Living Legends

5) Resolution

TWO MONTHS AGO

In the dim, flickering glow of his campfire, Jack settled back against the cave wall, stroking his beard and staring at the glistening rock across from him through the flames.  Four letters had been carved out of the stone, followed by a tally of the 93 days he had been on this Godforsaken island in the middle of nowhere.

            He frowned at the tally marks, then at the letters.  J-A-C-K, they spelled.  “Jack,” the youth murmured to himself, his voice cracking from disuse.  “Jack Patterson.  That’s my name.  Or is it?”  He squinted through the flames once more until his eyes began to water.  He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

            Suddenly, the cave seemed to be flooded with light.  He froze with his hands near his face.  A luminous blur of words and images flashed across his eyes, and then they were gone.  The flickering fire was the only source of light once again.

            Jack shuddered.  That wasn’t the first time something like that had happened.  The “incidents,” as he liked to call them, were few and far between.  As the soothing sound of waves, crackling firewood, and hum of insects lulled him to sleep, Jack’s head began to nod and the incident quickly vanished from his mind.  He fell into a dreamless slumber.

  

The next morning, Jack awoke to blinding sunlight and the last traces of smoke from his campfire.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and groggily sat upright, his back scratchy from leaning against the crude wall of the cave.  As soon as he stopped yawning and felt slightly more awake, he grabbed his makeshift dagger—a skinny rock he had whittled to a point—and scratched one more tally into the wall across from him.

            With that done, Jack set out to do his daily activities.  94 days of solitary living on an island about a mile long as it was wide left very little for him to do.  He consoled himself through his routines.  That was the one thing that kept him sane and breathing.

            First, he washed himself in the freshwater spring next to his cave.  After hanging his wet clothes on an overhanging tree branch, he used a sharp piece of flint to keep his beard nice and trim—at least, about as trim as he could with such crude resources.  With the hot Caribbean sun beating down on his back, he headed across the island to its jungle-infested side.  There was nothing but vegetation on the south end, where Jack’s cave was, but the north end grew thick with palm trees and foliage.  As soon as Jack reached the beginning of the jungle, he climbed up a half-bent palm tree and began gathering coconuts.

            Coconut-gathering took a few hours’ time—about forty-five minutes to gather and the rest to break them open.  After making several trips back to his cave, Jack finished the coconut part of his routine and headed back to the beach.

            Now it was time to fish.  Though he wasn’t an expert spear fisher, he always came home with at least one fresh catch before the sun was three-quarters’ way overhead.  Using another makeshift dagger attached to a strong branch by vines, he slaved away under the sun until he had three decent-sized fish under his arm.

            Now hot, exhausted and sweaty, Jack set the fish back down in his cave on some palm fronds to dry.  He peeled off his shirt, which was as dirty and worn as his jeans, and made his final trek to the beach.  The day was finally cooling off now that the sun had passed its zenith, and Jack always looked forward to his afternoon swim.  He rolled up his jeans as far as they would go and dashed into the surf.

            Jack had always been a strong swimmer, but he wasn’t strong enough to swim to the nearest island.  There was nothing but blue Caribbean waters all around him, and the blazing sun in the sky to keep him company.  He hadn’t the faintest idea how to build a raft, either.  Escape was practically impossible.

            After swimming a half-mile parallel to the shore, Jack felt refreshed and cooled off.  He retreated back to the beach and took a seat in the shade of an overgrown dwarf palm.  He had five more hours before it grew dark, which left him more than enough time to go fruit-picking and do his daily exercises.

            Jack grunted as he began his set of push-ups.  Midway through his workout, several thoughts crossed his mind: Why do I keep doing this? Why am I staying in shape? What’s the purpose?

            “Because,” he said to himself as he finished his last round of sit-ups, “someday, when I get off this island, I’m going to be thankful that I’m alive and kicking.”

            Maybe that was the hope he clung to.  Maybe that was why he slaved away under the hot Caribbean sun for hours and hours, only to retreat back to his cave and carve one more tally mark onto the wall.  Maybe that was why he held on to the burning hatred for the men who had put him on this island—the men he hadn’t seen in over three months.

            Jack’s eyebrows narrowed in concentration as he started his nightly fire.  As soon as the first log was set ablaze, the rest were soon consumed in fire, and the warmth radiated onto Jack’s salt-covered skin.  He sighed and leaned back against the cave wall, watching the last glimpses of the sun as it sank below the horizon.  He was full from his catch of fish and a few slices of fruit—his usual dinner.  After gulping down the last of his coconut water, he made one more trip to the freshwater spring before going to bed.

            Jack had a fleeting thought of what he could do to escape.  Though he hadn’t seen one boat since he had arrived on the island, he knew they were out there.  People were out there.  Civilization was out there—a civilization he hadn’t seen in three months.

            But even three months could feel like an eternity.

            I could build a fire, Jack thought.  A smoke signal.  But the thought was dashed to pieces when his right thigh began to throb.  He could feel the eight-inch scar through the thin material of his jeans; a scar given to him by the men who had put him on this island.  The last time he had used a smoke signal to try to alert passing ships, the men had returned with a warning and a slice to his leg.  “Don’t try it again,” they ordered.  “You’re only allowed to have a fire at night.  Is that clear?”

            To Jack, it was crystal.  There were ten of them and only one of him.  Though he still didn’t know how they had found him wandering along the coast of Florida, he knew why they had come.  He knew why they had abandoned him.  The reason was obvious, but the intent of their kidnapping was the real question.  Now that they had Jack where they wanted him, why was he still alive? Why did his island happen to have all the necessary materials for survival, yet when Jack tried to get away, he was told he couldn’t?

            It puzzled him.  But it also fueled him with a passion and determination like no other.  He would get off the island.  He would.