Fir cone tree

When he washed up on the shore, the only thing in his waterlogged pocket was a fir-cone. And, once he had circumnavigated the island, he crossed his fingers and planted it in a likely looking spot.

Over the next few years, tending the resultant shoot, sapling, small tree became something of a ritual. He protected it from the local goats and, as it grew to become the tallest thing on the island, he often sat under it and meditated.

A germ of an idea took root in his thoughts and, in the absence of competition, grew. He had quickly realised that there was nothing growing on the island that could be used to build a boat.  If the worst came to the worst, the fir tree could be his life raft. His life canoe!

He watched over the tree. He dreamed about it and visited it several times a day. It became the focus for all of his hopes.

Finally, on its tenth birthday, the time had come. He prayed over the tree and, after performing a complicated dance around it - a dance that he had evolved over the years - he chopped it down with his stone axe.

And, after a week's intensive work, carving and painting (the island's plentiful berries stained the wood a vivid purple colour), it was finished.  He stood back and admired the tree which now stood, twice his height, its many implacable, carved faces looking back at him.

He bowed down before it.