Some of us think it was a Shipwreck

Some of us think it was a shipwreck. Others believe we escaped in the dead of night and stole a boat to sail here before the dawn. There are a few who are convinced we were born here, to mothers who hurriedly swaddled us in gossamer leaves and then melted away in the pearl grey mists of morning. I for myself am not so sure. Not so certain in my beliefs. In my ideas of our origin - our story of how...

There are nine of us in total. I suppose we range in age from eight to thirteen years. Except the baby. The baby has not yet seen her second turn around the sun. Her arrival is the only one we all remember with any clarity. We woke up early on that sharp bright day in August. Our lips already cracked from the heat of the morning rays. We had long since ceased sleeping in the old house during the dryer months and instead set up camp on the higher hill of the island, with vaster views of the surrounding seas.

Two of us stretched our sleep-drenched limbs and ventured down through the olive groves and the myrtle bushes, 'til we reached the shore. In the movements of motion well established over time, we waded out into the water and pushed off the shallow rock into the deeper, cooler blue of the sea. We floated on our backs, looking up at the unbroken sky, as the sun began its journey of accent. Then we slowly swam the few yards back to the beach to begin the climb to the water spring on the crest of the hill.

Before reaching the shade of the first palms, we heard a sound - a strange, faraway cry. Not of fox or otter, nor of any bird we had come to know. We stood still, holding onto our breath. Then the cry came again. A little more urgent, a little more real. We let our hearts beat out an uncertain tune, then moved towards the small enclave of rock at the other end of the cove. Clambering up onto the first of the boulders around the little landing spot, we saw it straight away. A boat. Just big enough for one, nestled between the rocks, its bow wedged in between smaller stones. Laying in the bottom, half-hidden beneath the plank of the seat, was a little grey basket. And in the basket, a little pink baby - hardly bigger than a papaya. One of us bent to scope the child out, making sure it stayed wrapped in its cotton blankets. Left lying in the basket were just two items - a bottle, half-filled with milk, and a small black book. We looked inside. It was a notebook. Entirely empty of words.

We called her Alu. No-one is sure quite why. She cried a lot at first, perhaps for a mother. But when the mother didn’t come, she grew quiet and would watch our goings-on from her blankets, propped up in a hollow against the trunk of a sturdy tree. We fed her on goat milk at first and later gave her figs and papayas. We tried her on olives too, but only once - for she found her voice to complain of the bitter taste. We would take it in turns to wake with her at night - even the younger ones volunteered for duty. We found that she liked to hear stories. One of us would sit by her basket and let her clutch our fingers with her hand, as we gave wild accounts of our past adventures on the island - both real and imagined. And, somehow, with the odds weighted heavily against her, Alu grew.

---

Mama! We are ready for bed, will you tell us a story?

She tucks the covers around her children and strokes the soft dark curls of hair that fan out across their pillows. Then she goes to the window to draw the curtains on the last of the evening light. The final day of summer, come and gone. She kneels down between the two beds and smiles.

Which story will we have tonight?

Tell us about the island! And the little baby who arrives in a boat. Tell us about how she is rescued. About the children who look after her.

But you already know that story?

Tell us again, mama! We want to hear it again.

She smiles and nods. Okay. Now… where do I begin?

---

The day the world changed was utterly still. We rose languidly, to the hush of an island on the cusp of Autumn. Even the birds seemed to be holding onto their song - waiting. For a few days each year, we would decamp to the ruins of the old yellow villa and wait out the rains. We seemed to take these hours as holiday from the norm. We played games in the terracotta kitchen and went down to the shore to swim in the warm afternoon downpour.

All nine of us. Ranging in age from fourteen to nineteen. Except the kid, she was not yet as tall as the baby palms and had been on the island for just seven years. We decided we would celebrate the last day of Summer by taking the boat out into the bay. We had built it last Spring, and it was our pride and joy. All told we had lost count of the number of attempts we’d made to craft a vessel big enough for all of us - but this was it. We took figs and goat's cheese and everyone chose their favourite book. We crowded into the belly of the boat and took turns with the oars. Out on the line of the horizon, the sky met the sea with just the faintest murmur of blue. An almost imperceptible change in shade. The heat hung heavy around us and we rowed over to the coral reef and one by one dove into the cool clarity of the water beneath.

It was almost sundown when we eventually made our way, sun-soaked and weary from hours of swimming, up the hills and down the path to the villa. With lazy talk of what we would eat for our evening meal, and the older ones taking turns giving the child a piggyback, we arrived in a body at the front of the house. There, we stopped.

On the doorstep, was a wooden box. Taped to the lid, a small brown envelope. A cool current of uncertainty passed between us as we looked at it, suddenly feeling the keenness of the breeze that was blowing up from the sea. We carried it into the kitchen and put it down on the floor. We knew we should search the villa.

Leaving the box and letter unopened, we went from room to room, opening doors and windows. Two of us climbed to the roof by way of the thick grapevine that grew up the outside walls. We stood on the hot tiles as the wind picked up around as, and shaded our eyes against the last of the sun. We saw no-one. No signs of life beyond the waving of the trees. Even the animals had gone into hiding in readiness for the storm. Then, just as we crouched to begin the descent… we saw it. Far off in the distance, and edging ever further away, was the fine white sail, of a boat.

We sat in a circle on the floor, surrounding the box, the room lit by candlelight. One of us moved into the center, pulled the envelope away from its tape, opened it and took out a piece of card.

Shall I read it aloud?

We nodded.

To the Children of the Island.

The war is over. We are re-building. Once the storm has passed, make a sail for your boat and head westwards with the setting sun. After some time, you will see the flickering light of fires on the distant shores. These signals will stay lit until your return. Things are not the same here. In this box, you will find the means to make better lives for yourselves. Use it wisely. It’s time to start again.

In the silence, our eyes traced the faces of our friends. Some low chord had been struck, deep within our consciousness. Is this what we’d been waiting for? The oldest crawled forward and lifted the lid of the box. Paper. Sheets upon sheets of… paper. Small, rectangle shapes. Not plain, but printed. Strange red grey ink, the face of a woman looking back at us, wearing a slight, sad smile and a crown.

In the top corner - a number. 50. A few of us had seen this printed face before. We knew what it meant. The potential in this paper seemed to hum through the silence.

That night we slept side by side in the gentle warmth of the embers from the evening’s fire. The box sat where we’d left it, in the middle of the kitchen floor. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we would decide what to do.

---

She stands at the doors of the balcony, looking out at the sloping gardens beyond. She can see the children playing, hear their bubbling laughter drifting up on the breeze as they take turns pushing one another on the swing. The evening air is thick with the heady scent of jasmine. She feels something swell in her throat and turns back to the room. Tonight she will tell them the end of the story. Of the last days of life on an island, far away from here.

She opens the ornate box on her dressing table, with the key she wears on a fine silver chain. It holds just two items - a fifty-pound note, yellowed by time, and a small black book. The latter she takes in her hands, feeling the well-worn smoothness of its surface, moving her thumb over the ripple in the pages that have been opened so often over the years. Then she turns to the very last entry, written in a fine, steady hand.

Alu is six today. At least, it has been six years since she arrived - the only birthday we know. She is getting taller - almost as tall as the baby palms! Her favourite pastime is spending hours down in the cove, shallow diving among the coral bright rocks of the reef. We have taught her how to identify each different shell, and she has a growing collection. We tried introducing her to olives again yesterday, but she pulled the same face as before. How can one live on an island and refuse to eat olives! We are teaching her to read and write. We are halfway through The Famous Five and she often asks what will happen when she has read all twenty-one of the books we have here. We tell her she will simply have to start again! Or write her own…

The storms are on their way and tomorrow we move down into the villa. Alu hates being on the lower hills and every morning climbs back up to sit in the hollow of her beloved tree. She is quieter than usual at this time of the season. As if the ending Summer makes her sad. We do not talk about how she got here. Or who she might have come from. Nor why they left her a small black notebook, and very little else. We try to tell her other stories, of things we understand. Though we know well enough that soon she will begin to ask. What answers will we give?

Little Alu - I write these entries in the hope that one day she will know a different world, a world beyond the line of the horizon. That there may come a time she needs reminding of the one that we built here.

I’ll write again soon, when we are back up at camp… once the storm has passed.