OSCAR
by Chris Ratcliff (ryback@fcmail.com)
Sick of Guybrush stories? More and more Guybrush? Nothing but Guybrush?
Well, I'll try my best.
There was a far away island, albeit still in the Caribbean but
definitely far away from everything else. This island was inhabited solely
by a young man. He had been born there and raised there, which was something
of mystery because nobody else had been around to feed him, bring him up or,
indeed, teach him how to speak English.
But he did.
And of course this young man - let's call him Oscar - can have had
no contact with Guybrush or any of his motley crew: by definition, as nobody
lives on this island except him, and nobody knows how to get there either.
Good.
Glad we got that settled. Let's talk a bit about his island.
For the island held more mysteries than Oscar's perfect English, or
the slightly ragged pair of raggy rags he wore all the time. For one, its
thick, lush jungle interior contained a single, winding path, which led from
one side of the island damn near to the other, ending in a tiny crossing
near the beach. Oscar was quite sure he hadn't made it, unless he sleepwalked
a lot. Anyway, it went the whole way to the far side of the island, and
surely he couldn't sleepwalk that far from his makeshift night shelter, a
sheet stretched between two trees.
Ah, and where did the sheet come from, eh?
The path itself was mostly uninspiring, passing past an enormous
stinking bog, and through the deepest, darkest parts of the interior jungle.
But, just near the final clearing, was something which sorely puzzled Oscar,
perfect English or not. It was a cairn of rocks. Oscar had once pulled them
all away, but there was nothing inside. He immediately put the rocks back,
spooked.
This aside, Oscar knew the island like the back of his hand. And one
day, trekking through the unmapped interior of the island, he came across a
metal box, attached to a tree. Where the rocks inspired faint awe, this
plainly horrified him. That sheer grey surface, so bright - it was
completely and utterly alien to him. Oscar, unnerved, never returned to
that area of the island for a long time. On sleepless nights, he would
ponder. Who had built them? Who, when he was the only person ever to live on
the island? How did they stay there? Why...?
It was all very vexing. The mysteries inspired the closest thing
Oscar had to a religion. One night, as a young lad, he dreamt of a ghostly
pirate crew, sailing to the island, and having a huge party. They all spread
into the island, and left their marks. Then they sailed away, never to be
seen again. But their marks remained - unchanged. The dream made quite an
impression on him. Gradually, over time, the ghostly travellers became
spirits, in his imagination. Their ship was a heavenly vehicle, offering
transport to the afterlife.
On the whole, Oscar was content. He enjoyed the outdoors, he got his
fresh water from the still and drank it from a wine glass, and there were
always enough crackers. But, in his religion, a whole series of minor hopes
and fears were crystallised. Part of him began to wish he could leave the
island.
Oscar didn't know how to build a ship. In his religion, however, the
general idea was that if you did good deeds, and lived a good life, sooner
or later a Ship would come to transport you to the Choir Invisible. Oscar
didn't have any neighbours to do good deeds to, so instead he involved
himself in great public works.
Following the example of the first path, Oscar made a whole network
of paths, crisscrossing the island. Seen from above, they didn't spell out
anything, but looked pleasing. Oscar even conquered his fear, and made a
path curve by the metal box on the tree. If heavenly visitors ever needed to
use the contraption, they were welcome to.
But no ship came. So Oscar involved himself in grander projects.
Working almost entirely by hand, he pruned several of the largest, lushest
bushes into large, green statues of animals. One became a dolphin, leaping
merrily out of the water. Another turned itself into an enormous extinct
reptile. Oscar looked at these, and was filled with gladness. Time passed,
and under Oscar's constant care and attention, the animals grew ever larger
and more lifelike.
But no ship came. Oscar was troubled, but not overly. The work had
given him something to do, something he'd never had before in his brief life.
So what if redemption was a long way off? He could wait.
One day, however, he saw something in the ocean.
Oscar immediately ran down to the beach, breathing hard. There was
something out there. It was drifting toward the island, he thought at first,
but soon realised better - it was coming too fast to be drifting. Besides,
small splashes of water were being thrown up on either side of it. It was
coming here purposefully.
Oscar stared forward across the ocean, posture rigid, staring until
the entire lower half of his vision ached. When he blinked, green afterimages
superimposed themselves on his retina.
Out there was a tiny vessel, little larger than a rowboat. In it was
a man, rowing toward the island.
Oscar's heart lifted. Rapture! His legs felt weak and rubbery. He
felt the relief of a faith that, occasionally sorely doubted, turns out as
triumphantly true.
The rowboat was close. He could make out the man inside it, an old
man with a long white beard and serene face. Just as he imagined. The boat
was slightly smaller than he'd imagined, but Oscar could live with that. He
wanted to rush out to meet him, plunge into the ocean, but Oscar restrained
himself. He was overjoyed, but he also had his dignity.
The rowboat had come into the shallows. If the man inside had chosen
to step out, he would have been in about four feet of water. Oscar waited
for him to bring the rowboat to a stop, to beckon for him with one glorious
finger. He was ready.
But the boat did not stop. And in half a minute, Oscar's world was
turned upside down.
The boat coasted in all the way, not stopping until it finally ran
aground in the sand. Out of the boat leapt the man, holding a wooden box in
one hand. Oscar's eyes, which had focused on the beard and kindly eyes, now
helplessly noticed more incongruous details - the dirty brown vest, and the
fact that the newcomer wasn't wearing any pants.
The man came to Oscar. "Hello there," he said happily. "My name's
Herman. Good to see someone at last." The man was holding his hand out to
Oscar. Oscar stared down at it blankly, as if he'd never seen a hand before,
like a blind man asked to comprehend sight. "So where are we?" asked Herman.
"It's a nice island." He set down the boxes down on the beach, and walked
back toward the rowboat. "Want to help me drag out the supplies?" he asked.
"I got a few."
Oscar stayed where he was. He didn't move. He didn't think. He
wasn't capable of it. He was barely aware - emotions were churning around
in him like toxic acids.
Herman returned, lugging more boxes. "You into philosophy?" he
asked. "How about this: If a tree falls in a forest and nobody's around,
does it make a sound?"
Oscar made a sound, a faint sound. It wasn't really a sigh - it was
a tiny, disappointed exhalation. With it, his eyes rolled upward, and he
fell down, a limp bundle on the beach.
Herman immediately cast the boxes aside. He knelt down by Oscar, and
checked his pulse.
Nothing. No beat, no warmth. The boy was dead.
Herman couldn't believe it. "Was it something I said?" he said
softly.
===
Herman picked up Oscar's body, and walked inland. There were a whole network
of paths here - sinuous, and easy on the feet. Herman passed the dolphin,
and the dinosaur, and marvelled. They were wonderful.
Eventually he came to the clearing. Herman set the boy down, and dug
a hole in the ground. Solemnly, he placed Oscar's body in one of his largest
boxes. He lowered the box into the earth, then filled in the hole.
When the last sod was in place, Herman stood around, at a loss.
There seemed to be something else he should do. Finally, he took off his
boot, and dragged a large black X in the dirt. That seemed to be it.
Herman walked back. But he saw the dolphin and the dinosaur again,
and he felt better.
by Chris Ratcliff (ryback@fcmail.com)
Sick of Guybrush stories? More and more Guybrush? Nothing but Guybrush?
Well, I'll try my best.
There was a far away island, albeit still in the Caribbean but
definitely far away from everything else. This island was inhabited solely
by a young man. He had been born there and raised there, which was something
of mystery because nobody else had been around to feed him, bring him up or,
indeed, teach him how to speak English.
But he did.
And of course this young man - let's call him Oscar - can have had
no contact with Guybrush or any of his motley crew: by definition, as nobody
lives on this island except him, and nobody knows how to get there either.
Good.
Glad we got that settled. Let's talk a bit about his island.
For the island held more mysteries than Oscar's perfect English, or
the slightly ragged pair of raggy rags he wore all the time. For one, its
thick, lush jungle interior contained a single, winding path, which led from
one side of the island damn near to the other, ending in a tiny crossing
near the beach. Oscar was quite sure he hadn't made it, unless he sleepwalked
a lot. Anyway, it went the whole way to the far side of the island, and
surely he couldn't sleepwalk that far from his makeshift night shelter, a
sheet stretched between two trees.
Ah, and where did the sheet come from, eh?
The path itself was mostly uninspiring, passing past an enormous
stinking bog, and through the deepest, darkest parts of the interior jungle.
But, just near the final clearing, was something which sorely puzzled Oscar,
perfect English or not. It was a cairn of rocks. Oscar had once pulled them
all away, but there was nothing inside. He immediately put the rocks back,
spooked.
This aside, Oscar knew the island like the back of his hand. And one
day, trekking through the unmapped interior of the island, he came across a
metal box, attached to a tree. Where the rocks inspired faint awe, this
plainly horrified him. That sheer grey surface, so bright - it was
completely and utterly alien to him. Oscar, unnerved, never returned to
that area of the island for a long time. On sleepless nights, he would
ponder. Who had built them? Who, when he was the only person ever to live on
the island? How did they stay there? Why...?
It was all very vexing. The mysteries inspired the closest thing
Oscar had to a religion. One night, as a young lad, he dreamt of a ghostly
pirate crew, sailing to the island, and having a huge party. They all spread
into the island, and left their marks. Then they sailed away, never to be
seen again. But their marks remained - unchanged. The dream made quite an
impression on him. Gradually, over time, the ghostly travellers became
spirits, in his imagination. Their ship was a heavenly vehicle, offering
transport to the afterlife.
On the whole, Oscar was content. He enjoyed the outdoors, he got his
fresh water from the still and drank it from a wine glass, and there were
always enough crackers. But, in his religion, a whole series of minor hopes
and fears were crystallised. Part of him began to wish he could leave the
island.
Oscar didn't know how to build a ship. In his religion, however, the
general idea was that if you did good deeds, and lived a good life, sooner
or later a Ship would come to transport you to the Choir Invisible. Oscar
didn't have any neighbours to do good deeds to, so instead he involved
himself in great public works.
Following the example of the first path, Oscar made a whole network
of paths, crisscrossing the island. Seen from above, they didn't spell out
anything, but looked pleasing. Oscar even conquered his fear, and made a
path curve by the metal box on the tree. If heavenly visitors ever needed to
use the contraption, they were welcome to.
But no ship came. So Oscar involved himself in grander projects.
Working almost entirely by hand, he pruned several of the largest, lushest
bushes into large, green statues of animals. One became a dolphin, leaping
merrily out of the water. Another turned itself into an enormous extinct
reptile. Oscar looked at these, and was filled with gladness. Time passed,
and under Oscar's constant care and attention, the animals grew ever larger
and more lifelike.
But no ship came. Oscar was troubled, but not overly. The work had
given him something to do, something he'd never had before in his brief life.
So what if redemption was a long way off? He could wait.
One day, however, he saw something in the ocean.
Oscar immediately ran down to the beach, breathing hard. There was
something out there. It was drifting toward the island, he thought at first,
but soon realised better - it was coming too fast to be drifting. Besides,
small splashes of water were being thrown up on either side of it. It was
coming here purposefully.
Oscar stared forward across the ocean, posture rigid, staring until
the entire lower half of his vision ached. When he blinked, green afterimages
superimposed themselves on his retina.
Out there was a tiny vessel, little larger than a rowboat. In it was
a man, rowing toward the island.
Oscar's heart lifted. Rapture! His legs felt weak and rubbery. He
felt the relief of a faith that, occasionally sorely doubted, turns out as
triumphantly true.
The rowboat was close. He could make out the man inside it, an old
man with a long white beard and serene face. Just as he imagined. The boat
was slightly smaller than he'd imagined, but Oscar could live with that. He
wanted to rush out to meet him, plunge into the ocean, but Oscar restrained
himself. He was overjoyed, but he also had his dignity.
The rowboat had come into the shallows. If the man inside had chosen
to step out, he would have been in about four feet of water. Oscar waited
for him to bring the rowboat to a stop, to beckon for him with one glorious
finger. He was ready.
But the boat did not stop. And in half a minute, Oscar's world was
turned upside down.
The boat coasted in all the way, not stopping until it finally ran
aground in the sand. Out of the boat leapt the man, holding a wooden box in
one hand. Oscar's eyes, which had focused on the beard and kindly eyes, now
helplessly noticed more incongruous details - the dirty brown vest, and the
fact that the newcomer wasn't wearing any pants.
The man came to Oscar. "Hello there," he said happily. "My name's
Herman. Good to see someone at last." The man was holding his hand out to
Oscar. Oscar stared down at it blankly, as if he'd never seen a hand before,
like a blind man asked to comprehend sight. "So where are we?" asked Herman.
"It's a nice island." He set down the boxes down on the beach, and walked
back toward the rowboat. "Want to help me drag out the supplies?" he asked.
"I got a few."
Oscar stayed where he was. He didn't move. He didn't think. He
wasn't capable of it. He was barely aware - emotions were churning around
in him like toxic acids.
Herman returned, lugging more boxes. "You into philosophy?" he
asked. "How about this: If a tree falls in a forest and nobody's around,
does it make a sound?"
Oscar made a sound, a faint sound. It wasn't really a sigh - it was
a tiny, disappointed exhalation. With it, his eyes rolled upward, and he
fell down, a limp bundle on the beach.
Herman immediately cast the boxes aside. He knelt down by Oscar, and
checked his pulse.
Nothing. No beat, no warmth. The boy was dead.
Herman couldn't believe it. "Was it something I said?" he said
softly.
===
Herman picked up Oscar's body, and walked inland. There were a whole network
of paths here - sinuous, and easy on the feet. Herman passed the dolphin,
and the dinosaur, and marvelled. They were wonderful.
Eventually he came to the clearing. Herman set the boy down, and dug
a hole in the ground. Solemnly, he placed Oscar's body in one of his largest
boxes. He lowered the box into the earth, then filled in the hole.
When the last sod was in place, Herman stood around, at a loss.
There seemed to be something else he should do. Finally, he took off his
boot, and dragged a large black X in the dirt. That seemed to be it.
Herman walked back. But he saw the dolphin and the dinosaur again,
and he felt better.