Into the Village
EbonyQuill

Summary: As a young MiB leaves his adoptive mother and Jacob, you take the point of view of a young person born to a shipwrecked civilization who are the only known inhabitants of an island — until a boy appears. From your point of view, you survey the boy's oddities.
Author's Note: This is the second story that I've written from YOUR point of view. It's a little unconventional and may be strange at first, but it's always emerged to be my favorite type of story. In Across the Sea, we didn't get to see the assimilation of MiB into the civilization of his origin. This is one of my various interpretations of how this could have happened. Enjoy!

A boy stumbles into the village. He can't be much older than you. In fact, he might even match you in age.

Everyone in your village is severely alarmed.

You are the person who has seen the fewest sunrises and fewest sunsets in your entire village. You were born on this island that your people have become accursed to. You are the beloved offspring of two survivors who fell in love despite the harsh conditions and dire circumstances. You are supposed to be the only child present on the entire island.

When the disheveled brunette boy appears out of the trees, you find that this is not the case.

At first, the men stick their weapons in the boy's face and shout harsh, cacophonous threats that causes their angry spit to fly haphazardly. Then a woman, your own mother, scolds the men. While everyone else was too preoccupied with their own fear and confusion, your loving, gentle mother has kept her gaze upon the young boy.

You follow her eyesight. The boy looks just as frightened as the people he has scared. Tears are brimming his dirt-surrounded eyes and sweat is forming around his neck and forehead. You fight the urge to offer him a cloth to wipe his tears away.

"He is just a boy, David," your mother shouts, as she forcefully pushes your de facto leader's homemade spear away from the boy's face. She places a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder and gazes at him reassuringly. "How can he be the island devil's child with such an angelic face?"

The tribe's de facto leader also happens to be your father. Your mother's words of wisdom and the boy's innocent face don't affect your father's hardened, distrusting demeanor, but when he sees your youthful, puzzled face, he complies. He motions to the other men to lower their weapons as his face shades to a slight maroon.

"Where are you from, boy?" Your father's tone has maintained its gruff state — it no longer resembles the voice that comforted you at night when you heard strange noises in the jungle and told you stories about the beautiful land of his birth.

The boy is silent for a long time. His eyes float along the village as if he is looking for some reassurance. After a pregnant pause, the boy rests his eyes on you. You slightly panic. No, not you — he is staring at something next to you. You notice that he nods ever so slightly. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he says, "Claudia's womb."

The entire village shares a collective gasp — some gasps are edged with outrage, others are laced with pain. Your mother, who has been gently stroking the boy's back, has turned white. Claudia was your mother's childhood best friend.

Your mother kneels down to the boy's height and cups his face into her hands. Sounding almost breathless, she looks for confirmation, "Claudia was your mother?"

When the boy nods, your mother's eyes well with tears. She brushes the boy's hair out of his face and, when she recognizes her Claudia's calming eyes, begins to sob quietly. "Where is she?"

The boy looks down and can't bring himself to meet the crying woman's gaze. Quietly, in a tone laced with regret and remorse, he whispers, "She's gone."

Your mother nods sadly. She had considered her sister to be deceased for their entire stay on the island. She purses her lips and harshly wipes away her tears. She offers a small smile to the boy. "You must be Jacob. She had wanted to name her son Jacob."

The boy flinches involuntarily and creases his forehead in thought.

"Oh — your name isn't Jacob," your mother instantly realizes her mistake.

"I had a brother named Jacob," the yet-to-be-named boy says slowly. With a frown and a faraway look in his eyes, he says, "He's gone, too."

Your mother's hands fly up to cover her mouth in shock. Almost instantly, when she remembers where she is and who she's talking to, she engulfs the young boy is a tight embrace.

You can see part of the boy's expression through your mother's mess of tangled brown curls. At first, he looks shocked, then confused, and finally, his face settles on an expression of relief, comfort, and peace.

Without another question, everyone in your village accepts the boy and, immediately, he is almost as beloved as you are — you children of the Island.

—

He does nothing but sleep for the first few sunrises. Everyone assumes that he has been living alone with his mother and his brother for the first few years of his life and that they have both left him. This is not far from the truth.

When he first joins the rest of us for a meal, the men try to relate to him. They talk about hunting, wielding weapons, and building shelters. He cannot relate to them. When he does talk, he mentions quilting, drawing, and board games. The gathering becomes silent for a few moments and snide looks are passed between the men.

At first, you assume that they cannot understand him because he has only learned crafts from a woman. Finally, you determine the real division between the boy and the men.

"I like board games," you hear yourself saying. You smile serenely at him. His age deters his ability to relate to the villagers who are old enough to be his parents — but not you.

The right corner of his mouth lifts in a ghost of a smile. You appreciate his effort and widen your smile.

One of the adults change the subject to the migration patterns of the boars and the boy goes back to surveying his plate of food. He hasn't touched a single thing.

—

One of the younger men starts telling a story about his latest excursion and your mother beckons you to her. She places her arms around your waist. "Dear one, could you warm some water for me?"

"What for?" You frown a little. You've just a long day of chores and you want to do nothing more than go to sleep.

Your mother's mouth downturns and she looks back at the congregation — more specifically, she looks to survey whether the young boy can hear their conversation. When she notices that he is engrossed in his food, she turns back to face you. Her eyes plead with you. "He has bruises all over his face and he's filthy. We'll need to clean him up."

You nod. Of all the people in their village, your mother is the kindest. You never want to disappoint her. The rest of them are weathered, mad, and brutal — whether they were all brutish in nature before they were permanently stranded on a foreign island, you will never know.

Following your mother's orders, you gather the leftover water from your meal and stoke the already-lit fire. You sit by the fireside as you watch for bubbles to form.

From your spot, you scan over the crowd. Ladies are dancing, men are drinking or sharpening their weapons, and the boy — you can't seem to find him. You search more intensely this time. Your eyes strain themselves to find any sign of a human that appears to be shorter than the others. You don't find one.

In a reserved panic, you try to find your mother. She is nowhere to be found. You would tell your father, but he wouldn't care and he would tell you not to care either.

Rashly, you decide to look for the boy by yourself. The water still has a few more minutes until it starts boiling and you doubt the boy could have gone far.

Calculating possible routes of escape, you choose a secluded part of the forest. Silently walking beside the bustle of the camp, everyone ignores you as they go on with their previous practices. As you hit the dirt where the campfire light is barely visible, you see footprints set into the earth. You're close.

The warmth of the fire has left you and you start to feel rising hair on your arms. You're unsure whether it's caused by the cold or by the fear. You quickly decide that this was not a good idea and almost turn back.

But then you hear a voice.

"I should go back. I have to bring him here with me. He doesn't belong with her!" Without a doubt in your mind, you are sure that it is the boy that is speaking — quite angrily — in the distance.

"What if she —," he abruptly stop his sentence as you walk towards a small clearing in between the trees. You see him there. He is alone. After what feels like a millennia, he turns and faces you. In the pale moonlight, you notice that his bruises are more pronounced. In a harsh tone, he asks you, "What do you want?"

You are taken aback. You had just risked your life to find this boy and take him back to your community where you have welcomed him. You were even taking time out of your sleeping schedule to boil water for his personal hygiene for Tawaret's sake! Ungrateful, spoiled brat! He hasn't done anything to help the village except for mope around and sleep!

Suddenly, his expression softens and he tilts his head to the left as if he's listening to someone. He quiets his voice and says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

You raise an eyebrow. "It's alright," but it's not. "Who are you talking to?"

"What?" His eyebrows fly to the top of his forehead in surprise.

"You were talking to someone before I came here," you say in a matter-of-fact fashion.

He looks puzzled. "There's no one else to talk to on this island."

"You might be talking to the stars."

"The stars?" He repeats, incredulous. Rudely, he replies, "What a stupid thing to say."

You huff angrily and cross your arms across your chest. "Well then, if you weren't talking to the stars, who were you talking to?"

He laughs mockingly. "Not the stars."

"Fine," you say angrily, as you turn to leave.

Once more, his expression changes immediately as he inclines his head towards the left. He looks sheepish and apologetic. "Wait! I'm sorry. I'm being rude."

You turn around slowly. "… Who are you talking to?"

"I - I'm - I," he stutters and, again, turns his eyesight to his left. He whispers something inaudible to you.

"I can't hear you," you say loudly, trying to make a point.

After a few long moments, he meets your gaze. His eyes are serious — more serious and experienced than some of the men in your village.

"I'm talking to my mother."

You look at him in wonderment. "You said your mother left you."

"Yes — she's dead," he says casually, as if he's just told you that the color of his garments were brown or that the night sky was particularly bright tonight.

Your mouth hangs agape in slight horror, but mostly in disbelief. "Do you… do you talk to dead people often?"

He shakes his head from side-to-side. "I've only talked to my mother."

Your eyes widen and you suddenly and fearfully look around for invisible forces. "Are there more dead people here?"

"No, no — just my mother," the boy flexes his hand out towards you, as if he wants to comfort you.

You nod. It's not as bad as you thought. You look at the innocent boy in front of you and then to his left (your right). "Is your mother there?"

"Yes," he whispers. He looks at you and calculates your every muscle. He is observing you and taking note of your reaction.

You suddenly think of all the horror stories that the village has told you. People who talk to the dead are bad, evil, servants of the devil, and so on and so forth. Your breath shortens. Your heartbeat quickens. Your mouth dries.

He whispers your name softly. You are caught by surprise. In the bevy of introductions that he had to endure, you didn't expect him to remember anything — let alone, your name.

Your body returns to its normal pace and reason returns to your thought process. "You can't tell anyone else. Talking to the dead is not normal. It's frowned upon. In fact — the people in my village might kill you for it," you warn him.

He looks scared, but he nods. "My mother told me that."

"I won't tell anyone," you assure him with honest eyes and a solemn smile.

He genuinely smiles back. It's a nice, calm smile that makes your heart swell with satisfaction. "My mother told me that you wouldn't."

"Good." You take a deep breath. You realize that this might be the last carefree breath you can take before every step you make is measured by how well you can keep this boy's secret.

Almost instantly, you remember the task at hand. "My mother wants to wash your face and treat your wounds. I'm boiling water right now and she's getting some clean cloth."

"Thank you," he says quietly. His smile disappears and a meek, tired look sets into his features.

"Well, come on, then," you outstretch your arm and hold out your hand.

At first, he looks at it with a cocked eyebrow and a bemused expression. After a split-second deliberation with himself (and possibly, his mother's soul), he sets his hand in yours.

You walk back into the campfire site with your newly established friend. When your mother sees you, she beams with satisfaction. For the slightest of moments, you feel your new friend shift slightly. First, he looks at you, then he looks at your grinning mother, and then to his left.

He grins toothily. He notions to the invisible force to your left. "She's smiling, too."

With that, you allow the corners of your mouth to rise. For a moment, all four of you have identical smiles.

Final Author's Note: What did you think? Reviews would be greatly appreciated! I have numerous ideas that would transform this (current) one-shot into a multi-chapter story. I meant to make this story as androgynous as possible, but if more chapters are written, the protagonist (you) will surely take on a female persona. (I'm a little rusty, but I'm on a writing high after two years of fandom writer's block.) Thank you so much for reading! :)