A Cascade of Understanding

The anchor thudding onto the rocks is preceded by an explosion of fleeing finches, their drab wings and beaks contrasting the jungle’s unrelenting green. A fern droops under the heavy foliage. Lizards, their tails truncated from swimming,—

“Hold her steady.”

—clamber onto the vacated space, too intent on cracking snail shells to care about a heavy bit of metal. Flies mate on a tree with feathery leaves. A crab sidles past to a nearby tide-pool, claws clacking—

“Now pull! Gently, gently. You wouldn’t want to disturb it.”

—in a mating dance. Another crab watches, its color just different enough to suggest its femininity. A fish with delusions of grandeur flops out of the water and wiggles, heading for—

“Ease her into that crack between the boulders. Careful!”

—a shimmering insect, its movements strong even as a gull bites it in half. The fish’s clump of eggs sways in the water, only one day from birth. A sea snake plucks one from the bunch and undulates away, its scales—

“Perfect! Alright, I’ll go first and then you, Dunpoole.”

—gleaming in the afternoon sun even after a boot crushes its head.

He stands with his arms akimbo. Mud oozes over his feet and a dragonfly investigates his shoelaces. A hummingbird flits up to his sunburned face then darts away again. He glances back at his companion. “We’ll set up camp here, Dunpoole. I think that a small platform under the tents would be best.”

Leather face shaded under a broad hat, the other man nods. He knots their boat to a slender tree, slapping a shrew away before its teeth even touch the tempting hemp.

“Shelter first, then the gathering of supplies. That’s the way to do it, eh, Dunpoole?” Stamping his foot, he smiles. A line of ants quivers and shifts away from his heels. “Not bad for a foundation site. It’ll make a good port, someday. Once we’ve blasted a better harbor, of course.”

Dunpoole grunts, lugging their bags out of the boat. Setting them with openings pointed up, he checks their fastenings, cinching them tightly. A spider drops from an overhanging tree and crawls over the canvas. Thwarted, it skitters back up its line.

The sunburned man thumps the spider’s tree. “Not good English oak, but it’ll do for our purposes.” He holds his hand behind him. “Be a good fellow and hand me an ax, would you?”

Not bothering to sigh, Dunpoole crouches and opens the bag, rummaging. The spider seizes the opportunity and dives into the open satchel. Dunpoole yanks his hand out at the sight. He watches the bag until the spider emerges, then bats it from its silk and squashes it under his heel. He flashes the smile of a job well done.

“I say, Dunpoole, I—”

There is a whisper of fronds brushed aside by something very fast. Dunpoole’s eyes widen. He grabs the ax and hurls it at the green blur.

“Oh, God!” The sunburned man clutches at his leg, now spouting blood and missing a sizable chunk. His eyes roll back and he tumbles.

Dunpoole rushes to him, but the wound is deep and the skin above it is already red with infection. He swears at the komodo dragon, which speeds away into the jungle.

The other man pulls at Dunpoole’s shirt. “Help me, please! It hurts, it—”

He disappears, and after a moment, Dunpoole does as well.

Another spider ventures out of the canopy to drop into the open bag, but it vanishes as well, leaving the spider and its cargo of eggs on the ground. A crowd of ants descends on the spider, killing it and carrying away its offspring. The shrew sniffs around for the now missing boat before heading back to its den. A few worms sift the soil of the clearing as the flowers above them release their—

“Why can’t you just stay alive, you bastard!? I—you stupid son of a bitch—I oughta—”


—pollen, undisturbed by the sound of shouting and a loud splash that echo to the island from miles away. The komodo dragon trundles to its nest, a wad of flesh clenched in its teeth. It drops the meat to its babies. They rip at it and register the food as the most delicious they have ever tasted. They race back and forth, fighting each other. The little dragons are—

“I say, Dunpoole! That looks an awful lot like an island over there. What say we investigate?”

—even faster than their mother. They are too short to reach the birds that fly, startled, when sobs ring out across the water, but try anyway.