The Island

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It was a few hours past dawn but the sun had barely managed to make its presence felt on this island. The heavy fog roofed the trees and the interiors of the jungle were so deprived of light that it became nearly impossible to distinguish between day and night. Surrounded by the vast ocean, the island had somehow escaped the various explorations of modern civilization. The concept of time was unknown to its inhabitants. It was truly a lost world.

A man stumbled through the foliage. His lean muscular frame was covered in a crudely shaped material made from the skin of a tiger which he had killed. He carried a knife fashioned from a bone to defend himself against any attacks, from animals or otherwise. Just the previous week, he had lost someone very close to him. In circumstances he wanted to erase from his mind.

He came to the nearest tree and found it completely dry. He thought himself to be lucky considering the amount of rain they had received over the past few weeks. ‘Good’, he thought. He wouldn't have to travel far. It was his turn to gather wood. And today was a special day. There was a celebration planned. And he didn't want miss any of it. But the quantity of wood required would be more than usual. He had asked others to help him out but they were all needed by the elders to complete other jobs. Everyone was busy today. He pulled out his axe and started cutting the tree with incredibly powerful strokes. It was hard work. But the rewards at the end were great. When he was sure that the wood gathered would be sufficient enough by the cooks, he started making his way back, dragging the uneven branches wrapped securely in bundles of bright yellow, some of which still had a shiny plastic thing attached. He couldn't understand what it was meant for, other than making a shrill noise, which he had discovered purely by accident. ‘Maybe it could be used to call for help’, he thought and made a mental note to tell his elders once he returned. The drum beats started becoming louder as he neared back and he could make out the familiar scent of the feast being prepared. His stomach rumbled in response, and he realized how hungry he was.

The tribe stayed within the interiors of the island and was protected from all sides by wooden walls. There were also guards who carried spears made from animal bones, stationed every few meters along the walls.

The elders of the tribe started the celebration by offering prayers to the heavens. It had been a long time since the tribe had had such good fortune bestowed open them. In fact, it had been more than what they needed. But no one was complaining. They had all been through some bad times and if God chose to reward them bountifully, who were they to object.

The tribal chieftain known as K’ozuotu, signaled one of his underlings who understood what he had to do. As if in response, the drumbeats began to crescendo. The underling returned in a short while. He had carried out his chief’s orders. K’ozuotu made his way towards the center and the whole tribe started chanting. There was something beautiful yet terrible about the chants. It was as if something calamitous was about to happen. The youngest members of the tribe sensed this and some of them even started crying. But the chanting didn't stop. K’ozuoto reached the center and raised his hand. Silence fell upon the crowd. Even the crying vanished. But the silence was not complete. A whimper arose from the center and was amplified by the surrounding silence. No one moved a muscle. The chief of the tribe, the strongest of them all, sliced his hand through the air and there was a blood curdling shriek and the silence was absolute. K’ozuotu raised his hand back again. And the knife he held, one of the relics from the fortune, seemed like a natural extension to his body as blood dripped from the knife and ran in small rivulets along the length of his arm. The sacrifice was prepared and offered to the deity and the celebrations commenced. The feast had begun. As K’ozuotu sat at his seat with the other elders, waiting to be served by the helpers, he thanked the gods again and looked upon his tribe with a proud satisfaction. They would be feasting like this for many days to come.

At the same time, in a remote location in London, an old man unfurled his copy of the morning newspaper and immediately dropped the cup of steaming tea he was holding. Staring at him, typed in bold black font, was the headline;

“Commercial Flight Carrying 203 Passengers Disappears Near The Bermuda Triangle”