La Isla Nena

It was through chance that I washed up upon the shore, ragged and worn, breathless and beaten. A mere strand on a sandy bar, silenced by the winds brought down by heaven in cold retribution. For what crime was I so deserving of a blessed curse? Stranded in paradise, lost in heaven. I suffer in a land of pleasure for want of happiness. One need only see my strand pulled taught by the norns before me.

On my self I lay blame, for I sailed far from home, forsaking family and friends. To strange seas I wandered, certain I’d find many treasures denied to me before. A rich life to be found in far off lands, where I’d see the markets of the world stretched before me to the horizon. Long was my labor, and poverty my reward. I amassed no fleet, no wealth but the stench of a pauper, and my coffers sat as dry as the deserts I’d scoured in search of gold.

From each land I saw misery in a different tongue. No consolation was to be found, though I could now roll the R’s in my sorrow. Thus my spirit was broken, and I relinquished all notions of riches that remained in my head. I kept my being in modesty, half by choice, half by fate. What could I don to make myself shine like a king? What did I rule to deserve princely robes? So I remained to the shadows ever present, but never seen.

Then by the grace of god, I saw a sign that led me away.
“The Riches of Kings”, it read, letters gilded and gleaming, “A new life in a wondrous land. Beauty springs from every corner and crevice of its surface. Striking natives, wise and true, shaped by hands from on high. All this awaits you across the ocean, a life only fit for the brave!”

My mind decided, I made my way aboard the ship. Its dank underbelly smelled of rot, and it leaked in every cabin. From my arrival I was put to work, learning here that which I could not have learned back home. My tasks demanded of me every fiber of my being; they starved me of sleep and eroded my will. But for what would I live if fun remained alive?

This tale begins with a torrent. A fearsome wind that shook my bones like chimes in a breeze. The ship pitched in the gale, and its wooden frame shattered as planks were ripped from its ribs. And I sat, neurotic and scared, my tongue darting between my lips to moisten what fear had parched. The boat perished for want of a crew, not this assortment of vagabonds that scramble for life in desperation. Among them I found my self, tossed by the drink, bruised by salty and brash hands. It was something to behold, tentative peaks, green and capped with white, rolling hills that descended upon me in destructive grace. The sea took out my anger on me, and I was driven through the ship, far beneath my salvation.

No life flashed before my eyes, and to that I credit my ascension. No water tomb could bar me from an existence unlived, as such my eyes emerged and I searched the water for a savior. Within the wreckage I found my way to a shard of oak, flesh scourged from the back of the ship in tidal flails. All around bobbed the shapes of my comrades, devoid of substance. For millennia I set adrift, neither paddling nor navigating for fear I’d make unrest in the grave. In time I was apart from them, and the shells of my brothers floated away in the distance.

Ages passed and the sea carried me close to nowhere. Perpetually my head would nod and the waves would prolong my exhaustion. I became delirious for need of sleep and in the distance I beheld my prize. A land of riches, just as the sign had lain before me. Trees like brass snakes rose from the earth, their emerald heads broad and handsome. From the center rose a mount so tall as breach the heavens. Smoke rolled down its jagged walls and beneath my line of sight.

No sound came to disturb this vision, nor a specter to explain it. Only present was this island, and an insect on a twig in a puddle. By day as my mind grew enfeebled and my body shorn away, this vision grew in size and morphed in composition. The mountain remained still, as did the trees, but its form filled with a lush jungle pleasing to the eye and glorious to the mind. I held back from releasing my desires for I knew not to hold on to a mirage, it was an image, nothing more, and an image I should let it remain.

At day break my suffering eyes caught glimpse of a flight, and my weary ears heard a piercing cry. To my surprise and delight came a fickle bird, who is duke to three domains. He sits in shallows, holds court in the air, and makes war on earth. I saw him circle a small stretch of water, eyes darting in a search for sustenance, and for his presence I would gladly serve him a pound of my flesh should he ask it. To my mind he brought knowledge that I harbored no hallucinations. The island was real.

My bruised frame could not propel me towards my goal any faster than the waves could carry me. So I floated on, not sure if I’d only see the land of milk and honey. Though it so happens that by midday the lord pushed my on to land, and the waves drove me deep in to the sand. And I lie there, a nothing in no where, but happy to be alive all the same. That is what came to me several hours later, as my eyes forced the salt from their edges and strained to take in the sunlight, for once I was alive.

As the sun faded I could do no more than crawl further away from the waves. I made it no farther than the first dune, only enough so I was at last away from the salty brine. I dare not look deeper into the island; it would make me wonder what I would find there. What flora and fauna, what food and what drink. It was better that I remain on the beach for now, so the night could purge away my past experience, and I could begin on the island anew. Still, my mind did wander and by extension of previous luck I faced life with optimism.

At daybreak, even exhaustion could not contain me, and I broke away from my granular bed. I was dry inside and wet without, but facing me lounged beauty incarnate. I forgot my throat and my bruises, and walked deep into a jungle. My mind and mouth remained speechless; I could do nothing but touch the viridian leaves and luminescent petals. In no tongue exists the words to describe this splendor, for it was an exquisite contradiction. Lush and slight, mannered and wild, loving and harsh. From tree to tree I stepped admiring the past that had come to make this place. For centuries had it built many things greater than myself, no garden could man plant to compare. That which hung from Babylon was a mere park, a bush, a blade of grass. One could not help but believe that man did not lose Eden; rather it shrank and shriveled away in envy of this island.

To speak simply of its menagerie, there existed such creatures as to be found only in the mind of a child. Crystal snakes, birds emblazoned with silver, and butterflies shining and brilliant like sapphires. Ebony sprites rode crickets from leaf to leaf and tussled my hair as they flew over head. It became a concern that god had hidden this land from men. That in this single place dwelt such astonishing creations, a world’s worth of life contained in a single island.

In my awe I forgot of my thirst and hunger, but in a rush it flowed back and I remembered myself. Then thoughts of beauty left me, what good was this haven if it starved me. And I began to think to myself, “Can it feed me, sustain me, quench my thirsts?” I expected no manna, no ambrosia, or apples of Iðunn. I was no stranger to work, so I would beg the island for nothing. If I was to till the earth so be it, I was no urchin, my palms would remain to the ground. But if I tilled the earth, if I worked and struggled and built. If I cleared the brush, and plowed the fields, and planted seeds. If I walked its forests, and kept my ear to the ground, learned its ways, and hunted its game. If I strived and embraced my new home what would be my reward? Would the island feed me, sustain me, quench my thirsts?

And before me fell a fruit, ripe and smooth, golden and red. It called me with its intoxicating scent. I bit, deep in to its flesh and juice ran down my lips. And the desert of my throat became a marsh from its sticky sweetness. I touched the tree from which it had fallen, it was old and shaky. I thanked it for giving me something new.
The day breathed on and journey continued. I had gorged on fruit and nectar, sleeping off the exhaustion, parting ways with my hunger. So I continued, deeper into this strange new world. My mind had left the past few days on the beach. I ached, I trembled, my bruises met scrapes as I pushed my way through the vines, but I pressed on. Joy had subjugated pain.

I came at length to a clearing. A small field of small green plants, not grass, rather tiny ferns making a soft bed on which I could sleep. It was not the ideal home for me in this land. Far from the place where I wanted to be, but I knew the island would permit me no further. It seemed to say my place was here for now, it still held secrets from me. Things I could only know in good time. So it presented me with a clearing, a safe house to dwell in, not for the duration of my stay, but for my initiation. This place felt nice, it was a fine place to begin. I could not rush in to the island’s depths, not yet, not before I knew I could live there. So it gave me this space, a staging ground.

It is difficult to build a life on an ancient island. Me being a virgin Crusoe, and no Friday save good and bad days to aid me. It shames me to think I spent most days deciding what tools I required and what tools I needed build them. It is not easy to begin with a blank slate. What did I know of building? What stones were to form axes? What logs to form planks? In the beginning my best days ended in splinters and blisters, at worst bleeding and despair. So for my first few houses, there were stacks of twigs held by vines and mud. As such they collapsed one by one upon my head each night when I turned in my sleep. To my food supply I settled to foraging. I came to know how each plant produced, how to separate the edible from the poisonous. This was a lesson I learned the hard way. I would reach for an orb with a visage of pure delight, and by night I’d be shivering and howling into the air.

By luck I came upon a brook not far from my clearing. It swelled with bubbling water, sweet and cool to my lips. Even on my worst days it was there, when my hand throbbed from a failed attempt at making rope, or my throat burned from a deceitful fruit, the brook remained ever flowing. I could remain there, as its current ran over me, and I could release my fear as it curled around my fingers and washed away my hurt. But I had to leave it everyday. I could not waste its time or my own. There was too much to be done and I know the brook tired of me some days. So to two minutes I shortened my bathing, less if there was more work that day. But even when I was cold, I would go to the brook, because then I could always understand.

In time I came to find a niche. I made a hut, tools, and rope. I made fire, and smoked fish, trapped animals, and made clothes. I imagine that I looked horrid though. My furs were misshapen. For a needle I used fishbone and to cut I sharp rocks. I was feral and in need of a shave and a warm bath, but indeed such things did not concern me. I had become part of the island; I had made myself become part of beauty incarnate. I knew its forest, its creatures, and its plants. I could tell by its winds when a storm would come, or how to tend to its plants so as to preserve the balance.

Or so I believed. I was naïve to think that I could snare some rodents and plant some taro, and suddenly I too was beautiful. To think that I, some castaway had become part of this body. That this island needed me as I needed it. Was I any better than a leech? What did I contribute? By taking its resources and eating its food. By sleeping in it and upon it? I’d wake up and it would feed me, and pity me. Such a fragile thing dependent upon it for life. And on such days, when these thoughts crossed my mind I hated the island. I hated it for being beautiful, and for being so much greater than me. Hated it, because I needed it, and its weather decided when I would sleep. How dependent I had become upon it not just for life but for existence. I hated the island because through its rocks, and its trees, and it creatures, and its plants, and its mercy I was able to eek out an existence.

And I couldn’t hate the island, because it hadn’t hurt me. It never tried to. It was open for me, to wander, taste, breathe, and live. But I couldn’t be more for it, and I couldn’t make it more for me. How I wanted it to bear fruit for me. For me to bring something new from its earth, so that I could be more than just a part of creation. Something that I could share with it, so we would be equals.

My wanderings eased my pain. All alone with the island, walking through the trees, I could apologize silently for my anger. It was truly magnificent, and I’d observe with awe its majesty. I walked with a knife in hand, a small blade of stone on wood. Though I trusted the island harbored no one else like me, fear would overtake me when I considered others here.

On one such journey, I set out in a direction I had forgotten. Towards the mountain, towards the center. With me I brought much food and gourds of water, silently I expected a long journey. And I came to the wall, the edge of the mountain, gray and porous. I felt it, cold and indifferent, it stood against nothing in particular. It was far too steep for climb, even having been trained by the island for difficulty, I was not yet ready to traverse its peak. So I attempted to circumvent. Around its edge I walked, nearly missing the cave. But it could not escape my eye for its roundness. Nearly perfect, chiseled and arched in such a way as to appear made by human hand. So I entered to find a tunnel, long and dark, with only enough light to see my next step before me. Holes ran the length of the ceiling emitting enough sunlight as to quell my fears.

The floor of this path was smooth and unblemished, had there been enough light I’m sure it would have been polished and sparkling. I walked for hours until my feet ached and I stopped to rest at a particularly bright area. I sat and sipped water from my gourd and sighed into the cavern. Why did I want to know more? What would I gain from going deeper in to this depth? I continued still, perhaps out of morbid curiosity.

I was astonished to discover what I’d found. I had been walked for hours, I covered several miles, I was tired and hot, so I hoped my eyes were lying to me out of fatigue. But I could sense not a single deception. A wasteland, barren and dry. No lush garden, not bubbling brooks. Not a creature stirred, and no plants rose from the earth save the skeletons of dead trees. The ground was cracked and scarred, it bled dust. As far as the eye could see the broken ground was crisscrossed with brown lines cut by drought. No mirage, merely desolation.

It is hard to conceive of it as the same island, that beyond the thriving forest lie the end times. I continued on as I saw shapes in the distance, and they beckoned me like a lost child returning home. As I passed I saw familiar shapes with new faces. There were the trees like bronze snakes, their emerald heads severed. The viridian greens now the color of the sun baked mud. I saw the skeletons of silver birds, bleached a hideous white. All around me the earth was wounded.

The deeper I went the grander the distant shapes became. Great stone edifices jutting from the ground. And again I prayed my eyes had deceived me. These buildings so grand, remained silent. This was, I soon discovered, the remnants of a civilization long past. Traces of a once great people, their story now lost to the ages. As I approached the edge of this majestic city, I hesitated for feared I’d discover what I wanted to know.

From street to street I walked silently. No conversation occurred between me and the relics, only observation, me of them and them of me. Each house, made of wood and stone, was open; inside sat the unused necessities of life. Children’s toys remained joyless in the yards, carts of cloth stayed unsold, and everywhere the wind whipped with no one to feel it. I could only guess what each building was for, the island could not tell me their purpose. A store house, a mill, a bakery, and a school house. Far to the left were the fields, once filled with cassava and squash I imagine. Near the center was the market. The booths remained intact, but the whir of business and gossip were long dead.

I came at last upon a temple, the largest of all the structures. It still reigned in this necropolis, a king amongst the dead. I climbed its many stairs, walked its many halls. I arrived at last before the altar. Above stood the effigy of a goddess. It was well crafted, as were all things done by these people. Her features were soft and warm, and her hands stretched out to embrace her people. The goddess seemed to trust, but what trust could be given to subjects who were not there. On the altar, all that remained were seeds, the leftovers of sacrificed flowers, brought too late when the island was already dead.

I could not remain there for very long. To stare at the face of a goddess that had fallen, who’s believers were gone, to stare at her beautiful but sad face was more than I could bear. So I sat, on the stairs of the temple, high above the city, looking out over the ruins in a land of want. Before long I got in my own head and I was joined by the souls of the fallen. I recalled my meager hut, my pitiful axe, and my fruitless labor. To compare them to massive temples, and houses of stone. They had carts drawn by beasts of burden, and I resemble a beast my self. On their walls and in their holy places were the letters of scribes and wise men. In their town squares sat amphitheaters and bath houses. They had culture and power, and I have a clearing in a jungle. The island let them in, gave them quarries and lumber. It told them secrets and gave them essence. The island was their culture, and here I am, a castaway grateful to merely catch a glimpse of what others dwelled in.

What hope did I have, when better men came before me and failed? Men of strength and wisdom. Men of experience who’s knowledge far surpassed my meager education. What do my words compare against that of their best poets? What can my tools make of this island that their architects could not construct with ease? My whistles and songs are like a child's lullaby next to the drums of their musicians. And I hope to survive. I hope to survive where their farmers, who brought crops high from the ground, starved to death?

How could I live? Mere months in this land, and a nation here for millennia crumbled. How could someone so green and new, so inexperienced and naïve hope to out last the elements? They knew secrets I never would, knew the island better than I know myself. And the island embraced them, made them kings and gods. It gave them food and water and life. The island let them in and showed them beauty. The island trusted them and together they built magnificent cities. Better men had tried and failed…

Why had I not floated to a different shore? Or still, no shore at all? Then by gods divine mercy I’d be free. I wouldn’t know beauty or the fear of losing it. I wouldn’t tremble for fear the island would consume me and add me to its list of souls. But what other land would I prefer? I’ve been from land to kingdom, kingdom to nation, nation to empire. Continent after continent, and all the while I was miserable. I found no happiness, not in the exotic or the mundane. I found no joy in anything, save this land. When I walk through its forests and my mind fills with poetry. Or when I swim in its waters and feel life flowing through me. And I don’t think I could go back to what passed for existence before the island.

That night as I sat in my hut, exhausted from the journey back, sleep eluded me. I sat and stared at the stars. So bright and vibrant in the sky. Some nights the island reminded me why I was happy there. But for all the happiness, my mind would fly back to the ruins. To the other part of the island, that prevented me from losing myself in the moment. That wounded desert prevented my happiness, because I wouldn’t allow myself to forget it. Would I have the chance to achieve such great things? Would I have the chance to fail? Or would I remain here, and when my life passed away no trace would be left of me. It is troubling to believe that I was not the greatest of the inhabitants, and possibly not the last. I wanted this to be my island but more still I wanted the island and I to be one in the same. But such a task is difficult when one is insignificant. Greater men had left their mark, in art, in stone, and in words…but also in scars, in wounds, in desolation. I wonder if the two go hand in hand.

The ruins haunted my memory. It made no sense, how such a great people could fall so far. That such a relationship, so symbiotic and pure could be torn asunder. That the ancients betrayed their island and bled it dry, left in nearly unfit for future generations. In time I came to understand that the island I knew, the one of plenty and splendor was such a small part. The island had been ravaged through out, and the drought spread to nearly every corner. It became clear that it was not the island could not sustain life, but that life could not sustain the island. The more I searched of the island the more I found cleared forests, fields devoid of nutrients from over use, and rivers dried from excessive irrigation. And I saw that this society, while powerful, was not perfect. Still they lasted longer than I had been there. They had their existence and their happiness, and in my mind I still could not see how long I would last. Alone, in a strange new world, simple and honest, perhaps I was not cut out for this type of life.

Still though, I’m alive and they exist only in memory. It is likely the forest will consume me, and I’ll remain little more than a skeleton lost in a jungle. I’ll leave no great monuments and they’ll be no trace that I was here. Some days I go into the forest and I come back bloody and bruised and others I come back exhausted with joy. I don’t know if that’s enough, most days it seems like it isn’t. But where else would I belong?

This is what I thought to myself yesterday as I made my way through the cavern to return to the ruins. And when I arrived I stopped to behold the damage which existed deep within the island. And with my meager shovel I dug a whole, and then another and still another. In to each I placed a sapling, much like myself, green and naïve, and alone in a strange new world. Most were not cut out for this type of life. To each I gave a drink, water from the bubbling brook that rejuvenated me every day. To each I gave a prayer, from my heart that gives me hope every day. And I left to find a river, to keep my trees alive in this wounded earth, so that they could one day bear fruit for me and bandage the island.

So to the finder of this, my life on a parchment, sealed in a gourd, I hope my tale reaches you well. It is my hope that one day you stumble upon this island, beauty incarnate, and find it alive. Its body covered in trees and luminescent flowers. Walk its earth and through its mountains, and come upon its ruins choked and cloaked by vines. May you find it with the wounded ground healed, and its rivers clear and sweet. This is my wish, nothing more.