“When one of those miracle days
unfolds, I look out from the top of Great Hill and spy my boat in the harbor.
It quivers in the morning light, twisting and turning, riding one wave after
another, dancing over a glittering sea. It’s impossible to deny. I race down
the hill and jump into the boat and head straight out. You never know where the
wind will take you. My sails are wings that never tire.”
“Son, don’t you see,” he tried
reasoning with him, “we got our own visions. First off, we need to build a town
and defend it against enemies...against Indians and wild animals. Then we got
disease and the cold. In that first winter, do you realize,
more’n half of our people died! If we don’t pull
together, we’re done for.”
“Out there everything is
exploding with new life, fish so excited they jump out of the sea, and birds so
wild they fly straight at the sun. How many days in a lifetime do you see like
that? I hate to waste a single one. Have you ever really been alive in your
whole life?”
“If you live in a community,
you’ve got to follow the rules,” John shouted. “That’s why you’re in trouble!
You shouldn’t be violating the Lord’s Day and running round like a madman. You
have no order in your life. You’re not a savage or an animal. Can’t you--.”
Exasperated, he gave up. Why couldn’t he have followed the rules? Why should
John care? He just carried out the law. His prisoner had broken it and must
pay.
The day after the trial, Michael
woke with the sun. He put the box and stool in place and peered into the
growing daylight. The islands hadn’t moved in the night, small dark spots
interrupting an endless sea. The stars were shutting off one after another on
schedule as specks of light came to life along the Boston
shore. But everything else had changed. Eight days, that’s all he had left.
Eight days to watch the sea, a poor substitute for sailing the harbor and
fishing and--his thoughts stopped as he watched the sun try to chase away the
night.
He moved around making noise,
hoping John would wake soon. What if he’s angry? He had tried to explain. John was stirring. A
voice came from the shadows, “You want to use the outhouse, Michael?”
“Yes,
Constable.”
When they got back and Michael
returned to his cell, he asked, “I was wondering if it’s all right, I shouldn’t
ask, ’cause my situation’s changed. If that job in the tower’s not taken--.” His
voice trailed off.
Situation changed, that’s one way
to say it. John was still annoyed by the argument. How could this boy have done
so many stupid things? Once, he too followed no rules except his own...it was so
long ago. Where had it all gone? Sometimes, he felt he’d been sentenced to life
in his own jail. He was tired of it all. The jury listened and voted. Maybe
their judgment was harsh, he thought, but they’re the law and it’s my duty to
carry it out. By God, though, I’m not going to make these last days worse for
him. “Sure, you got the job. Better than listening to your
infernal pacing.”
“I’ll owe you forever,
Constable.” The cell was unlocked. Michael ran out and quickly disappeared up
the ladders into the tower.
The tip of the sun was peering
above Hull. It was strange yet
beautiful, the black hill branded upon a reddening sky. He picked up the
telescope and trained it on Emerald Island,
which was halfway between the Neck and Moon
Island. He raised it slightly and Hoffs Thumb emerged from the sea. Next to it was Great
Hill.
If I was home, he thought, I’d be
coming down the hill to my boat. Look at that sunrise...he gazed in awe at the
fiery red colors tossed randomly across the sky, bouncing off East Head,
grazing Lovell’s, and coloring the surf at George’s, painting anything it
pleased...I’d have to stop for that. That’s when it came to him like a vision, as
sudden as a striper hitting a line. He would spend his final days visiting the
islands. Through the telescope, he could begin each day from the top of Great
Hill, march to the sea, pull in his boat, and trace a tour of the islands.
“Sheer genius,” he exulted.