Untitled Rewrite

The ocean groaned under the heavy smoky clouds in the evening: the light of day was fading slowly at night’s reach but the smoke billowing skies had grown darker by the minute. There was a family-fuelled feast taking place in the village nearby, where many would recall as a first of any kind of celebration since the Tsunami. Only this celebration was small and quiet; rightfully so as it was between two people, and the fact that the village was now near vacant. However, nature’s visible and voiced discontentment echoed in a lone middle-aged man, a foreigner visiting the rock of the Pacific. Waves rush head on, crashing into the distraught man as he sat on the sand holding a plain gold band. He travelled alone but this time, he wasn’t. Whoever was beside him either understood his pain, his loss or stood by, to take any action at his own will. Either way, his companion would let him be. To take him in or to be taken out by the sea. Nevertheless, he didn’t leave hastily but desperately gave up his last few words to a stranger:

“Some feel loneliness is self-inflicted, but when someone very close to you leaves without an explanation, without taking a single thing then what you’re left with is not and will never be enough to live for. That’s my suffering. Not even a roof will stop the rain from pouring because I am drowning. Knowing that I would not be saved is no worse than not realising what I have done to see my wife walk away from me. By the time I find out, I am far deep gone that I cannot see through the water, through this air.”

The stranger remained silent, never left his side. His profile was firm yet unresponsive, his face never completely shown. He listened intently the entire time, but made no attempt to comfort or assist the troubled man. The unspoiled beach seemed to hold the man back from the unsettled waters though it did not take his troubles away. The dark skies appeared as though they were controlled by his mind. The clouds intensified, the darker and bigger it became as the man sunk deeper within himself. He was very much a blank state. As the night sky rose, his shadowed companion instinctively knew that it was too late.

The final duel was meant to be it. How he emerged from the water alive after a great fall in the middle of combat could not be soundly explained. He had no knowledge of what had become of his foe but while he was on his feet, reality quickly sunk in. He could not be seen nor heard. Not even by Watson. For the first time, he thought of Watson since he left him for the Englischer Hof. He felt heavy with regret, quietly admitting to himself that he missed him. His reality now had altered. For better or worse, at the moment the feeling was neither. He trusted his mind though, catching the first flight out of Geneva and flying straight for the South Pacific. The destination was unplanned but it was the hiding place he was seeking – somewhere far and isolated, unmarked or not. The plan to disappear was an insecure and temporary decision. This was not in his way of thinking or doing but considering the circumstances, he didn’t have a choice. The last contest came to no resolution: Moriarty’s whereabouts was unknown, a dejected Watson retreated back to mother England and their relationship now mired and indeterminate. There was no purpose to gain or look towards. The wall he built to safeguard the emotional disorder of his schoolboy days had weakened in the aftermath of the event, for he seemed uncertain of his next move. Contrary to the unconventional intellect he is known and seemingly born to be, he was now a shadow; coming into the detached, vulnerable existence he supposedly had under control, buried away in the machine that he always found functional and convenient. Imaginatively penning his escape, the white speckled sand felt rough and faintly sharp under his feet. The slow walk along the deserted southern coastline was breath-taking; at the same time, not a minute went by without a clear logic for the overcast that was growing within.

Sometimes walking away never solves anything. The stretched seaside began to wear Holmes down at each step. The pristine white strand pierced his eyes, as though it was cutting into his skin. He continued on sluggishly yet he managed to appear composed in his uncombed hair and unkempt clothes. Unbeknownst to Holmes, Samoa was at the peak of its dry season. This time the island was less lively and more sombre. 15 months on, the devastating Tsunami was still vivid, leaving a permanent mark on the rock. Its shadow continued to roam the island, with the southern coastal villages now almost abandoned and those remaining were left on their own. This resonated with Holmes. He was a dead man walking, as a silhouette of his frail existence rather than the highly intelligent, analytical individual he was. The place and time was coming into a period of inactivity and this did not sit well with Holmes. No other person seemed to inhabit this part of the island and without any other human life it was becoming increasingly difficult to stimulate his mental verve in a bare atmosphere. Still, Holmes had yet to grasp the actuality of what a human experience is. Compared to what the islanders had gone through in the past year, a day was not enough to determine the reality for those living on the rock. For Holmes, walking away from his home, from Watson was taking him further away from going back.

Returning to the coast was not an easy move but Ione knew in his heart that it was right. He had seen nothing like it. An empty nest it had become – not a sight he was used to seeing. Ione had lived in the inner city since he was a teenager and saw no difference in the way of life between the coast and in town since the state is built on cultural values and religion. The people held this rock together: familial and communal relations moulded the conversations, the gatherings, the laughter, the noise. Despite the enthralling tropical scenery, there was no denying that recovery would take years, possibly a lifetime. For Ione, he believed his return was the onset of realising the optimism expressed by the people. The light was dim but visible enough to see the hope in his eyes, even in the blue undercurrent. The discovery of a body of a European man rang across the island in the last 72 hours. More so partial to the bleak atmosphere, it had also attracted some attention from inland residents, assuming that the body had been recently returned with help from someone high above after he was taken away in their hands more than a year ago. Still, the shore remained desolate and former coastal villagers were afraid to revisit. Religion may be a source of faith and discipline but Ione wasn’t keen on the supposition. He knew that the huff would only diminish all the puff, given that the fear and loss was still raw. Not much was known about the dead body other than he was a tourist and had come alone with a single suitcase. It was alleged that he was last seen here on the beach and apparently, not alone. Whatever brought him to the coast on that tumultuously weathered day, he had come to the island with a cause and his last moments were now the subject of a murder or an accident. Le leoleo had not released any formal announcement on the incident nor did they seem to be in a rush to inform the public. From Ione’s standpoint, it was seemingly clear that the leoleo didn’t have much to find or work with. He spent the better part of his twenties on the frontline and his high interest and resolve in the incident was not unusual than that of a civilian. Someone else, aside from him, shared that same interest but was not exactly in for the same cause.

“The silence, I can’t say it’s deafening but there is something that I find quite engaging in the calmness of it all”, Holmes said as he approached from behind and stood less than a few metres away from Ione. Ione had not seen anyone else on the beach in the last 30 minutes or so, and assumed that nobody else would be since Manu was almost an uninhabited paradise.

Holmes glanced at him, waiting for a response. Ione did not say a thing. He looked at the stranger suspiciously.

“I think any noise would disrupt the dream that inhabits here”, Holmes added, looking out across the shoreline.

Ione half-smiled, somewhat amused by the stranger’s observation.

“If only that dream was true to begin with”, Ione replied.

Holmes shot back at him with a look. Ione then reciprocated with quiet content. Holmes quickly shook it off, before he took hold of the chains.

“The ocean is home to the living and the dead. It is a garden but it is also a cemetery. The Tsunami passed through uninvited. That was real, taking everything in its sight. What people experienced was a vision that could not be undone, forever stored in memory. If there was a question of truth, it would be why here? Why us?”

Ione was not going to dwell in those grounds, having accepted from the very beginning that it was beyond anyone’s control and for reasons that were mysterious and unexplained. Without hesitation, he took the head from his hands.

“What sort of issuance allows people like you to make such questionable calls about the truth? It happened! There’s nothing more to it!”

“Any call I make is no way influenced by or subjected to any one’s opinion”

“That, I will never take for an answer or as your word. You do not need to tell me that your insecurities are the source of your personal or intellectual interpretations.”

No response. Not a single utterance or movement. Sherlock was stiff with silence, though intent. Ione went on, “You ought to spare the talk and walk a bit more.”

“...because I need to be normal so it will be convenient for everyone to accommodate to their needs as well as mine.”

“- Because you must learn humility before you impose your opinions on any one else”.

Neither man spoke for a moment after that. Holmes had the feet but would not admit to his own truth. He managed to lead in effortlessly without showing face.

“As a former policeman, you had a hard time dealing with objectivity. The concept was unfamiliar to you. Unnatural, more so. Attachment issues, I must say”.

“Without flesh, mind and soul, we are trapped within the cages of our bones”, Ione told him calmly.

“Is that why you left?”, Holmes shot back.

“No, because the discipline wasn’t there anymore”, Ione said.

“Bones or not, your method will not help solve the murder”, Holmes said.

“How do you know it’s a murder?”

Surprisingly, Holmes could not provide an answer. For Ione, he didn’t need one. Contrary to the heat of the exchange, he sensed something significant beyond them.

“If someone has answers, it would be neither of us. For that someone, he or she is probably thankful that they are here and they are free because of what they have and what they lost. I am not the lion, you see. And you aren’t one either.”