Left on Paradise (8 page)

Joan thanked John for his assistance before she stumbled back to the beach—reaching camp without taking a rest, only a little short of breath.

A Latino woman sunbathed at the beach, her eyes shaded with dark glasses as she lay on her back—the curves and contours of her slender hips and flattened breasts covered by a white bikini drawn smooth against her oil-glistened skin. She spoke to a Latino man in his mid-twenties (with a slight build and unexceptional height) who lingered near her and who wore a yellow
Dodgers
sports cap that covered his close-cropped hair and shaded his clean-shaven face. The young man wore blue shorts and a yellow polo shirt as morning light shined like a halo around his head and caused Maria to blink and squint as she looked into his face.

“I haven’t seen you since the ship,” Maria said.

Jose glanced down, his eyes flitting over Maria’s flat belly and curved chest. He stepped backwards and sat down, now looking at Maria’s face.

“I helped,” the young man said, “with animals and cargo.”

Maria opened her eyes wider now that the sun no longer silhouetted Jose’s face like a halo. She brushed hair behind an ear with a single sweep of her hand.

“Is everything unloaded?” Maria asked.

“For now. Ryan took my spot on the landing craft.”

“Ryan? What’s he doing now? Where’s he at?”

“Checking some paperwork, I think.”

“When’s he coming back?”

Jose shrugged and Maria dropped her eyes.

A moment later they heard the sounds of war play as children began to shout from nearby trees. Young boys aimed sticks at the water and cried from mock pain. High voices mimicked machine gun fire, bomb explosions, and the screams of the wounded and dying.

“It’s ironic,” Jose said with a grimace.

Though Maria furrowed her brow, Jose took no notice.

“Me landing in the Pacific on an invasion craft, I mean,” Jose continued. “My grandfather landed in one at Iwo Jima and Okinawa. He knew one of the soldiers who raised the flag at Mount Suribachi. Not the Native American.”

“I don’t understand your point.”

“I’m a strict pacifist,” Jose explained, “and I used to argue with grandpa and dad about war and ethics. Grandpa served in the Pacific during World War II and Dad was a B-52 mechanic on Okinawa during Vietnam. He even approved of the Christmas bombings over Hanoi. I didn’t.”

“What of your grandfather?” Maria asked as she looked straight at Jose. “What about his service?”

“I didn’t debate as much with him.”

“Did he do the right thing fighting the fascists?”

“War never accomplishes any good.”

“Wasn’t it good to bring down Hitler and Mussolini and Tojo?”

“One violent imperialist state defeated another.”

“You don’t mean to say the Americans were as bad as the Germans?”

“They also had concentration camps.”

“Forced resettlement camps.”

“Same thing.”

“Without gas chambers.”

“The Soviets murdered as many as Hitler.”

“Stalin was no Hitler.”

“As a point of fact,” Jose protested, “though he didn’t murder as many Jews, he utterly liquidated the kulaks and committed genocide against the Baltic countries. Still, I’ll concede your point for debate. Because even if the Allies did less evil to their own civilians, they still murdered millions of Germans to stop the killing of millions of Jews. Quid pro quo.”

“Killing the guilty isn’t murder.”

“Killing some German father conscripted to fight against his will is.”

“He shouldn’t have taken up arms.”

“His motives weren’t much different than my grandfather’s.”

“Your grandfather was on the right side.”

“Who can make that determination?”

Maria drew a deep breath. “The Allied effort was good,” she declared. “It was a just cause.”

“A great cause,” Jose replied with noticeable disdain. “Such a great thing my grandfather did—ordering his men to use flamethrowers against caves filled with Japanese soldiers too scared to surrender.”

“What was he supposed to do? Let them to come out shooting?”

“You sound like my father,” Jose said with a laugh. “Did you attend West Point?”

“No,” Maria said as her eyes flashed, “but I studied enough political science and history to understand a little more than Neville Chamberlain ever did. You can’t let evil men destroy the weak and innocent.”

“Do the weak remain innocent once they’ve picked up the warmonger’s weapons?”

“I’m no militarist,” Maria said, “but some wars have to be fought in self-defense.”

“Better to be killed than to kill.”

Maria lifted her shades and looked straight at Jose. “Would you,” she asked, “die rather than kill?”

“I hope I’d be brave enough.”

“You’re telling me that the world is better off with good men dead and bad ones in power?”

“The world is better off,” Jose explained, “with every good man refusing to kill so warmongers can’t organize armies.”

“What about your own family?”

“I’m single.”

“When you have a family, will you let a madman assault your wife or strangle your children while you stand aside?”

Jose blushed. “I don’t know if I’d have the bravery, but I hope so. It’s the right thing to do.”

“The father of my children will fight for his family.”

“I’d die for them,” Jose said, “but I won’t turn them into militarists or warmongers. Not to save their lives. My way takes more courage.”

“At least you’ve come to the right place,” Maria said. “It’s safe enough here for strict pacifism.”

The screech of a distant whistle indicated it was time to return to work. Jose turned toward the shoreline as Maria stepped into a pair of loose shorts and pulled a sleeveless blouse over her arms while Jose stole a couple glances. Though they walked together down the beach, their path separated at base camp.

The children’s mock crusade in the Pacific continued until dusk.

Five days after the first pilgrim landed, the construction of the base camp was complete. Land was surveyed, plants and animals unloaded, prefabricated buildings raised, and equipment tested. On the sixth day, colonists cleaned the landing zone and collected litter, except for a few people who polished tools and packed gear. Later that day, supplies were distributed to the neighborhoods and assigned crates were marked for transport. Near dusk, the entire assembly gathered in the main hall to receive final instructions from the staff. At Ryan’s suggestion, the base camp was christened New Plymouth—after which Kit read the charter as inhabitants repeated their pledge of allegiance.

The state of Paradise legally constituted,
The Flower of the First of May
was given permission to depart for the cold waters of the Bering Sea—its crew only a little sad to leave the tropical island. The captain carried with him letters addressed to American lawyers with instructions to pay every sailor a generous bounty in U.S. dollars if the location of the new state was left undiscovered for six months. The hardscrabble Russian crew assured Ryan that no man among them would throw away the much-needed reward, not if he wished to live the full measure of his days.

The first hard rain erased every footprint showing that the shoreline had served as a beachhead for the landing party. Nor was even one plank of a wooden crate or a single spent cigarette butt left behind. In fact, the only visible reminders of human civilization were a flagpole with a newly sewn banner and a bright green storage tent pitched near the tree line which contained snorkeling gear, swimming goggles, life jackets, surfboards, and beach towels. The community’s kayak, sailboats, rowboats, and six-person motorized launch were stored between inland trees and the LCVP (now decorated with a large rainbow and peace signs painted by the island’s children) was anchored south of the beach nearest the base camp. No one wanted the pristine beaches of Paradise spoiled by the bulky invasion craft, however necessary it had proved for disembarkation.

Atop the flagpole, a banner fluttered and folded in the tropical breeze. The flag was divided between two equal-sized horizontal stripes (one green and the other red) that represented environmental purity and social justice. Atop the stripes was a large blue circle representing earth—which was adorned with brown and green continents, the most prominent among them being the Eurasia landmass. The flag waved from a thirty-foot steel flagpole anchored in a concrete foundation. More than a mere decoration, the banner served as a marker for nearby ships and indicated state sovereignty over the island. Every time the flag fluttered or snapped, it declared that a State of Paradise now numbered among the nations.

7

A State of Nature

The first emigrants arrived at dawn. A crate of MREs was opened and each settler collected four of the brick-sized rations, with parents choosing suitable meals for younger children. The morning was warm and it wasn’t long before every tent was dried and every bedroll stowed. All four neighborhoods assembled at prearranged staging points that led to the four corners of the island. One group planned to move a short distance north along the eastern shore and another expected to hike southwest into a large forest. A third group positioned themselves to move along the coast to the northernmost point of the island while the fourth neighborhood planned to cross the island’s nine-hundred foot hill to encamp themselves near the western shores of Paradise.

Ryan and Kit Godson were assigned to the fourth neighborhood and were among the first residents to rise. Kit prepared breakfast from a MRE while Ryan folded their tent. When they were ready to move, Ryan pulled a laminated map from a nylon pouch and worked with several neighbors to plot the easiest route to their destination: a meadow located near an inland bay. The hikers decided it best to flank the steeper segments of the hill by circling northwest to the lowest point of the ridge—from which they could turn south to their allotted land. After mapping their route, Ryan returned the map to its pouch and prepared to depart. Neighbors helped one another buckle into backpacks, shifting awkward weight and redistributing uncomfortable objects or handing tools to those posed to move. Only one or two neighbors failed to offer assistance.

Ryan was the first hiker saddled up. His backpack was stuffed full (every compartment bulging with possessions and a sleeping bag tied atop). Both a compass and binoculars dangled from his neck and a canteen was strapped to his side. He wore loose-fitting khakis, drab hiking boots, and an olive tee shirt—and held a machete.

Kit stood beside him, dressed in stylish green hiking shorts and a brown cotton shirt, and shielding her eyes with wrap-around sunglasses and her hair with a pink sports cap embroidered with the name
Angels
. She covered her calves with red wool-blend socks and her ankles with green canvas-nylon boots—which Ryan helped lace while Kit steadied the unwieldy bundle on his back as he kneeled to pull her bootlaces tight. Kit’s own backpack was smaller than Ryan’s and less bulky. Indeed, several pouches remained empty and her ultra-light sleeping roll was tucked almost by itself deep into the main compartment. After tightening her bootlaces, Kit adjusted her backpack to distribute its weight and balanced her step with a shovel doubling as a walking stick. Finally, she took a long drink from a bottle of spring water secured to her belt.

Others neighbors gathered nearby. Every adult wore boots (only children were indulged sneakers) as colonists prepared to cut their way through vines and thickets of unpenetrated forest. All adults carried backpacks and most also brought crates, water jugs, shovels, picks, or axes. Ryan and John wielded machetes and two mothers tended children rather than supplies. Tarps, tools, pots, pans, and other common-use items were stuffed into already heavy packs (though a few of the larger items were secured for later collection). One of the younger men carried brick-sized bundles in his hands—each of the double-wrapped and waterproofed packages tucked beneath an arm for additional protection. Both packets looked to be composed of dried weeds.

“Hilary,” Ryan called to a thick-shouldered brunette with thin hair and a square face, “you have a minute?”

When Hilary asked what he needed, Ryan displayed his map.

“Compare these trails,” Ryan said as he used a grease pencil to trace routes across a laminated map. “It’s four times as long if we circle around the beach, so we’ve decided to cross that hill. We’ll probably top it about right ... here.”

Hilary ran her forefinger over several breaks in the hills. “That’s not a bad place to cross,” she said. “The hill’s a little lower there and it’s not too far from our destination. But it might be better to climb a little further south, closer to the stream.”

Ryan looked puzzled.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Hilary said. “It’s a higher point and a steeper climb. I agree. Still, if we climb alongside the creek, we assure ourselves of a steady water supply, a sure reference point, and a direct climb. It’ll be steeper going up, but we won’t get lost in the forests—and we won’t need to cut through as many thickets and vines. Remember, there aren’t any paths on this island. We cut as we move.”

Ryan nodded. “It’ll be faster?”

“Half the time,” Hilary said. “Believe me, I’ve cut through the forests of Costa Rica. It’s always better to stay near a stream. You can never have too much water.”

Ryan presented both options to the neighborhood and Hilary’s plan won unanimous consent. A few minutes later, loose items were secured and scraps of litter stored in trash bags as the pilgrims began their trek toward a stream that emptied into the lagoon close to New Plymouth. When they reached the stream—which was several feet wide at its final run into the sea—they stepped into several inches of cool water. John Smith was the first to splash upstream as he used one arm to pull vines from his path and the other to cut away every branch that impeded progress. Logs were pushed to one side and rocks kicked away. Ryan stayed to the rear, helping compatriots step safely into the water. Often, he fell behind while checking for fallen equipment or collecting scraps of discarded litter.

The hikers soon found that the creek bed required careful navigation. Large stones were staggered up the stream, often carpeted with thick layers of velvet moss from which red-leafed plants also climbed upward. A thick woven canopy of green vines hung overhead—knotted between trees by the twisting and climbing of new shoots—and flat leaves thick as banana peels pushed away by slow-moving settlers sprang back like waving palms in an Easter processional. White-blossomed orchids fell away when brushed, their fragrance clinging for a moment to man, woman, and child as the brightness of the tropical morning lighted the stream and the glimmer of splashing water recreated the first joys of Eden. Bright-feathered tropical birds startled by the first sounds of human laughter and the first splashes of human feet fluttered into the skies or perched themselves high atop the trees to observe the penetration of human civilization into the thick of their forest.

Indeed, the overgrowth was dense and the column soon disintegrated into separate bands. Four trailblazers opened the path—severing vines and moving logs as fast as they could—while three other hikers lingered a short distance behind. Two additional groups of three persons each paced themselves perhaps twenty and forty yards behind the leaders and a larger group of stragglers fell behind another forty yards, increasingly out of step and behind schedule. This staggered column included one woman and one man whose packs proved difficult taskmasters, as well as two sets of parents struggling with the complaining of older children and the delays of younger ones. Ryan fell to the rear of the procession so he could help the slow of foot, collect dropped possessions, and (whenever possible) restore nature to its pristine state.

Hilary hiked behind the foremost trailblazers, keeping company with Alan and Steve Lovejoy. The young woman wore khaki shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and canvas boots fitted to muscular legs. She chewed jerky and sloshed upstream with a canteen strapped to her right hip and a binocular case secured to her side. Her ears were tanned from days on the beach and her close-cut hair already had been lightened by the sun’s bleaching. Hilary’s backpack was fuller than those of most settlers (woman and man alike), though its weight seemed to flatten her walk as she moved bow-legged uphill. Occasionally she looked at the two men following behind, but mostly kept her eyes fixed forward and moved at a steady pace, seldom lagging too long.

A few steps behind her, Steve and Alan dressed in jeans with work shirts and wore black-laced camping boots. Steve supported himself with a staff as he waded upstream while Alan carried a hoe that he frequently planted in the stream to steady his step.

Thirty minutes after setting foot in the stream, Hilary and the two men turned a bend and saw a great hill rising before them.

Hilary stopped in her tracks. “My God,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”

“A shrine,” Steve declared.

“Mount Zion,” Hilary said as she turned toward the men. “The voice of nature, the holy of holies.”

Alan cupped his hands and shouted toward the rear. “Ryan, has this hill been named?”

A distant shout came forward. “Hill 1. On the map.”

Hearing this, Alan again cupped hands to his mouth, stepped to a side of the stream, and yelled even louder than before. “Hilary,” he shouted, “called it Mount Zion. Any objections?”

“None here,” came the distant reply, “that ought to goad the religious right.”

Now Alan shouted the same message to the front, asking if there were objections to the new name. There weren’t and several voices soon agreed that Hilary’s suggestion should be adopted. A moment later, the column restarted its trek upstream, having stopped for less than two minutes to name a mountain. Soon, the water flowed faster and the channel narrowed as banks became somewhat steeper and rocks more numerous. Slips and falls became more frequent, especially for the children—with one boy managing to bruise a knee and scrape an elbow when a stone slipped from underfoot. He delayed several hikers for ten minutes while his mother bandaged the wound.

Hilary and the two men, however, continued sure-footed uphill. An hour after naming Mount Zion, water splashed their calves in pools where the cold water occasionally brought a momentary chill. As Hilary stretched her socks above her knees to stay warm, she heard the cry of young children down the stream.

“Those little boys must be walking in knee-deep water,” she said after one particularly loud yelp.

Alan shook his head. “Did you hear what Steve said a minute ago?”

“Something about Ryan?”

“He said the waters aren’t parting for Ryan’s chosen people.”

“I suppose,” Hilary said with a smile, “it’s miracle enough to be here, but my boots are drenched with holy water. Feels like a Baptist full immersion. Hope this doesn’t make me a social conservative like John the Baptizer or next thing you know I’ll be preaching against a man marrying his brother’s wife and getting my head cut off for preaching without a permit.”

Alan laughed and relayed the quip to Steve, who kneeled to fill his canteen. It didn’t take long to tighten its cap and close the distance to husband and neighbor.

“Besides,” Hilary noted as she rested her backpack on a bank and stooped to fill her canteen from the stream, “if this is the Jordan River, there must be Canaanites nearby.”

“According to the religious right,” Alan said, “we’re the Canaanites.”

“I plan,” Hilary said with a smirk, “to worship an idol at sunset. Or maybe just the sun itself.”

“We’ll need a child to sacrifice,” Steve said.

Hilary nodded toward the yelping. “I think Theodore will do just fine.”

“Was he the firstborn,” Alan asked, “or the other brat?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Then,” Alan said a little less loud, “we’ll have to roast them both. Just to be sure.”

Hilary laughed out loud. “If he doesn’t stop crying,” she said, “he’s going to be left on the short side of the Jordan. Like Moses.”

All three laughed and Hilary reached into her pocket for some caramels. The melted candy stuck to its wrapper when opened, but she prevailed over the heat and soon put one of the pliable candies into her mouth. Alan and Steve declined her offer to share treats, so she stuffed the spares into a pouch on her backpack. With Steve’s help, she stood to her feet and shifted the weight of her worldly possessions so the pack again set square to her shoulders. It didn’t take long to close the distance with the trailblazers and to leave the sound of Theodore’s crying far behind.

Others also stopped to take drinks. Two men fished plastic-wrapped protein bars from their pockets to replenish fading energy and another man slipped behind the trees to urinate—not far from two women doing the same. Five minutes later the hikers again moved as the two dozen immigrants (nineteen adults, one teenager, and four children) threaded through underbrush, waded upstream, and climbed uphill. As John Smith cut his way through vines (stopping every few minutes to catch his breath and rest his arms), the other trailblazers pushed fallen logs to shore and kicked rocks aside.

Still, the pace slowed as the bed narrowed and the hill steepened. Indeed, as the sun burned through the tops of the trees with the passing hours of morning, the pilgrims increasingly were covered in sweat and sapped of strength. Arms grew weary and backs sore. Legs ached and feet hurt. Canteens dried more quickly, only to be refilled from a stream that grew ever more shallow. Rapids appeared more frequently and waterfalls hindered passage.

It was at one of these—a three-foot waterfall amounting to little more than a drop over eroded rock—that lunch was eaten, sore legs rested, and water-soaked blisters gently rubbed.

“How’re your feet?”

Ryan looked at his wife’s toes soaking in the shallow rush of cool water. Her boots stood paired atop a flat rock to her right as her husband sat to her left, his own boots dangling from a bush.