The Pith

By Vaughn Pearson

Vaughn Pearson

Mr. Jackson

EWC 4UR

March 24, 2008

Day 65

I start my days with a walk around this place that I call Bob. It's a warm place, a little rough around the edges, but homey. Like my uncle Bob. Thus, in honor of my Uncle Bob, I had named it such.

And on this fine morning I decide to keep my walk short, and take a nap on the soft beach sand beneath the palm trees. Contrasting the relative heat of the beach, the shade beneath the tree cooled the sand to the point that its powdery texture runs through my hands like water, stimulating every nerve in my fingers.

I reach my sandy spot and lie down, placing my things by a palm tree. I let myself start to drift into sleep as the whispering waves sing me to sleep.

“Come in the water, Jonah, come for a swim,” say the water people, interrupting my little siesta. An annoying bunch, the water people showed up around day 35. They keep wanting me to go for a swim. To hell with that, I see their little claws ready to snatch me up the second I go in.

I sit up, having been lying under the shade of a palm tree. I look down at the water people. Their scaly skin glimmers in the sun, forcing me to squint.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I reply calmly. I then throw a pebble at them. They scatter, swimming off into the waves, becoming one with the falling tide. I go back to my basking. But just as I am reaching that blissful state of ignorance I hear a snort. I pay it no attention. Then another snort.

Suddenly my mind registers the sound. It is him. Piggy. That damn Piggy.

I grab my harpoon that I had left leaning against the tree and start chasing the sounds of the creature. I say it is a creature, because it is no ordinary pig. No, it is a monster. For two weeks after the wreck it ransacked my shelter. And even now, after two months on Bob Island, I still haven't killed it.

I keep running and running, but the oinking just keeps getting farther and farther away. The damn thing is messing with my head again. But I persist onwards, snaking through the underbrush. My heart beats through my chest. Bah bum, bah bum, bah bum. Bum bum, bah, bum bum, bah... Bum Bum Bum Bum. The beating grows louder and louder, the oinking growing quieter. The beating grows more distinct.

“What in the Bob...” I mutter, pushing through a thick patch of trees. I emerge on the other side, standing at the edge of a grassy clearing. In the middle is a plume of black smoke, and around it the grass sways, “But who...”

I blink and the smoke is gone, as is the drumming. I am suddenly aware of the silence that envelops me.

“Island fever,” I say to myself. I shake my head, open the pouch in my pants, and withdraw a piece of fish. I eat it happily, then start back towards the beach.

“All this sunbathing is rotting our mind,” Says Charles, who is sitting on a stump nearby.

“My mind, Charles, you don't exist,” I say calmly, passing him. I like to think that I have embraced island fever, making it my own, but Charles persists on appearing to me.

“Yes, but can you prove that?” He says smugly. I look at him. He is dressed in a white suit, and looks very smart. The kind of suit a secret agent would wear, or a rich playboy. And his hair is just as white as the suit is, coming down to just below his ears. I imagine he looks like what I would look like, minus the scraggly island hair. His face is pale, but not pasty. He is completely white, except for his eyes. Almost no light escapes their cold, black stare. That's why I know he doesn’t exist. Those eyes told me.

I walk over to him and punch him hard in the face. My fist connects, to my surprise, but not a mark is left on his face. He grins.

I grunt and continue on.

“Now that we have straightened that out, could you get me some food? You know I haven’t eaten since I got here.”

“And how did you get here, Charles?”

“I told you, I'm a regional salesman from I.F.Trust. They sent me here to scout for possible customers.”

“On an empty island?”

“Well, you are here, right?”

“True.” With that we walk together to the beach. I can see my cave at the end of the beach, but we have a long way to walk before getting there. The beach is a good half a kilometer long.

The sand slopes down into the water steeply in places, while in others it gradually melts into it. I had once found a sandbar going all the way out to the reef, but I have since lost track of it.

“Well, Jonah, as much as I would love to stay and chat, I have to get back to the missus,” says Charles, yawning and stretching his arms out over his head. I grunt, not looking back at him, just continuing home.

“Bye,” he called, “Have a good one!”

I lift my hand over my head, middle finger raised back at him. I don't want to give him the pleasure of any further response.

With my harpoon in hand, I climb the rocks to the cave entrance and slide down in. It had taken a while to find this cave, but eventually I managed. It is a wet cave. And by that I mean the ocean reaches into it. I live further inside the cave, at the very back, where the air is cool and smells of the sea.

All in all, my home is very comfortable, unlike those shown in movies or TV. Why they never get comfortable is beyond me.

After the wreck I had taken what I could from the ship. It still sits over there, on the southern tip of Bob, rotting. I woke up on the East beach, as I have dubbed Katrina beach, a little ways away from it. The beach had been torn to pieces by the storm that had stranded me, and the wreckage brought back memories of the storm that hit the southern states not long ago. The boat was a little far away from Katrina, but after a day or two I found it.

My home consists of a bed (made of a slightly damaged mattress from my cabin), a desk, also salvaged, a beat up chair, and some planks of wood arranged to block water from flooding the area.

I place my harpoon with my fishing gear. It had washed up a week after the wreck. And the reefs are great for fishing.

As I busy myself at my desk, rooting around the drawers looking for my pen and paper, I hear a sound. It sounds like trickling water. Someone has come out of the cave lagoon.

I pull out my flashlight (it is powered by squeezing a trigger over and over, so I don't need batteries) and shine it at the source. Nothing. Just empty space. Not even any water on the cave floor.

“Island fever,” I say, going back to my task.

The dripping continues. This time sounding like wet footsteps. I get up, reaching for my harpoon. I run towards the footsteps, to try to catch a glimpse of my intruder.

I reach the water, and seeing no one, I look down into it. Light from the water outside the cave shimmers through the cave water, lighting it up green. I get down on my knees and peer into it. Searching, searching. I see something, rising up. My hand hovers over my harpoon. The thing comes closer. A face. It rises, rises. It breaks the surface. It's pitch black eyes stare up at me from its ice white face, its mouth twisted in a grin.

“Prove I'm not real,” it says.

Day 72

“Jonah,” calls the voice. It’s a woman’s voice. I can almost recognize it, but it escapes me.

“Where is she?” Charles shouts, standing next to me, his head swinging about to determine the source of the call. We stand at the base of the pillar of smoke, alone in the clearing.

“I don’t know,” I say, equally confused. Charles turns to me.

“Then find her!”

“Shut up for a second and maybe I will!” He does, but I can tell he doesn’t like it. I scan the forest, looking. But nothing comes to me.

“Jonah?” Charles is looking edgy now.

“Just a second…” Then up pops Piggy. Right there, in plain sight. I can see him. So I chase.

“Jonah! What about the voice?”

“Piggy!” I cry in response, chasing the beast. It no longer taunts me in the form of a boar. It has reared its true form now. A beast of unimaginable grotesqueness, Piggy is the ultimate freak.

So I chase.

And chase.

Until he is gone, and I am alone.

“No one is ever alone on Bob,” I mutter to myself. And I am right. I look to my left, and there it is.

The Pith.

This place is dark, cold. Ice decorates its entrance. The trees bordering it are dead and gray, like the life has been taken from them. I stand at the edge of this pit, looking down into it. Only darkness greets me.

“Jonah, what happened to you…” Charles starts, reaching me, and then he sees the Pith and stops.

“The Pith,” I say flatly.

“What’s in there?” I stand, silent.

“I don’t know.” Then I turn. The voice comes back.

“Jonah,” it moans. The voice comes from the Pith. I whip my head around at it, terrified. This time the voice gains a name.

“Alice,” I whisper.

“Shit…” Charles curses, taking off his snazzy white coat. An equally white vest lies underneath, with a black pocket on the left breast, standing out from all the white.

I pull my harpoon from my belt.

“Die,” I say to the voice. I just want it to stop, to stop tormenting me with its never-ending calls. I throw the harpoon into the heart of the Pith. There is a pang of metal on stone, then nothing. Silence. Charles walks to the edge of the Pith and looks down. He curses again and comes back to me.

“Saints preserve us, Jonah,” he mutters as he passes me. I nod, to no one in particular, and then follow him.

“Who do you think she was?” asks Charles as we reach the beach.

“No idea.”

Day 75

The Pith has started calling again. Charles can’t hear it, but I can. Calling, calling. Always there, always watching me. If it continues, I’m afraid I may go insane.

Day 77

I still haven’t told Charles about the Pith’s continuing call. I don’t wan to concern him with it. He has enough on his plate already. There seems to be some turmoil in the home.

“She says I cheated on her,” explains Charles, as we chop our way through the jungle. We are headed to my boat, down on Mercy Rock, where I crashed.

“Did you?”

“Well, yeah, but just because she treats me like shit though!”

“Why is that?” I ask, only mildly interested. Charles is my friend, but that doesn’t mean I want to be his therapist.

“She thinks that I’m weak!”

“Well that’s hardly true,” I remark.

“Yeah, she thinks that I just do nothing all day sitting at some desk somewhere, typing in sales reports and shit like that!”

“You are a man, a good man, she shouldn’t talk to you like that,” I say.

“Exactly! I work hard, every day. There is no reason she should treat me that way.”

“But why did you cheat? You said you were going to try to start a family. How can you two start one if you are fighting like this?”

“Hell, I don’t know, I think we are going to go on a trip, maybe a cruise. She really wants to go sailing.”

“Have you told her your best friend is marooned on an island because of a sailing accident?”

“Hah, I should, shouldn’t I?” He laughs, walking ahead of me. I follow. We emerge out onto a beach. Katrina Beach.

“Ah, nothing like the old homestead, eh Jonah?” He sighs as we step out onto the long and gorgeous beach that stretches out for nearly a mile in each direction. Sparkling waves wash upon the sands like crystal subjects bowing to the island king.

Day 79

Charles and I reached the boat yesterday. We have been camped out here overnight. Our plan was to just get here and grab some things, then head back, but we took our time getting here, and we don't want to be out after dark. Who knows what kind of horrible creatures may be lurking in the night.

But now the sun is up and we are out. Charles is on what is left of the boat, a massive tear in the side of the hull giving view of him as he busied himself looking for some interesting things to decorate the cave with.

I was picking shells, depositing them in my pack that I found on the boat, when Charles called me.

“Jonah, Jonah,” he calls, “Come see this!” I rush into the craft which lay like a beached whale on the rocks, “Jonah, look at this!”

I look at what he holds in his hand. It is a small camera, a video camera. A long cable stretches out of it, and leads outside the boat. I climb a ladder to the top deck and find a solar panel, broken in places, attached to the cable.

“Is it working?” I ask, coming back into the craft. A chime is heard in the cabin as the camera comes to life.

“I think so,” he says with a grin. I take it from him, and begin to rewind the tape.

“I don’t remember having a video camera on the boat. Why would I need one?”

“Play the video, maybe that will give some clues.”

“Brilliant deduction Sherlock,” I mutter, flicking the camera to its play setting. I flip out the screen on the camera and watch as the little rewind symbol flashes.

I wait until it stops rewinding, and then hit play.

Two people sit in what resembles the ships cabin; a man and a woman. I recognize the man. It is me. But he is different. He feels, almost, distant somehow.

“What…” Mutters Charles, watching over my shoulder. I turn up the volume.

“Today is the fourth day of our trip. We have sailed clear of the cities now, and are headed for Koh Chang,” says the man, facing the camera, “we are proud to say that we haven’t fought once yet.” He grins with pride, but the woman seems to not be impressed.

“For gods sakes, Gregory, its four days. Do you have that little faith in us? Are you that impressed that we haven’t done worse?” The two begin to argue. Apparently the man is named Gregory.

“Do you know a Gregory? Was he on board with you?” Asks Charles. I shake my head. The name, like the face, is familiar, but I don’t remember having any other men on board, let alone one named Gregory. The boat isn’t big enough for any more than two people.

Suddenly Gregory says something.

“Alice.” That one word strikes me silent. I rewind the tape, and play it again.

Frantically I watch the rest of the tape. Every clip is another day on their trip. They seem more and more aggressive each day. Then only Gregory comes on. He is in rough shape, and something stains his otherwise perfectly white shirt.

“She’s dead. My god she’s dead,” he sobs to the camera, holding it limply. I drop the camera, turning to Charles. But he is gone, and I am alone.

Day 77

They’re all gone. Charles is gone, the water people are gone, even Piggy is gone. The only thing left is the Pith. It calls, louder and louder, and it has taken them from me, it has taken them from me and now I am alone. I run, run in hope of finding them, any of them. Someone.

I run until I reach the cave. Not even it has escaped the Pith. It is empty, a pile of reeds as my bed and a rock where my desk was. Empty, deserted, desolate. I cannot face it, so I run. I run in hope of finding them.

I go to the rock where Charles and I would fish. No tackle box, no fishing lines. It is bare and worn by the sea, ocean weeds dangling from it. So I run. I run in hope of finding them.

I go to the beach, where the water people tempt me to swim. I dive into the water, swimming deep into their home. No claws greet me, no gold bait. Just the sandy floor rippling like the waves above. So I run. I run in hope of finding them.

The smoke is gone.

Piggy is gone.

Charles is gone.

All that remains is the Pith.

And that is where I find myself. Standing over it, looming, staring down into its dark and cold depths. Its ice has spread further. A black vine dangles into it. I take it, and begin to climb down into oblivion.

Deeper and deeper, I travel down towards the source of the calling.

“Jonah, Jonah, Jonah” It calls. Then it stops, and I feel the cold earth under my feet.

The Pith grows brighter as my eyes adapt to its darkness. It is wider down here; a hollow chamber.

“Jonah.” It comes from in front of me. I walk towards it. A figure forms in the dark, but I can’t make it out.

“Charles?” I ask hopefully.

“No.”

“Piggy?” I can just barely make out my harpoon sticking out of the figures leg.

“No.” The figure is just outside the light coming from above. The Pith dims this sunbeam, but not even it can stop its reach. The figure steps forwards.

“Alice,” I say softly. I find myself shaking now.

“Yes.” I look down at myself. My shirt and pants, both muddy and torn, show remnants of their former selves. On my once white shirt I can see blotches of rusty brown.

“You understand now.”

“Yes,” I choke, falling to my knees. I clutch Alice’s leg, tears streaming down my face.

“You remember.”

“Yes.” Charles appears at her side. Charles is wearing all black now, but his left breast pocket is white.

“You killed her Gregory.”