We departed from Portugal on the 20th, six months ago. The allure of flying machines inspired me to acquire one, master its operation, understand its mechanics, and head south, hoping to find Madalyne, who had moved to Argentina during the war's chaos.
My mission was to locate her. Our correspondence during the war was sparse, and the years apart have only deepened our fondness for each other. She struggled with the realization that our problems stemmed from her entrance into my life. Our needs and desires were overshadowed by the accompanying pain. Maybe one day, we'll find a way to overcome this affliction that plagues us both, as it does everyone in this life—loneliness without the bright companionship of the beginning. It's a hardship, but one I've come to accept. She, perhaps, has not—until now. I'm unsure, and I may never be certain.
A storm caught us, veering us off course by many miles, too many for me to estimate. We crash-landed, rendering the flying machine inoperable.
After three months, we decided Amir would set out in a boat we constructed to find assistance. For reasons clear, I cannot leave this island on that vessel. Therefore, Amir, my companion for more centuries than I can count, will embark on this journey alone.
I hope he finds someone to lead him to Madalyne, and that she might navigate to this island to rescue me from these shores and return me to civilization.
In the ensuing months, my strength has waned, my particular needs unmet. My hunger grows, and I become increasingly frail. I've gathered some soil and remnants from the wreckage, storing them in a small cave, merely a recess in the rocky outcrop at the far end.
I shall preserve my strength for the days when, gods willing, Amir or Madalyne may arrive.
I place my hope in all the gods that it will be soon. For the present, I will conceal what is left to me close to the wreckage. It may be that a passing sailor will discover it and seek me out.
The Diary of Madalyne Atta, page dated September 1922.
Over a year has passed since Amir arrived at my doorstep with news of the accident that seems to have claimed Franzicus from our midst. The war that swept through the lands we once called home has scarcely quelled the spirits of those who now surround me in this new place I consider home.
I have dispatched numerous ships; some have made it back, but many have not. The returning sailors recount tales of storms emerging from the mists, of ships disappearing from view even as others watch nearby.
Now, too many are unwilling to depart, and even securing a private captain proves futile. My entreaties are ignored, and although Amir reassures me of Franzicus's safety, my concern for him persists.
The search will go on, with Amir and me holding onto hope that the gods will see fit to reunite us with Franzicus.
I reflect on the time that has slipped by me, the world that has continued to spin beyond this island, which I now have the misfortune to call home.
Hope for Amir's return lingers. I ponder whether he has found Madalyne or if she still exists in this world. I muse over the elapsed days. How absurd it is to count years as days and centuries as mere months? Yet, I confess, I am now foolish.
Once it was apparent that Amir would not return promptly, I made my home in a small cave and let time flow. Allowed it? Such a ludicrous thought. Time would pass regardless of my desire, and so it did.
In time, after too many years, I believed I was saved when others arrived. A plane, more advanced than the one that brought me here, crashed in 1962. Of the twenty people aboard, four survived the crash, but only one lasted a month thereafter.
Amir and I celebrated the Christian holiday of Christmas, amusing ourselves by exchanging gifts and wishing each other a Happy Christmas. Such foolishness. We have witnessed countless religions throughout the centuries, making this one seem so youthful to us.
Especially to me.
As the new year approaches, another year has elapsed without Santje. Although we have become accustomed to his absence, it continues to sting our hearts. Amir has decided to leave with the arrival of spring, believing that the years spent with me have been beneficial for us both, yet he yearns to resume his search for Santje.
I must confess, the thought of his departure is unbearable, and conceding defeat is something I loathe. The likelihood of finding Santje is slim, and hope vanished long ago. But I have until spring.
