Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: DEVOTED (02/04/21)
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TITLE: The Islander | Previous Challenge Entry
By Samuel Kane
02/11/21 -
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The islander clenched his toes, burying his bare feet in the sand. A simple cloak hung loosely over his shoulders, keeping him from the torment of the sun. He pondered the work of Gaunilo: the analogy of the perfect island, a rebuttal of the Ontological Argument if he remembered correctly. Whether there was a God, he knew not. Could such an island exist? There was no guarantee. Was this that island. No, and of that he was certain. It would suffice though.
He fiddled with the last remnant of his previous life: his father’s watch. Its ticking had ceased long ago; he knew not why he had kept it. His fingers traced the back of the timepiece, tracking the worn engraving of two simple letters: the initials of a love long-lost. Her betrayal had stung so deep it had left his hands stained with blood. It was time to let the past die. He cast the watch into the breakers.
Life on this island was far from easy, yet there was a beauty in the tranquillity of it all. The cool breeze whistled softly through the trees behind him. They provided shade from the scorching sun. A small beast cried out as it struggled in the undergrowth. The islander sighed.
He had grown accustomed to the island. There were no societal expectations, just the laws of the wild. There was no complex emotionality, just the rise and fall of the winds. Yet he still found security in his schedule. He knew when to avoid the beach and its burning sands. He planned his excursions for food with the ebb and flow of Oceanus himself. He found the perfect place to eat, the perfect time to sleep, the perfect way to live. There was a serenity in such rhythm.
His years of isolation had fed his loathing of the world of man. He had once given his life to that Jezebel. Now he devoted it to peaceful isolation and the repetition and tradition that kept him alive.
The islander squatted by the pool of water that gathered in the shallow between the rocks. The light cast off the surface rippled along the cave walls in a vast array of hues. A small fish was swept in with the tide and found itself trapped in the hollow. The islander snatched it up and added it to his growing pile: food for later. He watched it flail upon the rocks, gasping desperately as it slowly suffocated and grew weak. He shuddered at the memory of that young man, squirming beneath him.
He drifted off to sleep.
In a deep slumber, he did not see the birds clearing the skies, nor the small beasts hurrying for cover. He wrapped his cloak tightly around him as the clouds gathered.
He awoke to the sound of crashing trees. Leaping to his feet in panic and desperation, he fled the cave, sprinting for the forest. The heavens hurled down torrents of rain, chilling him to his very core. His bare feet splashed through the growing puddles, as he danced between the boulders, his grip becoming increasingly unsteady. The roaring gales swept him off his feet as he stumbled upon the slippery rocks. Blood seeped from his broken skin as he struggled to rise. Water poured down his face as he peeled his soaked, matted hair back from his eyes. Who was he to stand in defiance of the full brutality of Mother Nature? Defeated, he crept back into the shadows.
The islander gazed out from the mouth of his cave. The storm had passed but the destruction remained: the windswept beach; the flooded valleys; and the broken boughs, their splinters now exposed to the sun. Wearied, he stumbled through the woods. His home had been demolished, his shelter rendered useless, his life ruined. How could things get worse?
“Hello? Is anyone there?” A voice called out from across the island, “Our ship crashed upon the rocks. Is there anyone out there?”
His voice was followed by a second, then a third, then a fourth…
They knew not his routine, his traditions, nor his desire for peace.
These were cruel people, corrupted by a rotting infection of the culture of man.
He’d devoted his life to isolation. He’d built up a system, a routine. He thought he’d escaped the world of man. He thought he’d found something better: something more stable and secure.
All that he’d sought to create would be ruined.
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