The engine died without drama.
No explosion, no scream of metal-on-metal. Just a sudden poof of smoke, and the prop spinning to a stop. For a moment, Terry thought his plane was still flying. Then the nose dipped, almost apologetically.
The ocean below was thankfully calm. Dark water broken by long, slow swells. He guided Tornado Scrambler down gently, heart loud and hands steady. The floats skipped the surface, bouncing once, twice. Water hissed along her struts.
Terry sat for a moment, listening to the ticking metal cool, his hands shaking and knuckle-white on the yoke. The plane rocked gently back in forth, riding the water. Distantly, he heard not just the ripple of open ocean, but waves crashing on rock.
Looking out the window to his right, he sees the island: a giant black rock jutting out of the sea circled by a sandy beach and underwater shelves of colorful coral. Behind the beach, further inland, was a thick tropical jungle.
Before Terry even came to a decision, the plane slowly drifted towards the island. Hastily, he tried the engine again, and again, going down his checklist. Nothing. By the time Scramber's floats bumped against a natural dock of basalt, he'd accepted it. Climbing out and anchoring the plane in the shallows, he felt saltwater splash up onto his clothes and light yellow fur.
He stepped onto the volcanic reef, feeling warmth through his feet. Like standing near a hearth. He looked at the island, then at his plane. ...What now?
Then he turned back to examine the other end of the island, and promptly felt his stomach fly into his chest. Another monkey, a white-furred macaque, was standing a few meters away on the sand, staring directly at him. No doubt a fisherman, he was wearing a casually unbuttoned floral shirt, a fishing pole slung over his shoulder. His red eyes were sharp, and deeply unimpressed.
"...you're not supposed to be here," the fisherman said at last.
Terry swallowed awkwardly. "Yeah..."
The macaque's gaze flicked to the plane, then back to Terry. He frowned, though not in anger. "The island allowed it," he muttered, more to himself than the pilot.
Terry blinked. "The... island?"
The fisherman sighed, a mix of resignation and irritation. "Is it fixable?"
Terry considered his question, scratching his chin. "Eventually? Definitely not tonight."
Another pause, and the fisherman turned, walking away. "Fine. Come with me."
Terry hesitated for only a second before following. As he did, an ease in the air, like he just released a held breath. The ground felt firmer beneath his feet. Behind him, Tornado Scrambler rocked gently on the water, unbothered.
"Ah," he remembers as they walk down the beach, "what's your name? I'm Terry."
A beat. "Sanshin."
The fisherman's home was built out of what looked like bamboo and driftwood. Its front opening faced the sea and sand, framed by hanging nets and clinking wind-chimes made of bone, shell, and metal. Inside was strangely cool.
Sanshin moved with practiced economy. He sat down his pole, rinsed his hands in a stone basin fed by a trickle of water, and lit a small flame in the square hearth with a flick of his fingers.
Terry stood in the door, unsure of where to stand. He left his soaking wet jacket on the engawa outside. He realized he still had his shoes on, and apologised, gesturing vaguely at the floor.
He was waved off. "There's sand everywhere in here. Do you eat fish?"
Dinner was simple: fish wrapped in banana leaves, set on a hot rock until the flesh flaked apart; sea grapes gathered from the tide pools; steamed rice, slightly scorched at the bottom. No seasoning was needed. They sat opposite each other, the low hearth between them.
Terry chewed slowly, grateful. His hunger caught up to him once the adrenaline faded.
"This is good," he said eventually. "Sorry. I mean-- thank you."
His host nodded. He was watching the fire, not him.
"I won't tell anyone about this place." Terry said. The silence unnerved him, and it felt like the right thing to say.
The fisherman looked at him. Really looked, his eyes searching the pilot's face for lies.
He found none. "Good. No one would believe you anyway."
They finished their meal, Sanshin scraping the pot clean with a piece of flatbread. Outside, the ocean murmured. Somewhere deeper in the island, a slow tectonic sound shifted--the volcano seemed to be settling down for the night too.
"You can sleep there." There was a mat near the wall. "It stays warm. There's more rock underneath the house on that side."
"Thanks," Terry sleepily stretched his arms above his head. "I don't snore... much."
(He may have been hearing things, but he swears he hears a snort from his host.)
As Terry lays down, listening to the hearthfire crackle and the island breathe, he feels a stranger certainty: after Scrambler is fixed, he wouldn't mind coming back here.