The Island: Act One

ACT ONE - 3: A Guilty Man

I turn myself fully towards the tall thin man in front. His grey hair is shoulder length contrasting with his light brown skin and he has a bushy beard that falls to the bottom of his neck. Older than the rest, his body is wrinkled and dry. His shoes are thin slippers made from some odd material that Stephen can't really make out – bamboo maybe? His spear now Stephen could see it level, was uneven. Curved slightly from the amateurish craftmanship, this frustrates Stephen to look at. Alas the nerves of the current situation that befalls him, distracts him from his minor OCD.

Understanding the older man's gesture to drop the gun to the floor. Stephen turns to him and moves his left foot back in line with his right.

A harsh thud cuts through the silence of the clearing, as Stephen's left foot connects with a rock. Startling the natives, they think it's the sound of Stephen's weapon and they all move to attack. Stephen looks from the rock to each of the men, petrified.

"No, wait! Please!" His eyes closing in fear and hands clenching in shock, he pulls the trigger. Bang. The sound penetrates the jungle like a sole lightning strike on a quiet day. It echoes through the trees, telling the story of this new sound. The natives step back, dropping their weapons and clasping their ears in surprise. Having expected the weapon to sound like the deep thud of a rock, to hear the unexpected eruption of gun powder was probably a shock to them, Stephen thought. As well as a relatively new sound to the island, judging by his opposition's weaponry.

They're eyes clasped shut and ears covered; Stephen sees his chance. Recomposing himself he grabs his stick and runs. Well, tries. More like a hurried skip, Stephen throws himself through the jungle. Past the older man and into the thick trees, leaving the sun behind him.

The sound of the bang fading, and the ringing in their ears dying, the natives open their eyes, lower their hands and look around them in shock. The stranger was gone. The older man turns to see the stranger skipping off into the trees, whistling to signal the rest of them, they grab their weapons and pursue.

The jungle is dense and tall. Covering the floor, the sky. Everything around Stephen is tree. No area looking different to the last. But this was it. He had met a people of the island and managed to turn them against him just as quickly. So much for them helping me to get of this rock. Running on pure adrenaline from the chase, he hadn't even realised his cut had once more begun bleeding ferociously. Beating plants and bushes to the side as he skips through the forest, not following any path or particularly looking at what was in front. His eyes watch his rear, as the ten men close in on him. The fastest among them also carries a bow. Of course, he does. Springing to a stop, he stretches the string, pulling quiver to ear and fires a shot. It sears through the air, cutting the wind in two.

Stephen ducks out the way and the arrow sings past him, going so far Stephen doesn't even see where it lands. Cutting to his right, Stephen follows a new invisible path. Traveling north east from his position, not actually knowing if it was north east or any particular direction; any would do. Ahead of him he could see a break in the tree line.

Yes! There, there's blue. Maybe not the sea, but the sky at least. Possibly the beach! I just need to get there. It waited a good two hundred metres ahead of him, but with every step it seemed to get further away. He was patting bushes and plants away instinctively now. Unsure of where the natives were, glancing back to see them not a hundred metres behind him. AH! Stephen falls.

Meeting the ground with an anti-climatic splash, Stephen cries with pain. The very same leg of the cut twisting impossibly. With a great thud and twang, an arrow plants itself fiercely into the rock a metre to his left, kicking himself back with his right and undamaged foot as a spear soils itself right where he had fallen. Looking up as he kicks himself back against an uneven wall of stone. The natives cheer what could be a victory cry, or the cry one calls when they had caught their prey on a day's hunt.