To Warren the knowing was all there was, and he was glad Gijan would do the work and not bother him. At noon beneath the high hard dazzle of the sky he ate little because he wanted to keep his head clear. At night, though, he filled himself with the hot moist fish and tin-flavored water. He woke to a biting early sun. The mosquitoes still stung but he did not mind it so much now.
On the third day like this, he began to write down for himself a kind of patchwork of what he thought they meant. He knew as soon as he read it over that it was not right. He had never been any good with words. When he was married he did not write letters to his wife when he shipped out even if he was gone half a year. But this writing was a way of getting it down and he liked the act of scratching out the blunt lines on the backs of the Skimmer sheets.
IN THE LONG TIMES BEFORE, THE EARLY FORMS WENT EASY IN THE WORLD, THEN ROSE UP LEAPING OUT OF THE BOTTOM OF THE WORLD, TO THE LAND, MADE THE TOOLS WE KNEW, STRUCK THE FIRE, MADE THE FIRE-HARDENED SAND WE COULD SEE THROUGH SO THAT WE COULD CUP THE LIGHT. THE CLOUDS OPEN, WE CAN SEE LIGHTS, LEARN THE DOTS ABOVE, WE SEE LIGHTS WE CANNOT REACH, EVEN THE HIGHEST JUMPER OF US CANNOT TOUCH THE LIGHTS THAT MOVE. WE CUP THE LIGHT, SCOOP IT UP, AND FIND THE LIGHTS IN THE SKY ARE SMALL AND HOT, BUT THERE IS ONE LIGHT THAT WE CUP TO US AND FIND IT IS A STONE IN THE SKY. WE THINK OTHER LIGHTS ARE STONES IN SKY THOUGH FAR AWAY; WE SEE NO OTHER PLACE LIKE THE WORLD. WE SWIM AT THE BOTTOM OF EVERYTHING—IN THE WORLD, THE PLACE WHERE STONES WANT TO FALL—BUT THE FALLING FLOW TAKES THE STONES IN THE SKY, MAKES THEM CIRCLE US, CIRCLE FOREVER LIKE THE HUNTERS IN THE WORLD BEFORE THEY CLOSE FOR THE KILLING, SO THE STONES CANNOT STRIKE US IN THE NEST OF US, THE WORLD OF THE PEOPLE. WE THOUGHT THAT OURS WAS THE ONLY WORLD AND THAT ALL ELSE WAS COLD STONE OR BURNING STONE. AND AS WE CUPPED THE LIGHT NOT THINKING OF IT, WE SAW THE COLD STONE IN THE SKY GROW A LIGHT WHICH WENT ON, THEN OFF, THEN ON, AGAIN AND AGAIN, MOVING NOW STRANGELY IN THE SKY AND THEN GROWING MORE STONES, MOVING, STONES FALLING INTO THE WORLD, STONES SMALLER THAN THE BIG SKY STONE, HITTING KILLING BRINGING BIG ANIMALS THAT STINK, EATING EVERY PIECE OF THE WORLD THAT COMES BEFORE THEM, TAKING SOME OF US IN THEM, BIG STONES MAKING BIG ANIMALS THAT ARE NOT ALIVE BUT SWALLOW, KEEPING US IN THEM IN WATER, SOUR WATER THAT BRINGS PAIN, WE LIVE THERE, LIGHT COMING FROM LAND THAT IS NOT LAND, A WORLD THAT IS NOT THE WORLD, NO WAVES, NO LAND BUT THERE IS THE GLOWING STONE ON ALL SIDES THAT WE CANNOT CLIMB, NO LAND FOR THE YOUTH TO CRAWL TO, LONG TIME PASSING, WE SING OVER AND OVER THE SOON-BIRTHING BUT IT DOES NOT COME, THE SONG DOES NOT MAKE BIRTHING STIR IN THIS RED WORLD, THIS SMALL WORLD THAT ONE OF US CAN CROSS IN THE TIME OF A SINGLE SINGING. THE YOUTH CHANGE THEIR SONG SLOWLY, THEN MORE AND THEN MORE, THEIR SONG GOES AWAY FROM US, THEY SING STRANGELY BUT DO NOT CRAWL. HOT RED THINGS BUBBLE IN THE SMALL WORLD WHERE WE LIVE AND THE YOUTH DRINK IT. THE SMOOTH STONE ON ALL SIDES THAT MAKES THIS WORLD GLOWS WITH LIGHT THAT NEVER GROWS AND NEVER DIMS. WE KEEP SOME OF OUR TOOLS AND CAN FEEL THE TIME GOING, MANY SONGS PASS, WE DO NOT LET THE YOUTH SING OR CRAWL BUT THEN THEY DO NOT KNOW US AND SING THEIR OWN NOISE, DRINKING IN THE FOUL CURRENTS OF THE BIG ANIMAL WE INHABIT, THE SMOOTH STONE OOZING LIGHT, ALWAYS RUMBLING, THE CURRENTS NOT RIGHT. WE MOVE THICKLY, LOSE OUR TIDES, THE RED CURRENTS SUCK AND BRING FOOD SWEET AND BITTER, WRONG, THE YOUNG ONES WHO SHOULD CRAWL ON LAND NOW EAT THE FOOD AND CHANGE, LONG TIMES THE WALLS HUMMING AND NO WAVES FOR US TO FLY THROUGH AND SPLASH WHITE.
THEN THE SMOOTH STONE GROWS SLOWLY HOT, CRACKS OPEN, SOME OF US DIE, THE SONG DIMS AMONG US, BITTER BLUE CURRENTS DRIVE US DOWN, MORE OF US FALL FROM THE SONG, LONG COLD SOUNDS STAB US, AND MORE FALL, FROM THE SOUR STREAMS COME NOW WAVES, FRESH STREAMS, WE TASTE, SING WEAKLY, SPEAK, IT IS A WORLD LIKE THE ONE WORLD, THE SMOOTH STONE ON ALL SIDES IS GONE, WE BREAK WATER.
THERE ARE WAVES CUTTING WHITE, SHARP, WE FIND SALT FOODS, LEAP INTO HOT AIRS, WAVES HARD FAST, WE CUP THE LIGHT AND SEE BIG STONE IN SKY, FAR STONES MOVING ACROSS THE MANY STONES, LIKE OUR WORLD BUT NOT OF OUR WORLD. THE SONG IS WEAK, WE SEEK TO CROSS THE WORLD BUT CANNOT, WE KNOW WE WILL LOSE OURSELVES IN THIS WORLD IF OUR SONG IS STRETCHED FARTHER.
BUT THE YOUTH HAVE A STRANGE SONG AND THEY GO OUT. THEY FIND FOOD, THEY FIND BIG ANIMALS IN THE WAVES AND BIGGER ANIMALS THAT CRUSH THE WAVES, THEY STRIKE AT THEM IN THE WAY WE ONCE DID LONG TIMES PAST, THROW THEIR WEBS TO BRING DOWN THE CRUSHERS OF WAVES.
THESE CRUSHERS ARE NOT THE BIG ANIMALS WE KNEW IN THE WORLD AND WHEN THE YOUTH DRAG THEM DOWN CLOSER TO THE CENTER THEY ARE NOT RIPE, DO NOT BURST WITH FRUIT, ARE FIERY TO THE MOUTH, AND KILL SOME YOUTH WITHOUT RELEASING THE PODS THAT WOULD DRIVE THE YOUTH TO THE LAND, DRIVE THEM TO THE AIR TO SUCK, DRIVE THE CHANGE TO MAKE THE YOUTH INTO THE FORM THAT WOULD BE US. THESE THINGS THAT FLOAT AND CRUSH THE WAVES WE FEAR AND FLEE, BUT THE YOUTH EAT OF THEM AND YET DO NOT GO TO THE LAND TO CRAWL; WE LOSE THE SONG WITH THEM FOREVER, THEY FLY THE WAVES NO MORE, THEY TAKE THE BIG ANIMALS THAT WALK ABOVE THE WAVES. THE YOUTH HAVE BECOME ABLE TO KILL THE BITTER WAVE-WALKERS, THEY FEAST ON THE THINGS IN THEM. WE SEE FROM A DISTANCE THAT IT IS YOU THE YOUTH EAT, EVEN IF YOU ARE SICK AND DEATH CAUSING, YOU ARE KILLED IN THE SKINS THAT CARRY YOU WALKING THE WAVES. THE YOUTH DO NOT SING, THEY SPLIT YOUR SKINS, THEY GROW AND EAT ALL THAT COMES BEFORE THEM.
NOW YOU ARE GONE LIKE US, NEARLY CHEWED. WE COME TO HERE, WE DRIVE THE YOUTH AWAY, THE ACT CHEWS US BUT DOES NOT FINISH US. WE FIND YOU IN THE SKINS YOU LOVE AND WE CANNOT SING WITH YOU. WE FIND YOU ONE MAN AND IN ONE YOU CAN SING; TOGETHER YOU ARE DEAF. YOU ARE THE TWENTY-FOURTH WE HAVE SUNG WITH ON THE WAVES YOUR KIND CANNOT HEAR UNLESS YOU ARE ONE AND CANNOT SING TO EACH OTHER. MANY OF THE OTHERS WHO SUNG WITH US ARE NOW CHEWED BUT WE CAN KEEP THE YOUTH AWAY FOR A TIME WE GROW WEAK THE YOUTH RUN WITH SORES AND LEAVE STINK IN THE CURRENTS FOUL WHERE THEY GO WE SMELL THEM THE WORLD THAT WAS FALSE WORLD MADE THEM THIS WAY NOT AS THEY WERE WHEN WE KNEW THEM IN THE WORLD THAT WAS OURS THEY CANNOT SING BUT KNOW OF THE PLACES WHERE YOU SING TO EACH OTHER AND SOME NOW GO THERE WITH THEIR SORES MAY BE CHEWED BY YOU BUT THERE ARE MANY MANY OF THEM THEY ACHE NOW FOR THE SKINS-THAT-SINK, BUT THEY ARE MADNESS THEY ARE COMING AND THEY CHEW YOU OTHERS LAST
Five
Each night after it got too dark for Warren to write in the yellow firelight, they would move inland. The mosquitoes stayed near the beach and there were a lot of other insects, too. Warren listened to fish in the lagoon leaping for the insects and the splashing as the Skimmers took the fish in turn. He could see their phosphorescent wakes in the water.
They smeared themselves with mud to keep off the mosquitoes, but it did not keep off the ticks that dropped from the trees. There was no iodine in Gijan’s box of random items.
Putting a drop of iodine on the tick’s tail was the best treatment and second best was burning them off. Each morning the men inspected each other and there were always a few black dots where the ticks burrowed in. An ember from the fire pressed against the tick’s hindquarters made it let go and then Warren could pull the tick out with his fingernails. He knew that if the head came off in the skin, it would rot and the whole area would become a boil. He noticed that Gijan got few ticks and he wondered if it had anything to do with the Asian skin.
The next morning Warren got a good catch, and when he brought it in he was sore from the days of work on the raft. After eating the fish he went for more coconuts. The softer fronds were good, too, for rubbing the skin to take away the sting of mosquito bites and to get the salt out. Finding good coconuts was harder now and he worked his way across the island, up the ridgeline and down to a swampy part on the southern side. There were edible leaves there and he chewed some slowly as he made his way back, thinking. He was nearly across a bare stretch of soil when he saw it was the place they had laid out the SOS. The light-colored rocks were there but they were scattered. The SOS was broken up.