All I Ever Dreamed

by Michael Blumlein

  His openness to her ideas was astonishing to her. It had not been her experience with men. She’d had her share of failed relationships, and as usual, she found herself both hoping and doubting this one would succeed. Not that she couldn’t live alone. Or be alone. In many ways she preferred it. Yet here she was—here they were, the two of them—succeeding.

  Before the week was out, to take but one example, they had a hut, and not just any hut, but, amazingly, a sturdy, roomy pentagon. Complete with thatched walls and roof, situated perfectly to catch, but not over-catch, the afternoon breeze. Big enough for a small family of humans, certainly big enough for a pair. It seemed there was nothing the two of them couldn’t do when they put their minds to it.

  She eyed the crack. Something about it drew her attention, as if it might be more than what it seemed.

  She had some water and left the trail, weaving through the jungle to the base of the promontory. The volcanic rock was abrasive and sharp enough to slice a finger, or worse, but it made for excellent footing, and she was sure-footed to begin with. She found an easy pitch and monkeyed up, careful where she placed her hands. She loved working the rock. The shifting of weight, from side to side and up and down, and the sense of losing then regaining her center of balance, all in a split second, was like playing with gravity.

  She made short work of the ascent, hoisting herself onto a narrow ledge, invisible from below. The crack was at the back of it; what would have been the lion’s neck, except that up close it no longer resembled a lion. Just as the crack no longer resembled a crack. It was an opening, twice her height and wide enough to squeeze her body through.

  She took a step inside and stopped. Light spilled in, revealing a smooth curved ceiling, a level floor, and a surprisingly large space. Large enough that she couldn’t see the end of it, which was swallowed in darkness.

  She took another step, then a half-step to the side to keep from blocking the light. She saw, indeed, that it was a cave, or at least the beginning of one. Created, perhaps, in the aftermath of an eruption, when the lava had cooled, trapping air into chamber-sized bubbles. Though it wasn’t completely trapped: she felt a breath of it in her face. Amazing, she thought. There was a flow. This chamber must connect to the outside by way of a second opening. There must be another chamber, maybe a string of them, maybe a warren. Who knew what mysteries lay ahead? Already she loved this place.

  One more step. The darkness deepened. The whisper of air rose, then fell. Riding on it was a moist and pleasantly earthy scent. It reminded her of the lagoon, where a certain kind of tree grew, a tree of delicious but unfortunately high-hanging fruit. When it happened to drop the fruit, a rare event, they happened to be able to eat it. She complained of this once, light-heartedly, that a tree would be so stingy of its gift. Immediately Richard leapt up.

  The trunk of the tree was like a palm in that it was a long way before a branch. It was unlike a palm in that it had branches, and also its bark was smooth, making it nearly un­climbable. They both had tried without success. But Richard had a look in his eye, and the next thing she knew he’d sprinted off, returning a short time later with a leafy vine, which he’d stripped, then looped around the tree and then himself. After knotting the ends, he began to climb.

  Initially, he did more slipping than climbing, as if the tree were laughing at his puny efforts to scale its towering self. After a while, he got the knack, and then he was up in the branches, plucking as many of the gold-striped fruits as his pockets would allow. He descended the tree like a fireman racing down his pole. He spread the fruit on the ground, then picked the most luscious-looking. He broke it in half, scooped out the fat black seeds, then fed her the sweet crimson flesh, the juice dripping down her chin. After that, she fed him, and after that, because the fruit was so incredibly juicy, and the juice was making such an incredible mess of their clothes, they took off their clothes. Or rather he took hers off, and she took his.

  She’d been with men, and she’d been with women. She knew how it felt to be vulnerable and exposed. She’d learned how to get beyond this, so that now she felt comfortable in her nakedness. She liked having sex. She loved getting off, though there’d never been a time that she’d been without a tiny resistance deep inside, like a pellet of unmeltable ice. Never until Richard. It was there, then it wasn’t, as if her life had suddenly, miraculously, rewritten itself.

  One more careful step. The floor took on a gently downward slope. At the same time it went from rough to smooth, even a little slippery, as if the lava had cooled fast and turned to glass. She glanced back at the opening, which was doubly a mistake. First, her pupils instantly shuttered down to pin­holes, so that when she looked back, the darkness was im­penetrably thick. Second, the turning threw her subtly off balance, which she instinctively compensated for by transferring her weight. In this case, to her forward foot, which slid further forward, allowing her a brief moment of panic before it slipped out from under her completely. Suddenly she couldn’t feel the floor at all. Both her legs were dangling in air. She felt a draft from below and frantically grabbed for some sort of handhold, without success.

  Fleetingly, she thought of Richard. Other highlights of her life flashed by. The thing about falling into darkness, the scariest thing, was that you never knew how long you had. Or what was at the bottom. Death could come in an instant, or not at all. You could suffer only minor injuries, or be crippled for life.

  She was not crippled, not yet, neither in body nor in spirit, though she had every reason to be. Her life had been no bed of roses, but she had never given up. She had fought and clawed through the darkest of times. She fought and clawed now, trying to stop her fall. As hopeless as this was, as sealed as her fate appeared, she refused— and would always refuse—to timidly, docilely, surrender to it.

  ROSE

  The other island raised by the goddesses was separated from its twin by a wide strait. A deep channel bisected this strait, giving rise to a powerful surface current as well as a steady upswelling current rich in nutrients and both tiny and not so tiny forms of life. The area teemed with fish. Fish drew fish and other hunters, and sharks patrolled the waters in hopes of finding a hungry, daring (and foolish) mammal, preferably a young and succulent seal or porpoise. Foolish humans were easier prey but stringier meat, and in any event, there were only two on the island, a man and a woman, neither of whom had yet been foolish enough to venture into the open water.

  The man had considered it. He and the woman were marooned, with scant hope of rescue, and the companion island might on an off chance contain something of use to them. A dash across the strait seemed worth a try. The woman, named Rose, having observed the treacherous current and circling sharks on a succession, first of days, then weeks, was opposed to the idea. The other island promised nothing. Moreover, the chance of reaching it was slim to nil. The chance of being swept out to sea, on the other hand, and being attacked by sharks, or, god forbid, eaten by sharks, was high.

  Did the man, whose name was Marl, know these things? Of course he knew. He had to know. Although maybe not. In any case, she encouraged him, by all means, to try.

  She did more than encourage. She searched the island for materials to build a boat. She helped him fell a tree, split the tree, and painstakingly scoop out the trunk with mussel shells until her hands were blistered and raw. With these same hands she made him a rough paddle out of driftwood. She went so far as to part with one of their two precious glass water jugs, which she lashed to the boat with a vine she had personally torn from a tree and stripped clean.

  The day arrived when all was ready, and they carried the rather heavy vessel to the edge of the water, then past the waist-high break. He steadied the hollowed out craft for her, assuming she would join him, motioning for her to get in.

  She was surprised.

  “Oh no,” she said. “Not me. You’re the man with the plan. You’re the brave one. I’ll cheer you on from shore.”

  He frowned, then shrugged and
climbed in. She retreated to the beachhead, then scrambled up a little knob of rock to watch his progress. The current, she noted, was especially strong that day. He was already having to fight it. Whitecaps tipped the waves, which were sloshing over the sides of the glorified log. She spied the sleek gray blade of a nearby shark, gliding through the water. Then a second shark. Her stomach clenched. She covered her eyes.

  A heartbeat later, she cracked her fingers and forced herself to look. The tipsy, makeshift canoe was steadily taking on water. It was getting harder and harder to maneuver. The sharks were closing in.

  Marl threw her a glance. He didn’t look particularly worried. He never looked worried. He was always sure of himself, and she realized she wouldn’t know how he’d look if he weren’t swaggering and macho.

  So maybe he was worried. Maybe the worry was there, but in hiding. This in turn worried her, because he needed to stay on course. He mustn’t turn back. Perhaps what he needed was help, her help, and accordingly, she sat up tall, lifted her chin, pasted a look of sure thing confidence on her face, and raised her thumb in encouragement.

  The chop got worse. The ocean churned. The sharks approached. Suddenly, a monster wave broadsided the boat, swamping it and flinging the man into the water.

  His head went under. She counted the seconds.

  Sputtering, he surfaced.

  She stood, her heart in her throat.

  Did he know the danger he was in? Apparently so, for the next moment he was swimming like a maniac back to shore.

  Somehow he made it, inches ahead of the gray-nosed, razor-toothed predators. He crawled onto the sand, chest heaving. On his hands and knees, with his tangled gnarl of dripping hair, he looked like a half-drowned dog. After catching his breath, he got to his feet and gave her a dark, angry look.

  She was rattled by his narrow escape. She was shaken. What was wrong with these sharks? And this ocean? What was its story? Almighty Nature was supposed to be almighty. If Rose couldn’t rely on Her, then who could she?

  The answer came moments later, when Marl strode up the beach, lifted their remaining water jug, and shattered it against a rock. This had the shattering effect of clearing her head. She was not an unintelligent person. She had talents and skills. She knew plants, for example, and the island was full of plants. Edible plants, inedible plants, and, she suspected, if she looked, poisonous plants, plants, that is, that straddled the line between the two.

  Finding the right one would be a project, and she liked projects. Poisoning him, besides being a just reward for the way he’d repeatedly poisoned her, would give her something to do. Being stranded on an island with the person you most despised was a recipe for disaster if you didn’t find a way to structure your life. Things were always better, and time flew, when you had purpose.

  VIOLET

  A man’s voice interrupted her reverie. It seemed to come from a distance. Her first instinct was to trust it. Her second, to stiffen.

  “Can I help in any way?” it asked.

  She erected a wall.

  “Please don’t tune me out.”

  She fortified the wall, and was rewarded with silence.

  But the silence didn’t last. “My name is Levy.”

  “Go away.”

  “Joe Levy. Levi, back in the day. People call me Shep.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I will. You have my word.”

  But he didn’t. What he did do was keep his distance. He had a calm voice and a gentle manner.

  This set off alarms, and she wheeled on him, ready to unleash the fury of her tongue. What she saw gave her pause: a fat and balding man in an undersized straw hat and a ridiculous-looking tropical shirt of cartoon parrots and toucans.

  “Don’t you understand English?” she snapped.

  “Forgive me for interrupting.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  “You were having a conversation.”

  Irritation turned to suspicion. “What if I was?”

  “Do you mind my asking what it was about?”

  “None of your business.”

  He didn’t respond. Didn’t look at her either, as if to spare her any further reason to feel preyed upon.

  “You drove them away,” she said at length.

  “Drove who?”

  A mist had appeared, blurring the islands. The sun was up, and already a furnace. The tide was rising.

  If she ignored this man, sooner or later he would leave. If she concentrated hard, she might make him disappear altogether.

  Time passed.

  “You’re very good at that,” he said at length. “But here I am. What next?”

  “Go away.”

  “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

  “You’re fucking with me.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled, and his mouth curled up. “I am. I’m fucking with your head.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a head I want to know more about.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a good head.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “No.”

  “Are you here alone, Violet?”

  She froze. “How do you know my name? Who are you? Are you following me?” She threw a glance at the beach to see if others were watching, and edged away from him.

  “No. I’m not. I was out for a morning stroll. I found myself wondering why a young woman was thinking of killing herself. No one else seemed to notice. As for your name, I guessed.”

  “You’re lying.”

  He gestured. “You’ve tattooed it on your arm.”

  Curling around her bicep was a circle of violets. Spiraling around her other arm, a leafy vine with small dark berries.

  “I took a gamble it wasn’t deadly nightshade. That’s the other one, if I’m not mistaken. Though now that I think of it, I suspect it was your name at some point. Am I right?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Now you seem more like a Violet.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “More a Violet than a Nightshade. I’m curious, what were you thinking of when you got the violets done?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Which came first?”

  “You tell me. You seem to know everything.”

  “I’d say the violets. They’re very pretty.”

  “They’d be prettier if I’d asked for them.”

  His eyes flickered. All of a sudden she felt the full weight of his attention.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  She remembered being led into the room and an ornate cup being put in her hand. It was her first taste of wine. They said it would help, but the needle still hurt. But then it was over, and the next part of the initiation began.

  “The nightshade was me,” she said.

  “How old were you?”

  “How old do you have to be to be forced into something?”

  His face darkened. “Have you tried to kill yourself before?”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s your right.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  “Your life. Your right. Though if you’ll excuse my saying, it seems another version of being coerced.”

  “No one’s coercing me into anything.”

  “I’ve struck a nerve.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “So tell me why you decided to keep the violets. You could easily have had them removed.”

  “Violet’s my name.”

  He nodded, as if this were the answer he was hoping for. “May I show you something?” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. Tattooed on his deltoid was an angel with delicately feathered wings and a golden halo.

  “My better half,” he said, then pushed up the other sleeve to reveal a particularly wicked looking devil.

  “I got Lucifer first. He made the decisions for a long
time. I got myself into some scary situations. Taking risks was what life was about. That, and being alone. Me against the world.”

  “I am alone,” she said. “What’s Shep stand for?”

  “My father called me that. It’s short for Shepherd. A family name. Who named you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You don’t know?”

  “My father,” she said at length.

  By his silence he invited her to say more. By hers, she declined the invitation.

  “I’d like to put a thought in your head,” he said. “You may find it insulting. It’s not meant to be.”

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Really?”

  “Life is precious. Death is final. Consider an alternative plan.”

  “Not bad,” he said. “You’ve been told this before, I take it.”

  “I’m a straight A student.”

  “It bears repeating.”

  “I tell it to myself every day.”

  “And?”

  “It’s tiring. And not helpful. I’m done listening.”

  “Hold on a minute.” He made a T with his hands, as if to call time out. Then he removed his hat, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, replaced the hat, then knit his brow, as if faced with a difficult, but solvable, dilemma. “How about this? Tell it to yourself for another day. One more day. Just one. After that . . .”

  “Give it a rest,” she said.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because it’s a good message.”

  “No. Why do you care?”

  They were interrupted by two guys in a kayak. They were passing a bottle of rum back and forth and being loud and obnoxious. Violet armed herself as they approached. But their barbs were aimed at Shep.

  “Hey, fatso. Get out of the water.”

  “You’re scaring people.”