THE HONEST ISLAND GREG JACKSON

Craint did not know when he had come to the island or why he had come.

He had ransacked his mind but he could not remember and he could not recall many other things besides. The period before his arrival, for instance. He knew he came from elsewhere. His appearance made that abundantly clear, and he did not speak the islanders' language, although between gestures and the few words of his own language the islanders knew, he could communicate most of his basic needs.

The island was small. If one cared to, one could walk from one end to the other in a matter of hours. To reach the southern tip, where there was a swimming beach, he sometimes took one of the small buses that circulated throughout the day. Across the hazy sea to the south, one saw a city on a far-off coastline, with factories lining its harbor, whose tall chimneys emitted knotted white streams. An unmaintained road led from the swimming beach into steep hills above, where an abandoned complex of concrete structures had been overrun by bushes and ivy. To the north, not visible from the beach, was a distant shore, where rows of mountains resembling jagged waves disappeared into the mist.

The island itself had a teardrop shape. Craint knew this from a map at the bus depot and another at the ferry terminal. Its northern half had been given over to mining ventures.

Large machines dug up the rocky waste and pulverized it into powder and gravel. He had seen images of this in the small museum devoted to the island's history, where, unable to read the explanatory texts, he had had to invent his own history from the photographs and dates.

The problems with his memory made Craint reluctant to ask questions that might cause him to appear foolish. At his hotel he refrained from asking how many nights he had stayed, afraid such an inquiry might call attention to the bill he had no means of paying. For now, at least, the proprietors seemed unconcerned about their guest's ability to meet his obligations.