Surviving Paradise section 1
Autor:© WebNovel
Kapitel 1: 1. A Tangled Web of Lies
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost,
For want of a horse, the rider was lost,
For want of a rider, the message was lost,
For want of a message, the battle was lost,
For want of a battle, the war was lost,
For want of a war, the kingdom was lost,
For want of a nail, the world was lost
-T. Rundgren
Just over ten years had passed when the butterfly finally flapped its wings. Perhaps those wings had been flapping this whole time, but due to the remoteness of his home no one had paid attention. Either way, he would come to realize much later that however you couched the terms, it was a simple need that led to his discovery, which then eventually led to consequences that reached far beyond the backwaters of French Polynesia.
He would not accept credit, or the label of a hero, when journalists tried to apply it to him, once the story broke. The heroes of this tale were easy to identify: the two who had to suffer the most from the actions of others. Yes, he was the one who first recognized the lies put forth, and he then worked tirelessly to bring justice to the ones who deserved it, and punishment to those who earned it. But Tamahere did not consider himself a hero. That title belonged to Richard Rodgers and Kate Beckett.
March, 2010
Hunger had driven him to peruse the pantry, with paltry results. Tamahere tried to count back the days since his last trip to the store, and gave up after he passed ten. It had been a while. Not unusual for him. He avoided human contact on principle. However, he was hungry. Looking back later, he would marvel that such a simple need put him on course to affect an entire nation. But at the time? He just needed food. And so he left the isolated hut for the long trek to the store.
Huahine Iti offers plenty of coastlines for its inhabitants to choose from for their homes. The mountainous interior discourages most from attempting to live among the trees, but it was a haven for him. Isolation from noisy, nosy humans. However, it did make the trip to the store an exercise, both physical and mental.
One of the Society Islands of French Polynesia, Huahine was not his home island. However, he had no intention of returning to his family. He'd been lost to them long ago. Ten years, give or take a few months, if one needed a number. He'd tried drinking and drugs while living on Tahiti, just after their rescue. It worked to numb the pain and erase the memories, but the oblivion was always temporary.
He'd lived in fear, during those years, that an insatiable reporter would stumble upon him and start asking the same questions they always asked. Dredge up that damn story again, and he'd be right back there at the start. His carefully constructed sea walls, protecting him from his own guilt, reduced to rubble once more. The nightmares would resume in full fury. He'd then drink to excess, followed by puking to excess. A cycle that his liver did not appreciate. Neither did his mental health.
So, he'd fled to Huahine. He wasn't ashamed to admit it. He knew that he was running. If he never had to remember the whole thing again, he'd die a less unhappy man.
He'd changed his name. He was known as Areiti here. 'Little wave.' It helped with anonymity. No one knew him here; he was a nobody. He kept to himself, and the locals had long ago learned to leave him alone. He was considered eccentric, probably a little touched in the head. He was still young, just into his early thirties, but he looked like he was two decades older.
The weight of guilt is a hard burden to carry. And he knew he alone carried it. Even with the involvement of the others. They lived their life as if it had all been simply a bump in the road. Or the answer to a prayer. Given how their lives had turned on a path so drastically different from his, he supposed it really didn't bother them. He was the one who couldn't forget. Or forgive. Himself, or them.
He reached Parea, the nearest town to him, about forty five minutes after he'd left his hut. He had plenty of money to buy a substantial lunch if he wanted; a pension the government provided him. Blood money, in his opinion. However, holding a job was impossible. He was too broken, too shattered to even attempt work. Not to mention he'd have to be around other people. An insupportable idea.
So, he only used the money if he had to. It thrust the sword of guilt deeper in his gut every time, but without it he'd be forced to pretend he wasn't a ghost of a man. Much later, he would joke that the bloody phantasm that followed him pointed, for the first time, in a positive direction. Or perhaps it was just dumb luck. Hard to say. Either way, he decided to eat at a small diner at the time of day when he knew it would be fairly empty. And so a collision course with fate was set.
He asked for, and was given, a booth away from the scattering of other customers. Ordered, and then found himself watching a family across the room. Wishing he was whole enough to have what they seemed to have. Joy in each other. Connections to people who cared about you. Soon, his wishes were replaced by a growing anxiety, and he knew he'd need to distract his brain if he wanted to avoid a meltdown. Crying in public by a grown man was seen as strange. If they only knew why he was crying: then perhaps they'd join him.
A stack of papers on an empty table attracted his attention. He got up and grabbed them, just as his food arrived. He managed to thank the waitress without scaring her, and started to eat while browsing the news he'd been willfully ignorant of for so long . Careful to avoid the political section, he started with sports. It was on top, so an easy decision.
His appetite for soccer and handball soon exceeded, he proceeded through the other sections, sans the portion containing news politique. That would be too much to deal with. Tears might be the least of his problems if he were to read of their latest exploits, and the praises lauded.
The waitress would never forget the sound of the dishes as they shattered on the hard floor, or the mess they made that later required a prolonged cleaning effort, mandated by her manager. But the true spectacle was the odd man in the booth; half standing, clothes sullied with the soup and sandwich he'd ordered as he held the three day old paper in his trembling hands.
"Is this real? This is not a joke? My God, what does it mean?"
He continued to mutter for another few minutes, sinking back into the booth and apparently ignoring the soup that continued to seep into his clothes. The whole diner was staring at him, but he seemed oblivious to their curiosity. When he looked up wildly after he'd finished reading whatever it was that set him off, they could all see the crazed look in his eyes.
It was after he sloppily gestured for someone to come to his table that the manager gave the waitress a push. No one wanted to deal with the man, but he was her table, so she was volunteered. A sacrifice, for the safety of the others.
Wary, she approached until there was a gap of five feet or so. Close enough.
"Oui, monsieur. How may I be of help? Do you want another plate or bowl of soup?"
He looked first at the newspaper then at her, eyes swinging back and forth in some demented tennis match that only he could follow.
"What? No, NO. Do you keep up with the news?"
She didn't want to make him more upset by disagreeing with him, though in reality neither she nor her friends paid much attention to the news, unless it involved the latest celebrity gossip. Hopefully he wouldn't ask her something obscure.
"Yes, certainly. Is there a problem?" There was definitely a problem: he was in the diner, at her table. She just wanted him gone.
"This article, the date says it was three days ago. Do you know anything about this matter?"
She had to get closer in order to see what the hell he was muttering about. She gingerly stepped through some soup, and got to within a few feet of the insane man. Holding her hand out for the offending paper, he placed it in her hands like it was the crown jewels of some lost kingdom. He'd been pointing to a small article discussing the sentence of a man handed down by the court, and his subsequent imprisonment in Nuutania prison.
A picture of the felon was next to the article. It was a close up shot of the man in question. He had unkempt dark hair and a wild looking beard. However, it was his eyes that led to her shiver; eyes that seemed to be staring at her through the newspaper. He looked menacing, according to her friends, but she'd always thought it was grief, and not a threat, that emanated from his eyes. He looked like a man who had lost everything that had ever mattered to him.
Sighing in relief, she relaxed a tiny bit. It had been a very famous trial. Jean Dupont, the prisoner, had initially protested his innocence. Then, faced with the overwhelming evidence of his lies and the animosity of the entire population of the islands, he had stopped talking or even participating in his defense. He'd been condemned to a long term for multiple offenses, including trying to defraud the government. His sentence totaled far more years than anyone would survive. It was, essentially, for life. One that most agreed he'd deserved.
Once he'd given up the fight, people gradually turned to more entertaining news. After all, it was a World Cup year, and France's qualifying had been ugly. Dupont's initial appearance and claims had certainly captivated the islands, but once he changed his plea and admitted to being a fraud the populace turned their attention back to the football pitch.
To further quench the flames of curiosity, the courts had refused to publish pictures of the man, even after he was convicted. French law prohibited media publication of defendants prior to their being found guilty, but it was usual practice to publish photographs of them afterwards. The courts had stated that Dupont was simply after the publicity, and refused to add to his delusions. It had been unusual, though perhaps understandable from a certain perspective.
The article in the paper the crazy man was holding was, oddly enough, the first picture of Dupont since his rescue at sea. Clearly the wish to grant him as little limelight as possible had been successful. Still, she wouldn't have thought there were many islanders who didn't know about the man or his crimes. Just her luck that one of the few who apparently did not know had happened into the diner while she was working.
"Yes, monsieur. I know the basic story. Most of French Polynesia knows it." The unsaid implication was that he must be a true hermit if he was ignorant of the events surrounding Monsieur Dupont's imprisonment.
"I've been…out of touch for some time. Can you tell me a bit about it?"
He must have noted her reluctance to be in his presence, so he quickly added, "Just the basics mademoiselle. You do not need to go into details. Please, sit." He gestured at the seat opposite him. She hesitated, not the least of which was due to looking to see how much soup was on that seat. It appeared dry.
"Please mademoiselle. It is very important. Perhaps a matter of life and death."
Still reluctant, the romantic in her was piqued. How could a scruffy vagrant, such as he appeared to be, have anything to do with one of French Polynesia's most notorious criminals of recent times? She sat, and began to tell him what she remembered.
"Well, ok. It started back about two months ago. Jean Dupont was…"
"Wait, wait. This man was tried and sentenced in just two months' time?"
"Oui. Yes. It was a very rapid trial, but he did not fight the charges and the evidence showed he was clearly guilty."
"Still, I've never heard of such a thing," he mused to himself.
"It is true, good sir. Everyone thought it was fast, but the government wanted it expedited due to the scandalous things he was saying. Once he realized he was fighting a tsunami of bad press, he gave up and it was a simple matter. It was quite the spectacle, initially. However, it was over so quickly; people condemned him for his crimes and then moved on to the next interesting story."
"Ok, sorry for interrupting."
He seemed much saner now and his manners had certainly improved. She relaxed a bit more and continued.
"Anyway, he was found drifting on a ramshackle boat between the Australs and the Societies by a Chinese ship headed to Papeete for copra. They had altered their original course due to some weather and a sticky engine. Luckily, they had an alert crewman at the helm that day; he saw the boat and managed to avoid running over it. When they came about, they saw there was a man in it, though he was not in good shape. They sent a small party over to the boat and rescued him. He was very emaciated and dehydrated. A few more days and he likely would have died."
"He was alone? No one else on the boat?" He stared intently at her, as if she were withholding part of the story deliberately. She wondered why he seemed to know so much about the story when he claimed he'd just learned of it in the newspaper.
"Sir, I must ask. Do you know this man, this Jean Dupont?"
He startled, eyes darting wildly all around the diner before settling back on her.
"No. No, I don't know him. He just looks like someone I used to know. The picture caught my eye, then I read the story and became curious."
"You became so emotional when you read the story," she remarked into the subsequent silence, trying to encourage him to talk.
"It was a surprise to see the picture of the man who looks like my old friend, and then to read that the man was thrown in jail. Surprising, and very upsetting. I am sorry for the mess I've made here," he gestured to the table, still dripping soup slowly to the floor below.
"I can see it would be distressing to read of a friend or acquaintance in jail for such infamous actions. I am glad he is not actually your friend, indeed, monsieur." The man nodded at her. "Now, let's see. I was telling you of his rescue by the Chinese crew, no?"
"Yes. You said he was alone. No one with him on the boat, not even a woman?"
"No, he was alone," she wondered at the strange comment. Perhaps this hermit had lived alone for far too long, and was projecting his loneliness to the man in the boat?
"I see," he said. 'It has been so many years. Perhaps they were separated. Or it was always just him, alone for all these years,' he thought to himself. 'Oh, Hopo. What happened to you?'
If she had not been sitting in the same booth she would never have heard him. Even so, she didn't understand it at all. Dupont had never claimed to be with anyone else. Even in his wildest declarations, he had always said he was alone.
"And then?" the man asked, breaking her from her reverie.
"The Chinese crew had a medic. They were able to start to rehydrate him. They noticed some blood on the back of his head, and found a bump; they thought he'd had a head injury. They saw he was not Polynesian, though his skin was deeply tanned by the sun. However, since they found him in Polynesia, they brought him to Papeete where he was placed in the hospital, still unconscious."
"Any identification on him? Where did he come from?"
"Sir, I am getting to that. Please, a moment."
"I am sorry. I'm not used to speaking with other people. Especially pretty young waitresses such as yourself."
She couldn't help but smile at that. The man wasn't so bad, once you got to talk to him a bit. Rough around the edges, certainly. But not a bad sort, underneath.
"Anyway, he was in the hospital for several days before he awoke. Naturally, it was a sensation at the time. Even in the South Pacific, we do not frequently find starving sailors drifting past the islands in need of rescue. Initially, he had complete memory loss. Though now awake, he could not say who he was or what he had been doing on the little boat. The head injury and the dehydration, explained the doctors. Then, about a week after his rescue, he was visited by a local reporter. They intended to publish his picture in the paper, let him tell them any details of his life he knew and see if anyone recognized him."
The man nodded his head. "That seems like a good place to start if you need to find out the identity of someone who can't remember anything."
Nodding the waitress agreed and then hesitated just a minute. She was really enjoying the dramatics this story was about to unveil.
"Yes. Except the man had remembered his story by then, and told it to the reporter. Who faithfully copied it down and published it. It was at this point that all hell broke loose."
"Why? What did he say that caused such excitement? That led to his arrest and rapid conviction of fraud, among other things?" The man was now staring at her with an intensity that would have frightened her if she wasn't so caught up in the story.
"He claimed to be a dead man. And not just any dead man, a famous dead man." She gave a slight smirk, aware of the impact of what she was about to say.
"Who did he claim to be?" he whispered, eyes closed. He prayed he was right, that he knew exactly who this man was and what it meant. But if he were correct….the implications were staggering.
"He said his name was Richard Rodgers."
And so we begin. Thank you for reading. This story is completely A/U, and shall be updated every 2 days unless I run into technical problems.
All standard disclosures apply. I have nothing to do with the show, or they with me. I am a fan, and this story is my attempt to pay homage to characters that I adore. Thank you to all who bring us the wonderful world of Castle.
Finally, I have written this as a long-held dream. Every single work I've done until now has been in preparation for this story. It has been a labor of love, but still a labor. I hope there are people out there who find some enjoyment from it as well. It is not what happened on the show, but it is a story that I can imagine happening, had things turned out differently. This is, from beginning to end, my love story for Rick and Kate. Please let me know if you like it. Thank you.
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