The Cave

Even before the storm, I’ve always been a rules guy:

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          – Don’t let the flag touch the ground. 

          – Don’t say “god damn.” 

          – Don’t stick anything in your ears.

 

          I soon found the island had rules as well:

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          – Don’t piss in the spring. 

          – Avoid the sun like a vampire when you can.

          – Don’t wipe your ass with the three-leaf plant.

 

          A few I found later:

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          – Smoke signals are a waste of time and energy.

          – There’s no way off this rock.

          – Don’t go in the cave. 

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          I wrestled with naming the island for a while and considered naming it something impressive for the papers when they read about me. 53-year-old Captain David Stanstonoski was found alive on a small island 658 miles off the Torishima coast. He survived alone for 8 years. David, an early reader who skipped the first grade, recounts naming the island. “Yes, thank you, it truly is a pleasure to be back. I named the island ‘Prospero’ after the Shakespearean magician that cast the great tempest upon a ship at sea.” After considering the matter for a few more days, I gave it the name Dogbreath, a tribute to my American Staffordshire back home.

 

          My greatest companion on Dogbreath is a short-tailed albatross I whimsically named Aristotle. I found him sprawled across the sand like another washed up body, blood bubbling from his yellow-brushed nape. He seemed to be dying from this gash on his neck. My stomach rumbled and I wanted to eat him. When I tried to pick him up, he violently awoke and flew away, sprinkling his blood on me. Weeks later he came back. His neck was stained and crusted over, but he seemed to be doing better. I decided I would not eat him.

 

          I came to realize that Aristotle was marooned on this island with me. He would fly away for a few days, and then return to our Dogbreath, flattened and flustered with exhaustion. I figured his injury prevented him from making the long trip back to his true home. Dogbreath damned him as well.

 

          I consider clipping his wings. He is stronger every day. His trips grow longer with his strength and I fear that one day he will make it back to his home, leaving me for good. 

 

          Pink light peaks through the haze of clouds on the horizon, signaling that the evening is approaching and it’s time to bathe—another rule. 

 

          The spring was perhaps the only good thing on the entire island. I stumbled upon it after a week of bathing in the frothing sea water. I found it hidden in tall grass behind a wall of vines, sunlight glinting off the flowing water, sparkling through the vine wall. That day, as I washed myself in the cool spring water for the first time, I felt as if I had just come up for air after a deep dive. 

 

          Several weeks after finding the spring, while reminiscing about my family, I remembered my sister-in-law’s bullshit MLM hand scrub start-up and I was struck with an idea. It wasn’t perfect, but, using seawater, seashells, seaweed, animal fat (small pigs throughout the island), and a lot of spare time, I made a strange, but pleasant-smelling substance I could rub on my body in the spring. 

 

          I also had plenty of clothing. A lot of bodies washed up in the first few days and I had the sense to take the clothes and possessions before discarding the rest. After this many years, the clothes had become rags. I’d still resemble Tarzan if I was found, but at least my dick wouldn’t be out.

 

          As I scrub today’s sweat off my body, it occurs to me that if I am found in the evening, I may smell good. Maybe I’ll even look good. Though I’m skinny now, I’m not starving. I’m sort of clean. My hair and beard make me look like a Neanderthal, but none of it has gone grey yet.

 

          Despite the bath, I find myself feeling anxious as I go to sleep. Rolling over, I realize I am covered in sweat and the smell of my bathing has already faded. Bolts of lightning crack across the night sky, enveloping the island in blue light.

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* * *

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It is still raining when I wake up. Aristotle sits inside our hut, sheltered and dry. The rain falls soft but persistent on our walls. The hut has fine branches cut and bundled tight and neat. It is well made, and only a few drips make it through the thick bundles tied together with shoelaces and twine.

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          I get up and take a piss. The rain is cold on my bare skin, but after months of a glaring sun with clear skies, it is not a terrible compromise.

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          I have a covered area to cook food when it rains. I stoke a small fire by blowing on the still hot embers from the previous day, and crack an egg over a smooth stone above the fire. Aristotle never joins me for breakfast—the egg.

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          Most days look the same, per the rigidity of the rules:

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          – Eat breakfast.

          – Tend to the garden.

          – Fish or hunt for dinner.

 

          As I finish breakfast, I feel a familiar hum of anxiety thrum through my body. This is common during storm season, but I still feel curious about it. 

 

          It is like an out of tune music box playing in the next room. Like an electric charge trickling up and down my spine. Like a stone lodged in the bottom of my throat.

 

          I’ve been waiting for The Big One since we arrived. Eight years and not a single storm close to the one that marooned me here. Each year, I prepare for those violent winds and that devastating storm surge, tall and strong like a concrete wall. But each year there is only rain and a bit of wind. Not a monster of a storm.

 

          Fear and I have become familiar with each other. While I did see her court fellow sailors in the Navy, we weren’t formally introduced before the storm. I suppose I was afraid of my father, but that was a different type of thing. You’re not afraid of certainties like gravity, sunburns, or the sovereign wrath of the father.

 

          Now, I flinch at every flash of light.

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* * *

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I spend the next day gathering everything I will need if The Big One comes suddenly.

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          The rules for the storm are simple:

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          – Tie down supplies and food.

          – Tie yourself to a tree.

          – Go to the cave only if it floods to your waist.

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          After some time, I have all of my possessions surrounding the hut. I have amassed a respectable selection of items over the years. I have useful things like makeshift cutters, hammers, and shovels. I even found a treasured pocket knife tucked in the back pocket of what was once a boy scout early on.

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          Over the years, I found other things that weren’t useful, but charmed me: a clean shiny blue pebble, a zippo lighter with no fuel, a handful of pictures found in wallets, the tooth of a megalodon or some other great shark, a small notebook, my dead iPhone, and a broken pair of glasses. I keep them in a large crab shell.

 

          I gather all eighteen belts I salvaged over the years and fashion them into the long leather band I will use to tie myself down in case of The Big One. I picture myself suspended to a tree as the wind lashes me like Christ and I frown.

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          It is still raining today. Slow heavy drops fall on soaked sand, wearing the island out with its constant beating. The island gives a few more inches of its shore to the sea, ransom for the everlasting torrent.

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          Aristotle has become anxious. He made a weak attempt, flying hard and steady into the wet curtain of rain draped across the ocean. He gave up fast, returning home an hour later. I watch him fidget in the hut. He slaps his wings and pecks at his own body. His instincts tell him he needs to fly far away. Mine too. Maybe this is The Big One. 

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          I know the belts will probably not work and I will need to swim to the cave. I see the dark twisted hollow in my mind and cut my nails into my skin until I forget about it.

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* * *

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It’s the eighth day of rain without ceasing and I forget what it feels like to be dry. The boundary between sky and ocean is dissolving and my rules are going to shit.

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          I can’t follow the normal routine. There is no fire. No tending to the garden. No hunting. No fishing. No bath. There is only rain and wet and firecrackers of light flickering against the sky.

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          Aristotle and I give up on staying dry. We stay in the hut to keep the impact of rain drops off our heads. The hut sags like a tired hat. Steady streams of water fall from the roof. I feel heavy and waterlogged. My skin is like prunes and mud is caked around me as I sit.

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          “At least we have each other,” I say. Aristotle looks at me.

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          I’m stuck, David. I would leave if I could.

 

          “Why do you hate me?”

 

          You’re a murderer.

 

          “Oh, that’s right. It’s all my fault. I forgot that I could have calmed the typhoon like Jesus fucking Christ on his little dingy.”

You left port.

 

          “No, that’s not fair either. No one knew it was going to be that bad.”

 

          And yet, only you left port.

 

          I kick Aristotle hard. He cries out and flies out into the storm. 

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* * *

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I’m out taking a piss when I hear the branches of the hut groan beneath the weight of twelve days of rainwater. It falls fast, turning from a soggy but recognizable shelter to a pile of soaked branches. I will build another after the storm passes, but it stings to lose my hut.

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          I haven’t seen Aristotle since our argument. The storm is more violent today. Wind sweeps the island like the instigating pushes of a school yard brawl. In these vicious intervals, I picture Aristotle’s wings tearing against the wind and I am afraid.

         

          I walk the island looking for him. I bring a string tied to my wrist. I’ll use it to tie Aristotle down so he can’t fly into the storm. Some gusts of wind are so strong I have to arc my body forward to keep from stumbling. 

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          If not for a clandestine flash of lightning, I would have missed him. It illuminates the sky, silhouetting his shape against the darkness. He is struggling. He flies upward, urgent and fast, and then a gust of wind sweeps him back down. His body tumbles through the air before the wind lets go and he tries again. I cry out for him, but the wind and rain are too loud. With another flash of light, I see him flying closer and closer to the water. The sea foams like a rabid dog beneath him. I consider swimming out so he can see me, but I know I won’t make it back to the shore. A great gust of wind smacks against his body and he hits the water. A wave falls on him and he submerges completely. I enter the water and begin calling out for him. My eyes flick across the angry sea. There is no hope. I can’t see him. I am waist deep and the ocean already tugs at me with tremendous force.

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          Another crack of light and I see him. He is washed up on the shore. The wind picks up and he seems to be pinned to the ground. He tries to fly and is immediately brought back down to the sand. I feel the string around my wrist and remember what I need to do. The ocean grabs me and brings me under the water. 

 

          A calm ocean hum replaces the howl of the storm. Under the water is a quiet dream world, black as tar. I am surprised at how peaceful I feel. My heart thumps a soothing beat in my chest and I allow my body to drift aimlessly. I shut my eyes and feel the ocean course through me. I can feel every grain of salt pass along my skin, soothing and softening my tired muscles. I open my eyes and see lightning flash above me, fracturing against the upside-down waves. The fractals leak through the water and paint my skin in a stenciled pattern of light until everything collapses into darkness and a powerful wave sweeps into me. My body spins and thrashes, and I feel like I will be ripped in half. I briefly emerge from the water, gasping and sputtering on the salty ocean water, but the next wave pushes me back under. Water enters my throat, and my vision goes dark around the edges. 

 

          This is what they all felt as they died. I can see them clawing at their throats as the water ran through their lungs. I know now that there is time to think when you drown. I wonder what their final thoughts were as they died. For a moment, I feel like I am actually breathing. Then I feel my chest fill with heavy water. My vision goes red and then black.

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* * *

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“Look, if we wait, the storm is going to strand us here for a few weeks. If I go now, we’ll be ahead of it and I’ll be home before you know it. We’ll only be on the very edge of the storm if we leave now, nothing entirely concerning.,” I say, my phone sandwiched between my ear and shoulder as I flip through the briefing the private had dropped off for me. Rose is quiet for a moment.

 

          “I don’t know,” she says. “It looks terrible from here.”

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          I laugh. “Oh, you can see it from the back porch?”

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          “I’m serious, I don’t feel great about this. I think I’d rather you come home a bit later and I get to sleep well tonight,” she says.

 

          “Yeah, well, I’d rather I come home now and then in a few days I will sleep well in our bed,” I say. “Look, I’m going now okay? I need to get off the phone and get things moving. I love you, and I’ll be home real soon.” I hear Rose exhale a big breath.

 

          “Alright. I love you,” Rose says.

 

          There is a knock on my cabin door, and I see Mullens standing at attention through the window. I hang up the phone and wave him in. 

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* * *

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I wake up choking on my own vomit. I turn over and let buckets of water course through me. I feel like I have received a blow to the head. I lay back down and let the storm shower the sick off me. 

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          Water brushes against my feet, and I quickly get up. Every breath of air is a relief while also being a knife in my chest. Aristotle is still pinned to the beach. I feel the string tied to my wrist.

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          I run to him as fast as I can in the midst of the great gusts. He seems to be okay, but his darting eyes tell me he may attack me in his fear. I set my resolve and wrap my arms around him. He pecks at me, cutting into my chest with his sharp beak. The rain dilutes the blood, turning it to a stream as it runs down my body. I quickly tie the string around his wings and fasten him tight. I finish by tying his beak shut so he can’t hurt me.

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          I can now pick him up. I hold him in my arms and begin to walk against the wind. I walk us along the beach and look around. Trees bend in drastic angles. The seawater froths against the shore. I decide I will not wait for the flood to force me there. I will go to the cave of my own volition.

 

          I stumbled upon the cave in the first months. I swore to never enter it, understanding it for what it was almost immediately. It is not hard to find the cave again. As I follow the shoreline, slick jagged rocks pave the way. The path is so clear that it feels meant for me. I’d tried to hide the memory of the cave from myself. I’d tried to pretend it didn’t exist. It has never left me for a second. 

 

          I come upon the cave, the yawning mouth of the island. Dark rocks jut out, forming a twisted smile. As teeth become stairs, I carefully descend down its throat, Aristotle retreating into the crook of my elbow.

 

          I wonder where the water goes after it flows into the mouth. The cave swallows lakes-worth of water every day. It was as though the island sits on a tilt and the whole shoreline falls into this hole.

 

          The pall of clouds prevents any light from reaching the inside of the cave. I slowly descend further. The black rocks engulf the corners of the sky with each step. Although I can still feel the thunder course through the cave, stirring and shaking the stone as it rolls across the island, the sounds of the furious storm have died away. Water trickles softly beneath my feet. I can see nothing, save for brief moments of lightning illuminating rocks or glinting across the flowing water.

 

          I sit down in the stream of water. It is not deep here as the stream spreads out and falls into other routes of the cave system, but the water is cold, and I can’t help but shiver. I feel Aristotle’s heart beat hard and fast in his chest. I set him on the driest patch of stone I can find and lean to rest against the cool rocks. 

 

          The cave stops shaking, and I realize I can see my hands. Moonlight slips through cracks in the cave. I nod in understanding—the eye of the storm.

 

          I close my eyes. I know the moonlight will show them. I don’t want to see. I hear the stream trickle beneath me. I take a deep breath. I open my eyes.  

 

          At least a hundred of them line the cave, the stream of ocean water flowing in between their rib bones and along their spines. They lay on top of one another, forming a pattern like a spider’s web or a terrible lace doily. I realize now that I lay directly on top of one of the skeletons. My hand rests on a femur. My foot sits on bony fingers. Bones cling to the walls, stuck on rocks. Blue moonlight shines into the sockets of skulls. 

 

          I wail like an animal. My screams echo throughout the cave, out the throat, past the teeth, and into the sea. My hands cover my eyes, and I rock with pain. My body convulses with crying. I scream louder. I scream until my vocal cords feel like they might pop. My throat pulses with screaming. My body is a tight muscle, and my hands shake. I scream until I am not screaming, I am just a spectator to the screaming. The screams bounce and echo against the walls and back into my own mouth, vibrating through my entire body. I watch myself howl and cry and rock back and forth. 

 

          I grab the skull of the skeleton nearest to me and pull it to my chest. I kiss it and let my tears fall on it.

 

          “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I did this. This is all my fault. God, I’m so sorry.” I choke and sob against the skull.

         

          I do this with each skull. I make my way through the ones closest to me first, picking them up, touching them, kissing them, and wiping my tears on their smoothness.

 

          “I did this to you. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.” 

 

          I make my way through the cave. It takes hours. I bring each head to my body. I speak to every single bone. The weight of my grief fills me with terror, and I feel an ache so severe it’s as though I am bleeding from every pore. 

 

          When at last I find the final skull, I press my lips to its teeth and can barely speak. I bring it tight to my chest, squeezing and pleading with it to forgive me. I squeeze too hard and my arm slips from the slick rock wall. My body falls to the ground, the skull still in my arms. The skull is old and hollow, and it cracks in my arms with the impact. The skull fragments into dozens of broken pieces, scattering along my body and the floor. Some pieces begin to flow down the stream, now small enough to be carried away.

I lay there, clutching the jawbone of the skull, too tired to speak. My fingers lightly rake the broken pieces on the ground, forming tunnels for the pieces to lazily float. I sit like this for what feels like hours, until bright sunlight peaks down through the cracks above. Aristotle sleeps where I set him, still tied tightly, his chest rising and falling peacefully. The daybreak means we have both made it through the storm. 

 

          In the daylight the skeletons look like pearls, their bones purified and bleached from the saltwater flowing through them all these years. Every piece of the broken skull has floated away.

 

          I carry Aristotle out of the cave. I begin to untie him, and his eyes meet mine. He looks at me intently, still resting in my arms. There is one small piece of string still left clinging to his beak. Once I pull the delicate thing he will stretch out his wings that have grown so strong—strong enough to leave me for good. I smile at Aristotle, keeping his eyes locked to mine as I slide my treasured pocket knife out from my tattered jeans. I brush the feathers on his head and consider how the consistent company of this creature kept me going all these years. Quickly, before Aristotle can snatch away, I stab the knife deep into his wing, dragging the blade through it in one strong pull. He cries out and shakes himself free from my grip. He writhes on the ground, his wings batting and quivering against his body. He tries to fly away as I approach him, but the wing will not support it. I sit close to him and hush his screeching. As the sun rises, the water barely stirs along the horizon.