The Island

Chapter 13

The boat rocks violently.

I moan, clutching my stomach.

"Ya feelin' alright, boy?" Sully asks, noticing my grimace.

"Feel like someone's... punching my throat," I manage to say.

"Aw, you just got a bit of extra substance in your body," he explains, grinning. "Just head on over to the side of the boat, and give yourself some time. When it comes, and you'll feel it coming, just lean over the edge. Don't want for you to have to mop that up."

I obey, stumbling over to the port side of the boat. The storm hangs right above my head, tearing at my hat. I clutch it tightly, not forgetting its importance.

The boat rocks again, sending me airborne for a split second.

My soul is hurling itself at my body, trying to break free. I feel all the years of rage and disgust boiling to the top. It keeps punching me. It wants to be free, it wants to escape.

In one fell swoop, I lean over the edge and let it go. It tumbles out of my mouth, and into the pale blue waters below. I stare at its unsightly form for a second before it disperses into the water, never to be seen again.

Now all I feel is the wind whipping at my body, the occasional droplet of rain finding shelter on my face. It cuts through my skin, the wind does. It slices right to the bone.

"Ya feeling better, Marty?" Sully asks as I enter.

I nod my head, not sure if I can still speak.

The boat shudders as the wind jabs at it, creaking in that awful way.

The wind guides the boat, I remember. Wherever it blows, the boat must go, and if the boat resists, then the wind will cut through its hull and flip the whole ship over. And what if the wind blows you over the edge of the world... do you follow it then?

Always, comes my mother's voice.

No. I see it now. The wind shrieks and shoves at The Gloria, but she does not bow to it. She keeps her course true. She must follow only the sun and the stars. The wind is a trickster, who tests the bravery of man. The wind is capricious, just like the Sea God, but even more so. One second it is calm and the next it rages with the strength of ten thousand waves. You must endure them both, equally.

I remember when the wind hit me so hard that I forgot how to get up. And it came right after the calm, right after everything had seemed to be going right.

For half a week, the cold chill clung to me, confining me to the bed. As I lay there, physically immobilized, my energy began deteriorating. My nights on the bed were long and my days uneventful. Sleep caressed me in its warmth, but when it let go, I became weak. My mind idled, as the empty hole that was my stomach sucked my thoughts away.

In my wake, I didn't see my mother, but I knew that she was there. There was always a glass of water by my bed, which, save for temporary bouts of drought, remained untouched. What I needed was food. How nice it would have been to have just one slice of bread! But I had failed to buy the bread last Sunday, so I faced my hunger by closing my eyes and running away.

In spite of my worsening condition, the cold eventually left. On Thursday, I felt lively enough to wander out of my bed and about the house. It was an important development, since I would have to venture back out on Sunday. But even then, I was not quite sure if I was ready to go out and face the world. The world kept throwing new things at my face, things that did cause some degree of excitement—excitement that I had always longed for—but brought with it a wave of trauma and pain as well.