Thursday the 10th, C-10goldn_boyNovember 10 2011, 18:28:00 UTC
Jim had allowed himself to convince Uhura she needed a vacation--and, consequently, give himself one. The need was twofold, and while he was reluctant to leave those he cared for back in the city, Uhura at least gave him an excuse to leave.
It was on a solitary walk (he never could fully eradicate that spirit of discovery, even had he wanted) that he reached the southwest corner of the island and began walking along the edge of the wood.
This was the same area where, two days earlier, Draco and Zero had discovered a truly gigantic cache of rum, and word had spread. Now this area of beach was peppered with drunken revelers.
There were some fires lit, for warmth in the evening and for cooking during the day. Musicians and singers had arranged themselves comfortably in the sand, those who could not make music were dancing to it, instead. At any given time at least a dozen people were enjoying themselves to the fullest on drink that showed no signs of running dry any time soon.
Not the best place for a solitary walk, but there, in the foliage - a path, if you could even call it that. It was more the suggestion of a path, a place where plant life had obviously been bent and beaten back so that someone could walk more comfortably. It wound into the trees, away from the music and the laughter, and into the peace and quiet.
Jim had had more than enough of the drunken revelry. A loosening of inhibition was one thing, but even he needed a break from time to time. And he hadn't much been in the mood, lately, for that sort of sustained hedonism. He'd had a few too many experiences lately of drink aiding his more morose moods, and so he turned away from the noise, down something like a deer track. This, he thought, would be more interesting. Something not yet overrun. That appealed to the man who'd spent five years attempting to map the uncharted. He made his way down the path, unconcerned about getting lost. He had no where he needed to be, right now.
The path twisted and wound through the underbrush. Occasionally it forced its way through some particularly deep growth, but more often than not it simply bent to the will of nature, taking the path of least resistance. It was not the trail of someone in a hurry, but of someone wandering. Perhaps lost, perhaps trying to get lost, perhaps merely not caring, but wandering.
Jim wondered how it got here. But he was caught now, by his own curiosity, and would follow to the end. He more than half expected it to amount to nothing. So many of these expeditions did. But it was relaxing, and Jim felt more himself than he had in some time. For Jim, more often than not, relaxation took some active form.
It got there as a result of someone doing just what Jim was doing - wandering. The occasional broken branch still showed green near the splintering. This was a relatively new path. Someone had gone this way not long ago. There were also signs of distress. Occasionally there would be a deeper rut in the ground, a sign of pacing. Several of the trees had snapped off limbs that had nothing to do with improving the path. Someone in turmoil had passed by this way.
As he went, Jim started to notice those signs. And his vague interest became concern, his observation more intentional and pointed. He began to look around him more, forgetting his intent to wander as he committed himself, without thinking, to solving the mystery.
Eventually, the sounds of the island faded, an unnatural hush overtaking the area. Insects still flew from flower to flower, but there was no clicking, no buzzing. The birds in the trees did not call to each other. They simply stared in the direction that Jim was walking, transfixed by something that had gone before him.
Jim was out of practice. But the increasing strangeness did impress itself upon him, and it was invigorating, this feeling of exploring again. Of entering the unknown. Instinctively, he began walking as quietly as he could, given the barely-established path. You never knew.
Indeed, you did not. After about ten yards, the animal life began to thin, and in another ten, it was gone entirely. Jim was in the trees by himself, nothing else daring to venture this far. And then, quite abruptly, the trees ended. But they didn't just end, then were blown to the ground, completely flattened and somewhat charred.
The circle of destruction ended up being about fifty feet across, and in the very center of it, a pile of dark cloth. No sound, no movement, nothing else in the space.
Glancing around, hesitating only to try to get the lay of the land, Jim hurried to the center, picking over trunks and branches and filled with a new sense of urgency. He didn't have a weapon, but the thought hardly registered. He'd just have to be watchful, as he approached the bundle and crouched.
It was a baby boy, asleep and tangled in what would turn out to be a charcoal grey cloak. He had light olive skin and dark wavy hair. Clutched in one chubby little fist, a rolled piece of thick paper held in a tight roll with a heavy man's ring with a huge onyx stone set in it.
Jim stared down at it, numerous thoughts going through his mind. Whose was it? How did it get here? Did it have something to do with the island? Was someone missing a baby? Had someone abandoned it? What was he supposed to do with it?
Mostly, though, he felt a thrill of purpose, as well as compassion for the child. And curiosity.
It was on a solitary walk (he never could fully eradicate that spirit of discovery, even had he wanted) that he reached the southwest corner of the island and began walking along the edge of the wood.
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There were some fires lit, for warmth in the evening and for cooking during the day. Musicians and singers had arranged themselves comfortably in the sand, those who could not make music were dancing to it, instead. At any given time at least a dozen people were enjoying themselves to the fullest on drink that showed no signs of running dry any time soon.
Not the best place for a solitary walk, but there, in the foliage - a path, if you could even call it that. It was more the suggestion of a path, a place where plant life had obviously been bent and beaten back so that someone could walk more comfortably. It wound into the trees, away from the music and the laughter, and into the peace and quiet.
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The circle of destruction ended up being about fifty feet across, and in the very center of it, a pile of dark cloth. No sound, no movement, nothing else in the space.
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Mostly, though, he felt a thrill of purpose, as well as compassion for the child. And curiosity.
He reached, gingerly, for the rolled up paper.
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