The Island

I set out on this mission, hand filled with hubris. It was destiny, I assumed-- though obligation is probably more apt-- that pushed me into this eneavor. I did not expect the pushback, at least not to the degree in which I was met. Still, I chose to sail on. The seas have softened some and I have chosen to trust that the destination will be worth the endless hours of sun that has beaten my brow.

I land upon the familiar shoreline and find it in a state of muted chaos. Hastily fashioned rafts lie stagnant in the sand, weather-worn bags filled with pottery strung lazily atop the rotting wood. I lift a faded vase into the burning sun, eyeing its engravings with darkened nostalgia. For a moment, I think back to the merchant cities I was so eager to leave. They were a place where I could sever the binding of my youth but their vapid, alien ways led me to crave the warmth of the sand on which I'd grown. In all my lofty fantasies, I had forgotten how the granules burned my feet, how the shells sliced through my calloused heels.

I roam along the Eastern shore, and spot the opening of a cave in the rock face. Familiar notes pouring from the jagged entryway but are quickly carried along the shifting breeze and melt into the rustling of the trees. A siren song for tepid dreams. I fish a torch and match from my sack, and float into the cave, a sense of duty swelling within my chest.

The cave is cold and damp. Curious for an island so warm, though I find a suspicious sense of intimacy in each descending step. The distant dripping of stalactites grows louder, and I emerge into a vast room shaped patiently by the hands of a greater force. I peer into the water pooling on the cavern floor and find that my face has aged. My face has grown gaunt, and subtle lines have crept beneath my dimming eyes. My once ample lips, revered by lovers in softer, more tender moments, are now dry and pale. Clotted blood fills every painful crack and my resting smile has fallen into a gentle frown. Fixation is a dangerous distraction. There is more to be found. I break my concentration and move forward.

I step gently between the stalagmites, trekking further into the labyrinth. My pathway splits in two. Unthinking, I follow the path to the left. I stumble through the tunnel and emerge to face a grotto. I raise my torch and am met with glimmering lights bouncing back from within the darkness of the cave. As I move further into the room, I trip and fall onto the damp cavern floor. My torch remains lit, and I move it closer to the ground so I can identify my saboteur, brazenly reaching out for my assailant. I pull my hand back into the light and am met with the empty eyes of a skull staring blankly into mine. I scan the torch across the grotto to discover complete skeletons lying undisturbed, each frozen into their final position. The glimmers bounce back once more and I set the skull onto the slick rock to follow the nearest glimmer. The twinkling in my eye begins to blind, but I crouch to get a closer look. I find a skeletal hand clinging desperately to a chain and hanging from the chain, a sapphire set in gold. The charm is engraved with symbols I have not seen since my youth. Dark nostalgia strikes once more. I pry the chain from its bony cage and set it gently in my satchel.

I step over the other skeletons, losing interest in the jewels adorning nearly every corpse. Bags of pottery, like the ones on the rafts, are also littered amongst the bodies. As I approach the edge of the room, I am faced with strange scrawling on the wall. A waterlogged notebook lies at my feet, nearly destroyed by the environment. I pick it up tenderly, and attempt to go through its pages. There is little I can make out and the coarseness of my fingers tears at the fragile pages. I pull a cloth from my bag, gently wrap the book up and place it with my rest of my items. I turn my attention back to the markings on the wall. They are crude but legible, written in a broken form of the language spoken on the island for generations. The words tell of a tragic story, of a people unprepared for the will of the gods. A storm approached, arrived more quickly than expected and ravaged the entirety of our villages. Those who tried to escape on the rafts were taken by the elements. Those who survived, took all they had left and sought refuge in the grotto. Fearful of the angered spirits, they remained in the caverns, forever unsure of how they'd failed their deities.

I stand at the grotto's edge and scan the scene before me. Did they know that the storm had come to its end? Did they try to look? Or was the fear of another storm so strong that they refused leave the grotto? In any case, there was no thought that they could begin again. This was their one and only refuge. A place for the waves to crash and then release. I take comfort in the cycles that have no need to be broken. I am forced to honor the ones that do.

My torch begins to flicker. Though I have more matches, I take this as a sign to depart. I look over the room once more, and mourn the desperation of my ancestors. There was a time when I believed wisdom to be the lack of foolish, fearful behavior. I realize now that the two are always present- one simply takes lead of the other.

I chose to leave in happier times, eager to see the world that lay beyond the beaches. I was young when I took off into the murky sea. My elders sent me off with no more than food and platitudes. There was no anger, but no enthusiasm either. Simply quiet understanding and unspoken concern. It was wanderlust that pushed me along, and exhaustion that brought me home. But home was not the same, and it had not been for many years. It is likely I will return one day, perhaps at a time where the visions of today begin to fade.

I emerge into the familiar sun, unsure of how long I'd been in the depths. There is little for me here, less than I could have fathomed. I spot the vase I discovered upon my landing lying solemnly in the sand. I pick it back up, grateful for the warmth it absorbed while I traversed the dank caverns. I place it in my bag with the necklace and ailing notebook. It appears as if time is still on my side, so I set out onto the waters once more. I drag my boat onto the packed, watery sands and step inside. I kick my oar into the shallow water and allow the current to pull me into the easy waters. A voice within tells me to release the anxiousness of the journey ahead; there is no need to fear the storms.