The 29th monsoon had finally dried when a distant buzzing sent

Nude scrambling for cover. A tiny plane dipped and swerved,

filled the air with swirling white and disappeared.

He cautiously approached one of the scattered pices of

paper:



We've been writing letters each day

hoping that you'll come home.

And we're wondering if you're okay.

As you're not on the phone.



Face the facts now

Take a chance.

Come on back now.

Fast.



Please come home,

Please come home.

Everyone cares for you.

Please come home,

Please come home.

Everyone cares for you,

Everyone.



We've been writing letters each day.

Hoping,

that you'll...

come home.



As the sky turned to afternoon gold, Nude picked up the rest of

the envelopes and carried then carefully up the mountain.

For a long time afterwards he sat rocking gently. The letters

fluttered...the war was over. Long ago. But it seemed of

little consequence to Nude. For him, it had never started.



In the days that followed, Nude was no longer at one with his

environment. He was now burdened with the need to explain

what could not be explained to those who would never

understand.

With the air heavy and his instincts dulled by the

preoccupation of his thoughts, he failed to heed the warning

silence of a normally busy afternoon. With a gasp and a grunt he

was wrestled to the ground. A sting in his skin and he was

released. He reeled around to stare into the eyes of familiar

uniformed figures. The sudden weight of his head plunged him

face down into sand denying him protest or the right of a

farewell glance at his island