An Occurrence at the River

Based off the short story by Ambrose Bierce

1

A man stood upon a man-made bridge across a river in the middle of an island, looking down into the swift water thirty feet below him. His hands were behind his back, with a cord wrapped around his wrists. A rope closely encircled the man's neck. It was attached to a long study length of timber above his head and the slack fell down to his knees. Some loose boards were all that the man was standing on, ready to be dropped as soon as four people stepped off. These people who provided the temporary footing for the man were wearing ragged clothes. More of these people were behind the bridge, waiting and watching. There was a nicely clothed man, standing on the plank. He was the leader. A guard stood on both sides of the bridge with guns, just in case anyone tried to stop anything that was about to happen.

Beyond the two guards, there was no one in sight. All that could be seen was a pathway into long lengths of tropical jungles. Doubtless, there were something to find somewhere. These people that were there at the river had to have come from somewhere.

The leader stood silently, with crossed arms and staring at the man who was held captive in front of him. A man silently walked over to the leader and said his name, "Ben? We're ready."

Ben nodded and then again went to the silent stance he was at before. He was making no sign as people looked to him for some guidance or direction. Not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The guards could easily be mistaken as statues. Death is a dignitary who comes when he is announced is to be received with respect, even by those people who know him.

2

The man who was about to be hanged was apparently about thirty-seven years of age. He was a survivor of a plane crash on the island in the previous months. One might find out just from his habit, he was an athletic man, very posed. His features were good- a nice nose, firm mouth, broad forehead from which he grew short brown hair. He was wearing a faded green t-shirt that showed how much he sweated from being outside all day. His eyes were large and brown, and had a kindly expression which one could have hardly expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. These people made no exceptions for punishment or hanging of kind people, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, two people standing on the man's only footing slowly drew back. This only left the leader and another man holding the plank up for support. This plank was being held in place by only two people, while one dangled on the end of it. Just a single signal would end it all. The man's face who was about to be killed was not covered in any way. There was no rag to put over his eyes or sack to put on his head. The man looked down at the unsteady footing, letting his gaze follow to the water racing madly underneath his feet. A piece of wood floated down the stream, catching the man's attention. How slowly it seemed to move!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his loved one and friends. The water, touched to gold by the early sun on the ocean, the sweet smell of salty waters, the bridge, the people, log down the stream- it was all distracting him. And now he had become conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound in which he couldn't ignore. It was a loud ringing noise that sounded like a sharp bang on a certain percussion instrument. It started pulsing, not stopping. He awaited each stroke with impatience. The intervals of silence grew progressively stronger; the delays becoming maddening. With greater infrequency, the sounds increased with strength. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would scream. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

3

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring up into the stream. By diving I could avoid the bullets and swim up to the bank, then travel back to camp; back home. My home. She is there and so are they, just on the other side of this island..."

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain, Ben nodded to the man standing on the plank. Both men stepped aside.

II.

Jack Shephard was a common hero from the recent plane crash on a deserted island in the Pacific. He was respected among many. He was considered the leader of his people. Always making choices, always protecting people. There came a day, after months of living on the island, that they realized other people were living on the island. They called them Others. Many battles happened between both forces, until something tore them apart that could never bring them back again. Rescue. Someone found the island. Someone came. The Others didn't want them there, but Jack's survivors did. More battles happened between all three sides. Eventually, all hope of rescue was lost when the Others captured every person from the outside- keeping them to themselves. Jack's group of survivors were lost. Now no one would ever be able to find them. As a search party of males went out to look for hopefully a few people the Others left behind, Jack stayed at the beach, his home. He was with his friends, his lover, but he still felt badly for his lack of helping. His lack of success.

One evening, Jack was sitting outside of his tent with his partner, his love while they watched the sun set across the ocean. Soon they noticed a man coming from the jungle, Jack looked to assume it was a fellow survivor because he looked familiar and had a kind look to him. He asked for a drink of water, so Jack looked to the woman sitting next to him, "Kate, can you get him some water?" Kate smiled with a nod and went inside their tent and then went off to go collect water.

"The Others are keeping them at their camp, but they're ready to move on, go further," said the man, "They have reached the bridge over the river. As you get closer to where they live, they have it stated every where that anyone who is caught trespassing will be hanged. I saw the order."

4

"How far is it to the bridge?" Jack asked.

"About a three day walk from here."

"Is there nobody on the South side of the bridge?"

"Only a few, but they can be easily dodged."

"Say a man, would go past the 'line' and get the better of the Others," Jack asked, "what could that person accomplish?"

The man reflected. "I was there about a week ago," he replied. "I saw that the flood of all the rain that's come has made the river very rapid. A lot of wood has collected at the start, which would probably be a nice thing to burn. If that burned down, the whole Others would be powerless if the fire got to their town, which is near by. All the rescue prisoners would be released, I'm sure."

Kate had come back with the water, which the man drank. He thanked her briefly and then waved to both of them, saying he had to go catch up with everyone else who had left on their journey. He left. An hour later, after nightfall, he re-passed the beach just out of view. He was going opposite where he said he was going. He was heading up to the bridge and the river. He was an Other.

III.

As Jack Shephard fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened- ages later it seemed to him- by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen agonies seemed to shoot from his neck down to every fiber of his body. All these pains seemed to pulse through him, like fire was breathing on him at an intolerable temperature. As to his head, his head was feeling nothing but congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already there, he could feel; a feeling of torment. He was conscious of motion. He swung through the air, almost like a pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light around him shot upward with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored. He knew the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no more strangling, the noose was around his neck tightly but it kept the water out of his lungs. To die at the hanging at the bottom of a river!- the idea seemed insane. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how distant and inaccessible it was! He was sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew he was rising to the surface. "To be hanged and drowned," he thought, "that is not so bad, but I don't want to be shot. No, I will not be shot. That is not fair..."

5

He was not fully conscious but it was enough to feel pain in his wrist, one that he could tell he was trying to free his hands. He started to struggle. The superhuman strength he got out of no where finally broke the cord, letting it float away from his back. As he watched it drift away, he realized he wanted it back so no one would think he was alive. Now the Others had to know he wasn't exactly dead yet. But instead, out of reflex, he reached around his head and unloosened the noose off. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire, his heart, which had been fluttering fast, suddenly leaped up, trying to force itself out of his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with an anguish! But his hands, which paid no attention to him, started swimming away but to the surface of the water. He felt his head emerge; his eyes blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanding convulsively. And with a sudden and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great breath of air, which he instantly yelled in a shriek!

He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted upon his face and heard separate sounds as they stuck. He looked to the jungle on the bank of the stream, saw individual trees, the leaves and the viening of each leaf- he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts and the bodied flies, the gray spiders searching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of brush and grass. The humming of gnats that danced above him, the beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of the spiders' legs; all the audible music... A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of the body parting the water.

6

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment of a visible world seemed to wheel slowly around, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the pathway, the people, Ben, and even the man who once told him to go there. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and yelled, pointing at him. Ben had a gun drawn, pointing it directly at him, but he didn't fire. The others were unarmed. Their moves were horrible, they were gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something strike the water a few feet away from him. Then came another, only inches from his head, splashing water on his face. He then saw smoke coming from the jungle and then the rising muzzle of a gun. Shots rang out from everywhere. But nevertheless, all of them missed.

A counter-swirl had caught Jack and turned him half around; he was again looking at the endless jungle ahead of him. The sound of a clear, high voice could be heard behind him, but he could not make out the words. Instead he heard the water, the ripples hitting his ears loudly. Then he could hear someone saying to fire.

Jack dived- dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the thunder of the guns shooting at him. Some of the bullets touched the base of his hand, but they fell away. One lodged between his collar bone and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched it out quickly.

7

As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water. He was further down stream, nearer to safety. The Others were almost done reloading, cocking their rifles into the air again to fire.

The hunted mad saw this over his shoulder, but he swam as fast as he could away from the commotion. "Ben isn't stupid, he'll probably tell them to shoot at will any time soon. I can't dodge them all!" Jack thought to himself.

Suddenly he felt himself whirled around- spinning like a top.The water, the banks, the jungle, the people, were all blurred. Objects were represented by colors only. Streaks of color was all he could see. He had been caught in some vortex. In a few moments he was flung onto gravel, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand and threw it all around him in happiness. They looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing beautiful that they didn't resemble. The trees above him were tall, locking out the sun. He had no wish to perfect his escape- he was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

8

A sudden noise of a gunshot woke him up from his slight dream. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank and plunged into the jungle.

All that day he travelled, laying his course around the position of the sun. The jungle seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a brake in it; not even a pathway. He had not been in this area since the plane crash.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famished. The thought of Kate and his friends urged him on. At last he found the stretch of beach that could lead him home. So he continued in that direction, knowing it was right. He saw no one, no Others, no other survivors, not even animals. Overhead, as he looked up past the jungle, he saw great stars looking unfamiliar and grouped differently. He was sure they were arranged in the same order, just seen in a different view. Soon he heard unknown whispers from the jungle, but paid no attention to them.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found it was extremely swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black from where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was thirsty and on fire. How softly the beach was for him to travel on- he could no longer feel the ground beneath him!

Doubtless, despite his sufferings, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he was in another scene. He stood at the edge of his camp. He was home. All of it was still there, all the same. He began walking in and seeing the beautiful sun start to rise on the other side of the beach. He must have travelled the entire night. Kate came into view, looking fresh, cool and sweet; stepping away from their tent and walking over to meet him. She stopped, waiting for him to come forward with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He sprung forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of his neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with the sound of a gun; then all is dark...

9

Jack Shephard was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the bridge above the river.