Prologue
It seems that our dear friend William Golding forgot a few details when writing Lord of the Flies. I give him his due credit for his efforts, however, his view was totally biased. I guess it was biased to the point of altering the truth so completely that it can hardly be called the truth anymore. Perhaps that is why his story is labeled as fiction.
For it is a funny thing William has done! Now that he is dead, I assure you there is more to the story than what is said in black and white. William and I go way back, and though I deeply mourn the loss of such a talented author and a faithful friend, I must tell you the truth of the Lord of the Flies.
In his day, William was a gallant young man. He had many friends both male and female and I was indeed one of his most avid female followers. He and I did everything together, but I have no time to relay those stories to you now.
In the early spring William and a few friends, myself included, would go for a holiday in the Alps. It was lovely up there and we could do a bit of skiing if we liked, which I didn't. So often William and I would find ourselves sitting in the lodge's great room by the fire for hours at a time talking. It was after one such occasion that on the way back up to the villas we found a manuscript of sorts.
I tripped over the large bundle of papers and cursed to an embarrassing extent. William lifted the package up and inspected it in the moonlight. He couldn't make out the writing so together we went to his villa.
"It's a manuscript!" He exclaimed after sweeping all the snow off the pages, "It's a memoir, oh somebody is missing this!"
That night we read the whole thing taking turns reading aloud, and when finally our voices grew tired, we read over each other's shoulders. The whole thing was typed; spare the very last page which read-
"The truth of my life must at least reach the public. Those who I have often told grow tired of hearing it, as does my heart. I long to forever rid myself of the island and all of its memories. But I sadly cannot. Don't return this, for I am now dead. It is my only hope, kind savior, that you will do me the duty of taking this to the publishers, get it put into print, and rid me at last of the accursed memory of the island which drives all men away from their wits.
Yours ever faithfully,
Mira P. Logan"
At this I looked sleepily at William who was looking wide-eyed at me. In that moment it was understood that he would do the poor woman's final wishes and publish this story, be it true or false. Often I asked him about the progress of the book. He would quickly change the subject and avoid the topic all together. That didn't worry me at all.
When the book went into print, I went into shock. My copy was the first off the press; hot and gleaming in its freshness. At first I was utterly surprised; this book was far too short to be the same two-inch-thick manuscript I sprained my ankle on in the Alps!
Alas! I was right! It was not the same manuscript. For days I pounded down poor William's door in an outrage. What was this man doing! We had a silent agreement that he would do the woman's bidding and publish the story. Not once in his book did he even mention Mira, but he also took all the accolades for his "original epic." We both knew what we were dealing with.
Over the years I let the issue dissolve but something always pestered me. Just one simple word: dishonesty. And now, on his deathbed, William begged for the same thing Mira begged for: truth. The poor man, I know I'm not far behind him. But he asked me for the truth. So, I'm giving you the truth.
As he lay dying William told me where he had hidden the truth. I went and fetched it for him but when I returned, he had left us. I cried and cried leaving the first page of the manuscript tearstained and smudged.
Now William, you and shall have our truth. I know that Mira had been long dead, and William has joined her, but it is my final task to set things straight. You are a good listener, child, let us begin our journey for the truth of Mira Logan's Lord of the Flies.