In the Eye of the Island

By Luke Negreiros

--
Antonin is known in the publishing world as a rule-breaker, an egocentric artist, a victim of his own power to relive the last moments of a brutally murdered victim. It is with this hypersensitivity that Antonin delves into increasing hallucinations that defy logic, pushing him to the brink of madness. However, it is from these experiences that he draws his greatest inspiration and the source of all his prowess as a writer. As his story unfolds, Antonin must confront his deepest fears to put an end to the deaths on the island and deliver the masterpiece of psychological terror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luke Negreiros
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215046593

Luke Negreiros

Autor independente, pós-graduado em literatura e artes aplicadas, foi professor universitário de redação e vencedor do III Concurso Cultural de Microcontos no Instituto Federal de Educação, Ciência e Tecnologia de São Paulo - Campus Araraquara. Nascido e criado no interior de São Paulo por quase toda sua vida, cresceu sob forte influência da ficção científica e quando adulto, seguiu cultivando o desejo genuíno em escrever suas próprias histórias.

Book preview

PART 1

1

...and I became it. Haunted by the persistent cold of the island. Oh, how cold it was!

My feet sunk into the mud.

I could hear the insects beneath all that dirt, taunting me. A stranger about to uncover the mysteries of those muddy lands. The swamp that formed between the sandy summer and the humid winter. There was a vibration that threw off my balance. A foreboding of the evil that resided in those huts crowded with stakes to prevent them from sinking. But I was also that sound. Everything around me pulsed. The most subtle oscillation of each thing reached me, until I became each thing.

I was the branch too, the organic matter-smudged bark with that bitter taste in the back of my throat. And I fell in leaves. And countless dry pine needles. I was the light that filled the place and flooded every crevice in an eternal battle against the darkness.

With my feet rooted in the island, I listened to the little bubbles of air escaping through my soles. The mud squeaked at the slightest movement. I don't remember seeing mud as dark as that. The pitch mass was shaped by tire tracks mixed with hundreds of footprints coming and going towards the ferries. It was right there, at the main access.

My pocket vibrated.

A vibration that woke me up from my daydreaming. It wasn't supposed to be my clothes vibrating! I felt around my worn-out military jacket around my belly. It took a second or more to find the phone. It wasn't my main phone, but it was the only one I brought and therefore the only means of contact with my editors. The cheap flip phone, with its blue blinking display, indicated a message received.

I was sure I had left it at the hotel, abandoned by an accidental mistake about the bedding. With promises to pick it up on the way back to the mainland. It would be the perfect alibi for the isolation of the next few days. All I needed was an excuse, and my editors would locate it at the hotel. In the lost and found box. But no! It had to travel with me.

I removed the battery, and its sparkling blue soul went out. I opened the flip and twisted its parakeet neck that had been pooping on its sofa for twenty consecutive years. It snapped. The battery fell into the mud, and I had difficulty cleaning it immediately. Finally, I put all the pieces in my pocket, wrapped in the only handkerchief I had. There could be no evidence of my passing there.

Hey, sir! The ferry is leaving! They shouted at me. I pretended it wasn't me. It was the same employee who saw me handing over the rental car keys to be hung on the guardhouse. That's what I did a few minutes ago, so... why is he calling me?!

It was a little guard who hung up the key, piled up my things, and stored others in a random drawer. I signed a sheet, picked up my suitcase, the compact typewriter, and here I am. Facing the pier crowded with people walking in the opposite direction to mine.

I wasn't leaving. I had just arrived. Therefore, he couldn't have called me! ... the ferry is about to leave!

The place is beautiful, I must confess. The cold and bluish aura immediately conquered me. The fresh air was something to take note of, burning my nostrils on the sides. My eyes weighed down with a sudden desire to sleep right there. Leaning against the intersection between the commercial tourist center and the faraway, and expensive, inns as well!

Mr. Antonin?A monotonous, servile, rural voice interrupted my thoughts. I began to suspect it was typical of the place to interrupt you in the midst of the reveries that nature intoxicated...

Sir?

Yes, it's me! It was a short, straight, white man, with a slight curvature towards the ground, whom I supposed was a senior.

Hello, sir, I'm Igor…

I silently chuckled. Nothing more appropriate.

…I’ll take your luggage to the inn. Everything has already been arranged with Mr…

Yes, everything has been arranged. Be careful with that machine!

"Okay, I'll take it there. Here are the keys... and the phones were disconnected, as you asked."

The devices were removed?

Yes, as you asked…

And there's no one else staying there, right?

No one! Not even the owner, nor me...

Excellent, Igor. I'll be there later, thank you. Completing the thought in my mind: I want to feel a little more of this rotten atmosphere.

I walked. Until I entered a natural corridor, amidst the winding paths at the entrance of the island. I spotted a small cement fountain on a fork in the road. It had not spouted water in a long time. It marked the access to the pier with the swaying ferries on one side, and the ticket booths on the other. The rest of the island was muddy, full of empty trails and alleys. Few constructions leaned against each other. They alternated between bars, makeshift garages, and abandoned huts with the wood crumbling around the edges.

The shortcut I took was narrow at the ends and widened in the middle, forming a shell when seen from above. There was debris everywhere. Tires buried halfway and garbage floating among puddles and crates collecting water. In a few steps, I found myself excavating the remnants of a small community; an archaeologist in unknown lands. I could write about crooked poles scattered on the unstable ground, wobbly walls following the tides, and wooden windows opening and closing on their own will.

There was no one around. Everyone, or almost everyone, was on their way to the ferries.

I heard a metallic echo. A hollow thud of steel against a wooden stake.

I walked in silence and apprehension. I felt like an intruder, a violator of crude privacies like any good old writer.

The strikes were rhythmic, demonstrating supreme skill.

I turned the corner of a wall of stucco and stacked wood to come face to face with a blind chicken running around the fence. It was a backyard, partly natural and partly shared. With low fences in a disordered sequence. Enough to contain a headless chicken that was hitting against the stakes. With each bump, a small squirt of dark and sweet oil rose through the neck's innards, staining the dirt with the black liquid gushing straight from the arteries.

An old, white, heterosexual widow held a cleaver at face height. In the beginning of her next move. Among clothes on the clothesline and a convenient wind for the location, she looked at me askance and went back to the task at hand.

I continued walking out of that tunnel of dense forest towards an elevation on the opposite side. I glanced back at the backyard one last time, but there was no one there. No old lady, no chicken body or head.

I climbed a step made of natural stone and turned to face the sea. I glimpsed its endless expanse of gray water on the horizon. To the left, part of the continent slept against the back of a distant giant. A torrential rain fell far in the background, at the very edge of the planet, on the brink of the infernal abyss.

I stood there for some time, letting myself be carried away by torpor, feeling every cold gust of wind until my neck burned.

I turned my attention to the high ground that connected the island to the mainland. A rock rose like a titanic finger, surrounded by a dark grove of trees, with flocks of macaws spiraling above, fleeing from vultures. At least that's what it looked like! But the finger was there, pointing upward. Dancing on the waters like a rock that was moving away from the island. The Finger of God was just one of several, lined up in a sequence too precise to be natural, curving around the edge and exiting on the other side of the island. It was not possible to see its entire extent from where I stood. To do that, one would have to circumnavigate the sea along the coast until reaching the side hidden by the rock formation, covered by abundant riparian forest. I was once curious about a rock that had the shape of a bell! But not so much now. It must be something like looking at clouds and trying to find a recognizable shape. A random pattern, a wink from the divine.

My nape once again alerted me, raising the tiny hairs on the back of my neck and the nerve endings near the base of my spine. There was a presence calling out to me, insistent. Or perhaps curious... I suppressed my desire and looked down with a slight headache. I knew she was looking at me, and like me, she knew... we both knew, although neither of us confessed what we expected from each other.

I looked at the rock formation one last time that day and realized that it had shifted to the side. Just a few centimeters. A movement that stirred up foamy seawater.

So that was it.

The island lives!

* * *

I walked back through a muddy road. I encountered the first inhabitants who didn't board the ferry. The residents who refused to leave the island during the isolation period. Eight days closed off from the mainland, from the world. Every month was like this.

I walked through the shacks and commercial facilities that were intertwined with other shacks. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. They seemed to share walls, fences, and entire lives in a symbiosis of body and soul. The chickens should join in a symphony of clucking and feathers. The first open window was soon filled by a woman, white, with few teeth and cut by a straight and harsh shadow. She ignored me and slammed the wooden planks shut with a grouchy thud.

Not one, but two and three windows closed in sequence. I felt like I was in a school for juvenile delinquents, with suspicious teachers and classmates. What would he be capable of? In what troubles will he get us involved? Will he transform our moody and burdened lives?!

I was a foreigner in a unique land. Isolated from a mainland that no longer wielded its influence. I was the wedge, the link between two worlds and was about to smell death on all sides I turned.

I released my first book as an independent author. It was only in digital format and it didn't do very well, but I didn't mind at first. I faced problems with the families of the people involved in the project and stayed off the radar for a while. Then I found a publisher who took a chance on releasing my book for reasons that weren't made clear to me. But I didn't mind, the contract was solid.

I had good results at the beginning and, somewhat suddenly and unexpectedly, ended up negotiating an audio-visual production for my material. The news went viral and sales met expectations. I gave interviews, followed the protocol, and promises accompanied the growing investments. I became a best-seller in the first year and tripled the print run and sales in the second edition. Not that it was a big deal, after all, in Brazil, a country that doesn't read, becoming a best-seller only requires selling fifteen thousand copies.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. For a first book, that's good. But fifteen thousand copies?! Compared to the pre-sales of an eternal King, it's laughable. Even a niche reprint like Arthur Machen, Algernon Blackwood, William H. Hodgson or Clark Ashton Smith can reach that mark.

Anyway, I rode the wave with an ironic smile of false sympathy at the compliments.

I lived at the crossroads of a yard, playing jazz with long fingers, accompanied by the devil as an audience. That's what it was: I was bargaining with the devil and willing to sacrifice who I truly was to achieve my greatest dream. After all, we all have dreams and desires. But it's the pursuit and the conquest, the way we achieve those dreams that reveal us, tell us who we really are; it's our truth; it exposes our values; our character! In some aspects, we are not so complex and hard to understand: proven by common sense, we have the habit of relying on what we want, justifying our actions through what we do.

That's how the universe maintains balance, a delicate balance between what we must offer in order to get something in return.

You can't demand something without first offering a sacrifice. Based on this premise for life, wouldn't it be the same for death?!

There are several types of sacrifices, from offerings of animals to honored deities, to the sacrifice that is the deprivation and abandonment of something precious. An act inspired by a strong and vigorous feeling of love. An act like this must contain a serious emotional factor, an offering of what is most dear to you. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward. And this offering must occur before asking for anything. This is one of the extensions of religious dogma or even pleas for anything; and prayers for divine interventions against the natural laws of the universe.

Well then! So tell me: What would you be willing to sacrifice to achieve your greatest dream? Hours of sleep? Money? A friend, a loved one in a terminal state? Your own sanity?! And even so, would it be enough? And what about the greatest bargain that every ancestral demon-worshipping being venerates, protected by the divine law of free will, the scourge of greed, the only thing that human beings still aspire to in ambition: our soul?

Think of your deepest, most ordinary desire and answer with all sincerity: What do you have to offer?

I arrived at the inn. I took a short walk up a hill that left me breathless after a lifetime in the city, followed by a decline that seemed to go below the sea level. I saw the inn with the same wooden finish as the one in the reservation photo on the internet. Dark wood siding, surrounded by glass windows everywhere, the ones that go all the way down and are rubberized at the top to prevent expansion from cold and heat, causing shards to explode all over the room. Surrounding the landscape were beautiful, motionless, pointed pine trees that seemed to stare at me, suspiciously. They surrounded the inn and strangely protected it, with their tips bent toward an imaginary center at the top. Way up there! Beyond the zenith. Forming a planetary antenna, one of those that attracts animals along invisible paths in magnetic fields.

That was it! Attraction! I felt drawn right away. Not a comfortable attraction, I must confess. I still had the feeling of being observed, but there was no one behind me. Maybe it was the shadows of the many people who passed through that place during peak season.

Numb with novelty, I stared at the bucolic and cozy installation that contaminated everything around me.

Not that everything or everyone was perfect! The sinister reactions of the few residents I encountered on the way to my retreat were worthy. Hidden forces were watching me. I would take note later.

Facing the inn, I looked at my home for the next few days. I was about to enter the cave that would show me far beyond the shadows projected in front of the fireplace at the reception. The light of knowledge always projects shadows on the walls, no matter where you position yourself. There will always be shadows!

I entered the main hall. The echo revealed the absence of any tenant. It was perfect. I forced myself not to smile. I checked my luggage at the entrance and headed to the back, to the first doors of the rooms at the end of the corridor.

"Nothing like an off-season inn! The central atrium had been emptied. There were no cushions, decorative objects, or flower vases. It was a calculated abandonment. I guess to keep vandals away. I understand!" I just hope that the mention of the natural history library and the historical documents of the region are true. After all, it was a deciding factor in choosing that place.

I dragged my suitcases and picked up a letter at the reception addressed to me: Antonin Blake in capital letters.

These were greetings from the manager on behalf of the entire family who ran the place. Some instructions on the central heating system, kitchen, and bedrooms. A bundle of labeled keys. They were general lines followed by more thanks and greetings. Nice! But I couldn't help but notice that some things weren't addressed. Neglected or taken as unimportant. They were details for my work environment. The three-pronged outlets were correct, but not the mezzanine with printer or multifunctional, adapters, scalpels, and staplers, cardboard boxes. Neither! Anyway, I didn't expect to have to bring these things. They are things that help me... oh well! People don't change, even!

I improvised with a heavy table made of demolition wood. Without mercy for the floor, I dragged it close to an extensive window, a panoramic glass wall, overlooking what seemed like a motionless black glass that exhaled vapor mists here and there. It was a dark lake. The surface reflected the gray clouds. And it lay there. Dead with the absence of ripples on the edges. Even the stones on the sides slept in their cold and narcotic waters.

On the horizon, over a dark green mantle, I recognized the rocky formation that surrounded the island. Several tips of gray-blue rocks suspended that seemed to float on the waters of the sea, surrounding the island from behind. I imagined how that formation would be a natural fortress, with strong waves from the open sea, knocking down pirate and invader ships for millennia. "What mysteries do those depths hide from us?"

I positioned the table, opened the suitcases, stretched the wires, and prepared my typewriter; I had a discreet laptop, powerful enough for a more professional text editor if I chose to use it, and locally installed dictionaries. But I always preferred words pressed onto paper. Silly preciousness, of course!

In the larger suitcase, in addition to clothes, I distributed my small collection of used books with what I call contamination. This is my writing method. As I write, I read some classics so that I can feel infected by the writing of those authors. I don't mean that it's a pastiche or even a copy. It's not that! It's just a kind of contamination. I don't have a better word to express it. I look for the stylistic features that I want to imbue in my own work in these books. The choice of words, the syntactic structures, the repertoire of phrases, and even the dialogues.

You know when you read Graciliano Ramos in Vidas Secas and feel the Northeastern accent in the voice of the narrator? It's more or less that, except I'm not talking about preás or female dogs with names of sea creatures. I'm talking about something much darker, but no less real. If Hemingway reflected in his writing the terror of war when he was a soldier, later in hunting or deep-sea fishing; and Graciliano Ramos at the height of regionalism as an Alagoas modernist being shaped by his own history. I also had my own peculiarities for writing what was inside me.

I let myself be carried away by these influences, aware of their particularities, to conquer a truth of my own. Imbued with a precise choice of words. No, not imbued! Infused with a precise choice of words. Better!

I sat in my new office, but decided not to write anything for now. I still have things to do. One of them is to define what to write, actually! I have some ideas, of course! Everyone always has some idea, but I'm not convinced of anything.

What I do know is, as I mentioned before, the initial success of my first book generated interest in a possible film, then that interest shifted to a TV series. Which generated more sales. But due to adaptation problems, possible backlash, and insecurity with genre works, the project was canceled. Using TV slang: it went to the fridge.

What was audio-visual, ended up as a comic book project. Like that consolation of cinema screenwriters who, in the absence of an actual industry, direct their efforts towards comic book scripts. And that's how Alexandre Nero went from being a quote to being in the cast and ended up as a visual reference for the illustrator. The idea was to use his image, to borrow his face, and thus keep the investment in proportion to the means of dissemination, of course! Which for obvious reasons, made everything unfeasible.

I confess that I exorcised a lot of people and went back to the beginning of my intentions: my second book. There is an attempt by a production company to resume an adaptation, but for this particular book that I'm about to write, not the first one. But I don't feel obligated to write it as if it were a movie. Like those visual books that receive praise just for being filmable.

Fuck that! Like a good haiku, where the unsuspecting call it short poetry, I intend to write a work contained in itself. Neither more nor less. It's not a matter of size, but of justice, in the sense of precision and accuracy.

So, let it be that, I will write what is just. Without losing sight of what motivated me: when I decided to write it, I started to dream again.

A different dream, to be sure; because I don't accept any other outcome than surpassing my first book! And nothing better to stir the imagination than the best narrative technique invented by man, the well-known unequivocal mix of coffee and gossip.

I returned to the interior of the island, following the muddy expressway with a certain desolation. Near the ferry, in the shops and bars, there was a café that remained open. I walked along the uneven cobblestone sidewalk and considered a hair salon as a source of gossip. I smiled at the irony of having few, thin hairs like a sea urchin. What clues would they leave of my real intent? Not to mention the social embarrassment I wasn't willing to pay for. So, I settled for the café.

I entered to the sound of a bell. There was no one there. A waitress, who seemed to be the only employee, was cleaning the counter as if she didn't expect any customers. She was surprised by my arrival. It was the bell that woke her from the circular motions with the cloth.

Hi!... Hello?!

I sat in the first chair I saw and greeted her with a nod. She approached chewing gum.

I’m sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt!

No worries! I wasn't expecting anyone here. What can I get you?

Is there anything to do... on this island? I asked.

What do you mean? The menu, you mean?

She was pretty for her age despite being unkempt and without makeup. A young, white, sunburnt, heterosexual, and native resident.

No, I mean what I said! Is there anything to do…?

There's nothing to do on this island! Coffee?

I nodded. She went back to the counter and returned with a pot, pouring the black liquid into a cup taken from the front pocket of her apron. She showed some curiosity.

Are you not leaving? The last ferry must have already left.

I just arrived.

And what brought you here? Don't tell me it's the island's reputation for the best coffee…

No, it wasn’t. I smiled, for it was the only coffee on the island. I’m looking for a certain isolation.

I kept trying.

I’m looking for an epiphany.

I see! And you decided to look for it here? I think she had blinked. Did she understand what I meant by epiphany and its consequences? Smart girl.

It's delicate. I concluded, proud of my words. She scoffed.

It's usually the people here who go through delicate moments and want to get out of this isolation. Not the other way around!

I smiled. Definitely smart!

Outside, it was still possible to see some people walking towards the ferry. This time, they were simpler people, with more worn clothes and without suitcases. Mostly mulatto men and women, heterosexual and native—residents.

Everyone was leaving.

Avoiding the tide, right?

She nods, returning to the counter. She comes back with two cheese rolls without me even asking.

I didn’t…

On the house! She shrugs. "I was going to throw them out anyway... They're only good for 24 hours... and I can't stand eating any more of them. I make two a day and eat two a day.

She wraps the cloth around her hand like a boxer and sits down near me. She sprawls, actually. Looking in the same direction as me.

Why aren't you on the other side?

Leaving? No!

When I walk this path, I won't come back. She huffed. And what delicate matter did you mention?

Let me handle that… I replied.

I knew the story of that place... I'm referring to the island, of course. Due to the movement of the tides, the island would close itself off in isolation for eight days, once a year. Actually, it happened every month, but it was once a year that the island isolated itself. A kind of more severe movement of tectonic plates. Who knows! It was a natural phenomenon that, combined with the occurrences of monsoons, caused this isolation. The arrival of the rainy season was anticipated by a sharp drop in the horizon of saltwater. Leaving even, in some places, sandbanks visible above the surface of the waters. Navigation to the mainland became impassable and, in a way, very dangerous. I researched several water spouts that took tourists out to sea in a matter of seconds.

What happens to the residents and employees who end up not leaving the island? I asked.

The older ones stay in the village; right in the middle of the island and with the low season they don't mind. There wouldn't be much work to do!

The village of commerce, right?!

More or less. Tourists usually only call that little shop near the beaches the village. For us, the village is where we live. Further back.

And you live there?

Maybe! If you want more coffee, just call!

She got up and went back to the counter.

I sipped some more coffee, almost cold. But it's okay, it's worth it for the caffeine. I continued trying.

I'm looking for something.

…

Something specific!

Searching then!

"Yes! Anything that awakens... how can I say: different!"

…

You live here, so you know the people here.

I know everything here! I grew up here. But at the same time, I feel like I don't know anyone for real. Sometimes... She looked back as if looking for someone, or sensing a watch.

Can you serve me this coffee... before your boss starts complaining!

My supervisor should be on the ferry by now! It's me who's going to take care of this place; for these days. By the way, where are you staying?

"At Boulevard des Saints! Do you know it?"

She approached, pouring more coffee.

The only thing I know is that, when this port opens in eight days, I won't be around anymore.

And how would that be?

I'm leaving. And you should be careful too!

And why is that?

Because you can end up getting stuck in all this mud.

She moved away once more.

I turned my gaze back to the window. The pilgrimage slowed down, leaving the slower ones behind. An elderly couple, leaning on each other, walked in the same direction as the others. They were white and old. The man wore a green cap with military patterns. He himself was a military pattern, a veteran of World War II. The green berets who couldn't even shoot with automatic weapons. They were trained on North American cargo ships because we didn't have vessels like those. A whole battalion standing on the stern, with new weapons, freshly forged in factories in Mexico and southern Texas. They trained shooting in the ocean, getting used to the recoil of the shots, taking care not to shoot their own feet.

The couple was discussing children and grandchildren who no longer visit them. Separating belongings for each of their heirs. Little things, but with sentimental value, like everything that's left. "Our little Jef won't like our dresser! one of them said. After all, his wife wasn't the type to keep underwear in small carved wooden drawers... Our jewelry box, we can leave it with Aninha... poor thing." and so they said goodbye to their things before going to bed in the hospital together for the last time.

It was like that with me. The lives of others unfolded before me like spools of cotton. White at the end near the protruding edges, and yellowed, aged, weakened at the end taken by time.

When I felt a weight on my shoulders. Delicate hands, but firm in expelling me from my reverie. I jerked in my chair.

I'm sorry, sir…

Call me Antonin! I adjusted myself back to a respectable position.

After a brief silence.

Helena! she said.

I nodded.

Without knowing what you're looking for, Mr. Antonin. I can't help you!

2

A line of people filled the ramps and accesses to the last ferry. A loud siren sounded, hastening the last stragglers. The ferry swayed, feeling the slow but incessant change of the tide.

One last car drove in the opposite direction of the flow, passing through the wooden ramp. The silver sedan headed towards the island, its wheels turning slowly, bearing witness to the procession of the last residents and tourists in flip-flops who didn't understand the direction taken by that vehicle.

The sedan parked on one side, and a figure in a suit got out of the driver's side and breathed in the fresh air. People looked away and turned to fill the void left by the car.

Another siren echoed in the sky.

A nearby beverage truck headed towards the ramp and climbed towards the ferry, waving to the employees of a bar. With the rear cap open, a dozen sealed steel tanks were notable, as if they were radioactive material. An excessive care for empty beer packaging.

An excess of weight there could trigger a tragedy with the destruction of the ramp and the capsizing of the only crossing vessel. There are many known cases of intoxicated people who fell into the gap between the sea and the island, under the ramp, and were never seen again. Their bodies disappeared, drowned and pushed against the coral, cut into such small pieces that they would serve as food for vampire lampreys and their rows of serrated teeth.

The new distinguished visitor wore a hat, completely out of place for the occasion and the location. The figure stood next to the car, under the shadows, making it unrecognizable. Without revealing his joy or lethargy, excitement or indifference, the distinguished gentleman only did not give up his determination in the face of the unknown.

He was a foreign body of an organism on the verge of a type 001-139 disease, encoded as infectious and parasitic, and he knew it!

The individual carried a briefcase backpack, one of those sewn on the sides to prevent thefts in crowded trains and subways.

An employee of the company that managed the ferry transportation shouted to the top of his lungs.

Come on, come on, people! The tide is going down in three hours! A little faster, please.

Wearing a greasy overalls and a sweaty face, the employee approached the distinguished man, who remained looking at the ferry, monitoring the cars' gate filling up. The mysterious man waited for the definitive departure as if he were making sure of everything, with the certainty that he was where he should be. Confirming that the island was indeed closed!

Nothing would stop him from fulfilling what had been assigned