Left on Paradise (60 page)

On the other hand, the Russian insisted Ryan Godson sign paperwork admitting all relevant facts of the case and confessing a breach of contract so that Russian claims on the island and retention of initial payment alike would be guaranteed. Moscow, the civilian-dressed officer explained, had spent the surety and was anxious to nullify reimbursement claims against government officials who had profited from the sale. For that reason, the Russian civilian requested that Ryan sign a waiver forfeiting all rights in Russian, American, or international courts alike. The people of Russia, the well-dressed sailor explained, would pay no more bills for misbegotten socialism.

Though Ryan at first sidestepped the request by protesting that he had rights as an American citizen, he was warned by the Russian official that further protest would mean a slow boat to Vladivostok and by Captain Bradford that his citizenship remained in question per Department of State guidance. Still, it was only after the trawler’s captain elaborated on the slowness of Russian justice, the cold of Russian jails, and the length of Siberian winters that Ryan decided not to quibble points or press his case.

Several hours later, the American fleet conducted burials at sea of dead natives and returned survivors (and the remains of their compatriots) to Hawaii. Thereafter, the Russian trawler transferred its flag to the island of Paradise and rechristened the archipelago Novi Mir. Male prisoners were locked in the ship’s hold while the crew (except a single guard found drunk at post the previous week) went ashore to party. Occupying torn tents discovered at New Plymouth, the Russians drank, smoked, danced and made friends of the captured women.

In fact, when the trawler finally weighed anchor, the women were no longer shackled and had sworn affidavits regarding the guilt of their male compatriots. In exchange for cooperation and companionship, the women were released in Anchorage—their purses stuffed with Russian rubles. As soon as the women cleared customs, they hurried to a medical clinic that screened for STDs.

Once they reached Russian territory, the northern men were warned that the Ministry of Justice had indicted them for war crimes and planned to impose ten-year sentences—advising the accused not to expect any surprises at their trial since Russian retention of the island depended upon their conviction.

The northsmen’s appeals fell on deaf ears.

Epilogue

Whence? Whither? Wherefore?

Two nights had passed since Lisa turned south. She retained a week’s rations and water supply, having filled her canteen from a cloudburst. Her freckled skin was tanned dark—except for her buttocks (which were so burned she couldn’t sit). The winds pushed south and the boat sailed where it was sent. Lisa shuddered to think of missing Easter Island and ending up in the Antarctic—especially since she hadn’t kept a single strip of clothing. That, however, was a problem hundreds of miles away. For now, she rummaged through her knapsack and found her last bottle of tanning lotion, dabbing just enough to block the sun. She didn’t waste a drop. If the ointment ran dry, she’d suffer for sure. Lisa crouched to keep sore skin from the bright sunlight reflected from the sea.

It was high noon when the young woman noticed the indistinct rise of a distant island and sailed straight toward it, reaching the outcrop by midafternoon. As she drew near, she realized the island wasn’t large—being no more than several acres of high slopes and narrow beaches perched over the sea and encased by a barrier of heavy surf. Waves broke hard across the windward side of the isle until they rejoined on the leeward side. After twice circumnavigating the island, Lisa knew there was no return from a landing. There’d be one chance to get in and none to leave since her boat would be wrecked in the rough surf.

Lisa looked south, seeing no other sign of land—or anything human—and sighed as she thought about her fallen world, old and new alike. She remembered the pollution and urbanization of America: the wasted energy and the redundant industry, the encroachment and exploitation of everything good. She reminisced over the gentle rains of Mount Zion and the soft sun of the old forest. She warmed with thoughts of nature’s sweet ways and recoiled from the terrible recollection of murderous wars, barbarous cannibals, evil northsmen, and a turtle taken too young from the thin protection of its shell. She remembered Donovan and Jason, as well as Tiffany and Linh. She wept for Alan and the natives she had injured—and for butchered bodies and burned villages, forest fires and burning oil. She sobbed aloud for Hilary and realized the sunken yacht was probably leaking fuel into the white sands of the South Pacific: Paradise was polluted and spoiled. Lisa wept for generations of fish cut off, innocent birds killed, and needless suffering imposed on nature.

“Never again,” Lisa declared as she wiped her eyes and strained to see the uninhabited and untended garden that would become her private sanctuary, “will I mistake nurture for nature and work for freedom. I’ll not plant an Eden to be shaped by human hands but enjoy what springs from the earth itself. No planting, no tilling, no cultivation.”

Now Lisa opened the sail to the full strength of the wind as she reached full speed and tacked for the island. The breeze was strong and her increased skill in sailing (after three days at sea) was evident as she hit the waves at a right angle—and the sailboat was flipped by a five-foot breaker just as Lisa pushed herself free. She heard the thunder of the surf and the snap of fiberglass as she was pushed underwater, striking sand and cutting her left hand on shards of coral before breaking to the surface and gasping for breath.

As a second wave broke over her, Lisa swallowed water as she swam for shore. After the wave passed, Lisa staggered to her feet and limped into the shallows where the froth of the foam washed her feet while she spit out water, caught her breath, and looked for her boat. All she saw were bits of fiberglass washed across the sand—along with cans of supplies and torn canvas. Everything else was gone.

The beach was perfect.

A narrow strip of sand circled the slopes of the hill and craggy rocks insured this was no place for human habitation. The island was large enough to support one or two people at most, but never a city, village, or even a family. There would be no factories, no villages, no pollution. Only those few things Lisa herself brought would make an impact on the environment and the young woman swore to bury them within the week. Neither she nor anyone else would ruin this paradise. There would be neither northsmen seeking plunder nor westerners seeking comfort. No yachtsman would bring guns and no helicopter would bring rescue. She herself would feast from the fruits of this natural paradise and recycle every nutrient her own body didn’t require. If she were careful never to build a fire or raise a shelter, she’d always be housed by a perfect canopy of nature—its luscious innocence unspoiled by human greed or need.

Lisa smiled as she watched two gulls circle. Their nests would be safe with her and she hoped the birds might soon be her friends, living with her in a true symbiotic friendship. Now a large turtle lumbered down the beach and Lisa watched it slip into the sea without giving chase. It too might soon be her companion. No human malice had harmed the birds and beasts of this place and she expected—or at least hoped—to befriend them all.

A few minutes later, the young woman shimmied up a banana tree to pick two brown-spotted bananas—and ate the larger of the two without wasting the slightest strand of fiber or bit of fruit before returning the peel to its place below the tree that grew it—careful not to rob the ox of its grain—and saving the second banana for supper. Afterwards, she found water seeping from a crack in the rocks and drank from it until her thirst was quenched. Later that evening, she picked large banana leaves from a tree and lay them across her unclothed body as she beheld the glimmering of the stars on a clear night. Even in sleep, her pleasure didn’t end. Visions of love fulfilled came many times and she slept late the next morning—worn from dreams and desire.

Indeed, Lisa woke only when the warm of the sun stroked her face, the first moment of her new life—life without hours or days, clocks or calendars. She didn‘t open her eyes right away, but enjoyed the caress of dawn on her face, the dew of the grass soothing her sunburned buttocks, and the gentle massage of her breasts at the soft hands of ...

Lisa startled as she opened her eyes. Her jump was reflexive when she saw an egg-sized spider perched on her nipple, hanging by an indiscernible thread spun into the heavens. The spider bit Lisa once before scurrying back to the treetops. The young woman groaned when she saw a drop of blood pool on her naked breast. Within minutes, her groans were repeated and her breast was swollen. At first, she had thought to kill her attacker, but almost immediately returned to her senses—knowing she was the interloper into the spider’s kingdom. It lived here before she came; she was the trespasser. Now Lisa decided to find a coconut tree to collect oil to salve her wound.

She didn’t go far.

Not fifty steps uphill, she came to dozens of webs—many of them several feet wide—strung between trees and bushes and rocks. Most were filled with the carcasses of dead insects, though larger ones contained the bones of birds and one even held fast the carcass of a rare fruit bat. Lisa shuddered when she saw the withered remains of an endangered species; she also quivered from pain since her left breast already had swollen to twice its normal size—the infected nipple bright from poison—and her chest itched and ached.

Knowing she needed to act fast, she took a deep breath as she squeezed poison from the wound until blood ran clean, then pressed harder to drain the infection as her chest throbbed and nipple stung. When she screamed from pain, a startled flock of birds flew away. Lisa lay down and nursed the wound until the swelling slowed and the pain ceased several hours later—knowing that the tenderness would last for days and wishing there was someone to assist and comfort her.

The spiders didn’t care.

Ryan flashed a smile at the stylish reporter across the table. His hair was short and teeth polished and he wore a summer jacket with matching Italian shoes and tinted sunglasses. Cameras rolled and microphones recorded as a producer signaled they were live.

“I’m Marla Landover,” the reported announced, “on the beaches of Waikiki with Ryan Godson—who has just returned from his mysterious quest.”

The reporter flashed a smile at the camera. Her high cheekbones were perfectly framed by silky blond hair that brushed her collar and her lips were covered with a coat of ruby gloss that framed an ultra-white smile. Diamond earrings flashed from her earlobes: sparkling bright against the contrast of her dark tan.

“Ryan,” Marla said, “today agreed to a multi-million dollar contract with an undisclosed motion picture company to tell the true story of his adventure in the South Pacific. The deal is one of the largest in Hollywood history and gives the studio rights to the story, as well as to Ryan’s acting and directing skills. Ryan will even play, believe it or not, himself. Filming is scheduled to begin before the holidays and Ryan hopes to release the picture as a summer blockbuster.”

The reporter brushed her blond locks behind an ear and held a cordless microphone. “Tell us,” she cooed, “about your adventure. The world is waiting to hear.”

“You’ll have to wait for the movie, Marla,” Ryan said after shaking his head. “It’s going to be the true account of life in a tropical paradise.”

“You have thousands of fans who can’t wait, Ryan. And I’m one of them. You have to tell us something.”

“Since even movies have trailers, I suppose I can tell you a few things.”

“We’re ready.”

“I’m a father now.”

The reporter blushed. “R-really? Boy or girl?

“Actually, my wife’s still pregnant and we haven’t done an ultrasound. I guess I should say I’ll be a father soon.”

“Did Kit ever hope to get pregnant at her age? I’ll bet she’s surprised.”

Now it was Ryan who looked embarrassed. “I don’t think so,” he said with a subdued tone. “Kit’s not pregnant that I know of and she’s no longer my wife.”

“That is a surprise.”

Ryan stopped smiling. “Kit and I,” he explained, “parted company. We’ve both remarried.”

“Who’s the lucky girl? Will you introduce her to Hollywood?”

“Probably not,” Ryan said, “since she’s decided to return to graduate school and I’m not going to stand in her way.”

“You’ll support her and the baby while she attends school?”

“However I can.”

“That’s very sensitive. Women could use more guys like you.”

“I do what I can.”

The reporter tossed her head, to clear the bangs from her eyes as she asked whether Kit planned to star as herself in the film.

“Well, to be honest”—this question caught Ryan by surprise and now he stumbled for an answer—“I really hadn’t ... I mean to say I never asked, but it’s my impression she’s given up acting.”

“Kit Fairchild has given up acting? That is news.”

“It is. All of us were changed profoundly by our stay in Paradise; some for the better and others for the worse. I don’t think Kit’s up to the challenge of acting any longer and—to tell the truth—I respect her for understanding her limits.”

“You mentioned problems?” the reporter asked with a smile. “What happened on your island?”

“We learned a valuable lesson,” Ryan said after a pause, “that even the most careful screening can’t weed out every trace of fascism and conservatism and authoritarianism.”

The blond reporter looked confused.

“The movie will give the details,” Ryan explained, “but it’s enough to say we suffered violence at the hands of militarists who joined us like wolves in sheep’s clothing. When we were faced with a crisis, some of them turned to violence and oppression: right-wing violence and conservative solutions. Violence begat violence and brought war to heaven itself.”

“That sounds horrible? Are you alright?”

“It was close,” Ryan said. “I led one battle against armed warriors from a cannibal tribe and helped organize resistance to those who thought to mistreat native peoples.”

“Real fighting? Like war?”

“I hated it,” Ryan said, “but it was like a horror film—or maybe a suspense drama or historical epic. We fought for survival. They even took my wife hostage.”

The reporter’s eyes grew wide. “Your wife was taken hostage? Was she hurt?”

“She already sounds better.”

“She’s not with you?” the woman now chose her words carefully. “She’s not here?”

“No,” Ryan said. “Her mother is helping Maria through the pregnancy. I spoke with her yesterday over the phone.”

“And she’ll join you after the baby’s born?”

“We’ll have to see what’s best,” Ryan said, “my lawyer’s still confirming whether we’re officially married. The Russians possess our state archives and there’s some question regarding the legality of our vows. To tell the truth, I’m not absolutely certain I’m properly divorced from Kit.”

“When will you return? I’d love ... I mean, we’d like to send a reporter to watch you film.”

“We won’t be going back. We hope to film in Hawaii or maybe Tahiti. The Russian government claims we broke our contract by allowing Marines to land on the island. What were we supposed to do? Fight them? My agent is considering a lawsuit to recover our damages.”

“Against?”

“Against the U.S. government.”

“What about the Russians?”

“Probably not,” Ryan explained. “They were within their legal rights given the illegal U.S. attack on a foreign state. That’s why we signed off on the paperwork. That, and intimidation by the U.S. military.”