Chapter Two of the Isla series (re-write)

TWO

Carrick sat staring at the dew glistening on the trees in the morning sun. He shook off the dark memories of his past and strode out of the forest’s edge-onto the beach. He looked across the glimmering shallows of the gulf at the island, its peaks rising in the distance, emerging from the evergreens as specs of grey grasping as a hand from the endless sea of green. There were villages too, each house dotting the sandy coast like gems spilled out across the shore. As far as he knew, he was the only human who had awoken on this remote strip of land about a half-mile off the coast of the island.
Completely deserted from any tribe or individual, this sanctuary filled Carrick with a sense of purpose anew. He felt like a god looking down on those aimless, helpless folk. Everyone has a purpose, a goal. Some sort of mission separates each from the other, motivating them to fulfillment. Most don’t consider that idea or even pursue it for a moment purposely, but all need it.
You’re here to help them. The words of his mentor echoed loud and clear, sending him back many years. There are only a few excellent people in this world, only a few destined to push the rest to better living. Flame flickered deep within his heart, the ideas coursing through his veins like the hot sun warming the skin. He thought of his mentor, the one who had given him this grand opus to accomplish, Arlen, one of the chief elders of Minas, the seaside confederation of villages he now looked upon across the calm blue waters.
But Arlen was dead. That loss shattered him. He would never fully regain what was lost that fateful night. He shook his head and forced himself to refocus on the task at hand. The past would only bring reminiscent pain and regret, two things that would only slow him down.
After five years of watching and waiting, studying and surviving Carrick was finally ready to begin his plan. Arlen’s death had taught him much, not the least of which was what he needed now. No matter what one does to help people, the only ones who can really change the world for the better are the powerful.
He strode to the small fishing boat he had made in Minas several years earlier and dropped an arm-length sword and empty water pouch, along with two knives that were strapped to his belt, leaving the two other blades on his right calf, and boarded his ten-foot flat-bottom vessel. The breeze was cut off by the island at his back, so he took the paddle from the bottom of the boat and began rowing into the mile-wide shallow bay which lay between the two lands.
About half-way across, he would raise the large cloth operating as a sail and allow it to aid him back to the mainland, the coast of Minas, the collection of villages spread across the beach. The bay was usually calm, and scarcely deep, which made it an ideal location for fishing, the common occupation of the men. The crystal waters hid nothing from any passerby, and the reefs and sea life that frequently meandered irregularly across the bottom of the sea marked the sand like humble brushstrokes on an unfathomably great canvas.
Carrick did not originally live in the Minas, but now frequented those villages most often, passing through the coastline community to reach the great lake in the center of the island or barter for goods he needed before returning to his island which sat a little ways off the coast of the much greater mainland.
Carrick stopped rowing for a beat, remembering how he had first come to live on this second island. He remembered being cast out of Grania, his home on the eastern coast of the island, when he was nineteen years old following several misunderstandings, spats and “incidents” with powerful men in the village. After wandering for several brutal months around his villages, trying to find someone who would give food or shelter, Carrick was found by Arlen, who rescued him from an ever-growing despair of life. The man, a father of four, took him in, perhaps by compassion, perhaps by destiny. But for whatever reason he moved, those three years would prove to change Carrick’s path forever.
Rays from the sun danced around the mountains and valleys of the island directly in front of him, the reds and oranges fading into obscurity overhead.
“Another day in paradise.” Arlen would say.
“How is this place a paradise? It’s been a hell more often than not to me.”
“Heaven and hell are not as connected to reality as one might think. They are but a thought away. You ultimately control your perceptions, Carrick. Master yourself and you may find a paradise anywhere you go.”
He missed his father so much. It was a pity he hadn’t called Arlen his father until after the man’s death. Ultimately, it was the reason for many things in Carrick’s life. It was why he would never live in Minas, but why he found it so hard to break away from the bay, why he found it so hard to flee the darkness at night. His life truly had changed. Horribly changed, although in the end for the better, on that night five years ago.
Today was the anniversary of Arlen’s death, but he would likely spend it far removed from Arlen’s house. Cohleyn, Arlen’s widow, had always blamed Carrick for her late husband’s demise, and could not speak kindly to him, especially on this, the anniversary of her greatest pain.
Carrick was snatched from his thoughts as he began to angle his vessel toward the third of the six Minan villages peering from the woods on the beach. Each village was comprised of a close knit set of six or seven families, usually numbering about one hundred people, but each was woven into the tapestry of the whole, of a culture of people all living together on this beach they called Minas. Effectively isolated from the other two groups on the island, people from Minas shared a tight camaraderie, although not every citizen knew all the others by name; most simply exchanged pleasant glances and hellos.
Like anything else, the thing that made Minas special to Carrick was the people. People like Arlen, who had changed his life. Few of the Minans ever accepted him, and so many more never would, turning away from him after Arlen’s death, which prompted his flight from the villages, especially near Athan, the second southernmost village of Minas.
Carrick lamented the distance that Arlen’s death had placed between the family and himself. But if his plan worked, it would make up for all the years of pain. When he finally gave them respite from the paralyzing fear they all lived around, they would be whole again. He would help them if it cost him his life. It was why he had been made, his purpose for being and the purpose for his suffering.
By now, Carrick’s small raft had skidded to a stop on a small sandbar near the shore. He quickly leapt from the boat and began dragging it onshore. People were already beginning to work, the women passing out fruit to their young ones as the boys headed out with their fathers to prepare for another day of fishing. Many skiffs were loaded or being loaded when Carrick finally brought his to rest on the warm sand. Smoke lingered in the air from the fires on the beach being stoked here and there.
Home.
A wave of emotion passed through him strangely. He never took a single sight, sound or smell for granted. Not after he had passed through hell. Never again had he sensed such hopelessness. And never again. When nothing is easy for you, you never forgot the small things. Arlen’s word filled him again.
He smiled to a group of girls headed down the beach, assumedly traveling to the larger reefs on the northern shore to gather urchins and shellfish. Carrick passed several huts with small children aggravating their heavy-eyed mothers and continued without drawing much attention from the occasional passerby.
He passed through the tiny village, the smallest in Minas’ chain, and took a small well worn path into the forest. After a few minutes through the damp, green wood, he came out on a sparkling lake, mist still hovering over the waters.
The Great Lake of Isla shone before him, a mystical peacefulness settling over Carrick. You never get tired of that view. He paused for a moment, breathing the vapors of the water in deeply. He could see a few figures meandering about near the waters edge across the expanse, but only vaguely through the slowly lifting fog. They must be from Morgandy, the men from the mountains.
The waters were the central hub of the people, the only place an offdweller would be seen. Much trading took place at this lake, it’s position in the very center of the island opening the communication of each of the three tribes residing within the island.
On the far side of the lake, the Granians would be here soon, but Carrick was glad he wouldn’t be subjected to their haughty, self-righteous glances. They had never forgiven him, but that was to be expected from people who would expel their very own. Go on; eat your own, you pigs. I hope you eat yourselves out of existence.
Carrick let out a grunt of disgust and shoved the bitter emotions from his chest. They hung above him momentarily, but slowly blew away in the breeze. His bitterness toward his kin had only strengthened over the years, and the very mention of their names could raise his pulse instantly. He wanted justice, or maybe vengeance for their utter rejection of him. A pang of loneliness pierced his heart and he tried to dismiss it.
It was days like this that annoyed Carrick the most. He hated being alone, but more than that, he hated hating being alone. It was like Arlen said, that reality was truly what you made it. The fact that Carrick didn’t have a soul that loved, heck, a soul that tolerated him was daunting. Like everything else in his life, he would just have to rise above it. This was why he hated days like today, when pain evaded his defenses and slipped in to prick his heart.
He moved forward, withdrawing his pouch and filled it with the clear, cold liquid. Carrick drew the rim to his lips, letting the refreshment wash over him. He topped the container off again and placed it in his satchel. He was going deep into the woods today, he would need every drop.
Carrick checked his weaponry and provisions again and, finding them acceptable, he began to trace the shore of the lake, heading toward the water-gatherers of Morgandy, envisioning the site of his expedition. It would take most of the day, but he was going to the last place he ever saw his father.
Emotion surged as he thought about that night, memories flooding him and turning his blood cold. It was the most terrifying experience he had ever endured, and he would re-live those cursed moments on every one of these anniversaries.
A tear rolled down his cheek as he strode, chin set forward, the past embracing him and taking him back, back…
Back…