CHAPTER FOUR
Back in simpler days Ralph had taken a black permanent marker and improved his bunkmate's face with it. It had not gone over well and he had gotten in huge trouble with the Headmaster but the look of outrage on his friend's face had made it all well worth it. But now it was the Headmaster that had drawn on Ralph's face as he had been sleeping and now was peering silently down on him, waiting for a reaction.
"Look," the authority of the island said proudly, looking smugly on his handiwork. He held a coconut full of water which Ralph took into his hands as he sat up. A monster peered back in him in reflection; it looked like a battlefield of red and white and black, each taking a separate quadrant on his face. Ralph could see the odd resemblances of the place it used to be but now the frames of his face were covered with a whole different kind of skin.
"We're going to hunt now, then?" he asked and the head chorister led his followers in chuckling sinisterly. "Right then," Ralph grunted as he got to his feet. The clay on his face was cold and itched but he knew better than to touch the mask that Merridew had created. He ambled over to his spear and picked it up and held it close to his side asa third leg as he looked at the rest of the boys.
"Shall we rouse the weirdo?" Robert asked in hush tones. Simon lay curled close to the fire pit which Roger was still working on lighting. He snored gently and the boys were struck with a flash of nostalgia, their friends on sleepovers or their brothers, breathing with such little lungs. They quashed their feelings swiftly and turned to their leader who in turn was looking at Ralph.
"What's the point?" Ralph asked and Merridew accepted it.
"Let's go," he murmured and his hunters all quickly clambered after him, slicing through the were rustling and the birds were beginning to laugh, it was just a bit after sunrise. "We're going to Castle Rock, too," Merridew announced. "So you all can see it. And if we can hunt, well, that's good too."
They thrashed their way through the jungle and ran several times when someone announced they saw a pig, always a false alarm but always a great deal fun. Breathing disturbed and passing each other fruit they dwelled on the very edge of hysteric excitement. When they arrived at the rock, Roger had finally managed to light the fire and it crackled gleefully under Merridew's name.
"How much longer until we get to the rock?" Maurice asked no so annoyingly but curiously.
"Not much longer," Ralph answered. Signs of his previous adventure up this path began to show themselves and Ralph remembered
"Oi, Ralph," inquired Robert as they began to tromp through some thicker parts of the jungle. Vines wrapped themselves around trees like feather boas around scarlet women, but looked ill and snakelike in their colour. Darkness sprouted up like weeds in the woods and even at this time of day the boys were not all settled and feeling comfortable wandering in such parts of the island. Many preferred conversation to the empty sounds of snapping twigs and evil-sounding birds, and this would do as good as any as it was something the boys were curious about anyway. "Why are you still wearing your shirt?"
"Huh?" Ralph asked, not fully computing the question. Once he did, he glanced down to his chest and the once-gray shirt that was covering it. It used to be completely, stubbornly sea-gray but now had faded a yellower colour in the sun, and had become stained with dirt and no matter how much Simon had tried to wash it, faint maroon bloodstains remained.
"I mean, I get shorts, most of us still got our shorts on but my shirt got dirty in less than two days!" Robert explained and most boys turned to watch the conversation with some curiosity. All of them were shirtless, most importantly their chief was, yet Ralph wore his shirt. Even Simon, the oddest boy in the bunch took his shirt off in occasion but they had never seen Ralph without his shirt.
"Yeah," said Bill. "I tried wearing mine for a while but after we built the huts on the first day it actually got hard. I could crack it!" The boys chuckled in knowledgeable sympathy.
"Well, we haven't got much left, have we?" Ralph sighed. "I mean, all we got left from – well, from the old world is our shirts."
"And our pants!" cried Maurice and everyone laughed in appreciation.
"I suppose those too, most of the biguns anyway," Ralph laughed. Many of the littluns had decided to forego underwear altogether since they had been taken short too many times, mostly because of the bad quality of fruit they had been eating and in the large quantities that they had.
"But wouldn't it be, easier?" pressed Robert.
"Course it would be," Ralph shrugged. "But it's not like we have an easy life as it is. I mean, sure we don't have to do arithmetic or spelling anymore but . . . we've got to hunt, and keep the fire going. It's not as easy as I thought it'd be when we first got on here. Not as fun."
"What do you mean, not as fun?" Merridew spoke up and he was hostile.
"I mean, we've all been working, haven't we? It's not like, back home. Where mummy and daddy would work and cook for us. We have to do all that for ourselves. We've hardly even made a home. We've finished one shelter, and it looks like crap, and barely started the second and we said we'd do three!" Ralph said, not wishing to sound as if he was complaining but it was surely the way the boys took it.
"It ain't that difficult to pick some fruit –"
"We hardly have to do nothing!"
"Oi you only helped so long before you went hunting –"
"Sorry, sorry!" Ralph cried and they hushed down. "What I mean to say is, our trouble's different now. And you know grownups would have this all done in no time. They'd have finished all the shelters, and they would've maybe start planting stuff too and they'd have a government and everything. They wouldn't be afraid of the dark, or quarrel, or talk about a beast, they'd build a ship . . . At the very least they'd have an easier way to make fire. A way we could all make fire whenever we wanted to."
"But then what would we do for leaders?" Merridew asked. "No doubt if we all went off on our own we would've started getting into fights. Tribal wars and stuff like the people in Africa and India! At least this way we hunt together and eat together.'
"Yeah, but it's harder. Don't say it isn't harder than it was before," Ralph said.
"What'd you mean it's not fun, though?" Merridew said. His entire body was hunched like a wildcat ready to spring and rip Ralph to shreds.
"I mean," Ralph said. "What would be fun is if we didn't need to do anything. If there was some magical boar tree that could give us food. If we could light those candle-buds up on the mountain and carry them around with us. If we could just play all day. But we can't, can we?"
"What do you mean we can't, that's all the littluns do," Bill said, a bit resentfully. It was true, all the littluns ever seemed to do was eat and secrete, living off the meat that the biguns gave them and making up their own adventures as they would had they been home in their parents' gardens.
"That's cos they're kids, and we're older. We can do more. When they've grown up enough they'll do stuff, too," Merridew explained. "Once they're strong enough and smart enough to do things like we are." The boys all bristled with some sort of extreme pride, all but one.
"Hear that," Ralph laughed bitterly. "We're going to grow up on this island. It's not like in Peter Pan." The boys felt the graveness in Ralph's voice seep into their very flesh. "If we don't get rescued, we're going to grow old here."
"We'll be all wrinkly, and our hair will be down to our feet!" Maurice declared, in a sudden bout of laughter. Everyone saw this as a good reason to laugh away their cares but Ralph stood firm.
"Can't you see that's why it's important that we work?" Ralph cried.
"But I thought you didn't want to?"
"Well that's exactly why I wish we weren't here! I wish we didn't have to work, hunt or keep the fire, but we've got to. You know, we don't even need to hunt. No doubt one day we'll kill all the pigs –" there was a pause among the boys for pride. " – And we won't be able to hunt anymore even if we wanted to! We don't need to hunt at all, at least not so often. I know the fish we catch doesn't taste as good as the pigs –"
"I'm allergic to shellfish," Robert mumbled.
"But we don't need to hunt in the very least!" Ralph repeated, overruling every slight interruption. "Can't you see, the most important thing is the fire?"
"I don't want to go back," Maurice suddenly admitted. He had paused in his step and looked utterly unashamed. "I – I never liked school. And my parents put me into all these afterschool services. And – I didn't like Father John. I didn't like him, and no one ever believed me. I don't want to evergo back."
"But just because you didn't like it there, doesn't mean that we shouldn't keep the fire tended," Ralph said firmly. "Besides, if we ever did get found, you could just run away in the bushes. I reckon the island would be a better place if there was less of us anyway."
"I reckon so," Maurice mumbled.
"I didn't, still don't like school," Ralph muttered. "And this is a great island. But I'd . . . I'd rather visit it on holiday if you know what I mean." The boys chuckled and chucked stones about, flattening aside ferns as they passed. They had broached the topic of school and back home, and they were sweetly shy about it.
"We liked school alright," said one of the twins. "School just didn't like us," snickered the other and they laughed to themselves for awhile, muttering, "Boy – you-are-driving-me-slowly-insane!" and the word "Waxy" resurfaced several times in their chattering conversation.
"I miss snow," said one boy. "I wish it was Christmas. Me da was going to get me a new bike. Was going to get a job with the paper route."
"I reckon'll you'll still be able to do it when we get back," Bill said, flushing with confidence. "Maybe even two bikes. Whenever I ran off from home my mum'd be really mad at first and then she'd hug me and cry but then she'd make cookies and cakes and all sorts of sweets. Felt bad, of course, but now . . . especially now . . . I mean, you can understand." They all did, and they all missed the various sweets that they had been allowed on occasions. Memories of smacks on the wrists when they'd try to smuggle some away to their bedrooms, but that had only ever made the cookies taste sweeter once they knew they had gotten away from it. "I miss my mum."
"I think I see a boar," a boy offered half-heartedly, feeling sick with wanting."Big tusks."
"Yeah," came the reply.
"We're here!" announced Merridew loudly, violently slashing away the tall grass with his spear. "See it? What did I tell you?" The boys were all shell-shocked, looking up at the large, towering thing as if it held some sort of religious significance for them. One boy was even so surprised he dropped to his knees in front of it.
"Wicked," murmured one of the twins. "It's huge! Must be a hundred feet tall!"
"I told you," Merridew said, smirking in the affirmative. "C'mon then." The bridge was still as thin and unsteady as it had been when Ralph and he had reluctantly crossed it the first time but this time Merridew seemed to bound carelessly across it, almost as though to beat Ralph inwalking across even through a jaunty little signal of the hunter to invite them closer and display its safety, to which Ralph rolled his eyes.
The boys piled across the bridge, whispering in awe of the depths of the water below. Beneath their feet lay bubbling waters, with seemingly unending deepness as if could fall in it and never stop sinking. Seaweed clung to the rock walls a dirty green colour, mottled with yellows and splashes of burgundy. It fanned out in such ways that hair does in water, revealing the treacherous and complicated currents that lurked beneath the border of the land of air.
"My daddy says there's thing, what d'you call 'em that make ink – squids – that are hundreds of yards long and eat whales whole," Maurice said. The boys did not find this difficult to believe as they scanned the water's inky shadows, and combining this with the slick mermaid-like movement of the seaweed. One boy made a momentary start which resulted in setting everybody in alarm, before the boy apologized.
"And you didn't see no beast, right?" Robert asked, as the littlest one still needing some confirmation.
"That's right," Ralph answered as they at last found themselves onto the pink bastion. "Not a single sign of one. Just some birds." They began to clamber up the sides of the tower, steadily wrapping themselves around it, scooting up one level to the next until at last they were facing the cave. Merridew picked up a bird's nest that smelled and looked noticeably rotton and threw it off into the sea below. Everyone watched mesmerized as the rock side and the wind bounced it for nearly a minute until it finally hit the water and began to float away.
"Golly," murmured Maurice. "D'youreckon the littluns will be alright to get up here?"
"Well they've got to grow up sometime," Merridew said and again everyone felt warm with pride at their leader's approval.
"There's very little water," Ralph warned.
"We could always have some filled up with a coconut," Merridew countered.
"It'll also be a bother to get fire up here. Plus, with the wind I bet it'd be cold at night."
"We wouldn't need to rebuild the shelters every time they fell down."
"It's dangerous if we fall. We'd be dead as soon as we hit the water, if we don't hit the rocks first." Many boys visibly winced at this.
"Plus we're in a castle!" Merridew concluded.
"Yeah, a pink one," Ralph sneered and the boys laughed at that despite themselves.
"Yeah, well, take a look at this," Merridew said, walking with wide strides and flailing arms to the very tip of the mountain, the boys following closely behind. At last at the very top they felt they could appreciate the full view that the bastion gave them. They could see in the distance their very own beach, their pink coral peeking out of the ocean, the tips of the trees from where the fire was exuding. This was not what Merridew brought them to see, Ralph knew.
Merridew was leaning against an unstable rock and he smiled with wild abandonment. "A little help would you?" he requested as he pressed against the rock. Nearly all the boys leapt at the task, pushing and shoving against the rock. Ralph hung back and eyed his own spear in aninner-argument. He saw that they had chosen the largest rock and now their faces were turning purple in their attempts to push it over. At last he decided and he slid the spear beneath the rock. Then, leaning against it, a single boy sent a rock that was bigger than five boys toppling into the ocean. Ralph's spear also fell but one of the twins gave them one of their spears in admiration.
"So we can crush people," Ralph scoffed, folding his arms at the tremendous crash on the ground below.
"Crush enemies," Merridew corrected.
"Oh, what enemies," Ralph snapped. Then he desperately wished to reel back in the words at the look on Merridew's painted face. Neither boy said anything for a long while after that, but they didn't need to as the people chattered predictably about the crash and about the advantages of using such methods in hunting. This brought their minds back on meat indecently soon after they had been thinking about their mother's biscuits. Excitedly they walked down the tower, seemingly no longer frightened of its heights.
Once they had crossed the bridge again they had arrived to the conclusion that they should hunt before heading back for the others and Merridew encouraged this. When one goes looking for trouble, one doesn't generally find it immediately but give it enough tries, and one will though often by accident. This was the case in this pig, the huge male boar that almost seemed to know that they had killed the mother of his piglets, enraged and wild. Nothing had prepared the biguns for his rage.
Merridew with no knife quickly put up his spear in hopes to impale the pig. This plan of action failed as the pig barreled right past him and nearly into one of the twins. It was Maurice that first managed to injure the huge, unceasing force. He had thrown his spear into the vague vicinity of the pig, and it screamed in anger and injustice. This encouraged the boys to be braver, to move closer. The droplets of blood in the grass roused their wish to see more and more – to rip into the creature until they could expose it as what it was – blood and guts and fat wrapped in and around bleach-white bones. The sort of thing that, once its life was abolished would begin to decay and sink into the sort of thing that they could kill.
They attempted to circle around it, as they would do to other pigs in the past, but he would have none of it. Using his horns he bucked away the boys' spears, though Maurice did manage to get a good jab at his forehead that caused him to bleed. It did not, however, cause him to stop in his rampage. He took Ralph's attempt at trying to placate him, by knocking away the spear in such a way that it also knocked Ralph off his feet. Ralph scrambled away and reclaimed his weapon before leaping at the pig again.
One of the twins managed to sink his spear deep into the pig's belly, but the battle was far from over. Screaming and squealing the pig bowled into Merridew and slicing up his belly with his tusks. Merridew, however, felt no inclination to lose just yet either, and valiantly hung on, trying to stab the boar with his spear, which was too long and too difficult to hold in such a situation. The boar was distracted, however, and several of the boys managed to stab him with the spears. Rivers of blood were now leaking from the pig's body, splashing on the ground thick, glossy and impossibly red.
Sensing defeat on the horizon, the pig staggered and glanced, though his blood was seeping into his eyes and blinding him, at them. His very posture was accusatory fore he, bumbling and bleeding, – he rocketed off the edge of the red cliffs and fell into the was a splash that they could barely hear through the thundering of blood in their brains. The boys were left, breathing heavily and with such disappointment that they could not bring themselves to be angry. Their spears clattered to the ground, and one rolled off to also join the drowning boar at sea.
It was hours after the hunters had woken up that Simon finally stirred. He was a bit lost at first, without the fire, but he steadily realized that he could at last explore the island. It was a little bit after the sunrise when most of the boys began to stir, leaping to their feet and running to the beach and the forest, to the adventures they'd put on pause. Simon had jerked at the noise waking up and finding with half-closed eyes two sticks to create a fire with. But then he heard the familiar noise, and he blinked away sleep and saw Roger already on top of it rubbing furiously. Simon's heart sunk and he looked around the forest, noting with satisfaction the candle-buds hidden away in one of the trees. Perhaps he'd help with the shelters.
Through trial and error he stumbled through the shrubbery when he finally arrived at where the huts were half managing to stand. One had been completed, the other nearly finished and the third a skeleton of a complete mess. They had all been abandoned, he realized, probably by Merridew's promise to check out the fort on the mountain and the silent declaration that they would migrate there, despite Ralph's insistence that it wasn't as good as this place was. His hands idly brushed against the leaves of one hut and they fell off, giving Simon a start. He looked around, mortified, and seeing that no one had seen him, he attempted to thatch it back on while only succeeding to a knock a few more branches off. He quickly scurried away from his vandalism.
The sand was dry where the shelters were, and his toes sunk into their hotness. Bits of the white sand were carried upwards with wind and hit and stuck to his dewy legs. Not for the first time Simon wished he could rip off his clothes and prowl around as naked as Merridew or his hunters, instead of being locked up inside the hot, stiff confines of his shirt and shorts. But he also steadfastly refused to rid himself of the dignity of being dressed, no matter how much easier it would be and nicer it would feel with the warm wind blowing on nothing but his skin.
Already sweat was pooling up on his neck, everyone's hair had grown a little but Simon's hair had been long to start with. Now he couldn't imagine why he'd dealt with it so long and he considered getting ahold of Merridew's knife somehow and cutting it all off. Simon found himself missing soap, and he knew there was some sort of recipe to making soap – something to do with ash and fat but he didn't know how to go about it. Next to this not an ounce of fat was ever left after a feast. He felt ashamed for his blubbering the previous night, and embarrassed for Ralph's sake having to listen to him.
But he had been horrified. Jack Merridew had always been bossy, and now where he could be completely in charge – that was what Simon had feared at the very beginning. But he never once thought that Merridew would get angry with him. The red slap had turned into a blue bruise, though it was still very painful and he found his entire jaw tingling with hurt whenever he opened his mouth. Simon had been too shocked to even respond with his usual customary smile, because never had he been subjected to such dishonor and insult.
Merridew had never noticed him before he and Ralph became, friends in Ralph's own words, but Simon suspected it was more to do with the fire. It wasn't that Simon had fallen asleep before it; it was regular for the person who made and watched the fire to doze off a little every now and again to entertain themselves with little dreams. Simon suspected it was because he simply didn't want Simon to have anything to do with the fire anymore, but then he also wanted him to hunt with him. It confused Simon no end but he knew he shouldn't trust any of it, leaving it and continuing to walk alongside the beach.
All he had ever seen of the island had been in the night, and the brightness of it all shocked his eyes. The water glittered with sunlight and the horizon and boys splashing in the shallow lagoon released jewels shimmering from the water. The very air seemed to ripple with the beginnings of mirages and Simon stood still, transfixed by what he saw. The island branched off in a billion fading copies, filling the sky with more of this land as if the island took place of the clouds in the clear sky. Each vision of the island twinkled in reverse and as he moved, moved with him. He felt as though he could stand here forever, merely absorbing the sight but instead turned and by whim walked away from it, the islands following.
The sun slid further down in the sky, and he found the flickers of the mind melting and becoming one with glaring light. He was following the trail of footprints that were trailed in the sand behind what he supposed were the hunters. They came in many shapes and sizes, all bare and crossing footprints lending extra toes to some. With their progress the trees and ferns hanging over the beach were knocked aside and Simon followed numbly on, the sea rolling in his was a kind of emptiness in his mind now, no memories, no worries but simply the sound of the sea and the resounding decision to find Ralph and question him where they had all gone.
These days on the island had been remarkably good for his health, he mused. Grownups had always been advised by doctors to take a vacation, away from the stress and troubles of daily life. No one recommended this for a kid, despite the fact a child's life, Simon's in particular, a lot harder than most of grownups. But here now, finally being released from the fire, was his chance. His chance to let go. And in this realization, came the reply that he couldn't. It wasn't in himself to stop worrying, to give in to the lull of the island that could possibly become a permanent fixture in his life, perhaps in time his home. Simon had never much felt a home at all; hospitals had always been the most familiar place to him even though he hated them. Perhaps someday he would find a home though, he wrapped his arms around himself, though perhaps he didn't need one.
At last there lay a hard horizon, cruel and stubborn as if it was answering 'no' to every question hurled at to get nearer to the infinitely blue sea and its twin sky he crossed down to the rocks, pink and angular. He saw Ralph staring off into the sea of impossibilities and he quickly padded his way over to rectify any damage it had caused. He called Ralph's name but Ralph was far too trapped in his own self-hell to notice Simon until Simon had to come so physically close to him that his lips nearly brushed against Ralph's ear as he spoke. Magically, he knew what to say for once.
"You'll get back to where you came from," he assured Ralph, nodding fervently as he spoke to lend his confidence. Ralph's entire body had gone taut with stress, a rock clutched so tightly in his hands it looked as if it needed to be pried away with a crowbar. Simon followed Ralph's line of vision back to the sea, and he was struck with the difference between the mirage-infested skies on the other beaches of the island. This sky lent nothing but the cold, brutal truth – that from this island they could not escape. Simon swallowed but he was filled with a sort of certainty, and now was sure that at least Ralph would get away, or at least was sure that that was what needed to be said.
"It's so big, I mean –" Ralph said, turning to look at Simon. Simon felt no self-consciousness as Ralph combed through it for some sort of answer. He moved to stand in front of Ralph and to block his vision from the horror of inevitability. His hands landed on the rock that Ralph was clutching and he brushed the pads of his thumbs over Ralph's knuckles reassuringly, and as he felt them relax under his ministrations he gently removed the rock from them.
"All the same. You'll get back alright. I think so, anyway," Simon said, soft and seriously. He sat down next to Ralph, the rock now loosely, awkwardly held between his own fingers. They both looked at the sea now, but were no longer frightened or apprehensive of it. They simply looked at it as it was – big, yes, but beautiful and something they had never seen in their previous life. Some of the strain had left Ralph's body and he let himself relax.
"Got a ship in your pocket?" he asked Simon, smiling bitterly. Ralph's new face had Simon alarmed but the familiar smile reminded him that it was indeed Ralph buried beneath all the paint, but he wasn't lost like Merridew or the rest.
"How do you know then?" Simon grinned wickedly.
"You're batty," Ralph said curtly, before beginning to laugh. It felt wonderful to laugh, the rush of the hunt could not compare to this simple, lulling feeling of comradeship. Simon stood up and hurled the rock into the sea, inciting a tremendous splash. They fell back against the rocks, flat on their backs which made everything twice as funny and a great way to laugh. Presently they laughed themselves out nearly and Ralph sat up again, resting arms against another rock and using it almost as a chair.
Solitude was a feeling that did not make you feel bitingly lonely, but rather made you pleased to feel alone – giddy and calm, for you didn't feel as though you were alone, you felt as though you were a part of everything. In the wind running through their ears for a few minutes the boys felt that lovely heart-aching feeling of solitude despite the fact they were right next to each other. Isolation, they recognized, was something they cherished and would not be too much to eventually pursue it. Presently the wind bowed down and Simon's hair again fell on his shoulders than into the sky like the arms of the sun, always reaching.
Ralph turned slightly to speak to him, they're foreheads brushed when the wind picked up again. "Everyone but you and Roger and the littluns went on a hunt. Only reason you didn't was cos I asked Merridew to leave you behind," he explained. "He wasn't happy about it, and I think you'll have to hunt tomorrow or summat, but it'll be alright."
"I don't want to hunt though," Simon frowned, hair falling into his eyes which he impatiently brushed away. "If we hadn't any choice but to hunt, then I would obviously but we don't have to. We have crab, and fish for meat and plenty of fruit all over the place."
"That's what I said!" Ralph spoke up, eager to find they were both on the same track.
"Besides, this whole thing with leaving the head out for the beast . . ."
"You noticed, did you?" Ralph groaned. "I didn't want Merridew to do it, but he did."
"You know, I don't even think Merridew believes in the beast," Simon said and Ralph froze. Simon noticed his shock and quickly explained, "I mean, we're all scared, right? It's a whole different place and it's awfully black at night, and those creeper things well, they look like snakes and they snag in the dark. But I don't even think Merridew believes there's actually something on this island. It doesn't make any sense for there to be a beast. Nobody's seen it, not even the littluns. Just in dreams."
"Why would he go through all that bother to make people think that there is a beast?" Ralph retorted, not understanding Simon's line of reason.
"Well, to control us," Simon said. Ralph stared still. "It'd be different if there weren't other people who could make fire, but there are, so he needs a different way to make sure we all stick together. He wants to keep us all scared so we keep on following him. If there wasn't any fear, and once the fun wears of off hunting cos eventually it will be more like work than play, nobody would listen to him anymore. They don't like him, maybe admire him but they don't like him so he's got to keep them under control somehow."
"But he does think he's seen it! I mean, he thinks he's heard it," Ralph revealed, in hushed tones. Far away birds screamed, falling through the air. Though the sun was up in the sky, and the whole land was cast in some temporary rosiness, the wind rattled the trees behind the boys ominously and they both turned around to they turned back and Ralph continued, "It was us, talking about him, but I couldn't tell him that so he still thinks it was the beast."
"He must know then," Simon concluded, utterly pale. "It makes no sense to hear two boys talking and think it was the beast, so he knows."
"No," Ralph said, suddenly just as concerned. "No way he does." Echoing through the air was the playful chatter of boys, though muffled because of the wind. It was unlikely they had caught anything, perhaps Maurice had found a way to cheer them up a little.
"This isn't good," Simon hissed, hands raking through his thick, wind-wrought hair.
"But there's nothing we can do about it now, except maybe pretend that even though we don't trust him, we'll still listen to him," Ralph decided. It was Simon for once looking confused.
"Won't we?" he asked.
"No," Ralph said. "We can't. Now that he knows, there's no way that we could. He'll want to get rid of us somehow, maybe you were right, Simon. About us being on the fire."
"No," Simon said quickly. "It's fine, I was, I was just all – He wouldn't actually do that." His voice was small and steadily gaining in pitch. No matter how savage the boys had become, they wouldn't stand for something like that. They wouldn't kill another one of their tribe, no matter how different or what a threat they were.
"He's really upset now, you know, after the pig got away," Ralph whispered. "We're just taking a break now, but the pig escaped. There were a lot of spears stuck in it, and it was blinded cos of blood but it ran off the cliff and into the water. And now his face is all, made-up, you know? He doesn't even look human anymore!"
"We'll be fine," Simon hissed at last. "We just got to stick together. I think I might have to run away. I can still build us a fire and . . ."
"He's back then is he?" a voice crowed. Merridew and his flurry of tribesmen jumped down onto the rocks with them. "Told you we should've roused him up, not that he wouldn't have been any use."
"Did you catch anything?" Simon asked slyly, successfully taking attention of him and onto their failure. Merridew snarled.
"We'll catch it," he said. "But now there's a much more important thing!" The boys flocked downwards among the rocks so that they could look up to him - a terrible, heroic figure in the sunlight. "Who wants to live at Castle Rock!" They cheered excitedly and though Ralph looked as though he wished to disagree, Simon reached over and squeezed his hand. They didn't have to listen but they had to agree.
"Alright then! It's decided!" Merridew yelled.
"Someone ought to run back and tell the littluns and Roger," said Maurice. "Maybe get a second vote."
"The weirdo can do that," Merridew sneered and everybody snickered. "And sure, we can vote then I guess. Well, go on then!" Tentative as a deer Simon stood up and began walking away. Jeers were thrown after him but Simon shook them off as though they were water. Ralph watched for a moment as Simon disappeared up into the underbrush then he forcefully turned his eyes to the chief. "Get the littluns first so they can head back!" Merridew called after Simon, before turning to the rest of his tribe. "Alright, let's get on."
"Shouldn't we wait for them here?" Ralph asked. "I mean, they don't know the way to the rock and even though Simon could tell them to walk alongside the beach until they got here they still wouldn't know how to get up to the rock. We could hunt or maybe fish while we wait. Plus you said we'd have another vote once they all got here." Merridew glared terribly but the others took to the idea, eager and whooping like savages. They took up arms again and charged into the woods. Merridew leapt after them.
Simon once again found himself threading through the jungle, though this time he was more willing to explore further away from the beach and what the sky held. Inside the thick undergrowth he admired the colour of the sky, also nearly green with trees and the sunlight. Eventually he wandered so deeply he could see no sky at all and he felt peacefully enclosed and contained though he knew logically he had never been at his most wild.
Even inside the forest the wind could reach and tussled his hair and he felt wonderfully familiar memories in it, a caring hand swiping back his hair to so counteract the target it present to his bullies, pulling it as to hold him in place so that he would stop twitching or to perhaps wake him up. No, he could find only tenderness in this wind though he knew logically and somewhere faraway in his mind that wind could pick up trees, people, houses and toss around in the air, flattening them no matter if they were bad people or good people. Mankind could do so many things, he reflected, but they could not predict the movements of the wind. Perhaps that was because there was no meaning to it. Of course there was a purpose, something about currents, but there was clearly no reason for it. So he chose to take the gentleness that the wind gifted him with at that moment, and hold it to himself for as long as it lasted then gladly, willingly relinquish it.
He chose to go to the littluns first, not as much as to obey Merridew's orders, but to spend some time with them. When he arrived back at the beach the littluns had fluttered out of the lagoon, calling his name in a delighted chant. The littluns, when given no stern opinion by someone older, tended to embrace anyone who did not look down on them, figuratively speaking, so they adored Simon, at least when Merridew wasn't around. He knew that if Merridew had been about they would have laughed at Simon but now, at this moment, they latched to him and pulled him half-heartedly struggling into the lagoon.
He decided to swim with them for a while and wash out his shirt from the dirt and soot it had gathered. He participated in breath-holding competitions, always good-naturedly winning against their littler lungs and confident declarations of, 'this time I'll get you!', and they tittered and splashed each other. Simon took one boy on his shoulders though as to give him a piggy-back ride but instead burrowed his way face down in the water so that the boy, giggling uncontrollably with the thrill, could get a ride above everyone's heads and seeing all.
He removed his shirt and attempted to massage the grit out of it. When that didn't work he gave a dive and remarkable splash for their benefit as he fished out a rock with which to beat out the dirt with. They sat on the shore with him watching him clout the shirt with the rock. Some even got their own stones with which to beat the shirt with and after one of the boys had accidently thumped his finger Simon decided the shirt was quite clean enough. He slid it onto his thin frame and swam some more.
After half an hour as free as a fish in such waters he decided to tell them what he had come for. They all watched and listened solemnly for the most part, the other part spent pinching and nudging each other. He pointed to them which direction they were to run to, and told them him and Roger would soon , they armed themselves with sticks and raced off into the jungle though they, as he had instructed them to, always followed the shoreline. Soon as they were ought of his sight, Simon picked himself up out of the water, sopping wet and headed for the column of smoke in the jungle.
He saw Roger sitting by the fire cross-legged like some sort of orient, numbly smiling. Simon was hit with a sense of foreboding as he saw that Merridew's blade was secure on Roger's waist. Then Roger's eyes snapped open and Simon knew, knew that he could not fight and that he could not run. "Hullo Simon."
"Merridew – Merridew, he's –" Simon felt choked again, his heart threatening to clamber up his throat in a quick escape.
"Yeah," said Roger. "I can see why he thinks this is necessary. You're not as dumb as you act." He walked forward, fishing the knife from its sheath and holding it up, glinting in the dim sunlight. He stood right in front of Simon now, only marginally taller and just as skinny and dark-haired. From a distance the two could be brothers. "He's told me to stick you like a pig, and then dump you in the lagoon." Roger's voice was dark and in control and Simon could not bring himself to look past the dark, gloomy eyes which were now lit a sort of excited glow.
"Why?" Simon breathed.
"Because no one will go back to the lagoon after we move to Castle Rock," Roger explained. Simon's legs gave out from beneath him, but so alarmed was he his eyes could not mercifully fall shut for the proceedings. "That and the fact that people would begin to talk and blame it on the beast, of course."The one moment where he'd ever wanted to faint, and he was unable to as Roger stepped closer, standing what seemed like hundreds of feet above Simon.
The power of the knife was inside Roger's hands, the knife seemed to hum and throb, as if it too had a heartbeat. He held it in such a way that it was slitting Simon's stomach, then slicing off Simon's head, and then simply sinking into Simon's chest. He found himself unsatisfied with either of these options, despite the eagerness he felt to rip up skin and send blood squirting into the air like fireworks. Perhaps if he moved closer he would get a clearer vision of what to do.
So Roger sank to his knees, now leaning over Simon. He found gratification in pressing the blade to Simon's hair, then to his cheek. Simon did not whimper or cry, only stared with alert, wide eyes. Roger's hand twinge in pain around the knife and he found himself focusing on other things than the now found himself slightly unnerved by the look in Simon's eyes. It was neither accepting, nor was it rejecting of his fate. It was neither frightened nor blank, not even judging. They just watched Roger's every move. Roger found satisfaction in Simon's quickened breathing and trembling fingers, and the eyes were just there to irritate him, not for much other use.
Just as he was about to bring the knife into Simon's body, he noticed a droplet of blood fall on Simon's shirt. Simon was twisted beneath him now, his neck straining as far away from Roger as he could. Roger looked upwards, then touched his face and when he left blood on his face he knew to look at his palms. The scabs of splinters that had been caused by making fire, the blisters, they had begun to bleed when he held the knife. Disgusted and in pain he wiped his hand on the grass then turned back to his other hand, which had not been irritated so to blood, he tilted Simon's head to look at him again. And suddenly, he saw no point in it all. He stood up and stepped away, though Simon lay shivering on the ground.
"Run away," Roger said, throwing the knife and watching it plant itself into a nearby tree.
"Wh-what?" Simon stuttered.
"But you must let me bring back your shirt," said Roger. "Or he won't believe I've killed you."
"You're – you're letting me go?" Simon asked. It was different when they looked at you, Roger supposed, but not that much. There were the splinters in his hands that had gotten inflamed and began to bleed. Though Roger had often thought of it, of taking a stone and even Merridew's knife and striking the life from someone, just to see if the blank look that the pig's got was universal through the species, it was a different situation.
"My hand hurts," Roger said, holding up the scabby hand. Simon held up his owninjured hands, and they realized that the way they positioned their arms was in mutual surrender. They nearly laughed, but saw no need to. Their eyes were now grave and serious, not delighted or gloomy.
"He'll still make you do the fire,"
"Yeah, well, he can't make me do anything else," Roger said, holding out a hand which Simon took. Simon felt only slight disgust compared to the sudden understanding they both felt as some of Roger's blood stained his arm. They walked gripping each other's arm to the tree where Roger had landed the knife. He tugged out the blade and held a long stare with Simon. Then, like a rattlesnake, he struck.
"Ow!" Simon cried, sinking to the ground again. A slit appeared and grew in length swiftly across his chest, and from it erupting like a volcano, oozed red, hot lava. He brought the blood up to his face and nearly passed out again had not Roger kicked him in the shin to distract him from it. Simon quickly brought up the shirt over his head to inspect the damage.
"No, don't smudge the shirt," Roger warned. "It'll look like I tried to clean your blood after I killed you, wouldn't make a lot of sense, would it?"
"He'd think I was dead even without you cutting me," Simon whimpered, standing up weakly. The cut was not deep or thick, perhaps like a three-inch paper cut in severity, but it bled terribly and it made Simon woozy with his terror. Roger took in the sight, before he abandoned it and beginning to walk away.
"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "And you should take some of the fire with you," he called back, without turning around. Simon shivered with the sudden attack, and he stooped to take a stick of fire, as well as two pieces of wood that he could rub together later. He slid the two sticks in his quickly becoming blood-drenched shorts and he walked over to the tree where he had hidden the candle-buds. Reaching upwards he managed to knock them off the tree and then catch them in his arms. He then dragged himself with the grace of an ape in the furthest direction from Jack Merridew and Roger that he could get. He dropped one candle-bud blossom behind him and he turned back to move a stone on top of it so that it would not blow away.
Jogging lightly it was not long until Roger caught up to the littluns, and then overtook them. He had slid over his body Simon's shirt which was slightly too small for him, but fit well enough. He knew that nobody would notice the blood if they had indeed hunted as Merridew had assured them they would, as well as that their masks would distract them from such a minor detail as a blood-smothered shirt. The littluns only reinforced this thought as they paid no mind to anything but his speed.
Roger had always had the keenest sense of smell a human could have. He had been able to smell food being prepared from his room upstairs from the kitchen with his doors and windows shut. The most shocking scent he had ever smelt had been that of the plane hurtling downwards. Before the plane's capsizing it had smelt like any regular old plain – like stale humans who had sweated on the seats, then of musty dust settling on the seats. Some seats smelled like the alcohol that the grownups helped themselves to and others like orange, apple and cranberry juice. They had been offered neither of these options on their ride and he had decided he would send a complaint to whoever was in charge.
Then the plane broke apart and in came the scent of death. It was cold, and it was harsh. The smell of the seats, and of the humans, lifted away. Death smelt at first sour, and then it became the sweetest thing he had ever smelt and would ever smell afterwards. The fragrance of fear, which he was certain exist, was tingling his nose and it was his own and it was everybody's. He felt as though he was being cradled and rocked by his loving mother and then in the next moment being flung out the window like he was bathwater. He had felt utterly euphoric.
The island contained smells he had never been acquainted with either, and likely never would be had he not been on this particular plane. There was the scent of boy, woody and nutty and more often than not accompanied with a sour twinge, though multiplied and huddled together as in a wolf pack. The scent of brotherhood which even though was an intriguing aroma, he still felt no interest in joining with them and contributing to it.
Then there was the sea – pure salt. And the beach, much like that but with the stench of rotting fish that had gotten trapped at low tide. Then the island itself, the smell was thick and both salty and sweet. Blossoms from trees released the fairest, most delicate fruity fragrance one could ever smell and that mixed with the smell of the sea made the perfume of the entire island. He could live until the day he died merely inhaling and exhaling that wonderful, lulling scent and it was one of the things that he was happy to have experienced through such a tragedy of the plane crash.
There was the smell of filth, which he would have rather gone on without. The littluns after eating too much rotten fruit, that of not washing for days and days, and then that of sickness and waste, the smell of a pig's head on a stick – the aroma always as thick around such a thing as the flies were. That sick, fruity odor of festering wounds, small ones caused by hunting or accidents.
Then that of smoldering flesh, sitting by the fire, he still did not know if he liked these or disliked them. It was not just the fragrance of the cooking pig, which everybody liked, but the little whiffs that always accompanied a resounding 'Ouch!' for that of human skin or hair licked by the fire. It was sour and charred but then, so interesting and inviting. Not that he was interested in setting them on a spit and turning them, no, he was more concerned with seeing if he actually enjoyed the smell, and he was willing to try on as many people as he could as often as he could to be sure of the outcome. He had always been a curious, bored boy.
Then there was that forbidden aroma of blood. It could be salty or sour or sweet. People said it smelt and tasted like copper, Roger thought it smelt like dirt. But he had grown to consider that dirty smell with that of the colour. Red sunsets, birds, hair, dirt. And then, it was creeping up slowly he knew, would come the time where he'd want to flip that whole interpretation in reverse and upside-down. The dirt of the world, make it red. It smelled sweet to him, sweet, sweet dirt.
He smelled disappointment and boredom rising from the ashes of his most precious blood – that earthy tang of pig's blood – from ten meters away. He arrived in the sight of Merridew who asked him where the littluns were, and he replied that they were coming. Merridew looked approvingly at Roger's shirt and Roger slipped him back a bloody knife, only red at the tip but Merridew for the moment either didn't notice or care. Not long afterRoger said that the littluns would come that did the boys burst through the trees with their little sticks that in Roger's eye would have better use as toothpicks.
Merridew, after seeing who was there and who wasn't, walked to the tallest rock and began to speak. It was all formality, Roger knew. If someone disagreed their only choice was to go out into the forest and starve, and judging by the expression on Ralph's face he realized this as well. But Merridew had it dressed in such wonderful words that the boys were all sent cheering back towards Castle Rock being led by Merridew, Ralph and Roger in the had thought that they would walk in silence, seeing as they had never once before conversed, but he had been mistaken.
"Where's Simon?" Ralph asked idly, not too suspiciously. Roger had been right about the blood's visibility amongst the faces of the tribesmen.
"Buggered off," he replied. "He's barmy, that one." Ralph nodded, biting his nails in thought. Nasty habit, Roger thought, as he took in the scent of the green forest and the red blood and the entire island. Ralph did not smell like a fool and they both eyed each other when they thought the other wasn't looking.
The littluns had been as reluctant as ever to cross across such a tall height so Maurice had to take them, running, two at a time under his arms.
Night had soon set on the boys and they had all piled in and huddled up together in the little cave for warmth. Roger had taken no sticks to make a fire with and Merridew was pleased with what he thought Roger had done so he let it slide with the promise they would fetch wood at first light tomorrow morning. Ralph took some solace in knowing he had been right about the cave's bad location, though it was the perfect retort in the fact that he lay on the spot closest to the edge of the cave. Wind chilled him all night until he was sure that everyone was asleep. It was then, dangerously and recklessly, that he began to climb down Castle Rock.
He had seen the blood on the shirt that Roger wore that barely fit, but he had not allowed himself to go further with that line of thought. He remembered detective novels and decided to suspend judgment until he was absolutely sure that Simon was . . . hurt, because there was no point in kicking up afuss where he too could be just as easily . . . hurt. So he waited until the very last pair of eyes had been invaded with dreams.
The moon was not bright that night; the wind had blown in some thin clouds so that the light could only shine through a dark veil like that of a widow's at a funeral. He gripped the rock, moving his way down purposefully. The rock was now a dark gray and he could hardly see it apart from the light glow that the moon had cast on it. He was about half-way down when a rock appeared that nearly caused him to trip and fall into the water below. Now positively clinging to the castle he inched his way down with trembling limbs.
He crossed the bridge with eagerness in the dim light, almost bouncing as he raced away, and through the tall grass that he supposed would be the very last time to walk through. He used his ears to guide him more than his eyes for in the darkness there was not a lot to see, but plenty to hear with the gentle roar and chuckle of the sea. He walked as a blind person would; having stolen a spear he knocked around every which way to see if he was heading in a safe was remarkably still that night on the ground so he didn't get scared by moving branches as there were none.
He groped his way out of the jungle and found himself on the rocks that Merridew had called the vote on earlier. He hung closer to the trees this time, gripping them whenever he came in contact with them and swinging himself forward in boyish playfulness. The palms' trunks were slick, though ridged and only few were furry so that sense was used often and well that black night. Even in the darkness there was the scent of flowers rising in the air, which reminded him of the cave on the other side of the mountain. If he couldn't find Simon, he'd hide there he decided, and try to make fire of his own. Merridew was getting too dangerous even if Ralph obeyed his every word.
There was a temporary break in the clouds as he began walking on a beach, and all of its sands and little crystals shone silver in the light. The little droplets of water that had been scattered on the sand from waves charging at the rocks made Ralph feel as though he was walking on diamonds. Water reached passed the jagged rocks and curled around his feet, sucking them up and trying to drag him into the sea. He felt delighted but still, this feeling of solitude was nothing to the solitude shared with a friend. Still he had half a mind to jump into the sea and just keeping swimming as far away from this beautiful, terrible island. To be fair, it wasn't that the island was terrible, it was its inhabitants. The world is beautiful, the people are ugly.
At last he found himself clambering over the platform from the first day and he knew he was extremely close to the lagoon. And at last he was, and he walked up to his knees in it. It was warmer than his blood, even in the night, and the still waters skirted alongside his legs. He twirled one foot inside of it, just to feel the water rushing through his toes. The salt stung his not completely healed wound on his leg but he ignored it, just as one had to ignore most things to fully enjoy anything.
He strolled out of the water and into camp. The moonlight had begun to shine brighter as the wind had suddenly started to pick up. He wandered into the familiar trees and he saw the abandoned fire pit, and a few pairs of shirts scattered across the scene white like dead bodies in the dimness. Worry was beginning to mount as he span around, searching desperately for a sign of Simon. Suddenly a gust of wind twitched the green candle-bud which Ralph saw was placed on purpose beneath a rock. Simon was okay, the thought sent relief coursing through Ralph's entire bloody as though it had replaced his blood.
He picked up the bud and walked a little further and he saw that there was, against the splashes of white sand that had found themselves all the way into camp, was a single droplet of burgundy which Ralph knew would look terribly red if it was daytime. Simon was living, but he wasn't okay. Ralph, dropping his spear and following the shoreline, ran off into the night.