It was an Isle too far. Three fortnights away. Time, distracted by the distance, discarded the notion that it be linear, instead opted to set itself back to somehow compensate for the journey. Ships bound for her found themselves confronted with the past, while ships outward bound were confronted by the future even though it was their present. When they arrived they arrived as boys and upon their return, they were aged men. It was a confounding journey to be had in both directions, one that would be agreeably avoided if not for the necessity of removing the worst of society upon her shores. And so it was that Donald found himself on the beach alone. The birds, which were ordinarily loud and abundant, were instead, stunningly silent. Even the waves through which he waded ashore were quelled, quietly lapping listlessly at his knees as he stumbled to the rocky beach. What was this odd place and how did he find himself here, he wondered? He had no perspective or directive as if awakening from a coma in a cove devoid of life.
V
