Keith G. Alderman

Fox Island

Fox Island

Chapter 8

It was early morning. The sun hadn’t lifted over the eastern horizon. Blue fog hung in the cool air. Fox was three hours to the northwest of the village with Arvor and five other men carrying torches. They stood on the edge of a precipice, overlooking a freshwater river—the source of water for the village. Here in the jungle, a cropping of thirty-foot-high papayas grew on the edge of the world, eight-hundred feet up the rock face. 

While the villagers made light work of the papayas, the sun peaked its face from below the ocean and covered the island with light. Fox dallied on the cliff in a brown study, fantasizing of his ceiba back on his beach. 

He had grown comfortable with the Liberi in the last month, but it didn’t come without a share of grief and regret. His home was gone, and unfortunately, he couldn’t conjure up a need to ever return to it. It no longer seemed wise to attempt his escape from the island. 

What was waiting for him that he couldn’t find here in safety? He had not a name from out there anymore, nor a home from wherever he came. It’s possible that there was a family on the other side of the ocean that he belonged to—but it was just as likely that there was nothing at all. 

When he was on the beach, there was adventure in him and it called him to do the unthinkable and risk his life in the ocean. But now he had a place to lay his head, and food to fill his stomach. He had comrades and conversation. It was the sensible thing to stay. If he left knowing what he knew now, he was a fool and walking into certain death. The adventure was gone—

That thought tasted bitter. He told himself the adventure was still here, just different. He mourned at the sight of the horizon, remembering the ceiba had kept him safe when he felt like all was lost. 

No matter how much he told himself it was wise to stay, he struggled with an uncomfortable conviction that something was strange about the Liberi—he recognized that he would never be one of them, only one among them. Perhaps he could learn to appreciate their culture and religious entanglements. Perhaps he could help them grow in science and history, like Wells’ Time Traveler desired for his Eloi. 

By now, his ceiba would be nothing but a remnant of some lost soul struggling to survive on an island long ago. And it would be a pitiful sight if he were to see it now—nothing compared to a village, fire, drink, food and bed. No doubt, those incessant monkey destroyed his store and make-shift watering system by now; and what else did he even have at that place save his watch and rucksack bag?

Yes, his watch. He had forgotten. It was the thing that reminded him he belonged somewhere else.  The thing that told him he belonged to someone else. Where was it? He had chased an idea into the center of the island and forgotten what it was.

He caught himself from his stupor. There was work to be done. He made his way toward a papaya tree when a flash of familiar red and orange caught his eye at the edge of the forest. It darted along, just beneath the tall grass; a beautiful island fox. It stopped in a glade and stared him in the eyes. It was unnerving; everything about it was the same as the one at the monolith. Direct and obtrusive, like a friend that was lost and trying to make you remember its name. Yes, he was certain now! It have to be the same from weeks prior. 

CRACK! BOOM!

An explosion of sound came from down the ravine where Arvor was collecting fruit. An immense boulder had shouldered itself out from under one of the papaya trees and crashed down into the river below, scaring a flurry of white and blue herons. 

Arvor was inside the tree that rested on the rock, and it had tipped out over the ravine from the weight of his body. Fox ran alongside the edge of the cliff and came to the base of the tree, now jutting out, leaving Arvor dangling fifteen feet over the crevice. 

He was screaming and crying for help, trying with all his might to get his body back up into the tree. But his sweat was making his hands weak. He gripped the ridged exterior of the tree and swung his body with all his might, trying to grab the trunk with his legs. With every swing, he grew more tired until he looked down below him and knew he would fall. 

Fox was in the tree, crawling up the trunk, out over the ravine. With every creep he took, the tree shook and shuddered down the cliff. Arvor’s face was smothered in fear, and his forehead was bleeding from falling against the large fruit and branches. 

The tree’s root system was halfway out of the soil, and the trunk itself was horizontal. Fox laid down on the trunk, wrapping his legs around it and reached for Arvor’s hand. The tree would not hold the weight any longer, and the trunk cracked and snapped in half. It came crashing down, attached by splinters and strings, slamming the two men into the side of the cliff. Trumpet vine covering the side of the cliff broke their collision.

A shower of earth rained down as they maneuvered and grabbed hold of the trunk in whatever way possible. The trunk splintered. The leaves rattled in bloody violence. Sweat and life dripped from Arvor’s face. Fox shimmied down and with every movement, the tree bowed and crackled underneath him. He dropped, letting his stomach bend over the upper branches. He reached and took Arvor’s hand. 

Arvor was silent; fear wore him like an animal in the jaws of a wolf. He was a child again, and his arms flailed viciously at Fox, scratching and bruising his forearms. He pulled with all his might and nearly took Fox off the branches with him. Fox reached for a strand of trumpet vine and steadied the two men.

He groaned and fought, pulling the dead weight of the frightened man over himself. The trunk moved again and the whole cliff side gave way to an enormous mouth of dirt and vegetation—sent sailing down the ravine and crashing into the river below. Fox inhaled, gave half a curse, before clenching his jaw and using every last strength to climb to the base of the tree above the break. 

The tree base was hanging perpendicular to the ravine. With each breath, clumps of earth and rock fell from underneath it; the roots shuttered and wormed from their underground burrows, catching the light and throwing their arms up into the sky over Fox’s head. Dirt and clay blinded him. He shut his eyes and reached for the cliff, finding rock behind the vine. He held onto it with all his might; the break gave way and the top of the tree sailed to the river below. 

The two pressed between the base of the trunk and gripped the trumpet vine, praying it would not tear. Clay matted to Fox’s face. He scraped his face into the vine and rock like a madman. The clay fell off; blood smeared across his nose and cheeks. 

He looked at Arvor. He was a stunned and pitiful shell of his former self. Nothing in him knew what to do as he prayed words that Fox didn’t understand and wept out of control. Fox spit in his face in an attempt to calm him down. 

“Look at me!” Fox yelled at him. “Look at the edge,” he said, gesturing his head upward. “Get to the edge.”

Arvor began climbing the vine, and every movement made the tree groan and the earth quake all around. The vine tore and crunched inside the men’s grasp, but the weed held together. They reached the top of the cliff and rolled onto their backs in exhaustion. 

Arvor fell at Fox’s feet, kissing his hands and arms like a puppy to its master. His weeping turned to laughing, and before long the man made no sense. Fox was not amused. He wiped the blood from his eyes and looked down the ravine at the river wrinkling upon itself and swallowing the rest of the tree. He turned away from the cliff and the sobbing, hysterical Arvor, to see the five other Liberi men standing motionless nearby. None spoke; they stared like children paralyzed by the unknown. 

He saw them for what they were. During his time among them, he convinced himself that he was the stranger and foreigner, therefore in need of submitting to their culture, acquiring their habits, and becoming a resident. But now he saw them for what they were. They were cowards. Through and through, true and simple cowards. Unable to do anything necessary when it required bravery. Men becoming farmers and losing the will to hunt. They never fought—accusation, theft, and deception were met with cowardice and submission. Slaps on the wrist sent them running home; things out of place made them frozen in fear. And a man in certain death made them confused and quiet. 

The men turned and began picking fruit from the trees. 

Fox Island

Fox Island

Chapter 7

Fox wasn’t always alone in the outskirts. After a week with the Liberi, he met a man named Arvor. He was quiet and reserved, unlike the common immature Liberi. He discussed culture and habits and taught Fox the language, and for that Fox was indebted. Arvor followed him like a faithful companion, uncommonly speaking only when spoken to. 

Fox journaled relentlessly. It was impossible to keep up with the new words without writing them down. Arvor provided him someone to exclusively learn from, test his theories and answer his questions; it gave him a lavish amount of information to ponder. He ofttimes woke in the afternoon after writing all night to candlelight.

The two men conferred most often at the eastern outskirts, on the edge of a precipice. It overlooked a large valley. In the distant south he could see the unsightly expanse of the marshlands; they were several miles wide, expanding into a droopy fog and shrouded by the shadow of the mountain; it was far greater than he ever would have imagined. While the two men met there, Fox recollected his ugly venture through the dead land. 

If he had come a little north, it would have spit him out on the other side of a tree-line in perfect view of the Liberi village. Instead, he came out through the bahia field, behind a cropping of pepper trees. He would have missed the village altogether if not for the scouting party at the monolith, and that most certainly happened as a consequence of his startling of the birds. It was all very fortuitous and made him laugh. He mused what would have been if he kept his prior heading to the southwest. He would have missed the village and wandered for who-know’s how long into the wild.

“Out over that land,” Fox said aloud, pointing at the bog. “—that’s where I came from.” 

Arvor stared resolutely. “You came through the Marshlands,” he said. “The dead path.”

Fox liked Arvor. Though he wasn’t convinced Arvor had the same level of fondness that he had. Arvor’s aloof and strict behavior made their brotherhood foremost occupational. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling that Arvor was with him as a means to an end. Nonetheless, Fox grew partial to him and appreciated his knowledge. They were friends.

With Arvor, he discussed the basic principles of the Liberi language and grew accustomed. He knew that man was viror, and woman vira. Therefore, they used the same notation as Latin descent, using “oh” and “ah” to deliberate between masculine and feminine; “i” and “u” were neutral. 

Koh, or island, was masculine. But the plants Kohah, that the island produced, were feminine. Koha—here the vowel pronounced in staccato—could delineate a garden or crop. This told him that, like many other nations, the Liberi considered man dominant and woman submissive, while also the fruit bearer. Which of course brought with it many more ideas about government and rule. 

As far as Fox surmised there was no leader, ruler or chief over the village. There was the idea that Arvor was instructed to be with him, but nothing supported that belief other than fantasy. He found it surprising a society that lived in a dangerous locale, facing dangerous weather, starvation and predators, could yet survive without order, government or police. Save for the sackcloth-clad men, he never knew of any difference in class or authority. 

The Liberia were vegetarians, refusing to eat even the most insignificant animals or fish. Because of this, the animal kingdom (or Maioren), had no need to fear the village and occupied it often. Birds, insects and small animals pounced, crept and crawled through the village like a faithful Eden. The Liberia loved monkeys. They would play with them, fondle them, and feed them daily. They were not pets though. They came and left as they desired. They were wild, but cherished.

Most every adult in the village kept their head down and worked in the morning, whilst also playing and dancing in the afternoon and night. They served amongst themselves, both taking care of the colony and their individual person. 

The women were in charge of the water supply. The Liberi hadn’t yet discovered, or at least propagated, the process of irrigation. Every other day the women would venture north on a half day’s journey to a waterfall. They collected water in enormous baskets and  replenished enormous communal barrels used for drinking, bathing, and gardening.  

The men were the farmers, harvesting nuts, berries, fruits, and vegetables. In this group, Fox attached himself. He best show himself a viable part of the group when he was present, rather than some vacant visitor sitting solitary on a rock and writing in his parchment. 

He followed the farmers early in the morning, during messakoh (harvest, or morning). He discovered Arvor was a famous and well-versed harvester, or messaku. He could scale a twenty-foot papaya tree in less than three seconds, as quick as a raccoon. The Liberi had this talent of using their hands and feet like paws running up the trunks of the jungle; it made their traversal frightfully efficient. Fox recalled his foot-race with the islander who quickly escaped him.  

Farmlands stretched in every direction surrounding the village, dozens of distinct fruits and vegetables, and each day the men traveled to a fresh crop. One late morning, after harvest, Arvor and Fox traveled at the rear.

“Who is the Liberi leader, Arvor?” Fox asked. 

Arvor looked at him. He repositioned a bushel of bananas to his other shoulder. “What does Fox mean?”

“Who speaks and gives instruction to the Liberi—what to do?—how to live?” 

“Fox is confusing.” Arvor responded.

“I mean—are there Liberi that are above other Liberi in the village? Do some Liberi say to do something, and other Liberi must follow and obey?”

Arvor grew silent. He bounced the question from one side of his head to the other and back again, before answering. “The cria must listen to us.” (Cria was the word for children.)

“No, I do not mean children and parents.” Fox went silent, thinking of another way to ask. “Arvor, there are different tasks the Liberi must make, correct?”

Arvor nodded.

“Liberi must harvest food. Clean food. Cook food. Table must be made. Stool must be made. Fire must be set. Stories must be spoke. Homes must be cleaned.” Arvor continued to nod, waiting for the point. “If a big storm was to come to Island, or animal fought Liberi, who would keep Liberi safe? Who would fight the animal?”

“Ah, Fox is a wise fox.” Arvor smiled. “All must be kept in the village. And all Liberi must work and play to keep it. Watanei keeps us safe from the yoku (storm). And he made the animals. Why would they bring us harm?” 

This name or title intrigued Fox. “Is Watanei a man or…name?” (He didn’t know the word for rank or title.)

“Fox is confusing.” Arvor responded. 

“Is Watanei in the village?”

“No.”

“Where is Watanei?” Fox asked. “Can I—”

“—No.” Arvor interrupted. He would ask if he could meet or speak to Watanei, but he clearly agitated Arvor and immediately relented. 

Arvor stopped walking. He looked heavenward and all around him, as if fighting some internal struggle. Finally, he calmed himself down. “Watanei tells us who we are.” Arvor conceded. “We do not tell him who he is or where is he. We only listen. We do not speak.” The two men walked back to the village henceforth in silence. 

It seemed that Watanei was a god-figure to the Liberi. If he had the power to stop storms, or protect from them, or whatever Arvor meant by that, then surely he wasn’t a man. Could it be that their entire civilization lived in perfect balance under the rule of a religious figure? It’s true that many tribes and smaller communities could live harmoniously. But the Liberi were nearly a thousand men and women. Surely, theft and violence reared their ugly heads up at some point in their history. Law and order were irrelevant to them, so he was to surmise every individual lived selflessly strictly out of obedience to a god? 

When the Liberi were not harvesting their crops and water, they were predominantly playing and relaxing. At night the people became edacious for delight. They lit bonfires and danced about them like Bacchantes and satyrs. Song and music played through horns, flutes and drums, loud and effusive. They laughed, told silly stories, gambled, and played childish games. 

The men, women, and children all drank from the same alcoholic spice Fox received when he was first greeted by the Liberi. They drank themselves silly and the oldest of them regularly woke in the middle of a path leading home. 

Though they seemed at first to drink absent of circumspection, Fox observed a collective understanding that too much of the spice would have dire consequences; thus, independently, they quit the drink after a period, of which the period and amount were determined personally and privately. There was no barkeep or officer monitoring the individual and his or her crapulence; it strictly lasted as long as one desired, and it seemed to Fox that that length was never too dangerous. After all, the whole affair was to enjoy themselves, not destroy themselves. They partook slowly and reveled in the delight of dance and life, rather than absolute debauchery.

Because of this unwritten understanding, they did not concern themselves with putting restrictions on their children in the same manner Fox presumed. They encouraged the little-ones to celebrate and partake in all of nature’s offerings, including the spice-drink. Watching a little one tip over dazed or fall asleep from liquor was amusing to them. But even in this, the village had an unspoken rule of engagement, collectively discerning when the obscure line was near being crossed; the entire village watched the little ones, preventing anything truly dangerous from happening to them.

This made sense, because in all the weeks with them, Fox had a hard time perceiving where the families were. The children ran about the entirety of the village and rarely went to the same house at night. The village itself was a collective parent, all taking care of the offspring together like an elephant parade or lion pride. Too, there weren’t very many children among the Liberi. The youngest child Fox knew of was Arvor’s nephew, already five-years-old; at most he saw only a few dozen children under the age of twenty. 

He wondered if a plague or terrible storm ravaged the people in their recent history. Perhaps, each evening’s party was actually a celebration of life, both of the ones lost and the ones remaining. Song, dance, and liquor spent on sorrow and joy. The thought, at first, brought a quiet comfort—this was a civilization that dedicated each and every night to that of memorial and thanksgiving, pleasure and gaiety. 

Fox didn’t fully understand the language, and what’s more, had an impossible time understanding their stories, metaphors and poetry. He may be completely wrong in his assumption of the party. Instead of celebrating life and death, the dance may be some misguided and religious attempt to ward off evil spirits that sent curses through plague and natural disaster. Perhaps the party was the product of fear rather than honor. The fear of the future oftentimes is cloaked by a spurious praise of the past. It was trepidatious, humdrum; it robbed itself of all its romanticism and made the festivity irrelevant. If fear were the catalyst to joy, could it actually ever be true delight?

Fox knew enough of religious tradition to believe that both were likely true. The ritual probably began with good intent, masking an ugly ulterior meaning. Some two authorities long ago, who believed a dance and memorial were necessary, argued over the inception of it all—one believing that honor and joy mattered; the other believing that worry and appeasement of the gods was of chief importance. 

What resulted was a play that passed down from generation to generation until most forgot its true meaning, causing a celebration that both the scholar and simpleton, deacon and layman, partook in. Some Liberi no doubt drank wisely and with noble regard of the past, while others danced in a fearful obligation of what may happen if they didn’t, and further most others met the drink with a wild gaiety and stupid ambivalence. 

On his first night with the Liberi, Fox celebrated with them. He thought the party was in honor of himself, some sort of welcoming in the community. He basked in the presence of wild frivolity after his weeks of fearful desperation. But upon learning it happened each night, it became insignificant and further deflated and embarrassed him. 

The parties henceforth felt obnoxious, merely resonating with the wild and boisterous people; he respected the culture of the tribe, but it was not his own. He regularly retreated from the festivity or sat quietly at the edge of the fire with Arvor. Neither man preferred the drink, and both sneered at the inebriation of the others—the lascivious wilds of satyrs and nymphs waiting on Bacchus and Ceres to join them. A tribe of people devoted to debauchery and delight. Its endless nightly episode stripped it of the meaning, integrity, and necessity, leaving only the product of selfish wantonness.

A blood-curdling scream broke out of the darkness. Shrill and demonic, it echoed over the fire-pit, lifted with the smoke, and split the ears of every person in the village. It was just the other side of the bonfire from Fox and Arvor. The voice of a woman—a banshee—screaming and vomiting guttural moans up into the smoke and flame. The drums and music ceased. The dancing stuttered. It immediately stirred Fox from his introspection and looked about, trying to find the source of the commotion. Silence was a thick fog that surrounded the orange-lit gathering of people.

Through the pale moonlight and flittering firelight, he saw the scuffle of a woman flailing herself about in the dirt. She was screaming the name of someone again and again, “Cian! Cian! My Cian is gone!”

Confusion stole Fox’s concern; he looked about to see the villager’s staring stoically at the woman. They were dumb and witless, like cattle. He noticed Arvor lean forward and take his staff in his hand, as if to prepare himself for something. 

Whatever it was, he wouldn’t get the chance to see. The woman’s presumed husband came rushing into the circle of people and began apologizing to the crowd. He was doing his best to hush the hysterical woman up, but in the end, only made the event worse and more awkward. He finally gave up trying to give reason to her, and after grabbing her ankle and wrist, he ploddingly dragged the woman off into the darkness to wherever their hut was, all the while her screams growing fainter and fainter into the darkness. 

Her disappearance left the night dense, resting on the shoulders of the assembly. No one looked at one another. They meekly picked up their things and made the journey home. Everyone understood the party was over. Fox was never told who Cian was, nor did he see the woman again after that night. But he conceded that his theory about the celebration of death and life wasn’t too far from the truth.

Fox Island

Fox Island

Chapter 6

THE FEAR SUBSIDED as curiosity struck. They were not aggressive, rather inquisitive of the Traveler who sat eating his meal at the feet of the monolith. Two knelt down and put their palms on the area he had his supper, while one, whom he recognized from his foot race, communicated with the leader of their squad. They spoke a strange language, Latin or Arabic in fluidity, quick and effortless. 

“Hullo,” he said, and his own voice startled him. 

Like any man left alone, he had many conversations with himself (scores while creating his watering network in the ceiba, as it proved the preponderance of mental taxation). But he used his voice very little and even lesser still in the previous weeks. Hearing it again, and once more with the tone one uses when directed at a stranger, was as stupefying to himself as it was the native men. 

They communicated amongst themselves again. He tried to interrupt and give reason to his journey in their country, but had a hard time getting a word in. 

The men arrived at whatever deliberation they came upon. The leader was aiming to learn his name now. He opened his mouth to give it, but fell dumbfounded. He hadn’t a name. Like a wave that has taken its entire life crossing an ocean comes crashing onto the rocks—the realization caught up to him and fell hard. He didn’t know his name. It was terrifying and revelatory. The power of being without name brought with it the horror of being unwanted. And it made sense that he would be without one, for he feared in his heart, weeks now, the inconvenient truth—he hadn’t a place or people of belonging. 

One’s name was one’s identity, the thing put upon them by a mother and father who cared and loved for them. It carried with it the idea of consummation and conception. Proof of care and proof of one being above that of an animal tossed to the side. A name was given above noun. It wasn’t a thing, but a being. A cat without a name is nothing more than feral and disregarded. But as soon as the cat receives the name Felix, it is a part of the family, loved, cherished, and justified. The name’s absence, or in this case, the knowledge of a name, brought with it the wonder of one’s futility. 

“I don’t know,” he replied. 

The men carried on. Together they were much more capable; rather opposite than his first encounter with the isolated native. Likewise, they were far from violent and amicable. They offered him a drink like spice and alcoholic. They motioned for him to follow, and he consented.

Over the next several weeks, the Traveler learned about the Liberi. The people he feared were cannibals and witch-doctors came to be nothing more than meager farmers. They were not savages, rather more like children, innocent and easily frightened. They valued honor and respected every form of life—notably the island’s. Stories and theories fascinated them; nothing was beyond the reach of their admiration and deference. Thus, the people accepted the Traveler into their village. 

His renown spread as the will-o’-the-wisp. The strange man, visitation, and most of all the location whereof his discovery; each man and woman wanted to know of the Traveler found at the monolith. They thronged him, bringing fruits, bright-dyed clothing, and necklaces. Through pantomime, each inquired about the monolith called Cultus.

The affair was rather ornate, and he found it comical that his lunch at the feet of the monolith would grant him grace among the people. He assumed that the totem held a religious significance—though he would never understand it. It relieved him to be on the favorable side of it, as he could have easily disgraced the beliefs of the people with the same meal.

His guides, the five sackcloth-clad men, recounted his arrival, and then he never saw them again. He later speculated they were of a scouting or hunting party policing the wild jungle beyond the outskirts of the village.

The Liberi fascinated the Traveler. It was a remarkable thing, discovering a thriving, beautiful country amid a jungle on an island he assumed was undiscovered. What’s more, the people were generous, docile, and amicable. All his life, he believed the strange inhabitants of a secret village in the rainforest would be violent savages, shrinking heads, casting spells, and sacrificing humans. Upon seeing them, he couldn’t imagine these people prodding their own sheep.

The village was a pleasant interruption from his usual and daily activities of survival, pain, and prayer. He laughed when recollecting the many times he nearly died from starvation, weather, and peril, all the while being only a day’s journey from friendly neighbors. Here he could sit on a chair made of straw, eat food he didn’t have to labor for, and not worry about tomorrow’s meal. It was all very refreshing, and for the first time in a long time, he relaxed. The whole notion of repairing his vessel and venturing into the unknown ocean was horrifying now; He would have died at the doorstep of salvation because of ignorance. 

He took the arduous task of learning their language, as he was in no rush to leave the people, and his presence pleased them. Through pantomime and mumbled words, he communicated about trees, birds, foods, crops, and tools. 

The first and second words he learned were “man” and “woman”. While gesturing with a man, and trying to inquire who he was, the Liberi man pointed at himself saying the word “viror”. The Traveler wasn’t sure if the word was the man’s name or the word for all men in generality. When the Traveler pointed at the man saying the word “viror” and motioned back to himself with the same phrase, the man lauded him. But he wasn’t confident if the word represented Mankind or merely men. When pointing at a woman and saying the word, the man shook his head and asserted “vira”. So viror was man, and vira was woman. 

The third word he learned was more meaningful to the Liberi. He reached down and took the dirt in his hand. 

“Dirt,” the Traveler said.

The man stooped down and picked up the dirt, uttering the word, “Koh.” 

The Traveler repeated it, “Koh.” 

Then the Liberi man stood and spread his arms wide, motioning everywhere at the trees, village, valley, and mountain peak, and repeating the word, “Koh. Koh. Koh.” 

The Traveler understood that the island itself was Koh, and maybe even the entire world, for he wasn’t sure if the tribe even understood that there was a vast world beyond the island. The man continued speaking to the Traveler and pointed wildly at several things in the village, but it was all too much and too soon for him. He thanked the man in English, who subsequently misunderstood him, and retreated from his presence, repeating the words to himself. 

“Viror. Vira. Koh. Viror—Man. Vira—Woman. Koh—Island.” 

The Traveler was fond of retreating to the countryside when thinking and practicing the unfamiliar language. He appreciated the company of the villagers, but couldn’t help feeling uncustomary. They enjoyed staring at him. Processing all the information in front of others was nauseating. After three months alone, without warning, happenstance thrust him into a village, a home of flurries of questions, words, and jokes that he couldn’t comprehend. It frightened and humiliated him.

But he liked the idea of being one of them and learning from them. He found drawing pictures was a simpler method to their language. With his piece of burnt wood as pen on parchment, he drew a monkey and learned the word simor. This practice astounded the Liberi, for they never wrote words or drew pictures.

He explained that he washed ashore, but had a hard time describing the other places outside of the island, beyond the ocean (they called the Ançæps). 

One day, while speaking with a few inquisitive Liberi, he attempted explaining it. “Here,” the Traveler pointed at his picture of the island. “Here, Koh.” 

The group smiled at him. One of them clapped her hands; a man put his hand on the Traveler’s shoulder as if to congratulate him; another spoke too quickly for him to understand. 

The Traveler continued. He ran his finger along the paper across his crude drawing of the ocean. “Here, Ançæps.” 

They nodded again, realizing the Traveler hadn’t finished with his lesson. 

He continued, pointing at a corner of the parchment where a vast island was drawn. He dragged his finger across the drawing. “Here, many Koh’s. Koh and Koh and Koh!”

One of the Liberi shook his head, and the others murmured. He couldn’t understand everything they said, but they were clearly frustrated. The edge of the island was the edge of their world—everything from birth to death; anything else was nonsense. No matter how many drawings he created or stories he told, it never bothered them to imagine a place beyond the ocean. This exasperated him. 

He pondered what kind of culture or religion would birth a society that refused to dream. Every influential philosopher in Plato, Aristotle, and Newton believed in questioning the known, wandering into wonder, and thinking the unthinkable. The desire to dream was in mankind. Of course, it was in some greater than others. Some were born with it, others born to lead, and still some to follow. But never was a society obstinately reluctant to even try to wonder. 

The Liberi was that society. Like a vacuous culture that never grew beyond the state of Neanderthal, they had little inclination for science and philosophy. Yet they thrived in honor and pleasure, were satiated in all they accomplished, and played handsomely when not working in their crops.  

The Traveler hadn’t a name for himself, but the Liberi needed to refer to him as something. While he kept trying to discover the names of various tools, foods, culture, and verbiage, they kept demanding of him what he called himself. But he merely shook his head. Of course, it saddened him far worse than it perplexed them. Every time they asked, he grew dismayed and silent. 

He offered dubbing himself Viror, as he was a man, but that did not satisfy them. He was a man, but he needed a moniker to delineate himself from Fred next to him (Fred was not a Liberi name). They didn’t comprehend his amnesia; the notion of him not knowing his name or people confounded them.

They often asked if he were Aquilyo, which he assumed a neighboring tribe elsewhere on the island. He shook his head at this too; still it crossed his mind a few times to accept the invitation to rid himself of the berating interrogation for his name. He feared what implications could come from assuming the identity of another. My God, he thought, what if they were at war with Aquilyo?! He laughed when he remembered how passive the Liberi were. 

Before long, they relented and referred to him as Vulpunei. He accepted it without a choice; the finest names thrust upon us, rather than bear from our own free will. When he asked for the meaning, he received laughter and nonsense from the Liberi.  

One slow afternoon, he heard a group of farmers discussing a gang of vulpun that ravaged their crop whilst chasing prey. He put together they spoke of a leash of foxes who destroyed their squash field in a mad dash hunt for rabbits. His moniker Vulpunei meant Fox. 

He fancied the idea that the little fox he met at the monolith had made its way into his story as well. This pleased him, but from everyone’s giggling, he wondered if it were an insult. No matter—to him it meant something personal. Not only did he enjoy the brief visitation with his reddish-orange friend, but it brought back a lost memory deep in the recesses of his subconscious—a half-remembered dream of a fox pelt given to him as a child. A gift from his father, no less. He didn’t know for certain, but he reckoned it might be a memory, and for that the name warmed him.

Fox Island

Fox Island

Chapter 5

FREEDOM LAY IN THE DISTANCE, on the far side of the ocean’s belly. His boat salvaged, his store prepared, his water collected, but no matter anymore. He hadn’t his watch and it drove him mad. It was his only keepsake that mattered. Without it, his nightmares were torrent. Could he even survive? What now did it even matter? He was nothing more than a bird of the air or insect squashed. He was one of the fruit monkeys that stole his supplies, fancying them as toys rather than tools—a half-witted child or simpleton. It occurred to him that his lack of skills to repair the watch—this whole venture in surviving just to survive—absent from legacy and purpose—he had become nothing but an animal. What business did he have with the watch? He didn’t deserve it; he didn’t even know how to use it. And now, without it, it made sense that he shouldn’t be with it. 

No! It was his watch. One of the few things that washed ashore with him. He hadn’t a memory, but he had a memorial, and it was stored away, broken for sure, locked inside the gears, metal and leather of the machinery. No one should have it but him. And it was worth fighting and dying for. 

Liberty in the belly of the ocean was a pipe dream. But his watch was a necessity. It gave him hope. He needed to know he could lay it beside his head at night and wrap it on his wrist in the day. It was proof that he had a past, and if he had a past, he had a future, and if a future, a purpose. He settled on traveling west; into the jungle, passed the cenote and the bog, to find whoever or whatever stole his watch. 

The journey to the cenote was methodical, one he had many times during the arduous task of retrieving his boat from the jungle. But he hadn’t yet returned to the cliff where he first encountered the native. He made his way up and looking down saw the first lily-pad, only a few feet below the bluff. It was wilting; shades of brown crowned the edges; but it was still tough. He climbed down and recovered it, unrolling and cutting a piece to use as a hat with a length of dogbane. 

He looked at his map, and for only the second time, stepped beyond his boundaries and toward the bog. His hike dragged more than his first frantic chase through this part of the jungle, and he felt the calming beauty of it. The sun came out from behind the canopy. The marquee trees diminished. Short pepper trees, bottle palms and cypress flourished; he would be at the swamp before long. 

He could smell it preceding its arrival, helping him locate it. And when he did, discouragement and reluctance fell upon him. The land was underwater some twenty-four inches. He bound his loafers to his ankles with a piece of rope and found a large walking-stick. Stepping into the sawgrass, he left behind all the shelter and confidence he ever knew. But he must retrieve his humanity.

The land was lifeless save a few marsh-hens and coots cooing as he approached. Throughout were dozens of dead banana trees, hanging low, some bent and broken, covered in mud and webs. The sawgrass intertwined and choked them. 

After a few hours of sloshing through, solid ground came under him. He crawled out of the marsh and onto dry ground, thanking God for the disgusting business to be behind him. He leaned on his walking-stick and looked about. The tree-line appeared cultivated, pushed back hundred of meters in every direction. Before him, a wide open field of bahia, eighteen-inches high, with two dozen scarlet ibis eating grasshoppers and arachnids. He watched the flock; one solitary black ibis stood in the midst. It didn’t move like the clutch, but stood staring at him, like a buck defending his does, a stallion watching over his mares, a captain commanding his platoon.

The Traveler brushed the flakes of mud from his chest, legs and shoes and continued west. Curious—to find such cultivated land. He imagined he reached the native’s territory. If they were farmers, it took away the terror of violent cannibals. 

On the other side of the bahia, at the edge of the jungle, a flurry of song and commotion greeted him. Macaws squawked in the canopy, songbirds delighted in flight, finches peeped on the ground, blue herons rattled in the distance; it was a raucous welcoming into their kingdom at what he assumed was the center of the island. 

He came upon a hill of coquina. On it was the most disturbing thing he had discovered on the island yet—a monolith. A great totem of distinct shapes and carvings towering twenty-feet over him, and staring, full of power and might. It was a thing of instrument and technology, carved by the hands of purposeful men. Whether it told a fable, history, or warning and alarm, no matter what, it showed that many people inhabited this island, and were doing so for a long time. 

It was made of limestone, creamy white turned brown and green long ago; its importance yielded to something now unkempt. After staring for a considerable amount, he deciphered what the images were—the faces of four animals. At the top was most recognizable as an eagle, though the wings were broken off. A storm or time eroded the attachments away, though he couldn’t find them on the ground anywhere nearby. The second animal, he never made out. It was a mammal with pointed ears and long snout, wearing cunning eyes and a devious expression. This second monument was damaged as well; one side of its face, including half of the snout and one eye, were missing altogether like something large smashed into it. The third was a large crocodilian; its teeth were meticulous, and its eyes marble. At the bottom, was a picture of his fiendish friend, the monkey; its head was round and rather silly looking, weakly compared to the other powerful archetypes. 

He sat under the gaze of the monolith and had lunch. He pulled a pair of mangoes out and chewed on some nuts while he peeled the rind back. In the distance, he saw a flash of red, darting low at the ground. It halted, and he recognized it as a small red fox. The animal was only twenty yards from him. 

The two peered into one another’s eyes. He marveled at the complexity of the creature. It was a predator, but not in the slightest dangerous to him. King of this forest. It sat on its haunches for nearly two minutes, observing the Traveler before its sheen and pristine back winced and the animal darted away into the underbrush. It no longer needed to study. 

As he finished his meal with a bit of squash, he pulled his map and began drawing the monolith. For the first time, he was inclined to draw a precise representation of what he found. He did his best to mimic the eagle with broken wings, the wily creature underneath, the domineering crocodile next, and the doltish monkey at the bottom. He smiled at the monkey who he gave crooked eyes and a cocked smile.

He stored his leftovers into the sack, stashed his map inside the pocket, and threw it all over his shoulder. When he turned from the monolith he faced five men, clad in sackcloth hanging over their shoulders and tied around the waist. He clenched his jaw. Fear filled him, and his spirit deflated. One was the native he encountered in his foot race weeks before. 

Fox Island

Fox Island

Chapter 4

THE NEXT DAY, he returned to the cenote with his knife and rope. He intended to find a quicker way to the bay and hoped the canoe was in working order. It took fighting through brambles and thorns before he arrived at the lower end of the pond, covered in scratches from cheekbone to ankle. The vessel had a considerable amount of rot and rust; nevertheless, it was promising. 

At the water’s edge, he found budging the thing quite impossible. No matter, that’s why the rope. He tied the bow of the small boat and threw the other end over the branch of a nearby oak. With all his might, he wrenched and moaned to free the thing from its lodged position. It wedged between several rocks and set in clay. He thought it gave when the bow of the canoe splintered and the whole front side snapped off. 

He cursed his luck. Regardless, the wood was too much a resource to leave abandoned. He changed his tactic and ventured forth into the pool, hoping in mind to remove some stones from the backside and push it free. 

The water was brisk and startling; he hadn’t felt a surge of coldness in a lifetime. It froze him for a moment, but he continued forward, letting his body slip into the water and rise above his waist, then chest, and then shoulders. Now that he was in the water, a fresh sense of fear crept down his spine. The deep, black water was holding him, and he was a frog splayed out on the surface waiting to be pulled under. Fish were already nipping at his toes and the freckles on his back, but he wondered if something large was in the unknown. 

He dove under and made quick work, pushing and pulling the rock formations from under the stern. They came out easily enough. He wedged himself between a large stalagmite and the stern and pushed with all his might. The boat gave way and moved about eighteen inches. It satisfied him, and he was confident to pull the rest from the broken end. He crawled out of the water and in his heart felt like he was escaping rather than leaving. He couldn’t shake the sensation of something lurking out there under the lily-pads. 

The lily-pad! He forgot it on the cliff. 

He tied the front of the broken boat to the rope and over the branch again. This time being careful to pull methodically; no sudden jerks. The sand slid, and the boat was free. He used his knife to cut the vegetation that was growing over one side and pulled it away from the bay. He stored the bow of the ship (that had broken off) into the boat itself. With significant effort, he turned the boat round and tied to the stern. 

Now to get his lily-pad. The same problem lay as before; his previously recovered pad would take hours to retrieve from the other side. He would need a new one. He dipped back into the water and slowly pushed himself forward to the rock face. He grabbed hold of the limestone and made his way down to the pads. With every few feet along, he imagined how deep the cenote really was. He could not feel any sort of bottom underneath him at all. It might be hundreds of meters to the floor. The water was clear like crystal, but black in the shadow of the cliffs.

He reached the lily-pads and his knees hit an outcropping. He stood up, out of the water, ankle-deep, and took hold of one stock. With all his might, he pulled and discovered how lucky he was to get his first one so easily. It wouldn’t snap. While on the bay, he thought he was wise for keeping his knife away from a blundering drop. Now, he just wanted to be out of the water with the lily-pad. He panicked and jerked the thing wildly. It would not move. 

He let go of the stock and stood erect on the outcropping. His neck stretch and chest  expanded. Bending down, he tried another stock. This time he had more luck. It budged, cracked and snapped off. It wasn’t as large as some others, but was a godly four feet in diameter. 

As he pulled it out, an explosion of water erupted in his face. He bolted to the side of the cliff, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. A large black tail splashed the water and retreated from him. It was the resting place of some large aquatic animal.

Now he stood, frozen on the side of the cliff, his feet shivering on the outcropping, and some 15 meters of deep dark cavernous water between him and the shore. He had no choice but to face his fear; his only option was to make it to the shore. He wouldn’t live on this small rock forever; it was live or die in the water, but staying in fear was not an option. He clenched his teeth, grabbed hold of his lily-pad, and with some newfound bravery, fell into the water.

He rushed along the edge, never taking his eyes off the surface of the pond for any movement or irregularity. When he came to the shore, he rushed up onto the sand and gave a fifteen-foot gulf between him and the water. He thought for a moment he saw a pair of eyes peering at him from across the cenote, but wasn’t sure. It was nothing but black in a moment. 

It took him a week to get the vessel back to his homestead. Every day included cutting vines, and breaking branches to make his way along with the broken boat. And when he found himself in the thickest of the jungle, he had to find another way north or south, zigging around massive trunks until he made an easterly path again. 

But his home was coming along. He wore his bright and ugly windbreaker at all times now, because he fashioned his large lily-pad into a satisfactory network of gathering rainwater. The water fell through the ceiba, guided by pieces of the pad, and collect in a sizable group of smooth stones and flat woods, making a bath of potable water. It all took him about as long as getting the boat back. 

He was quite common at using dogbane and dragon fruit roots to fashion moderate ropes which he used to repair the rucksack and the boat. The latter of which was the key to getting off the damnable island. He could live as long as needed with his supply of water and fruit, but the boat would be his way home. He used the ropes to tie up the broken pieces and found a cropping of rubber trees to the northwest, which he broke and drained, cultivating the latex sap onto pieces of wood lined with the lily-pads. Patching up the wounds of the boat with the latex, he went to sleep every night, knowing he was one moment closer to freedom. 

After four weeks of working, he lay down to sleep, fancying the notion that he was only days away from venturing into his greatest challenge yet—the unknown and worry of what lay outside the island, under the blistering sun, away from his fruit trees and fresh water; away from the birds’ songs and reptilian friends’ scampers; and of course, away from his beloved ceiba. 

He took off his wristwatch, per routine, and tried to imagine how long it had been since it worked. What would any person back home think of him if they found him the state he was in now? Hairy, unkempt, ugly and battered. Alas, he was also stronger, braver, and more resourceful than he ever imagined possible. 

He sneered, not even knowing what “back home” was. Merely knowing that the watch was the relic that he had one. He placed it on the root next to his head in its sacred place, just as always, and fell asleep. 

A terrible irritation woke him—the nuisance of golf-ball raindrops beating the side of his face and soaking him through. The crack of lightning and thunder pierced the sky, shattering his reverie. It was another terrible storm, not unlike the first he encountered weeks before. He pulled himself up close to the tree-trunk and cowered under the windbreaker’s shield. 

The wind howled at him, full of angry vengeance, mad that he was still alive and thriving. It punished him on the beach and he lay down, hugging a root, waiting for the tempest to relent. He glanced about at his food store and water structure; they were under the canopy, intact. His boat was filling with water, but nothing effort wouldn’t repair. 

He tried easing his mind, telling himself it would abate soon. Then he looked and saw that his wristwatch was no longer beside his sleeping area. He rushed to the root it lay on and looked about every which way. He brushed leaves, water, and mud aside, trying to uncover where it had gone. 

At once the rain stopped. And out of the darkness, somewhere deep in the jungle, the horn blown again. The same metallic, breathy scream from machine or animal that he heard on his second night in the midst of the first frightful storm. It took his breath away, his heart lodged somewhere at his esophagus, and before he could tell himself to relax, it blown again. And again a third time, the loud dull scream of some monstrous dragon or giant elephant, unlike anything he had ever heard or imagined. It was out in the darkness, calling for him, and somehow he knew it had his watch. 

Fox Island

.

Fox Island

Chapter 3

HE OWNED A GREAT SENSE OF ADVENTURE the next day, one like a man succumbs when he realizes he has no other option than to be excited about what lay ahead. It wasn’t the first time, nor the last, that he felt silly for his prior fear. He promised himself that the next storm or unexpected thing wouldn’t cause him such dread. It made the next few days more pleasant, and frankly, he had a lot of good fortune. Food was easier to come by; within a day’s journey, he had bananas, mangos, passion fruit, nuts, and even squash. 

Early on, he was tempted to create a store in his ceiba tree, but quickly learned the error in his ways. One morning, a group of monkeys raiding his cache and throwing the remains everywhere woke him. His watch, rope, and knife were considerably interesting to them and it took him an entire day to collect them back from the jungle, after being dispersed by the monkey’s eventual lack of interest. When he returned, ants invaded his home, devouring whatever the monkeys left behind. He decided it was best to only keep at his tree-house whatever he planned on eating before the day’s end. 

Nonetheless, his first week was not too difficult, nor did it overwhelm him. Save the second night, when he heard that awful booming horn in the storm, he felt relaxed and accomplished with the passing of each day on his island. In the mornings, he put on his watch, strapped on his loafers, and walked out into the jungle. And every evening, he awakened the embers of his fireplace and enjoyed a piece of fruit with his feet up against the ceiba’s roots. He even began drawing a map using parchment and a cinder. On it had the location of his favorite fruit trees, the rucksack-tree and corpse, what he imagined were the whereabouts of the thieving monkeys, and even another beach like his own to the north. 

One afternoon, while the sun was it at hottest, he came upon a cenote. It was on the side of a limestone and coquina rock-face. It sat awkwardly at the bottom of a twenty-foot precipice, lined with roots, leaves and loose soil. Its water was enticing, glistening in the heat, calling him to its blue and green vibrance. At three sides, the rock-face enclosed it, but the side furthest him came low and created a sort of bay. He could imagine himself walking up to swim at it. 

He had in his pockets a collection of nuts, and half-eaten banana, for his trip back. He knew that if he swam, the wildlife would ruin his meal and cause him an even harder journey home that night. He thought better of it and planned for another time.

Along the edges of the cenote, giant lily-pads grew in the water. He had the idea of taking one back home as a canopy to shield from the rain and better catch for freshwater; he could finally have his windbreaker back on his shoulders. The jungle grew very thick and cumbersome along the cliff-side; he would have to make quite the travel up the rock-face before coming back down to the other side where the bay was. He knew if he approached the cenote from another angle entirely, it would be much easier to avoid this task. He made a note on his map, but for now the journey appeared too arduous. 

He decided rather to climb down the rock-face where he stood, as it seemed just as profitable as going around, and far less time-consuming. He held on to the roots as he ventured downward, trying his best to keep his loafers from slipping in the loose sediment. He couldn’t quite reach the edge of the water, but lay down on a portion of the bedrock overhanging the spring. He reached for a grand six-foot lily-pad and pulled it out. It was difficult to break the stock, but it came out easily once the base snapped from underwater. He slowly rolled it up and put it over his shoulder to make the climb back. 

Before doing so, something caught his eye on the bank. From this angle he could see a large mass of brown and black sitting on the edge of the water at the far side of the cenote, some 200 yards from him. The underbrush of palm trees covered it. His heart leapt as he saw it was a boat wreck—something like a canoe of birchbark. It was probably rotten in many areas, but he was too excited to care. This could be his way off the cursed island. 

It would take him hours to hike around the other side through the thick jungle, but he planned to return from the other side the following day to examine its durability. He collected his lily-pad and made his way up the precipice. 

When he pulled himself up from the side of the cenote cavern, he was taken aback, nearly falling down into the hole he just climbed out of. A man was only thirty meters from him, dressed in far less clothing, and his body tanned like leather. The Traveler startled the native, who dropped to a prone position, ready to run at any moment. The Traveler took a step. He greeted the native, but his visitor took flight as soon as he spoke, running through the jungle quickly and quietly. 

His mind flooded with questions, postulations, ideas, confounded by his own ignorance and foolishness; but he had no time to sort through any of it if he were to catch up to the man. He engaged in the foot-race, leaping over tree limbs, rocks and the underbrush of the jungle, attempting to catch the man who clearly knew the jungle better than he. Every moment he thought he was catching up to the native, he would come upon some impassable brush or large tree that made him diverge and waste precious time. The sound of the jungle grew loud—the wind, trees, birds, and insects, as well as the blood coursing through his veins hindered his hearing. He couldn’t tell where he was and soon doubted any idea of where the native had fled. 

He stopped running and calmed down. His chest was pounding; his legs worn out; he hadn’t exhausted himself in this way while on the island, and his diet of fruits and vegetables made him easily fatigued. He looked every which way around him. Then suddenly, a burst of noise, somewhere in the distance to the west. Heavy footsteps like someone had fallen, and then the sound of sloshing water. 

He realized the native must have been using the trees to get around. He grabbed hold of the limb of a dead banyan tree and lifted himself up. He climbed above the underbrush and scurried through the branches, gazing into the distance. He saw the brush moving and a figure running to the northwest.

He dropped back to the ground and took off. He came out of the jungle upon a large sea of sawgrass; recently forming a marsh. It was only a few days old; he surmised the heavy storm was its culprit. In dryer days it would have been navigable; but now he hesitated. He couldn’t see but a bit in front of him; the grass towered eight-feet high and thick as weeds. He knew the native had escaped through it. A few ugly and irresponsible tracks were left at the edge of the bog; caused by a man who was more concerned with fleeing rather leaving a sign. 

He took a careful step into the bog and his foot sank a few inches in. Another step and he knew that it was impassable. His ankles were under the wet soil. He tried stepping again but fell promptly back onto his rump. He reached back to the dry ground, using the leverage to pry his feet free. When his foot came through, the loafer stayed behind; he quickly lunged his hand into the mud to save the shoe before the earth ate it. It took him a few moments to get the loafer free again, and by the time it was in his hand he had resigned any notion of catching the native. He was too inexperienced and too unaware of his surroundings to venture forth. 

But the whole affair really surprised him. He knew now that he was not alone on the island. And like any man that runs from a new encounter, they run back to what they find comfort in. There must be more natives on this island; perhaps a village. It was all very fascinating to the Traveler. How did they arrive? How long had they lived here? Was there a way to other islands or perhaps even the Mainland? Were they indigenous or marooned like him? 

But the longer he sat on his haunches in the mud, far from his beach and ceiba, the more uneasy he felt. Man was treacherous. Stories of natives and wild jungle-men flooding his imagination; stories of cannibals and witch-doctors told by those more educated and world-weary. Perhaps it was best that the native got away. After all, the native may well have been leading him to a trap, rather than fleeing for his life. What did he have to offer that was frightening? What was so alarming about his own appearance that would make someone else run away at first encounter? Was it his pale skin, disheveled beard and awkward brown deck-shoes? No, it must be a trap. 

Now the bog grew ominous before him. The smell of the filthy earth and dead grass was unsettling. He wanted to be far from this place and never return. He stood erect and located the east. He assured himself that the distance to his beach would help conceal his location in the future. Pulling the map from his pocket, he quickly scribbled a general location of the marsh and moved on.