Paradise Lost

Paradise Lost 

In these days of tribulation, when to throw oneself upon the vagaries of the ocean, beyond the fall of civilisation and the reach of marauding guns and gangs, offers a greater chance of survival than to be anchored on land, I recount the following tale. 

I am no hero, no old sea dog embellishing some insignificant adventure with lurid detail to accord status upon myself. The description of events contained herein is as factual as I can muster, despite their decidedly inexplicable subject matter.  It is a plain speaking rendition of an adventure that has scarred me for life. And would, I believe, have scarred that of any other.

As way of introduction, my name is Eric Van Louten. I am of French extraction and I run an electric catamaran across the great oceans, carrying small but valuable cargo for those rich enough to sponsor me. 

Here is my tale.

****

Did you know that the human nose can detect a greater range of scents than a dog’s? 

It was no wonder then that my olfactory organ was quivering faster than a bloodhound’s snout even though the island had not yet come into view during the storm. My electric catamaran had been blown off course by a sea whose apocalyptic waves were skyscraper high, their tops disappearing into the low-slung black clouds, their narrow avenues of shiny green walls seeking to pincer my boat. Yet, even at their swallowing height, the scent of a thousand truffles pierced its watery malevolence and by some strange power drew my craft towards the island. 

Like the effect of a psychedelic drug, my mind was besieged by a vision containing images of a fantastical place, an unmapped atoll of forest and stream, of exotic, colourful insects and birds, and without predators who might take a fancy to a beached old seadog like me. What made it truly hallucinatory was the hemisphere of transparent mist of some strange substance that protected it from the wild elements.  The dome glistened like one of those children’s glass toys depicting a snow scene but on a gigantic scale. And instead of snow, it enclosed a paradise.

Then, like a cork spat from that maelstrom of turbulence, my vessel was blown out of the storm, suddenly arrowing forward on a calm surface inside the shelter of the dome I had only moments before envisioned. Looking back I could see the massive seas crashing ineffectually half way up its curved transparent barrier. Yet, when we had passed through its curved walls, it had not offered any resistance to my craft, though it did produce a brief crawling sensation on my skin akin to electricity. Gradually the cat slowed as the shore approached. I was breathing heavily from my exertions and felt lightheaded in the rich, truffled air. My eyes had to squint for they were almost blinded by the clarity with which I could see everything in this perfect Eden. The profound blue of the sky, the rich green tones of the foliage and the assault of colours from the blossoms, the winged insects and the brilliantly plumed, darting cacophonous birds were mesmerising. My senses were extraordinarily alive in a way I had never before experienced.

We grounded on a shale beach and I removed my long boots and jumped into the water, dragging a rope up the pebbly incline to tether the boat to a tree. I would see to the storm damage later but at that moment I felt twenty years younger. My muscles positively sang with fluid strength. I wanted to explore. A deep desire overtook me to drink from the waters of this paradise and to eat its fruit. Like a free spirited child I ran barefoot up a grassy path through the trees, higher and higher. 

Reaching the small hill's summit, I surveyed the landscape. As I regarded what initially appeared to be a familiar, if wondrously animated setting, it slowly dawned upon me that this was hardly natural. It was unlike any topography I had encountered in life or in art. Sprouting here and there throughout what seemed to be a familiar woodland, were white, round-topped pillars, the height of humans but with a larger girth. Strange sacs of what seemed like a similar white substance hung everywhere from branches. Tendrils of it festooned the occasional, more isolated tree, clothing it from tip to base, like white robing. I approached the nearest pillar and touched it. It was warm and velvety and alive. Curiously, it created an attraction to my hand, a faint magnetic tension. It held my hand there, quite gently but firmly. 

“What art thou?” The archaic sounding question manifested itself, eerily, inside my head. “From whence cometh thou?”

And it was by thought that I answered, even if my lips moved silently in synchrony.  I had no control over my response, “Eric Van Louten. Ocean nomad out of the port of Marseilles in South Europa. The year 2070.” 

The skin of the pillar vibrated. Then that first, disembodied, somewhat biblical voice changed, becoming flat and neutral, “Ah 2070. This concurs with the data. Please wait for a moment. Our calibrations won’t take long.”

After a few seconds the voice changed again, became reassuring, assuming my local accent, that of a Marseillais, “Ah. Your stage of your species’ sociopathology has already been catalogued. We have no more need of you. Thank you for visiting us. A safe return to your home in Europa.”

I felt a sudden desolation, an emptiness, sensing rather than seeing the transparent hemisphere dissolve around me to reveal a rocky, vegetation-sparse atol, little different in its aridity from much of the rest of the world in these post-industrial times. My brief, incandescent venture into paradise was over. Below me I caught sight of my catamaran, unmoored, beginning to drift slowly away from the shale bank. I ran down the path and threw myself into the shallows, only just catching hold of its rail and clambering aboard, before the undulating swell of the abating storm pulled me, my boat and my aching soul back upon the ocean.