And Then There Were Three

by Elvis Bego

Cris Tagupa

This island’s mine, I whispered when I saw them, stranded on those slick rocks, like I had been some months before. Yes, it was mine. There were three men lying there drying in the sun, dazed, recovering. All alone I’d been and it was good. Small though the island was, there was food enough to feed me. Strange walnuts I ate, and apricots, and hibiscus flowers, and poppies, and mushrooms raw and delicious, and there was a small trickle of water where I daily filled my bottle. Now with the world a dull ember, I was happy to be on this isle until my last. I looked with awe at the frolics of the green and red parrots high in the crowns of trees. From the rocks I’d seen a whale sigh in sympathy with me. A million stars at night twinkled at me. That was all the company I wanted. The intruders came and brought my world to ruin.

I watched them.

They moved inland.

They cut trees down.

They made a fire.

They tried to fix their little boat. It didn’t work.

They found my walnut.

They found my apricots.

And my poppies.

They found my water.

They killed the parrots.

Then I saw them go hungry.

For days, all they ate was boiled water with some leaves they threw into the pot.

At night they argued.

Then two conspired and killed the third. And they ate him.

They seemed happy for a while. But then they were hungry again. It was getting cold.

One night I went with a stone I’d taken from the beach that I thought was fit to purpose and came to where they slept and smashed the head of one and then the other. This was something I had to do. I buried them in some soft earth at the edge of my apricot grove.

Now it was winter.

I ran out of dried apricots.

Then I had no walnuts.

I looked for a bird. There was none.

I found myself writhing in my straw at night. I found myself arguing with myself.

I found myself cursing the stars and the fallen world and even the island that I had loved so much, and then I went to the edge of the apricot grove and started digging.

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Born in Bosnia, Elvis Bego fled the war there at twelve, and now lives in Copenhagen. His work can be found in Agni, Best American Essays, Kenyon Review, New England Review, Threepenny Review, Tin House, and elsewhere.