Chapter Text
"Imagine being a woman! Detached from the battlefront while strolling comfortably through your house, waiting to be served and filled. Oh, poor us men, who glorify our beloved land with the blood of others, while they bless it with the fruit of their wombs. They live by giving life; we live by killing. How I envy you, women! How I hate you!"
"Do you want to be a woman, then? To be disgustingly weak and docile, and have the audacity to speak beyond what is asked of you?"
"I don't want to be one! God forbid I should be emotional and not logical, stupid and superficial! I only yearn for the power they hold over us—over life itself."
At sea, company always felt insipid, intolerable. The feverish dream of glory dissolved with each passing day, as the stench of sweat and pig impregnated the walls dampened by the sea breeze, and everything reeked of the docks. The touch of a woman felt distant; many lived on memories and firsthand anecdotes of those who had beautiful girlfriends back home, or mothers and sisters awaiting their return. A few had daughters. A rare few only bred resentment and envy.
But women had not been the topic of discussion since the first time the soldiers spoke. Glory was a recurring conversation during the early days; they imagined holidays, parades, women parading and fighting for a shred of their saving seed. As the ship ventured deeper into the ocean, the chats became a sort of monologue, tales of pasts that felt remote and distant, rather than events that could easily happen to anyone on a Tuesday morning.
"I have a gorgeous girlfriend back home, the prettiest girl in our county. She wanted to serve as a nun after finishing her studies, but I convinced her to become a nurse so we would cross paths in the field. Now I'm trapped here while she tends to dying men who aren't me. I’d shoot myself right now just to see her!" one of them growled one particularly dreary afternoon. Tuesday rocked the ship the way a mother rocks her child.
"I’ve got a girl waiting for me, too."
Intimate anecdotes emerged like unusual medals. Kisses stolen like sighs at midnight, the feverish touch of smooth skin, and the fantasy of having beautiful daughters and strong sons to entertain by mid-afternoon. Some bragged about girls with blonde hair, green eyes, and bodies dancing amidst the chaos. Others shifted to more private memories, recalling floral perfumes and sweet gazes. The boldest carried photographs of their girlfriends, engraved rings, or smuggled jewelry that they pressed to their lips, pretending the cold metal and polished stone harbored some residual body heat from their owners.
Stepping onto the sand for the first time in ages felt liberating, an almost religious experience. The island imposed itself majestically over green beds and the magnificent blue of a cloudless sky; the midday sun began to inject its heat into the napes of the soldiers' necks. By all accounts, it felt like something out of a book about paradise islands far removed from the terror of war. The earth was clean, virgin, and adorned by the moisture of dew trapped in the permanent shade of the trees.
"Come on, a good woman with a coconut, and I'll count my Christmas present as settled." The troop laughed, delighted by the joke. The laughter ceased when a creature emerged from the bushes.
It looked like an invitation to get lost in the wild undergrowth. The creature seemed to be in the bloom of adolescence; dirty blonde hair fell haphazardly over his forehead and collarbones. He had broad shoulders and the limbs of someone who hadn't been able to develop fully. On the shoreline, an uneven number of sandcastles gave a grim, childlike impression to the group of soldiers. There were fresh footprints in the sand; paradise transformed into an unprecedented scene from a horror book. As they walked further across the damp sand, they noticed rudimentary toys left adrift. A soldier kicked one of the castles; the structure crumbled beneath his boot. A cry echoed from the bushes.
When they looked at the creature again, they noticed he had a child on his back and two clinging to his legs. Littluns who couldn't be more than nine or ten years old, but they were small and stared at them with surprise and absolute hatred. One of them wept.
"Mummy, mummy, mummy," they called out desperately in broken, trivial English, pointing at the soldiers with their small spears. From the brush emerged an impassive shock of hair, red as embers, a dirty face, and a barbed spear in his hand. He strutted like a king and flashed his yellow teeth at the invaders. Perhaps out of fear, or insecurity, the stranger positioned himself in front of the blonde creature and growled.
"Jack, wait," the creature called out. But the other, Jack, ignored him. He shoved him further back, imposing his body to shield him from the soldiers' curious gazes.
"Hullo! Hullo! Are you soldiers?!" the creature called out, even as the other pushed him back toward the bushes. "You've come to rescue us, haven't you? Jack! Don't push! They're the help! Did you see the smoke?"
Back home, stories were told of a plane packed with children bound for a safe haven—a missing plane, mistaken for an enemy craft and destroyed. The rumor of castaway children spread like wildfire among worried parents, who resisted sending their children to safety evacuation zones, even when the journey was by train.
But boys become men in the face of adversity, and the line between humanity and savagery blurs with each passing day. The war front is not so different from the hardships of the wild, from bestiality, and having one's raw needs exposed.
"D'you reckon they have women here? Even a savage one I can put on all fours; if I don't look at her face, I can sate myself."
"Don't mock it, there's some girl waiting for you at home, charmed by the uniform. Women get turned on by a hanging weapon and medals on a chest."
"Come off it, a quick release with some beauty of the woods—"
"Shut it, something's listening to us behind the tree."
Ralph settles down with the littluns' share, who are far too anxious and hungry for pig to settle for the fish and fruit on the other leaves. The portions are uneven and unique; Jack leaves a piece of juicy thigh on Ralph’s own leaf and positions himself in a way that makes him look like a king on his throne. The flames consume the remaining humanity of the adolescents, contouring their masked faces until they are transformed into beasts. It is Ralph's face, kissed by the sun and cleaned by the water, that remains untouched by the atrocities surrounding him. The baby fat has vanished, replaced by the remnant of something that has not quite finished being a child but has not yet begun to be a man. He sits to the left of the Chief, on a long log where the littluns shift uncomfortably, possessed by a childish anxiety.
Ralph does not speak to the guests; he hasn't done so since he saw them on the sand with the eyes of a hopeless lamb. He had rushed toward them, still holding a child in his arms, and bellowed a sort of childish greeting in his high-pitched voice.
Ralph gives the impression of being a skinny little girl.
He still wears a sort of cut-off trousers; a poorly cut piece of fabric wraps around his torso like a small poncho. Rested upon his neck is a trivial necklace made of seashell remnants. Percival clings to his body like a life jacket, a trace of insecurity haunting his gaze as the rest of the littluns pry through the strangers' belongings. Several soldiers laugh, others mutter. And in the small boy's mind, there is an immense urge to be part of the mystery.
Two plump pigs roast over the fire, while half a dozen fish are left to cool on warm rocks. Some soldiers devour their rations of provisions under the watchful eyes of the older boys. None of the hunters let go of their spears or sticks; they eat with one hand while analyzing every movement. The only sound is the mechanical chewing and swallowing, the waves crashing against the sand like a dismal lullaby. The fire crackles; Jack does not tear his gaze away from the group of soldiers, as if to make it clear they are nothing but flies on his plate. Or unwanted guests.
"Percival, I need to eat," Ralph mutters, like an exhausted mother whose baby won't stop squirming. Percival barely loosens his grip enough for Ralph to sigh in exhaustion. He sits up slightly to take a skewer of fish and a handful of damp berries, bringing them to his mouth with care. Another of the children lies across his extended leg, his mouth full of pork and pulp on his cheeks. Those who had been whispering over the foreign luggage quickly take their places around Ralph, picking through the berries, sliced fruit, and the parts of the boar that Ralph has left behind. Some soldiers frown with ill-concealed disdain. One of them leans toward his companion and whispers:
"To think that back home, my mother stood for hours at the market just to get tin cans nibbled by rats."
"But you had roofs and hot water!"
The soldier looks at him with an expression of sadness. "But I never ate sweet pig or fresh seasonal fruit."
Ralph's voice rings out, loud and clear. The soldiers deeply dislike it—his masculine timbre surrounded by that maternal undertone.
"Percival, eat the fish. And you, Henry, at least finish the handful of berries." Before the children can protest, Jack intervenes.
"Let your mother eat, boys." Although the phrase is a jest, the order settles like a stone among the rowdy kids. They adjust themselves to give Ralph space, who turns toward Jack, thoroughly annoyed.
"That was uncalled for," he grunts. The annoyance in his voice only brings a smirk to the painted face of the red-haired boy. Jack makes no move to defend himself, merely raising his hands in a placating gesture.
One of the soldiers has the audacity to ask:
"Was it a co-ed school?" The curiosity is punished by Jack's scowl and a collective burst of laughter. Ralph does not flinch or hide; he just keeps carving his portion of meat without eating it. Several of the older soldiers look at him as if he were a freak. The real question is implicit, coated in an unpleasant hue: Are you a girl?
A throat-clearing from Jack, and the island sinks back into silence.
"Do you see any women here?" he snaps. Roger is the loudmouth who has the nerve to answer.
"The blonde one is Ralph. Jack made himself Chief because Ralph was an... inept! So his duty now is to look after the brats while we go out hunting. Like a little woman!" This time, only Maurice laughs under his breath. The twins shoot Ralph a look of pure anguish.
"Ralph looks after the fire, the children, and the shelters if he wants to! He only thinks about rescue," Jack speaks like a king, someone who seems to be doing Ralph favors by allowing him to do something other than his actual responsibilities.
"How long have you been here?" another soldier asks, drawing his own conclusions. The incident was registered four years ago; the boys seem trapped in an awkward adolescence. Some have faces with incipient acne, others the shadow of a beard.
No one answers but Ralph, his voice tinged with a strange certainty.
"Five winters. We're in spring, I think, judging by the flowers."
Five winters. Five years trapped on a remote island, cut off from everything and civilization. And they can't even last two months on the war front without dreaming of breasts, thighs, and summer dresses.
"How did you get here?" another asks.
"We were going to a safe place, but something happened and we crashed here. The pilot died on impact; only we survived."
Some take to the self-reflective task of thinking about what they were doing five years ago. Five winters, as Ralph calls them. Many of them were finishing school, some dreaming of the glory of war, the benefits of the aftermath rather than the tragedies of the present. A few dared to think of university, respectable careers, offices, and the typical dream of repeating the life their parents had. Some remember hunger transforming into desperation. The need to belong, to prove their love for the fatherland. For their nation.
While those brats lived a disfigured dream in their pathetic Eden made of shadows and lean meat.
It would have been too much to ask for it to be a plane full of pre-adolescent women waiting for them.
"We wanted to follow the rules, I swear. We really tried, but... we couldn't." Ralph breaks, weeping with sobs he does not hide at all. The scene is unpleasant to behold; the hunters leave him to his own devices with his feelings. The littluns, on the other hand, crowd around him and begin to ask what is wrong, telling him not to cry. That they love him. That their mother shouldn't cry like that. That boys don't cry.
Jack is the one who rises carefully and announces: "Well, you already know what you want. We want to get on with our night."
During the night, Ralph moves to the beach and the forest to put the little ones to sleep with the lull of the sea. The older boys move in a frantic dance until midnight, when the euphoria dies down and leaves only the fatigue of an exhausting day. Jack sometimes asks him to stay, arguing that the littluns will have to do the dance when the time comes. Roger protests; Maurice remains silent. But no one objects to Jack's bossy nature, so Ralph stays at Castle Rock.
That night, however, Ralph does not have enough energy to go down to the shelters with a troop of sleepy children complaining about not being able to sleep near the embers. So he lets them sleep near the warmth of the bonfire, trusting that Samneric will watch over them while they sleep. Jack's cave, with its boar skins, fresh leaves, and feathers, looks tempting. Nor does he feel safe wandering through the soldiers' camp; they seem to have every intention of prolonging their stay on the island. The heavy ship in the distance seems chained to the ocean, a sleeping giant awaiting its own invaders. The island feels plunged into silence. Once, Simon said the island spoke, that it wept for death. Ralph sometimes wonders if the island wept for Piggy's death and Simon's own, if the earth embraced them with the warmth Piggy recalled from his aunt, or if the fallen leaves served as a refuge for Simon's internal torments. It has been a long time since he thought of his dead, though he wears around his neck the remnants of a role inverted and used to the hunters' tastes.
Jack's cave is the most complete; he salvaged pieces from the plane and displays them as trophies wherever he can. A propeller, a forgotten and dented suitcase with filthy shirts and trousers he only uses and lends in winter. A defense blade. And a sheet music of his favorite melody.
The scraps of metal were used to give a false sense of privacy; there are thick, sharpened logs at the entrance and a series of pig bones delimiting his space.
"Stay." Always bossy, dominant. He has the appearance of a savage. The shadow of a beard begins to emerge beneath the thick layer of clay and charcoal. Ralph sometimes protests; tonight, he does not.
Jack has his own contained fire, which allows Ralph to feel him approach. It is always the same, a ritual of its own: a bony finger on his neck, a slow and paused breath on his nape. It is animalistic, grotesque, intimate... disgustingly intimate. The finger wraps around a lock of his hair and tugs, measuring the length, watching the hair tense. The blonde has turned into the same color as the honey they sometimes consume.
"You took a bath." Jack doesn't ask; he affirms. The words are lost in the darkness as they move toward where the vestiges of a bed await them.
"In the lagoon." Jack inhales sharply, exhaling until he slightly moves the long hairs on the nape of Ralph's neck. "You washed off the markings." Only Jack distinguishes between the heavy scent left by baths in the sea and those from dips in the lagoon.
When Ralph faces him, sick of the mystery of Jack's every hitched sigh, he finds himself confused by the strange gaze. They do not look seventeen and sixteen years old; he has the same expression as when they first met. Ralph allows himself vulnerability, taking the other's hand with care and placing it against his clean cheeks. You calm the beast by showing skin, not fangs or claws.
"You can put them back on tomorrow," he assures, a half-promise barely enough to content someone as spoiled as the Chief.
"Tomorrow I won't go hunting. I have other things to do." Ralph almost laughs. Almost. Because it is impossible to get Jack to do anything other than hunt, brag, and sharpen his spear. "Tomorrow I'll look after the littluns with you," he promises, bringing his face closer until their noses brush. They do not kiss. They only rub their noses with an affection learned the hard way, born from the need for touch. One of them wonders how long they have left before they forget how to be human.
Jack's hand ends up on his waist, a finger contouring the fine skin of his abdomen.
Ralph is the first to fall asleep, soothed by the gentle warmth of the cave and the tranquility the soldiers bring to the island. With luck, they will return home. With luck...
The island does not take well to the soldiers; it is humid, sticky, and incredibly ominous. The brats have made it theirs through sheer trial and error. There are vestiges of a wildfire, overturned trees, and paths well-marked as trails. Flies are upon them almost constantly; there are rotting remnants of meat, dirty bones, impaled heads. The lagoon offers no comfort, not even to refill canteens. Boredom makes them observers. Fear fills them with a yearning to conquer this sort of rudimentary civilization.
Ralph moves with confidence, a tail of ten children behind him. The beach fills with laughter, games, and tasks disguised as a competition. That is how they gather fish, crabs, and oysters. The Chief stays in the sea until the water covers his thighs. Ralph, on the other hand, stays on the sand, cleaning a child's face. Percival lets him, far too concentrated on building his own sandcastle while Johnny and the others move about, waving crabs and oysters.
"Look at my booty, Ralph!"
"Look at mine! It's prettier."
"Ralph! Tell them I don't want them to eat Mister Pincers!"
"Mummy! My oyster doesn't want to open."
They called Ralph "mummy" with far too much familiarity. Trust. Exhibiting the crabs like artwork made at school. Ralph nods to almost everything they say, offering just the right words to keep them briefly content.
Other children move toward the sea, letting themselves be carried by the waves while trying to get Jack's attention—an impossible feat, as Jack only concentrates on catching as many fish as he can. The bounty grows on the shore; the sun sinks as the waves recede. Back toward Castle Rock, some soldiers follow them, believing another shared supper is approaching.
On the way back, Ralph has Percival on his back. The children sing riddles, jokes, and place bets on who will get the thigh, the stomach, or the tail. Jack leads the march with blind confidence, letting the children try to catch his eye and taking pleasure when he sees the markings on Ralph's face. The weight of Percival is familiar on his back; the whole path plunges into an unusual joy. The children carefully carry coconuts filled with fresh water; Henry has proclaimed himself the crab-carrier and strides forward with firm steps, arguing that he will roast them over the fire at supper.
One of the soldiers stops them halfway to speak to Jack. Tense, uncomfortable. He looks neither at Ralph nor the children. Jack does not leave their side until he sees the soldier begin to lead the way.
"Go with the brats, tell Roger to find me, and have Maurice guard the entrance. Go to my cave, don't come out until I call you." Jack tightly grips Ralph's forearm as he recites his demands, his voice holding a strange urgency. Not fear, but nervousness. Ralph nods hastily; Percival's grip grows tighter. A crab escapes Henry's grasp; the necklace of seashell remnants feels just like a suffocating noose.
Jack says goodbye with a brush of noses, marching behind the soldiers with false security.
Ralph rushes at full speed toward Roger, forgetting the animosity and the most thinly veiled rancor. The hunter nods, takes his spear, and marches off with a war cry that sounds like an animalistic shriek. No bitter words, no hidden mockery.
The night feels strangely silent; the fish cook, the crabs split open. The feast is eaten in silence. For the first time in years, the littluns barely even move as they eat.
"Ralph, what happened?" Samneric inquire at the same time, sitting down one on each side of him. Robert and Maurice drive spears into the entrance of Castle Rock; the others begin to sharpen logs and branches.
Ralph feels fear once more. He does not answer. In the distance, the sound of a gun firing echoes against the false tranquility of the island. A flock of birds takes flight in a sudden rush.
After four painful seconds of absolute silence, the victorious shriek of a hunter floods the entire island.