The Island

http://thethoughtsofjager.blogspot.com/
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This is a story that I finished today and do not have any particular fondness for but really just wanted to finish it.


Patrick leaned against the railing of the ship and mopped his brow with a dirty rag, no matter how many times he brushed the sweat away it repooled and trickled down his face. They had been at sea for months, making the trip from England to India. It was his third time on the voyage and each time it got no easier, each squall was still as frightening as before and each time an outbreak of scurvy occurred he was returned to his knees in fervent prayer he would not be touched by it. The first time he was at sea he contracted the disease and almost lost teeth, since then he had found only a few liver spots on his thighs every now and again.
The ship he was currently sailing on, the Cormorant, had just come through a particularly vicious storm and so the crew was hard at work repairing from the damage. Currently Patrick was nailing splints to the main mast where it had cracked but not fallen, in order to do so he had to shin up the mast and hold on using only his legs while his hands held the board, nail and mallet. Ideally he would hang from the crossbeam to do such work but in this case the structural integrity of the mast was in question.
“Patrick,” said Michael, “they’ve spotted land.” Michael was a good friend of Patrick and it was only because of him that Patrick was even on this voyage. Patrick had received a job as a dockworker on one of the main wharfs in London and so there was no reason he should continue these trips. But the ship needed another hand and as a favor to Michael, Patrick had sullenly agreed to postpone his work on the wharf and return for a last journey around Africa and to India.
“Is it India?” inquired Patrick.
“Not there yet,” replied Michael, “they’ve no idea what landmass it could be, the storm blew us farther off course than anyone has anticipated. The Cap’n is studying the charts as we speak.”
“As if that will do us any good,” snorted Patrick, “he can barely read a map and navigate.” Captain Samuel Andrews was not a sufficiently competent navigator as it had become evident throughout the voyage when he mistook the Cape of Good Hope for Australia.
“Boys,” roared a voice from the cabin, “we are putting into land, take her over.”
“Thankfully,” said Michael dryly, “the ketch is gone so we won’t have to worry about getting to shore.”
As it turned out the ship did not make it that far towards the land. Approximately a half mile from the sandy beach they struck a reef and ripped a great hole in the hull. Shortly after that the ship began to break apart as though it was matchwood. True, The Cormorant was not a war ship and did not have the strongest of hulls but she should be resilient to a few rocks beating on her hull.
Patrick attempted to look down at the reef but he could see no rocks, what appeared to be a long ribbon falling was all he could see. The ribbon flashed and turned and at some points even seemed to come closer to the surface. It appeared to be scaled and tapered to an end, it was too deep for Patrick to see the other end.
“Patrick!” exclaimed Michael, “hurry and get onto this raft.” The sailor was referring to a hastily cobbled together mass of empty barrels and spare timber. The raft was thrown from the side of the ship and after it jumped the small crew of sixteen. Most of them succeeded in climbing onto it or at least finding a spot around the side. But by the time they had steadied themselves on it there were only fourteen of them left.
“Where are Pierre and Jean?” yelled Andrews, “I saw them jump, where are they?”
Patrick looked about him from where he clung to the raft, true, they were nowhere to be seen and he could not help but wonder if they were taken by this mysterious ribbon he had seen. Michael was fine, he had perched on the raft nearby the Captain and he clutched an oar in his hands which he was attempting to use to row the overcrowded craft to the shore.
“Get us to shore,” ordered the Captain, somewhat redundantly as everyone was already pushing the raft as best they could in the direction of the landmass. Patrick swore silently to himself that if they were forced to sacrifice a crew member for whatever reason Andrews should or should be volunteered for that role.
When they reached the shore there a small amount of dissention among the crew. Andrews had done little to aid the struggling crew and they were all exhausted. Patrick had never been marooned on an island before but he imagined it would be similar to the current situation.
The group set up camp on the beach and watched as pieces of their ship floated ashore. No pieces of the ship could be used for anything, not even firewood as the wood was soaked to the core from the sea.
“Form into pairs and look in the jungle for fruit or something to eat,” commanded Andrews, “Patrick, Michael, you two help me pull this wood on shore so it can dry.” The pair grudgingly obliged, they would have much rather been sampling fruit types or getting a cool drink of water.
The sun crossed the sky and soon it began to sag low behind the trees, still no one had returned from the expeditions into the jungle. The wood had dried out and a fire was now going; Andrews wore spectacles and they proved to be a useful tool in getting the fire started. Andrews paced constantly with his eyes fixed on the leafy interior of the jungle, it was unsettling.
“Maybe no one will return because they found a settlement on another part of the island,” whispered Michael to Patrick, “and they do not want the captain to be rescued as well.”
“I would not put it out of the realm of possibility,” said Patrick, “but I suspect the meaning is far graver than that.”
“What do you mean,” asked Michael seriously.
“As they ship went down today, in the stead of a reef, I thought I saw a sea serpent descending into the depths below the ship.”
“That is unnerving but it would be in the water and not on the land,” argued Michael.
“Have you ever heard of a sea serpent attacking a ship?” inquired Patrick.
“Not with any seriousness to the matter.”
“Which leads me to believe that this is a mystical island, and leads me to believe that we are in grave danger.”
“Speculation,” growled Andrews as he finally sat from his time of pacing.
“Superstition,” agreed Michael.
“Get some shut eye,” said Andrews, “in the morning we will look for our fellows I the jungle, but not at night.”


Patrick was surprised upon awaking the following morning to find his body unharmed for he resolutely believed that this land was a cursed one. Michael was biting into a mango and Andrews picking through remnants of the ship until he found a stiff piece of timber which would double as a club. He swung the long piece so that it made a whistling sound as it passed through the air.
“What do you need that for?” inquired Michael.
“Protection,” growled Andrews.
“From what?” pursued the subordinate.
“Whatever might be in there,” he pointed with his club at the jungle. Michael rolled his eyes and Patrick sighed sadly that his friend was not taking the perilous nature of their situation seriously.
The trio embarked into the jungle and were instantly struck with how quiet it was. The only sounds they could hear were their own muffled footsteps. Each net of vines and tapered tree seemed threatening, the slightest wisp of the wind that ruffled a leaf caused Patrick to snap his head back. Once he though he saw a man dart behind a tree far in the distance but he rubbed his eyes and looked out and saw nothing.
It was nearly noon and they had been traipsing through the trees for the whole of the day when they came upon a curious carving in a tree. Michael approached it and as he stood before it a net swung up from around his feet and wrapped him up a good ten feet above the forest floor.
The sailor struggled wildly but only succeeded in further disorienting himself. Patrick saw no way in which to deactivate the trap so he ran towards the tree, he ran up the tree then pushed off and snagged his hand on the net. The two sailors hung there as Patrick tried to climb up to the top of the net where it appeared the most knotted.
Below the Captain was whirling rapidly looking for another trap or the people who set the trap. Seeing neither he returned his attention to the sailors scrabbling around with the net. Patrick managed to maneuver his way to the top and he began to attempt to pry open some of the knots but made little accomplishment.
“Cap’n,” he called down, “is there a sharp rock down there?”
“Get me out!” exclaimed Michael from his place in the vine web.
“Try this said Andrews throwing a rock up to Patrick, the sailor caught it deftly and began sawing at the fibers until the broke one by one. Patrick was not a fool and so he did not cut the few vines that held the whole contraption together but instead located several main components to the web and sliced each of these in turn until it appeared to be nothing more than a rope ladder. The pair half slid, half climbed down to the jungle floor.
“That is strange,” remarked Michael, only slightly shaken from the ordeal.
“Why could there by a trap in the jungle,” inquired Andrews, it was the obvious question, unfortunately none of them had the answer.
“It is possible others are caught in a similar situation,” hypothesized Patrick.
“Then why have we neither seen nor heard them?” debated Michael, “it has taken us the whole of the morning to find the one, it is unlikely we will find another anytime soon—” he was cut off as he spoke by three men who had approached out of the jungle. Patrick looked dumbly on the newcomers, they did not resemble the savages accustomed to a tropical island, they wore short robes and carried very sophisticated looking spears. They held them up in a menacing way and spoke in an alien tongue.
Patrick turned around only to see four more of the newcomers were behind them as well. Andrews raised his club threateningly but was struck from behind by one of the new four. Michael and Patrick were likewise buffeted unconscious.

“Patrick,” said a voice, neither Michael or Andrews, “wake!” it commanded. Patrick rose sharply from where he lay, he was in a cell, the walls were made of sandstone but there were wrought iron gates. The voice who addresses him was John, a sailor who had been on The Cormorant. John had been searching the jungle for food and now had a small cut on his temple.
“What has happened?” inquired Patrick, slightly groggy from waking.
“We have been captured by the inhabitants of this island,” replied John.
“What do they want?” continued Patrick’s questioning.
“That is the grizzly affair,” shuddered John, “it appears that we are in some sort of coliseum in the heart of the island. So far we have been forced to fight strange beasts only known from legend.”
“We are like gladiators?” said Patrick fearfully.
“I wish,” said John gravely, “at least gladiators had weapons.”
“Have you seen the Cap’n or Michael?”
“They are a few cells down,” replied John, “with them there are only five of us left.” John walked over to one of the two doors and looked out at an arena, Patrick stood and followed him. There was a high wall surrounding a sandy arena, on the wall seating for around one hundred people was visible. In the sand, there were bones.
“Soon they will come for us again,” said John, then he looked at Patrick, “I never thought I would die this way.”
“I don’t think anyone has,” replied Patrick.
Just then the door to the arena was pulled open, behind them guards jabbed through the slots with their spears to force them out. John turned and seized a spear haft and pulled sharply, the whole spear fell into the cage and he dragged it with him into the arena. The spears were quickly drawn back into their grooves and the door to their cage shut. John broke the spear in two and gave the blunt half to Patrick.
“Just a fighting chance,” said John morosely.
“Don’t consign yourself to death yet,” consoled Patrick.
“If we don’t die today, we die tomorrow,” argued the other sailor, “might as well be today lest it be another day of fear.”
On the far side of the arena Michael, Andrews, and Francis, the other sailor, had emerged from a cage and were wandering towards the center of the arena. Patrick and John went over to them.
“Where did you get the weapon?” inquired Andrews.
“Stole it from a lazy guard,” responded John.
“Well give me half, I’m captain,” he made to snatch the weapon from John.
“To each his own,” growled John.
“No, we must stay together,” rationed Francis, “there is strength in numbers.”
“The only strength is the probability you will be picked off last,” growled John. Patrick was inclined to side with John, he wanted to be with John because out of all the men here, he was the only one with a substantial amount of courage.
“Look,” said Francis, “our spectators.” Michael waved cheekily while John howled and beat the spear half against his chest.
“Fight me!” he yelled, “don’t send your beasts send yourselves!” The crowd seemed to think this was amusing and they waved back and yelled things in their own language, whether they were taunts or encouragement it was hard to determine.
“There,” exclaimed Patrick, “they are opening a gate.”
“That gate leads into the jungle,” said Francis a little miffed.
“Does anything come through it?” inquired Michael, sobering up as the realization of nearing death became apparent.
“Let us see,” stated John, he took a fighting stance and stared fixedly on the entrance.
A shrill and piercing scream rent the air. Patrick jumped in his skin and whirled to see Andrews looking at a different gate where a beast had just appeared. It had a glossy black coat of fur and stood on its hind legs, it appeared humanoid but for the head of a bull that was mounted on its shoulders. It lowered a pair of great horns, grunted, and began to paw the sandy turf.
“Run,” said John quietly, then he roared, “run!” the party of shipwrecked sailors didn’t need to be told twice, they split towards the gate to the forest. All except Andrews, the captain showed his true colors now, he stood his ground and wet himself. He was scared stiff and could not find the power to move his feet until the Minotaur knocked him from them.
“There,” gasped Patrick, “there are walkways all above us.” So it was, above them an intricate web of platforms and paths were linked between the trees and on those a people cheered and yelled. Behind them, they could hear the people in the arena quieting down.
“The beast must be done mauling the Cap’n,” noted Michael, doggedly jogging along. Patrick himself would have stopped running long ago if fear had not kept him going. Spending several months on a ship leaves little time for calisthenics.
“Keep going,” encouraged Francis, who was probably doing the worst of all of them. “There, in those trees, lets take a break,” suggested John. The four stopped and warily looked at the jungle around them. John and Patrick still held their spear halves but the other two were unarmed.
“I think I can reach the branch,” breathed Francis heavily, he was referring to a stout timber six feet from the trunks behind which they were protected. Without waiting for permission he scurried out and scrabbled for the bough. He got it and stood erect and jogged back towards to trees, the minotaur did not wait for Francis. It bowled into him from behind and pinned his corpse up on a tree not two feet from Patrick. Francis’ head lolled to the side and he stared with dead eyes at his compatriots.
The beast’s arms were swinging wildly at its sides so John snuck low at it and drove the spear into its left leg. It howled in pain and the crowd booed, John whirled towards the people in the branches and roared out an ultimatum to them.
“I told you to come!” he yelled, “but you sent the beast! Come down and we’ll see if your blood runs as red as mine!” The beast released its hold on Francis and it sunk to one knee and pulled the spear from its leg and then faced John’s exposed back and raised the weapon like a club.
The world seemed to slow down for Patrick, he laid out entire arguments for himself, to run and live or to stay and fight like John had. In the end he recalled John’s rationing.
“We are dead today or tomorrow,” he said quietly to himself then he threw his body into the minotaur’s side. The pair fell to the ground together tangled in eachother. Patrick extricated himself as quickly as he could and scrabbled away from the beast. It growled and lashed its head, trying to get its horns lodged in the sailors fleeing body. John had turned and picked up the spear shaft Patrick had dropped and he clubbed the beast in the side of the head, it fell to the side again but it was not hurt at all.
“John, run!” yelled Michael who was already a good twenty feet away from the beast. Patrick seized John’s arm and began to drag him along behind him until the man willingly ran as well. Patrick chanced a look back and saw the beast was up on all fours now, it tried to stand on two legs but could not so it went back to all fours and began to run slowly and lamely on three after them.
Suddenly the trio burst out onto the shore. They looked wildly to their left and right, looking for a place to run.
“The ketch!” exclaimed Michael. There it was, the little boat had washed up onto the shore and was lying on its side like a beached whale. The trio immediately began to run for it as quickly as they could, behind them the beast burst from the trees and rolled onto the sand.
Patrick and John tried to right the ketch while Michael pushed it towards the water. They experienced little short term success, a few drag marks in the sand were the only signs that they had made the slightest progress.
“The beast grow closer,” growled John. True, the minotaur had made significant progress towards them despite being on all fours. It galloped toward them bleeding and tossing is bovine head.
“No!” yelled Patrick and he redoubled his efforts. He had had enough of this strange island and it was time to get off of it. The ketch moved ever so slightly into the surf but it was enough for the small ship to get into the water that there was some bouyancy.
Patrick and Michael crawled into the ketch until only John was left forcing it into the waves. Within the small ship they found a pair of oars which had miraculously not been washed out in the storm. John clung to the back of the ketch as it was drawn out into the sea, the minotaur pursued them into the surf. By now the vessel had managed to get out into the deep on the water. Patrick hauled John into the ketch and together they put up the sail.
“How can it still pursue us?” questioned Michael. Patrick turned his head to where the minotaur had managed to form an awkward swim technique and was managing to swim faster than they could row. The sailor then turned his head down into the deep where the silver ribbon had appeared.
“It will not be a problem,” said Patrick. The next moment a great serpentine head reared out of the water and seized the significantly smaller creature in its mouth and then returned to the depth. Patrick took one last look back to the island, the inhabitants were down on the shore now with their weapons raised high over their heads in jeering anger.
“So long,” waved Michael as the ketch skipped over the waves.