The Cry of The Island

Chapter Four

Shelters from Satan.

Atticus woke from his sleep that morning, slowly rising up to a seated position as he scratched his head. Kiwi sat on the edge of the platform with the rope swing, looking over at him and picking the fine tassels off of a coconut. Rocky lay in the shelter, snuggled up as he had his hands in prayer for a pillow.

"Morning."

Atticus spoke.

"Morning."

Kiwi quietly spoke.

"Where is everybody?"

Atticus looked over, scratching his eyebrow as the buzz of insects would quietly hum around the lagoon.

"Gone."

Kiwi spoke. Atticus hoped that Kiwi would hop off of his seated position on the platform, but he didn't.

"Gone?"

Atticus scoffed, in humour.

"Yeah. They went with Tommy. You went to sleep first. All of us were awake and Tommy came back after the argument. A bit of shouting and convincing later, and people went."

Atticus sighed, standing up and sitting next to Kiwi on the platform. Both kept their heads buried, looking down at their thighs.

"Ledger go?"

Kiwi nodded.

"Tried to convince him not to, but you've seen him. He's quiet as anything. He was louder back home, believe me."

Atticus didn't respond for a moment.

"Sid?"

Kiwi nodded.

"Of course he's going to go though, really. Friends with Tommy, isn't he?"

Atticus hummed in agreement.

"Phoenix went too. Hendrix surprisingly stayed."

A pause.

"Quiet's it down a bit, huh?"

Kiwi tried to make a joke.

"Put those two with Sid."

Atticus responded in a chain of the joke.

They both chuckled.

There was a silence for a while. Nothing but the cooing aromatic scent of the lagoon and the blissful mortal of bird clamour and crickets filled the air.

"He did say he hates you though."

Kiwi started.

"Who, Tommy?"

Kiwi hummed.

"Sounds more like his issue."

Atticus added.

There he stood. The long stretch of flat rock that led to the cliffs being his surface. The skies were torrid, as he looked around at the palms on his right hand side. Straight ahead was the large cliff, and to the right of it was a descent that gave opening to the beach. The boy could see the sand and the clear sea from where he was. At his feet, the calf from the lagoon was without any insides. The dark open eyes of the deceased animal looked up at its captor, as dark brown and red dried blood stained his hands. Tommy had spent all morning making more spears, placing them in the clefts of the long stretch of flat rock with slightly different heights alongside the other boys. He had them set up so that it was like a corridor in an open space. A line on one side, a line on the other. All parallel. Sherman placed the deceased calf's gutless body resting against a spear. Each spear Tommy had made for the clefts, were tall in their being. Everybody had a spear now. A spear of their own.