Cinnamon Twigs (36 page)

             
I sat on a smooth, grey rock, my lungs aching. The bird fixed its eyes on me.

             
‘Well, you’re not breathing heavily. You’re much fitter than I am.’

             
I had to admit it. The bird looked cute. It scuttled over to me and rested its head on my knee. Its wide eyes resembled a puppy’s.

             
‘I came here for a jog. You know, believe it or not, I used to be in good shape.’ I stroked its beak.

             
The bird nodded its head in assent.

             
‘You’re very friendly.’

             
It wagged its tail like a dog. I laughed.

             
‘I think I’ll name you after my old friend. From now on, bird, your name is Elliott!’

             
I smoothed Elliott’s feathers. I’d never encountered such an amiable creature. I got to my feet again and waved goodbye to my new feathery friend.

             
I went back to the house and told Soraya about my encounter.

             
‘Yeah, I think they migrate here,’ she said.

             
‘What are they? It looked a bit like a duck.’

             
‘I’m not entirely sure. I think they’re diving birds. My father used to be obsessed with ornithology. There are so many different kinds here. I think you’ve described a grebe. That’s what my father called them anyway.’

             
‘He was very friendly.’

             
‘Sounds like you’re in love.’

             
‘Well, he was good company!’

             
‘And I’m not?’

             
‘Don’t be silly.’ I grinned.

             
‘I suppose it must be strange for you…’

             
‘What?’

             
‘Being away from people.’

             
‘Hmm. Yeah, I guess.’

             
‘So, how are you finding island life?’

             
I was enjoying island life and the relaxed surroundings of the Elysian Fields I’d been brought to. I spent my days wandering around, exploring. Soraya took a stroll on the beach in the mornings and then went about her chores.

             
‘It’s good. I like roaming around the island. Don’t you ever like to explore?’

             
‘I used to when I was a child. I can’t say I’ve ever been too far though.’

             
‘That surprises me.’

             
‘Why’s that?’

             
‘I imagine you must get bored if you only go as far as the beach!’

             
‘I’m not like you. I haven’t traveled the world and done all the amazing things you’ve done. You must find me a bit dull.’ She winked at me.

             
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

             
‘The beach is enough for me. I guess I’m just a contented person. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.’

             
‘If only I was content. My problem is that I always find faults in things.’

             
‘I bet you find faults in me!’

             
‘I don’t find any faults in you!’ I laughed. ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Soraya.’

             
‘And you’re a wonderful man.’

             
‘You know, I think I’ll find that bird again. I’ll go canoeing with him.’

             
‘Sounds like a date!’

             
‘He’s my sort of bird,’ I joked.

             
‘If you whistle by the lake, he’ll probably come to you.’

             
‘Really?’

             
‘Yeah, but his family may join him!’

             
That evening, I whistled by the lake. Just like Soraya had said, the bird turned up looking for food. I picked him up and carried him into the canoe, which had two hefty paddles and a small sail of a dirty canvas.

             
The whispers and murmurs of the night, the green fragrances of the distant forest, traveled through the balmy air. I gazed at the speckled sky.

             
Elliott perched himself beside me, nibbling sedately at his feathers.

             
‘So then, fella, anything on your mind?’

             
The bird looked up at me with a befuddled expression on his beaky face.

             
I continued rowing until I lost my breath. I sat back and looked at the stars pricking the heavens.

             
‘You may be wondering why I left the civilized world to come here…’

             
The bird blinked a couple of times. I don’t think he was wondering at all.

             
‘You’re a very good listener.’ I smirked.

             
Elliott made one of his habitual gurgling noises, hopped onto my chest and fell asleep. I ran soft trails through his golden feathers with my fingers.

             
‘I guess you grew tired of my conversation,’ I jested. ‘Get a hold of yourself, Daniel. This isn’t
Sesame Street
.’

             
Elliott looked so happy in his slumber. I thought about all the poets and philosophers out there. All those great men and women supposedly able to comprehend the intricacies of life. They could learn lessons from that creature, sleeping on my chest in blissful ignorance. Nature would always be above art, in every respect.

             
I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep, waking ten minutes later to see Elliott nibbling at a silver fish.

             
‘Supper time, is it?’

             
Once the bird had finished his wholesome meal, I rowed towards the shore.             

             
‘Goodbye, Elliott. We really must do this again.’ He tried pecking my face. ‘Sorry, but I never kiss on a first date.’

             
I made my way back to the house. Soraya had fallen asleep on the sofa, her pretty head resting on a fluffy cushion. At that moment, I felt strangely at home in a world of untroubled peace, without photographers, journalists or zany fans. A world where creatures like Elliott looked for food among the streams and lakes and green paths. I went upstairs to my bed and fell into an unruffled sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Footprints in the Sand

Five months had passed on Isla Lacuna. My feathery friend Elliott left me once the seasons change
d over. The last time I saw him he hopped out of the canoe, poked his head above the water to gurgle goodbye, and descended.

             
I spent a lot of time wandering alone. I got to know the island very well, always seeking new paths and recesses. I discovered that to the northeast there were cocoa and citrons trees. And I found melons in the west.

             
‘You won’t have to go the market for fruit anymore,’ I told Soraya.

             
‘Where would be the fun in that?’

             
‘Oh. You enjoy going to the market?’

             
‘Of course. It’s not so much what I buy, but the process of buying. That’s what I enjoy.’

             
‘You’re a typical woman!’ I sniggered.

             
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ She beamed.

             
Soraya and I got on really well. She understood that I sometimes liked to be alone. But she was always there for me when I needed company, and we became best friends. She loved to hear me tell stories. Her favorite was an anecdote I’d heard as a teenager about a tramp who lived in a part of Wales known as Llanelli. The tramp was as mad as King Lear on the heath. Completely bonkers. He had a grey, tangled beard, which extended to his paunch. His eyebrows were like two great nations, united in the purpose of keeping the top of his bulbous nose warm. He used to shout incomprehensible things at passers-by, and occasionally had apoplectic fits. Sane civilians avoided him.

             
The story went that the tramp had once been a scientist dealing in astronomy, with such vast knowledge that he lost his mind. He couldn’t view the world around him because his every thought concerned the stars and planets. His mind was crammed with furious facts: the universe reaches at over thirteen billion light years in every conceivable direction. Eta Carinae became the second brightest star in the sky in the year 1840, but it’s no longer visible and has faded within the Homunculus Nebula. The planet Mars is as cold as the coldest place on Earth. Hipparchus created a catalogue of one thousand stars in the night sky in 130 BC. Ceres was the first asteroid ever discovered, by Giuseppe Piazzi in 1801. Such facts were daunting to me, but they whirled around in the scientist’s head until he took to the streets and became a lunatic.

             
‘But it’s just a story,’ I told Soraya. ‘A sort of urban myth. I’m not even sure if people still tell it in Wales. It’s probably been forgotten…’

             
I was reborn on the island. But it wasn’t a case of leaving one life for another. I couldn’t forget my previous life, because my past defined me.

             
I’d tried to cast that life aside. But that would mean I’d have to cast aside the memories that had come with it. That was impossible. I cherished those memories. My stay on the island had become a pilgrimage. I recognized that in denying the press a final chapter, I would deny myself a fitting conclusion.

             
I tread on the white sands on a hot afternoon, under the mackerel sky. The ebbing tide was a rolling carpet of crystal blue. I took it all in as I inhaled the salubrious air: the contours of the cliffs, the clefts within the grey rocks. I continued strolling across the beach, beside the great timber trees of deep red hues at the edge of the forest, their lofty branches signaling to the waves. And then I stopped, thunderstruck.

             
There were footprints in the sand.

             
My heart pounded. An intruder had come to the island. The rambler must have been wearing sandals. Four invasive steps had been taken. They appeared to be a man’s footprints. But they sure as hell weren’t mine. They were too small to be my feet. After examining the prints, I walked back to the house, under the shade of melancholy boughs. Like a modern Robinson Crusoe, I mistook every tree and shadow on the way for an intruder. Maybe a journalist had found out I was on the island? The peaceful surroundings would be destroyed. There would be bustling crowds and ceaseless camera flashes. I would be discovered.

             
I questioned Soraya. She said she couldn’t imagine anybody setting foot on the island.

             
I looked out of my bedroom window that night, paranoia swirling in my mind. Discomforting thoughts and images came to me through the deathly darkness. I wondered if a man were lurking near the house. Each shadow became contorted, human in shape, ready to pounce from the murky corners.

             
Later, I was woken by the sound of a man’s voice. I’d dreamt of a dark figure dragging me away from the island. I’d been thrown to the crowds of angry fans I’d abandoned and pushed into a volcano, a great conical mountain erupting from my past. The fierce mountain bubbled with rage and obligations as I plummeted towards the magma chamber. Mingled with the sulphur was the potent scent of mortality.

             
I crept downstairs, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, and peered round a corner. Illumined by the soft light of an oil lamp stood a man, opposite Soraya. A tall man in his early thirties, with dark hair and a tanned complexion, dressed in a short-sleeved white cotton shirt, midnight blue shorts and beige sandals.

             
‘You ran out on mom as soon as she became ill!’ Soraya shouted.

             
‘I didn’t bloody run out,’ the man snapped. ‘I wanted to earn us some money. Dad couldn’t work anymore. I needed to make some cash.’

             
‘But you didn’t come back! Dad needed you after mom passed away. He died of a broken heart. And you didn’t help him.’

             
‘I was too ashamed to show my face.’ The man looked down at the ground, a cloud of humiliation concealing his features. ‘I hadn’t made any money. I was afraid that dad would be embarrassed by me. His job was his life.’