Christina woke up on September the twenty ninth in the middle of the ocean, and she was quite certain that she had not fallen asleep there. Floundering in the middle of vast, rolling blue waves and spitting out salty water, her first thought was of sharks, their great dorsal fins encompassing her helpless form, and she, bare legs flapping in the dark water, unable to see where or when they would strike. She then began to question the reality of her situation - perhaps this was a dream; yes, it had to be that. People did not fall asleep in the ocean, much less wake up from a sleep in one.
There was a spat of land a few miles to her northeast - or perhaps it was the southwest; Christina’s sense of direction had never been acute. With a muttered prayer she struck out in the direction of the land mass, cutting through the water as best she could in her - what was she in? Peering down at herself, Christina saw that she was attired in a sort of white dress, and its creamy folds were billowing about her, making her feel like a melting marshmallow. It was very lacy, frilly, and long, and Christina thought it rather tasteless and too girly for anyone with taste. There was, however, little time to waste on pondering the oddness of her situation when her arms were already beginning to tire and she had barely swum two yards.
There is something intrinsically frightening about deep water. Whether dangerous or odd creatures swim it or not, the idea of drifting along in an unfathomable depth of crushing black water, alone, without even a branch of driftwood for support, and nothing between you and the merciless tide is not often a welcome one to even the most courageous of people. Christina had never deemed herself courageous, and she continually imagined something striking her from below, rushing upward in a ghastly silence, and then with an earsplitting crack breaking the surface upon her, spraying her with stinging water and bringing down mighty jaws and fins upon her fragile human body. At any moment she might see something moving that was not the waves, creeping eerily closer in the slightest ripple of the water, striking fear into her heart with the sheer inability to do anything about it. In a split second, an unannounced colossal head might emerge right next to her, and what could she do but scream? The stillness of the vast sheets of water around her was terrifying; the only noise to break the stillness were her own tinny breaths, struggling feebly to motivate her to land.
Christina became vaguely aware of a sensical watchfulness, as if something was peering at her from a hiding place. Immediately she turned in the water, splashing and gasping, just waiting to see that flick of a tail that meant her doom was near. But the water was still and undisturbed. With renewed vigor spurred by fear, Christina again swam for shore. Her legs were beginning to stiffen and not respond, and her arms burned with a fire that the cold water would not soothe; and yet her mind was so iron-willed not to die in this ridiculous, completely inexplicable situation that she found strength in desperation, and the tide began to help, speeding her progress and giving her needed motivation. Her lungs began to sear, and about a mile offshore she stopped, and shut her eyes, trying to float, trying not to think of sinking into the silent water, deep and dark, immersing herself in its blanket of cool serenity, just letting her aching muscles relax and rest, but when she began to go under, a terrible fear of the beautiful power that lay under the waves forced her cramped limbs to begin frantically splashing and paddling again. Black spots began to sprinkle themselves into her vision, and more than once a splash of salt water made her dry mouth gag and choke. The pain in her limbs was forgotten in the fiery agony of her chest, making deep breaths and a smooth oxygen flow difficult.
And then, when she felt her eyes begin to cross and waves of dizziness as violent as the ocean water surge over her, her toes brushed sand. Relieved, she looked down, and saw that she had reached a sandbar. Christina stumbled on until she could sit without her head going under, and collapsed, waist deep in the green-blue water winking naughtily at her from the reflecting sun’s rays. Her shaking arms and legs began to relax as she slowly gathered her strength for those last long yards to the shore.
Imagine the horror she felt when the sand bar beneath her erupted in a thick geyser of wet sand, being tossed twelve feet into the air like a thick pillar and then falling heavily down on her like hailstones, weighing her head and exhausted body down. Gasping and scrabbling at her eyes to clear them, Christina saw a deep jagged crack in the sand, as if someone had taken a serrated knife to the bar. It rippled oddly under the water, making it seem like the shadows inside were shifting and moving. Still attempting to wash huge globs of sand off of her body, Christina peered down into it.
A single, vast black eye opened directly beneath her left hand.
Not even strong enough to scream, Christina instead gave a sort of guttural gasp and fell back clawing her way to standing, grabbing bunches of her garment into her arms and running along the bar towards land, forcing her weary feet just one step further, another inch, another foot, slowly growing closer, nothing in her mind but blank terror and a need to escape.
And then the sandbar ended in a drop off. Christina tripped on the edge and plunged into the blue sea, sinking down into it. It was so quiet there under the water, and if she had been in the state of mind to think, she might have considered staying there forever. As it was, she fought violently for the surface, her wet dress dragging her down, making no noise in her vicious gestures to swim back up; but her endurance had not yet given out, and she at last broke through, the itchy sand mercifully washed from her body. Treading water, Christina turned herself about and looked back at the sandbar.
A vast, glittering grey shape with mother-of pearl skin and horns was rising from the crack, water cascading in torrents from it’s body as it rose, higher and higher. At any moment Christina expected it to stop, but it simply kept going, shooting up into the sky like a skyscraper to the moon. A serpent, huge and terrible, with an inky black eye that had nothing but wanton animal hunger.
And Christina, wallowing in her blatantly white dress, probably looked very tasty. She turned and began to swim with all her might towards the island, not even noticing her pain, with land the only goal in a mind wiped clean with fear. How close it had seemed before, and yet it appeared to get no closer in her painfully slow progress. She refused to look behind her again, but she could imagine the snake at last ceasing it’s upward charge, and then blinking, looking about, and seeing her, a tiny cream blob in a vast plain of blue, swimming pathetically for shore. It would be coiling now, opening it’s mouth, preparing to dive down and chew her up with it’s needle-like teeth.
And then suddenly, wonderfully, her feet scraped against bare rock. She had reached the shallows, and began to run in the neck deep water, pulling her cumbersome gown along, splashing along, her feet bruising and bludgeoning against the ragged rock bottom. Seaweed coiled about her legs and hindered her progress - the water was filling her dress and making it balloon out behind her. Still she scrabbled along as the water got shallower and shallower, changing from its majestic blue to the green brown of sand and vegetation.
A devastatingly loud sound, high pitched like the shriek of a woman, in a long unbroken note dotted with a noise like the pistons of a train letting off steam caused Christina to let go of her fistfuls of fabric and cover her ears, moving even slower towards the shore. The serpent, she realized, was hissing its rage and hunger.
And then the water was ankle deep, and her feet touched dry sand, and she was running without the water flowing against her, only the salty air whipping her face, streaking towards the shelter of a huge land formation, red and purple rocks piled high on top of each other. There seemed to be nothing else upon the bit of land at all, but Christina did not bother to explore. She threw herself behind the first rock that faced the sea and flattened herself against it, panting, choking; she then threw her head forward and vomited on the clean sand. Wiping her mouth, she pulled the folds of her dress back towards her to hide them as well and held them in her arms. Water dripped down and hit a little shelf of rock near her knee with a steady pitter-patter. There was no other sound.
A mighty crash on the shore told her that the snake had thrust its head onto the sand in search for her. But it could not find her, and because of her time in the ocean she knew that she smelled just like the rest of the land - fishy and salty. There was no indication that the serpent slid back into the sea, but five minutes later Christina poked her head around, the the beach was deserted. She waited a moment longer before coming fully into view and prepared to run, but animals are not like humans - if they’re prey disappears, it is gone, and they do not lie in wait for it to return. The creature had returned to its home.
Christina fell down onto the beach and closed her eyes; now that the imminent danger was past, all her pain on her body came back. Shutting her eyes and nestling into the warm sand, Christina panted and tried to slow her breathing and pounding heart, letting her tense body relax and calm itself. It took a long time of lying in the sun as if dead, not moving a muscle, wishing she would sleep.
But her mental state was far from her physical. Question burned at her mind as steadily as the sun burned her Irish skin, and after approximately half an hour she sat up, then got up and walked down towards the water.
The sky was a dazzling Caribbean blue, and the water stretched as far as she could see in sparkling hues of deep blue and purple. Small white capped waves foamed lazily towards shore, and farther out the golden sheen on the sand bar rippled innocently.
And yet, a beautiful as the water was, it was dreary and sad. The sea grass waved in the wind that mourned and cried with every breath, and the lonely cry of a gull pierced the otherwise quiet air. Christina saw, for the first time, a lighthouse that stood solitary and desolate on a rocky arm. It was battered and dirty; dust and grease clouded the windows that had once shown the light, and the white stone of which it was made had been scratched and broken by the constant lashing of the sea storms, and perhaps the sea creature that lurked beneath the waves. Christina shuddered and turned away, to look across the island. It was very small, so small that she could see the glimmer of the sea on the opposite shore. All that blocked a clear line of sight were the odd rock formations that twisted around each others in the middle of the isle. Some were rough and some were smooth - Christine guessed that once they had simply been a single massive rock, but corroded over time to the contorted shapes they were today. That was the extent of the landscape, but the lighthouse proved that at least once someone had come here.
Christina took a good look at her body; she fingered the end of her hair and tried not to imagine how it looked, then examined her dress. It was a simple cut, tight at the bust and waist, then flowing out in folds that Christina thought must once have been silky and soft but were now stiff with salt. There were three cloth buttons on the breast, and lines of foamy lace were interspersed in the two foot long train. Christina saw that while in the back the dress was long, it barely came down to the top of her knees in the front. A sort of high-low wedding dress? Christina didn’t remember getting married, and knew that even if she had been she would have chosen a more tasteful style.
What happened to me? she wondered, sitting down again and trying vainly to pull up the front of the dress, even though no one else was around. She threw back her memory as best she could, trying to recall something before she had landed in the ocean. Her name was Christina, but she couldn’t remember a last name. She was a modest but fashionable dresser, because she didn’t like this dress and it was about as far from both as you got. She was...what? Seventeen, she was sure, though she had a feeling her birthday was soon. And it was September the twenty-ninth. It was a pathetic amount of information, and Christina could remember nothing of family, a house, school, friends, a room or a toy or trinket. There was an empty feeling in her stomach, not because she was sad about losing these things but because she was sad that she could not remember what they were. Her entire life was now her name, an ugly dress and September.
Her mind burned too much, and she was too tired and thirsty to think clearly, so Christina got up and decided to look for water on the other side of the island. Perhaps the lighthouse would have been an easier choice, but something about its mournful stature made her wary to go anywhere near it, much less go inside and poke around. Therefore she shook off her weariness and began her hike towards to opposite end of the island. The skeletal rocks arched high above her like the burned red rib cage of a great beast that had died on this godforsaken island. Christina brushed one with the edge of her fingertips as she passed, felt the warm, smooth rock that came off in a chalky red dust on her hand, touched the layers that were piled on top of one another like brick-colored pancakes.
It didn’t take long to reach the other side, but Christina’s throat was already burning, and it became apparent that this side of the beach was a mirror image of the other, with the exception of the lighthouse. There wasn’t even a branch of driftwood with which to make a fire, and Christina would not have gone back into that sea for all the water in the world.
She made her way back and sat in the sand, staring at the brilliant sky and trying to figure out a way to get off of the island. It seemed a completely hopeless situation, because she did not know either how she had gotten here or where “here” was. No hope of a boat, and by the looks of it small hope of getting rescued. If she had not been so dehydrated and exhausted she would have cried; as it was, she crept close to one of the rocks and put her head in the warm sand, closing her eyes and forcing the sensation of acid trickling down her throat to the back of her mind. The sun seemed to sear her eyelids, making the light an ugly ochre color - but despite her discomfort, her exhaustion won over her body and she fell asleep in the golden sand.
It was her thirst that woke her many hours later, as the sun was sinking down into the sea and the sky was aflame with scarlet, pink and orange colors, as if someone had taken a match to the heavens. The water was becoming darker, and Christina peeled her eyes for a sign of the beast that dwelt in the sandbar, but nothing moved beneath the midnight blue waves.
No hope of water made Christina want to throw herself on the sand and scream, but she feared that the noise might arouse the creature, and anyway her bones ached too much to move, so she contented herself with creeping back into the shadow of the rocks and trying once again to fall asleep. The night was steadily closing in, and the silence made Christina want to cry. Even the seagull had flown away, and the shape of the lonely lighthouse towering on the bay filled her with sadness. It wasn't long until she couldn't see it at all.
Christina woke suddenly - had she fallen asleep again? - to a terrific crash that jolted her out of her uneasy sleep. Blearily she looked around, but it was still dark. Peering up at the sky she saw storm clouds gathering in angry, billowing folds, tinted with red and purple. Flashes of lightning could be seen through them - Christina was quite sure that normal storm clouds didn't roll and tumble in that sickening fashion. She stood up and dusted the sand from her skin and hair - some had even gotten in her mouth, and it was coarse and grainy. Spitting it out as she stumbled along the beach, Christina looked out to the ocean. The water was churning like an invisible finger was spinning and splashing it, and the wind coming from the sea was picking up steadily, whipping the sand against her legs and face, forcing her to cover her eyes as it grated harshly on her skin. Through the cracks in her fingers she watched looked for a place to shelter in in case of rain. The lighthouse was the obvious choice, yet she still felt a sinister vibe coming off of it, so instead she turned her back to the wind and let it rake along her shoulder blades as she reached the rocks, and flattened herself against a particularly large, overarching sculpture that diverted the sand. It was there that she sat for what felt like several hours. Christina sang every song she knew, though she didn’t know how she knew them, and sang them again. This did not appease her throat, which with every song became more inflamed and raw. She began to feel distinctly dizzy; the idea of going to find water in the lighthouse became more and more appealing, but she was unable to loose the feeling that somehow that was exactly what she was supposed to do, what someone wanted her to do, and therefore she should avoid it as much as possible.
But how long she would last, Christina did not know. She began to retch a bit on the second day of her entrapment on the island, and though the skies promised clean, freshwater rain, the cloud never opened and the downpour never came. Christina spent the long hours in torturous thirst, crouched against her rock, thinking of useless ways to escape as the sand blew and the thunder crashed. And always the lighthouse stood, promising hope of living, and Christina would turn her gaze away and focus upon drawing pictures in the sand and imagining a little stream of ice water trickling down her throat. The rule of three - three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food - was vying for the forefront of her thoughts, and she found herself daydreaming about turning into the rocky red bones for the next poor soul doomed to this place.
On the third day, Christina fainted.
She came to in what looked like many hours later, with her legs half covered in the sand, and weakly pushed herself up onto her elbows. As she gazed through the whirling sand at the beach, she thought longingly of water and the lighthouse was so tempting, so near...but how could she know if there was water in it at all? Quite possibly it was as empty as the rest of the island; quite probably, she thought. She could see the ocean, still spinning into small whirlpools and then dispersing again, crashing against each other and spraying sheets of water everywhere. The purple clouds seemed angry at her; impatient, almost, and they growled menacingly.
With a terrible crack and a blinding flash of light, a ball of lightning collided with one of the rock structures and crumbled it into ash. The broken pieces smouldered in front of her, breaking down into powder and getting swept up in the wild wind, blowing against her face. It was hot. Terrified, Christina stared at the sky, where the angry clouds were at last rolling together so tightly that they opened, and began to empty the rain that had been building inside them for so long.
Christina ran from the shelter of her rock, astonished at her speed, and staggered to the beach, where swollen whitecaps burst on the shore and licked at her feet. She threw up her head and opened her mouth, sticking out her purple tongue like a child, but this was inefficient and she tasted nothing. Cupping her hands, she held them up, and caught the fast falling rain. When they were only a quarter full, she stuck her face into them and drank.
Coughing and retching she emerged, the water dripping from her face as she knelt on the shore and gagged, bitter disappointment, pain and hopelessness burning her eyes. It was salt water. After all she had waited, all she had suffered, the refreshing rain was undrinkable. Her throat seemed twice as dry as the salt evaporated any trace of moisture left, and Christina stomped her foot and screamed, kicking at the sand and grabbing fistfulls of it, throwing it around as the rain pounded around her and the sky rumbled and flashed.
The terrible sound she had heard two days ago suddenly split the air, and she stopped her rampage to look out across the raging water. The twisted neck of the serpent was rising from the sandbar, silhouetted against the ugly clouds, rain distorting its horrible figure.
With a brilliant flash, the sky sent down another ball of fire that landed quite near to where Christina stood. She was flung aside at the impact, and lay face down, trying to muster the courage, strength and even volition to get up. She lifted her head, and saw that she was facing the lighthouse, scarred with many a storm that had tried to get inside, but had never succeeded. As she stared at those eerie windows, her resolve melted away, and she got up, flung an elbow over her face to block the grit and ran for the door.
Once inside, the pounding of the storm was dulled to a dull roar. Amazing at the sudden silence, Christina tentatively poked her head from her arm, and began to brush the sand from her face and clothes. She was in the base of the lighthouse, a circular kitchen-and-sitting room with a winding staircase in the center of the the floor, dimly lit by the violet-grey light that filtered through the grimy windows. A stove, a sink and an oven were to her right, all cast-iron and in pale pastel colors that looks as if they simply didn’t belong against the black-painted walls. The stove was missing a leg, and the towel rack on the oven had broken, leaving the towels in a dirty heap on the dusty stone tile. Christina approached the sink and turned on the faucet, barely daring to hope, but nothing came out. She ran a hand over her eyes and felt her fatigue threatening unconsciousness again - quickly she made her way to the couch that faced the kitchen and sat down. The cushions were covered in soft plaid cloth, and they sank down pleasantly when she took her seat. Christina wanted to stay there forever, but as she was about to close her eyes, something caught her gaze; a small piece of fluttering white paper, caught in the throes of a breeze that came from a crack in the wall. Willing herself to move, she got up and crawled rather than walked over behind the chiffon armchair where the she had seen it.
Taped to the tile was what looked like a page from Madeline L'Engle's’ A Wrinkle in Time; the first page, if Christina correctly remembered the text, beginning with the words “It was a dark and stormy night”. Ironic, she thought grimly, and fear pulsed through her veins as she wondered if perhaps it was not ironic at all.
Scrawled on the paper in block letter were the words “Emergency Water Supply” - words were so wonderful she almost laughed. And yet still, in the midst of her suffering, she waited and poked the paper tentatively, and searched for a copy of the book as if in hopes that the page was legitimate. It was nowhere to be found, and Christina took to staring at the black ink that made up the letter. The page lay on top of an iron ring that no doubt led to a cellar, a cellar full of water, clear, sweet water that would make her live again, help her get strength to somehow escape this island prison. Christina listened to the drumming rain, and, her head spinning in another fainting fit, at last gave in and pulled hard on the ring. A square in the floor comprised of nine tiles came up with it, revealing a cavity that was full of darkness.
Her instincts ignored since she had gone this far, Christina only briefly wondered how deep it was and if it would break her legs if she jumped before she gathered her train and lowered herself down until she hung by her arms. Her feet did not touch any floor, and she was beginning to have misgivings, but in her weakened condition there was nothing for it, and her fingers slipped. Then she was falling, falling, and had promptly decided as she plummeted to her death that there was no water here at all, and regretted the fact that her bones wouldn't be making an architectural addition to the island, when she hit something that sagged with her weight and tossed her back into the air like a spongy trampoline. It was a net, and beneath it someone was laughing.
