Abel's Island: Chapters 7–10

He set up his suspenders as a slingshot, fastening one end to a stout bush.

Fervently hoping for success, he released his hold.

The stone, with the rope trailing it, made a small parabola in the air, and the line, as if with a sigh, fell limply into the river only ninety tails away.

He spent the rest of the day amassing a huge heap of pebbles and rocks, going farther and farther afield to find them.

It was his family tradition never to give up but to keep gnawing away until problems were solved. For the time being, however, he had run out of ideas. He began to develop an obstinate patience.

Her image was in his mind, as clear as life sometimes, and he smiled with wistful tenderness, remembering her ways.

With his clothes stuffed full of grass for a cushioned landing, using a small stump as a winch, he tried with a rope to bend a sapling down to the ground so it could fling him over the water.

He also made paper-thin bowls of this clay, and from time to time he would float one down the river with a note in it, and a flower or sprig of grass sticking out to attract notice.

Whoever finds this, please send help too. I will be able to give a substantial reward.

During the equinoctial rains, he spent the whole of a dismal day indoors, listening to the unceasing downpour on the outside of his log, watching it through his door and through portholes he had made—the infinite pall of falling rain, the sagging, wet vegetation, the drops dripping from everything as if counting themselves, the runnels and pools, the misty distances—and feeling an ancient melancholy.

During the equinoctial rains, he spent the whole of a dismal day indoors, listening to the unceasing downpour on the outside of his log, watching it through his door and through portholes he had made—the infinite pall of falling rain, the sagging, wet vegetation, the drops dripping from everything as if counting themselves, the runnels and pools, the misty distances—and feeling an ancient melancholy.

During the equinoctial rains, he spent the whole of a dismal day indoors, listening to the unceasing downpour on the outside of his log, watching it through his door and through portholes he had made—the infinite pall of falling rain, the sagging, wet vegetation, the drops dripping from everything as if counting themselves, the runnels and pools, the misty distances—and feeling an ancient melancholy.

During the equinoctial rains, he spent the whole of a dismal day indoors, listening to the unceasing downpour on the outside of his log, watching it through his door and through portholes he had made—the infinite pall of falling rain, the sagging, wet vegetation, the drops dripping from everything as if counting themselves, the runnels and pools, the misty distances—and feeling an ancient melancholy.

During the equinoctial rains, he spent the whole of a dismal day indoors, listening to the unceasing downpour on the outside of his log, watching it through his door and through portholes he had made—the infinite pall of falling rain, the sagging, wet vegetation, the drops dripping from everything as if counting themselves, the runnels and pools, the misty distances—and feeling an ancient melancholy.

Rain caused one to reflect on the shadowed, more poignant parts of life—the inescapable sorrows, the speechless longings, the disappointments, the regrets, the cold miseries.

It also allowed one the leisure to ponder questions unasked in the bustle of brighter days; and if one were snug under a sound roof, as Abel was, one felt somehow mothered, though mothers were nowhere around, and absolved of responsibilities.

There was a din of crickets outside, and the pauseless roar of the river, and the stately world was illumined with pearly moonlight; but inside the log it was dark and hushed, like a crypt.

There was a din of crickets outside, and the pauseless roar of the river, and the stately world was illumined with pearly moonlight; but inside the log it was dark and hushed, like a crypt.

Sometimes he felt that Amanda could “hear” these messages and was responding with loving messages of her own. This feeling elated him.

One day, when he was winding his way upward, around and around the trunk, it seemed to him that the tree was somehow aware of his ascending spiral, and that it enjoyed his delicate scurryings, just as he enjoyed the rugged toughness and sensible architecture
of the tree.

He believed in his “visits” with Amanda; he had his birch, and his star, and the conviction grew in him that the earth and the sky knew he was there and also felt friendly; so he was not really alone, and not really entirely lonely.

At times he’d be overcome by sudden ecstasy and prance about on high rocks, or skip along the limbs of trees, shouting meaningless syllables.

Late in September, when he woke up mornings, he would see rime on the ground. That and the nip in the air made him worry about the coming of winter.

Plants grew and bore fruit, branches proliferated, buds became flowers, clouds formed in ever-new ways and patterns, colors changed.

The red clay from which he had fashioned pots and dishes inspired him to try his hand at making something just for its own sake, something beautiful.

Good or bad, it was sculpture. It was art. He tried again and again, profiting from his mistakes, and finally he felt he had a likeness of his wife real enough to embrace.

Next he made statues of his dear, indulgent mother, from whose wealth his own income came, and of his various sisters and brothers, and he stood them all outside his log where he could see them from the windows.

He stood back often to study the results of his gnawing, and at last felt he had captured the proud, stern, aloof, strong, honest look of his male parent.

He pressed the juice from elderberries he had garnered earlier in the month and stored it in clay pots to let it turn to wine.

The watch was as large as a dining table to accommodate three mice.

The cloth binding was puffed into blisters and wrinkled; the title, Sons and Daughters, was faded and hard to discern.

Abel had to laugh over one of the bears, who was masquerading as a mouse.

He was curious to know if the watch would run. Some prodding and shoving with a pole in the grooves of the stem-winder made it turn round a dozen times.

The sounds he had become accustomed to, the roaring and gurgling of the river, the wailing and whining of the wind, the pattering and dripping of rain, the chirruping of birds and the chirring of insects, had natural, irregular rhythms, which were very soothing, but the steady, mechanical tempo of the watch gave him something he had been wanting in this wild place.

He had used up the pages of his scratch pad floating messages down the river, but he still occasionally sent up smoke signals, and once in a while, futile as it seemed, he would climb a tree and wave his stained and tattered shirt.

He had his book to read and think about, there was the winding of the watch to be attended to, he kept working at sculpture, and of course he had his practical needs to provide for.

Then the poking stopped and the owl scrabbled about on the rock, staring into the night with unfathoming eyes.

He was snatched and rushed aloft, sick with fear, into the ominous air.

Most of that day he spent in his bed of milkweed fluff, and ventured out only in the late afternoon, carrying over his shoulder a long pole, his open knife tied to the end.

After his encounter with the owl, he was extremely wary for a long time, even in full daylight, when owls are expected to sleep.