‘She doesn’t wanna come out today.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘I think she had another argument with her dad…’
My mother stood up, looked into my eyes for a moment, and faded away like the tendrils of steam issuing from her coffee mug.
I knelt beside a stream and fixed my eyes on the distorted reflection trapped under the shallow water. My heart pounded against my chest in fierce protest. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead. I dipped my hand in the clear liquid and ran my fingers against the tiny rocks at the bottom, shattering the reflection and savoring the coolness on my skin. I was remembering what had been. What had passed. I tried to bring those minor memories to the forest. The memories that make little impact on our lives, but still make us smile when we reflect on them. Tiny fragments that come together and make us who we are.
‘Right, when the light goes on, you look up as if you can see heaven,’ I told Elliott.
I held a video camera in my one hand and a torch in the other.
In that newly surfaced memory, we were filming the last scene of my latest horror movie. Heaven’s portal was about to open above Elliott’s head during the happy conclusion I’d waited ages to film. No more scares. No more demons.
‘Action!’ I raised the torch above Elliott’s head.
He looked up. I cast the light on his face, sharpening his features. It looked good on camera, in grainy black and white mode. His eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped in feigned amazement.
That’s actually good, I thought.
‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!’ Elliott sang Handel’s famous chorus.
‘Um, Elliott, what are you doing?’
Elliott continued to sing in a high-pitched voice, sounding like a little girl who’d just stubbed her toe and simultaneously discovered Christmas was cancelled.
‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelu -’
‘You’ve just ruined the most important scene in the film!’ I roared.
Elliott laughed uncontrollably and fell to the floor. I switched the torch off and grimaced as he rolled around, his body jerking as if he were about to spontaneously combust with the hilarity.
‘Hallelujah!’
I couldn’t help smiling.
‘Right, let’s try it again,’ I said when Elliott could breathe again.
‘C’mon, it was funny!’
‘Yeah, but I’m sure the public won’t find it funny when it’s shown in cinemas.’
‘Oh, c’mon, Daniel! It’s not going to be shown in cinemas.’
‘It will,’ I insisted. ‘Just you wait.’
‘Who would go to watch a film made by two eleven year olds with a home video camera?’
‘Shut up. Now, let’s try again.’
I stood on a small stage, a script in my hands, the evil voice of the villainous cad James Moriarty emanating from my mouth and into a microphone. Dim lights filtered through misty darkness. Sherlock Holmes and the Geese of Christmas Past! I had written a Christmas Special with a couple of Act One mates. The audience chuckled, groaned at some of the deliberately awful puns. Cringed at some of my lewd lines and the play’s seditious content. But I felt so much pride as I listened out for reactions to the passages I’d scripted. I’d learned from my mistakes, that bad review of my episode from the last series of the parody. My additions to the Special were a tad excessive. An awful lot of crude humor and visual gags to satisfy the live audience. But I’d learned what made people react. That harmony between writer and spectator. Nothing felt better. As I looked back at that evening, the giggles and titters coming from the seated silhouettes, I realized that writing was my real passion. Always had been. I could be stripped of an acting career, too old to play the characters I wanted to, stripped of directing and producing duties, but as long as I had fingers to type, or a hand to write, that’s what I’d feel most comfortable doing.
My recollections were interrupted by a strange gurgling sound. A creature, resembling a duck, with golden brown feathers, foraged in the water. It raised its head and gawped at me, opening its long beak and making another inappropriate noise.
‘What the hell are you?’
The creature ambled towards me, climbing out of the water and through the foliage. It pecked me on the arm.
‘You cheeky…’
It flapped its wings, spraying me with stream water.
I stood up and stamped my feet in a pathetic attempt to scare it away.
‘Bugger off!’ I growled.
The resolute bird stood its ground. It looked up at me and made yet another gurgling sound. I guessed by its carelessness that it was still an infant.
‘I give up.’ I walked away.
The creature followed, but it experienced difficulty with walking. It stood on its feet like a penguin and repeatedly fell over in its pursuit.
I sat on a smooth, grey rock, my lungs aching. The bird fixed its eyes on me.
‘Well, you’re not breathing heavily. You’re much fitter than I am.’
I had to admit it. The bird looked cute. It scuttled over to me and rested its head on my knee. Its wide eyes resembled a puppy’s.
‘I came here for a jog. You know, believe it or not, I used to be in good shape.’ I stroked its beak.
The bird nodded its head in assent.
‘You’re very friendly.’
It wagged its tail like a dog. I laughed.
‘I think I’ll name you after my old friend. From now on, bird, your name is Elliott!’
I smoothed Elliott’s feathers. I’d never encountered such an amiable creature. I got to my feet again and waved goodbye to my new feathery friend.
I went back to the house and told Soraya about my encounter.
‘Yeah, I think they migrate here,’ she said.
‘What are they? It looked a bit like a duck.’
‘I’m not entirely sure. I think they’re diving birds. My father used to be obsessed with ornithology. There are so many different kinds here. I think you’ve described a grebe. That’s what my father called them anyway.’
‘He was very friendly.’
‘Sounds like you’re in love.’
‘Well, he was good company!’
‘And I’m not?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ I grinned.
‘I suppose it must be strange for you…’
‘What?’
‘Being away from people.’
‘Hmm. Yeah, I guess.’
‘So, how are you finding island life?’
I was enjoying island life and the relaxed surroundings of the Elysian Fields I’d been brought to. I spent my days wandering around, exploring. Soraya took a stroll on the beach in the mornings and then went about her chores.
‘It’s good. I like roaming around the island. Don’t you ever like to explore?’
‘I used to when I was a child. I can’t say I’ve ever been too far though.’
‘That surprises me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I imagine you must get bored if you only go as far as the beach!’
‘I’m not like you. I haven’t traveled the world and done all the amazing things you’ve done. You must find me a bit dull.’ She winked at me.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘The beach is enough for me. I guess I’m just a contented person. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.’
‘If only I was content. My problem is that I always find faults in things.’
‘I bet you find faults in me!’
‘I don’t find any faults in you!’ I laughed. ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Soraya.’
‘And you’re a wonderful man.’
‘You know, I think I’ll find that bird again. I’ll go canoeing with him.’
‘Sounds like a date!’
‘He’s my sort of bird,’ I joked.
‘If you whistle by the lake, he’ll probably come to you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, but his family may join him!�
��
That evening, I whistled by the lake. Just like Soraya had said, the bird turned up looking for food. I picked him up and carried him into the canoe, which had two hefty paddles and a small sail of a dirty canvas.
The whispers and murmurs of the night, the green fragrances of the distant forest, traveled through the balmy air. I gazed at the speckled sky.
Elliott perched himself beside me, nibbling sedately at his feathers.
‘So then, fella, anything on your mind?’
The bird looked up at me with a befuddled expression on his beaky face.
I continued rowing until I lost my breath. I sat back and looked at the stars pricking the heavens.
‘You may be wondering why I left the civilized world to come here…’
The bird blinked a couple of times. I don’t think he was wondering at all.
‘You’re a very good listener.’ I smirked.
Elliott made one of his habitual gurgling noises, hopped onto my chest and fell asleep. I ran soft trails through his golden feathers with my fingers.
‘I guess you grew tired of my conversation,’ I jested. ‘Get a hold of yourself, Daniel. This isn’t Sesame Street.’
Elliott looked so happy in his slumber. I thought about all the poets and philosophers out there. All those great men and women supposedly able to comprehend the intricacies of life. They could learn lessons from that creature, sleeping on my chest in blissful ignorance. Nature would always be above art, in every respect.
I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep, waking ten minutes later to see Elliott nibbling at a silver fish.
‘Supper time, is it?’
Once the bird had finished his wholesome meal, I rowed towards the shore.
‘Goodbye, Elliott. We really must do this again.’ He tried pecking my face. ‘Sorry, but I never kiss on a first date.’
I made my way back to the house. Soraya had fallen asleep on the sofa, her pretty head resting on a fluffy cushion. At that moment, I felt strangely at home in a world of untroubled peace, without photographers, journalists or zany fans. A world where creatures like Elliott looked for food among the streams and lakes and green paths. I went upstairs to my bed and fell into an unruffled sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Footprints in the Sand
Five months had passed on Isla Lacuna. My feathery friend Elliott left me once the seasons changed over. The last time I saw him he hopped out of the canoe, poked his head above the water to gurgle goodbye, and descended.
I spent a lot of time wandering alone. I got to know the island very well, always seeking new paths and recesses. I discovered that to the northeast there were cocoa and citrons trees. And I found melons in the west.
‘You won’t have to go the market for fruit anymore,’ I told Soraya.
‘Where would be the fun in that?’
‘Oh. You enjoy going to the market?’
‘Of course. It’s not so much what I buy, but the process of buying. That’s what I enjoy.’
‘You’re a typical woman!’ I sniggered.
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ She beamed.
Soraya and I got on really well. She understood that I sometimes liked to be alone. But she was always there for me when I needed company, and we became best friends. She loved to hear me tell stories. Her favorite was an anecdote I’d heard as a teenager about a tramp who lived in a part of Wales known as Llanelli. The tramp was as mad as King Lear on the heath. Completely bonkers. He had a grey, tangled beard, which extended to his paunch. His eyebrows were like two great nations, united in the purpose of keeping the top of his bulbous nose warm. He used to shout incomprehensible things at passers-by, and occasionally had apoplectic fits. Sane civilians avoided him.
The story went that the tramp had once been a scientist dealing in astronomy, with such vast knowledge that he lost his mind. He couldn’t view the world around him because his every thought concerned the stars and planets. His mind was crammed with furious facts: the universe reaches at over thirteen billion light years in every conceivable direction. Eta Carinae became the second brightest star in the sky in the year 1840, but it’s no longer visible and has faded within the Homunculus Nebula. The planet Mars is as cold as the coldest place on Earth. Hipparchus created a catalogue of one thousand stars in the night sky in 130 BC. Ceres was the first asteroid ever discovered, by Giuseppe Piazzi in 1801. Such facts were daunting to me, but they whirled around in the scientist’s head until he took to the streets and became a lunatic.
‘But it’s just a story,’ I told Soraya. ‘A sort of urban myth. I’m not even sure if people still tell it in Wales. It’s probably been forgotten…’
I was reborn on the island. But it wasn’t a case of leaving one life for another. I couldn’t forget my previous life, because my past defined me.
I’d tried to cast that life aside. But that would mean I’d have to cast aside the memories that had come with it. That was impossible. I cherished those memories. My stay on the island had become a pilgrimage. I recognized that in denying the press a final chapter, I would deny myself a fitting conclusion.
I tread on the white sands on a hot afternoon, under the mackerel sky. The ebbing tide was a rolling carpet of crystal blue. I took it all in as I inhaled the salubrious air: the contours of the cliffs, the clefts within the grey rocks. I continued strolling across the beach, beside the great timber trees of deep red hues at the edge of the forest, their lofty branches signaling to the waves. And then I stopped, thunderstruck.
There were footprints in the sand.
My heart pounded. An intruder had come to the island. The rambler must have been wearing sandals. Four invasive steps had been taken. They appeared to be a man’s footprints. But they sure as hell weren’t mine. They were too small to be my feet. After examining the prints, I walked back to the house, under the shade of melancholy boughs. Like a modern Robinson Crusoe, I mistook every tree and shadow on the way for an intruder. Maybe a journalist had found out I was on the island? The peaceful surroundings would be destroyed. There would be bustling crowds and ceaseless camera flashes. I would be discovered.
I questioned Soraya. She said she couldn’t imagine anybody setting foot on the island.
I looked out of my bedroom window that night, paranoia swirling in my mind. Discomforting thoughts and images came to me through the deathly darkness. I wondered if a man were lurking near the house. Each shadow became contorted, human in shape, ready to pounce from the murky corners.
Later, I was woken by the sound of a man’s voice. I’d dreamt of a dark figure dragging me away from the island. I’d been thrown to the crowds of angry fans I’d abandoned and pushed into a volcano, a great conical mountain erupting from my past. The fierce mountain bubbled with rage and obligations as I plummeted towards the magma chamber. Mingled with the sulphur was the potent scent of mortality.
I crept downstairs, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, and peered round a corner. Illumined by the soft light of an oil lamp stood a man, opposite Soraya. A tall man in his early thirties, with dark hair and a tanned complexion, dressed in a short-sleeved white cotton shirt, midnight blue shorts and beige sandals.
‘You ran out on mom as soon as she became ill!’ Soraya shouted.
‘I didn’t bloody run out,’ the man snapped. ‘I wanted to earn us some money. Dad couldn’t work anymore. I needed to make some cash.’
‘But you didn’t come back! Dad needed you after mom passed away. He died of a broken heart. And you didn’t help him.’
‘I was too ashamed to show my face.’ The man looked down at the ground, a cloud of humiliation concealing his features. ‘I hadn’t made any money. I was afraid that dad would be embarrassed by me. His job was his life.’
‘We were his life, Christopher! He worshipped you. And you didn’t come back.’
Christopher didn’t respond.
‘Why are you back now?’ Soraya asked.
‘I just wanted to see you. This lan
d belongs to me as well, you know. You can’t treat me like an intruder.’
I strolled into the room. Christopher turned towards me. His eyes widened and his skin became pale. He gripped the arm of the sofa to prevent himself from fainting.
‘It’s D-Daniel Mace!’
I’d half expected him to say ‘Cripes, let’s get out of here!’ or some other typical Scooby-Doo line.
‘Good evening,’ I said.
‘B-but you’re dead!’
‘And looking good for it, if I do say so myself. The years of advertising moisturizing brands must have paid off. Who are you?’
‘This is my brother. His name is Christopher,’ Soraya said.
‘But what is he doing here? H-how can he…’
‘Calm down, mate. We’ll explain everything to you.’ I walked towards him and shook his quivering hand. ‘And do me a favor: don’t tell me what’s going on in the outside world. Ignorance is bliss for me.’
I made three black coffees and explained the situation to him.
‘You see, we have a problem now,’ I said. ‘If you tell anybody where I am then I’ll be forced to go back.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Can I be sure of that?’
‘You can be sure of that.’ Soraya glared at her brother.
‘Christopher, I don’t want you here. You don’t belong here anymore. It so happens that I have a bit of money now. I’m willing to give you enough cash for you to live comfortably wherever you choose to go.’
Christopher drank his coffee in silence.
‘What you did was wrong,’ Soraya continued. ‘You should have come back. I know that dad could be stern, but he would have forgiven you. Even if you didn’t set the business world alight.’
‘I felt like such a failure…’
‘Well, now you’ll have money. You can do what you like. Start afresh.’
Christopher continued to sip his coffee in faltering silence.
‘But if you tell anyone about my presence here she’ll have every penny back.’ I wagged an assertive finger at him. ‘Incidentally, how long have you been here?’
‘Since this morning. I was a bit nervous about seeing Soraya again. I found myself walking around the island all afternoon,’ he replied.
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