by Shawn Mackey
After burying Dalton and Bessie, life went on as normal. My uncle has been busy supervising the repairs, and Aiden has been selected to continue the survey of the woods. The whole island was affected by the quake, and though no one wants to mention it directly, we are hunting for the source of that smell. If it truly is a gas, it is likely poisonous, and would confirm the seamen’s rumors of this uninhabitable land. If only the superstitious twits mentioned that instead of ghosts, it would have saved us the trouble!
I hope this does not become a reality. I have a life in this town. Returning is impossible, but not because of the abandonment of future prospects. Somewhere, there is a death certificate with my old name on it.
Entry 15
I quarreled with my uncle. He insists the smell has dissipated, and though Aiden backs his claim, the stink hovers around my nostrils, wafting in each breath. My nose should have grown accustomed to its familiarity by now. It does so for the worst of stenches, so why not the best? Why should I grow to hate this sweet air?
My mind refuses to shift focus. As I lie down in bed, waiting for sleep’s respite, this heinous stink invigorates my thoughts like smelling salts. Coupled with Aiden’s obnoxious snoring, the scent continues its assault on my thoughts and I find myself wandering around outside. The cool breeze did wonders to alleviate my aching head. Perhaps I should set up a cot in the yard.
I would be harangued for even thinking such a thing. After all, as my uncle would say, I am responsible for two lives now. The back of our house faces the trees, not far from the spot I disposed of the photograph. Sleeping outdoors would invite the wolves to an easy snack. Though I shudder at the prospect of being devoured, it seems more of a cautionary tale than possibility.
Armed with a kitchen knife, I wandered to the start of the trees and peered into the vast woods. The indiscernible boundary seemed uninviting, yet the size granted protection from the handful of lurking predators. I recalled Benjamin’s fate and realized it was a matter of odds. He could have sought the wolf pack, or they could have sought him, and it would still require a great measure of luck. A strong sense of smell and an eye for tracking can account for an ounce of that measure.
What reason did I have to venture into the woods? I can mark every square inch of the island and remain unscathed. I was swift and keen-sighted with a good sense of direction. With just a canteen of water and a knife to mark trees, I bet I can make quite a bit of progress each night. I will be sure to carve all sorts of lewdness to baffle Aiden and the others.
The dead stag never ceases to mock me. Come to my kingdom, he jeers. I could fare better than a hooved rat. I should don its horns and tread his domain. Perhaps I will attract a new companion that does not keep me up with its snoring.
Entry 16
Twenty-three people voted to leave the island last night. Even with a population just over one hundred, that is quite an exodus.
The mayor is furious, and the others are not too pleased. The sudden decision, spurred by a few dissenters, has left us all confused and somewhat angry. We naturally assumed that each person was devoted to this town’s growth. For those remaining, it is demoralizing to see our friends flee at the first sign of trouble. It begs the question: Are your neighbors discontent?
Finney leads the mutiny, more out of necessity than passion. Who better than the constant objector to the status quo? It does not line up with his insistence on scouting the western caverns, though I am sure he would blame the island’s instability if pressed. The man wants to kill my father. Aiden offered to intervene, going on about a hunting accident. It would certainly curb the inevitable revolt, but I see no reason to avenge a crime that has not been committed. Murdering my father would leave him as the prime suspect, subterfuge not being part of Finney’s skillset.
Worst of all, my class is falling apart at the seams. David had the gall to leave his seat mid lecture. After all my efforts to teach him to read, he could not even be bothered to conjure an excuse when prompted. There is no point in educating these damned ruffians. They cannot bother to bathe themselves, let alone aspire to be anything but rustic workhorses.
I am not meant to teach. I realized this a few days ago, when my patience broke like a dry twig in the middle of a lecture. I cannot even recall the subject. I was seized by an overbearing feeling of futility, and in this brief moment of clarity, locked eyes with a dozen idiotic glares. These poor children have almost no memories of their previous lives. This floating rock is all they know. The runaways will have a hard time adapting to the larger scope of society. Teaching them anything beyond a simple trade was a waste of time.
In hopeless scenarios, I find it best to squeeze any bit of enjoyment from the despair. This usually involves petty tricks and subtle meanness. I am suited for subterfuge and deceit. Lies totally removed from the reality of things are a personal favorite, especially on those wholly ignorant of my deception. Children are the most susceptible to these tricks. Adults occasionally indulge in this sort of cruelty with harmless pranks, which teach the humiliation of naivety. Many sharpen their intellect with the sole purpose of avoiding such trappings.
After prattling for an hour on the dangers of eating wild berries and playing with poison ivy, I decided to test their retention. If you were stranded in the woods and found a cluster of purple berries on a green vine, would you eat these berries or wait until you found the red berry shrub? Red berries, Thomas replies. There are no red berries that grow on shrubs, I say. The purple berries grow on shrubs and the red berries grow on the green vines. Not only that, you silly boy, but they are both poisonous!
I laughed and he pouted. It is a profoundly sad thing when your only source of joy is tricking an eight-year-old.
I must not dwell on my utter failure as an educator. It is comforting to know I tried, and any aspirations to pursue a career in teaching have been thankfully scattered. I like my list of opportunities to be as short as possible. I hate making choices.
It is a shame, though; the solitude this community has to offer can do wonders to the intellect. The isolation of the wilderness meets all the needs of a pregnant mind burdened by heavy thoughts. Luther would be disappointed to discover the town’s first day would be no different than the last. Toil, eat, toil, sleep, toil, eat, toil, sleep. I could be wrong. These simple people long for a simple life. I am beginning to realize that we have conflicting definitions of simplicity.
After I am demoted to nanny, I will return to field work when these boys are old enough to help their fathers. The problem growing in my womb will grant me a few months of idleness. If our labor is truly lacking, the baby may be nursed by one of the older women.
Life seems much more complicated when put to paper. These ordeals are trifles during the day. Dwelling on them creates unnecessary stress and very little in regard to solutions. If I were to view my situation from a detached perspective, leaving with the others might be the best choice. I cannot return home, but I can always find another.
There lay another problem: I adore this island. Though I respect this town, I cannot abide by their rules, yet I cannot sustain myself alone. I am an idle creature that has nothing to offer this world. A time will come when the community realizes I am a burden. They will cast me and my child to the woods. We will grow feral and dine on their sons and daughters like deranged jackals. If I am to leave civilization against my will, there would be no end to my spiteful machinations. The best hunters are made by necessity, and I require retribution more than water.
In conclusion, I am a sponge with no intentions of improving my character, as unbending as I am useless.
Entry 17
I accomplished quite a bit of exploring in the last few nights. Aiden blames his companion’s disorganization for the intermittent carvings on the trees. They mark their progress with an X, while I use different symbols depending on the territory. There was a tiny grove, for instance, which I would like to visit during the day. The trees circled a little pit. I want to fill it with dirt and
place a bird bath at the center to make new friends.
I almost camped atop the craggy hill overlooking the beach. The mysterious scent may have overpowered the salty sea, but I could hear the hypnotic clash of waves batter the rocks below. If I were to ever leave this town, I would live in that very spot. It seems right that the ocean should lull me to sleep each night.
I need to find a way to venture during the day. As Aiden’s wife and the future mother of his child, I cannot do this with consent. He would not oppose, I am sure, but the others, including Father and my uncle, would likely confine me under strict supervision. Even in the process of rearing children, I am treated as a child.
Though I long to see the wilderness by light, I do prefer the darkness. It conceals my surroundings and myself, and makes mere wandering more of a game. Turn the wrong corner and find yourself squaring off with a hungry bear. Let your eyes wander from the ground and step into a steep hole. If not for the thrill, I would grow bored within minutes.
The island is not large, and I fear my exploration will be finished soon. Aiden tells me they have walked every square inch of the western section countless times and are now in the process of finishing the maps and mining for resources. The mayor claims to have found a deposit of coal near the craggy hill I mentioned earlier. We would need miners, which would provide an influx of filth to mingle with the populace. Call me a pessimist, but this island does not need more people. Cut it in half, and it is still able to sustain itself without trouble. Trim some more fat, and it will flourish into a paradise.
Fortunately, I am not in charge of this community. My superiors have deemed me fit as a teacher, though I may argue otherwise. What other role could I fill? I suppose teaching is as fine as any. I am simply a malcontent. Such is the problem of you and me, dear friend. We should be thankful. If I had stayed in the city, you would never be, and I would be a pickpocket. Iniquity is hereditary, so I heard. I have Father’s blue eyes and crooked nose. Why not his sins? I surely hope not. I can bear his petty wickedness, but I cannot inherit his mediocrity.
The past is best left buried, and the present as well. Rather than grumble about the community, I will go into greater detail of my adventures in the wilderness. When I begin to grumble about that, I will find a new hobby to stir my discontent. Perhaps fishing. The ocean is so vast that I could never run out of topics to complain about.
Back to wandering around the woods like a brigand in the night. I have a task to fulfill, and henceforth, will double my efforts. Or is that the problem? Perhaps I am trying too hard. That is a notion worth mulling over in the future.
Entry 18
I have not made an entry in three days because the village has been bedlam. In short, Finney and two men attempted to kill the mayor in his sleep. They failed due to the intervention of my father and uncle.
The best place to start is with the scream: blood curdling, more horrifying than a banshee, echoing across the entire village. I was still tossing and turning in bed, trying to muffle the sound of Aiden’s snoring with a pillow against my ears. Even he woke from the shriek, leaping out of bed and fumbling through the dark for his rifle, calling my name. The twit thought it was me.
In those initial few seconds, as the echo continued to carry, the same scream rang fresh, cut off at the height of its pitch, which could only signal a life-ending terror. I doubt a single inhabitant did not realize a woman had been murdered. Everyone congregated outside the mayor’s house during the fray, and a few armed men, including Aiden, were ready to charge inside when my father was seen carrying Arthur, both covered in enough blood to arouse suspicion. Indeed, guns were pointed directly at my father. If he had not paused, he would have been killed by an itchy finger. Until my uncle dragged a hogtied Finney through the front door, many false assumptions had been muttered.
Though the mayor refuses to go into gruesome details, my uncle told me he and Father dashed to the house upon hearing the first scream, kicking the door in during the second’s shrill pitch. The moon was bright enough to make an instant assessment of the scene: Gwen dangled from the bed with her throat slit, fresh blood dripping onto the floor, mixing with another pool. One of the assailants lay next to the bed with a candlestick through his eye. In the corner, the mayor stood atop his desk, fending Finney and another off his chair. Father shot one between the shoulders, while my uncle hit Finney in the elbow. He was aiming for the heart, he later told me under his breath.
While there was some movement from Gwen when they entered, by the end, she had gone completely still. The mayor, body covered with a half dozen gashes, repeated her name as Father handed him off to the doctor. As people poured into the house, my uncle informally announced that Gwen had been killed, as well as Bruce and probably Dennis.
I tried consoling my mother, who had lost her best friend in this community. Rather than sorrow, she snarled and pounced on top of Finney, managing a few blows before being torn away. Her loud sobs converted the last of Finney’s supporters, quashing any thoughts of leaving, let alone a coup. If he had picked better men, maybe things would have turned out differently. My uncle was the only one to keep the mob from tearing him to pieces on the spot.
The next day, there was a long meeting. I spent most of it with Mother, since class had been canceled. We waited more than an hour for the others to return with a formal announcement of Finney’s clear guilt and inevitable execution. I certainly looked forward to it. The assault was all too familiar to my family, a comparison my mother confided to me in her grief. My uncle finally came to the house, and before either of us could ask, he told me I was needed at the hall. Rather than question it, I wasted no time following him. On the way, he told me to be brave.
Finney requested my aid in his defense. I was the best with words, and according to the mayor, we were obligated to honor this request. They left us in private.
I cannot deny his cunning. Finney was to be flayed, drawn, and quartered. This was beyond his request, but he figured I could get it changed to beheading. That would be simple, I assured, if I had not wished to see his flesh torn strip by strip. He then spoke at length about the war, the price of treason, and my father’s crime. High treason to the crown, he called it. Without a perpetrator to execute, the crown had no choice but to wreak vengeance on the populace. All those deaths because my father could not face judgment.
But why kill the mayor? According to Finney, we were stranded on this island, a haven for war criminals. His insistence we stay, despite the instability, was nothing short of tyranny. With his death, anyone could unconscionably leave.
I gave this explanation, colored with a bit of fancy rhetoric, under the plea that Finney should be killed by beheading or his own doing. I slipped in the latter, and the audience broke into a collective nod of approval. Finney was given a draught of poison, and if found alive in the morning, subject to a public flaying. He immediately dumped the liquid and cursed me for my trickery. I did not add the possibility as suicide to be cruel, but as a reasonable alternative for both parties. Finney would rather bear the pain than damn himself to hell.
My uncle praised my fairness and half seriously remarked that I would likely be called in during future situations. This sparked a thought: could I have gotten Finney absolved? I did not doubt that, given a boat, he would have left this island never to return, and due to his stubborn nature, would have never given up our community, even under the pain of flaying. I nearly brought up the question to Aiden, but knew better. I had never seen him in such a pleasant mood.
Despite the end of Finney’s conspiracy, this is far from over. There are still twenty disgruntled citizens, a number that is certain to climb during the winter. If a small hardship was enough to ignite an assassination attempt, what would a genuine catastrophe cause? Leave those questions to the men in charge. For now, I have an execution to attend.
Entry 19
No matter how accustomed to the prospect of death, I take comfort knowing torture will forever turn my stomach. Judging
by the long discussion this morning over who should be the one to flay Finney, I am not alone in my disgust. In the end, the deed was done by the mayor, my uncle, Gerald, Bertram, James, Ned, and Vern. The last three were previously on Finney’s side, taking part to assuage their guilt and show where their allegiances now lie.
Before pronouncing the sentence, the mayor thanked my uncle and Father, especially Father. He went on about his eternal gratitude, how he had made a new lifelong friend, and despite his past, there was no doubt he was a brave individual. There were plenty of nods of agreement and applause. Somebody even pat me on the shoulder.
The entire town was forced to watch, including the children. The girls huddled around me, crying and wiping their tears on my skirt. My sweaty palm clasped tight to Aiden’s hand. If I had let go, I was sure he would have taken part in the gruesome slaughter. Then again, Father promised my uncle he would partake, but silently declined when it was his turn. I could not blame him. At that point, Finney’s howling had become as draining to the soul as the sight of flaps of skin hanging off the rack, amassing hundreds of flies. After the executioner peeled back a layer of flesh, he would swat the meddlesome insects swarming around his sweaty face, buzzing around their prospective meal.
They dragged the corpse to the edge of town, the body a slimy red husk of a human. Since they had taken the ceremony this far, it would have been a waste not to tie its limbs to horses. Most people turned away when the mayor sent the animals running, myself included, though I heard the wet cracking of bones over the whinnying and clattering hooves.
The walk back was solemn for all. The execution succeeded. There was no talk of leaving. On the contrary, a few murmurs were subjected to exploring the caverns before sundown. They spent the day marking trees and checking soil, and by night, according to Aiden, someone had cracked a joke about Finney’s cock being split in two. The laughter dissolved any uncomfortableness, I assume. Tomorrow is business as usual.