutes, they all played dress-up, digging through the pile for clothes that fit. Lauren settled for a white dress-shirt and a pair of shorts. She preferred flip-flops to shoes. Carter took one look at her outfit and said with a straight face, “Laundry day?”
Emily couldn’t find anything small enough for her, so she draped herself in an oversized University of Maryland t-shirt, sporting a grinning turtle in a fighting stance. Mason grabbed a pair of jeans, a blue t-shirt, and some white tennis shoes. Somehow Carter managed to dress sharply, the cleanest of them all. They felt almost civilized again.
While dressing, they took in the view. At best, Lauren hoped to find a modern village of stone huts with tin roofs and an army of children to greet them. She’d seen that in a movie once. Instead, an expanse of lava fields stretched out to the horizon like the negative of a frozen river. To the right, toward the cliffs of the volcano, what looked like a junk yard huddled in the shade. As their party trudged closer, she could make out individual units, dwellings, cobbled together from randomly shaped panels in all different colors and states of environmental degradation. The wind rustled tattered sheets of plastic across this shanty town.
A band of five White Haired men approached from the village. The White Hairs left the line and joined their cohorts. They were a ragged bunch, but their clothes were civilized. One of them, apparently the leader, stood out in a starched but discolored white suit.
Lauren’s heart dropped. These were not natives. They were survivors. All hope of rescue abandoned her.
The leader stepped forward, arms wide. “Welcome to our island! Here you are safe!”
An American! He had a strong, masculine voice with no hint of accent. Nevertheless, it felt like a lie. He seemed to have a whole speech prepared, like a merchant who starts his negotiations high.
“Whatever unfortunate circumstance has brought you to us, we welcome you. We will try to make you as comfortable as possible during your stay. Many ships pass our shores, and I’m certain we can find you passage home shortly.
“We will do everything we can to help you. You will have water and food. I will show you our beautiful island, and you will be given a place to stay. Come!”
He waved them forward, and the group of survivors came.
Up close, the ramshackle housing was not much more organized. A ceiling of fiberglass, aluminum, steel, and plastic sheets sat on piers and walls of salt blocks and debris. Some had been painted while others rusted. Theirs had not been the first shipwreck, apparently.
The line entered a low building to the far right, close to where the salt wall died into the mountain. Lauren and Carter came up last. Two burly men stopped them and asked them to put down the litter. “What’s wrong with him?” they asked, indicating Max.
Lauren answered. “Not much. Norovirus. He’ll recover if he gets some liquids.”
“We have a doctor. We’ll take him.”
They pushed past her and lifted the stretcher. She followed after them.
“Ma’am, please enter the dining hall. We’ll take care of your friend.”
She didn’t fully trust them with Max, but the words ‘dining hall’ caught her attention. Food! Max was on his own.
Upon entering, she expected a dark hut, so she was surprised to find a richly furnished wood paneled room, sunlit from above through heavy sheets of clear plastic skylights. A long table filled with food and drink stretched through the center of the room. Huge shells held fruits and vegetables of every variety. Crystal wine glasses overflowed with water and a brownish liquid that looked like wine. It felt more like a club than an island shanty.
Sitting down, however, the chimera burst. The wood paneling warped from water damage. Under the shells, the leaking ceiling left large yellow stains on the tablecloth. There were no fruits, after all, only vegetables. Dangerously chipped and foggy crystal goblets held a brown alcoholic liquid smelling of regurgitation.
Lauren sat next to Carter. She felt close to him, having spent the last few strenuous hours beside him. She wondered if he felt the same.
The door opened and the final six survivors straggled in, bewildered.
Mason leapt to his feet beside Lauren. His self-contented smile melted into a look of trepidation, even fear. His eyes fixated on one of the survivors walking in, a man. That man, too, stopped cold at the threshold. They stared each other down like old enemies. The man got over his initial surprise and then casually took his seat.
“You two know each other?” asked Lauren.
Mason spoke first, “We met briefly on the boat.” Then, turning to the man, he asked, “How’s your wife?” He did not ask it cordially.
“I don’t have a wife,” said the man.
No one knew what to make of the tension in the room. A White Hair delivering a bottle of water tripped, spilling the contents over a young woman beside Mason. The other survivors clapped and laughed w
ith derision. She stood up, dripping wet. Mason turned his attention to her and gave her a napkin he held in his hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Amy. Thanks. I feel like such a fool.”
“Not at all.” Mason dabbed her dripping hair with one hand. He held another napkin in his free hand, but he didn’t dry her with it. Instead, he made a quick motion with his wrist. The motion replaced a dinner knife on the table, secretly. He had been expecting some kind of trouble. Mason wasn’t the innocent fool Lauren took him for. Whoever that man was, they clearly had a history. She vowed to keep an eye on these two.
While the survivors seated themselves, men in ragged clothes, residents of the island, stood against the walls, watching. They looked, not native, but Western, like her, as if they were all from somewhere in North America. Survivors from another ship, perhaps?
Desperate for sustenance, she spent little time thinking about them. One of the natives approached them with water in a green glass wine bottle. The water, at least, was pure luxury. She drank her glass empty. After she downed another glass, she offered some to Carter. He had his own. Immediately she felt guilty, like a kid who ate before saying grace. She was happy to see the other survivors had the same table manners, ravenously tearing into the vegetable bowls.
Lauren had never been so happy to see food. The variety was lacking, but what they had, they had in abundance. Cucumbers and carrots surrounded a delicious looking mountain of mashed potatoes. The survivors grew animated, boisterous even.
“I am Tuk.” The white haired gentleman in a faded white suit stood up at the head of the table. “Welcome to our Island.” He spread his hands and paused for conversation to die down.
“I know you’re exhausted. You haven’t slept or eaten for hours. Many of you are still in shock, wondering if this is a bad dream you’ll wake from. The rest of you are hoping it is. I’m sorry to say you’ll feel even worse tomorrow.
“You are not the first survivors here, nor will you be the last. These are dangerous waters. We are accustomed to having guests.
“We have food and water for you. Tonight you will stay in Departure Camp. It was designed for survivors who wash up on our island. While it may not have the comforts of home, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble sleeping there.
“I apologize that I can’t let you rest for long. Tonight you’ll sleep like the dead, but tomorrow you’ll be put to work. We are a small group. Eighteen new mouths nearly doubles the work necessary to feed us all. We ask that while you are our guests you share in that work. I won’t lie to you. It won’t be easy for those of you who are used to twenty first century comforts. We are living in the stone age here. The only consolation is that few people remain on this island long.
“We regret that we could only rescue eighteen of you, but you are our welcome guests. Take part in our meal, and you will be part of our family.
“We have only two rules.
“Rule number one: Work, and you shall eat. While difficult, you will find this an interesting departure from your everyday lives. We deal in absolutes here. Rather than work for an abstract like money, you will work for the immediate reward of sustenance. There are no rich or poor here, only the living and the dead. The good news is, you'll lose weight. There are no carbs on this island. We're on a strict meat and vegetables Paleo diet. Hard work, sunshine, and healthy food - I'm telling you. No one will recognize you when you get home lean, tan, and looking good. Think of it as a free diet camp!
“Rule number two: no complaints. I do not tolerate whining on this island. We’re all aware of how terrible and uncivilized conditions may seem here. We’re all thinking the same thoughts. We are all uncomfortable, in pain, hot, hungry, tired, or suffering from any of a number of ailments. It’s a way of life here. Speaking those thoughts out loud only decreases morale. In conditions like these, low morale means low survival rates. We will deal with anyone who complains in the harshest possible way.”
He paused to let that sink in. The men bridled, and Lauren felt, even in her weakened state, a sense of rebellion… mixed with fear.
The White Hairs were a rough looking bunch. The two large men standing behind Tuk could break an average man in half. Even the smaller ones sported lean, bronzed bodies cut from solid oak. By comparison, her gym hardened body felt domesticated.
“I don’t mean that unkindly. We’ve lived here a long time now, and these are rules we’ve lived by. Literally. Now, since my goal is to keep morale high…” Two men approached the table with silver plates piled high with steaming meat - rack of lamb, barbecued to perfection. The delicious smell overwhelmed them.
“Please eat your fill and regain your strength. Survival is not for the weak or the hungry.”
His words were drowned out as the survivors lunged toward the plates. They slurped the meat off the bones.
“What is this?” Lauren asked, snapping open a rib and sucking the marrow.
“Who cares!” Emily said. “It’s delicious!”
“Lamb, I think,” replied Carter. “They must have sheep on the island.”
When the plates were nearly exhausted and a soporific silence settled on the table, Tuk stood up again. “I know it’s hard to recognize right now, but you're having an adventure.” Lauren glanced at Mason, who smiled as if vindicated. Tuk continued, “As bad as it may seem now, you will look back some day as if these were the best days of your lives. Back home, you have only boredom to look forward to. Others will beg you to tell this story to relieve their own boredom - first the media, for people you don't know, then the strangers in your home town, and then a smaller and smaller number of people who care less and less about you. One day, as you approach old age, and this becomes the only story you tell others, you will realize that this moment," he pounded his fist on the table, “THIS moment, was the only moment you were ever truly alive. Enjoy it, my friends! It is a gift!
The table fell into a contemplative silence. Lauren watched Mason stand up. “Mr. Tuk, thank you for your kindness. The food and drink are wonderful, and your hospitality is appreciated. You mentioned you rescued eighteen people, but there are only seventeen of us here. Our friend Howie is missing. Would you please help us find him?”
One of the men against the wall muttered, “That was fast.”
Lauren had been so absorbed in self-preservation that she had ignored her promise to watch after her other boat mates. She hadn’t even noticed that Howard was missing, which, in retrospect, should have been obvious at a dinner table.
Tuk answered, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t take roll call. I’ll send my men to look for him.” He waved two men out of the room immediately.
Mason made as if to go with them. Tuk stopped him, “No, please. My men will look for your friend. You will be of more help to him when you are rested and well fed. If there is anything else I can do for you, please let me know.”
“I want to be sure Max is okay.”
“Certainly he is. We have a medical man on the island who is looking at him now. So, please, don’t worry. Enjoy your meal.”
Lauren couldn’t help but think this was the best meal of her life. She’d never tasted vegetables so fresh. The water felt like drinking mountain air. The ribs were divine. It was a much more tender meat than she’d tasted before. She guessed it was goat, not mutton.
Tuk spoke loudly, smiling, giving the servers a moment to retreat:
“We have been here six years,” he began, which immediately elicited a horrified gasp from the survivors. Would they be here so long? “By choice, I should add. Like you, our ship foundered and left us here, stranded, on this island. While the first few months were difficult, we decided to stay, to cut our ties with home and remain in this place for the rest of our lives. That may seem strange to you, now, but we’ve carved out an original life for ourselves on this rock. A life without masters, without bills, without rules but those of our own making, an only two of those, as I have explained.
“Why? I
’m sure you’re thinking that very question. Ships pass by this island regularly. Why would we choose to forego rescue in favor of these…. primitive conditions?
“By way of explanation, let me tell you a story. There was an executive on vacation in Mexico at a resort by a small fishing village. One morning, he happened across one of the local fisherman coming back from the sea. He asked the man, ‘How long do you work each day?’ The man answered that it only took him three hours to catch the fish he needed to feed his family. ‘What do you do the rest of the day?’ The man replied that he plays with his children, takes a nap, walks with his wife on the beach, and eats the fish for dinner with his family and friends. The executive is shocked. He says, ‘Don’t you realize, if you worked even six hours a day, you could double your income. You could hire another fisherman to help you, which would increase your output even more. Eventually you could buy a boat to catch even more fish. After that, you could afford to employ everyone in your village, hire a fleet of boats, open a factory. Eventually you could retire rich in a big mansion by the sea.’
“’What would I do then?’ asked the fisherman,
“’Why, anything you want!’ said the executive. ‘You’d have time to play with your children, take a nap, walk on the beach with your wife, and spend time with your friends and family.’
“’But, Senor, that is what I do now.’ Each were convinced the other was a complete fool.
“I heard this story years ago at a conference, but I never really understood it until we found ourselves reaching for fish with our own two hands. Now, we work harder than three hours a day of course, but that work is our own.” He held out his hands. “I eat what I catch with these hands. Every moment not spent obtaining sustenance, is my own.”
“I know all of you want to get home as soon as possible, but while you’re here I hope you understand that we’ve been able to find a home here, in this place, on this island, that we were never able to find out there. We are happy to share that with you.”