Stephen walked in ever-widening arcs around the Galapagos encampment. He claimed it was merely an exercise to improve his strength, but he paused more often than the wound would excuse, stopping to examine this plant or that track, discovering the secrets of the islands so untouched by man. The shouts of the sailors faded as he listened for the calls of bird and beast, leaning heavier on the walking-stick as the sun reached its zenith and began its slow descent.
The arc brought him near the tents again, and he raised his hand briefly to Jack, distinct among the men, hair loose and shining in the afternoon sun, standing attentive and watching the boundaries of the Surprise's temporary home.
Watching for Stephen, perhaps.
Stephen shook his head to dispel the notion, pulled the banyan close around him, and moved nimbly towards the water, picking his way through the distinctive black rock, pockmarked volcanic remains. He settled in a safe distance above the waterline, tired body cradled in the porous rock, and drew out book and pencil. He sat motionless, waiting for the creatures to return, emboldened by his silence.
The tide lapped below him, and he squinted out at the sea, hat perched on his knee, pencil forgotten in his hand. The air around him changed, and he smelled roses and heard laughter, sweet and high, twisting through him. He closed his eyes against sun and memory, drifted in and out of sleep, felt a strong hand at his elbow. The pressure of each finger distinct.
Jack.
He started, birds scattering at his sudden movement. He was alone.
Strange how quickly one begins to rely on the crowded ship. To be solitary was to be endangered. Tomorrow he would ask Mr. Blakeney to join him, to explore the island, to ward off the world.
The arc brought him near the tents again, and he raised his hand briefly to Jack, distinct among the men, hair loose and shining in the afternoon sun, standing attentive and watching the boundaries of the Surprise's temporary home.
Watching for Stephen, perhaps.
Stephen shook his head to dispel the notion, pulled the banyan close around him, and moved nimbly towards the water, picking his way through the distinctive black rock, pockmarked volcanic remains. He settled in a safe distance above the waterline, tired body cradled in the porous rock, and drew out book and pencil. He sat motionless, waiting for the creatures to return, emboldened by his silence.
The tide lapped below him, and he squinted out at the sea, hat perched on his knee, pencil forgotten in his hand. The air around him changed, and he smelled roses and heard laughter, sweet and high, twisting through him. He closed his eyes against sun and memory, drifted in and out of sleep, felt a strong hand at his elbow. The pressure of each finger distinct.
Jack.
He started, birds scattering at his sudden movement. He was alone.
Strange how quickly one begins to rely on the crowded ship. To be solitary was to be endangered. Tomorrow he would ask Mr. Blakeney to join him, to explore the island, to ward off the world.