Chapter 1

It was 1818. Somewhere in the South Pacific. Lucien sat with his back against a palm tree that curved over until the tips of its fronds almost kissed the topaz sea. The sun, burning white hot in a vast sky of bright blue, couldn’t find him beneath the corrugated trunk of the palm. It was a small mercy, but one for which he was no less grateful. The sun’s rays, made stronger and deadlier by the surrounding ocean, had turned his pale English skin to a darker hue, and had, at the same time, bleached his long, dark brown locks many shades lighter. Yet while these changes brought about by the sun were neither welcomed nor cursed, the stinging blisters that dotted his swollen lips caused nothing but misery. Accompanying them, although not so irritating, was the line of peeling skin that decorated the ridge of his nose. It had therefore become his custom to spend the middle of the day hiding, like a vampire, from the worst of the sun’s fury.

“I don’t know,” he said, his eyes closed and his tone lethargic.

Edgar, the man sprawled on his back beside him, stirred lazily. “What don’t you know?”

Lucien’s head lolled from one shoulder to the other. “Why aren’t your lips afflicted as mine are? How is it the sun seems to bless you and torment me?”

Edgar didn’t answer and Lucien was left to ponder the possibilities alone, eventually falling asleep to the rhythmic and calming sound of the waves gently lapping at the shore.

* * * *

When he woke up, the sun was behind them, beating down on the western side of the tiny island. There wasn’t much to the bump of land poking up through the mighty Pacific. He could easily walk the length, from north to south, in an hour. Crossing it, from east to west, took even less time, though the thick tangle of tree trunks, shrubbery, and vines made the short distance something of an obstacle course. At the northern end of the island was a large crater, the remains of the volcano that had formed the island. And on the northwest slope, about halfway up, was a small cave, where Lucien and Edgar sheltered from storms.

With the strength of the sun on the wane, it was safe to emerge from beneath the palm tree.

“Come on.” He looked at Edgar, lying on his back with his left arm across his eyes and his legs bent slightly at the knees. “We have to find something to eat.”

Edgar groaned. “Leave me alone.” He turned his face away from Lucien. “I’m happy where I am.”

“If you don’t help, you won’t get anything to eat.”

“Nice,” said Edgar. “Very nice, indeed.”

“It’s the law of the jungle,” explained Lucien. “That’s all. You don’t hunt, you don’t eat. You don’t eat, you die.”

“I’ll get dinner tomorrow.”

“That’s what you said yesterday, and look what happened. Nothing. That’s what.” Lucien felt a flash of anger. Perhaps if he’d had the energy he might have kicked Edgar, or at least given him a piece of his mind. Instead, he turned his back in disgust. “Bah!” he said as he walked away

There wasn’t a lot to eat on the island. There was a bush that grew red berries, which initially Lucien had been reluctant to try. Most berries, he knew, were sweet and juicy, but some could also take a person’s life—and in a most agonising way. Yet hunger, when it became a maddening need, drove men to take drastic measures, and when his first mouthful of berries didn’t kill him, he came to the conclusion they were safe to eat and could become a regular part of his diet, despite the mildly laxative effect they had on him. In addition to the berries, there was also breadfruit, which was best eaten after being cooked, and coconuts.

Fortunately, there was fresh water. It bubbled up from God-knows-where into a small rock pool in a clearing in the jungle. And when it rained, there was water aplenty for bathing as well as drinking. Neither of the men had clothes to wash. The salt water and sun had worked together on the rags they’d been wearing when they arrived on the island, eroding them until they were no more than a collection of faded threads that eventually disintegrated.

Often there were fish and other sea creatures left stranded in rock pools by the low tide. Lucien had fashioned a spear out of a large stick he’d found, managing to whittle a point using the sharp edge of more than a few sea shells. The stick, while long, wasn’t exactly straight, and it had taken many attempts to discover how best to hold and launch the weapon for maximum effect. More often than not, he managed to catch something, whether it was a fish or a crab, or even an octopus. Edgar never had much of an appetite, and whatever he left, Lucien eagerly disposed of.