White and Other Tales of Ruin

But there was nothing other than the island, and the strange, inbred mutated things living here. Survival of the fittest, Max had said. Perhaps God had been here and found himself severely wanting. Here, something else reigned supreme.

Roddy raged and cursed. He shouted at the dark to keep it, and the things it contained, at bay. His wounds were one big agony, but individual pains made themselves known every time he moved. His agnosticism felt obvious to him now, but he knew also that he would have humbly and willingly admitted his mistake if comfort and peace would come to him from the dark.

But the dark gave up nothing. No comforting hand, no whisper of belonging. No animals either. No pig-faced monstrosities crawling from the pit to join their petrified cousins. Nothing.

Roddy suffered his pain and inevitable loss alone.

The night came to life. Sounds came from all around, some of them blatant, the more frightening ones secretive and covert. For long minutes Roddy sat still, certain that his fear would give him away, as something breathed heavily nearby. He could not move. Like the rocks around him, he thought that stillness would fool whatever was there. Then he slowly came to recognise a pattern in the breathing, and realised that he was hearing the sea, a mile or two away, as it broke onto the reef.

Something sent a shower of stones into the ravine. Claws snickered on rock as whatever it was scrabbled to safety. It trotted away from him, whining and growling.

There was a sound which could have been a shout in the distance, or a groan from nearby. Either way, he did not want to sit here and take any more. He was shaking with fear, recalling childhood days exploring woodland hollows and old deserted mills, the feeling of terror slowly taking hold until rational thought gave way to shouting and headlong flight. He could not afford to do that here, he knew, but still he felt the panic taking a firm grip. The same childhood fears reared their heads again. Things in the dark with him, things he could not see, reaching out to touch.

Roddy stood and began walking parallel to the ravine. He headed in the same direction Max had taken, half hoping through all his despised certainty that he would find him sitting on a rock, smiling sheepishly and running his hand across his bald head. Max would come out with some dry witticism, all the while taking charge of the situation and deciding what to do next. Now that there were only two of them, he would say, they had a better chance. Food, water, shelter for two is much easier to find than for four, or five. And for two who were friends, things were that much easier. So Norris was dead, he would say. So what? So who’s going to mourn the death of a Jonah? He would smile as he spoke, but somehow Roddy could not fit the words into his friend’s mouth.

Roddy stopped and looked around, vaguely shocked by his train of thought. From the ravine to his left, a sigh rose from darkness into silvery light. He wondered whether it was Norris finally striking bottom. It seemed all too possible. The landscape appeared even more alien at night, throwing up flashes of light here and there where luminous creatures darted or crawled, shadows darkening as animals passed by. The mountain seemed much higher than it had before, and suddenly Roddy knew that he had to make it to the top. From there, as Max had said, he would see everything. Whether he really wanted to do so was a moot point. For now it was a purpose.

The dark felt heavy, the presence of something thick and gelatinous instead of the absence of light. His going was hard, pushing through the night, hands heavy on the ends of his arms, feet blocks of rock dangling from his ankles. He was weak, hungry and empty. His mind felt drained, picked over by whatever they had offended by landing here and then discarded, thrown back into his skull like the mess of organs after an autopsy.

The ravine opened up next to him. Dark and deep and cool, inviting, urging him to enter, forget the hardships of aching muscles and swollen tongue. Another sulphuric sigh, volcanic or organic, neither seemed too difficult to believe.

He thought of Butch and Ernie resting in the ground, where grubs made use of them and the cool earth kissed their skin. He imagined the comfort of lying down, shedding all fears and concerns.

He kept walking.