Arcene: The Island

by Al K. Line

  The bottle had nothing left to give, but Arcene held it upside down and stuck out her tongue anyway, trying to catch any last drop that happened to magically appear — she was wasting her time. The night had been awful, her and Leel sat huddled together, both wishing the boat would stop rocking, splashes in the water amplified by the emptiness, making their imaginations run wild.

  It had felt like it would never end, until finally they fell asleep. When they woke, they found themselves surrounded by nothing but water, a few gulls soaring high, and the sun already hot even though it was still early. Arcene's head pounded. She was so thirsty and hungry, but there was nothing left.

  No food, no water, no land. Nothing but sea whichever way you looked. The current was still strong, taking them where it wanted, and there was nothing they could do about it apart from hope it took them back to the coast further to the west, the direction they were clearly headed. But would it be out to sea to the west, or would they eventually hit land again, and would they still be alive when they did?

  Arcene put the empty bottle to her eye and peered through the opaque glass. Blue, blue and empty, the sky and the nothingness. Her thoughts felt like little fluffy clouds. There was no weight to them, no weight to her body, bobbing about in the vastness, starving.

  They had eaten the day before, but so little they were both suffering withdrawal symptoms. It was what they did — they ate and they thought about food. This was their preoccupation, and now it was getting ridiculous. Arcene felt hollow inside, like she was made of air, could float up into the sky away from her predicament.

  The bottle clattered to the dark wood of the boat's floor. She left her arm extended, resting on Leel lying next to her, whimpering and willing it to be over.

  The boat bobbed; the current pulled hard. They surrendered. They had no other option.

  Bump

  "Eh, wassat?" Arcene dragged her mind to consciousness. She wasn't exactly asleep, but neither was she truly awake. Her mind was drifting like her body, lost on currents she couldn't recall. Everything was hazy, almost blank, stretching out into infinity like the deathbed she was floating on. But what was this? What was that noise?

  Bump.

  Bump, bump, bump.

  With arms that felt made of dead trees, Arcene pushed against the wooden bench and sat. She rubbed at salt-crusted eyes, all gritty and sore, and tried to swallow. Her lips were so dry, her throat raw, and why were boats so cramped?

  Arcene blinked until her vision cleared, and the salt was rubbed away with another swipe of her hand. Even her hand was dry and felt raspy on her skin. A nice swim, that was what she needed, but not in the sea that would further coat her in salt and dry her out until she was like a tomato left in the sun for days.

  She took the shawl off her head and tugged it away from where it protected her arms from burning — she couldn't imagine what state she would be in if it wasn't for such a simple means of protection. The sun reflected so strongly off the water she would have been fried to a crisp like barbecued pork within an hour if she hadn't covered up — her pale skin was unsuited to adventure on the open seas. She had learned one other thing too, if nothing else from her time floating: she preferred land.

  Open fields and forests, where there was food to be hunted and water that could be drunk, nice cool spots in the shade, and places to sleep where you could make fires and not be all wobbly and feel sick all the time.

  What's wrong with me? Focus.

  Arcene rubbed at her eyes again; they were so sore. Were they bumping against something? They were! The boat was knocking at a solid structure. Were they back at the island, or land? With a shake of the head, and a crash back down to reality, Arcene gathered her wits and concentrated properly.

  She stared at a weather-worn, concrete stanchion jutting out of the water. The front of the boat nudged against it, moving back and forth, knock, knock, knocking at the pillar covered in tiny mussels. Seaweed skirted beneath the water, billowing out like green hair. Arcene followed the pillar up, only to realize there were hundreds of similar pilings that soared above them, supporting a weird, concave oval base. It was truly vast.

  What is it? What's it doing here? Where is here? First things first. Arcene if not sprang into action then at least moved, something she had done little of during her second day at sea. Leel scratched at the bottom of the boat, lifted her head then collapsed again, not interested enough to do anything but lie and wait for it all to be over. Arcene grabbed the long length of rope and tied it around the pillar, trying not to wobble the boat and fall in. Once secured, she sat down, shattered from such minimal movement.

  At least they wouldn't be carried off. Maybe this bizarre construction would offer salvation.

  The water lapped gently at the boat and the pillars but it didn't try to drag them away. This was where the current had been taking them, the destination the sea had in mind for her and Leel. Well, they were here, now what? She tried to count the pillars but there were too many, hundreds by the look if it. Old, water-worn, but still sturdy. How deep did they go? To the bottom, she supposed. Where else? What were they supporting? It was impossible to tell as they were underneath whatever it was, lost amid the rest of the supports.

  The edge was a way off, and Arcene had no intention of risking the currents taking them again. This could be their one chance to save themselves; she would stay put and figure it out.

  It was cool in the shade, more welcome than she could have imagined, and while she figured things out it was about the best place to be.

  "Well, Leel, looks like we've found ourselves an island after all. I wonder what it's doing here. Leel? Come on, time to get up. I think we might be saved. Maybe." Leel opened an eye and Arcene pointed at the huge concrete underbelly of the island. She sniffed, then sprang to a sitting position, nostrils flaring as she lifted her head high, craning her neck to get a fraction closer. "What is it, girl, you smell something nice?"

  Woof, woof.

  "Let's hope we can find it. Is it food?"

  Woof.

  "Cool. Maybe we won't starve to death after all." Arcene stared at the massive structure. How could they get in? Was there even an in? What was it, and would anyone be happy to see them if there was someone there? She couldn't imagine why there would be people in the middle of the sea, but then again, if this island was here someone had to have built it — Arcene was sure of one thing, it was that a lot of weird stuff existed in her world. More bizarre than this.

  "Hello? Anybody there?" Her voice bounced back at her, the echo dulled by the curved underbelly of the island. Nobody would hear that even if there were people above. Could she climb? But to where? Should she risk unhitching the boat and floating out so she could get a better glimpse at the concrete barnacle she found herself under? No, it was too risky, they could end up anywhere. This might be the only chance they had to get saved; she needed to come up with a proper plan.

  It was hard to think. She needed food and water. Her head throbbed like little people were at work inside it, tapping on the inside of her skull, stopping thoughts from forming, leaving her half-dazed, half-asleep, and wobbly.

  Arcene sat and tried to gather her thoughts. At least it was cool out of the sun, now she just had to figure out how to get herself and Leel up onto this misplaced edifice.

  Time for Work

  Talia hated the stupid damn Island.

  What was the point in performing the life-sapping chore so often? Every year, her and her team had to perform the same miserable task. Once the job was completed it was almost time to start all over again — it drove her absolutely nuts.

  It was like one of those vicious circles her mother had told her about before she succumbed to The Lethargy, a stigma that to this day never left her — after ninety-four years you'd think it would have been forgotten, but no.

  She was seventeen when it happened, and it surprised everyone. People remained Whole, at least mostly, many Awakening as they matured, but often not until their la
te-twenties to thirties. Talia was special, she Awoke at the sprightly age of twenty-two, which made her one of the youngest to do so in the whole history of her home. But it didn't stop some of the others looking at her funny for decades afterward, and even now there were the occasional whispered comments when those who should know better thought she couldn't hear.

  It was partly her own fault — Talia heard everything she wanted to hear, and had kept that, and other Awoken gifts, secret. It was strictly against the rules, but too late now. If she ever owned up, the consequences for withholding what was decreed should be shared information would be savage and remorseless.

  It wasn't her fault, was it? She didn't make her mother get The Lethargy, leave her alone when still an immature teenager with so much to learn and nobody to look out for her. And besides, it happened at least every half-century to someone or other. Even some who Awoke inexplicably succumbed, one day able to commune with the dolphins and the creatures of the sea, the next sat there in a stupor, unable to even dress themselves or wipe their own backsides with the processed seaweed that was always too rough.

  She argued for years about it, asked why they couldn't make it better. They had the means, after all, but she'd always been voted down, as usual. Why waste precious energy on finessing something to wipe your bum with when there were other, much better ways to put the labor needed for such tasks to use?

  Anyway, never mind, now wasn't the time for thinking about the past, certainly not about wiping your rear. However much she hated it, there was work to be done, and the sooner they began the sooner it would be over.

  One year, it must be a decade ago, the summer had been exceptionally wet and windy, cold too, and the work had dragged on and on, leaving them still working the following spring, and when they finally finished they had a few precious months before the fiendish maintenance resumed.

  It was depressing as hell, and the most boring assignment Talia could ever have conjured up if she wanted to punish her enemies for heinous crimes committed against her or The Island.

  The work won't be forever, she had been told. It's a rite of passage, they said. Everyone has to take a turn, it's the way things are, they told her again. We did it, everyone does it. You're lucky you've had so much freedom until now, others did it when they were a third of your age if not younger. And you're the one in charge of your team, that's an honor, nobody as young as you has ever been in charge of a team before, you're lucky.

  Talia felt anything but lucky. She felt like she was being punished for crimes she hadn't even thought about let alone got caught committing red-handed. She was a model citizen, worked hard, always did more than her fair share, and now she was stuck with this damn never-ending grind that made her want to dive over the side into the blue and never come back. Not that she would, of course — it was poison to people if too much touched you. If you were immersed you died.

  Even the brave sailor caste had to have a drink of something very strong before the boat was lowered and they rode the current that circled The Island in a large, egg-shaped circuit, where they fished and collected the precious seaweed once a month. They were so brave, even if they needed fortification.

  They always returned, never fell in and got poisoned or sank, so she supposed her job wasn't so bad after all. At least she didn't have to float about on the blue so close to death, but the exposure and sense of helplessness when on the outside of The Island, seeing the water far below, made her stomach flip and brought bile to her throat every time.

  She never let the others see her nervousness. She was the oldest, in charge, Awoken and the woman whose mother had succumbed — she wouldn't give them the satisfaction, and she certainly wouldn't act like a scared baby and show anything but confidence and determination in front of her team.

  And it was an honor, really, to be well enough regarded to have the responsibility. That didn't stop her secretly smiling at the thought of this being her last ever tour. Finally, her time was up. She would never have to be lowered on ropes or the foul platform ever again. No more inspecting, cleaning, or repairing the exterior.

  The end was in sight. It gave her all the courage and motivation she needed to do a good job this one last time, and she would, she had pride in her work. However long it took she would see it through as thoroughly as she always had, and when it came her turn to tell someone else how important a job it was she would expect the same from them, tell them how honored they were, just as she had been told. So the cycle would continue as it always had, since The Lethargy descended and wiped out all but the chosen few: the founding Fathers and Mothers of her home. The Island.

  With a sigh, Talia pulled back the itchy covers and got out of bed. It was still early, but she had a busy day ahead of her and a lot to get ready before it even began. She bet her team were still sleeping, bunch of slackers that they were. It was down to her to show how it was done, to be the figurehead for this final run, and it was only proper she was the first to arrive and the last to leave at the end of the day. Ensure everything was done exactly as it should be: no mistakes, no shortcuts. Life was too precious for any accidents, and she wasn't about to let anything go wrong on her watch.

  Talia occupied a series of rooms of her very own, another honor she knew she should be grateful for, again, one of the youngest to have such luxury, having been Awoken for so many years. The Awoken were always provided with private quarters, moving from a tiny cell up to a more spacious room, then a suite as you aged, as long as you showed you put in the requisite work and acted in a manner deemed correct. Talia had done all that and, for more years than she cared to remember, although the days all blurred into one anyway, she had lived right down deep in the heart of The Island. Not at the bottom, but in a suitably appropriate place for her position in the hierarchy of her world.

  Her personal accommodation was just off from the center of the closeted interior, almost three-quarters of the way down. The edges of her home, and the lowest quarters, furthest away from those that had to sleep beneath an open sky, were for the older, more powerful Elders that ruled under the careful, cold watch of Vorce, absolute ruler for her entire life and for many years before she was even born.

  He had the most honored of quarters in prime position, a vast series of cavernous rooms and small antechambers right in the bowels of The Island, smack bang in the center and taking up almost the entire level, the rest of the rooms occupied by a few aides and his extended family, as was his right.

  Talia knew that a time would come when she too would live in that secretive world, for Vorce had clearly had an eye on her for many years now, biding his time until he felt her suitably mature in years. Talia appeared to be twenty-three, as was the custom: the moment you Awoke you learned how to control your aging, and exactly one year after your rebirth you were expected to be proficient enough to never age another day.

  Those who failed to do this, well, they were seen as beneath even the merely Whole, unworthy of the gift bestowed on them, and if not shunned, then regarded as a disappointment, the shame so severe many took the final plunge into the blue because they could not live up to the task of controlling the gift so graciously given.

  Talia had no problem with her own Awoken Day ritual, in fact, she knew she could have done it much sooner. But it meant she was one of the youngest looking Awoken, actually the youngest alive, even though she was over a century old, and because of this she knew she would become wife to Vorce at some point. It wasn't negotiable, nobody questioned the ways of The Island.

  The Laws were as solid as their isolated home, and Vorce's will was as unforgiving as the sea that marooned them for eternity in their safe-haven, away from the terrors of the land. Although, Talia and almost every other person had never set foot on truly solid ground, and for the younger ones it was nothing more than a ridiculous fairytale, as believable as the Old Man of the sea, probably less so.

  She had seen it though, many times, and part of her wanted to sail away and witness it with her own eyes, n
ot those of a bird she now and then inhabited and soared on the thermals toward the land, marveling at the green grass and the ancient broken structures that humanity had once called home. Always from a distance though, her proficiency in The Noise not strong enough to give her the range she desired.

  "No time for such idle thoughts now, I have work to do. Last tour of duty, make it your best, Talia. Let no one say you give anything but your all, and don't be anything but the greatest leader of a group of Inspectors ever." Talia padded across the cold concrete into the small bathroom. She would make The Island's shell spotless, so damn clean it would shine like the winter sun, and inspect every little piece of it, direct repairs, scrape barnacles, remove all the bird poop — keeping the precious waste-product as it was so valuable for their crops — and ensure it stood for a thousand years.

  The final tour. She couldn't wait for it to be over. What would she be doing a year from now? Maybe something exciting? She hoped so. She'd had about enough of ropes and the terror of falling into the blue to last her a lifetime.

  Talia splashed water on her face, scowled at the toilet seat as it wobbled like it always did, the brittle plastic now yellow with age. She knew that soon she would have to give it up to be melted and put to a different use — as with most things on The Island, nothing lasted forever but everything was re-purposed, nothing wasted. Finite resources meant everything was valuable.

  Sometimes things floated past, caught in the strange currents that sealed them off, miracles of days gone by. Items that may have bobbed about for hundreds of years, and it was always with wonder that the fishermen would spread out their hauls and crowds would gather to marvel over this and that, the scraps of cultures long dead that allowed them to thrive, even have the most prized luxury of all now and then: fire.

  When wood was found it was treated with the reverence it deserved: dried thoroughly, then burned. Fish and birds, or the rodents that were the mainstay of their diet, roasted on the flames.