*The Isle of Arthur

INTRODUCTION:
  This story is part of my work with my Creative Writing Club, to whom I wish to offer a dedication. We agreed that each of us would write something about the self and identity for the following week, and this is my piece. These ideas of mine have been moulded throughout long years of observation and reasoning, and although neither was by any means scientific, for I am not yet a trained ethnographer, philosopher, or anything similar, I believe to have reached satisfactory conclusions on what we mean when we speak about the self and identity. For the sake of knowledge, any contributions on the matter are more than welcome.
STORY:
  At the beginning of time I stood on a single rock in the middle of an endless sea, staring at the blank, for there was nothing else to be seen; the waves broke against the rock sonorously, but I remained unmoved. One day, a man approached on a boat, swinging his oar at one side, then the other. His gaze didn’t leave me as he traced a tangent line by my rock, and when he was right next to me, he said with a grin: hey, pal. Moments later, from the region of sea immediately by my rock, emerged a second rock, with another body looking exactly like mine, and once and again he said: hey, pal. We stared at the blankness of the exterior, for there was nothing else within our camp of vision, until the day another boat arrived: this one carried a bald monk in a tunic black like night, staring with eyes like bows and arrows to us, and when he was near enough, with a thick wooden post, he hit us with fury. Once he was gone, a third rock emerged from the sea next to our rocks: one with a body alike ours, but who looked persistently scared and repeated: bald monk is dangerous, bald monk is dangerous. More boats came throughout the next years, and as they left more rocks with more bodies like mine appeared magically next to our island. One of these boats was sailed by a woman who stopped by the land and drew out a sword. We all jumped back in fear, but she only threw a post to the air and with skill sliced it in half, and then she left. A rock emerged, and the body that came with it was fascinated with the two halves of the post which had been left on the ground. Since then, he would take one and practice his technique at it every day, at slicing opponents, and craved for a steel saw like that on the sword of the woman. Soon we had a large island on which one could take long, solitary walks or feast with many others of our likeness, depending on the whim of the moment; we had bakers who enjoyed the warmth of the oven, and bar tenders who worked in the pubs, and fishermen who preferred solitude and silence, and groups of trained fighters who spent afternoons practicing the technique of the wooden blade. 

  One morning the earth and the sea began to shake, and all of us came out from our hiding places in terror. A voice, deep and majestic, came from the back of the clouds, and it told us to sail to the Lyceum. A map materialised in my hands, and we sent our sailors on this adventure. I watched the whole way, for I could see through any of my brothers’ eyes. The Lyceum was a spacious wooden platform where sailors of other islands came too. There I met comers from the isle of Eric and the isle of Amanda. As I was required a name, I called my island the island of Arthur. We were told by our master, a teacher from the island of Maxwell, that the Lyceum was one among many places of its kind - this one we had been allocated to, because of our geographical position. In this place, there was a hut where a blacksmith worked, and as I entered, I discovered that the woman of the sword stood there, having a warm drink, next to a pile of swords with steel blades. Eric, the curious, came to watch, and from that day, this Ursulan woman trained us in her art. When not in the Lyceum, I would often sail to Eric or the Erician to my land, and we’d engage in long sessions of practice, first with wooden swords, and occasionally daring to give a go at deadly metallic ones that we stole from this hut in the Lyceum. By that time, we all had begun to construct large statues of our figure. In my island, we had barely prepared the scaffolding to the height of the figure’s ankles, but others, like the Amandan, had worked a longer way. The Maxwellian used to take the three of us on tours across the sea, between numerous statues that were complete sometimes to the height of the shoulder. We recognised Ursula, the Pal, and the Bald Monk. It is hard to finish a statue, said our master, I have never seen one fully finished. You will find that you disagree with your brothers and sisters on matters of structure and design. These statues, he said, were the souls of islands, the mark that made them unique.

  One day, when I was in my island, feasting with my brothers, we spotted a boat arrive, carrying a monk with a bald head. Bald monk is dangerous, bald monk is dangerous, said some of us. The monk looked at us with friendly eyes and a smile that reached from one ear to the other. The warriors, who were the most imprudent, stepped forward: hey, pal, they told him. He greeted us kindly and asked if we had seen the statue of his likeness, for he was lost. The swordsmen showed him the map and explained him how to get there. As he left thanking us, those of us who had scared eyes said: now he knows, now he knows the insights of us, but another rock emerged from the sea, and the man on it looked confident in saying: the bald monk is good. Later we found these two parties fighting over the construction of our statue. Oftentimes I used to go the isle of Amanda, who had offered her help in the intellectual tasks that our master left us to practice. The hardest of these for me was when we were asked to learn the constellations; until then, I had found my way to the Lyceum and the islands of Amanda and Eric by remembering the direction and time one was to take, but as our he wished to make us travel longer distances, we needed a more effective method. She was constant in her willingness to help, but I, short of brain, struggled immensely to guide myself even with dots scattered around her house, let alone stars. 

  In the Lyceum, the Ursulan, the Erician, the Amandan and I conversed with our master at length. In one occasion, the Amandan asked: I have been spoken to about a mysterious monk with no hair, do any you know who this is?; The Bald Monk, said the Erician, I’ve met natives of the place, and from what I’ve seen, evil reigns upon their land. The Ursulan looked astonished: I’ve met Baldians too, they are most kind. I contributed with my experience, saying that I’d seen them at both states. From that day Bald Monk occupied a place in my mind: never had I considered that one person could be different to different people. 

  In my island, I pretty much preferred to practice my sword with the warriors than bake with the bakers, and sometimes I enjoyed periods of silence with the fishermen. There I liked to reflect upon the happenings of the recent days, and often I visualised the stars in my mind, in a desperate attempt to practice my lessons with the Amandan and look less like a fool in her eyes. We entered times of shortage, where fish was scarce, and the bakers frequently moaned the lack of butter for bread. Now we sent our warriors to the exterior, accompanied by our sailors, who applied what knowledge they had gained in Amanda to find the island of Shareena, which was famous for its hunters. The warriors held tight to their swords, for it was our first time outside the Circle of the Lyceum. When the boat touched the rock, and our warriors greeted hey, pals, Shareenian soldiers came out with spears in their hands and helms on their heads and indicated our people to disappear whence they had arrived. Back in the Circle, the Ursulan told us that since time immemorial there had been a funny conflict between the Spears and the Swords, and that thus the two would rarely interact. When I told her about our shortage, she said that it was common to the entire Circle of the Lyceum, and that, sadly, she was unable to help. In a heated meeting in our island, one of our warriors stepped upon a table and said with decisive tone: if the Spears don’t like the Swords, then we shall be Spears to the Shareenians. Thus, the warriors begun their training in the art of the stick. Only once reasonable skill had been acquired did we send a troop back to Shareena, headed by the man who had spoken the newfangled proposal. This time, we were received keenly, and when we informed about our shortage, the Shareenians hurried to hunt some provisions that they could give to us to sustain us for some time. We thanked them greatly, and as we sailed away, they told us that we could go back whenever we needed it. When I told this to my friends in the Lyceum, I was shocked with their reaction, for while I expected joy – as the food I gained I was sharing with them – I was faced with disgust; the Erician looked wounded: a Spear? That is not you, you have always been a Sword. I was repeatedly accused of falsity of being in a like manner. The day I had expected to return home the happiest was one of the saddest journeys. The Baldian monk entered my mind: had he been false to either of the conflicting sides of the discussion my friends had had in the Lyceum, and to me? This question chewed my brain like tasty fruit, and thus we shaved the hair of a number of sailors and warriors and sent them to Bald Monk. They were received as friends, and I, from the island, for I could see through my brothers’ eyes, observed that the monks were kind and friendly. We visited the pub and drank and ate and joked. Nevertheless, this first boat was a distraction, and later we sent another, more discrete and with a single sailor on it. Our brother surrounded the island and landed between the bushes of the jungle. He used his sword in the manner of a machete to cut open the way, and soon he was on hard ground. Silently he crawled between the rocks and the low plants of enormous leaves, and he discovered, hidden behind a building that gave shade to many dozen feet behind it, a group of men in tunics black as night. Memory woke, those looked exactly the same as the monk who had hit me and my brother when time was young. These men were constantly grumpy and between breaths murmured insults to each other, they walked in circles and their faces never looked happy. Our brother crawled toward the front of the island, not exiting the shelter of the leaves, and saw the rest of our brothers with the jolly monks. 

  When they returned, the alarm in our island was sounding: the Shareenians were approaching. Panic was becoming noticeable: if the Shareenians should learn that we the Arthurians were in fact Swords, they would end our friendship and we would have no longer a source of nutrient. The lone sailor who had seen the hidden monks spoke up: let all warriors who can’t handle spears hide at the back of the island and remove from site all their equipment. When the Sharrenians arrived, their sailors said to us that they only wanted to see how we were surviving and if we needed any more provisions. We offered them beer and bread, and joked and laughed in the pubs, and when they were gone, the swordsmen came out. 

In short time, fertility returned to the Circle of the Lyceum, and once again the island of Arthur was able to sustain itself. However, as it happens, the hard times had moved to Elecbros, the Circle where Shareena was located. Shareenian sailors came to visit us, and they asked for provisions, which we gave to them eagerly. We repeated the same ritual to receive them, but this time with much less enthusiasm, that much of the equipment of sword-fighting was still at sight. However, we were much less concerned about it now – it felt good to be the ones with the power. This excitement wouldn’t last, for, as I learnt from the mouth of the Amandan, the times of shortage were cyclic, and they wouldn’t take long to present themselves in our Circle again. Indeed, less than a year later we began to suffer from famine, which this time came with greater violence, and once again the Shareenians offered their help. Most of this time our swordsmen hid at the back of the isle, and the spearmen gave the front. For me, these were harsh times – as I have said, I most enjoyed the practice of swordplay, but when hiding one must focus on silence. 

  One day I happened to discover natives from all the islands I had visited in the Lyceum: the Maxwellian, the Ursulan, the Amandan and the Erician, as was normal, but also a Baldian and a Shareenian. They were as surprised as I of this coincidence, and they began to share among themselves anecdotes of how they met me. The island of Arthur is one dedicated to learning with all its enthusiasm, said the Maxwellian. Indeed, said the Amandan, they put much in studying, but cleverness and sharpness are not abundant in their lands; Arthur transmits a feeling of friendliness, but I have seen evidence of rage corroding its soil when they lose, said the Erician. I must disagree, protested the Shareenian, in times of shortage, we have encountered natives of this shy country who, regardless of their situational inferiority or superiority, have acted with most respect and humility; Agreed, said the Baldian monk, they have proven helpful in showing indications without protest, and they are keen to visit and party, and laughing, he added, but no, they are not shy, feast with them and you shall hear the most eccentric stories. The Sharrenian made a grimace, and said: the Arthurian an eccentric people? No, Arthur is the personification of serenity. 

  That day too I returned to my island with deep thoughts. Was I really all those things? Was I only some of them? Which ones then? They all disagreed, but that can simply mean that one is right, and the rest are wrong. Or it could be that all are wrong, and the truth is different. I observed my island, my people, and questioned what is this that I’m looking at? What is Arthur? I observed the bakers, the artists of our land, the fishermen, the patience, intellect and occasional idleness, and the warriors, the aggressive and the grotesque. Thus I resolved: all of this is Arthur, and the other islands say Arthur is what they have seen it to be, and in the same way, they are the wholeness of their territory and their traits and their people, and we say they are what we have seen them to be. We show different sections of our wholeness in different situations because that’s what time has taught us is most appropriate, even if sometimes time might be mistaken, and go against our will, like when the practicality of having the spears at my front meant us swordsmen hid at the back. I looked up at the statue of our image, and I thought: then, this is only what we’ve seen ourselves to be. Looking in the horizon at other statues, at Shareena, at Eric, at Amanda, I realised, these are not souls, there is no such thing as a single mark that makes us distinct from all others, but rather the only thing that does is our people: the people in Arthur could not be the same as the people in Eric because we were made of different influences; the people was the only thing that made Arthur such thing, but there was no unified self between all the people.

Thank's for reading. If you have enjoyed the story, recommending my work to your friends and family would be greatly valued. Until next time.