The Isle of the Dead

INTRODUCTION

I first heard about The Isle of the Dead via Sergei Rachmaninoff. His haunting and moody tone poem instantly summons dread images. It wasn't till later I learned that Rachmaninoff didn't invent this title but was inspired after viewing the painting by Arnold Bocklin. When I first saw this painting I found it to be just as mysterious as Rachmaninoff's tone poem. I came up with the idea for this story after wondering about the figure in the painting. I imagined the figure to be Charon, the mythic Ferryman on the river Styx. I began to wonder how it was that Charon came to be the Ferryman. And so, this story evolved.

This story is designed to be a companion to both Bocklin's painting and Rachmaninoff's tone poem. To get the full effect one should start the music while looking at the painting. After studying the painting for a couple of minute begin reading the story.

THE ISLE OF THE DEAD

The old man said it would happen. He said that Simon would forget the route by which he had got to the bay. Now, in the early morning dawn Simon clambered across the rock strewn shore straining his gaze into the bay for a glimpse of the isle. But it was too dim to discern anything through the thick fog. All that he could see was the glass-like surface of the calm, dark water receding into the wispy mist. He cared little for routes now. The destination was the sole focus of his mind.

Simon looked like a figure from a by-gone era traversing this rugged shore in a long, woolen, white cloak. He looked closer to an ancient druid than a well-to-do gentleman. The old man had been adamant about the cloak, going so far as to supply the garment himself. He had said that it was the only attire that would ensure that the meeting would take place.

He was beginning to wonder if he had discovered the wrong inlet when he spotted the boat mooring about fifty yards down the pebble ridden shore line. He turned in its direction and picked up his pace in anticipation. Arriving at the mooring he quickly began to inspect its ancient structure. The wood was aged but timeless. Not of any tree that had grown on this Earth for an unimaginable epoch of time it appeared dark and shiny. The metallic fastenings and accoutrements were of a metal no man could have identified. They had a luster completely alien to anything Simon had ever seen. He rubbed his hands over the wood and the metal fascinated by their texture and timelessness.

As he exercised his sense of touch his gaze once again strained for the island. Still concealed by the copious amounts of fog it was useless to strain the eyes. It was not like growing accustomed to a darkened environment. No amount of re-focusing or iris adjustment would penetrate the cottony, ghost-like haze rising from the surface of the dark water. But it didn't matter to Simon. Oh no, he knew by the mooring, which his hands caressed, that this was the destination he so longed for. But now it was time to find a hiding place, for Death would be arriving soon to meet the Ferryman with another load of his precious passengers and this was the spot where the transfer of cargo would take place.

Simon picked his way up the Eastward slope of the bay to find a place of concealment amongst the large boulders. He wanted to find the perfect vantage-point to witness both the island and the boat landing. Finding a low spot behind a large rock outcropping, Simon squatted down into the cool shadows and tried to find a comfortable position to wait for the dawns events.