About eighty miles away, on the other side of the island a group of children stood. They stood, a small gathering at the top of the rugged cliffs, but there, no signs of other life were visible and it seemed as if they were now all alone in the world. The wind blew fiercely around them, blowing their hair to encircle their tearstained faces in abstract halos. The tallest in the group, a boy of nineteen, stood at the head of the memorial, behind the simple cross, tied tightly together by a long piece of string. He didn't cry, but his face had gained a hardened look since those days, not long ago, when his friends had seen him laugh, and smile. The sparkle had died also in his eyes, and they were a powerful brown, in which you could read all the pain and suffering he had seen. He picked up a small pile of dust and lost sand in his clenched fist, from the loose ground beneath his feet, and threw it, scattered it across the newly dug mound, so that it fell on some of the wild flowers that the younger children had laid.

"It is time," He said, softly, powerfully, looking around at the familiar faces that now looked so sad. "To build new lives for ourselves. It's time to build the New World that we were all promised, back when this all started. Before the hatred was born, when there was hope, and love. Together we can bring them back. Together we can put the last few years behind us, and raise the New World, in the ashes of the old one. For those who died to save us. Our parents, our grandparents, our brothers, sisters. Our friends."

As he stood there, braving the weather, and his own emotions, he thought back to the time he talked of. To his childhood. To his own new beginning.

Things had changed too much since then though and although they might be able to bring back the hope, they would never be able to turn back the clock.

Cait would not be coming back, and he knew that he would have to carry on and look after the others without her. He wished that they had a body to mourn, but it had been lost in violent and unyielding waters below, and all they had to cling to now were memories.  

"We must begin to move on tomorrow. The sooner we find out how many of the children were saved, the better."

"What if there's no one. What if we're the only ones left."

"Then it's up to us. I just hope that isn't the case. Over two hundred children were put on this island, there must be more survivors."

"I agree. Some of them might not know that the war is over. They might still be in hiding waiting. We have to help them."

"It's agreed then. We'll tell the others in the morning."

The others all left the tent, leaving Benadell sitting alone with Sal.

"Are you sure." She asked. "That's it's not too soon."

"I'm sure."

"Look. You might be able to convince yourself that you're over her, but she's only been dead for four days. The little ones don't really understand. They never had time to mourn their real parents. Shouldn't you give them a chance to say goodbyes to Cait."

"We've all said our goodbyes. That's what the funeral was for. They'll be fine, we really have to start work though.  I don't want more people to have to die, just because we were getting upset over something that we can do nothing about."

"Fine Ben. You know I thought that you made a great leader. You've changed. This," she waved her arms around her, around the tent that he had sectioned himself away from the rest of the group with. "It's changed you."

"For the better." Ben stated, avoiding his sister's eyes.

"Don't kid yourself. Don't you see it? If I had a mirror, I'd make you take a good hard look at yourself. It might make you realise what you've become. Hard and cold, and not the Ben that we all elected as our leader; and friend." She stood up to leave. "Think about it Ben, because pretty soon, you'll not have many friends left. And we're all you have at the moment."

With that she left, storming outside, more upset than angry. Ben stood for a while in silence, with his back to the entrance. Then he turned around, taking from his pocket, the faded bus pass that Cait had given him. 'In case one of us didn't make it' she had said, before kissing him for good luck. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wooden pole in the centre of the canvas room, gently skimming his fingertips over the laminated photo. It was taken three years ago, and now Cait's -then short hair- had grown to below her waist, since they had no scissors to cut it with. He looked at the warm and smiling hazel eyes that had never changed, that looked out through the plastic at the camera, and him. He took a deep breath and let the air out in a sigh. Shutting his eyes tightly, he clenched the small card in his fist, trying not bend the so precious image, and blinked back tears. He had to be strong, and he had to be someone else. Sal was right; she had known him too long to not be able to see when he was bottling things up. Now though, he needed to work, and not to think about empty space in his heart, and the hurt that was all that now remained there. He had to think about getting the children off of the Island and back to Ocea, and deliver the Wren.

Serin stood, watching, the sleeping children, that lay on blankets all around her on the hard and sun-cracked ground. They had lay down to sleep for the last time and now she would not wake them. The masterful sun shone down on their dehydrated bodies, which longed for water to cool their dry lips. She remembered her own torture, not sleeping for weeks and months on end, plagued by the nightmares. Not knowing whether she would eat or drink that day. In silence she dug seven shallow graves, sweating from the work in the midday sun. Then without crying she buried the children, knowing that they could have been no older than seven years each. They would sleep now, never to be afraid of the nightmares, or the illusions of hearing the tortured screams each time the sun set. There was no reason for them to be afraid anymore.

She had found them lying, as if they were simply napping beneath the tree on her trek across the island. To her horror she was not at all shocked by the idea of a dead body, and the sudden realisation made her realise that seeing so much pain and hatred had hardened her and made her age beyond her fifteen years. She did not cry, because she found she had forgotten how. Instead she recited a poem her sister had written long ago, and it had never made more sense than then.

by Nicola Plumb (c)2000

[imagine] - [part one]

What do you think of the story so far? Let Nic know at [email protected] 

[home] - [inspire] - [imagine] - [believe] - [talk] - [listen] - [discover] - [links]