An Island Song and Coda -- by Russell Block
From the outset of untarnished memory, the wrath of the sun exacted itself upon my skin too fair, and years of peeling and newly forming layers slowly made me immune to its effect. The island sustained me as it had sustained my family for many generations, but it was imperative that I learn which trees were strongest, which fronds caught the most wind, and how best to fashion bindings from bark. All my enterprise would bring together a raft able to withstand the wrath of a wide ocean. This being done in accordance with island propriety left me with a staggering conveyance and no reason to long delay. Waving farewell to the two figures standing in the doorway of our thatched-roof hut, the only such hut I ever knew, I pushed the creation from sand to foam. They receded into the interior of that island home as I progressed and became subject to wind and wave.
Hacking with my only tool at the immature trunks brought along for this very purpose, two oars were brought into shape, the elements confounding my thorough-going effort; and these I affixed to the body of the vessel. From that point on, I was no longer merely doing what was expected of me, as that had already been achieved, but I had also managed to fashion the means to proceed in earnest against the forces of this luminous world. None could say if my craftsmanship, though satisfactory, and even because my hand was forced by powers beyond my control or knowing, would deliver me to promised glories or lead me to ignoble ends. Evidence of scores of others who had failed this extension of our fundamental challenge could be discerned if one looked closely enough or listened with shrewd indifference. Brawn and oars would differentiate my fate from this host’s failure.
At one point, when all around me was water, and when a cavity had formed, in which I gradually felt myself to be at bottom, and gradually did the upward pull of the wave cause me fear, I rowed mightily past the crest that would otherwise have drowned me and took heart in the sight the far side offered. A small island whose details were already distinct from the vaporous atmosphere at the water’s surface heartened me. Although I set forth without the expectation that I should ever see land again, or realize more of my journey’s purpose than had already been realized, I was glad of this, despite the obvious. No possible interpretation of my journey moved through this island and its purpose could in no way be advanced by a visit.
— To be continued in forthcoming installments of The Rialto Books Review —
