My first memory is of being washed up on a desolate shore. A beach churning with small pebbles, and there was I, a mortal man, all a-tangle in thick strands of dark brown kelp and driftwood, milky foam from head to toe, retching from the salt water in my gullet and scratched and bleeding from the rocks. My clothing hung in tatters, and I was cold, as cold as if I lay at the bottom of Davy Jones’ Locker. And close to laying there I was.
As I dragged my body up the steep beach, gravelly stones rattled around me, and the waves reached out their briny hands to drag me back, but I persisted and finally came to a place that was beyond the water’s reach, whereupon I rolled onto my back and lost consciousness.
When I awakened, I knew not who I was or where I was. Above me stretched an expanse of cerulean sky, and I was content to gaze upon it, too exhausted to set my mind to anything else.
After a time, the screeching of sea birds drew me out of my reverie. I sat myself up and observed them rising in flight and then diving sharply at the edge of a small cove – for this is where I found myself.
The cove was bounded at each end by ridges of tree-covered hillocks that terminated in jagged clusters of rocks, and it was at the right-most end that the gulls were squabbling. There was laid scattered a variety of detritus; for the most part, broken timber and ropes, sea chests and items of clothing.
Behind me, dark forest crept down almost to the water’s edge. The beach upon which I sat was a mere strip between the jungle and the open sea beyond. Bleached driftwood and dazzling white shells formed a sinuous line at the high-tide mark. The left-most end of the cove appeared to be somewhat sheltered with the possibility of a sandy margin.
I surveyed the remnants of my own clothing and the tattoos on my chest and arms, and saw myself for what I was, a seaman, without ship or shipmates. Alone.
I was clad in loose breeches and a cotton shirt, the latter of which hung in tatters, and a red neckerchief was tied securely around my neck. There was no sign of a waistcoat, and if I had possessed a hat, it was long gone. My long hair had fallen loose and was coarse to the touch: thick with dried salt.
Out across the water there was only the huge expanse of ocean – it was milky green and turbulent, with great oily waves. A brisk wind whipped spume from the crests; nonetheless it was sheltered where I sat. On the horizon I could see sombre clouds standing in malevolent rows, and yet, I could also see that the storm had been and gone.
My throat was raw and my head ached painfully. I surveyed myself – the scratches to my body were superficial and would surely heal, but not so the gash on my left thigh. The flesh there had been scored deeply by some sharp object, and I was surprised that I hadn’t felt the wound earlier. No doubt the cold water had numbed my limb completely. The edges of the wound were mottled and tender, and I could see shreds of dead skin peeling back from the angry red flesh and the gleam of white bone beneath.
I made to stand, but the very action sent sharp knives of pain through my entire body. Steadying myself, I made a second attempt at righting myself. Dizziness overcame me but I was determined to test the limits of my leg, and so I persisted. After a time, I found that I could hobble along using a sturdy length of driftwood as a kind of walking stick. I made my way to the rocky spit where the ships’ debris was collecting, in the hope that I could salvage something I could make use of.
By sunset, I had assembled a small assortment of items. A barrel of salted pork still floated just beyond the rocks. It looked to be intact, but I dared not brave the surf to retrieve it. Instead, I now had in my possession a large piece of sail, a length of hessian, about five yards of coir rope and a large sodden carpet bag. I had also retrieved a dozen or so small planks, most likely from the gunwale of the vessel that had deposited me at this god-forsaken place.
I had sought in vain for a sharp implement such as a knife with which to cut a strip from the sail. Instead I rolled up the length of hessian and wound it around my thigh as best I could, tucking the edges in.
In the carpet bag I discovered a small wooden chest, a handkerchief and a pair of spectacles. Upon opening the chest, I found that it contained an assortment of surgeon’s powders and liquids. A small bottle labelled ‘Tincture of Opium’ caught my eye. Holding it to the light I saw that it was filled to three-quarters with a reddish-brown liquid. I removed my neckerchief and secured the bottle of opium within, knotting each end before retying it around my neck.
The first stars had appeared in the darkening sky, and my strength was near exhausted. Even so, I managed to form a slight depression in the dry shingle as close to the tree line as possible. This was to be my bed, with the damp piece of sail as my covering. I made myself as comfortable as I could and then lay down to sleep, hoping that there were no carnivorous animals nearby.
I awoke early to a cool morning, stiff with cold and wondering at first where in the world I was. The unfamiliar birds had made such a racket at the approach of dawn that it was impossible to sleep through. My leg was throbbing horribly and to make matters worse, I had been tormented by small black insects who feasted on me relentlessly.
Rather than fall into a depression at the hopelessness of my situation, I decided to occupy myself by constructing a dwelling of sorts.
A short way farther along the edge of the beach, I came across the partly-rotted trunk of a tree that had fallen in such a way across two other logs as to form a kind of shelter below. I used the ship’s planks as well as smaller limbs torn from saplings that grew close to the edge of the forest, and I placed these on and about the large trunk. It was slow work, due to my weakness and the pain in my leg, but I persisted. After several hours I had built a rude shelter. If nothing else, it would shield me from the sun and the worst of the wind.
Around noon, with hunger pangs gnawing my body and the beginnings of a fierce thirst, I decided to divert myself by exploring the other end of the cove. It appeared to be sheltered from the prevailing wind, and as I limped closer, I could see a crescent of sand. I took respite there, glad to be protected from the wind, which had changed course and blew directly on to the shore. Indeed, it gave me time to take stock of my situation without other distractions.
As I gazed out at the full sweep of the cove, I could see that there was to be no easy escape and there would surely be no rescue. It was as I sat musing on my predicament, with legs bent and resting my arms on my knees, that my eyes settled on a disturbing image. Very close to where I had positioned myself, I espied a series of markings in the damp sand, just below the line of the high tide. The shapes resembled the imprints of a bird’s foot, but were of a size that belied this. Each was broader and longer than two of my handspans laid beside each other.
I stood myself up and surveyed the sky in all directions. What manner of land was this, where a bird could leave such a footprint? The day took on a foreboding aspect, with the waves crashing noisily and the native birds and gulls crying … I was hungry, cold, tired, sore, lonely … what more could be inflicted upon me?
I made my way back along the beach to the shelter, glancing around as I did so. The trees and shrubs pushed against the edges of the bay, and there were no trails or pathways to be seen. At one point I tried to force my way into the darkness beneath the canopy, but found my course blocked by all manner of vines and prickled plants. I strained to hear the sound of running water but could only hear birds. Even without the fear brought on by the extraordinary footprints, I knew that I would not last long without food or water, nor would I survive the injury to my thigh for many days. The pain had not receded, and my leg had swollen up considerably below the wound.
Later in the afternoon the weather changed. Bright sunlight was replaced by a cold wind and driving rain. With my bare hands I gouged a depression in the shingle at the edge of the beach. Upon this I placed the sail, pressing the thick fabric down until it formed a deep bowl. This quickly filled with rain water, and I lay on my stomach to drink of it even as it filled – this was the first water I had drunk since being washed up on the beach. I then lay on my back and let the rain run into my open mouth. I knew I should be cold, but I felt hot, no doubt due to the effects of the poisons in my leg.
The deluge passed as quickly as it had come, and it had the effect of waking me up and reminding me of the hopeless state I was in. All the adventurous stories I had consumed when I was a child had done little to prepare me. I wracked my brain for any useful memory or a clue as to where I was and how I’d had the misfortune to end up in this place, to no avail.
To worsen matters, a few bloated corpses had made their appearance against the rocks at the edge of the bay, where the other ships’ items had washed up. They were doubtless filled with putrid gasses and bobbed around on the surface where they were slowly being battered on the rocks. This dissuaded me from searching for more useful objects amongst the debris. The seagulls were swooping down upon them, pecking at the bodies and tearing pieces off before my very eyes. I felt sick to my stomach. Half hoping to recognise someone, half hoping not to.
The third day arrived, and I fear that delirium had set in. I was lying where I’d collapsed the previous night, partly concealed within the shelter I’d fashioned beneath the log of the rotted tree. I was startled from my slumber by a sound. My eyes opened slowly, and I saw that it was morning. I could smell the wet earth and the greenness of the crushed leaves beneath me. My left leg was burning with a dull throb. Then I heard it again. It was a terrible cry, one that near curdled my blood and directly after, I was cast into shadow by a huge shape that blocked the sunlight.
Shielding my eyes, I propped myself up, hoping that the apparition was just that, some fanciful flying beast conjured up by my feverish brow. Instead I beheld something from a nightmare. A huge bird of prey, larger than anything I’d ever heard tell of, was circling above me, and I was overcome with dread. Even in its terrifying splendour, it was a thing of beauty. The plumage was sombre brown to brownish grey, with lighter colouring upon its legs and around its breast. The wingspan looked to be close to nine feet and almost seemed too short to support the heavy body below.
The feathered creature looked about with piercing eyes, its massive, hooked beak half open, the sturdy legs with their powerful curved talons, stretching. It brought to mind another bird, an eagle, a form of which I’d seen … I cannot remember where, no doubt on my travels, and I was fearful lest its piercing gaze should single me out in my hiding place.
Even as I watched, it flew down close to where the shattered bodies were pushing against the rocks. With nary a pause, it descended upon a body that had washed up a little way from the others and which was sprawled out on the shingly beach alongside a piece of broken mast. To my horror, I discerned that the body was still alive. It was another poor survivor such as myself who had been released by the sea during the night.
The great bird grasped the body in its talons at which point the captive cried out weakly, wriggling his arms and legs with vigour. I was quite frozen with shock and fearful for my own life. The sea birds rose in a squawking cloud from their corpses, then settled back down to feast. As I watched, a black shoe fell from the foot of the poor soul in the beast’s grip. It landed at the edge of the beach with a thud and was fought over by a small party of gulls.
Before I could determine what to do, the beast had circled back towards whence it came, back over the vegetation behind me, releasing another blood-curdling cry as it departed. A league or so back, the tree-covered hillocks gave way to higher ground, still thickly covered with dark green vegetation. This was likely the site of the ghastly bird’s lair.
All that third day, I waited in trepidation for the raptor to return. If it was indeed some form of giant eagle, I knew that it would prefer a living creature to a rotting corpse.
I was tossed between fitful slumber and feverish wakefulness.
In my dreams, I saw an English country garden and a white house with a thatched roof. I was standing a little aloof, watching a young woman with dark skin and long, curly, black hair swinging on a wooden swing that was suspended beneath a large oak tree. She was clad in a soft gown of dark brownish-grey and had bright eyes and a quick way of moving. When she smiled she seemed to look straight into my eyes. It felt as though I was in the sweetest place on Earth.
Each time I awoke, I felt a sense of loss, as if something precious had been stolen from me. And each time I fell back into sleep, I felt that I was returned to my own home, even though the scene was unfamiliar.
At times the girl was on the swing, at others she ran from me or toyed with me playfully, looking back over her shoulder coquettishly or pretending to hide, and then showing herself some distance away. On occasions she wore a dark cloak, woven from some unrefined material into which were sewn countless feathers. Some were dark green and iridescent and shone in the sunlight. She peered out at me from behind lush tree ferns or lay languidly along the bough of a huge epiphyte-clad tree, allowing her long dark hair to fall freely towards the soft earth. I would almost catch up to her, and then I’d awaken.
Time does not mean much to me now. I hear the native birds as if they are right beside me, and the horrible shrieking of the gulls does not disturb me as much as it used to.
I have seen the great bird at least thrice already today. I’m sure that it perceives my hiding place and is only biding its time.
It flew in so low the last time – I could feel the wind disturbed by its great wings on my face. It was a sweet wind, redolent of honey.
At times I think I almost know who I am or who I was. I have thought of the Almighty and his powers, and I have pondered upon my life. But I have still been unable to conjure up any memory of my life before this cove. Everything seems to be running together into one long moment.
At some point in the past day or night, I remembered the opium. I carefully unfastened the scarf and unwound the fabric from the bottle. My hands were shaking so – I was afraid that I would not be able to complete the task.
I am feeble with hunger and from lack of water, and delirious with fever. But I made the decision to haul myself out from the shade of the trees and into the sunlight.
In my dreams my sweetheart is ever calling to me. She beckons me closer and even if she draws me to the grave, I will go willingly. I will lie on the beach and wait for her. The rattling grey stones are a pillow for my head and a resting place for my body.
My angel has come to save me. I have watched her circling overhead for some moments now, drawing ever closer.
She is beautiful to behold, with an enormous wingspan and eyes that hold a brightness and intelligence far superior to any being I have yet seen.
I have propped myself up as best I can so that when she alights beside me, I can pull myself up onto her back.
She will take me home.