Stig Dagerman - Island of the Doomed

‘If you think I can love you, you’re sadly mistaken,’ he whispered softly to her, so that no one else could hear. ‘I’m lying here rotting away, as you well know. It’s sheer torture for you to choose me to fawn on, a man who can’t move from the spot, who can’t even attend to his bodily needs without disgusting himself and everybody else. Why don’t you go straight to the captain, that hunk of muscle: he should be potent enough to keep you happy. But keep me away from everybody’s gaze, especially yours; wrap me up in the canvas as you would somebody who’s dead already, and then pound away at my hidden body as hard as you can, I won’t put up any resistance any more, I’m not going to live as you know full well.’

Involuntarily, he then looked up quickly, past the large, dense, all-too-bright surface of the sea, and his eyes settled on the cheeky white yachts of the midday clouds scudding towards the horizon. Her gaze sank down, and he could see how the ice in her eyes slowly engulfed the island that was her pupil, an icy wind seemed to blow over her features which suddenly stiffened like rifts in a tundra. Then she slowly rose up from the sand, wrapped up like a mummy in the thick cotton, and just then a shriek rang out from the interior of the island, quite loud and shrill, but extremely short — was it from some lonely human, or some animal? — but the English girl heard nothing of this, she struck him with the back of her right hand, brown and pitted by the sand, struck him four times over his cheek-bone and his nose, casually and absent-mindedly, and all the while she was frozen in her pain; it was like a dead body raising its hand by mistake, a statue that comes to life — and that’s all.

Stiff-legged, strangely statuesque, she then walked over the sand towards the fire; the cloth round her injured right foot slowly worked loose and trailed behind her like a split-open snake with blood running out; she noticed nothing, and spiralled down in front of the fire. They were alone on the beach just then, it was as if the world had forsaken them; a lone bird swooped down over the smoke and seemed to drop something from its beak into the fire. The dull thudding of iguanas drifted over from the rocks, and someone was shouting stubbornly from the trees on the highest part of the island; they were evidently still looking for the shriek.

How the blows helped him to overcome his inner paralysis! The world was once again clearly defined in its pure malevolence, and remarkably: the hollow in the high grass, which he could hear snorting up above them, seemed to be moving nearer all the time. His muscles were softened up by the merry hands of invisible masseuses, and all he was waiting for now was the last rush of malevolence which would pluck him up from out of his trance and fling his body the last few remaining paces. He lay there abandoned all night long, just as he had done in the afternoon; no one pretended to see him any more, it was now evidently part of their plans to let him die in tranquillity, and part of his plans as well — their profound malevolence increased his chances of fleeing enormously.

Night had fallen, suddenly, black and starless; the white wings of the birds flashed occasionally like signal lights over the sea, which seemed to be smacking its gigantic lips, clicking its huge tongue. The dumb birds suddenly acquired voices in the darkness, or was it just his imagination? A gruff, gutteral sound forced out with great difficulty, occasionally broke through their silence; they didn’t seem to be talking to each other, but to themselves. Then the sand suddenly became damp, as if someone had been licking it hurriedly; the cold closed in like a suit of armour, and the stars lit up as well, horribly high and no longer twinkling, like the pupils of a fresh corpse.

And at dawn, something wonderful happened: Lucas Egmont, his bedfellow, rose to his feet with a groan and drowned his false charity in the stream of water under the water keg. Jimmie was so grateful for that: another mooring rope had been cut, and now he could rise up like a balloon into silence and solitude. His limbs were filled with painful desire; as noted, he thought his paralysis had eased and suddenly found himself running. He felt as if he were swishing through the morning, his feet were like typewriter keys striking the unwritten sand, which had so often been rinsed by the waves; soon he felt the sun on his back, but the sea was not yet melting in the heat, its vast blue expanse still quivered after the night like the back of an impatient racehorse; the dolphins glistened like flashes of lightning into the horizon, the lagoon was as smooth as a millpond as it reflected his flight; the ship lay on the belly of the reef, apparently still whimpering over its broken back, and the masses of seaweed pouring out of the ship’s gaping side glistened with moisture; a porthole whose glass was still only half smashed seemed to be weeping darkness down into the blond water. Once again the birds rose out of the grass above him; in close formation with only a wing’s breadth between them, the whole flock soared over the lagoon in near silence, only their wing beats rustling gently like the leaves of a book being read to oneself, their reflection skimming improbably lightly over the lagoon, and they headed for the ship where they suddenly swooped down. The birds waddled unsteadily over the stern deck, and disappeared one by one into the hull through some hole or other. It would have been very easy now to run halfway round the island and block the way out for the flock with planks or a piece of canvas, then lie in wait by the portholes where they might be expected to creep out, stun them as they tried to take off — and there would have been enough food for some considerable time to come.

But Jimmie immediately chose the higher path, and flushed with the thrill of his escape, he raced over the rocks, iguana skins exploding loudly under his feet; now he was supreme and refused to be surprised when he found that the path over the rocks, covered in sharp stones, caused him no pain at all; the iguanas scuttled quickly out of his way, beating their long tails against the stones with sharp cracks.

Why was he running away? Well, why does one run away? Jimmie Baaz had a painful memory he always ran away from. He had been chased up long ladders and dreamt of being rescued on the last rung, but in his dream the ladder had always fallen over pitifully and the swamp had once more wrapped its sticky arms around him. In other dreams he was running down the long road leading away from there, but just like at a fairground, the pavements were rolling in the opposite direction and so he was drawn inexorably back again. He would tense his body in readiness for an enormous thrust which would free him from the iron grip of the road, but everything just seized up. A helpless bundle lashed together with the red threads of his own terror, he would wake up in a cold sweat, and it was hours before he could straighten his twisted limbs properly again. His muscles ached for a long time afterwards, his punches became dull and half-hearted, especially the left one which bounced back ineffectively before it had reached its target. For fear of tightening up in his dream, he would take strong injections the night before every important bout, and sink quickly down into the depths of unconsciousness. But although he was rescued temporarily from his dream, he would be hounded all the more relentlessly while awake by his pursuer; a certain type of person passing him by in the street would give rise to remarkable feelings of alarm inside him, certain streets exuded a certain type of smell which affected him just as badly, and if he therefore chose the wide, pearl-studded boulevards where people hurrying past thrust visiting cards into his famous fists, he might come across some annoying vehicle or an unattended dog which would jump up at him, panting — and the ground would give way under his feet as he sank back once more into this bottomless well.