Speedreed

LORD

OF

THE

FLIES

a

novel

by

WILLIAM

GOLDING

CHAPTER

ONE

The

Sound

of

the

Shell

The

boy

with

fair

hair

lowered

himself

down

the

last

few

feet

of

rock

and

began

to

pick

his

way

toward

the

lagoon.

Though

he

had

taken

off

his

school

sweater

and

trailed

it

now

from

one

hand,

his

grey

shirt

stuck

to

him

and

his

hair

was

plastered

to

his

forehead.

All

round

him

the

long

scar

smashed

into

the

jungle

was

a

bath

of

heat.

He

was

clambering

heavily

among

the

creepers

and

broken

trunks

when

a

bird,

a

vision

of

red

and

yellow,

flashed

upwards

with

a

witch-like

cry;

and

this

cry

was

echoed

by

another.

"Hi!"

it

said.

"Wait

a

minute!"

The

undergrowth

at

the

side

of

the

scar

was

shaken

and

a

multitude

of

raindrops

fell

pattering.

"Wait

a

minute,"

the

voice

said.

"I

got

caught

up."

The

fair

boy

stopped

and

jerked

his

stockings

with

an

automatic

gesture

that

made

the

jungle

seem

for

a

moment

like

the

Home

Counties.

The

voice

spoke

again.

"I

can't

hardly

move

with

all

these

creeper

things."

The

owner

of

the

voice

came

backing

out

of

the

undergrowth

so

that

twigs

scratched

on

a

greasy

wind-breaker.

The

naked

crooks

of

his

knees

were

plump,

caught

and

scratched

by

thorns.

He

bent

down,

removed

the

thorns

carefully,

and

turned

around.

He

was

shorter

than

the

fair

boy

and

very

fat.

He

came

forward,

searching

out

safe

lodgments

for

his

feet,

and

then

looked

up

through

thick

spectacles.

"Where's

the

man

with

the

megaphone?"

The

fair

boy

shook

his

head.

"This

is

an

island.

At

least

I

think

it's

an

island.

That's

a

reef

out

in

the

sea.

Perhaps

there

aren't

any

grownups

anywhere."

The

fat

boy

looked

startled.

"There

was

that

pilot.

But

he

wasn't

in

the

passenger

cabin,

he

was

up

in

front."

The

fair

boy

was

peering

at

the

reef

through

screwed-up

eyes.

"All

them

other

kids,"

the

fat

boy

went

on.

"Some

of

them

must

have

got

out.

They

must

have,

mustn't

they?"

The

fair

boy

began

to

pick

his

way

as

casually

as

possible

toward

the

water.

He

tried

to

be

offhand

and

not

too

obviously

uninterested,

but

the

fat

boy

hurried

after

him.

"Aren't

there

any

grownups

at

all?"

"I

don't

think

so."

The

fair

boy

said

this

solemnly;

but

then

the

delight

of

a

realized

ambition

overcame

him.

In

the

middle

of

the

scar

he

stood

on

his

head

and

grinned

at

the

reversed

fat

boy.

"No

grownups!"

The

fat

boy

thought

for

a

moment.

"That

pilot."

The

fair

boy

allowed

his

feet

to

come

down

and

sat

on

the

steamy

earth.

"He

must

have

flown

off

after

he

dropped

us.

He

couldn't

land

here.

Not

in

a

place

with

wheels."

"We

was

attacked!"

"He'll

be

back

all

right."

The

fat

boy

shook

his

head.

"When

we

was

coming

down

I

looked

through

one

of

them

windows.

I

saw

the

other

part

of

the

plane.

There

were

flames

coming

out

of

it."

He

looked

up

and

down

the

scar.

"And

this

is

what

the

cabin

done."

The

fair

boy

reached

out

and

touched

the

jagged

end

of

a

trunk.

For

a

moment

he

looked

interested.

"What

happened

to

it?"

he

asked.

"Where's

it

got

to

now?"

"That

storm

dragged

it

out

to

sea.

It

wasn't

half

dangerous

with

all

them

tree

trunks

falling.

There

must

have

been

some

kids

still

in

it."

He

hesitated

for

a

moment,

then

spoke

again.

"What's

your

name?"

"Ralph."

The

fat

boy

waited

to

be

asked

his

name

in

turn

but

this

proffer

of

acquaintance

was

not

made;

the

fair

boy

called

Ralph

smiled

vaguely,

stood

up,

and

began

to

make

his

way

once

more

toward

the

lagoon.

The

fat

boy

hung

steadily

at

his

shoulder.

"I

expect

there's

a

lot

more

of

us

scattered

about.

You

haven't

seen

any

others,

have

you?"

Ralph

shook

his

head

and

increased

his

speed.

Then

he

tripped

over

a

branch

and

came

down

with

a

crash.

The

fat

boy

stood

by

him,

breathing

hard.

"My

auntie

told

me

not

to

run,"

he

explained,

"on

account

of

my

asthma."

"Ass-mar?"

"That's

right.

Can't

catch

my

breath.

I

was

the

only

boy

in

our

school

what

had

asthma,"

said

the

fat

boy

with

a

touch

of

pride.

"And

I've

been

wearing

specs

since

I

was

three."

He

took

off

his

glasses

and

held

them

out

to

Ralph,

blinking

and

smiling,

and

then

started

to

wipe

them

against

his

grubby

wind-breaker.

An

expression

of

pain

and

inward

concentration

altered

the

pale

contours

of

his

face.

He

smeared

the

sweat

from

his

cheeks

and

quickly

adjusted

the

spectacles

on

his

nose.

"Them

fruit."

He

glanced

round

the

scar.

"Them

fruit,"

he

said,

"I

expect--"

He

put

on

his

glasses,

waded

away

from

Ralph,

and

crouched

down

among

the

tangled

foliage.

"I'll

be

out

again

in

just

a

minute--"

Ralph

disentangled

himself

cautiously

and

stole

away

through

the

branches.

In

a

few

seconds

the

fat

boy's

grunts

were

behind

him

and

he

was

hurrying

toward

the

screen

that

still

lay

between

him

and

the

lagoon.

He

climbed

over

a

broken

trunk

and

was

out

of

the

jungle.

The

shore

was

fledged

with

palm

trees.

These

stood

or

leaned

or

reclined

against

the

light

and

their

green

feathers

were

a

hundred

feet

up

in

the

air.

The

ground

beneath

them

was

a

bank

covered

with

coarse

grass,

torn

everywhere

by

the

upheavals

of

fallen

trees,

scattered

with

decaying

coconuts

and

palm

saplings.

Behind

this

was

the

darkness

of

the

forest

proper

and

the

open

space

of

the

scar.

Ralph

stood,

one

hand

against

a

grey

trunk,

and

screwed

up

his

eyes

against

the

shimmering

water.

Out

there,

perhaps

a

mile

away,

the

white

surf

flinked

on

a

coral

reef,

and

beyond

that

the

open

sea

was

dark

blue.

Within

the

irregular

arc

of

coral

the

lagoon

was

still

as

a

mountain

lake--blue

of

all

shades

and

shadowy

green

and

purple.

The

beach

between

the

palm

terrace

and

the

water

was

a

thin

stick,

endless

apparently,

for

to

Ralph's

left

the

perspectives

of

palm

and

beach

and

water

drew

to

a

point

at

infinity;

and

always,

almost

visible,

was

the

heat.

He

jumped

down

from

the

terrace.

The

sand

was

thick

over

his

black

shoes

and

the

heat

hit

him.

He

became

conscious

of

the

weight

of

clothes,

kicked

his

shoes

off

fiercely

and

ripped

off

each

stocking

with

its

elastic

garter

in

a

single

movement.

Then

he

leapt

back

on

the

terrace,

pulled

off

his

shirt,

and

stood

there

among

the

skull-like

coconuts

with

green

shadows

from

the

palms

and

the

forest

sliding

over

his

skin.

He

undid

the

snake-clasp

of

his

belt,

lugged

off

his

shorts

and

pants,

and

stood

there

naked,

looking

at

the

dazzling

beach

and

the

water.

He

was

old

enough,

twelve

years

and

a

few

months,

to

have

lost

the

prominent

tummy

of

childhood

and

not

yet

old

enough

for

adolescence

to

have

made

him

awkward.

You

could

see

now

that

he

might

make

a

boxer,

as

far

as

width

and

heaviness

of

shoulders

went,

but

there

was

a

mildness

about

his

mouth

and

eyes

that

proclaimed

no

devil.

He

patted

the

palm

trunk

softly,

and,

forced

at

last

to

believe

in

the

reality

of

the

island

laughed

delightedly

again

and

stood

on

his

head.

He

turned

neatly

on

to

his

feet,

jumped

down

to

the

beach,

knelt

and

swept

a

double

armful

of

sand

into

a

pile

against

his

chest.

Then

he

sat

back

and

looked

at

the

water

with

bright,

excited

eyes.

"Ralph--"

The

fat

boy

lowered

himself

over

the

terrace

and

sat

down

carefully,

using

the

edge

as

a

seat.

"I'm

sorry

I

been

such

a

time.

Them

fruit--"

He

wiped

his

glasses

and

adjusted

them

on

his

button

nose.

The

frame

had

made

a

deep,

pink

"V"

on

the

bridge.

He

looked

critically

at

Ralph's

golden

body

and

then

down

at

his

own

clothes.

He

laid

a

hand

on

the

end

of

a

zipper

that

extended

down

his

chest.

"My

auntie--"

Then

he

opened

the

zipper

with

decision

and

pulled

the

whole

wind-breaker

over

his

head.

"There!"

Ralph

looked

at

him

sidelong

and

said

nothing.

"I

expect

we'll

want

to

know

all

their

names,"

said

the

fat

boy,

"and

make

a

list.

We

ought

to

have

a

meeting."

Ralph

did

not

take

the

hint

so

the

fat

boy

was

forced

to

continue.

"I

don't

care

what

they

call

me,"

he

said

confidentially,

"so

long

as

they

don't

call

me

what

they

used

to

call

me

at

school."

Ralph

was

faintly

interested.

"What

was

that?"

The

fat

boy

glanced

over

his

shoulder,

then

leaned

toward

Ralph.

He

whispered.

"They

used

to

call

me

'Piggy.'"

Ralph

shrieked

with

laughter.

He

jumped

up.

"Piggy!

Piggy!"

"Ralph--please!"

Piggy

clasped

his

hands

in

apprehension.

"I

said

I

didn't

want--"

"Piggy!

Piggy!"

Ralph

danced

out

into

the

hot

air

of

the

beach

and

then

returned

as

a

fighter-plane,

with

wings

swept

back,

and

machine-gunned

Piggy.

"Sche-aa-ow!"

He

dived

in

the

sand

at

Piggy's

feet

and

lay

there

laughing.

"Piggy!"

Piggy

grinned

reluctantly,

pleased

despite

himself

at

even

this

much

recognition.

"So

long

as

you

don't

tell

the

others--"

Ralph

giggled

into

the

sand.

The

expression

of

pain

and

concentration

returned

to

Piggy's

face.

"Half

a

sec'."

He

hastened

back

into

the

forest.

Ralph

stood

up

and

trotted

along

to

the

right.

Here

the

beach

was

interrupted

abruptly

by

the

square

motif

of

the

landscape;

a

great

platform

of

pink

granite

thrust

up

uncompromisingly

through

forest

and

terrace

and

sand

and

lagoon

to

make

a

raised

jetty

four

feet

high.

The

top

of

this

was

covered

with

a

thin

layer

of

soil

and

coarse

grass

and

shaded

with

young

palm

trees.

There

was

not

enough

soil

for

them

to

grow

to

any

height

and

when

they

reached

perhaps

twenty

feet

they

fell

and

dried,

forming

a

criss-cross

pattern

of

trunks,

very

convenient

to

sit

on.

The

palms

that

still

stood

made

a

green

roof,

covered

on

the

underside

with

a

quivering

tangle

of

reflections

from

the

lagoon.

Ralph

hauled

himself

onto

this

platform,

noted

the

coolness

and

shade,

shut

one

eye,

and

decided

that

the

shadows

on

his

body

were

really

green.

He

picked

his

way

to

the

seaward

edge

of

the

platform

and

stood

looking

down

into

the

water.

It

was

clear

to

the

bottom

and

bright

with

the

efflorescence

of

tropical

weed

and

coral.

A

school

of

tiny,

glittering

fish

flicked

hither

and

thither.

Ralph

spoke

to

himself,

sounding

the

bass

strings

of

delight.

"Whizzoh!"

Beyond

the

platform

there

was

more

enchantment.

Some

act

of

God--a

typhoon

perhaps,

or

the

storm

that

had

accompanied

his

own

arrival--had

banked

sand

inside

the

lagoon

so

that

there

was

a

long,

deep

pool

in

the

beach

with

a

high

ledge

of

pink

granite

at

the

further

end.

Ralph

had

been

deceived

before

now

by

the

specious

appearance

of

depth

in

a

beach

pool

and

he

approached

this

one

preparing

to

be

disappointed.

But

the

island

ran

true

to

form

and

the

incredible

pool,

which

clearly

was

only

invaded

by

the

sea

at

high

tide,

was

so

deep

at

one

end

as

to

be

dark

green.

Ralph

inspected

the

whole

thirty

yards

carefully

and

then

plunged

in.

The

water

was

warmer

than

his

blood

and

he

might

have

been

swimming

in

a

huge

bath.

Piggy

appeared

again,

sat

on

the

rocky

ledge,

and

watched

Ralph's

green

and

white

body

enviously.

"You

can't

half

swim."

"Piggy."

Piggy

took

off

his

shoes

and

socks,

ranged

them

carefully

on

the

ledge,

and

tested

the

water

with

one

toe.

"It's

hot!"

"What

did

you

expect?"

"I

didn't

expect

nothing.

My

auntie--"

"Sucks

to

your

auntie!"

Ralph

did

a

surface

dive

and

swam

under

water

with

his

eyes

open;

the

sandy

edge

of

the

pool

loomed

up

like

a

hillside.

He

turned

over,

holding

his

nose,

and

a

golden

light

danced

and

shattered

just

over

his

face.

Piggy

was

looking

determined

and

began

to

take

off

his

shorts.

Presently

he

was

palely

and

fatly

naked.

He

tiptoed

down

the

sandy

side

of

the

pool,

and

sat

there

up

to

his

neck

in

water

smiling

proudly

at

Ralph.

"Aren't

you

going

to

swim?"

Piggy

shook

his

head.

"I

can't

swim.

I

wasn't

allowed.

My

asthma--"

"Sucks

to

your

ass-mar!"

Piggy

bore

this

with

a

sort

of

humble

patience.

"You

can't

half

swim

well."

Ralph

paddled

backwards

down

the

slope,

immersed

his

mouth

and

blew

a

jet

of

water

into

the

air.

Then

he

lifted

his

chin

and

spoke.

"I

could

swim

when

I

was

five.

Daddy

taught

me.

He's

a

commander

in

the

Navy.

When

he

gets

leave

he'll

come

and

rescue

us.

What's

your

father?"

Piggy

flushed

suddenly.

"My

dad's

dead,"

he

said

quickly,

"and

my

mum--"

He

took

off

his

glasses

and

looked

vainly

for

something

with

which

to

clean

them.

"I

used

to

live

with

my

auntie.

She

kept

a

candy

store.

I

used

to

get

ever

so

many

candies.

As

many

as

I

liked.

When'll

your

dad

rescue

us?"

"Soon

as

he

can."

Piggy

rose

dripping

from

the

water

and

stood

naked,

cleaning

his

glasses

with

a

sock.

The

only

sound

that

reached

them

now

through

the

heat

of

the

morning

was

the

long,

grinding

roar

of

the

breakers

on

the

reef.

"How

does

he

know

we're

here?"

Ralph

lolled

in

the

water.

Sleep

enveloped

him

like

the

swathing

mirages

that

were

wrestling

with

the

brilliance

of

the

lagoon.

"How

does

he

know

we're

here?"

Because,

thought

Ralph,

because,

because.

The

roar

from

the

reef

became

very

distant.

"They'd

tell

him

at

the

airport."

Piggy

shook

his

head,

put

on

his

flashing

glasses

and

looked

down

at

Ralph.

"Not

them.

Didn't

you

hear

what

the

pilot

said?

About

the

atom

bomb?

They're

all

dead."

Ralph

pulled

himself

out

of

the

water,

stood

facing

Piggy,

and

considered

this

unusual

problem.

Piggy

persisted.

"This

an

island,

isn't

it?"

"I

climbed

a

rock,"

said

Ralph

slowly,

"and

I

think

this

is

an

island."

\"They're

all

dead,"

said

Piggy,

"an'

this

is

an

island.

Nobody

don't

know

we're

here.

Your

dad

don't

know,

nobody

don't

know--"

His

lips

quivered

and

the

spectacles

were

dimmed

with

mist.

"We

may

stay

here

till

we

die."

With

that

word

the

heat

seemed

to

increase

till

it

became

a

threatening

weight

and

the

lagoon

attacked

them

with

a

blinding

effulgence.

"Get

my

clothes,"

muttered

Ralph.

"Along

there."

He

trotted

through

the

sand,

enduring

the

sun's

enmity,

crossed

the

platform

and

found

his

scattered

clothes.

To

put

on

a

grey

shirt

once

more

was

strangely

pleasing.

Then

he

climbed

the

edge

of

the

platform

and

sat

in

the

green

shade

on

a

convenient

trunk.

Piggy

hauled

himself

up,

carrying

most

of

his

clothes

under

his

arms.

Then

he

sat

carefully

on

a

fallen

trunk

near

the

little

cliff

that

fronted

the

lagoon;

and

the

tangled

reflections

quivered

over

him.

Presently

he

spoke.

"We

got

to

find

the

others.

We

got

to

do

something."

Ralph

said

nothing.

Here

was

a

coral

island.

Protected

from

the

sun,

ignoring

Piggy's

ill-omened

talk,

he

dreamed

pleasantly.

Piggy

insisted.

"How

many

of

us

are

there?"

Ralph

came

forward

and

stood

by

Piggy.

"I

don't

know."

Here

and

there,

little

breezes

crept

over

the

polished

waters

beneath

the

haze

of

heat.

When

these

breezes

reached

the

platform

the

palm

fronds

would

whisper,

so

that

spots

of

blurred

sunlight

slid

over

their

bodies

or

moved

like

bright,

winged

things

in

the

shade.

Piggy

looked

up

at

Ralph.

All

the

shadows

on

Ralph's

face

were

reversed;

green

above,

bright

below

from

the

lagoon.

A

blur

of

sunlight

was

crawling

across

his

hair.

"We

got

to

do

something."

Ralph

looked

through

him.

Here

at

last

was

the

imagined

but

never

fully

realized

place

leaping

into

real

life.

Ralph's

lips

parted

in

a

delighted

smile

and

Piggy,

taking

this

smile

to

himself

as

a

mark

of

recognition,

laughed

with

pleasure.

"If

it

really

is

an

island--"

"What's

that?"

Ralph

had

stopped

smiling

and

was

pointing

into

the

lagoon.

Something

creamy

lay

among

the

ferny

weeds.

"A

stone."

"No.

A

shell."

Suddenly

Piggy

was

a-bubble

with

decorous

excitement.

"S'right.

It's

a

shell!

I

seen

one

like

that

before.

On

someone's

back

wall.

A

conch

he

called

it.

He

used

to

blow

it

and

then

his

mum

would

come.

It's

ever

so

valuable--"

Near

to

Ralph's

elbow

a

palm

sapling

leaned

out

over

the

lagoon.

Indeed,

the

weight

was

already

pulling

a

lump

from

the

poor

soil

and

soon

it

would

fall.

He

tore

out

the

stem

and

began

to

poke

about

in

the

water,

while

the

brilliant

fish

flicked

away

on

this

side

and

that.

Piggy

leaned

dangerously.

"Careful!

You'll

break

it--"

"Shut

up."

Ralph

spoke

absently.

The

shell

was

interesting

and

pretty

and

a

worthy

plaything;

but

the

vivid

phantoms

of

his

day-dream

still

interposed

between

him

and

Piggy,

who

in

this

context

was

an

irrelevance.

The

palm

sapling,

bending,

pushed

the

shell

across

the

weeds.

Ralph

used

one

hand

as

a

fulcrum

and

pressed

down

with

the

other

till

the

shell

rose,

dripping,

and

Piggy

could

make

a

grab.

Now

the

shell

was

no

longer

a

thing

seen

but

not

to

be

touched,

Ralph

too

became

excited.

Piggy

babbled:

"--a

conch;

ever

so

expensive.

I

bet

if

you

wanted

to

buy

one,

you'd

have

to

pay

pounds

and

pounds

and

pounds--he

had

it

on

his

garden

wall,

and

my

auntie--"

Ralph

took

the

shell

from

Piggy

and

a

little

water

ran

down

his

arm.

In

color

the

shell

was

deep

cream,

touched

here

and

there

with

fading

pink.

Between

the

point,

worn

away

into

a

little

hole,

and

the

pink

lips

of

the

mouth,

lay

eighteen

inches

of

shell

with

a

slight

spiral

twist

and

covered

with

a

delicate,

embossed

pattern.

Ralph

shook

sand

out

of

the

deep

tube.

"--mooed

like

a

cow,"

he

said.

"He

had

some

white

stones

too,

an'

a

bird

cage

with

a

green

parrot.

He

didn't

blow

the

white

stones,

of

course,

an'

he

said--"

Piggy

paused

for

breath

and

stroked

the

glistening

thing

that

lay

in

Ralph's

hands.

"Ralph!"

Ralph

looked

up.

"We

can

use

this

to

call

the

others.

Have

a

meeting.

They'll

come

when

they

hear

us--"

He

beamed

at

Ralph.

"That

was

what

you

meant,

didn't

you?

That's

why

you

got

the

conch

out

of

the

water?"

Ralph

pushed

back

his

fair

hair.

"How

did

your

friend

blow

the

conch?"

"He

kind

of

spat,"

said

Piggy.

"My

auntie

wouldn't

let

me

blow

on

account

of

my

asthma.

He

said

you

blew

from

down

here."

Piggy

laid

a

hand

on

his

jutting

abdomen.

"You

try,

Ralph.

You'll

call

the

others."

Doubtfully,

Ralph

laid

the

small

end

of

the

shell

against

his

mouth

and

blew.

There

came

a

rushing

sound

from

its

mouth

but

nothing

more.

Ralph

wiped

the

salt

water

off

his

lips

and

tried

again,

but

the

shell

remained

silent.

"He

kind

of

spat."

Ralph

pursed

his

lips

and

squirted

air

into

the

shell,

which

emitted

a

low,

farting

noise.

This

amused

both

boys

so

much

that

Ralph

went

on

squirting

for

some

minutes,

between

bouts

of

laughter.

"He

blew

from

down

here."

Ralph

grasped

the

idea

and

hit

the

shell

with

air

from

his

diaphragm.

Immediately

the

thing

sounded.

A

deep,

harsh

note

boomed

under

the

palms,

spread

through

the

intricacies

of

the

forest

and

echoed

back

from

the

pink

granite

of

the

mountain.

Clouds

of

birds

rose

from

the

treetops,

and

something

squealed

and

ran

in

the

undergrowth.

Ralph

took

the

shell

away

from

his

lips.

"Gosh!"

His

ordinary

voice

sounded

like

a

whisper

after

the

harsh

note

of

the

conch.

He

laid

the

conch

against

his

lips,

took

a

deep

breath

and

blew

once

more.

The

note

boomed

again:

and

then

at

his

firmer

pressure,

the

note,

fluking

up

an

octave,

became

a

strident

blare

more

penetrating

than

before.

Piggy

was

shouting

something,

his

face

pleased,

his

glasses

flashing.

The

birds

cried,

small

animals

scuttered.

Ralph's

breath

failed;

the

note

dropped

the

octave,

became

a

low

wubber,

was

a

rush

of

air.

The

conch

was

silent,

a

gleaming

tusk;

Ralph's

face

was

dark

with

breathlessness

and

the

air

over

the

island

was

full

of

bird-clamor

and

echoes

ringing.

"I

bet

you

can

hear

that

for

miles."

Ralph

found

his

breath

and

blew

a

series

of

short

blasts.

Piggy

exclaimed:

"There's

one!"

A

child

had

appeared

among

the

palms,

about

a

hundred

yards

along

the

beach.

He

was

a

boy

of

perhaps

six

years,

sturdy

and

fair,

his

clothes

torn,

his

face

covered

with

a

sticky

mess

of

fruit.

His

trousers

had

been

lowered

for

an

obvious

purpose

and

had

only

been

pulled

back

half-way.

He

jumped

off

the

palm

terrace

into

the

sand

and

his

trousers

fell

about

his

ankles;

he

stepped

out

of

them

and

trotted

to

the

platform.

Piggy

helped

him

up.

Meanwhile

Ralph

continued

to

blow

till

voices

shouted

in

the

forest.

The

small

boy

squatted

in

front

of

Ralph,

looking

up

brightly

and

vertically.

As

he

received

the

reassurance

of

something

purposeful

being

done

he

began

to

look

satisfied,

and

his

only

clean

digit,

a

pink

thumb,

slid

into

his

mouth.

Piggy

leaned

down

to

him.

"What's

yer

name?"

"Johnny."

Piggy

muttered

the

name

to

himself

and

then

shouted

it

to

Ralph,

who

was

not

interested

because

he

was

still

blowing.

His

face

was

dark

with

the

violent

pleasure

of

making

this

stupendous

noise,

and

his

heart

was

making

the

stretched

shirt

shake.

The

shouting

in

the

forest

was

nearer.

Signs

of

life

were

visible

now

on

the

beach.

The

sand,

trembling

beneath

the

heat

haze,

concealed

many

figures

in

its

miles

of

length;

boys

were

making

their

way

toward

the

platform

through

the

hot,

dumb

sand.

Three

small

children,

no

older

than

Johnny,

appeared

from

startlingly

close

at

hand,

where

they

had

been

gorging

fruit

in

the

forest.

A

dark

little

boy,

not

much

younger

than

Piggy,

parted

a

tangle

of

undergrowth,

walked

on

to

the

platform,

and

smiled

cheerfully

at

everybody.

More

and

more

of

them

came.

Taking

their

cue

from

the

innocent

Johnny,

they

sat

down

on

the

fallen

palm

trunks

and

waited.

Ralph

continued

to

blow

short,

penetrating

blasts.

Piggy

moved

among

the

crowd,

asking

names

and

frowning

to

remember

them.

The

children

gave

him

the

same

simple

obedience

that

they

had

given

to

the

men

with

megaphones.

Some

were

naked

and

carrying

their

clothes;

others

half-naked,

or

more

or

less

dressed,

in

school

uniforms,

grey,

blue,

fawn,

jacketed,

or

jerseyed.

There

were

badges,

mottoes

even,

stripes

of

color

in

stockings

and

pullovers.

Their

heads

clustered

above

the

trunks

in

the

green

shade;

heads

brown,

fair,

black,

chestnut,

sandy,

mouse-colored;

heads

muttering,

whispering,

heads

full

of

eyes

that

watched

Ralph

and

speculated.

Something

was

being

done.

The

children

who

came

along

the

beach,

singly

or

in

twos,

leapt

into

visibility

when

they

crossed

the

line

from

heat

haze

to

nearer

sand.

Here,

the

eye

was

first

attracted

to

a

black,

bat-like

creature

that

danced

on

the

sand,

and

only

later

perceived

the

body

above

it.

The

bat

was

the

child's

shadow,

shrunk

by

the

vertical

sun

to

a

patch

between

the

hurrying

feet.

Even

while

he

blew,

Ralph

noticed

the

last

pair

of

bodies

that

reached

the

platform

above

a

fluttering

patch

of

black.

The

two

boys,

bullet-headed

and

with

hair

like

tow,

flung

themselves

down

and

lay

grinning

and

panting

at

Ralph

like

dogs.

They

were

twins,

and

the

eye

was

shocked

and

incredulous

at

such

cheery

duplication.

They

breathed

together,

they

grinned

together,

they

were

chunky

and

vital.

They

raised

wet

lips

at

Ralph,

for

they

seemed

provided

with

not

quite

enough

skin,

so

that

their

profiles

were

blurred

and

their

mouths

pulled

open.

Piggy

bent

his

flashing

glasses

to

them

and

could

be

heard

between

the

blasts,

repeating

their

names.

"Sam,

Eric,

Sam,

Eric."

Then

he

got

muddled;

the

twins

shook

their

heads

and

pointed

at

each

other

and

the

crowd

laughed.

At

last

Ralph

ceased

to

blow

and

sat

there,

the

conch

trailing

from

one

hand,

his

head

bowed

on

his

knees.

As

the

echoes

died

away

so

did

the

laughter,

and

there

was

silence.

Within

the

diamond

haze

of

the

beach

something

dark

was

fumbling

along.

Ralph

saw

it

first,

and

watched

till

the

intentness

of

his

gaze

drew

all

eyes

that

way.

Then

the

creature

stepped

from

mirage

on

to

clear

sand,

and

they

saw

that

the

darkness

was

not

all

shadow

but

mostly

clothing.

The

creature

was

a

party

of

boys,

marching

approximately

in

step

in

two

parallel

lines

and

dressed

in

strangely

eccentric

clothing.

Shorts,

shirts,

and

different

garments

they

carried

in

their

hands;

but

each

boy

wore

a

square

black

cap

with

a

silver

badge

on

it.

Their

bodies,

from

throat

to

ankle,

were

hidden

by

black

cloaks

which

bore

a

long

silver

cross

on

the

left

breast

and

each

neck

was

finished

off

with

a

hambone

frill.

The

heat

of

the

tropics,

the

descent,

the

search

for

food,

and

now

this

sweaty

march

along

the

blazing

beach

had

given

them

the

complexions

of

newly

washed

plums.

The

boy

who

controlled

them

was

dressed

in

the

same

way

though

his

cap

badge

was

golden.

When

his

party

was

about

ten

yards

from

the

platform

he

shouted

an

order

and

they

halted,

gasping,

sweating,

swaying

in

the

fierce

light.

The

boy

himself

came

forward,

vaulted

on

to

the

platform

with

his

cloak

flying,

and

peered

into

what

to

him

was

almost

complete

darkness.

"Where's

the

man

with

the

trumpet?"

Ralph,

sensing

his

sun-blindness,

answered

him.

"There's

no

man

with

a

trumpet.

Only

me."

The

boy

came

close

and

peered

down

at

Ralph,

screwing

up

his

face

as

he

did

so.

What

he

saw

of

the

fair-haired

boy

with

the

creamy

shell

on

his

knees

did

not

seem

to

satisfy

him.

He

turned

quickly,

his

black

cloak

circling.

"Isn't

there

a

ship,

then?"

Inside

the

floating

cloak

he

was

tall,

thin,

and

bony;

and

his

hair

was

red

beneath

the

black

cap.

His

face

was

crumpled

and

freckled,

and

ugly

without

silliness.

Out

of

this

face

stared

two

light

blue

eyes,

frustrated

now,

and

turning,

or

ready

to

turn,

to

anger.

"Isn't

there

a

man

here?"

Ralph

spoke

to

his

back.

"No.

We're

having

a

meeting.

Come

and

join

in."

The

group

of

cloaked

boys

began

to

scatter

from

close

line.

The

tall

boy

shouted

at

them.

"Choir!

Stand

still!"

Wearily

obedient,

the

choir

huddled

into

line

and

stood

there

swaying

in

the

sun.

None

the

less,

some

began

to

protest

faintly.

"But,

Merridew.

Please,

Merridew

.

.

.

can't

we?"

Then

one

of

the

boys

flopped

on

his

face

in

the

sand

and

the

line

broke

up.

They

heaved

the

fallen

boy

to

the

platform

and

let

him

lie.

Merridew,

his

eyes

staring,

made

the

best

of

a

bad

job.

"All

right

then.

Sit

down.

Let

him

alone."

"But

Merridew."

"He's

always

throwing

a

faint,"

said

Merridew.

"He

did

in

Gib.;

and

Addis;

and

at

matins

over

the

precentor."

This

last

piece

of

shop

brought

sniggers

from

the

choir,

who

perched

like

black

birds

on

the

criss-cross

trunks

and

examined

Ralph

with

interest.

Piggy

asked

no

names.

He

was

intimidated

by

this

uniformed

superiority

and

the

offhand

authority

in

Merridew's

voice.

He

shrank

to

the

other

side

of

Ralph

and

busied

himself

with

his

glasses.

Merridew

turned

to

Ralph.

"Aren't

there

any

grownups?"

"No."

Merridew

sat

down

on

a

trunk

and

looked

round

the

circle.

"Then

we'll

have

to

look

after

ourselves."

Secure

on

the

other

side

of

Ralph,

Piggy

spoke

timidly.

"That's

why

Ralph

made

a

meeting.

So

as

we

can

decide

what

to

do.

We've

heard

names.

That's

Johnny.

Those

two--they're

twins,

Sam

'n

Eric.

Which

is

Eric--?

You?

No--you're

Sam--"

"I'm

Sam--"

"'n

I'm

Eric."

"We'd

better

all

have

names,"

said

Ralph,

"so

I'm

Ralph."

"We

got

most

names,"

said

Piggy.

"Got

'em

just

now."

"Kids'

names,"

said

Merridew.

"Why

should

I

be

Jack?

I'm

Merridew."

Ralph

turned

to

him

quickly.

This

was

the

voice

of

one

who

knew

his

own

mind.

"Then,"

went

on

Piggy,

"that

boy--I

forget--"

"You're

talking

too

much,"

said

Jack

Merridew.

"Shut

up,

Fatty."

Laughter

arose.

"He's

not

Fatty,"

cried

Ralph,

"his

real

name's

Piggy!"

"Piggy!"

"Piggy!"

"Oh,

Piggy!"

A

storm

of

laughter

arose

and

even

the

tiniest

child

joined

in.

For

the

moment

the

boys

were

a

closed

circuit

of

sympathy

with

Piggy

outside:

he

went

very

pink,

bowed

his

head

and

cleaned

his

glasses

again.

Finally

the

laughter

died

away

and

the

naming

continued.

There

was

Maurice,

next

in

size

among

the

choir

boys

to

Jack,

but

broad

and

grinning

all

the

time.

There

was

a

slight,

furtive

boy

whom

no

one

knew,

who

kept

to

himself

with

an

inner

intensity

of

avoidance

and

secrecy.

He

muttered

that

his

name

was

Roger

and

was

silent

again.

Bill,

Robert,

Harold,

Henry;

the

choir

boy

who

had

fainted

sat

up

against

a

palm

trunk,

smiled

pallidly

at

Ralph

and

said

that

his

name

was

Simon.

Jack

spoke.

"We've

got

to

decide

about

being

rescued."

There

was

a

buzz.

One

of

the

small

boys,

Henry,

said

that

he

wanted

to

go

home.

"Shut

up,"

said

Ralph

absently.

He

lifted

the

conch.

"Seems

to

me

we

ought

to

have

a

chief

to

decide

things."

"A

chief!

A

chief!"

"I

ought

to

be

chief,"

said

Jack

with

simple

arrogance,

"because

I'm

chapter

chorister

and

head

boy.

I

can

sing

C

sharp."

Another

buzz.

"Well

then,"

said

Jack,

"I--"

He

hesitated.

The

dark

boy,

Roger,

stirred

at

last

and

spoke

up.

"Let's

have

a

vote."

"Yes!"

"Vote

for

chief!"

"Let's

vote--"

This

toy

of

voting

was

almost

as

pleasing

as

the

conch.

Jack

started

to

protest

but

the

clamor

changed

from

the

general

wish

for

a

chief

to

an

election

by

acclaim

of

Ralph

himself.

None

of

the

boys

could

have

found

good

reason

for

this;

what

intelligence

had

been

shown

was

traceable

to

Piggy

while

the

most

obvious

leader

was

Jack.

But

there

was

a

stillness

about

Ralph

as

he

sat

that

marked

him

out:

there

was

his

size,

and

attractive

appearance;

and

most

obscurely,

yet

most

powerfully,

there

was

the

conch.

The

being

that

had

blown

that,

had

sat

waiting

for

them

on

the

platform

with

the

delicate

thing

balanced

on

his

knees,

was

set

apart.

"Him

with

the

shell."

"Ralph!

Ralph!"

"Let

him

be

chief

with

the

trumpet-thing."

Ralph

raised

a

hand

for

silence.

"All

right.

Who

wants

Jack

for

chief?"

With

dreary

obedience

the

choir

raised

their

hands.

"Who

wants

me?"

Every

hand

outside

the

choir

except

Piggy's

was

raised

immediately.

Then

Piggy,

too,

raised

his

hand

grudgingly

into

the

air.

Ralph

counted.

"I'm

chief

then."

The

circle

of

boys

broke

into

applause.

Even

the

choir

applauded;

and

the

freckles

on

Jack's

face

disappeared

under

a

blush

of

mortification.

He

started

up,

then

changed

his

mind

and

sat

down

again

while

the

air

rang.

Ralph

looked

at

him,

eager

to

offer

something.

"The

choir

belongs

to

you,

of

course."

"They

could

be

the

army--"

"Or

hunters--"

"They

could

be--"

The

suffusion

drained

away

from

Jack's

face.

Ralph

waved

again

for

silence.

"Jack's

in

charge

of

the

choir.

They

can

be--what

do

you

want

them

to

be?"

"Hunters."

Jack

and

Ralph

smiled

at

each

other

with

shy

liking.

The

rest

began

to

talk

eagerly.

Jack

stood

up.

"All

right,

choir.

Take

off

your

togs."

As

if

released

from

class,

the

choir

boys

stood

up,

chattered,

piled

their

black

cloaks

on

the

grass.

Jack

laid

his

on

the

trunk

by

Ralph.

His

grey

shorts

were

sticking

to

him

with

sweat.

Ralph

glanced

at

them

admiringly,

and

when

Jack

saw

his

glance

he

explained.

"I

tried

to

get

over

that

hill

to

see

if

there

was

water

all

round.

But

your

shell

called

us."

Ralph

smiled

and

held

up

the

conch

for

silence.

"Listen,

everybody.

I've

got

to

have

time

to

think

things

out.

I

can't

decide

what

to

do

straight

off.

If

this

isn't

an

island

we

might

be

rescued

straight

away.

So

we've

got

to

decide

if

this

is

an

island.

Everybody

must

stay

round

here

and

wait

and

not

go

away.

Three

of

us--if

we

take

more

we'd

get

all

mixed,

and

lose

each

other--three

of

us

will

go

on

an

expedition

and

find

out.

I'll

go,

and

Jack,

and,

and

.

.

."

He

looked

round

the

circle

of

eager

faces.

There

was

no

lack

of

boys

to

choose

from.

"And

Simon."

The

boys

round

Simon

giggled,

and

he

stood

up,

laughing

a

little.

Now

that

the

pallor

of

his

faint

was

over,

he

was

a

skinny,

vivid

little

boy,

with

a

glance

coming

up

from

under

a

hut

of

straight

hair

that

hung

down,

black

and

coarse.

He

nodded

at

Ralph.

"I'll

come."

"And

I--"

Jack

snatched

from

behind

him

a

sizable

sheath-knife

and

clouted

it

into

a

trunk.

The

buzz

rose

and

died

away.

Piggy

stirred.

"I'll

come."

Ralph

turned

to

him.

"You're

no

good

on

a

job

like

this."

"All

the

same--"

"We

don't

want

you,"

said

Jack,

flatly.

"Three's

enough."

Piggy's

glasses

flashed.

"I

was

with

him

when

he

found

the

conch.

I

was

with

him

before

anyone

else

was."

Jack

and

the

others

paid

no

attention.

There

was

a

general

dispersal.

Ralph,

Jack

and

Simon

jumped

off

the

platform

and

walked

along

the

sand

past

the

bathing

pool.

Piggy

hung

bumbling

behind

them.

"If

Simon

walks

in

the

middle

of

us,"

said

Ralph,

"then

we

could

talk

over

his

head."

The

three

of

them

fell

into

step.

This

meant

that

every

now

and

then

Simon

had

to

do

a

double

shuffle

to

catch

up

with

the

others.

Presently

Ralph

stopped

and

turned

back

to

Piggy.

"Look."

Jack

and

Simon

pretended

to

notice

nothing.

They

walked

on.

"You

can't

come."

Piggy's

glasses

were

misted

again--this

time

with

humiliation.

"You

told

'em.

After

what

I

said."

His

face

flushed,

his

mouth

trembled.

"After

I

said

I

didn't

want--"

"What

on

earth

are

you

talking

about?"

"About

being

called

Piggy.

I

said

I

didn't

care

as

long

as

they

didn't

call

me

Piggy;

an'

I

said

not

to

tell

and

then

you

went

an'

said

straight

out--"

Stillness

descended

on

them.

Ralph,

looking

with

more

understanding

at

Piggy,

saw

that

he

was

hurt

and

crushed.

He

hovered

between

the

two

courses

of

apology

or

further

insult.

"Better

Piggy

than

Fatty,"

he

said

at

last,

with

the

directness

of

genuine

leadership,

"and

anyway,

I'm

sorry

if

you

feel

like

that.

Now

go

back,

Piggy,

and

take

names.

That's

your

job.

So

long."

He

turned

and

raced

after

the

other

two.

Piggy

stood

and

the

rose

of

indignation

faded

slowly

from

his

cheeks.

He

went

back

to

the

platform.

The

three

boys

walked

briskly

on

the

sand.

The

tide

was

low

and

there

was

a

strip

of

weed-strewn

beach

that

was

almost

as

firm

as

a

road.

A

kind

of

glamour

was

spread

over

them

and

the

scene

and

they

were

conscious

of

the

glamour

and

made

happy

by

it.

They

turned

to

each

other,

laughing

excitedly,

talking,

not

listening.

The

air

was

bright.

Ralph,

faced

by

the

task

of

translating

all

this

into

an

explanation,

stood

on

his

head

and

fell

over.

When

they

had

done

laughing,

Simon

stroked

Ralph's

arm

shyly;

and

they

had

to

laugh

again.

"Come

on,"

said

Jack

presently,

"we're

explorers."

"We'll

go

to

the

end

of

the

island,"

said

Ralph,

"and

look

round

the

corner."

"If

it

is

an

island--"

Now,

toward

the

end

of

the

afternoon,

the

mirages

were

settling

a

little.

They

found

the

end

of

the

island,

quite

distinct,

and

not

magicked

out

of

shape

or

sense.

There

was

a

jumble

of

the

usual

squareness,

with

one

great

block

sitting

out

in

the

lagoon.

Sea

birds

were

nesting

there.

"Like

icing,"

said

Ralph,

"on

a

pink

cake."

"We

shan't

see

round

this

corner,"

said

Jack,

"because

there

isn't

one.

Only

a

slow

curve--and

you

can

see,

the

rocks

get

worse--"

Ralph

shaded

his

eyes

and

followed

the

jagged

outline

of

the

crags

up

toward

the

mountain.

This

part

of

the

beach

was

nearer

the

mountain

than

any

other

that

they

had

seen.

"We'll

try

climbing

the

mountain

from

here,"

he

said.

"I

should

think

this

is

the

easiest

way.

There's

less

of

that

jungly

stuff;

and

more

pink

rock.

Come

on."

The

three

boys

began

to

scramble

up.

Some

unknown

force

had

wrenched

and

shattered

these

cubes

so

that

they

lay

askew,

often

piled

diminishingly

on

each

other.

The

most

usual

feature

of

the

rock

was

a

pink

cliff

surmounted

by

a

skewed

block;

and

that

again

surmounted,

and

that

again,

till

the

pinkness

became

a

stack

of

balanced

rock

projecting

through

the

looped

fantasy

of

the

forest

creepers.

Where

the

pink

cliffs

rose

out

of

the

ground

there

were

often

narrow

tracks

winding

upwards.

They

could

edge

along

them,

deep

in

the

plant

world,

their

faces

to

the

rock.

"What

made

this

track?"

Jack

paused,

wiping

the

sweat

from

his

face.

Ralph

stood

by

him,

breathless.

"Men?"

Jack

shook

his

head.

"Animals."

Ralph

peered

into

the

darkness

under

the

trees.

The

forest

minutely

vibrated.

"Come

on."

The

difficulty

was

not

the

steep

ascent

round

the

shoulders

of

rock,

but

the

occasional

plunges

through

the

undergrowth

to

get

to

the

next

path.

Here

the

roots

and

stems

of

creepers

were

in

such

tangles

that

the

boys

had

to

thread

through

them

like

pliant

needles.

Their

only

guide,

apart

from

the

brown

ground

and

occasional

flashes

of

light

through

the

foliage,

was

the

tendency

of

slope:

whether

this

hole,

laced

as

it

was

with

the

cables

of

creeper,

stood

higher

than

that.

Somehow,

they

moved

up.

Immured

in

these

tangles,

at

perhaps

their

most

difficult

moment,

Ralph

turned

with

shining

eyes

to

the

others.

"Wacco."

"Wizard."

"Smashing."

The

cause

of

their

pleasure

was

not

obvious.

All

three

were

hot,

dirty

and

exhausted.

Ralph

was

badly

scratched.

The

creepers

were

as

thick

as

their

thighs

and

left

little

but

tunnels

for

further

penetration.

Ralph

shouted

experimentally

and

they

listened

to

the

muted

echoes.

"This

is

real

exploring,"

said

Jack.

"I

bet

nobody's

been

here

before."

"We

ought

to

draw

a

map,"

said

Ralph,

"only

we

haven't

any

paper."

"We

could

make

scratches

on

bark,"

said

Simon,

"and

rub

black

stuff

in."

Again

came

the

solemn

communion

of

shining

eyes

in

the

gloom.

"Wacco."

"Wizard."

There

was

no

place

for

standing

on

one's

head.

This

time

Ralph

expressed

the

intensity

of

his

emotion

by

pretending

to

knock

Simon

down;

and

soon

they

were

a

happy,

heaving

pile

in

the

under-dusk.

When

they

had

fallen

apart

Ralph

spoke

first.

"Got

to

get

on."

The

pink

granite

of

the

next

cliff

was

further

back

from

the

creepers

and

trees

so

that

they

could

trot

up

the

path.

This

again

led

into

more

open

forest

so

that

they

had

a

glimpse

of

the

spread

sea.

With

openness

came

the

sun;

it

dried

the

sweat

that

had

soaked

their

clothes

in

the

dark,

damp

heat.

At

last

the

way

to

the

top

looked

like

a

scramble

over

pink

rock,

with

no

more

plunging

through

darkness.

The

boys

chose

their

way

through

defiles

and

over

heaps

of

sharp

stone.

"Look!

Look!"

High

over

this

end

of

the

island,

the

shattered

rocks

lifted

up

their

stacks

and

chimneys.

This

one,

against

which

Jack

leaned,

moved

with

a

grating

sound

when

they

pushed.

"Come

on--"

But

not

"Come

on"

to

the

top.

The

assault

on

the

summit

must

wait

while

the

three

boys

accepted

this

challenge.

The

rock

was

as

large

as

a

small

motor

car.

"Heave!"

Sway

back

and

forth,

catch

the

rhythm.

"Heave!"

Increase

the

swing

of

the

pendulum,

increase,

increase,

come

up

and

bear

against

that

point

of

furthest

balance--

increase--increase--

"Heave!"

The

great

rock

loitered,

poised

on

one

toe,

decided

not

to

return,

moved

through

the

air,

fell,

struck,

turned

over,

leapt

droning

through

the

air

and

smashed

a

deep

hole

in

the

canopy

of

the

forest.

Echoes

and

birds

flew,

white

and

pink

dust

floated,

the

forest

further

down

shook

as

with

the

passage

of

an

enraged

monster:

and

then

the

island

was

still.

"Wacco!"

"Like

a

bomb!"

"Whee-aa-oo!"

Not

for

five

minutes

could

they

drag

themselves

away

from

this

triumph.

But

they

left

at

last.

The

way

to

the

top

was

easy

after

that.

As

they

reached

the

last

stretch

Ralph

stopped.

"Golly!"

They

were

on

the

lip

of

a

circular

hollow

in

the

side

of

the

mountain.

This

was

filled

with

a

blue

flower,

a

rock

plant

of

some

sort,

and

the

overflow

hung

down

the

vent

and

spilled

lavishly

among

the

canopy

of

the

forest.

The

air

was

thick

with

butterflies,

lifting,

fluttering,

settling.

Beyond

the

hollow

was

the

square

top

of

the

mountain

and

soon

they

were

standing

on

it.

They

had

guessed

before

that

this

was

an

island:

clambering

among

the

pink

rocks,

with

the

sea

on

either

side,

and

the

crystal

heights

of

air,

they

had

known

by

some

instinct

that

the

sea

lay

on

every

side.

But

there

seemed

something

more

fitting

in

leaving

the

last

word

till

they

stood

on

the

top,

and

could

see

a

circular

horizon

of

water.

Ralph

turned

to

the

others.

"This

belongs

to

us."

It

was

roughly

boat-shaped:

humped

near

this

end

with

behind

them

the

jumbled

descent

to

the

shore.

On

either

side

rocks,

cliffs,

treetops

and

a

steep

slope:

forward

there,

the

length

of

the

boat,

a

tamer

descent,

tree-clad,

with

hints

of

pink:

and

then

the

jungly

flat

of

the

island,

dense

green,

but

drawn

at

the

end

to

a

pink

tail.

There,

where

the

island

petered

out

in

water,

was

another

island;

a

rock,

almost

detached,

standing

like

a

fort,

facing

them

across

the

green

with

one

bold,

pink

bastion.

The

boys

surveyed

all

this,

then

looked

out

to

sea.

They

were

high

up

and

the

afternoon

had

advanced;

the

view

was

not

robbed

of

sharpness

by

mirage.

"That's

a

reef.

A

coral

reef.

I've

seen

pictures

like

that."

The

reef

enclosed

more

than

one

side

of

the

island,

lying

perhaps

a

mile

out

and

parallel

to

what

they

now

thought

of

as

their

beach.

The

coral

was

scribbled

in

the

sea

as

though

a

giant

had

bent

down

to

reproduce

the

shape

of

the

island

in

a

flowing

chalk

line

but

tired

before

he

had

finished.

Inside

was

peacock

water,

rocks

and

weeds

showing

as

in

an

aquarium;

outside

was

the

dark

blue

of

the

sea.

The

tide

was

running

so

that

long

streaks

of

foam

tailed

away

from

the

reef

and

for

a

moment

they

felt

that

the

boat

was

moving

steadily

astern.

Jack

pointed

down.

"That's

where

we

landed."

Beyond

falls

and

cliffs

there

was

a

gash

visible

in

the

trees;

there

were

the

splintered

trunks

and

then

the

drag,

leaving

only

a

fringe

of

palm

between

the

scar

and

the

sea.

There,

too,

jutting

into

the

lagoon,

was

the

platform,

with

insect-like

figures

moving

near

it.

Ralph

sketched

a

twining

line

from

the

bald

spot

on

which

they

stood

down

a

slope,

a

gully,

through

flowers,

round

and

down

to

the

rock

where

the

scar

started.

"That's

the

quickest

way

back."

Eyes

shining,

mouths

open,

triumphant,

they

savored

the

right

of

domination.

They

were

lifted

up:

were

friends.

"There's

no

village

smoke,

and

no

boats,"

said