Author's Notes: Wrote this last April, when I first read the book. Sorry if the quality of the writing is poor XD Please R&R! It would be extremely helpful =] Disclaimer.
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Ralph was awake before his eyes were open. There was something…different. He felt around him, searching for the familiar rustle of the leaves, but instead found himself surrounded by something smooth and soft. He inhaled; a sweet, flowery scent filled his nose, nothing like the brine of the ocean he was used to. There was something familiar about the scent…
He pulled the air longingly into his lungs. There was the faint smell of a tame fire, and of wet grass. Of wood polish and musty books and…mothers.
His eyes snapped open, and he couldn't suppress a gasp. For no longer was he surrounded by the walls of the crude shelter they had made. He sat in a downy white bed, the blue coverlet thrown back. His beloved books were on the shelf beside him, and there was his dresser, and his nightstand, and his window…
Ralph leapt out of bed, tumbling to the floor in his excitement. His hands crawled around on the floor, ravenous for the feel of smooth, polished wood. He pressed his body against it, hardly able to believe such a thing could exist. Then scrambling to his feet, he raced over to his bookcase and started yanking the books off the shelves one by one, opening them and tossing them to the floor in ecstasy. He let out a wild whoop — he was home!
"Ralph?" His mother's groggy, questioning voice came from down the hall. He heard the soft patter of her bare feet as she made her way to his room.
"Mama!" As soon as she appeared in the doorway, he flung his arms around her, squeezing her hard as he breathed in her warm scent.
"Ralph? Goodness, what's going on?" she laughed, a little breathless.
"Oh, mama, I'm home, I'm home!" He pulled away from her to look at her face, tracing the familiar shapes and lines with starved eyes. "I'm not on that terrible island anymore, not with the fruit and pigs and —" he shuddered as he said the last word — "savages." He squeezed her again.
She smiled, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, Ralph, what on earth are you talking about? You have the most realistic dreams."
His arms slackened as he thought about this. "Oh…yes, I suppose you're right." He laughed a little. "Wow…that was a really vivid dream, though. I'm glad I woke up."
"Yes; it doesn't sound like a fun one to be in. You can tell me about it when it's the morning. It's only four right now and —" she yawned wide, tears budding at the corners of her eyes. "Well, I best be off to bed again. And you too. Sleep well." She pecked him on the forehead.
"You too, mama," he said softly, and, when she had left, crawled back into his bed.
It was quiet for a few minutes, the only sound being Ralph's slow and even breathing. But then came a hazy voice. "Ralph…"
Ralph smiled slightly. It must be his mother again. Suddenly there was a pair of hands on his face, rubbing a warm substance on it. It must be buttermilk, Ralph assumed. To help him sleep. But…this not-quite-liquid had a different smell. Rather than the thick, sweet scent of buttermilk, it smelled salty, and a little like iron…
His eyes snapped open. The pig blood ran in rivulets into his hair. His throat constricted, stopping the ear-splitting scream that was so close to ripping out.
Jack's voice was a caustic hiss.
"Morning, sweetheart."