Shipwrecked Again

The island was close enough to swim to, which was good, because the submarine wasn't going anywhere. The collision with the cargo ship had done more damage than anyone realised, and the captain announced, with the calm of someone delivering very bad news very professionally, that they'd be "stationary for the foreseeable future."

Clive took this as his cue to leave.

He said goodbye to the crew, who saluted him with genuine emotion. The moustached sailor actually teared up. "It's been an honour, Agent Wool," he said, his voice cracking.

"Likewise," Clive said, feeling guilty in a way he couldn't quite articulate. These people thought he was a hero. He was a sheep who'd pressed buttons.

He swam to the island — badly, because sheep are not built for swimming, and his wool absorbed water like a sponge. By the time he dragged himself onto the beach, he weighed approximately twice his normal body weight and looked like a drowned cotton ball.

The island was small but lush. Palm trees, white sand, the sound of waves and birds and absolutely nothing else. Clive lay on the beach, letting the sun dry his wool, and thought about nothing for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Then the locals showed up.

They emerged from the tree line in a group — maybe twenty of them, dressed in bright fabrics and shell jewellery, carrying spears and baskets and expressions of total astonishment.

"It's him," one of them breathed.

"Oh no," Clive said.

"THE WOOLLY ONE!" another shouted, and they all dropped to their knees.

Clive sat up. "Listen, I'm not—"

"The prophecy! The sheep from the sea!"

"There's a prophecy?"

They showed him. Painted on the side of a hut, in colours that had faded but not disappeared, was a picture of a sheep surrounded by waves. It was crude — the sheep looked more like a cloud with legs — but the intent was clear.

"That could be any sheep," Clive said weakly.

"You came from the sea," the village elder said, a man wearing a headdress made entirely of coconut shells. "The prophecy said you would. Therefore, you are the one."

"That's not how logic works."

"CHIEF CLIVE!" the villagers cheered, and before he could object, they'd hoisted him onto their shoulders and were carrying him toward the village.

They gave him a throne. It was made of old crates and fishing nets, and it was the most uncomfortable thing Clive had ever sat on, but the villagers looked so proud of it that he didn't have the heart to complain.

They asked him for wisdom. He gave them whatever came to mind.

"Chief Clive, what should we do about the leaking roofs?"

"Fix them?"

Wild applause.

"Chief Clive, how do we catch more fish?"

"Use... bigger nets?"

Standing ovation.

Clive settled into island life with surprising ease. The food was good — fresh fruit, grilled fish, coconut everything. The villagers were kind. Nobody was chasing him, mistaking him for someone else, or asking him to operate vehicles he wasn't qualified to drive.

It was nice. It was peaceful. It was, Clive realised after about a week, driving him absolutely mental.

One evening, sitting on his terrible throne, watching the sun melt into the ocean, Clive spotted something on the horizon. A light. Faint, pulsing, rhythmic — like a signal.

His hooves itched.

"You're going to do something stupid," Squawk said from a nearby branch. The parrot had followed him to the island, because of course he had.

"Probably," Clive said.

He looked at the light. He looked at the village behind him, warm and safe and boring.

"Definitely," he corrected.