The Cave

In the mornings, the ocean is nothing but a wall of foam. Wave after wave of this quivering white froth only reminds me of the gritty porridge they served in the sickbay. At the highest point of the island, looking out from the cliff of jagged black rocks, I see nothing but ocean. Foam turns to dark water, and it all disappears into the mist after that. I watch the waves pummel the rocks. Beneath the sound of the water, an odd crunching noise rings out behind me. I whip around to find those beady little red eyes staring back at me once again. The island is barren of living creatures save for these goliath crimson crustaceans: robber crabs with bodies large enough to span the width of a ration crate. This massive bastard has taken interest in the hunk of metal I’ve dragged up the cliff: the ship's radiotelephone. I throw a rock and the monstrosity creeps away, dragging its meaty claws along the moss. The Marconi radio, well what is left of it, is battered, waterlogged, and utterly useless. I sit here with it every morning, listening, waiting for a crackling signal that never comes. I look out beyond the rocks and wonder if anyone is coming for us, if the distress signal even went through. I’m brushing the sand off the radio when I hear Jack scream.

Racing down the bottom of the hill, I begin to see the conflict playing out. By the cave, Jack is thrashing and cursing at Worley again. Sam is holding him back, clamped down on his left shoulder while Lewis is on the right. Standing at the mouth of the cave is Worley in his long coat and captain's hat. His weathered face is twisted into a wicked grin as he watches Jack’s futile attempts to strike at him. I yell out as I rush up in front of Jack, my back to the captain. Jack’s eyes are wild. His brow is furrowed and an angry red lump is forming on his forehead, a little blood has soaked into his icy blonde hair. I look over my shoulder at Worley, but he’s retreated back into the darkness of the cave. I ask the boys what happened.

“What happened was the old bitch threw a can at me,” Jack says, spitting. “I knocked over one of his fucking lanterns. I bent to pick it up, and he threw a can of stew at me.”

Jack has stopped his fighting now; Sam and Lewis slowly letting go of him. On the ship, Jack had been wired, but never violent. He was loud, always smoking and playing cards with the boys below deck after his shifts, but being trapped on the island with Worley had taken this spirit and warped it beyond recognition. He would be joking one minute and crying the next. Some nights he’d scream in his sleep. Something would pass over him and he would start to pick at us, looking for cracks in the armor, trying to start a fight. He just wanted to get his hands on someone. Looking at his eyes now, I could see he had finally snapped. Worley had pushed him over the edge. Jack opens his mouth, but I already know what he’s about to say.

“We have to kill him.”

The words are out now, no way of getting them back in like Pandora's box, cracked open on the rocks. Jack continues.

“He’s starving us. Sitting in the damn lifeboat day in and day out. Hoarding all the cigarettes and coffee. Nobody’s coming for us, and he’s keeping us here to be picked apart by robber crabs. I say we kill the old fucker and get off this beach”

“We don’t know what we’d be facing if we went out there, Jack,” Sam answers quietly.

“It can’t be any worse than him. If he won’t let us leave, we’re going to have to kill him and take the boat.” Jack finishes and nobody speaks.

I look at Sam and Lewis. I can see the thought passing over them. I watch their eyes, and I know they won’t go against Jack.

“Let me talk to him. Give me one night to try and talk to him.” Jack looks unimpressed with my proposal, but he agrees nonetheless.

It’s dark now. I go to find Worley in the cave. The black rocky path winds until I can see the hard light of the kerosene lamps, throwing the captain’s shadow onto the wall of the cave. In a lifeboat sits Worley in his woolen long johns, captain’s hat still on his head, his back to me. It reminds me of my shift on the night watch when he would visit me. I’d watch him scream all day, chase men with his pistol, but at night, when I was alone on the deck, I’d watch him surface from his quarters. He would turn right and walk to the edge of the ship, looking out at the water for hours. At first I wasn’t sure if he noticed me on those nights. I thought he was in some kind of trance, but then one night he spoke to me. He walked left instead of right on the deck and said “good evening” in his voice like gravel. I gave him a formal salute, thinking it was some sort of test, but he just held his hand up as if to tell me I could be at ease. He never spoke again after that, but every night after he’d turn left instead of right, and we would stand in silence watching the dark water.

Now, I sit in the lifeboat on the bench across from him. He watches me and doesn’t speak. I watch the lantern light flicker across his face, see it reflected in his dark eyes, and I wonder if there’s anything worth saving. Worley knows nothing but cruelness. Almost 300 men were dead at the bottom of the ocean because of him, and even that was not enough. The tyranny didn’t stop on the island, it followed him as closely as his shadow. He looks at me and his face twists into that awful grin he gave Jack. He starts to laugh, a nasty coughing storm, and a chill runs down my spine. Stumbling out of the lifeboat, I leave Worley in his cave, his death rattle laugh ricocheting off the walls one thousandfold.