The Island's Rite

As the small helicopter flew clear of the storm, the Island came into view. With a mix of apprehension and excitement, Declan Cordon leaned forward and pressed his face to the window in an effort to take in the magnificent view. It was much larger than he would have ever imagined: the shore stretched as far as he could see in opposite directions. This was an island, right? He knew his family was wealthy, but he found it difficult to believe that they really owned this place. It was harder still to believe that it had never been inhabited.

He had spent years preparing for this day. Every man of Declan’s enormous family had successfully completed the Island’s Rite, so he was relatively confident that he too would succeed. But he was still nervous. Though many of those same men returned unscathed, he had had several conversations with his next-oldest brother, Dane, about his own experience. He had failed the Rite on the first attempt after twisting his ankle, and had to return the following summer to complete what he had started. He did go, if somewhat unwillingly, and returned successful.

Because of this, Dane wasn’t particularly popular among the brothers. In fact, he was considered something of a pariah within the family. He wasn’t given a position in Cordon International, the family’s business, though he seemed content and successful with his own endeavors. Declan respected his closest brother, and felt that, having made the trip twice to the Island, Dane’s advice was twice as valuable as anyone else’s.

The helicopter cleared the shoreline and moved South. Declan thought it was South anyway; he had lost his bearings in the storm, and his compass was in his bag, stored in the rear compartment. As the craft approached an outcropping of rock near a wide stretch of sand, Declan glanced over at Clarence, his pilot. Not one word had escaped the old man’s lips during the several hours that Declan knew him. Every one of his questions was met with absolute silence, as though the man refused to accept his very existence. Dane had warned him to expect that, and not to let it bother him. It was just part of the Rite.

Sand swirled around the air and blew out over the water as the small aircraft made its descent. Touching down, the whine of the motor died and the rotors began to slow. Once the sand settled, Declan hopped out and surveyed his surroundings. What he had assumed to be a mass of rocks turned out to be a small hut of sorts. He observed Clarence move slowly toward the structure and disappear through its entrance. Moments later, he emerged, carrying a plain wooden box. Declan could feel his palms begin to sweat as Clarence held the box toward him, lifting the lid and exposing the contents.

A small stone, oblong and flawlessly white, rested in the crude box next to some papers, folded next to it. Declan hurriedly grabbed the papers and unfolded them, sighing in relief as he recognized a map. It was crudely drawn, and lacked a compass rose and scale, but it would do. Though he had studied as much as he could, there was so little he knew about the Island, especially concerning its geography. His older brothers had all described it differently, arguing that it was huge, or actually quite small, or flat, tropical, arid, etc. They all might as well have been describing different places. Dane had just said, quite cryptically, “They’re right, even if they are all wrong.” 

Declan turned his attention to some scrawled writing on the other paper. It simply read, “Place this stone among it’s brethren atop the mound.” Glancing back at the map, he saw a circle drawn around what he assumed was the mound in question. Judging from the map, he figured he had several miles to traverse before he reached his destination. But he had two weeks to do it, which would be plenty of time. 

Now relieved, he jovially called out,  “This doesn’t seem so bad!” to Clarence, turning to look at the pilot. Clarence stood near the back of the helicopter, scratching his chin with a concerned look on his face. What confidence Declan felt mere moments before vanished as he saw the source of the pilot’s distress. The rear compartment door of the helicopter hung open, the latch broken. Declan dropped the box and rushed over to inspect the compartment. A moderate amount of crystal clear rainwater remained inside, swirling around the empty space where his bag should have been. 

“What happened? Where’s my pack!?” Declan demanded, whirling on the pilot. Clarence met his gaze with a blank stare, raising his arm to point out over the water. “What, the storm? My pack, all of my preparations, are gone because we flew through a storm? What am I supposed to do now?”

Clarence remained motionless, looking into the young man’s eyes. Slowly he pointed back to the helicopter, then out over the water again.

Go back? Was Clarence suggesting that he could just go home? Didn’t he understand what would happen to Declan if he returned now, what ridicule he would face? He would be disgraced, unable to work with his family. He would have to start over. Surely there was a place he could go, somewhere to escape that kind of shame. But how would he live? What kind of future could he have? He would feel the effects of such a decision for the rest of his life. He couldn’t do it. He simply could not make that choice.

He turned and staggered away, taking just a few steps toward the trees before dropping to his knees, breathing heavily. He hardly noticed the sand burning his skin through the light fabric of his pants. “What am I supposed to do now?” he repeated to himself. The white stone, half-buried in the sand nearby, drew his attention. It must have fallen out of the box when he dropped it. He reached over, looking for something, anything, to distract himself from the overwhelming prospect of his returning home a failure. 

When once he thought the stone to be completely white, it now appeared to have golden flecks of sand covering its surface. It was rough to the touch. He brushed it with his hand, trying to clear the sand away. Some of it remained, apparently embedded in the stone. His frown deepened. “I can’t even get this stupid rock clean,” he muttered. “How am I supposed to accomplish the Rite?”

He heard the cockpit door of the helicopter pop open, and dejectedly looked up to see Clarence rummaging around near the pilot seat, apparently preparing again for takeoff. Clarence turned away from the aircraft and approached the miserable young man, still kneeling in the sand. Gently, he reached down and pulled Declan to his feet. The young man cast his eyes downward, avoiding Clarence's gaze as he started toward the helicopter. 

Before Declan could take one step, the old man pushed a small bundle in his arms. He looked down at it, still lost in his thoughts. It was a half-empty water bottle and an old blanket, wrapped around something heavier. He unfurled the worn-looking fabric, revealing an equally-worn knife in a leather sheath. He saw the stylized initials of the Cordons’ Creed, “A. C. S.” burned right into the wooden handle. Animus, Corporis, Spiritus. Mind, Body, Spirit. Looking up into the old pilot’s eyes, the despair in his mind began to dissipate. The Island’s Rite was not a test to see how well he had packed his bags. It was a test of his intelligence, strength, and determination. He had trained his mind and body for years, amassing all kinds of knowledge and skills to call upon in the task that loomed before him.

He was still uncertain of what lay ahead, still concerned by the unknown dangers of the Island, but now looked forward with a confidence unfazed by the unknown. “Thank you,” he said to the old man, reaching to shake his hand, “I’m not sure what I would have done without your help.” Clarence returned his handshake with a small smile, then raised his hand and motioned out toward the center of the island. Declan nodded and said “ Yes, of course. I’ll meet you there.”

Declan quickly downed the contents of the bottle and, returning to the rear compartment of the helicopter, refilled it with the rainwater. He walked away a safe distance and waited, squinting against the airborne sand as the spinning of the rotors lifted the craft and carried it over the trees, along with the possibility of returning home. As the sound of the beating helicopter died away, his thoughts turned to his immediate situation.

He had no idea where he was. It was late in the day and, checking his watch, he guessed he had maybe an hour before it was too dark to see. He climbed up onto the roof of the nearby hut in an effort to see over the dense trees. He saw two distinct peaks and, confirming their location on the crude map, he tried to figure his relative distance to them. Assuming the sun was about to set on the opposite side of the island, he determined that he was on the south-eastern shore. At least he wasn’t technically lost anymore. He decided he would make use of the hut tonight, and set off in the morning.

Next he took inventory, needing to know what he had to work with. Aside from his watch and the rest of his clothes, he had the knife, water bottle, and blanket. His gratitude for Clarence’s generous gift deepened as he considered his meager arsenal. Turning his pockets out in search of anything else to help him, a folded slip of paper fell to the ground. He lifted the paper and examined it in the waning light. It was a note, written in Dane’s choppy handwriting. It read:

Had to sneak this into your pocket, couldn’t risk the pack. Take care Declan, the island changes. It was different for each of us. It was different when I went back the second time. Whatever it is, and whatever your Rite, just remember: Determine your goal, create your own path, execute your plan. Don’t let the impossibilities of the Island overwhelm you. A. C. S.

~DC

PS.  Tell Clarence he should really get that latch fixed.