ABEL’S ISLAND
William Steig
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For Jeanne
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Copyright
1
Early in August 1907, the first year of their marriage, Abel and Amanda went to picnic in the woods some distance from the town where they lived. The sky was overcast, but Abel didn’t think it would be so inconsiderate as to rain when he and his lovely wife were in the mood for an outing.
They enjoyed a pleasant lunch in the sunless woods, sharing delicate sandwiches of pot cheese and watercress, along with hard-boiled quail egg, onions, olives, and black caviar. They toasted each other, and everything else, with a bright champagne which was kept cool in a bucket of ice. Then they played a jolly game of croquet, laughing without much reason, and they continued laughing as they relaxed on a carpet of moss.
When this happy nonsense got boring, Amanda crawled under a fern to read and Abel went off by himself for a bit. Roaming among the trees, admiring the verdure, he saw a crowd of daisies clustered above him, like gigantic stars, and decided to cut one down and present his wife with a pretty parasol.
He was already smiling at the little joke he would make as he held it over her head. He chose a perfect daisy and, using his handkerchief to avoid being soiled by the sap, carefully cut through the stem with his penknife.
The daisy over his shoulder, he sallied back toward his wife, very pleased with himself. It grew windy rather suddenly, and some rain fell, wherever it could through the foliage. It was hard to hold on to the flower.
His wife was under the fern exactly where he’d left her, absorbed in the life of her book. “I have something for you,” he said, lifting the tip of the fern. Amanda looked up at him with large, puzzled eyes, as if a page of words had unaccountably turned into her husband. A sharp gust of wind tore the daisy from his grasp.
“It’s raining,” Amanda observed.
“Indeed it is!” said Abel indignantly as the rain fell harder. It flailed down while they tried to gather their things. They huddled under Abel’s jacket, he offended at the thoughtless weather, she worried, both hoping the downpour would soon let up. It didn’t. It grew worse.
Tired of waiting, and of wondering where all that water came from, they decided to make a break for it. With the jacket over them, they headed for home, leaving their picnic behind, but they could make little progress against the wind. There was some angry thunder and dazzling flares of lightning near and far. “Dear one,” cried Abel, “we must find shelter! Anywhere!” They stopped bucking the wind and ran skeltering with it, in dismay.
Clinging together, they ran, or were blown, through the woods, and eventually came up against a great, rocky cliff that shimmered in the pounding rain. They could be blown no farther.
The shelter they’d been seeking was very close. “Up here!” some voices called. “Up here!” Abel and Amanda looked up. Not far above them was the opening of a cave from which various furry faces peered out. They clambered together up into the cave, greatly relieved and panting for breath.
2
The cave was full of chattering animals who’d been lucky enough to find this haven. There were several mice that Abel and Amanda knew, and a family of toads they had once met at a carnival; all the rest were strangers. A weasel was off by himself in a corner, saying his prayers over and over.
Abel and Amanda were welcomed by all, and congratulations passed around. The storm raged as if it had lost its mind completely. The damp occupants of the cave stood close together in the vaulted entrance like actors who had played their parts and could now watch the rest of the show from the wings. The storm was turning into a full-fledged, screaming hurricane. Huge trees were bent by furious blasts of wind, branches broke, thunder volleyed, and crazy shafts of lightning zigzagged in the dark, steamy sky.
Abel and Amanda stood in the forefront of the group, entranced by the fearsome drama. Amanda craned forward to watch an oak topple, when suddenly the wind tore from her neck the scarf of gauze she was wearing, and this airy web of stuff flew like a ghost from the mouth of the cave. Abel gawked in horror, as if Amanda herself had been rudely snatched away.
He dashed out impulsively. To no avail, Amanda tried to stop him. “Abelard!” she screamed. She always used his full name when she thought he was acting foolish. He slid, unheeding, down the slope of rock.
The scarf hooked onto a bramble, from which he retrieved it, but when he tried to climb back with his trophy, the wind walloped and sent him spinning like weightless tumbleweed, his sweetheart’s scarf in his paw. Helpless, unable even to struggle, he tucked in his head and was whirled along, shocked and bewildered.
Heaven knows how far he was hustled in this manner, or how many rocks he caromed off on his way. He did no thinking. He only knew it was dark and windy and wet, and that he was being knocked about in a world that had lost its manners, in a direction, as far as he could tell, not north, south, east, or west, but whatever way the wind had a mind to go; and all he could do was wait and learn what its whims were.
Its whim was to fling him against a huge nail, where he fastened with all his strength. The nail was stuck in a fragment of board that had once been part of a large animal’s house, and the fragment of board was embedded in a gully full of gravel. Abel clung to the nail and to Amanda’s scarf, fighting the wind, whose force seemed to increase when he stopped riding with it.
The torrent of wet air tearing past made breathing difficult. Abel stuffed Amanda’s scarf into his inner pocket and buried his head under his blazer. He soon found himself haunch-deep in a swelling stream. Rain had filled the gully and a heavy flow of muddy water loosened his board from its gravel mooring. He went sailing along, spinning this way and that, drilled with a trillion bullets of rain. Whatever happened no longer surprised him. It was all as familiar as one’s very worst dreams.
It was definitely night now. He could see nothing, not his own paw in front of his face, but he knew he was moving swiftly upon his board. Soon he sensed he was in a river. In the immense darkness he could hear only wind and, all around him, rain falling into water.
A new sound slowly emerged, the murmur of roiling foam. His boat was moving toward it, and it rose to a turbulent roar. Then, with no advance notice, the boat tilted vertically and shot downward on what he was sure was a waterfall. Plunged deep in the water below, he fought against drowning; then, still hugging his nail, he rose slowly into a maelstrom of churning river, gasping for indrafts of air. Never had he been subjected to such rude treatment. How long could it last? How long, he wondered, could he abide it?
As if to answer that question, his craft shot forward again and he was pitched, jerked, and bandied about by the writhing, charging stream. His boat capsized, then righted itself and began turning over and over; each time his exasperated head bobbed up, he gasped for his possibly final breath. His fortitude amazed him.
Suddenly, thump! He was no longer moving. His craft had struck
an unyielding mass and stuck in it. He had no idea, in the blackness, where in the world he was—it was any wet, windy where. He could feel the heavy water hurrying past him, tugging at his clothes. Drenched, cold, exhausted, he still held on to his nail, but the water pressing him against it allowed him to ease his grip, and it was a relief.
The wind still screamed, the rain still pelted, the river still raged, but he felt in some sort of harbor. Momentarily moored, wherever it was, he was able to wonder about Amanda. She was surely safe in the cave, among friends. She would be worrying about him, of course, but he would be getting back to her as soon as he could. This was the weirdest experience of his life. He could never forget it. Never forget it … never forget … But for the moment he did. Merciful sleep shrouded his senses.
He slept curled around the rusty nail, wind and rain drubbing his tired young body.
3
Abel slept for fourteen hours. When his eyes opened, he was startled to find he was not where he ought to be; that is, in bed with his wife, Amanda. There was no wife; there were no walls. There was only a dazzling brightness in a landscape such as he had never seen. It was midafternoon.
As always after a hurricane, the atmosphere was crystal clear. He was now able to see his boat, the piece of board with the rusty nail that had probably saved his life. It was lodged in the uppermost branches of a tree that was mainly submerged in the river. Above was an endless cerulean blue. Below, water flowed swiftly, sparkling like champagne in the sun. The water was all around him, but some distance to his left, and some distance to his right, more trees stuck up out of the water, and beyond the trees on both sides the ground rose into wooded hills. Turning around, he saw behind him the waterfall over which he had plunged.
His tree seemed to be in the middle of the river. There was no doubt he was on an island. The rain must have ended shortly after he fell asleep, and during that time the flood had crested. It had already subsided some, or else he would not be as far above the water as he was. He would be able to descend to solid ground when the river fell farther.
He stood up, stretching, and winced; all his muscles ached. He had to sit down again. He wished Amanda was with him, or, better yet, he with her. As far as he could tell, apart from the trees, he was the only living thing between the horizons. He let out his loudest “Halloo-oo-oo-oo,” then listened. There was no response, not even an echo.
The state of his clothes disturbed him. Damp and lumpy, they no longer had style. That would be corrected as soon as possible. He stared into the distance and speculated. “They’re all wondering where I am, of course. Many I don’t even know are wondering. It’s certainly gotten around that Abelard Hassam di Chirico Flint, of the Mossville Flints, is missing.”
It was distressing to consider the misery and anxiety his absence was causing those who cared. Search parties were surely out, but they wouldn’t be anywhere near him. How could they even begin to guess what had happened: that, by freak chance, rain had formed a rivulet around a sort of boat he had boarded accidentally, that the rivulet, swelling, had taken him into a stream, the stream had carried him into a river, the river had rushed him over a waterfall, and that he was now where he was, on his boat at the top of a tree, on an island, in whatever river this was.
When the water subsided, he would descend and go home—and what a story he’d have to tell! Meanwhile, he wished he had something to eat—a mushroom omelet, for example, with buttered garlic toast. Being hungry in addition to being marooned like this was really a bit too much. Absent-mindedly, he nibbled at a twig on his branch. Ah, cherry birch! One of his favorite flavors. The familiar taste made him feel a little more at home on his roost in the middle of nowhere.
He munched on the bark of a tender green shoot, his cheek filled with the pulp and the juice. He was eating. He sat there, vaguely smug, convinced that he had the strength, the courage, and the intelligence to survive. His eyes glazed over and he returned to sleep.
4
Abel awoke early in the morning, a new mouse after his second spell of healing slumber. Stretching felt good. It struck him that his landscape had changed. There were trees in his vicinity, all around him. His boat had been stopped by a towering one near the river’s edge.
Looking below, he saw that his tree towered not only because it was tall but because it stood on a rocky prominence. The water had returned to its proper level. In many places the grass was flattened, half buried in silt and gravel. Otherwise, it seemed a normal world.
He climbed to the very top of his tree and made a survey. He was indeed on an island. He could see the waterfall and river above; he was on one side of the island, by one fork of the river, and through the trees he could make out the fork on the opposite side; way below, he could see where the two forks rejoined. No one was anywhere visible.
It was time to be getting home. He started descending the birch, and in another moment he was grinning like an idiot. He was climbing down a tree he had never climbed up! Amanda would enjoy hearing about this. She had a sense of humor almost as sharp as his.
How good to be standing on solid earth again. He did some quick knee bends and ran around the tree just for the joy of the free movement. Then he sat on a stone, his elbows on his knees, and looked up and down the river. Perhaps by now they had managed to figure out what had happened to him and would be turning up in a boat, or something, after all. He waited, and to keep himself amused, he hummed snatches of his favorite cantata and imagined how he would narrate his adventures. He would be quite matter-of-fact, especially about the parts where he had shown courage and endurance; he would leave the staring and gasping to his audience.
No one turned up and Abel realized he’d been expecting too much. They’d never look for him here. Well, he would have to cross the river, one way or another. He ran to the other side of the island; perhaps the river was narrower there. It was wider. He ran back. He removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and waded into the water to try the current.
No, it would be impossible to reach the far shore by swimming, even though he was a competent swimmer. The rush of water was much too strong. He’d be dashed against a rock, or dragged under and drowned.
He needed a boat of some sort. How about his board and nail? Perhaps he could do something with that. He climbed his tree, dislodged the board, and followed it down when it fell to the ground. He stood over it muttering to himself, thoughtfully fingering a filament of his mustache. How could he navigate this crude piece of wood? With a rudder! If he held the rudder at an acute angle, the boat would gradually work its way to the opposite shore. That would be bending the power of the stream to his own ends.
With a stick he scratched a diagram in the sand. It was a long rectangle, the river, crossed by a long diagonal, the course his boat would take. He should eventually land on the other side, much farther downstream. He was pleased with the way his mind was working.
He managed to tear a flat strip of wood from a nearby log and with his pearl-handled penknife whittled a shapely handle. The nail would help him keep the rudder firmly in position. Now he put on his shoes and socks, arranged his clothes as neatly as he could, and edged his boat into the water. It was really much too long since he’d seen Amanda. Since their wedding they had not been apart for as much as a day.
He got aboard, pushed off from the shore with his rudder, and quickly braced it against the nail, holding the handle firmly in his paws. The rudder worked! He was moving away from the bank. Then the boat reached the powerful current farther out. It began to bobble and buck. Abel’s rudder shuddered in his paws, though he used all his strength to hold it steady. His knees bobbled and bucked with the boat as it sped along, snaking its way in the writhing grooves of the stream. It pitched left, then right, then the rudder was wrenched from his grasp; and now he was no longer a helmsman but a stunned passenger on a bit of flotsam at the mercy of the rampaging water.
His boat skedaddled up to a rock, hit it catty-cornered, and spun, and Abel
was suddenly in the water, without his boat, borne along like a limp rag.
By good fortune, instead of being carried past the island and down the river, he was able to catch hold of a low-hanging streamer of weeping willow and pull himself ashore. The whole ordeal had lasted just a minute.
He ambled back to his starting point near the cherry birch, his toes turned awkwardly in. The mess of wet clothes he wore added to his sense of ineptitude and shame; he was used to their being dry and pressed. Where had he erred, he wondered. He should have bound the rudder to the nail, of course. He had been too hasty in his preparations, and he had underestimated the force of the rapids.
He would have to design and build a real boat, not a raft like the piece of board that had just quit his company. Perhaps it should be a sailboat; his jacket might serve as a sail. The rudder this time would be firmly secured through a hole in the stern.
The sailboat so clearly envisioned, some confidence returned. He felt a bit proud, even in his wet pants. He found a piece of driftwood, somewhat disgusting since it had been gnawed and bored and channeled by lower forms of life. But he couldn’t afford to be overly sensitive now. He dragged the driftwood to the edge of the water. It would be the bottom of his boat. He washed his paws.
Next he peeled three large sections of bark from a dead tree, and shaped them for the sides by bending and breaking them on the straight edge of a rock. He collected a great deal of tough grass and fashioned lengths of rope by tying the ends together. When he thought he had enough of this rope, he began cutting grooves in the driftwood.
It was slow work with the small penknife. Not thinking, he fell to using his teeth. What? He drew back for a moment, in revulsion. Then he continued to gnaw away. He had never before gnawed on anything but food. But the grooves were done in no time, and he didn’t honestly mind the taste of the somewhat decayed wood.
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