The Perishing Land - A Short Story

The Perishing Land

  W.E. Linde

  Copyright 2012 W.E. Linde

  Follow me on my blog, The Weathered Journal, at www.welinde.com

  Jon watched as his father Yosi hurried to finish the boat before the Sea swallowed them up. For a moment, Yosi paused from his work trying to get a rough hewn plank on the starboard ribs of the frame to line up with the one beneath it. Straightening his back, his father looked once more at the crashing waves hungrily devouring the beaches.

  Jon looked as well. He squinted, and touched his forehead. No more sweat. He was parched. His throat felt raw and thick, his tongue swollen and gritty. Jon blinked through the hard sun, and looked at the waters again as they moved ever closer to the ancient ground where his family now stood, land which had not been touched by salt water for generations.

  Yosi called to Jon, who left his mother's side from under the shade offered by wilting trees surrounding the sandy hill they had fled to. He told the young boy to hold a bucket of pitch so that he could more quickly seal the outer shell. Never before had father created a boat in such a way. He had taught Jon to always complete the structure first, and then apply the sticky resin to seal it. But normally it would take a week to make a good boat, and he would have had the help of others. They were alone now, and time was up.

  ***

  A month ago Jon had been making nets on the beach for his father and uncles when he looked up and saw the soldiers. That was only the second time in his eleven years of life he had ever seen soldiers. The island that Jon lived on was one of countless that the Government claimed as part of their country, but rarely did they visit. Beyond the delicate and pristine beaches, the tiny island was choked with wild, primal jungle that terrified most outsiders. Occasionally an official from the Government would arrange to meet the Chief of the island, visit briefly, collect some taxes, and quickly leave.

  When they appeared this time, however, there were more soldiers than Jon could count. Great boats made of metal floated outside the diminutive harbor, while the soldiers sped ashore like water spiders in smaller rubber rafts. Loud metal machines rocked the air as they hovered over the single village that claimed the island as home. Whup whup whup, the machines went, as invisible eyes from above watched the surprised islanders.

  A big man wearing a hat with a silver star on it ordered the first fisherman that they met to bring him to the Chief. As this leader-soldier disappeared into the Chief's home, the others began ordering the village men to assemble their families and to grab their most valuable items and some clothes. Once finished, they were hurried to the beaches nearest the harbor. Some men refused, and would have started fighting had the Chief not suddenly appeared. Standing to one side of him was the lead solider, and at his other side was Father Michael, the island's priest.

  The people pressed in around the Chief's home, an old, wide cottage built of palm tree, bamboo, and some foreign wood brought in by missionaries decades ago. Extending off of one side of the home was a small portico of bamboo covered with an overhang of wide palms and vine. It was here the people would gather to hear the Chief and his council speak.

  "The ocean is reclaiming her land," the Chief called out in his silky, aged voice, and the people went silent. Jon had already forgotten the exact words, but remembered that the Chief told them that because of the excesses of the world, the waters were rising. Islands all over the earth were shrinking and vanishing beneath the waves. "The solider who is here says he has come to take us to the bigger islands to the west."

  A palpable wash of anger then swept across the people, making Jon cower beneath it. The women wailed, and the men beat their breasts in fury. Jon felt a nameless fear gnaw in his stomach. He sat down on a smooth stone, and looked furtively around. His fear lessened when he saw his father emerge from behind the Chief.

  Yosi, who was the head deacon of the island's only church, advanced to Father Michael's side and spoke with him in whispers as the people despaired before them. A moment later the Chief lowered his head as Yosi quietly whispered to him as well.

  The Chief nodded, and Yosi looked to the priest. Father Michael, after a short hesitation, stepped forward to speak. He held up his hands, and the people again grew silent.

  "Brethren, the island is dying," he told the assembly, his voice cracking. "The world is changing." He stopped, looked down slightly, and cocked his head as if someone spoke in his ear. His mouth opened and closed noiselessly. When he started again, the words of a well known benediction tumbled from his lips. As he neared the end, his voice began to give way.

  "The peace of God..." he tried to finish, but trailed off. No one in the congregation heard his final words except possibly Yosi, who, standing just the priest's left, looked suddenly startled.

  "Go now, brethren," he choked. "These men from the Government are here to help. Listen to them." He turned away abruptly, and strode quickly to the nearby church. Yosi was close behind.

  Jon remembered how the people lingered once his father and Father Michael had left. Some were angry, some confused, all terrified. Despite the clear azure south Pacific sky and the late noon sun, darkness crept in from the surrounding jungle. But the army started to evacuate that very day. There was no more time. The entire island could sink within days, they said. All the boats on the island were marshaled, and would be used to move as much of their possessions as possible.