Prophecy and Sunrise
Elmer-the-Prophet crouched under the low branches of a twiggy tree, his arms wrapped around his knees and his chin resting on his forearms. Elmer stared out over the ocean and toward the orange sunrise sky into which, at the imperceptible horizon, the sea faded. He contemplated the events of the previous day.
Elmer wasn’t really a prophet. But he was cleverer than most of the other residents of the island on which he lived. Elmer, after all, had gotten an education. He had finished high school and had gone to college on the mainland. Years ago, Elmer had correctly predicted that a certain bridge had been too flimsily built to withstand the weight of two donkeys and a cart loaded with sugar cane. Elmer had been correct when he warned that a sea-side shack hadn’t been built solidly enough to withstand the gales of the island’s windy season. “That bridge isn’t strong enough,” Elmer had said. “The winds are stronger than your hut,” Elmer had advised. When they realized that he’d predicted these and other not-unpredictable events correctly, his fellow islanders began a reverent practice of referring to Elmer as “the Prophet.”
Elmer-the-Prophet stared out at the distant sea, not bothering to lower his gaze to the foreground, where the foundations and remains of several now-obliterated structures stood in ruin. These structures had been destroyed the night before, even more quickly than they’d been constructed. And now, only piles of rock and sand and foraged timber were what remained of the villagers’ frantic attempts to capture the sunrise eclipse they had so eagerly looked forward to.
A week ago, Elmer had returned by ferry from the mainland. He carried the things that islanders normally carried when they returned to the island: patches for his bicycle’s tires, a repaired pair of shoes, two tubes of toothpaste and a new toothbrush, and the mainland’s Sunday newspaper. Inside the Sunday paper, tucked between news of the selfless accomplishments of the republic’s ‘people-first’ president and the president’s mighty cabinet of ministers, Elmer noticed an article that advised that on Sunday-in-a-week the island’s east-facing coast would be regaled—precisely at the moment of sunrise—with the rare sight of a total solar eclipse.
Five days later, Elmer shared the news of the anticipated eclipse. After all, it was the islanders’ tradition to gather on Friday evenings for a sea-side potluck dinner. It was at this communal bread-breaking that Elmer was asked for any prophecies he might not yet have shared. “Well,” Elmer-the-Prophet said, “in three days the sun will rise, but darkly. You’ll be able to see it—or not see it, I guess you could say—on Sunday, at the time of sunrise, at Sandy Beach.”
Accustomed to the accuracy of Elmer’s predictions, the islanders didn’t doubt whether Elmer’s prophecy would come true. The islanders asked their Prophet what would be required for them to see this wonder, and what they should to prepare.
“Just be there,” Elmer said. Elmer warned the villagers that eclipses were both wondrous and dangerous, and that care should be taken not to expose one’s eyes to the laser-like beams of sun that would peek nefariously around the circumference of the silhouetted moon. “Anyway,” Elmer said, “the sun is a hundred million miles away—trying to get twenty feet closer isn’t worth your time or effort. Just be sure you’re on the beach when it happens.”
Lacking any other form of diversion, the islanders acted quickly to ensure they could take full advantage of this won’t-happen-again-in-our-lifetimes event. At the potluck, the islanders were already seated and eating with their best and closest friends. In these small groups they began to scheme and strategize. “We can’t miss the phenomenal sunrise,” they said. “We must see its full and precious and unobstructed glory.” Each group resolved that that not only would they be on the beach at sunrise, but also that they’d find a way to be the first, the nearest, the highest, or the closest to this rare, celestial drama.
The islanders planned late into the night. On Saturday morning they rose early, well before sunup. Each group scrambled to be the first on the beach; the groups competed to stake their claims closest to the sea. While weaker teammates guarded territory, stronger ones hauled stones from the lime quarry and logs from the forest. Over the course of the morning, rudimentary foundations appeared. By mid-afternoon, scaffolded viewing platforms had risen from the sand. The islanders, knowing time was limited, were careful not to establish too large a footprint for each platform. A quilted patchwork of territories was marked out on the beach. Each team claimed a parcel of land roughly six feet square.
Throughout the stretched-out afternoon, the islanders became increasingly impatient with one another. Each team struggled to build a platform higher than that of their neighbors. Building supplies became scarcer. The platforms grew flimsier and spindlier the higher they went. The groups that had claimed territory nearest to the sea found themselves furthest from the supplies. The platforms that had been constructed behind them obstructed the transportation of materials from land to the oceanfront construction sites. Meanwhile, the groups that had staked claims further inland were disturbed by the height of their seaward-neighbors’ upwardly-telescoped platforms.
The right-handed islanders plastered the foundations of their platforms while moving counterclockwise around the structures. The left-handed minority went the other way around, bumping elbows and disrupting the flow of the others. By majority rule, it was soon declared that the lefties should adopt the way-of-working that was convenient for most of the others. Unable to work this way, the left-handed islanders took on other tasks or deserted their teams entirely.
By nightfall, everyone had grown weary. Teammates had become angry toward each other, and members of rival teams glared at each other, their vision distorted by acrid grudges.
“You’ve hoarded the supplies, and our access to them,” the seaside viewers said to the inland groups.
“Don’t blame us,” came the reply from those whose platforms stood in the shade of the dune palms, just fifty feet inland. “You’re the ones hoarding the view and stinking up the breeze.”
Amid the afternoon’s immeasurable strife, there were things everyone had in common. Everyone had become exasperated—and exhausted—and embittered. After sunset, the islanders attempted to rest on their rickety platforms. But the best they could manage was light and restless sleep. The night was quiet and eerie. It was low tide now; the mass of the moon pulled the weight of the water out to sea. Just before dawn, the seawater headed landward again—the tension of the tide that had been stretched impossibly thin would now retract vengefully. Those whose platforms had been constructed closest to the sea were the first to notice the rising water, but with the most to lose they were the last to abandon their platforms. Those in the upland platforms waited until the inevitability of a washout was clear—and once it was, they jumped to the sand below and headed for higher ground. Those nearest to the sea clung stubbornly to their perceived accomplishments and waited until the sand beneath their platforms softened and eventually gave way. Their scaffolds slid into the melting sand and they were poured from their platforms and into the water, knee-deep now and still rising. They bunched their sarongs and tattered Bermudas up to mid-thigh as they scurried up and out of the water.
Before long, the dark of night gave way to the earliest moments of dawn. But by now, many of the islanders were in retreat. Elmer-the-Prophet had awoken early to appreciate the spectacle. “It’s almost time,” Elmer said, as he came across a small pack of islanders. Elmer was on his way to the waterfront. The half-dozen islanders were heading inland, to bed. Defeated by two nights of missed sleep and the chaos of Saturday’s impromptu building frenzy, they were too tired to care and too crestfallen to respond. Elmer had slept soundly; he was unaware of all the strife he had missed.
When he arrived at Sandy Beach, Elmer saw what had happened. He saw piles of timber emerging like collapsed tepees from the shallow wedge of the rising tide. The poles and platforms that had twelve hours earlier been so carefully guarded were now abandoned, left to be reclaimed by the sea. Most of the islanders had gone home to sleep. A small group had assembled under a tree near the path that led to the village. But even this group wouldn’t see the eclipse. The now-sleeping islanders lay face-down with threadbare t-shirts pulled over their heads, save for the breathing vents they’d left around their noses and mouths.
Elmer-the-Prophet sat down in the sand. He folded his arms around his knees and rested his chin on his forearms. He watched as the sun rose. Mindful of the dangerous rays he’d read about, he glanced toward his bare feet. His round toes were now gently licked by the most ambitious and highest wave of high tide. Elmer sat in the light of sunrise and the darkness of the eclipse. Without watching, he contemplated the day’s events. Without seeing, Elmer experienced the sliding of the moon between himself and the rising sun.
Photo by Bruno Leschi on Unsplash