White and Other Tales of Ruin

Each sound moved him closer to the edge. Every screech or growl or cry of feeding animals sapped him some more. His shoulders hung lower, his eyelids dipped shut. Pain merged, physical discomfort and mental anguish metamorphosing into something far more affecting; an agony of the soul, blazing white but invisible in the night. Burning in a vacuum, because Roddy was as drained of faith as any human being had ever been. The worst thing was not his spiritual emptiness; it was the fact that none of it was through his own choice. He felt mentally raped, but his rage at this was tempered by what he had seen over the past couple of years. The men and women he had watched die. The ships, burning fiercely as flesh melted and merged into their lower decks. The bobbing bodies of drowned men, eyes picked out by fortuitous fish. Blazing seas of oil. Lands scoured by war, until the virgin rock of the Earth showed through in supplication.

This island had changed him. Now, it intended to destroy him. Roddy was unable to avoid such intent.

Somehow, he survived the night.

There was nothing on top of the mountain. Roddy was not sure exactly what he had been expecting, but the mountain-top was bare, swept free of soil and plants by whatever winds blew at this altitude.

Day dawned surprisingly; light was something he had not expected to see ever again. Shocked into alertness, Roddy looked down at himself. Blood had dried and patterned his shirt with dark streaks, and his skin was still assaulted by the cruel sun. He looked worse than he ever had. His hands were slashed to scabby ribbons, his knees and stomach cut and ripped by the falls he had so obviously suffered on his climb during the night. Below him, further down the mountainside, the great slash of the ravine headed down towards the sea miles in the distance. The jungle was there, too, a sprawling green border between the mountain and the beach. It looked so alive and lush from up here. So friendly.

Roddy began to cry. If the ravine had been close by he would have gladly stepped into it, revelling in the cool rush of air as he let the island imbibe him. It seemed that the island was holding its breath, and had been doing so from the moment they had landed, yearning for the time when it would once more be free of their taint. Finishing himself now would do that. The view from here was wonderful, the island was raw and beautiful, but it was a vision never intended for the enjoyment of Man. He was stealing it merely by looking. Even from here, he could see shadows moving beneath the trees at the edge of the jungle, like tigers pacing their cage.

He wiped tears from his face with the backs of his hands. He wanted to feel a sense of rebellion against the terrible power of the island, but the emotions necessary to do so were hidden from him. Bitterness manifested itself as desperation; anger brought new tears; defiance ricocheted and struck him as dread. It was hopeless. Perhaps, he mused, it always had been. Maybe they should have listened to Ernie and stayed on the boat. Behind him, Ernie, Butch and Norris were already blending into the memory of the landscape.

Roddy stood and turned his back on the way he had come. He walked across the plateau of the mountain-top, and if there had been a hole he would have slipped into it. A steady breeze blew, cooling him where he still bled. He looked at the bruise on his elbow, the result of his leap from the stricken ship. Now it was surrounded by other wounds, all of them combining to wear him down, drop him down, ease him eventually earthward.

He remembered another mountain walk. Years ago in the valleys of Monmouthshire, following in the footsteps of a man called Machen. His parents had pointed out invisible landmarks and left Roddy to feel the majesty of the place privately. He had been eleven then, just beginning to find his own mind. Looking back now, he thought maybe that was the last time he ever truly, whole-heartedly believed in God. Since then, he had seen cruelties and sadism beyond nightmare. Bravery too, and compassion. But bad weighed heavier on his soul.

As the mountain began to slope down towards the opposite side of the island, Roddy saw the cove. It was at least a mile away, still enveloped in the shadow of the mountain. But the cove and surrounding area were different to the rest of the landscape, marked somehow. Tainted.

In the centre of the bay, obviously foundered, sat a sailing ship. Even from this distance Roddy could see that it was wrecked.

There was a moment of shock at the realisation that others had been here before them, but it was short-lived. It was obvious from what he could see that no one was alive down there. The area around the cove was dead, a blank spot on a painting where the colours of life were absent, and sea birds were using the wreck as a roost.