Authors: Christine Danse
Island of Icarus
Island of Icarus
By Christine Danse
Field Journal of Jonathan Orms, 1893
En route to polite exile in the Galapagos Islands (field work, to quote the dean of my university), I have found myself marooned on a deserted tropical paradise. Deserted, that is, except for my savior, a mysterious American called Marcus. He is an inventor—and the proof of his greatness is the marvelous new clockwork arm he has created to replace the unsightly one that was ruined in my shipboard mishap.
Marcus has a truly brilliant mind and the gentlest hands, which cause me to quiver in an unfamiliar but rather pleasant way. Surely it is only my craving for human companionship that draws me to this man, nothing more? He says a ship will pass this way in a few months, but I am welcome to stay as long as I like. The thought of leaving Marcus becomes more untenable with each passing day, though staying would be fatal to my career…
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To my dear friend, Dena Celeste, the strongest person I know. Yes, you really
are
awesome. Many glomps to you!
A huge thanks to Nick, Dena, Rhianna, and my awesome editor, Alissa. Your inspiration and input have been invaluable.
In the summer of 1893, the dean of the university came to me. It had been a long semester. Only a season had gone by since an unfortunate accident had taken my right arm. At that time, memories of the lady I would have married still ghosted my thoughts.
I was taking the afternoon to organize my belongings in my office. Though I’d been in that office for a year, I still had boxes of books, curios, and practical supplies stacked against the wall. I was fretting over where to place my rather large collection of mounted insects when a light knock diverted my attention. The door was open, as I customarily left it, and the knock was only a courtesy. I turned to find the dean standing there, a sort of sympathetic smile on his face. The office was a right mess, and I stood like a survivor amongst rubble.
“Luther, how are you?” I greeted him with a sheepish smile.
“Jonathan,” he returned. He seemed to take in the room. “I see you’re redecorating.”
“It’s been a year,” I said by way of explanation. “It’s about time I finally moved my things out of boxes.” I placed the case of scarab beetles—gorgeous multi-colored specimens—on a shelf and turned to him. “Can I help you?”
“I was thinking we could grab a bit of lunch. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Of course,” I said, setting aside the rag I’d been using to wipe the cases. I’d a bit of a kink in my neck from standing with my head bowed for so long and found myself eager to escape the labor, self-imposed as it was. I combed my hair back, settled the hat on my head and drew a long glove over my right arm. Though it was impossible to conceal the bulk of the mechanical prosthetic, nor the shape of the brace that secured it in place over my upper arm and shoulder, the glove gave me a modicum of privacy in public.
We strolled companionably to the pub across the street, a local haunt of students and professors, and lounged over drinks and light fare. At length, our polite discourse about the weather, students, and the food came to an end. Luther’s face settled into an expression of pensiveness.
“Jon, have you ever given thought to traveling abroad?” he asked, somewhat abruptly.
“Of course,” I said.
“Serious thought.”
“Well, yes. I can’t imagine who hasn’t. I have thought of touring the Americas or the Far East. And it isn’t as if I have— Well, it’s not like I have family to tie me here. I suppose I never got around to seriously planning a holiday.”
The furrow of his eyebrows deepened. “What would you say to a trip to the Galapagos? Darwin’s old stomping grounds.”
I imagine my eyebrows jumped up like rabbits. “Oh! Well, with classes starting soon I can’t afford to take holiday…”
“It wouldn’t be a holiday,” he said. “Rather, field work abroad. Under the employ of the university, of course.”
My stomach tightened. “Well! I couldn’t— For how long?”
“A year, maybe two. You might find that you quite like it.”
I fell silent to ruminate. Luther sat quiet and tense, awaiting a response. “This isn’t an offer, is it?” I looked up at him. “That is to say, I don’t have a choice, do I?”
He shook his head slowly. “Jonathan— We think it might be good if you retired from the public view. For a little while, at least.”
“It’s my right arm,” I said, a resigned understanding settling into my voice and manner. I looked down at the appendage and flexed the hand slowly. For clockwork, it responded well. I could even mimic my old handwriting, to an extent. However, the mechanisms were bulky, which made the appendage almost three times the girth of my left arm. The fingers were fat, much stiffer and less dexterous than organic ones. The arm also had the unfortunate habit of failing at inopportune times. It had died on me more than once during a lecture. It was high maintenance, unreliable, and it constantly made noise as the gears turned and clicked. Of course, I was grateful I had anything to call an arm at all.
“Well, yes, your arm,” said Luther, ever honest. “But it’s more than that,” he continued. “You haven’t been the same man. The same professor. Jon, the students are worried about you. I’m worried about you. I think it might do you some good to get away from London and…society. Get back in touch with yourself. A man needs a little adventure in his life. And a break.”
I looked away. My throat was closing. Cara’s leaving had left me oversensitive. I said, “Luther, I need this position. I need the students. I need my colleagues. I need my office and my lodgings and my housekeeper. I need them to hold me together. It’s something to live for. A reason to roll out of bed in the morning. The last thing I need is a remote island with nothing but my thoughts for company.”
“Just give it a try,” he urged. “It’s been more than three months, Jon, and you haven’t changed. Get out of London, away from all your ghosts here. The ship leaves in a week. Once you get there, if you don’t like it, another ship will be by in just a month. You have but to climb back on board and head straight back to England. But try it. Please. I ask as a friend.”
How could I say no? I accepted under the express agreement that I could return when I willed. So, I found myself packing all of the things I had just finished unpacking and storing everything away in my home. The housekeeper agreed to visit once a day to feed the cat and to see that the old place didn’t fall apart while I was away. I could only imagine it gnawed to sawdust by vermin during my absence. My old fat cat, Ferrous, had stopped worrying himself with such nonsense as chasing rats years ago.
The week went by like a dream. Every morning I woke up and took tea. I went to my office, which was all but bare now, and studied the Galapagos and Darwin’s book exhaustively until I returned home once again to sleep and start the cycle all over again. In the evenings I often sat with my pipe and the paper. More than once I found myself staring into the fire, wondering at the gentle amenities of civilization that would soon be lost to me. I tried to imagine myself weeks henceforth in a crude little hut surrounded by the most grotesque creatures in God’s creation, but the thought was just too unreal.
Boarding the ship, too, was surreal. It was shortly after dawn when she set sail, too early for anyone to see me off. It was just as well. The morning was chill and damp, and I wanted to settle into my quarters below deck. The enormity of the adventure ahead of me did not register as I ascended onto the ship, nor when she was set loose, nor when the British coast faded from view. Perhaps I was too busy gathering my sea legs to think about it.
Sailors are a superstitious lot. If I could have hid the whirring machine that had become my right arm, I would have, but it was impossible. I suffered more than one rude stare. When I could, I kept to myself, out of sight. To pass the time, I wrote incessantly in my journal.
The weeks passed in a blur. I cannot relay how miserable that trip was, how lean and thirsty I was, how alone with my thoughts. A couple of years prior, before the French completion of the Panama Canal, the trip would have been almost infeasible—perhaps a year or more to travel where we did in three months. How Darwin spent five years aboard
The Beagle,
I do not know.
I stirred from my den during our passage through the narrow canal to watch the land and trees slide by. Though
The Commitment
was by no means a large ship, the passage was still a squeeze. An eerie, tense silence fell over the crew. When we reached open ocean once more, the release of tension was palpable. Voices raised in relieved chatter, the sails went up, and I retired downstairs to my quarters once again.
The islands of the Galapagos were not far now, a couple of weeks at most. When we were several days past the canal, a storm arrived. It came upon us like an angry god of the ocean and tossed us until I was sure the boat would be smashed into splinters. Until then we had been lucky with the weather, and—despite my agonizing—the voyage had moved rather swiftly. The small storms we had weathered until that point had been like children stirring in their sleep—nothing like the violent disturbance that seized us off the coast of South America.
I spent most of the storm in the relative safety and dryness of my cabin. The boat pitched violently in the clutches of the squalling winds and bucking waves. All of my things rolled about like dice in a cup—and so did I. Books, pots, maps, specimens, clothing, me. I staggered back and forth in my quarters as if I was in the throes of drink, and I began to feel as sick as a drunkard, too. I began to think I would be safer on deck than in this rolling prison. On all fours, I crawled up the steps. It was all I could do to keep from being thrown from them. With a Herculean effort, I forced the door open against the firm pressure of the wind. Stinging rain pummeled my skin.
Once I stepped from the door, the wind snatched it closed with a bang and then dragged me swiftly across the deck. From there, the details are hazy. Everything blurred together like a smeared chalk painting. The wind pulled me this way and that, and my arms windmilled frantically. The boat pitched and I fell the rest of the way toward the railing, which I hit with great force and clutched desperately. I believe I lost the contents of my stomach.
I heard what may have been a shout ring out, and then the wind grabbed me up again as the boat dipped. A swell swept me off my feet. While the grip of my mechanical hand was stronger than that of my natural one, I might as well have not been holding on at all. The ocean was suddenly all around me. By the grace of God, I surfaced before I took a breath. I caught one last glimpse of the ship before the storm took her away from me, and me from her. It was the last I saw of the
The Commitment
and her crew.