Isla Mors

The sound of the waves grew louder as the teal blue streak of metal roared up the incline onlooking the shore. 

The sky set apart from the deep blue by its monsoon-grey contained no evidence of the sun.

Gusts of wind carrying sea salt were shot upwards by the hillside rock and into the open window of the 1985 Chevy Impala. 

The hunk of metal moved with an overly listless speed, flaunting its elegance at every bend leading up to the lighthouse. 

Waves eternally rose and fell onto the same shores with the same sand no matter how morbidly stagnant their view would stay for eternity. On their side of the hill ran a continuous steep black granite cliff on which no life grew whatsoever, except for the places where the narrow concrete road carved through. 

Faded white supports and a rusted barbed wire ran along the length of the road and were the only things set apart from the monotone colours of the ridge and the heavy skies.

The beach spanned only a few yards in width and was the only thing separating the waters from the towering sea-cliff stone which had over the years succumbed to the mellow forces of wind. These forces polished the protrusions of dense pumice into hollow grooves, guiding the southwesterly winds through them. 

Only the northern end of the cliffside saw the greatest blows of the winds. Even the tough granite rock bore sharp edges along its full height. This was where the winds parted in two and blanketed the island of Isla Mors.

The static view of the hill front changed only once every year on the same day. When the same blue car would return and adorn the pitiful dark embankments as it drove to the same old lighthouse which stood tall by the edge of the island.

The car began slowing down far from the foot of the lighthouse where the concrete faded away. The sand underneath the wheels gave out sounds of long sighs of lament as the Chervolet stopped by the broken fence.

The door clicked shut behind her as she got out and faced the beach. Her low cut satin skirt fluttered in the breeze while her tan sun-hat barely hung on her head. Her hands gloved with white cotton, moved gracefully as she placed her tinted aviators on the warm hood of the car.

“Mumma’s back.” whispered Mary, giving a feeble smile which disappeared almost instantly as a wet gust of wind flew by and brought with it, the unique taste of Caribbean sea salt.

Her eyes lulled upwards as they flickered shut and for a moment she stood with her eyes closed. Jerking forwards ever so slightly to stand her ground and defy the power of the sea.

But how could she dare to do such a thing? 

Her feet went limp and she fell backwards onto the damp sand. And she stayed there for several seconds before resting a hand on one of the warm tires to support herself up. 

How could she ever defy the ocean. The same ocean that took everything from her.

Tears rolled down her eyes as she walked beyond the abandoned lighthouse. Her lungs teeming with the salty air.

Thunderous sounds of waves striking the bare rock echoed through the shores. Soon after, the sky let out thunder of its own.

She made her way down the winding wooden stairs leading up to the beach. Their condition was worse than the rest of the structures on the island except one.  A little cabin sat by the shore, dangerously on the edge of the high tide which threatened to engulf it.

“How dare you.”

Soft whimpers followed and fresh tears trickled down her eyes with renewed vigour. She wiped them with the same grace and elegance as that of a noble born shackled with the burden of behaving and speaking a certain way. 

A ridiculous thing to do especially in solitude.

 She tread the sand carefully and made her way to the cabin, slightly raised by stilts to keep its floorboards from washing away. 

As she made her way up to the door, a splinter from the handrail pierced her thumb. Blood dripped steadily and a searing pain followed. But, she paid no heed to it and walked gravely to the door and slowly pushed it open. 

Moss, seaweed and bugs had entered through the shattered glass window and made the cabin their home. The floor contained several gaping holes where maple wood and carpet once rested.

The sight of the place sent shudders down Mary’s heart and her chest throbbed with shallow laboured breaths.

Her body stood still as if under Medusa’s curse, and all she did for five whole minutes was stare. 

Her eyes fixed on a bright red toy cannon that rested on the shelf at the far end of the room. Her eyes did not stare with intention but had in them a lifeless look of a corpse. As if her mind were still processing what she had just seen. 

Every year she travelled more than a hundred miles to the same cabin on that same date. But no matter how many times she entered the place, her feelings had remained invariably the same.

When she finally regained her senses, she found her cheeks and neck drenched with tears. This time she did not bother to dry them as new ones continued to wet her face.

She slowly made her way to the shelf and reached for the top rack where she safeguarded her last few memories of Isaac far from so -called 'home'.

She pulled out a mass of cloth wrapped around a heavy object and began undoing it all the while leaving stains of red onto the fabric as they touched her thumb. Yet again, she did not bother.

The pain of the heart always  seemed to triumph over any physical pain one could go through.

The cloth wrappings fell to the floor and Mary held a wooden frame with a photo in it, faded and torn at the edges.

She held it up to the dying evening light. It was a photo of her and Isaac playing on the very beach outside the cabin. The boy, not older than ten, stood valiantly on a knoll with a wooden sword raised to the sky. He wore an off white shirt, a pair of tight woollen breeches and an oversized cutlass by his hips that touched the sand but it did not matter to him. 

A wide smile christened his face which was mostly obstructed by the enormous leather hat he had on. The hat was tapered on both ends and had a large skull with crossed bones just like the one worn by pirates who he loved reading about.

Maybe even in this, he craved an escape from the dreary luxury of his birth. He did not like bowing to every stranger who visited his home. He only wanted to play. Play with those boys who hollered down the streets. Not with the chatty ones who could never shut up about new toys their parents had bought them.

And so Isla de Suerte (as it was once called) became a refuge for both of them. A safe haven from their miserable lives which the boys of the streets only dream of living.

But none of that mattered now.

Mary rested the photo frame with an absent mind onto the rickety table by the window. The torn curtains fluttered over it.

The final rays of the setting sun peeked into the cabin, now visible below the horizon, orange and warm. 

Mary decided to leave before allowing herself to be absorbed by the place. She hurriedly picked up the frame to put back on the shelf but did not bother to wrap it up as there was no time. The light was dying out fast and there were no street lamps nor were the headlights of her car working. She needed to reach the bridge before it was fully dark.

A sound of shattering glass sent Mary breaking into tears on her knees as she sat by the fallen frame and held Isaac's photograph close to her chest with both hands. 

"What have I done?!"

In her sorrow she abandoned all reason and cried herself to sleep on the dirty floor.

The light had already died out when Mary woke up. She ran outside and was relieved to be able to see outlines of the stairs. The smooth cliffside rocks shimmered and shone brilliantly in the moonlight as if it were studded with diamonds. 

By some miracle, maybe she could get to the mainland by dawn after all.

The sounds of crashing waves had subsided and the winds from the ocean roared stronger than during the day. As they weaved through the channels in the rock, they whistled and sang in the tranquil night. Each rock whistled a different tune and the cold shores drowned in their rhythmic harmony.

But to Mary, these notes were no less than horror. They reminded her of sounds of splashing and the cries of a little boy who she could not hear that day due to these very whistles.

She began hallucinating her son making sandcastle forts and tried to cover her ears before she lost her mind completely. As she ran, a red shiny object washed onto the shore by the wave and she caught a glimpse of it from the side of her eyes. 

It was the toy cannon threatening to recede back into the waters as it lay precariously. It must have fallen out of a hole in the flooring and into the sea beneath the cabin. 

Mary found her feet running towards the most prized possession Isaac once played with. She could not let the ocean take it away from her like it had taken her son. 

Waves washed her knees as she sat on the shore and held the red rock in her hand. Her dress, now completely soiled. 

Mary cried and whimpered to the water below her, “Did you want this back bubba?”

She placed the rock gently back into the water and watched it move to and fro with the waves and then finally sink out of view.

Her eyes fixated on the spot where it disappeared and stayed there. Her body froze yet again like it had at the cabin’s door. Waves washed her feet and the sand seemed to pull her into the sea as they sank her knees deeper. 

Only after five whole minutes of being still (all the while in tears), she seemed to regain a sense of control and wiped the tears from her face. 

Her eyes moved and seemed to follow a figment of her imagination towards the rock where Isaac would raise his sword fearlessly to command the waters. 

Her lips broke the chain of sorrow as they curved upwards into a loving smile. They seemed to show acceptance. But she did not turn back to leave.

Her hips touched the damp sand first, followed by both her elbows. She let out a faint whimper looking out to the sea, and rested her head onto the soft embrace of the sand.

“Mumma’s comin' for you bubba.” 

“Hoist the colours cap'n!" 

And with this final soft cry, she let herself be consumed by the same waters that consumed Isaac a decade ago. They would lead her to him. 

Her sunken treasure.

Isla Mors. 

An island from old tales of bountiful loot and treasures. 

A lonely world with nothing to keep it company but the clouded moonlight, salty winds that cocooned the island, and the eternal symphony of the hillocks which sang a hymn of sorrow. 

~ Klaus