Abel's Island: Chapters 1–3

They enjoyed a pleasant lunch in the sunless woods, sharing delicate sandwiches of pot cheese and watercress, along with hard-boiled quail egg, onions, olives, and
black caviar.

Roaming among the trees, admiring the verdure, he saw a crowd of daisies clustered above him, like gigantic stars, and decided to cut one down and present his wife with a pretty parasol.

Roaming among the trees, admiring the verdure, he saw a crowd of daisies clustered above him, like gigantic stars, and decided to cut one down and present his wife with a pretty parasol.

It grew windy rather suddenly, and some rain fell, wherever it could through the foliage.

‘‘It’s raining,” Amanda observed.
“Indeed it is!” said Abel indignantly as the rain fell
harder.

There was some angry thunder and dazzling flares of lightning near and far.

They stopped bucking the wind and ran skeltering with it, in dismay.

They clambered together up into the cave, greatly relieved and panting for breath.

The storm was turning into a full-fledged, screaming hurricane.

Huge trees were bent by furious blasts of wind, branches broke, thunder volleyed, and crazy shafts of lightning zigzagged in the dark, steamy sky.

Amanda craned forward to watch an oak topple, when suddenly the wind tore from her neck the scarf of gauze she was wearing, and this airy web of stuff flew like a ghost from the mouth of the cave.

He dashed out impulsively.

To no avail, Amanda tried to stop him.

The scarf hooked onto a bramble, from which he retrieved it, but when he tried to climb back with his trophy, the wind walloped and sent him spinning like weightless tumbleweed, his sweetheart’s scarf in his paw.

The scarf hooked onto a bramble, from which he retrieved it, but when he tried to climb back with his trophy, the wind walloped and sent him spinning like weightless tumbleweed, his sweetheart’s scarf in his paw.

Helpless, unable even to struggle, he tucked in his head and was whirled along, shocked and bewildered.

He only knew it was dark and windy and wet, and that he was being knocked about in a world that had lost its manners, in a direction, as far as he could tell, not north, south, east, or west, but whatever way the wind had a mind to go; and all he could do was wait and learn what its whims were.

The torrent of wet air tearing past made breathing difficult.

He soon found himself haunch-deep in a swelling stream.

A new sound slowly emerged, the murmur of roiling foam.

His boat was moving toward it, and it rose to a turbulent roar.

Plunged deep in the water below, he fought against drowning; then, still hugging his nail, he rose slowly into a maelstrom of churning river, gasping for indrafts of air.

Plunged deep in the water below, he fought against drowning; then, still hugging his nail, he rose slowly into a maelstrom of churning river, gasping for indrafts of air.

Never had he been subjected to such rude treatment. How long could it last? How long, he wondered, could he abide it?

As if to answer that question, his craft shot forward again and he was pitched, jerked, and bandied about by the writhing, charging stream.

As if to answer that question, his craft shot forward again and he was pitched, jerked, and bandied about by the writhing, charging stream.

His boat capsized, then righted itself and began turning over and over; each time his exasperated head bobbed up, he gasped for his possibly final breath.

His boat capsized, then righted itself and began turning over and over; each time his exasperated head bobbed up, he gasped for his possibly final breath.

His fortitude amazed him.

He was no longer moving. His craft had struck an unyielding mass and stuck in it.

The wind still screamed, the rain still pelted, the river still raged, but he felt in some sort of harbor.

Momentarily moored, wherever it was, he was able to wonder about Amanda.

Merciful sleep shrouded his senses.

Above was an endless cerulean blue.

The rain must have ended shortly after he fell asleep, and during that time the flood had crested. It had already subsided some, or else he would not be as far above the water as he was.

He stared into the distance and speculated. “They’re all wondering where I am, of course. Many I don’t even know are wondering. It’s certainly gotten around that Abelard Hassam di Chirico Flint, of the Mossville Flints, is missing.”

How could they even begin to guess what had happened: that, by freak chance, rain had formed a rivulet around a sort of boat he had boarded accidentally, that the rivulet, swelling, had taken him into a stream, the
stream had carried him into a river, the river had rushed him over a waterfall, and that he was now where he was, on his boat at the top of a tree, on an island, in whatever river this was.

Being hungry in addition to being marooned like this was really a bit too much.

He munched on the bark of a tender green shoot, his cheek filled with the pulp and the juice.

He sat there, vaguely smug, convinced that he had the strength, the courage, and the intelligence to survive.