The Moons Pearl

All alone, far across the ocean, on a small, palm fringed island lived an old man. He’d been shipwrecked there for many years, and had long since given up hope of being found.

Each evening, when the day was almost done he’d sit upon a rickety chair with his feet on the sand and wait for his only friend, an old, green turtle. Without fail, as the sun set upon the horizon, it would emerge from the surf and join him on the beach.

Though the turtle could not speak, it could understand the words of the old man and he knew this. So he talked to it of the things that he’d learnt and the things that he felt. He shared his heart with the turtle, and knowing that it listened was the only thing that kept him connected with the world.

One night, beneath an indigo sky, flush with stars, the old man declared, “I love you old friend, so much, in fact, all the way to the moon and back.”

The turtle lifted its head to him and blinked. Then it shuffled to the shore and disappeared into the moonlit waves.

“Goodbye,” called the old man, fully expecting to see his friend again the next evening.

But when the next evening came, and the man waited upon his rickety chair, the turtle did not appear. Nor did it visit him the evening afterwards. In fact, after many nights had passed, it had still not returned, and just as he’d given up hope of ever being found, he began to give up hope of ever seeing his only friend again.

One evening, weak with loneliness, he gazed up at another full moon. And as a few wispy clouds floated past, he thought he saw a shadow floating to and fro. It took the shape of the old green turtle. He rubbed his eyes and wondered if it were just the tears in them that had caused an illusion.

The old man retreated to his hut, lay down and lost the world.

******

When, that night, the man had told the turtle that he loved it to the moon and back, it had no words to reply with, but it wanted to show its friend that it loved him just as much. It shuffled to the water’s edge. The full moon sent a trickle of light across the waves. If it followed the light to the horizon, it would surely arrive there, the turtle thought to itself. It would swim to the moon and bring him a piece of it, a gift to demonstrate its affection. Where the light met the shore, it plunged in.

It followed the ripples of moonlight which grew into a shimmering aisle. Unaware of night or day, time was lost, dissolved in the current which drew it on. The old turtle spiralled and spun within the swirling flume. It knew not how far, or for how long it had swept, but eventually, within a cascade of light, it arrived, exhausted, at the moon.

The surface glowed with a beautiful radiance and the turtle floated down, settling softly upon a bed of gleaming pearls. Their light had an astonishing, replenishing quality and within it, the old turtle’s tired limbs were revived. When its strength had returned, it took a single pearl in its mouth, a small, perfect satin orb and set off back to the world with its gift.

The turtle eventually emerged from the waves and shuffled up the beach where he found his friends chair upon the sand, but the old man himself, was not there. The turtle dropped the pearl beside the chair. And it waited. It waited for many nights, looking up and down the beach, but the old man did not return.

Then one evening, it gazed up at the moon, which was full to its brim. Thin clouds cast shadows which played upon its surface and as it blinked, they seemed to take form. The turtle saw its friend, the old man, sitting there upon his chair. And it wondered if it were just the tears filling its eyes that had caused an illusion.

******

Sam would receive double grog that night, as was the tradition. He didn’t really like the stuff but it would buy him favour with Obi, the ships cook. When he’d called out “land ho,” from high in the rigging, all eyes turned to the horizon.

Below him, the captain appeared on the quarterdeck and held his sextant to the midday sun. He was a tall man in a blue, stiff collared coat. He wore clean white socks to the knee, and in his slenderness, gave the impression of a grasshopper. He leaned over his chart thoughtfully. Mr Danes, the chief mate stood by and when the captain stated his decision, he strode to the helm steps and bellowed, “two points to the north helmsman“.

The Esmerelda turned obediently, hauling in close to the wind as sailors clambered up her rigging to bring in the outlying studding sails. She lost a few knots but ploughed on under a warm breeze.

The island looked about a mile across rising gently and symmetrically to a plateau and a round centre. Closer in, it could be seen to be fringed with sand and white breakers lapped against it like the frills of a lace skirt. It was covered in forest. Against the sea and sky, it sat there, pretty as an emerald on a cushion.

In around two hours the Esmerelda came about and lowered her sails a few hundred yards offshore, dropping anchor in about thirty fathoms and coming to rest against the line for the first time since she’d left Southampton.

“Who goes ashore now?” called the quartermaster, as the crew heaved and thrashed the rigging tight.

A chorus of “aye’s” and “ere’s” returned and a particularly keen exclamation from Sam. It was his first time at sea, and though he’d been desperate to get aboard and under sail four weeks earlier, he was now just as keen to plant his feet back on dry land.

“Give young Sam a spot”, called Obi, winking at the lad. “He hasn’t trod on this side of the world before.”

Jonny, a lanky youth dragging a bucket and mop protested, “What about rank?” he said, “Sam’s back a the queue for sure.”

“Rank!” boomed Obi, “we’re skivvies. We don’t have rank.”

There was a round of laughter when a sailor descended from aloft, landing nimbly on the deck before Jonny with a salute, declaring “aye aye sir.”

Jonny brushed past muttering something about him being as funny as a damp hammock.

So Sam was allowed to go in the gig with Captain Adams and Mr Danes. They sat in the stern looking ahead as Sam rowed on the port side facing them. The captain took a shiny brass spyglass and aimed it just past Sam’s ear. When Sam turned to see for himself, his oar caught a crab, skipping over the water clumsily. The captain lowered his eyepiece and cast him a thunderous glance.

“Is it definitely uncharted?” asked Mr Danes.

“Without a doubt,” the captain replied, “the nearest islands on our charts are the leeward isles off the Antilles, a hundred miles on.”

“An interesting addition to the log” Mr Danes offered. “I suppose you’ll submit it to the Admiralty on our return?”

“Of course,” replied the captain, “and I’ll include some notes regarding the nature of the place”.

As they drew nearer the shore, Sam peered overboard. The water was transparent, rippled with sunlight which danced upon a pale seafloor. Small fish pursued by their shadows darted here and there. The gig brushed the bank and Sam copied the other men in raising his oar vertically and lifting it from the oarlock. Pulling the boat onto the beach, he slipped in the warm, fine sand. The firmness of the earth took him by surprise; the weight of the world beneath him.

With the other gig pulled up and all men ashore, the captain sent a group each way along the beach.

Sam’s group, two officers and four seamen, went west. The white sand stretched before them, flanked by turquoise water and bowing palms. Sunlight shimmered on the waves and was crushed into the sparkling surf. It glistened on the huge, fern-like leaves which sprouted atop, slender trunks.

“You reckon you could shimmy up there for those coconuts?” called one of the officers pointing to a cluster of green balls high above.

“I reckon I could,” Sam replied, squinting up at the strange scale of the tree.

He stopped to investigate a hairy husk on the sand which he shook, wondering at its liquid content. Then he made for the treeline where bushes and young trees gave way to a tall canopy about twenty feet behind. Some of the trees were like the pines he knew from home, but others had leaves, bigger than he’d ever seen before, all sprawled out like giants fingers. A couple of bright blue birds fluttered and a squawk echoed from way beyond. A cluster of, yellow trumpet shaped flowers dealt a faint perfume.

When he noticed a gap in the undergrowth, he stopped. His group were some way off already. He knew that he should catch up … but curiosity is a seductive affair. Pushing aside the leaves and branches, he found a way up to a bank where the roots of the tall trees were exposed. They served as steps, up a few feet to the forest edge.

He leaned on a trunk, his eyes adjusting to the haze through which shafts of sunlight singed the leaves of strange plants and ferns. Streaks of moss hung from the branches like tattered rags. Then, in amongst the growth he perceived a less natural shape, the corners of a structure. He scrambled his way closer and saw lashed panels of sticks. It was the wall of a cabin, half consumed by the vegetation.

He reached a step and put a foot on it. It was firm enough. The door didn’t have a handle, so he gripped round its edge and pulled. It was jammed at the bottom and required a lift which caused it to come away altogether. He let it fall to the side and, through thin beams of dusty light, peered into the room.

He was hit by a sour stench and pulled his scarf over his nose. The ceiling was collapsed, allowing vines to creep through the small room. There was barely space for two pieces of furniture, a barrel and a bed. The barrel served as a table, items upon it, hidden under a thick, grey web. The walls of the room were draped with animal hide, much of it fallen away. The bed, like everything else, was fashioned from sticks with a mattress of dry leaves. Upon it lay a delicate mound.

Stepping forward, the floor creaked and yielded unnervingly. Sam looked for a firmer footing and holding his scarf against his mouth, edged to the bedside. A dusty fur took the shape of a curled figure; slender lines along the bend of a leg and the arch of a back. A small black scalp protruded from the cover, covered thinly with wiry white hair. Between his thumb and finger Sam lifted the corner of the fur and held it for a moment. The man’s body was lying on its side with its back to him.

On the side of his face, whiskered skin receded from the bones of his jaw revealing a strained grimace. Dark waxy skin was stretched over his ribs. The bones of his right hand lay beside him, frozen in a weak grip from which was fallen a wooden object. With great care, Sam extracted the thing and held it up. Covered in dust, it bore a pleasing shape, a palm sized shell with four flat feet and a curious little head. It was a turtle. He placed it back, carefully, into the bones of the man’s hand.

It was obvious that death had passed by long ago but its business was un-finished, neglected by kin and nature. The poor man’s breath still hung in the room. His small, decaying body was the loneliest sight Sam had ever seen. He returned the hide onto the man’s shoulder backing carefully out of the door and into the fresh air.

When he called out that he’d found a body, the officers and seamen ran back and the captain came over from the boats too. A way was beaten through the vegetation. It wouldn’t do for the captain to stoop and scramble like Sam had done. His assessment was brief and his verdict was that the man should be buried in a Christian way. The crew were to be allowed leave for the rest of the day to let a little land back into their bones.

The captain and Mr Danes returned to the ship on the gigs, which shuttled back and forth. Some of the men headed inland in search of fresh meat and others lazily serviced a fire there on the sand. Since he was Sam’s find, he was tasked with digging the man’s grave and to his dis-pleasure Jonny was made to help as soon as he arrived ashore.

The old man’s body had been carried out upon the stick woven mattress. He lay on the sand, just as he’d been found, curled and covered by hide. They began digging at the top of the beach in the shade of a palm tree. The foul smell wafted past every few moments, stirred by a soft breeze.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” moaned Jonny. He leaned on his shovel sulkily. “I could’ve gone on the Perseverance again if I’d waited a couple a weeks. She was a good ship, twice the size of this bucket.” He spat through his teeth at the sand Sam was shovelling. “And I wasn’t treated like a bleedin cabin boy either”.

Sam paused to drink from a leather flagon. “Where was she going?” he asked.

“West indies on a sugar run. Would’ve been home by the Autumn too.”

“Why didn’t you wait?” Sam quizzed.

“Bit of bother with a lass,” Jonny boasted. “Her old man seemed to think that I owed her a marriage. It was a conversation I wasn’t gonna hang around for.”

Sam offered him the water which he declined.

“Who do you think he was?” he asked.

“What, the corpse?” Jonny replied.

“Yeh.”

“A lost sailor who should’ve had the decency to bury himself.”

Sam gave him a puzzled look. Jonny grinned back wickedly. Sam began digging again as Jonny chopped at the sand.

“I don’t think he was European,” Sam suggested.

“I don’t care where he came from,” Jonny replied. He had an interest for little other than his own predicament with the world. A shot rang out from the interior, not far off. “That’ll be supper,” he said, as a flock of white birds dashed over their heads and out to sea.

When the hole was big enough, they slung ropes underneath the stick bed-frame and carefully lowered the man’s body into his grave. He was very light, quite dry Sam supposed. He lay in the damp hole, just as he’d died, his bed for a coffin. Sam wondered if his curled posture had been in comfort or to nurture a pain. What had his heart held before he died? Had he yearned for life or death? He thought of the carved turtle. The waves down at the shore shuffled to and fro.

The ships chaplain (who was also a botanist) had been investigating the vegetation along the top of the beach. He suddenly appeared at the graveside, a round faced, bespectacled man clutching a bunch of plants along with his bible. He inspected the boys, leaning on their shovels.

“Are you mourners or undertakers?” he asked.

Sam abandoned his shovel and clasped his hands before his waist. “Mourner,” he said.

Jonny followed suit with an encumbered sigh.

The chaplain nodded and peered into the grave. Shadows cast from the palms above, swayed. Up the beach, men were lounging on the sand. Laughter could be heard, rolling in with the wash of the waves. He opened his bible and extracted a loose sheet of paper which he studied for a moment, then began. “O Lord Jesus Christ, King of Majesty. Deliver this soul departed from the hand of hell and from the pit of destruction”. He spoke in short bursts followed by pauses, each sentence beginning boldly and descending. “Deliver it from the lion's mouth, that the grave devour it not, that it go not down to the realms of darkness. But let Michael, the holy standard-bearer, make speed to restore it to the brightness of glory which thou hast promised in ages past to Abraham and his seed. Prayer do we offer to thee, O Lord, that thou accept this soul departed, and grant it, Lord, to pass from death unto everlasting life.”

When he’d finished, they stood silently, heads bowed. Sam imagined the old man’s soul, lost upon lost, cringing before the pit of destruction, waiting to be rescued by the chaplains words... Surely his spirit had found something else when his last breath was spent?

Jonny wondered how much longer the whole thing would take.

The chaplain closed his Bible softly and went back to his botany along the tree-line. The boys took up their shovels.

Jonny shovelled quickly, eventually putting some effort into the task.

“Let’s bury this stink,” he said.

Sam scowled at his tone but agreed that the odour was rightly bound to the earth.

As soon as it was done they joined the men down the beach as a hunting party returned with a large brown goat. There was a roar of appreciation for the feast at hand.

******

Night had settled by the time the meat was cooked, and when it was, it was quickly devoured. Sam watched the firelight on his shipmates, catching their faces in laughter and contemplation. Jonas, the fiddle player, kept up a jaunty tune. Obi tossed a bone onto the fire and licked his fingers. He took a gulp from his bottle of grog. His dark skin shone and his grey eyes glistened. He put a large, greasy hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“The sea life isn’t just about hard work and plain eating,” he said, “there are good times to be had too.”

Sam was scraping the sweet, white flesh from a pear shaped fruit. “Your cooking isn’t that bad Obi,” he replied.

“You’ve a talent for the charm Sam. I’ll make sure you get some extra weevils in your biscuits eh.” He shoved him.

“Have you ever worried about getting lost?” Sam asked.

“What boy?”

“Have you ever wondered about getting lost out here?”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“Like the old man I found.”

“Ah,” Obi sighed and stared into the fire, eventually replying, “he was the lucky one.”

“How’s that?”

“What do you think came of his shipmates?”

This time it was Sam who led the silence. The fire crackled and spat. Jonas struck a melancholy tune. “What do you think happens to a man’s spirit when his body’s not buried properly?”

“Those old bones really got you thinking didn’t they,” Obi laughed. “I’m sure that your saviour has a plan for lost sailors. To be honest, with all the time he had to himself, I think he was closer to god than your good chaplain. His spirit probably took a fine horse and carriage to the pearly gates.” He motioned to the stars theatrically.

It was a nice idea.

******

Along the beach, the air was still. The ocean lay calm, rising softly against the sand, as if in shallow breaths. Out in the bay, the stern windows of the Esmerelda's great cabin glowed yellow and figures on deck moved around leisurely.

Sam left his shoes by the fire and rolled his breeches up to his knees. Behind him, the men were united in a sad shanty. Ahead, the moonlight cast shadows on the rippled sand. Underneath the palms were fallen branches and coconut husks. He prodded one with his foot and was surprised when a crab emerged, scurrying to the sea in a series of short dashes.

He strolled on and the music faded behind him. When it ended there was silence. He turned to see small figures silhouetted against the glow of the fire. He’d been shoulder to shoulder with his crew-mates for four weeks. Jonas struck a discordant note on the fiddle and there was laughter. He wondered how far he’d need to go to lose them from earshot altogether. It was about a half mile to the end of the bay.

But not far along, he stopped again. Close to the waterline, part buried in the sand was a pile of sticks. They were bound with twine and when he pulled the object free and righted it, he beheld the remnants of a chair. He faced it seaward as he imagined the old man would’ve done and knelt beside it. There lay the sky and ocean, vast, beautiful and desolate, twins of boundless depth. Sam nonchalantly took a handful of sand, letting the grains slip between his fingers. When they’d fallen, he felt something solid and when he looked down, was astonished to find he was holding a small, gleaming pearl.

It wasn’t much bigger than a pea but shed an extraordinary light. He cupped it in the shade of his palms and sure enough it glowed there, illuminating his hands like a candle in a bowl. What sort of exotic phenomenon was this, Sam wondered? Back home he’d seen the beetles that glimmered in the hedgerows on summer nights, but this seemed a greater wonder.

He stared, mesmerised by the glow from the little pearl which sprung forth, alighting on the planes of his face. But there was something more to it. It penetrated his hands, extinguishing the heat from his clammy muddle of fingers. Sensation was replaced with an ethereal lightness which spread through his wrists and up his arms, easing around his neck and over his shoulders, down his back and around his ribs. He gasped as serenity seeped into his core.

He became aware of how lightly he knelt upon the earth, how faint its bond. His soul swelled with the shifting of his senses, releasing itself from the grip of his heart. How softly the waves whispered. How delicately the moonlight powdered the sand.

A path of moonlight shimmered on the ocean and his eyes followed it to its origin, that familiar gleaming orb known to all souls, in all lands, through all time. Sam had the feeling of a shallow dream, within which, for a moment, the whole world was submerged.

A thin cloud floated across the face of the moon and from it, formed the shape of an old man sat upon a chair and leaning on a stick. A turtle swam in circles before him.

The universe turned silently and the waves whispered over and over, “hush … hush … hush.”