The 29th monsoon had finally dried when a distant buzzing sent
Nude scrambling for cover. A tiny plane dipped and swerved,
filled the air with swirling white and disappeared.
He cautiously approached one of the scattered pices of
paper:
We've been writing letters each day
hoping that you'll come home.
And we're wondering if you're okay.
As you're not on the phone.
Face the facts now
Take a chance.
Come on back now.
Fast.
Please come home,
Please come home.
Everyone cares for you.
Please come home,
Please come home.
Everyone cares for you,
Everyone.
We've been writing letters each day.
Hoping,
that you'll...
come home.
As the sky turned to afternoon gold, Nude picked up the rest of
the envelopes and carried then carefully up the mountain.
For a long time afterwards he sat rocking gently. The letters
fluttered...the war was over. Long ago. But it seemed of
little consequence to Nude. For him, it had never started.
In the days that followed, Nude was no longer at one with his
environment. He was now burdened with the need to explain
what could not be explained to those who would never
understand.
With the air heavy and his instincts dulled by the
preoccupation of his thoughts, he failed to heed the warning
silence of a normally busy afternoon. With a gasp and a grunt he
was wrestled to the ground. A sting in his skin and he was
released. He reeled around to stare into the eyes of familiar
uniformed figures. The sudden weight of his head plunged him
face down into sand denying him protest or the right of a
farewell glance at his island
