On Discord Isle by Jonathon Burgess Page A

into the sand and scattered. The tinderbox was missing, as were the other packets of hardtack. A few larger pieces looked mostly unbroken. He retrieved two, as well as his hat. Then he stalked down the beach without looking back, sun overhead, the jungle to his right, and the traitor ocean on his left.
    The commentary of that surf was unrelenting. It mocked his outrage, overshadowing the call of the jungle birds and the sighing passage of the breeze. Beginning slowly, quietly, it swelled to a muted roar as it toppled forward onto the sand, only to pull back into the ocean with a hiss, starting the process all over again. It was consistent, yet irregular. Fengel could not find a rhythm with which to match his steps. Before long the divisions between one moment and the next seemed to slide away.             
    Fengel could not maintain his anger. He paused after awhile to take stock of his surroundings. Glancing around, he realized that his steps had taken him significantly closer to the ridge of rough cliffs near this end of the beach. Looking back, he couldn’t even see Natasha anymore, or where they had landed. The curve of the island hid it completely. Out over the ocean, the sky was a clear blue that seemed to go on forever, only the clouds and the almost-gone speck of the Dawnhawk marring it.
    Wild desperation took him. Fengel dashed out from the sand and into the water, chasing his wayward crew.
    “Fellows!” he cried. “Come back! I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason for what you did, I just can’t think of it!” He pushed against the surf, now thigh-high, his boots completely soaked. “Please, now, lads,” he called. “I’m sure we can come to an accord. D’you want more grog? I can do that! More time ashore? Done!”
    Fengel waded until the water was at his chest. “All right, you were right, I can see that now. Whatever it was we, I mean I, did, I can change that. Just come back, lads. Please? Don’t leave me here. Lucian? Henry? Lina?”
    His voice echoed across the waves. The ocean laughed at him, smothering it with the incessant pounding of the surf around him. The distant speck of his airship, his command, disappeared, winking away as if it had never been. All the energy and drive in Fengel drained away, replaced with a hollowness in his stomach. He gave up struggling and floated on his back, letting the ocean carry him ashore. When it could push him no farther inland, he sat up and stared at his trouser legs and the water lapping about him. They were covered with wet sand.
    They left me here. They really meant it. Fengel reached up to cover his face with a hand. What’s the point? Why go on? I’m stuck here. They really and truly meant to leave me here. He kicked at the sand petulantly. I guess I’ll just have to make a go of it, then. Exile on a deserted island. Things could be worse, I suppose.
    Fengel felt very tired, but this exile made certain things necessary. The first was shelter. He glanced around at the beach, the jungle, and the cliff wall. The beach offered nothing to protect him from the wind and the rain. Likewise, the ridgeline was without cave or cranny. The jungle, though....
    Jutting out from the foliage and onto the sand was an enormous banyan tree. Its central trunk was massive and sprawling, spreading branches like a many-fingered hand outward, where they bent again to put down thick root-columns of their own. The upper branches were covered in thick banks of green leaves that gave shade and shelter to everything below them.
    That could work. Fengel could almost see it now, a cozy cottage situated up above, rooms on each trunk connected by whimsical rope bridges. He rolled the image over in his mind, and was pleased by it. It wouldn’t be that hard to implement. If my crew ever come back, won’t they be sorry to see what a splendid life I’ve made for myself here.
    Fengel nodded to himself and walked up to the trunk of the banyan. First things first: he