On the Island by Iain Crichton Smith

figure over capstan after capstan.
    After a while she grew tired of this and sat down on one of them. “What are you going to do when you grow up?” she asked Iain.
    â€œI don’t know. I might be a writer.”
    â€œI’m going to be a nurse and cure people. I’m going to work in a hospital. I saw little fish there just now.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œJust there. There.”
    â€œI can’t see any. I’m going to write about the Foreign Legion.”
    â€œWhat’s that, Iain? Do you see it? It’s a ladder.”
    Iain pretended not to notice it. “Where?”
    â€œThere. Just below. I dare you to climb down the ladder.”
    â€œI don’t want to. Anyway we should be going home.”
    â€œNo, not yet. I want to climb down the ladder.”
    â€œIt’s too dangerous. You would fall into the water.”
    â€œI’ve climbed a ladder before. It was in a big empty house we found. And we saw this ladder and I and another girl climbed it.”
    â€œI won’t let you. It’s too dangerous.”
    â€œYou can’t stop me.”
    â€œI will stop you.”
    â€œYou’re scared, that’s what you are. Scaredy, scaredy.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œYou are.”
    â€œNot.”
    â€œAre.”
    â€œNot.”
    â€œAre.”
    Iain stood on the stone quay while she taunted him and it seemed to him strange that she should have found out so soon what he was most scared of, and at the same time he knew that he would have to climb down the ladder because she was a girl and he was a boy. He walked over to where the ladder was and as he stood above it he felt it as a snake that was ready to flash out at him with its fangs. Pauline was now sitting on the capstan again dangling her legs and watching him, her face small and pretty and cruel.
    â€œAll right,” he said and knelt down on the quay feeling for the first rung of the ladder, his hand grasping the iron bar sunk in the stone of the quay.
    His leg felt and felt for the first rung, and his breath was short, for there seemed to be a constriction in his chest, and there was sweat on his brow. He found it and clutching the iron bar as if with a death grip he let his foot stand on the first rung. Then it was the second rung and he was still holding the bar which he would soon have to let go. Below him was the water and the stones but he did not dare look and he had forgotten about Pauline and all he could see was the dented wet stone in front of his face. He felt for the third rung and the fourth rung and then he moved his right hand away from the iron bar while still clutching it with his left. Then his right hand had grasped the top rung and now his left hand had gripped it. As he descended slowly, still not looking down, he felt his foot slip on the rung below, for it was smooth with seaweed, and for a moment he thought he was going to fall as he slithered hither and thither, checking the scream from his throat, and trembling violently. He could hear no sound from above him as if Pauline had also forgotten about him, and disdained even to follow his progress.
    Below him was the sea and the stones and the seaweed and his sandals were sliding along the rungs, not getting a proper grip, and his hands grasped the rungs as if they would never let go. Steadily, steadily he descended, cursing his sandals and wishing that he had worn proper boots, slithering, sliding, his arms sore, his teeth biting his lips. Then he had reached the last rung and he was safe below among the shallow water and the stones.
    And at that moment he was filled with such joy as he had never felt before in his life, so that he danced among the shallow water and the stones like a Red Indian, and gazing at the iron ladder which now seemed so harmless he shook his fist at it. “I’ve done it, I’ve done it,” he shouted. Then above him he could see Pauline looking down as if she were a