Wherever he went about the island, he wore Amanda’s scarf around his neck, the ends tied in a knot. He would not leave it in the log.
8
It was September when Abel evolved another scheme for getting home. He would catapult himself across the stream. With his clothes stuffed full of grass for a cushioned landing, using a small stump as a winch, he tried with a rope to bend a sapling down to the ground so it could fling him over the water. But he managed to bend it only two and a half tails. That was all the wood yielded to his strength. So this scheme, too, miscarried.
A few days later he succeeded in making fire. He had learned about the primitive methods in school, but he had never tried for himself. After a series of failures, he finally found the right kind of stick to twirl in the right piece of dry wood, and the right kind of tinder to flare with the first flame. His fires were as magical to him as they had been to his prehistoric ancestors.
He first used his fires for smoke beacons, to attract the attention of some civilized being who might just possibly be among the trees on the far shores. When he had a fire burning, he would partially cover it with damp leaves so that it sent up a thick white smoke.
He learned to roast his seeds by placing them on rocks close to the fire. Later he was able to cook various vegetables, flavored with wild garlic or onions, in pots made of a reddish clay from the lower end of the island. The clay was baked hard in prolonged, intense firing.
He also made paper-thin bowls of this clay, and from time to time he would float one down the river with a note in it, and a flower or sprig of grass sticking out to attract notice. One of his notes:
Whoever finds this: Please forward it to my wife, Amanda di Chirico Flint, 89 Bank Street, Mossville.
DEAREST ANGEL—I am ALIVE! I am alone on an island, marooned, somewhere above where this note will be found, God willing. There is a tall cherry birch on the northern end of the island. The island is about 12,000 tails long and is below a waterfall. Do not worry, but send help.
My utmost and entire love,
ABEL
Whoever finds this, please send help too. I will be able to give a substantial reward.
Sometimes Abel would climb to the top of his birch, or some other tree, and wave his white shirt up and down, and back and forth, for many minutes, hoping that someone would make a miraculous appearance, return his signal, and come to the rescue. There was no point in yelling; the river was too noisy for his halloos to carry.
During the equinoctial rains, he spent the whole of a dismal day indoors, listening to the unceasing downpour on the outside of his log, watching it through his door and through portholes he had made—the infinite pall of falling rain, the sagging, wet vegetation, the drops dripping from everything as if counting themselves, the runnels and pools, the misty distances—and feeling an ancient melancholy.
Rain caused one to reflect on the shadowed, more poignant parts of life—the inescapable sorrows, the speechless longings, the disappointments, the regrets, the cold miseries. It also allowed one the leisure to ponder questions unasked in the bustle of brighter days; and if one were snug under a sound roof, as Abel was, one felt somehow mothered, though mothers were nowhere around, and absolved of responsibilities. Abel had to cherish his dry log.
At night, when it cleared up, he went out in the wet grass and watched a young moon vanishing behind clouds and reappearing, over and over, like a swimmer out on the sea. Then he went inside the log, barred the entrance, and lay down with Amanda’s scarf.
Drugged with the aroma of rotting wood, he lost consciousness. There was a din of crickets outside, and the pauseless roar of the river, and the stately world was illumined with pearly moonlight; but inside the log it was dark and hushed, like a crypt.
The castaway dreamed all night of Amanda. They were together again, in their home. But their home was not 89 Bank Street, in Mossville; it was a garden, something like the island, and full of flowers. What was marvelous about this otherwise ordinary dream was that Abel knew he was dreaming and was certain that his wife was dreaming the very same dream at the same time, so that they were as close to each other as they’d ever been in the solid world.
9
The feeling that he could visit Amanda in dreams haunted Abel. Perhaps he could reach her during his waking hours as well. He began sending her “mind messages.” Sitting in the crotch of his favorite branch on the birch, he would project his thoughts, feelings, questions, yearnings, in what he considered the direction of his home. Sometimes he felt that Amanda could “hear” these messages and was responding with loving messages of her own. This feeling elated him.
He became convinced he could fly to his wife through the air, or glide, like a flying squirrel. He made a glider by stretching a catalpa leaf across two sticks, attached it to his back, and climbed to the top of his birch. From there he flung himself into the void, arms outstretched, aiming for the far shore. Instead of the soaring ride he had anticipated, he made a slow, graceful half circle, heels over head, and thudded down on his back in the grass. He lay there for several hours, brokenhearted and dazed with pain.
When body and spirits recovered, he took to climbing his birch again. One day, when he was winding his way upward, around and around the trunk, it seemed to him that the tree was somehow aware of his ascending spiral, and that it enjoyed his delicate scurryings, just as he enjoyed the rugged toughness and sensible architecture of the tree. He felt the tree knew his feelings, though no words could pass between them.
He believed in his “visits” with Amanda; he had his birch, and his star, and the conviction grew in him that the earth and the sky knew he was there and also felt friendly; so he was not really alone, and not really entirely lonely. At times he’d be overcome by sudden ecstasy and prance about on high rocks, or skip along the limbs of trees, shouting meaningless syllables. He was, after all, in the prime of his life.
Late in September, when he woke up mornings, he would see rime on the ground. That and the nip in the air made him worry about the coming of winter. What if he was still there? In his tours of the island he had found acorns and hickory nuts and also wild sunflowers full of seed. He began storing these in his log.
Living in the heart of nature, he began to realize how much was going on in the seeming stillness. Plants grew and bore fruit, branches proliferated, buds became flowers, clouds formed in ever-new ways and patterns, colors changed. He felt a strong need to participate in the designing and arranging of things. The red clay from which he had fashioned pots and dishes inspired him to try his hand at making something just for its own sake, something beautiful.
He made a life-size statue of Amanda. Though it didn’t really resemble her, it did look like a female mouse. He was amazed at what he had wrought. Good or bad, it was sculpture. It was art. He tried again and again, profiting from his mistakes, and finally he felt he had a likeness of his wife real enough to embrace.
Next he made statues of his dear, indulgent mother, from whose wealth his own income came, and of his various sisters and brothers, and he stood them all outside his log where he could see them from the windows.
Another day he did his father. Him he carved in tough wood, fiercely gnawing the forms out with his teeth. He stood back often to study the results of his gnawing, and at last felt he had captured the proud, stern, aloof, strong, honest look of his male parent. He stood this statue next to that of his mother.
Abel had not been keeping track of the days, but the color of the leaves was being transformed from green to various yellows, burning golds, flaming reds, and he realized it was October. He gathered masses of fluff from the seed pods of milkweed to keep him warm in his log. With threads of grass, he wove mats for his floor, and curtains for his windows to keep out drafts, and he tacked these curtains up with thorns. Later he made shutters out of bark.
He relayed the news of his doings to Amanda, sure that his airborne messages reached her. He added to his winter store of food, at what he thought
was her urging, and meanwhile he kept dining on what remained available outdoors. At night, from its eminence, his star shone down on him with proud approval.
When the trees were in the full flame of autumn’s fire, Abel wandered aimlessly over the island until the sight of the high color had him glowing inwardly with sensations of yellow, orange, and red. He pressed the juice from elderberries he had garnered earlier in the month and stored it in clay pots to let it turn to wine. His paws and shirt were stained with purple, but he no longer cared about his appearance.
In gray November, when the dry leaves huddled in drifts on the ground, he made a remarkable discovery. He thought he had thoroughly explored the island. He hadn’t. Near the lower end, by the eastern shore, he found a huge watch with a chain, and an enormous book. The watch was as large as a dining table to accommodate three mice. The book was four tails long, three wide, and almost a tail thick. There was a stone on top of it, and it was the stone, no doubt, and the lay of the ground, that had kept it from being washed away in the flood.
Judging by its condition, the book had been there some time and had seen several changes of weather in addition to the flood. The cloth binding was puffed into blisters and wrinkled; the title, Sons and Daughters, was faded and hard to discern. Some large creature had been on the island, perhaps picnicking, and had gone away forgetting the book and the watch. Probably the stone had been placed on the book to keep it from blowing open.
Abel’s heart raced. The island was known to civilized creatures and would be visited again! He would have to leave signs all about to make his presence known. Meanwhile, he was curious about the book. With great effort he rolled away the stone, which was larger than himself, and pried the stiff cover open.
The pages were buckled and water-stained, but the type was clear enough. He managed to separate the title page from page 1, and began reading, pacing from side to side on the printed lines. The book opened with the description of a masquerade ball. The characters were bears, which, like other large animals, had always fascinated Abel. It was wonderful to have a long book to entertain him and keep him company. He decided to read a chapter each day.
He closed the book and carefully buried it under a heap of leaves to prevent further damage by sun and rain. Then, with the end of the chain slung over his shoulder, he began hauling the watch to his house. It was heavy, but the smooth platinum of the case slid over the dry fallen leaves and made the hauling not too hard.
10
Early next morning Abel raced back to the book, removed the leaves, and took up reading where he had left off. The masked ball was a happy affair, even though there was talk among the guests of possible war. The main character was a captain in his country’s army. He was snout over claws in love with a beautiful young lady bear with whom he danced a couple of waltzes. Abel had to laugh over one of the bears, who was masquerading as a mouse. What he read made him wistful for his normal life, but he still enjoyed reading.
After hopping from side to side eagerly devouring the words, he forced himself to stop at the close of the chapter. He re-covered the book with the leaves and went home.
There, in case the bears who had left the book behind, or anyone else, should turn up, Abel made clay tablets like this: and baked them in his fire.
The next day the signs were placed in well-chosen parts of the island, leaning against trees or stones, with the arrow always pointing to his home, the log. He had to drag the tablets along the ground with a rope, they were so large. He noted that there were thin wafers of ice along the shore, and for a moment he had excited visions of a frozen river that could be crossed by walking; but he quickly remembered that such swiftly flowing water could not freeze.
He was curious to know if the watch would run. Some prodding and shoving with a pole in the grooves of the stem-winder made it turn round a dozen times. The watch began to tick. The sounds he had become accustomed to, the roaring and gurgling of the river, the wailing and whining of the wind, the pattering and dripping of rain, the chirruping of birds and the chirring of insects, had natural, irregular rhythms, which were very soothing, but the steady, mechanical tempo of the watch gave him something he had been wanting in this wild place. It and the book helped him feel connected to the civilized world he’d come from. He had no use for the time the watch could tell, but he needed the ticking.
Abel led a busy life. He had used up the pages of his scratch pad floating messages down the river, but he still occasionally sent up smoke signals, and once in a while, futile as it seemed, he would climb a tree and wave his stained and tattered shirt. He had his book to read and think about, there was the winding of the watch to be attended to, he kept working at sculpture, and of course he had his practical needs to provide for.
Abel also kept busy taking it easy. Only when taking it easy, he’d learned, could one properly do one’s wondering. One night while he was resting under the stars and enjoying the noise of the river and of the November wind, a winged shadow suddenly hung over him, blacking out the stars at which he’d been gazing. Instinct brought him to his feet and sent him diving into a crevice between two rocks.
In mute terror he crouched in the crevice while the owl, with grappling talons, tried to fish him out. It stood on the rock and poked in, while Abel made himself smaller and smaller and receded farther and farther into the seam. Then the poking stopped and the owl scrabbled about on the rock, staring into the night with unfathoming eyes. It took off at last and perched in a tree.
Abel could see the dark shape of the owl in the branches above, and the vibrating stars beyond. Where had this trespasser come from? Why? Had it perhaps seen Abel’s signals? He’d been astounded by the stillness with which it had dropped from the sky. There’d been no beat, no ruffle, of wings. This was bone-chilling, to be approached so noiselessly by a winged assassin.
Abel’s star was up there among the others. It seemed to say, “I see you both.” Abel broke from his sanctuary and dashed for the log. The owl was right behind him. Abel ran as fast as his thin, terrified legs would take him.
He gasped when the owl seized him. He was snatched and rushed aloft, sick with fear, into the ominous air. He had the wit, and just enough strength, to pull out his penknife, open the blade, and frantically slash at the owl’s horny toes.
With a screech the owl released him, and Abel fell with no fear at all of falling. He scrambled with awkward haste to his house, plunged in, and barred the entrance with stones. The next moment he felt the owl land on the hollow log and his innards quivered. Abel crouched motionless in a corner. He could hear the owl shuffle about right above him, a single tail away.
As the night advanced, terror turned to resentment. The mouse considered battling the owl with his knife, putting out his stupid eyes with a pointed pole, setting fire to his feathers with a torch. Indignant and unfearing, he fell asleep.
In the morning, caution returned. He peered from his windows, craning his head upward, and made sure there was no dealer of death on his roof. Most of that day he spent in his bed of milkweed fluff, and ventured out only in the late afternoon, carrying over his shoulder a long pole, his open knife tied to the end.
After his encounter with the owl, he was extremely wary for a long time, even in full daylight, when owls are expected to sleep.
11
In late November, Abel was on his way home from the book, mulling over a chapter he had just read. The bears were going to war, against bears from another country. They were going even though, on both sides, everyone wanted peace. This was something to think about, with so much time to think.
The sky was gray. Nature looked its drabbest. Abel thought he saw snowflakes, not falling, just wandering about in the air. Then there were more and he felt a few melt on his head. That winter was coming he had known all along, but here was more evidence and it made him uneasy. Was he as prepared as he ought to be? There was an owl around too, with nasty intentions, and that added to his uneasiness. The environment didn’t seem al
together friendly.
In the dead grass he saw a gray-brown feather. Certain that it could only be the owl’s, he took it home. There he poked the quill into the soft, rotting wood of his floor, where it stood erect, a sort of talisman. He owned something of the owl’s, from his very body, but the owl had nothing of his. This gave him a sense of advantage, at least for the moment.
He found himself uttering an incantation at the feather, not knowing where the words came from:
Foul owl, ugly you,
You’ll never get me,
Whatever you do.
You cannot hurt me,
You cannot kill,
You’re in my power,
I have your quill!
He felt he was casting a spell on the detested bird of prey that would paralyze its evil force. After this, out in his yard in the light, descending snow, Abel addressed Amanda’s statue as if it were she herself. “Amanda,” he said, “I am safe.” Then he went indoors and worked at making himself a winter cape, with hood. He wove two layers of cloth from the fine filaments of grass, and sandwiched in between the two layers some of the milkweed fluff he’d stored in his log.
Still full of forebodings of a hard winter, he foraged about for what he was sure was the last edible stuff on the island: various seeds, dry berries, mushrooms. He crammed his rooms full of these viands. Perhaps it was more than he would need to see the winter through, but he had no way of knowing. Anyway, his abundant store eased his misgivings.
Abel's Island Page 3