Verne on Robinson Crusoe's Island. ®.

Verne on Robinson Crusoe's Island. ®.

(The Island of Literary Dreams)

Storie. VI. 

Serie Sueños Verne. 

Jorge Ofitas Author. 

(In English version)

Verne felt the familiar tingling of the potion in his throat, followed by the deep quiet of transcendental meditation. An instant later, a blinding light enveloped him. He opened his eyes with difficulty, blinking under a relentless sun that scorched his skin. He lay on fine, warm sand, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing in the distance. He sat up, feeling his body heavy, and instantly knew. This wasn't just any dream, nor a trip to a real point in the past or future. The atmosphere, the salty air, the lush vegetation... he was in the year 1719, on the mythical island of Robinson Crusoe, the immortal creation of a novelist named Defoe. It was his first conscious foray into a literary work.

He stood up, shaking the sand from his clothes, and began to explore the beach with the expectation of an explorer who has set foot on a virgin continent. His heart pounded with the excitement of meeting the legendary castaway. However, what he found was not the solitary figure he expected. In the distance, among the palm trees, he saw a silhouette. A man. Verne quickened his pace, calling out enthusiastically:

—Robinson Crusoe! I am Jules Verne!

But the man turned, and Verne immediately noticed that his skin was darker, his features different from those he had imagined for Crusoe. It was Friday. Verne stopped dead in his tracks, confusion clouding his excitement.

"Who is this man?" Verne thought, but quickly his mind jumped to the only possible explanation within the novel. With a mix of strangeness and curiosity, he asked, gesturing around him:

—Excuse me, could you tell me where Robinson Crusoe is? I am looking for him.

Friday, with an expression of astonishment and perhaps some distrust of this man in strange clothes who spoke his name without knowing him, tilted his head. He raised a hand and, with an uncertain gesture, pointed towards the jungle that stretched inland, mumbling a few words in his native language that Verne could not understand. It was clear that communication would be a challenge.

Verne nodded, understanding the difficulty. He decided to enter the small jungle bordering the beach, following the direction Friday had indicated. The air grew denser, laden with the smell of damp earth and exotic flora. The sounds of the jungle enveloped him, but suddenly, a rustle in the undergrowth caught his attention.

From among the leaves emerged a stern-looking man, quill in hand and a look of profound disbelief and anger. It was Daniel Defoe. The author, frowning, approached Verne, his voice resonating with an authority that left no room for doubt.

—What are you doing here, sir? —exclaimed Defoe, pointing his quill at Verne—. This is my work! How dare you intrude upon it without my permission? I demand an explanation for this interference in my creation!

Verne, unfazed, pulled a small vial from his pocket. It contained a glowing liquid, his "special magic" for interactions. With surprising calm, he held out the vial to Defoe.

—Forgive me, Mr. Defoe —Verne said, with a gentle smile—. I am Jules Verne, a French novelist from the future. I was very eager to meet Robinson Crusoe. You see, your characters have such a... vivid quality that I felt an imperative need to experience it firsthand. It is an honor, despite the circumstances, to meet the creator of such a universe.

Defoe, at Verne's unusual calm and the curiosity inspired by the strange vial, lowered his quill. A spark of tolerance, or perhaps astonishment, seemed to ignite in his eyes. At that precise moment, before Defoe could respond, a man in worn clothes and a bushy beard, his figure familiar to Verne from countless illustrations, came running from deep within the jungle. It was Robinson Crusoe.

With a look of relief and unexpected warmth, Crusoe rushed directly towards Verne.

—You're finally here! —exclaimed Crusoe, embracing Verne tightly—. I've been waiting for you for so long!

Verne was paralyzed with astonishment. The embrace was firm, real, and the familiarity in Crusoe's voice completely disoriented him. He stared at him, his pupils dilated and full of strangeness, unable to understand how this character, whom he had come to meet, seemed to know him his entire life. The logic of the novel, of his own travels, blurred before such a personal reception.

With an empathy and warmth that always characterized him, Verne managed to articulate the question burning on his tongue.

—My dear Robinson —Verne began, with a gentle smile as he returned the embrace—, it is an immense pleasure and an honor to find you, believe me. But I must confess I'm surprised... Why such familiarity? Why were you waiting for me?

Robinson Crusoe pulled back slightly, keeping his hands on Verne's shoulders. His gaze, deep and wise, fixed on the French novelist's eyes.

—But, don't you recognize me? —Crusoe asked, his tone not reproachful, but of an almost painful familiarity, as if they were speaking of something they both should remember. His voice dropped, a whisper that Defoe, a few steps away, could not hear. —On this island, Verne, one learns the truth about existence. I am your imagination made flesh. I am every adventure you have dreamed, every unexplored horizon that has called you. I have always been here, at the edge of your mind, waiting for you to take the step, for you to find the potion that would bring you to the place where characters come to life. I knew you would come. You always come.

Verne felt his own existence being rewritten in that instant. He had believed he created Robinson Crusoe, but it was Crusoe who had created him. The chain of imagination was cyclical, infinite.

Robinson Crusoe pointed to the machine with a gesture.

—Now, take it. It's time for you to return to your time. Don't worry, I'll get it back. It's the cycle. And remember, Jules: literary characters are as valuable as flesh-and-blood ones, because in them resides the true immortality of imagination.

An intense glow enveloped Verne. Assimilating the shocking revelation, he climbed into the machine. With a final flash, he disappeared. The time machine remained, silent, under the canopy of leaves, while the echo of Defoe's protests faded into the infinite of creation.

END

Author: Jorge Ofitas. 

Europe. 2025. ®.

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