Morning. Sunlight caresses me and gentle waves wash against my shores. The storm has gone, leaving me wind-ruffled and pleasantly drenched. Trees have fallen, here and there, but I trust that the humans will deal with those soon. Some islands are ashamed to have an infestation of humans, but I rather like them. Or some of them, at least. The ones that tend to me are helpful. Perhaps they will plant some new trees and I wonder what kind. For a wild moment, I imagine what I’d look like with coconut palms, but I set the thought aside almost at once. Those require a far more tropical setting and I have no intention of moving.

The sun is rising higher now and the humans are stirring. They come out of their houses and, yes, they begin to tend me. They scurry here and there, always busy. I feel better by the hour. As the sun sinks below the horizon, I feel almost normal. Except for that itchy spot over by that very oldest house. Why can’t the humans ever scratch that itch for me? But I have become accustomed to it and so I don’t suppose it matters all that much.

Night falls and they go back into their houses. When the sun rises again, they come out. Some of them swim off my shores. Then scurry, scurry, scurry here and there. Why do humans behave this way? Always moving. Always noisy. And the cars. I don’t like cars so much. It’s useful when they bring new trees, of course, but surely the humans only need a boat? I don’t know why they like those nasty, smelly cars so much.

The itch is getting stronger. It’s disturbing my rest, now. There’s a human I don’t like sneaking around me, hiding from the other humans. The ocean spewed him out of one of those motor boats. They’re like cars, but worse. Stupid ocean; can’t it keep its own problems?

The sun sets again and they all hurry inside. As the stars twinkle above me, those humans near the very oldest house stay snug in their dwellings. Others, on my other parts, come out and scurry around. The itch subsides a little and I pass a peaceful night.

I doze in the morning, while the sea birds sail over me and the gentle waves roll. I let the humans scurry, paying them no mind. But what are they doing now? Near the very oldest house, they gather in one place. I think they are tending to me, restoring something… a gazebo? Is that what it is called? It is so long since anyone tended to this spot. I cringe as I feel something break. Careless creatures! And do they care? No! They are excited about something. I hope you’re going to remember to repair that.

They don’t repair it. They scurry off somewhere else. Typical humans. I don’t think I like them after all. I watch them go back into their house.

The next day, they desert me on a boat. Oh, I see them again from time to time, but I am annoyed with them and they should know it. How dare they damage me and just go off sailing? I hope the ocean eats them. But they come back, eventually.

This night, they scurry, scurry, scurry in the dark, as well. They seem to think it terribly funny, but I don’t know why. What does it matter if they go here or there? If they stay inside their house or drive around? They still have not fixed what they damaged. And the itch is getting stronger again.

When the sun shines once more, they go to my farther shore. One of them makes a hole in me and fills it with fire. Fire! My trees! Don’t they know? My trees are important. They hold me together when the rain beats down and the marauding ocean tries to wash me away. Without my trees, I will erode away.

I try to pull the ocean closer, to put the fire out, but it runs away from my grasp. Stupid ocean. It was happy enough to roar all over me during the storm, but now? No. It keeps back now, when it could be being useful. My trees are in danger and it just slops around doing nothing.

But it seems that the humans have the fire under control and it dies down by itself. They throw in all kinds of ocean creatures. That will teach it not to help me when I need it. Or, probably not. It never has shown much care for its creatures, not like I do for my trees.

The sun sets and the humans scurry over to the place where the fire was. I still feel the heat, but the flames are gone. Though I try to focus, I lose track of it after a while. The itch is becoming unbearable.

Morning comes and at last those pesky humans set to rights what they damaged. I feel a little better, actually, because they have made some improvements. Maybe they’re not so bad after all. If only they would see to this itch…

…but again, they don’t. They’re sailing. Again! As if the ungrateful ocean deserves their attention! And then they leave me altogether. Maybe I should move after all. That would teach them a lesson. Imagine if I shook off all of their houses and moved to the Bahamas. I could raise a whole crop of coconuts and laze in the warm waters far away from here. They would never find me. The fantasy lasts me through the day and another night. But as a dim, grey dawn breaks, I decide to stay here, with my own trees and the familiar ocean currents; with my own infestation of humans and not some strangers who would probably just steal all my coconuts anyway.

The Bahamas don’t have fogs like this, I’m sure. This is an impressive fog; a fog to be proud of. It lies over me like a chilly blanket and I revel in the feeling. It stills the scurrying of those restless humans, for a little while at least.

But as it lifts, out they come. I feel the itch more clearly now and it almost burns. For the first time, I realise that they are on the right track. At last, they are going to deal with it. At last, I will be able to rest.

Scurry, scurry, scurry. What are they doing? Don’t they know it’s over there? They’re heading the wrong way. Or are they? They reach the right place at last and I find relief.

But, no! It’s that bad human. He’s here again and he’s making it itch even worse. Oh, why can’t the ocean deal with these things? Surely it could have sent something to eat him and his smelly motor boat while it had the chance? Clams would do, I would think. If he could have been eaten by clams, I wouldn’t be having this trouble.

Ah, but the humans seem to have sorted everything out and the bad one is taken away from me. I think I do like those ones. Even if they are a little slow to fix their damage and even if they do threaten my poor trees with fire. Because, at last, the itch is gone. Wiped away, as if it had never been. Blessed relief!

I hardly notice when they leave me for the last time. I am a little sorry to see them go, but there will be more humans, good and bad. I would rather only have the good, but the ocean is not co-operating with me in this matter. I let my thoughts wander away from the ocean to more important things. I sigh in contentment. All is right in my world. And more importantly, there, at the very oldest house, someone is planting a tree.

The End

End notes: A big thank you to Mary N. (Dianafan) for editing for me. This story was written for CWE#18: …and Trixie Belden, where we were invited to reimagine a scene from a book from the point of view of the title entity. This story covers much of the book Mystery on Cobbett’s Island. I consulted both Susan’s Sleepyside Files and Julie’s Trixie Notes to try to get everything in the right order. Thank you, both, for putting those resources out there. A big thank you, also, to the CWE team for setting the challenge. It was fun.

Please note: Trixie Belden is a registered trademark of Random House Publishing. This site is in no way associated with Random House and no profit is being made from these pages.

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