Ashore (unfinished)

A great shipwreck. The black and foamy sea claims all lives except one: a young sailor. He clings desperately to a scrap of hull, the tempest tossing him this way and that. The man knows tonight he must surely drown or be torn apart by sharks—but hours pass and he somehow stays afloat.

Come morning, the streaky light of dawn reveals an incredible sight: he is close enough to land to swim ashore. But the reef is jagged and the current sucking him swiftly toward it. No doubt I have survived the storm only to be dashed upon these rocks, he thinks bitterly. Wave after wave pushes him closer to the razor-sharp reef. At the last moment, the sailor maneuvers the splintered hull into a shield, protecting himself from the jutting coral. The thrusting sea recedes, leaving him safely banked in the atoll. He can finally stand. The sailor picks his way carefully across the rocky shore, vines of seaweed twisting around his ankles.

The steps seem endless, though really it is less than a minute before he collapses on the sand, waterlogged and near-dead from exhaustion. The day passes while the man sleeps. Unbeknownst to him, hidden in the tall grass nearby, an ancient, mottled tortoise watches all of this unfold.

Dusk besets the island. Seagulls cry, returning to shore’s edge to spend the night. With the sun gone, a chill awakens the sailor. He blinks slowly back to life, then pulls himself painfully upright, feeling the cuts and bruises of his battered body. Hunger and thirst ring distant alarm bells, but first: the cold. It is coming on fast now, and he must find shelter.

Never before has the sailor been lost, much less on a deserted island. He has no idea how to fashion a suitable shelter for himself. All he can think to do is gather everything useful he can find, then see what he can make of it. The night passes in frustration—and fear—as he tries and fails, again and again, to coax palm fronds and fibrous strips of dead plants into the shape of a roof. The effort keeps him warm at least, though he does not realize it. All the while he works, thinking moonlight is his only companion, the man is unaware of the tortoise in the grass, still silently watching him.

It is morning before the sailor finally finds success. He devises a way to weave the wide palms together by degree of size, creating imbricate clusters sturdy enough to block wind—and, he hopes, rain if it comes. The labor has left him with too little energy to search for fresh water, which he knows he must do next. He crawls under his pile of soon-to-be roof tiles, thick enough to provide warmth. But as the man drifts toward sleep, his brow is furrowed in worry. How will I survive? Will rescue come? And if so, will it come soon enough? His stomach growls as if having the same thought. Mere hours past the ordeal of the shipwreck, past the circling sharks and the dangerous reef, the sailor thinks nothing of these obstacles now overcome. He fixates only on what he lacks, and dark thoughts carry him into dark dreams.

From the shadows, the wizened old tortoise watches.

Afternoon: clear blue sky, no ships on the horizon. Refreshed by sleep, the sailor rises with determination. He must find water immediately; his thirst is urgent. Inland, the rough brush tears at his legs. There is no path, no precedent set to ease his way. The island is unyielding and unforgiving, the going hard. Hopelessness besieges him, a surety that all is lost. I don’t know how to find water, the man thinks. And I will die for not knowing.

Eventually, the landscape changes, slowly clearing as the elevation rises. A vast mountain sits at the heart of the island. Water flows down, thinks the sailor. I’m on the right track. Pushing deeper into the valley, the man scans his surroundings as he goes. Suddenly, a bit of yellow catches his eye. A mango tree, flush with bulbs the color of sunshine. Gaping at this discovery, he suddenly freezes, listening. Water. He can hear the tell-tale musical tinkling of a stream. He follows the sound and quickly comes to it. Fresh, clear water trickles down a steep ravine the heights of which are hidden in wispy clouds. Food and water. He is saved. Despite his weakened state, the man yells in triumph.

Not far away—for the sailor has had to fight very hard to move very little—the tortoise on the shore hears his call.

After drinking his fill of the stream, the sailor makes a basket of his tattered shirt. Carrying as much as he can, he retraces his steps back to the beach camp. The ripe, juicy fruit nourishes his body, but as he eats the sailor thinks of nothing but the shelter still to be built—and the foreboding clouds in the distance. He’s no architect, and he knows it. Fastening some tree branches together is one thing, but how will I get this whole thing upright? Sourly, he tosses aside a piece of mango skin.

A small rustling sound in the grass behind him. A crab, he thinks. Then the rustling becomes the heavy crunching of a large animal flattening dead leaves. The sailor jumps and turns, and sees the sharp triangle of an open mouth reaching for the discarded mango. Before him, slowly chewing the fruit he has thrown, is the tortoise that he hasn’t known has been watching him since his luck-filled landing. Astonished, the sailor cautiously steps forward. The creature is bigger than anything he’s ever known like it. He stares as the tortoise chews, looking older than time itself. Deep, dry wrinkles crease and stretch as she swallows. The scaled stumps of her legs bend deeply, as with the weight of her many years. Across her broad back, thirteen scutes in a concentric pattern of moss green and gold. She is the history of the sea itself.

Having finished her bite of food, she begins to speak.

“What…don’t you…know…that you…can do?” The words move through her throat like rough stones. They roll to the feet of a man sure of his own madness. Two days on a deserted island and he’s lost his mind. That can be the only explanation.

“What…don’t….you know….that…you can do?” she repeats.

The sailor stammers. “I..I don’t understand. Who are you? What…I—”

“It is…easy…to…forget…what was…hard…to…achieve. Do not…forget. Do….not…forget.” The tortoise turned her heavy body, and before the sailor can process what’s happened, she is away and gone through the reedy grass.