“Human beings are complicated monkeys, Nicholas.”
“That’s about the first time I ever heard you make a joke. You like not being human, don’t you?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”
“I always thought I would, but now I’m not sure. You said that to help me, didn’t you? I don’t like that.”
A wave higher than the others splashed chill foam over Nicholas’s legs, and for a moment he wondered if this was Dr. Island’s reply. Half a minute later another wave wet him, and another, and he moved farther up the beach to avoid them. The wind was stronger, but he slept despite it, and was awakened only for a moment by a flash of light from the direction from which he had come; he tried to guess what might have caused it, thought of Diane and Ignacio throwing the burning sticks into the air to see the arcs of fire, smiled—too sleepy now to be angry—and slept again.
Morning came cold and sullen; Nicholas ran up and down the beach, rubbing himself with his hands. A thin rain, or spume (it was hard to tell which), was blowing in the wind, clouding the light to gray radiance. He wondered if Diane and Ignacio would mind if he came back now and decided to wait, then thought of fishing so that he would have something to bring when he came; but the sea was very cold and the waves so high they tumbled him, wrenching his bamboo spear from his hand. Ignacio found him dripping with water, sitting with his back to a palm trunk and staring out toward the lifting curve of the sea.
“Hello, you,” Ignacio said.
“Good morning,
Ignacio sat down. “What is your name? You told me, I think, when we first met, but I have forgotten. I am sorry.”
“Nicholas.”
“Yes.”
“
“My name is Ignacio; call me that.”
Nicholas nodded, frightened.
“But we cannot go to my fire, because the fire is out.”
“Can’t you make another one,
“You do not trust me, do you? I do not blame you. No, I cannot make another—you may use what I had, if you wish, and make one after I have gone. I came only to say good-bye.”
“You’re leaving?”
The wind in the palm fronds said, “Ignacio is much better now. He will be going to another place, Nicholas.”
“A hospital?”
“Yes, a hospital, but I don’t think he will have to stay there long.”
“But . . .” Nicholas tried to think of something appropriate. At St. John’s and the other places where he had been confined, when people left, they simply left, and usually were hardly spoken of once it was learned that they were going and thus were already tainted by whatever it was that froze the smiles and dried the tears of those outside. At last he said, “Thanks for teaching me how to fish.”
“That was all right,” Ignacio said. He stood up and put a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder, then turned away. Four meters to his left the damp sand was beginning to lift and crack. While Nicholas watched, it opened on a brightly lit companion-way walled with white. Ignacio pushed his curly black hair back from his eyes and went down, and the sand closed with a thump.
“He won’t be coming back, will he?” Nicholas said.
“No.”
“He said I could use his stuff to start another fire, but I don’t even know what it is.”
Dr. Island did not answer. Nicholas got up and began to walk back to where the fire had been, thinking about Diane and wondering if she was hungry; he was hungry himself.
H
e found her beside the dead fire. Her chest had been burned away, and lying close by, near the hole in the sand where Ignacio must have kept it hidden, was a bulky nuclear welder. The power pack was too heavy for Nicholas to lift, but he picked up the welding gun on its short cord and touched the trigger, producing a two-meter plasma discharge which he played along the sand until Diane’s body was ash. By the time he had finished, the wind was whipping the palms and sending stinging rain into his eyes, but he collected a supply of wood and built another fire, bigger and bigger until it roared like a forge in the wind. “He killed her!” he shouted to the waves.
“YES.” Dr. Island’s voice was big and wild.
“You said he was better.”
“HE IS,” howled the wind. “YOU KILLED THE MONKEY THAT WANTED TO PLAY WITH YOU, NICHOLAS—AS I BELIEVED IGNACIO WOULD EVENTUALLY KILL YOU, WHO ARE SO EASILY HATED, SO DIFFERENT FROM WHAT IT IS THOUGHT A BOY SHOULD BE. BUT KILLING THE MONKEY HELPED YOU, REMEMBER? MADE YOU BETTER. IGNACIO WAS FRIGHTENED BY WOMEN; NOW HE KNOWS THAT THEY ARE REALLY VERY WEAK, AND HE HAS ACTED UPON CERTAIN FANTASIES AND FINDS THEM BITTER.”
“You’re rocking,” Nicholas said. “Am I doing that?”
“YOUR THOUGHT.”
A palm snapped in the storm; instead of falling, it flew crashing among the others, its fronded head catching the wind like a sail. “I’m killing you,” Nicholas said. “Destroying you.” The left side of his face was so contorted with grief and rage that he could scarcely speak.
