In front of the island there was the long beach. A little way up the long beach was the sheltered cove. Behind the cove was a cliff. Up on the cliff was the lighthouse. Up, up, inside the lighthouse, on the topmost floor, a boy was lying down, clothed in sleep.

He watered the plants and kept glancing at his friend from time to time. The leaves, stalks and petals around him pulsated with life, a deep heavy breathing. Evening crept up from the horizon in stealthy steps. He didn’t notice it until he looked up at the sky, washed with inexplicable colours. It felt like a sudden sting in his stomach—and he wanted to scream. A deep, deep scream that would drown out the sound of waves and wake up his friend.

The fishes came out from the water, slowly leisurely. He watched them shedding off the deep blue, like an exoskeleton and emerging, dyed in the colours of evening. Some flew over the lighthouse, others passed directly in front of the balcony. He could touch them if he wanted to. He thought about how ridiculously balloon-like they looked and laughed a quiet laugh within himself.

He watched them all pass.

It was about time for the blue boat to anchor in front of the cove. It was never late, never early and as regular as clockwork. He liked the boatman with his gruff moustache and frail fingers. He was the sole thread of connection between the wider world and the island. Tonight, however, a portly little man stepped out from the boat and started making his way towards the lighthouse.

The boy ran down the stairs. The little man was knocking a brisk little knock on the driftwood door. Before he knew it, the portly man was beside him, up, up, inside the lighthouse, on the topmost floor. The boy felt entitled to say something.

So he said, “Um, who’re you?”

The portly man took off his plump hat and replied in a grave voice, “I am an entomologist, young sir.” The boy noticed a jade brooch, the shape of a beetle, pinned to the portly gentleman’s chest.

The entomologist wiped his nose and murmured in a sad voice, “Is the lighthouse keeper here?”

“Yes”, said the boy, “he’s sleeping.”

The entomologist sounded distressed, “Oh! You see, I’ll have to feed your friend to the fishes, please.”

“No, he’s sleeping”, said the boy. “He’s sleeping and he will wake up soon. Really soon. You cannot feed him to the fishes yet.” The beetle-like man sounded more distressed than ever. “But, but I must! Don’t you see the amount of paperwork it will take? This request of yours is a monstrosity! Why can’t you just let me do my job properly? Why? Oh my—the higher ups are not going to like this at all!” He was wringing his hands while quivering like a jelly. Suddenly, he broke down and started sobbing profusely, hunched up on the floor.

“I told them I couldn’t do it! Two assignments in one day, it’s not for me—not for me at all! First the boatman and, now your friend.” Tears streamed in torrents down his cheeks. They made a little puddle on the floor.

The boy snipped away at the entomologist’s hair. It was fine and wispy, the kind seen on low-quality brushes. The sobbing had receded and he only quivered a bit, now and again.

A haircut, it seemed, could cheer up anyone.

“Mr. Entomologist, what happened to the boatman?” asked the boy. The entomologist played with his fingers and was quiet. After a while, he spoke. “Like I said, I had to feed him to the fishes. Orders from the top.”

The boy snipped away, “I should like to speak to them about my friend. Can you take me with you?”

The entomologist shook his head. “Nobody can,” he said. “I’ve never seen them. I simply follow orders. That’s what I’ve been doing all this time—following orders. I’m not an entomologist—atleast not by profession. It’s simply a hobby. But I don’t like telling people that this is what I do. So you see how it is.”

They were both quiet for a while.

The entomologist was blowing bubbles from the balcony. They floated away like awkward balloons, huge, trembling slightly.

“Bubbles are fragile life,” declared the entomologist.

“Then we’re all bubbles,” said the boy.

The entomologist produced two apricots from his pocket, and gave one to the boy. He took a bite and chewed methodically. The boy said, “Tell me a story. He used to, but he doesn’t anymore. Tell me one.”

The entomologist gulped and thought for a while. Then he said, “Goldfishes are born from apricot trees, from the apricot. Oranges also yield goldfish—one from each segment. But a single apricot can only transform into a single goldfish. They are born, they live and they die, alone. Their short lives are a muddle, a tiny spark and gone.”

“This is a good apricot,” said the boy.

The little man wiped his nose, “Well, I am going today. But I will be back for your friend. I have to be. I’m sorry for him but, it can’t be helped. One day I’ll have to come for you too and then you cannot complain.”

“There shall be no one left after that.”

“Goodbye! Thanks again for the free haircut.”

The boy planted the apricot seed in the sand of the cove and went away for the night.

The morning revealed a little apricot tree, thin but sturdy. The boy went down the lighthouse and out into the beach. He gazed at the miniature boughs. The waves played a lullaby. Something made him lie down on the sand. The sun was in his eyes. He closed them. The sand sunk beneath him—and he was pulled along. He opened his eyes.

It was dark wherever he was. He kept quite still and allowed his eyes to adjust themselves to the light. Seawater stung his tongue. After a while, he found that there were apricot trees all around him. He was in a greenhouse. Rows and rows of them filled the glass building. Apricots dangled from branches. He felt one with his hands. It felt heavy and he felt heavier. His body was a weight pressing down on him.

He looked at the apricot. The walls of the fruit were semi transparent. He saw his friend inside. The boy tried calling but his friend didn’t hear. He tried. But nothing worked until he felt like tearing off the fruit, crushing and smashing it to a pulp and seeing his friend. All his efforts exhausted him. He closed his eyes.

The seagulls saw a human emerging from the waves—like the first animal to transition from water to land. The boy looked up. The lighthouse was missing. Saltwater stung his eyes. Sand grains irritated his palms. The sun was straight overhead, blinding and fierce. Crabs nibbled at his toes.

He looked towards the carcass of the fallen lighthouse and screamed. The lonely island screamed with him.

Mrittika Majumder is an aspiring young writer and high schooler based in Kolkata, India and while she likes to write, she doesn’t always find the time for it. She has not been previously published anywhere before. Her hobbies include reading (all day, if possible), writing and learning Japanese.

Inside the Branch of an Apricot Tree — Mrittika Majumder