Stig Dagerman - Island of the Doomed

There was a distinct atmosphere of angst in Jimmie’s kitchen; his father was lying on the floor pretending to be asleep although he was only drunk, his naked chest was covered in scratches, a newly washed shirt was hanging by a piece of string over the stove. A newly washed shirt was hanging by a piece of string over the stove — Jimmie didn’t need to look more closely at the string over the stove and compare it with the piece he had in his pocket; as he ran up the steep hill towards the barracks, everything was excruciatingly clear, everything was finished and hopeless, his never-ending flight had begun. Huddled under the years of his childhood, he allowed everything to flow over him: the brutality of the barracks, the brutal hatred of the starving masses when the streets had to be cleared, the contempt of those who had eaten to satiety, oh yes, he knew all about running away from humiliation. The red string always wrapped itself round his legs at critical moments, new ways of running away had always to be found, panic softened his back and hollowed out his will; success, a career established in doubtful circumstances were the new ways of running away he hit upon, but over and over again he was cast back into the mire of memory. Why was everything so cruel, oh, that he would never understand! How could he understand that when he was always running away?

But now the bottom on which he lay was rising like the floor of a lift, the red spider was already embracing its prey as it swayed in the shadows under the grass. All was lost, all had gone to waste, all the years ignoring what was right propelled him ruthlessly towards the web. And then those cruel claws, the hairy body engulfing him like a wave, and everything dissolving into a blood-red haze. Then just sinking, sinking, and oblivion.

How did day come to the island? Ah, there is plenty to say about that. First of all a bow looked as if it were rising from the eastern horizon, horseshoe-like, coated with silver on its outer edge; it pressed up gently against the sun, framing it for a moment like a bucolic triumphal arch, then shot off at reckless speed in well-practised loops across the sky, over everyone’s head, as far as the opposite horizon, and then seemed to give way to some unknown pressure and fall towards the sea. Eddies appeared here and there in the morning-blue water, and before it was hit by the broken bow, you could sense a degree of understandable nervousness clinging to the surface which until recently had been so hysterically tense; suddenly the nerves of the sea were exposed so nakedly that an enormous outbreak of despair seemed about to occur at any moment; the gigantic fish whose spears used to pierce the bare flesh of the blue expanse nevertheless seemed blissfully unaware of their role as executioners. Then the crash came; still pliant despite its broken back, the bow sank down into the sea, its long, supple lines outlined for one brief moment on the surface itself before being pulled rapidly down by an invisible hand, and all at once a remarkable colour change took place: the bright silvery gleam disappeared without warning, leaving only a stinging blueness which spread rapidly under the surface of the sea from the pitiful remains of the bow, only to be hauled up into the day like nets being winched into a boat. The blue of day made its entrance and the white morning horses of the clouds galloped wearily towards the horizon, in rolled the round sheep, grazing lazily in the very hot sun which was now a lonely ball of fire swelling slowly from its own heat.

A remarkable period of great, confused optimism now followed on the island. Once again, they all realized with a shudder that they were still alive; the chill of death which had clung to them throughout the night was thawed yet again as the heat caressed their limbs, gently, gently. If anyone thought he suddenly heard birdsong, they would all stand up apprehensively without a word and stare at each other in bewilderment; it was like diving into unknown waters — but nothing happened as yet. They were just sucked down into the greenery, but nothing happened yet, only those floating corals that were always pushed aside by their foreheads. The fire was burning on the beach, the wet branches they broke off and threw down from the cliff top gave off unwavering, tearful smoke which always rose vertically and produced little heat; and now there was nothing to roast or boil over it. It just went on burning, like a hope rising to the heavens, unstoppable.

In silence, but filled with joy which was perhaps not obvious but nevertheless for most of them felt like the glow that used to emanate from their nursery window the first Sunday in Advent, they gathered round the fire, pushed the dark leaves closer to the flames, poked at a charred branch and steered their gaze along the column of smoke right to the top, where it broadened to form a blue plateau. Occasionally they would also glance out to sea, surreptitiously or quite openly like the English girl: she would shade her eyes with her hand and watch the banks of clouds sailing like convoys across the horizon. She was still calm, unspoilt by all the temptations which hopelessness entails willy-nilly; but her gentleness, in her face, body, movements and thoughts, sank slowly down, fell off her like the soft clay clinging to a shell, leaving it glistening and hard as enamel.

It was still not very warm, not as hot as it would become when the heat flung itself upon them almost with a roar, and they would collapse panting in somebody’s shadow. If one wanted, one could now close one’s eyes and be strolling along the holiday beach in the quiet summer bay some years previously. The water slowly fell asleep and, suddenly, the white edging of froth bordering the beach started gleaming red as tens of thousands of shells were caressed out of the calm. The English girl waded slowly out into the water in her bare feet, while the captain sat in the sand rubbing away at his only jackboot with a stone; and invariably, never varying her familiar posture — leaning far forward in front of the fire, a dirty length of cloth wrapped around her and her hair hanging loose around her head like that of a madwoman, one hand stubbornly shielding her forehead, eyes, nose, and her left arm dangling nonchalantly as if it were out of joint — Madame. Boy Larus, the airman, was still standing timidly by the fire, just gazing down at it, occasionally stamping on the ashes at its edge, occasionally glancing sadly at the crouching woman. Lucas Egmont seemed to be still trying to sleep, lying on his back with arms outstretched like those of a swimmer floating on a lake; the boxer was completely hidden by his canvas sheet and lay there rather more motionless than his paralysis would seem to dictate.

This was the time when hunger would make its presence felt. Not the whimpering kind; hunger would slowly take possession of them as silently as a float in the morning pond, nudging all thoughts gently aside, its sharp, spool-like form relieving some of them just for a moment from the disgusting green slime, and their longing became solid and indivisible. As if in a painful, dream-like trance, for their brief hunger had already tired them out, they felt the lure of the hollow beside the crippled boxer, where the remains of their food supplies were buried in a box: ship’s rusks, a few tins of sardines, green half-rotten pineapples. They’d do anything to secure that hollow for themselves, or so they thought; but they knew they’d never do it in fact. As they felt themselves fading, their hunger seemed to be a kind of promise: I am hungry, therefore I am — and just now, as the merciful sun caressed them so soothingly, this promise was all they needed.

The water had risen over the English girl’s ankles, but she kept on wading out to sea as shells floated up and gathered round her calves like a ring of coral. She looked down, and found she could still base dreams on this red ring. It was that time in the lounge at Beavershill; cousin Charles, the one everyone called Caruso because his voice had broken, had also come for Christmas. ‘Ah ma chere,’ he said in affected French, he was only fifteen after all, ‘ comme vous etes belle, comme vous etes belle. ’ Blushing, he sank to his knees before where she was sitting on the carpet in front of the fire, it was that Christmas she’d twisted her ankle when she fell off a sledge and she still had difficulty in walking. Quick as a flash, he tied two rattles round her thin calves, and how she shook as he helped her to her feet, how the wainscot seemed to bulge, and how endlessly long and uneven the carpet seemed to be because she had to support herself on him as she walked!