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As he sat down, he felt something in his pocket, and reaching into his breeches, he pulled out a key on a chain. It was not like a normal key to a simple lock, but ornately made, gilded in silver, and with a chain–he looked at it curiously. There was a coin in his pocket, too. But again, this was no ordinary coin bearing the head of a Hanoverian king, but embossed with a phoenix, large and weighty–it seemed somehow familiar, but he could not remember why he had it and what it could mean.
He held the key, and the coin, in his open hands, looking down at them in confusion. It frustrated him to not remember, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. He felt a fool sitting there on the beach with no idea of who he was or where he came from. He tried desperately to remember, furrowing his brow in a vain attempt at recollection. But it was to no avail. He was sitting on a beach in a foreign land, soaked to the skin, wounded, and without a single memory which would prove useful–the situation seemed hopeless.
Now, he searched his pockets more thoroughly and drew out a parchment, which had somehow survived the worst of the water. It was sealed with wax and had been hidden between the hem of his breeches–concealed, though, from what, he could not remember. There seemed little point in respecting the wax seal in such circumstances, and he unrolled the parchment and began to read. The crest at the top bore the arms of a noble family–a lion and an eagle guarding a shield, embossed in red and gold, below which was a Latin inscription–the words too water damaged to decipher.
Much of the letter, too, was unreadable, the ink having run with the damp seeping through his clothes. It provided no clue about his identity, only adding to the mystery of who he was and why he should be carrying such a strange assortment of items about his person. He began to shiver, and his stomach was rumbling so that he knew he had to do something to help himself since no one else was to come to his aid. For all he knew, he was alone on an island, and any hope of rescue was in vain.
He got up and went back down the beach to the shipwreck. Several chests were lying about among the wreckage, and he prized one of them open, revealing dry clothes and blankets to his great relief. Another chest held ship’s biscuits–crude oatcakes made for the longevity of a voyage–and a side of cheese so that he was soon dressed in fresh clothes and his hunger satisfied. He tore strips from a shirt and made a simple bandage with which he dressed his wound, and though he could still remember nothing about himself, he did, at least, feel a sense of relief at having raised himself from the worst of his situation.
Having eaten and drunk from a spring that flowed onto the beach at the far side, he now made a survey of his surroundings. A path led up to the top of the cliffs, and the sight of it cheered him enormously–a path meant people, or at the very least some kind of animal, and taking with him as much of the food as he could carry, he made his way up the path and onto the moorland above. From there, he gained a far better perspective over his situation and could see, in the far distance, mountains rising majestically into the clouds. He was certain this was no island, and there seemed to be signs of habitation–a path leading across the moorlands and the remnants of a fire by a small copse of trees.
The wound to his side was painful, and he knew he could not remain out of doors for the night. The day was bright and breezy, and from the sun's position, he reasoned it was still the morning. His best hope would be to follow the path and see where it led to, and he set off across the moorlands, still trying desperately to remember even the smallest detail about himself and who he was. All he knew was that a shipwreck had brought him to this strange and unfamiliar land and that his best hope for survival would be to find its inhabitants–whoever they may be…
