Fandango and Other Stories, by Alexander Grin (The Poison Island Part 1)

AN EX AL IN GR

R E H T O & S E I O G R O N A T D S AF N by d e t sla etnyk n T ra Kar yan r B

DE R

THE POISONED ISLAND

I. According to the tale told by Captain Tart, who arrived in Ahuan Skap from New Zealand, and his statement to the local authorities, which was corroborated by evidence provided by the ship’s crew, on the little island of Farfont in the South Pacific, there was an episode wherein by general consensus the entire population of islanders committed mass suicide—with the exception of two children, aged three and seven, who were left in the care of the ship Viola, in the command of Captain Tart.

The island of Farfont lies at 41º 17’ South, well clear of any shipping lanes. It was discovered in 1869 by Van Lott, the master of a whaler, and is often unmarked on maps, even on the official ones.

It has no commercial or political significance, and John Webster, in his History of Merchant Shipping Navigation, disdainfully classifies such islands as “useless trifles,” noting of Farfont in particular that the island is exceptionally small and rocky.

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The following was recorded in the logbook of the Viola: June 14, 1920. Strong southwesterly wind. Thrown off course all day, stormy toward evening. Three sails lost.

June 15, 1920. Mainsail and foresail torn by wind. Mainsail replaced, heading south. Seaman Nock fell overboard and perished.

June 16, 1920. Moderate wind. Land sighted at noon. Farfont Island.

Dropped anchor. Captain Tart, First Mate Insar, and five seamen gone ashore.

These five seamen were Haverney, Drokis, Bikan, Gabster, and Strock.

The captain revealed that before the boat was launched, he had observed someone through his telescope—a figure standing on the shore. That person had quickly vanished into the forest.

Reckoning on the basis of this that the little island was populated, the captain—though he noted no traces of habitation when the boat arrived ashore—nevertheless found it necessary to replenish supplies and set out in search of the islanders. Indeed, they soon came upon five thatched log cabins set amid picturesque and lush vegetation in a small valley of astonishing beauty. There was no one to be seen. Nobody appeared even when the captain fired his revolver into the air to attract the natives’ attention. No smoke was coming from any of the chimneys, and, on the whole, the curious marked silence of the community struck Tart forcefully. He began to make a tour of the structures, whose doors he found unlocked, but inside the first three houses he inspected, he found nobody, either asleep or awake. In the fifth house he visited, there was also no one, but in the fourth, the seafarers found a man who was dying or in an unconscious state; he was lying on the floor with only the whites of his eyes showing, his face pale and damp with sweat. A feeble groan burst convulsively from his throat.

A young boy and a girl of six or seven were standing beside him, very frightened and crying.

The captain began to question the boy but, getting nowhere with him, turned instead to the young girl. From her disjointed and obviously confused idea of what had gone on, he learned only that “everyone went away”—where exactly, she did not know; “Uncle Scorrey,” the man who was now lying senseless, had remained with her and little Philip. The girl, who was called Liv (short for Livia), also said that only half an hour previously, Scorrey had been joking with her and saying that there were people coming to take her and Philip away to the “mainland,” where life would be good for them.

Scorrey himself had drunk something from a mug that was still standing on the table. After this, he had said that he was dying, lay down on the floor, and began to groan. He had then said to Liv: “Give the letter to the man with the gold buttons.” And that was all the children knew.

There was a strong fragrance emanating from the blossoming shrubbery by the window, which set the sailors’ heads spinning.

Despite this, the captain, sniffing what remained of the murky liquid at the bottom of the mug, deemed it necessary to take immediate measures in order to save Scorrey. It was presumed that he had taken poison. The liquid had an unpleasant, pungent, bitter smell.

Tart opened the unfortunate man’s clenched teeth with a pocket knife and, with nothing better to hand, began pouring vodka into Scorrey’s mouth, little by little, lest the unconscious man choke. Half an hour later he had emptied his own flask, as well as Haverney’s and Drokis’s. Meanwhile, the mariners boiled water in a clay pot and placed bunches of grass that had been soaked in the boiling water around the naked Scorrey—thus creating a semblance of a bathhouse. Tart acted more out of inspiration than out of adherence to any medical guidelines, but at any rate, the patient stopped wheezing. Next, they applied poultices, massaged him, and, finally, The Poisoned Island

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the patient opened his eyes. He had the look of a madman. He said nothing and understood nothing; he began to speak only as they were arriving at Ahuan Skap, but the intelligibility of his speech was scarcely that of a rational being.

The children, completely pacified by Drokis’s pocket watch, which had been entrusted to their care, were sent aboard the Viola on stretchers along with the revived Scorrey, while the captain set about investigating the sorry incident. Scorrey’s letter, since submitted to the judicial authorities, was written on the title page of a Bible that had yellowed with age. Instead of ink, the quickdarkening juice of a plant seemed to have been used. Tart read the semiliterate but enigmatic and terrible lines. The following is what was written (it was undated): We, the inhabitants of Farfont, declare and bear witness before others that we, finding it no longer possible to go on living, since we are all insane, or else have been possessed by demons, voluntarily and by mutual agreement, commit suicide. The present letter has been entrusted to Joseph Scorrey until such a time that he is able to deliver it to a boat or ship. By common consent and with his good agreement, Scorrey does not have the right to commit suicide until it is possible to send away the children, Philip and Livia, who have been left alive in view of their tender age.

Thereafter followed twenty-four signatures along with the respective ages of each suicide. The eldest was 111 and the youngest 14.

Not far from the village, Tart discovered a tall, freshly raised mound—a mass grave. The withered flowers on the wooden cross were removed by the crew of the Viola and replaced with fresh wreaths.

“The general impression of all this,” concluded Captain Tart, “was such, as if a bound man had been slaughtered before our

very eyes. We hurried, as fast as we could, to fix the rigging, and on the following morning we left the terrible island of Farfont.”

II. Thus the Viola dropped anchor in Ahuan Skap, in possession of the following evidence that an entire populace had committed suicide: the remnants of a poisonous liquid, which had been poured into a carefully stoppered bottle; the crazed Scorrey; an open letter signed by twenty-four people who were now dead; and two children, a boy and a girl, who were, by our standards, completely feral.

Further questioning of the children added very little to the testimonies of the sailors and the captain. The boy could offer nothing at all, since he scarcely knew how to speak, while the girl, evidently confusing her memories of life on the island with her impressions of the voyage and the city, uttered patent absurdities: “Father said they’d kill us all.”

“Who would?”

“Some people. There were a lot of them.”

“Did you see them?”

“No.” “Did ships come to the island?”

“A very big one came, taller than me.”

“Try to remember, Liv, when was this? A long time ago?”

“Yes, a long time ago.”

“Or perhaps not so long ago?”

“Not so long ago.”

She could not orient herself in time, and her subsequent remarks about the ship, the people who visited the island, and their number bore the mark of a dark, half-forgotten dream. She then began to tell how everyone had feared they would be killed, and how at night, many ships arrived and fired at the houses. Several ships were The Poisoned Island

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P RA I S E F O R FAN DAN G O AN D OT H E R ST O R I E S

“Bryan Karetnyk’s sparkling

“Over thirty years have passed

translations bring out both the

since any of Alexander Grin’s

stylistic intricacy and the

extraordinary work was offered

psychological depth of

to the English reader. In these

Alexander Grin’s tales, calling to

sensitive and accurate new

mind the ‘delicate, graceful

translations, justice is finally

lacework of fretted leaves’

done to Grin’s unique world,

described in ‘Lanphier Colony.’

sometimes reminiscent of

This expertly edited collection

Robert Louis Stevenson and

introduces, at long last, the full

Kafka, but inimitable in

range of Grin’s gifts to the

the subtlety that underlies

English-speaking world.”

its simplicity.”

—B O R I S D R A L Y U K ,

—D O N A L D R AY F I E L D ,

executive editor, Los Angeles

Queen Mary University

Review of Books

of London

Columbia University Press New York cup.columbia.edu Printed in the U.S.A.

ISBN: 978-0-231-18976-7