The Islander

The Islander remembered.

The Islander remembered the hard work put into moving huge, rounded stones; the mystical structures, rustic but elaborate, built with care. Nothing was more important in those early days than death itself. The good favour of the gods had to be won if the frail lives on the Island were to survive.

The Islander remembered the curious crowds who gathered to see the man from abroad, excitedly passing on the promises of his new God; how he had used a small and humble leaf to demonstrate how one thing could be three.

The Islander remembered the centuries of slow change. The constant stream of invaders; the ones who left, the ones who stayed. The ones who ruled. The ones who, with time, became the Islander. The Islander hid in stone towers from howling, bearded raiders; the Islander laid siege to castles built by blonde knights; and the Islander tried in vain, again and again, to defy the will of the Island's closest and most powerful Neighbour.

The Islander remembered the Hunger. The crops turned black. There was no food. The Neighbour was of no help. Only hard, pointless labour came as aid. The Islander died, and died, and died. Finally the Islander fled. There was nowhere to turn but the sea. The Islander remembered. The Islander would never be able to forget.

The Islander remembered the rebellions. Each one was a bitter memory of life lost. Every defeat had been so crushing at the time. Each one had felt like such a waste. The Islander remembered the final one in particular: a dramatic last stand at the capital, doomed before it began. Again, the Islander died – there were panicked, red memories of battles, of shells, of stray bullets. Once the corpses were cleared and the arrests were made, life moved on. But all had changed.

The Islander remembered the struggles of the century since then. The Island was divided in two and fell into civil war, Islander versus Islander. The Islander could still feel the scars. The Mainland was gripped in another terrible war; this time, the Islander looked away and survived the horror. There were arguments with the Neighbour, but over time they evolved into petty squabbles, and finally, something like a peace. The economy was good; the economy was awful. The Islander came and went, and met with new people, made new allies. The Islander persisted, prospered, and lived.

And now the Islander was Kazia, a six year old girl whose parents had come to the Island to find work several years ago. Kazia was playing a game on the family's tablet, waiting for her father to bring her to school.

Kazia didn't remember what the Islander remembered. She might, in time. The Islander was Kazia, but Kazia wasn't the Islander. No-one was. The Islander was everyone on the Island, and none of them. The Islander always would be.

And the Islander would always remember.