Hey, Man, What’ve You Been Up To, During This Turbulent Time in the Life of the Country?
Yes, it’s been brutally turbulent: I agree. Everyday, we feel it, or if we don’t, we’re not truly alive. As for what we can really do about it, I’m not so sure. I’m a firm believer in Sartre’s interpretation of Existentialism: what we choose for ourselves, we’re responsible for, and by so choosing, we’re also choosing for everybody else. That’s a heavy burden. You can feel the weigh of it on your shoulders as you age, as things bear down on you, as your body bends in the wind, coughs and mutters a few things, trying to make sense of it all. Can we? Should we?
Of course we should.
Enough said.
I’ve completed a new work of fiction that I’d like to share with readers. At least a brief excerpt here below.
Here’s a jacket blurb for The Man on the Isle of Jura, which you’ll get a taste of:
“Those who control the past control the future, and those who control the present control the past,” as Orwell prophetically wrote in his masterpiece 1984.
That being said, what if travelers from the future decided to land on the Scottish Isle of Jura in 1948 where George Orwell was spending his final days writing 1984 — and destroy all traces of the man’s life and work? Thus, ensuring Orwell’s powerful, cautionary tale about unchecked political power would never see the light of day — in whatever future one could imagine.
The Man on the Isle of Jura takes us to the isle, with its haunting and beautiful landscape, its hearty, rugged local folk where we meet, and indeed, engage in political dialogue with George Orwell himself. The man is in dire straits, working feverishly on his masterpiece 1984, while suffering the painful and terminal effects of tuberculosis.
Who could stop those travelers from their deadly mission? Perhaps another man from the future who falls from the sky into the sea off the coast of the isle and is rescued from certain death by a young boy who is fishing in a small boat nearby?
We follow the riveting story of the young man who’s fallen from the sky and struggles to come to terms with the most important mission of his life: save Orwell from those who are determined to erase the man from history — from past, present, and future. Can he succeed against all odds? Will he?
An Excerpt from the Novella:
THE MAN ON THE ISLE OF JURA
Copyright © 2020
by Tom Maremaa.
All Rights Reserved.
I
He fell out of the sky and into the sea.
Call me lucky, or not.
The sea greeted him with a shudder as he plunged deep into the mouth of the Corryvreckan vortex. Holding his breath he vaulted upward to the surface and caught streaks of sunlight breaking through the clouds. The light splashed across his face which had turned blue. He gasped for air and began thrashing about in the cold swell of whirling currents off the northern tip of the isle. His arms flailing away, trying to swim to shore.
The boy spotted him in the distance from his fishing boat.
All outcomes were possible in this branch of time. The first and most likely: the man would perish in the sea. The second, which was equally possible, the boy would drown trying to save the man, and both would perish. The third: he would save the man, and life on the island would irrevocably change.
Farsensing, the boy placed his bet on the third.
He yanked his fishing rod up from the water, reeling in the line, and turned on the motor. It spat smoke and whirred but started up and began to purr. He sped toward the man. When he got there he pushed out one of the oars from the side of the boat and aimed its paddle tip at the man. Within moments, the man reached for the tip and held on until the boy pulled him into the boat. The man was shaken to the bone, his clothes soaked in blood, his arms and legs nicked and cut deep, still bleeding. He was a large man with big wide shoulders, powerfully built. He tried to stand but lost his balance and collapsed in the boat.
Saved my life, kid. Not that I deserve to live.
Was meant to be, said the boy.
I should thank you.
No need to.
I will.
The man rose to his feet, stumbled and fell to his knees.
You’re hurt. C’mon, sir, we’ll get you to my mother’s, she’ll call the doctor.
The man pivoted on his heels, shook his arms and legs, as the wind wrapped itself around his body. He was trying hard to get his bearings, connect to the lay of the land, which was at first glance completely unfamiliar to him, like no other place on Earth he’d ever been.
How’d I get here?
Must’ve been a ship, or something, a ship that capsized, carrying supplies, said the boy. Happens a lot due to the currents, the whirlpool. Treacherous waters, many a-folk dying in its mouth. Maybe you were on it and got free before it sunk. You remember being on a ship?
Nope, no ship.
The old man in the village had a premonition the other day. Said a stranger was coming to our isle. That’s you.
Guess so. Hey, kid, you should’ve let me drown, said the man. Not right that I’m still alive.
Huh?
Don’t deserve to live.
Happened to you? What?
The quake. You must’ve felt it too.
No.
What do you mean no? No?
Didn’t feel any quake out on the isle. Not a thing, not a quiver.
This is an island?
Aye, said the boy in his Scottish twang. You have a funny accent, mister.
What accent? I’m Californian.
What’s that?
The boy tossed the man a towel he had lying in the boat.
Need to get you some help, mister, said the boy. Looks like you’ve got some nasty cuts and wounds. From the ship going down.
No ship. Hey, where am I? said the man.
Jura. The Isle of Jura, matter of fact. Lucky to be alive, sir. They say the straits of Corryvreckan—among the most, if not the most deadly in the whole world. Many folk losing their lives fighting the current. Unless, of course, they were saved by Beira.
Beira?
Aye, the goddess of winter, the old hag, ya know, one-eyed, blue from head to toe. She rules the islands, all of them. Saves men, sailors, from drowning in the vortex of the Corryvreckan.
Where, O, where, the man stumbled on his words, shaking his head, the hell are we? You lost me.
We’re close to Scotland. Across the water. You must’ve come from there on that ship that capsized, sunk in the Atlantic or the North Sea.
No. Can’t be.
What can’t be?
All of this.
What can I say, sir? ’Tis what it is.
Where are we?
As I was saying, the Isle of Jura. You wounded in the war?
What war?
One that just ended in forty-five.
Nineteen forty-five?
Aye, sir. Three years back. Lost my father in the war, matter of fact. Father was a brave man, a fighter, but died in Dunkirk, fighting those Germans. A brave man, fierce fighter. Don’t know how he died but he was fighting for us, for freedom. He’s buried here now, poor man, on the isle. Miss him. Miss him badly.
Sorry to hear to that, kid. Let me get this right. We’re now in the year nineteen forty-eight?
That we are, sir.
How’d this all happen? I mean, I was running for governor when the quake hit. Lost my wife and daughter. Fell into a crack opened by the quake, then the ocean, nearly drowned—until you saved me.
You must be from the future. Others from the future were once here too. So our history tells.
Well, I guess so . . .
The man crouched in the fishing boat. Winds kicking up again. Swirling about. The man shivering, chilled.
Hey, kid. Thanks. I mean it. Really, I do. Don’t get me wrong. You saved my life. Guess it was meant to be, as you said.
To be?
Yes. Me being alive.
Count your blessings, mother always tells me. Father used to say the same thing. Count your blessings and thank the Lord.
I do.
II
In the shallow water the boy and the man got out of the boat and pulled it up onto shore where it anchored in the white sand. The silver clouds had parted further and sunlight was beaming through. The day looked promising, the third outcome among many soon to be realized.
By the way, name’s Reed. Christopher Reed. What’s yours?
Jack. Jack Wilson.
Pleased to meet you, Jack, said the man, extending his hand.
Same here.
Anyway, can you call the mainland? Tell ’em I’m here.
Y’ mean Scotland?
There was an awkward silence. Reed had no idea what to make of the boy’s comment.
Yep, Scotland. You got a mobile?
A what?
Smartphone, you know? Cellphone. Everybody’s got one.
Never heard of a thing like that. Sorry, Mr. Reed, there’s no phone lines on the island, owing to problems fixing them after the war.
Still trying to put this all together . . .
Remember, Mr. Reed, what happened to you?
Told you. A quake struck. Was driving along the coast with my wife and daughter, she upfront, my daughter in the back when it hit. The Big One, the One everybody had feared for years . . . Cracks opened in the Earth, huge cracks, jagged, running long and deep, the Earth quivering, shaking violently . . . Trying to fit the pieces together . . . Our vehicle got turned over, upside down on its back, wheels spinning, motor grinding away . . . Dark, twilight . . . I was thrown out of the side door but my wife and daughter were still inside . . . Tried everything to save them, revive them, bring them back to life, but they were gone. Gone . . . Heads smashed against the windows, both skulls broken, bleeding all over the place . . . Dead . . . I was groping around in the dark for my cellphone to call 911. Couldn’t find it. Then I took a couple of steps and fell off the edge of a cliff right into the ocean below. The Pacific . . . Crashing headfirst into the water, plunging I figured to my death. All I remember . . . Until now, when you reeled me, handing me that oar, saving my life, while I was thrashing about in the freezing water . . .
Aye, the Corryvreckan, said the boy. Dire straits. A whirlpool sucks you down to the bottom. Say it’s over six hundred feet deep down there.
The war, said Reed, his head shaking with tremors of disbelief. You were talking about the war.
Ended about three years ago, as was telling you. World War Two.
Nineteen forty-five?
Aye.
So . . . what? You’re saying it’s nineteen forty-eight.
That it is, sir, as was saying . . .
Can’t be. No way.
The man kept shaking his head, then grabbed the boy by the shoulders and looked him in eye. Tell me this is an island off the coast of California. Undiscovered, maybe. Tell me, kid.
No, sir. Jura is off the coast of Scotland.
III
At the house Olivia Wilson, the boy’s mother, was standing on the threshold, waiting for her son’s return from his day fishing along the north coast.
And who’s this gentleman, if I may be so hopeful as to ask, Jack?
Mr. Christopher Reed. He was running for governor when a quake struck and he landed in the whirlpool. I pulled him up from the water, luckily, with my oar thrown out to reach him. Waters were calm enough for an instant, long enough for him climb on the boat for me to bring him to shore.
Now that’s a likely story, if ever I heard one, said Olivia, raising her eyebrow and looking down on her son skeptically.
It’s true, interjected Reed. I was running for governor when your son saved my life, like he said. I’m forever indebted. Forever, and I mean it. Told him so.
You need medical treatment, Mr. Reed, I fear. Your face and heads, look at them, cuts and wounds, blood all over your clothes.
Bleeding’s stopped. Do you have a phone?
Phone? Why no. They’re still busy repairin’ ’em after the war. Been about a year now. We have other means of communicating, though.
Like what?
Didn’t Jack tell you.
No he didn’t.
Well, you should know. We’re telepathic, most of us on the isle. I’m talking to the doctor right now, as we speak. He’ll be here soon, he says. The village has already got word of your arrival.
Reed’s eyes flickered for a moment, he snorted, flaring his nostril, and taking a deep breath. He was so stunned he could not shake his head in disbelief again. Well, okay, he said, if that’s what you say. Did I thank you?
No.
I will.
° ° °
The doctor from the village arrived, a tall, lean, scrappy old man with a pointed white beard and aged-spotted skin. He took one look at Reed from head to foot and grimaced, curling his lips to the edge of his rosy cheeks.
Lad’s pretty banged up, he said. Dare I ask what happened?
You can ask, said Olivia, but he’ll tell a cock-and-bull story, like he told us. Him being in some earthquake. The war’s the true cause.
Reed said nothing.
When the doctor peeled off Reed’s wet shirt he found black and blue marks across his chest, as if he’d been punched or been in a fight. Maybe whacked by a large object, or something.
It was a fight for my life, he told the doctor, who said nothing, and continued examining the man.
He felt the man’s stomach and liver and groin.
Any organ damage, you think? asked Reed. Feeling pretty damn rotten now.
Not that I can detect. You need rest, sir. Lots of it. I’ll stitch up your arms and legs, young man. Fortunately, the air is clean on Jura, so the risk of infection is low.
He looked into Reed’s eyes and spotted deep rings of sadness and grief.
Lost loved ones, did you?
Yes. My wife and daughter. They didn’t make it after the quake.
So it was a quake?
Pretty damn big. Cracks in the earth, they were thrown. Couldn’t do anything.
The doctor looked at Reed’s head for bruises.
Trauma like that can be difficult to cope with, he said. Yes, the price we all paid for the war.
° ° °
Olivia Wilson brought in a couple of cups of hot black tea on a tray and served the doctor and Reed, who was sitting up now on the davenport, his head spinning.
° ° °
Is it really nineteen forty-eight? I wasn’t even born back then, said Reed. Has it been a good year?
Everybody laughed, for no apparent reason.
It’s the effects of the war, the doctor whispered into Olivia Wilson’s ear. We must be patient.
She nodded in agreement. We’ll take care of him and bring him back to health, she whispered back. Trust me.
I do, said the doctor before leaving the house.
IV
Christopher Reed fell into a deep, impenetrable sleep on the lumpy davenport, covered in a plaid blanket Olivia had tossed over him and tucked in.
He was a large man, all right, she observed, powerfully built, handsome, rugged in appearance with a square jaw, blue eyes and dark hair. Already, her son had taken a liking to him, and was asking if he could sleep in the backroom the family had used to store food during the war. She was thinking about it, she told young Jack, who had turned fourteen the month before. The boy missed his father. Of that, there could be no doubt, and time had not healed the wounds of grief and loss he was feeling.
It had been three years and some months since the boy’s father had lost his life on the beaches of Normandy when he was hit by machine gun fire from the Germans who were in retreat. Fortunately, the man’s body had been recovered long enough to return it safely to the Isle of Jura, though not in one piece, riddled as it was with bullets, flesh torn apart, limbs shattered, and was now buried on the island’s only cemetery by the southern shore near the village of Craighouse. She and her son would visit the gravesite and lay flowers and speak to the man as if he were still alive telepathically. They lived on the distant hope one day he would speak back.
Reed was snoring heavily now. Like a baby, she thought, feeling motherly at that moment when she stepped forward and wiped the sweat off his brow with a moist handkerchief. The medication prescribed by the doctor was doubtless taking its effect. Reed needed as much rest as possible, if he was to recover.
She vowed to herself to help him overcome his delusions about being hit by the so-called quake, and even more about the loss of his wife and daughter. Yet she wondered: what to make of his American accent? How had he ended up here if he was an American? And those clothes? They were not familiar to her at all: these blue Levi workpants, tight and faded, with rips on both kneecaps, his strange pair of tennis shoes with a NIKE symbol on them, a black T-shirt, almost torn apart from the thrashing of waves in the whirlpool, pulled off now and changed into a white one her husband used to wear, and that equally strange wristwatch, square in shape, with a blinking light on its face, she’d never seen anything like it before. . . .
She wanted to ask him a hundred different questions, her curiosity stoked by years of living on the isle, knowing the local folk, their comings and goings, their ups and downs, and struggles to adjust after losing loved ones in the war. On Saturdays at the Farmers Market, where she had a set up a table to sell her homemade jams, baked goods, meat pies, garden vegetables, and after a good deer hunt with her sharpshooting son, her prized bundles of venison, she picked up even more gossip and news from the villagers, a tightly-knit community of Scots whose ancestors traced their roots back through the centuries. She was a woman in the know and good to know, as her late husband had told everybody, with great pride.
Who was this man, anyhow? Where did he come from? Why was he here? Small matter. For the time being, she vowed to help bring him back to life and recover from his wounds in the war, as the doctor had told her. It would take time, of that she was certain, and time on the isle this June was a gift she welcomed.
° ° °
Jack Wilson wanted to publicly announce to the folks in the village his discovery and retrieval of a man who claimed to be an American, a survivor of an earthquake, a man of importance running for governor, but his mother advised against it.
We don’t know, son, how people will react, she told him. He’s a stranger. Strangers are not always welcome. Too many unanswered questions about his appearance. Besides, they already know about his arrival, as you’ve sent them those messages—good ones, I hope—telepathically. You with me, son?
Yes.
Where you going?
Outside. Check the ferry boat schedule. See when the next one’s due to arrive.
Somebody in the village should know. Ask Michael at the dock or message him. Tune into him.
I will.
Remember, Jack, let’s keep this thing about Mr. Reed quiet until we’re sure we want to introduce him publicly, so everybody can take a good look and make their judgments. As I’m certain they will.
Good ones, I hope.
Aye.
° ° °
Jack Wilson got up from the kitchen table and walked toward the front door. Afternoon light was streaking through the window panes, the days finally getting longer in June after enduring months of winter darkness, the curse of Beira.
Be sure to bundle up, said his mother. Still cold outside.
He grabbed his woolen sweater and pulled it down over his head.
I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.
You know me, son, I always do.
No worries.
Worries. What else is a mother for?
° ° °
Christopher Reed was still snoring gently, stretched out and covered with blankets on the rumpled davenport.
The realization he’d saved this man’s life from drowning hit Jack Wilson hard. He could feel it rippling through his body like a cold shiver. On his way out the door he gestured to his dog to follow, and reading his master’s thoughts the dog knew it was time to go on walkies. Agitated, wagging its tail, the dog began jumping up and down. The boy waved goodbye to his mother and left.
° ° °
The weather had turned blustery, winds kicking up, howling, the last gasps of a late cold spring. Jack felt it when he stepped outside.
° ° °
His motorbike, which originally belonged to his father, spat and sputtered along the gravelly road toward the village. His dog, a Chow Chow with a furry black coat and a blue-purplish tongue always hanging out, sat up on the gasoline tank while Jack leaned on the handlebars.
The Chow Chow, weighing a good forty pounds if not more, helped stabilize the ride, taking the bumps and potholes on the road with coolness and steady balance.