Outcast Island

Outcast Island Chapter 2

She stepped out of the canoe. Looking back over her shoulder she saw the chief marking a pig skin map. Tradition held that each Outcast Island was to be used only twice in a century, for no more than two outcasts at a time. The Outcast Islands were all considered to be haunted by ghosts of the outcast gods, and no one but the outcasts ever stepped onshore. They were considered places of death and many of them had bleached bones leaning up against rocks and trees that skirted the shoreline.

She stood on the beach, in the shallow water, looking out to sea, while small waves lapped up on her body until she could no longer see the procession that sailed away. She had no food to sustain herself. No tools to work with to build a shelter for herself. Not even a cup to drink fresh water with. She turned and looked at the island. She had been told on the long journey she was to be left on the island that was considered to be the main home of the outcast gods. It was not a tiny spec in the middle of a coral reef, or a lonely rock jutissing from the ocean, or a shallow lifeless sandbar, like most of the outcast islands. It was quite large in size, even compared to most small habitable islands.

The morning sun had now risen high, and she began to walk the beach in search of a stream or spring of fresh water. She wondered how long she might last alone, with her one arm, only knowing s*****y and subjection, misery and sorrow, heartbreak and loneliness. She had never been with a man. The chief had ordered that no one was to touch her, lest she bear a child with no arms and bring shame and evil spirits upon the village.

Now an outcast on an island, alone, her only good memory was a vague one of her father holding her as a young child, softly singing her to sleep. She mourned his loss again. Now, the thought of never being held and loved by someone drew a tear from her eye, hardening her heart even more to the world. She stepped out of the canoe. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the chief marking a pig skin map. Tradition held that each Outcast Island was to be used only twice in a century, for no more than two outcasts at a time. The Outcast Islands were all considered to be haunted by ghosts of the outcast gods, and no one but the outcasts ever stepped onshore. They were considered places of death and many of them had bleached bones leaning up against rocks and trees that skirted the shoreline.

She stood on the beach, in the shallow water, looking out to sea, while small waves lapped up on her body until she could no longer see the procession that sailed away. She had no food to sustain herself. No tools to work with to build a shelter for herself. Not even a cup to drink fresh water with. She turned and looked at the island. She had been told on the long journey she was to be left on the island that was considered to be the main home of the outcast gods. It was not a tiny spec in the middle of a coral reef, or a lonely rock juttising from the ocean, or a shallow lifeless sandbar, like most of the outcast islands. It was quite large in size, even compared to most small habitable islands.

The morning sun had now risen high, and she began to walk the beach in search of a stream or spring of fresh water. She wondered how long she might last alone, with her one arm, only knowing s*****y and subjection, misery and sorrow, heartbreak and loneliness. She had never been with a man. The chief had ordered that no one was to touch her, lest she bear a child with no arms and bring shame and evil spirits upon the village.

Now an outcast on an island, alone, her only good memory was a vague one of her father holding her as a young child, softly singing her to sleep. She mourned his loss again. Now, the thought of never being held and loved by someone drew a tear from her eye, hardening her heart even more to the world.