Phoenix

1 "When you first see it, you won't think it's an island. It's more like a weightless apparition with a blurry outline. It doesn't look heavy enough to be an island--it seems to be missing that solid connection with the earth's crust." With these words the man bent over the rail, spat into the water, and watched the little foamy fleck drift backward along the boat's seaweed-covered hull until the propeller wash swallowed it. "An island like this one's a world in itself. The laws that prevail here are different from anywhere else. I might go so far as to say that the very sky over such an island is different. You'll understand me after you're there. People say that the sky above it is less far away, less deep. The sky's like a glass bowl placed over it." With a sweeping movement of his arm, the man gestured toward the west, where the sky was beginning to redden. "There it is. Do you see it?" All that Olsen could make out was a thin line between a purple cloud bank and the green iridescence of the sea, as though someone had gone over that segment of the horizon with a pencil. The boat did not make straight for this apparition. Rather it followed the curves of a shipping channel that was marked out by red barrels. "Do many people actually live there?" Olsen asked. "People? That's a matter of opinion," the other man said with a mocking smile. "According to the count, there are just a few, but once you're on the island it'll seem that there are too many of them." He spat into the water again. "We've started going slower--we're only at half speed. We probably have too little water under the keel. It's no joke to sit out here stranded and wait for high tide." By now Olsen could distinguish details. That thickening blackish line might be houses or trees. A lighthouse and a windmill seemed to be the tallest structures. "How long do you want to stay?" the man asked. "I don't know yet. Maybe by tomorrow I'll be ready to leave. It depends on whether I find what I'm looking for." "Tomorrow?" the other laughed. "There'll be no boat tomorrow. The next one goes in three days. It's like that in the winter. In the summer the connections are better." He shrugged his shoulders. "If I were you I'd see about a room right away. Most of the hotels are closed in winter. Try at the Ferryman, right on the harbor. What are you looking for anyhow, at this miserable time of year? A job, maybe? You can put that idea right out of your head. They stick together as thick as thieves." Now Olsen too spat in the water and watched the speck of foam. They were moving faster again. "I'm looking for the elevator man," he said. The other nodded and was silent. He apparently felt no interest in having this strange piece of information explained to him. When Olsen looked up again, the island was suddenly enormous. Its houses, together with a long bare avenue, covered up the entire horizon. The small vessel slipped into the harbor entrance, and Olsen stared at the black, narrowing chasm between the side of the boat and the quay wall. Something bright was drifting below the surface of the water, moving its limbs to the rhythm of the sloshing waves. Tiny, splayed arms and legs. By now dusk had fallen. The man by Olsen's side drew a flashlight from his coat and aimed its beam at the thing. "A dead rat," he said. "It's white. Maybe an albino. Or maybe just bleached by the salt water. Take good care of yourself." He poked Olsen in the ribs with his flashlight, grabbed his bag, crossed over the lowered gangway onto dry land, and disappeared among the sheds that lined the dock. The wind had changed direction. Now it was blowing harder from the east, bringing with it something black and sooty that settled on everything, oBoetius, Henning is the author of 'Phoenix' with ISBN 9780385501835 and ISBN 0385501838.