short-story-blog

[short-story-blog]

Childhood in the Scattered Isles

JANUARY 2427

Higgy found it first - we heard him bark out on the beach at dawn, and thinking it was rustlers again after the sheep Rory and Shannon and some of the lads from Old Elsie’s farm went out with Ma’s old shotgun to see them off. Turns out it was a drowner, some poor old soul trying to cross the western sea again and washing up on the shore.

Me and Tommy wanted to go see it, but they wouldn’t let us as we were too young to see such things, so Ma said. We sneaked out anyway after supper and got a good look. The moon made his frozen eyes glitter, and that scared us off a bit. Then Tommy poked his pale, salted skin with a stick and it gave a little. I always thought the dead went all stiff and rigid afterwards, but then Tommy said that drowners go soft and bloated from the water. Rory caught us then but seeing as it was him that found us we got off with a twisted ear apiece.

They buried the body at dawn the next day, Ma says you have to let the drowners stay the night under the stars before they’re laid to rest, so the starlight can preserve their souls. Otherwise the Witch under the Waves takes them.

APRIL 2428

Me, Tommy and Maggie often played on the shore just beneath the Point. We weren’t ever supposed to go up there on account of the ghosts that lingered in the old ruins from before the troubled times. Tommy says he went anyway, but me and Maggie knew he was full of it.

Boys always seem to lie about things like that. Maggie said so, and called him a show-off, so he told us all swaggery that girls just don’t have it in them for such feats of bravery. Then Maggie got that twinkle in her eye that she always has before she does something mischievous, and she wagered Tommy couldn’t beat us in a race back home since we’re both just girls. He started saying something boyish and braggy and we were off already, kicking up sand in his face. Me and Maggie laughed as we ran together over the damp sand, leaping over the waves as the sea washed in. As I glanced her way out the corner of my eye I saw how graceful she looked, her long legs flying over the beach, hair streaming in the wind like the kelp caught in the tide.

SEPTEMBER 2430

Ma died with the summer. She lay in bed for weeks while her body wasted away. Hair falling out, teeth falling out, nails falling out, and blood when she was sick. We realised too late it was the fish from the Songs’ strange catch, all covered in sores and full of poison, and Sarah and Fingal went the same way. Soon after the fish, the sea began to wash up more dead things. Only this time, some of them were drowners, and they looked much the same as Ma was towards the end. Jen Song was all wracked with guilt and vowed never to cast again, but in the end it was Old Elsie that consoled her saying that without her braving the waves the lot of us would perish. I still think we’d be just fine with our cheese and that from the flock.

Rory reckoned it was one of the rig villages out to sea, and that it was only to be expected for those folk who lived amongst the ruins from the old times. Shannon affirmed and saw right by that and said it was the Witch punishing them for trespassing on her domain. I said they were being superstitious (a word Maggie told me about) but Shannon just scolded me for being a smart arse.

That night though, when I went to look at the lights of the luminfish like I used to do with Ma, I found something terrible shifting in the night tide. A huge dead sea creature, but all twisted and wrong, with too many teeth and eyes and all the fins in the wrong places. All the tales about the Sea Witch told of her various familiars, denizens of the deep that she took and changed into horrible monsters. I fled in terror, and the grown-ups found me hours later shivering in the dunes. I never told a soul.

MAY 2433

Every spring after lambing, we make the journey to the east coast of the island to trade with the settlement there. It was the first time I was allowed to come, seeing how I was almost of age. Rory warned me to stay close though as the hills are full of bad people who raid flocks and steal away children. I thought he was just trying to scare me into doing what I’m told but then he gave me a knife and told me to keep it to hand. A few other families from the Point came too, since it’s safer if we all went together. Everyone on the Point has different things to trade. Us and Old Elsie have sheep, the Songs catch fish with their nets and the leaky old boat they found half beneath the sand on the beach. Maggie’s family grow potatoes and huge gourds that rumours say were grown from seeds in boxes they dug up near the ruins up on the Point. Most folk would turn up their nose at such fare, but then most folk value a full belly more than they fear ghosts and old buried things.

As we neared the hills, we paid a visit to the learned women who live in the big white tower from the old times, studying and tinkering with bits of old machines and ancient devices. Usually we wouldn’t have anything to do with such people but they always treat us with respect and let us stay the night in the sheltered valley near the tower. They would probably let us sleep under their roof but most everyone prefers to sleep under the stars, as far away from that strange, pastlocked place as they can.

Naturally, being the curious young lasses that we were, Maggie and I snuck into the tower and were caught red handed by one of the learned women. She took it rather in good humour and instead of throwing us out, she showed us something. It was a small black square, smooth like sea glass but cracked and weathered at the corners. But then she did something to it we couldn’t see and it lit up like a luminfish. We stared at it in fear and awe as it showed a picture that moved. Thirteen white creatures danced across the picture, tall and graceful things with flowing hair like Maggie’s. We’d never seen anything like it, and the woman told us they were called “hoarses” or something, and that they had all died long ago. It made me feel quite sad, and when I looked across to Maggie her eyes glistened in the luminlight and she seemed to understand without even saying a word.

OCTOBER 2433

Around the middle of autumn, we pay our homage to the dead. Rory said that in old times it was called Halloween, and then Shannon told us that hundreds of years ago folk used to hide in their homes in fear of the ghostly children that roamed the villages, hungry for souls. They would leave sweet things outside their doors to placate them, and some dressed up as monsters and creatures of the night to scare the ghosts away.

This year though, everyone was plagued with strange dreams in the days leading up to the festival. We all knew everyone had the same dream, the Sea Witch singing from beneath the waves, a haunting, bone chilling melody that spoke of death and sadness and fire and famine. A song from the fall of the old times.

On the eve of Halloween, Tommy fell from the Point. We found him limp and broken in the rocky swell at the foot of the cliffs, and I thought he was still alive but it was just the gentle nudging of the waves. I helped carry him back, eyes blurred and stung with salt spray. The sea’s tears were my own. We buried him in the morning. Maggie had told me the night before that her folks had seen him walking up the point, eyes shut as though he was still sleeping. As she held me tightly while Old Elsie gave Tommy his rites, I thought of the Sea Witch calling to him with her eerie, luring songs. I dreamed of her again, that night.

AUGUST 2438

As the summer fell I visited Maggie’s grave. She always loved the heather flowers that grew up on the moors above the Point. Now, she rests amongst them. I took Higgy with me on a rare walk along the cliff tops. He doesn’t get about much these days, and  his silky black coat is heavily frosted with silver. He ambled along beside me as we made our way up the path. We found Old Elsie by the cairn where Maggie slept. We all sat together in silence for a while, Higgy’s tired old head gently huffing on my lap. After a while Elsie began to tell me a story.

In her youth, when she was strong and fiery and in her prime, the death of her lover drove her to wanderlust. She sailed between the Scattered Isles, or as her ancestors had called them; the Brides. She spoke of many strange places and people on her journeys, but one island in particular, where a village of forgotten people lived in the shadow of a dark mountain. In her time amongst them, she learnt of an ancient secret that dwelt under that ominous peak, where it was said the threads of the world came together under stone and over sea. And so, her lust for adventure and her curiosity led her into a cave under the mountain. What she found in there, she would not say, except that an exchange took place. Her fondest memory, ripped from her heart and traded for a single wish, granted. When I pressed her for details, she simply shook her head. Whatever had taken place had been washed away from her memory, only a faded imprint remained.

As we walked back down to the shore, I asked Old Elsie why she had told me any of this, and she said that all she meant by it was to give me some small comfort, in the way of a closing door, a resolution. I thought of what I might ask of that place if ever I chanced upon it. And so I understood. For even in a place where the threads of fate are unravelled and rewoven, the last journey we take is one we cannot return from. “Let her go, lass.” she said, and hobbled off down the beach, the setting sun glinting in her hair.

[short-story-blog]

The Weavers

Long ago, on the ragged shores of the western isles, there was a tiny, long-forgotten island. It was a desolate place, where a small village clung stubbornly to the rocks, barely sheltered from the raging seas by a forest of stunted trees. The denizens of this lonely community made their living from the sea, braving the winds and the waves to fill their threadbare nets with fish. On the hills above the village they kept sheep, tending to their flocks in the shadow of a single, fog-shrouded mountain.

One misty day, after a particularly wild storm, a shepherd wandered into the higher reaches of the hills, searching for a few of his scattered flock. The people of the village had long avoided the dark and mysterious mountain, and some said that strange whispers would sometimes drift down from the heights, echoing through the mists.

He climbed higher and higher, and all around him the low clouds seemed to grow thicker and thicker, muffling his footsteps and obscuring the treacherous path ahead. Patches of heather grew here and there amongst the wiry tufts of grass, but there was no other sign of life, and the birds were silent. Only the wind sang, a sad, plaintive cry answered only by the distant crash of waves upon the rocky shores far below. The shepherd grew fearful of the mountain, remembering an old tale from his childhood.

A lonely fisherman had braved the gloomy heights and had stumbled upon a cave in the mountain. It was said that in this cave he found a strange phenomenon; if one were to whisper their desires into the darkness, then perhaps their wishes would be granted. And so, when the fisherman returned from the mountain, he had won the heart of his childhood sweetheart, who had long scorned his affections.

Curiosity overcame his fears, and he continued onwards up the narrow path, his lost flock forgotten. In time, he came upon the summit, where he found a small cairn in the shadow of the peak. Looking closer, he saw that each stone in the cairn had some carved inscription. Each appeared to have a name, and some seemingly meaningless collection of words, a description of some event or recollection. Some were so weathered and indecipherable that they must have lain there for an age. The shepherd had a basic grasp of the written word, and so picking a stone at random, he read:

"Winter's night, alone on the hills, I saw a line of fire burn through the heavens, as bright as the moon. It plunged towards the earth, and was gone in a bright flash. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, until I saw Her face."

He placed the stone back on the cairn and gazed upon the tall peak ahead, and saw there was a hollow in the rocks below. He paused for a moment, hesitant, then made his way towards it. The hollow led to a narrow passage, twisting down into the heart of the mountain. As he descended, the echoing of the winds seemed to fade, and gradually, he began to hear strange sounds that filled him with terror and wonder. The endless rushing of a river. The mighty roar of a thousand throats, joined in either joy or rage. The clash of metal upon metal and the screams of lives cut short. The soft, murmuring song of a mother to her child. The colossal rumble of the earth shifting in its sleep, yawning fire. The frenzied beat of hooves upon the ground. The wordless cry of an infant, new to this world. They reverberated all around him, loud and imminent, yet disembodied and far.

Eventually, the sounds faded and the passage widened out into a large chamber. The walls and ceiling were carved like the roots of trees, writhing and coiling around one another. In the centre of the room, a group of hooded figures were gathered around an opening. Hundreds of candles lit the room, scattered around the edge of the rough-hewn floor. Long ages of use had caused the melted wax to flow inwards from the walls, pooling in crevices and holes and forming intricate rivulets and patterns. As he stood before this strange sight, he began to notice a constant whispering, an unintelligible stream of muttering, emanating from the hooded figures. As he moved closer he began to hear what seemed like an echoing reply from the deep hole in the floor. He felt a deep and foreboding chill, and an unexplainable fear of the unknown, as when one tried to comprehend the distant stars and the workings of fate and time, or the will of the gods.

His heart faltered as a hand gently touched his shoulder, and he turned to see a young boy dressed in the same hooded robes as the whispering figures.

"You have come seeking fulfilment of your desires?" he spoke haltingly, as though he had not used his voice in a long time.

The shepherd had many questions, but was struck dumb by the inherent strangeness of the place. He simply nodded, and the boy led him through a side passage to a smaller chamber.

"You may be granted whatever you seek, within reason," said the boy. "But there is a cost. You must offer up your most precious memory."

"Forever?"

"That is the price you must pay. For what you ask, the Weavers require an offering to sweeten the eternal burden they bear. It is their only comfort." As the shepherd cast about his mind, he already knew what he sought. The last day he spent with his wife, before a terrible storm took her from him, along with many others. He remembered the sun shining upon her hair, glistening like golden thread, as they sat above the cliffs watching the gulls dancing gracefully on the wind. He remembered her lovely face as she turned to him, and her sweet lips upon his. They had talked of one day leaving the island and exploring the forgotten lands to the east, such was her adventurous spirit. He had been caught up in her infectious desire for the unknown, but ever since the day she was cruelly taken from him, he had fallen into a deep and melancholy sorrow, and he had taken to the hills to tend sheep in lonely solitude. He began to wonder if he could perhaps wish for her return. He did not doubt the unnatural power of this place.

As if hearing his thoughts, the boy said, "They cannot raise the dead. Only alter the course of fate, as one would divert a stream. They take the threads and weave them into a new pattern."

The shepherd let out a deep sigh and thought awhile. He pondered the struggle of his people as of late, and he knew he could help them. Giving up such a precious memory would ease his shattered soul, as it gave him as much pain as it did bittersweet joy. He felt in his heart that his wife would understand his small sacrifice, as she gazed down lovingly upon him from the embrace of the gods. He turned to the boy.

"My village has suffered, these past few winters have been harsh, and the seas have been barren. I wish for our good fortune, and calmer skies. Let the waters teem with life again."

"It shall be so. But, you must understand something. For every thread rewoven, another becomes unravelled. While your people may be spared misfortune, others will not have the same luck."

"I understand. But we have lived in dire times long enough. I am ready."

"Then you must give up your memory. Do not lie, it must be your most treasured, or the Weavers will not grant you what you seek, and they will know, for they see into the hearts of men and women as you would gaze into a clear pool of water." The boy reached into a woven basket and lifted out a flat stone. As the shepherd began to recite the memory, the boy carved upon it. When it was finished, he asked the shepherd for his name, and inscribed it on the tablet. He handed it to the shepherd. "Take this stone and lay it upon the cairn outside, on the summit of the mountain. Then leave this place, and never return. The Weavers cannot act as the gods for every wrong to be made right or undesirable made worthy. Fate has its own path, and they can change but a few steps. You will forget the workings of this place, for it is better that way. The Weavers must remain undisturbed from the outside world."

The shepherd took the stone tablet and bowed, then wordlessly followed the boy back into the main chamber. As he made his way to the passage leading out of the mountain, he looked back to see the boy whispering in the ears of the Weavers, and a chill ran through him as he felt something deep within his mind stir, and then dissolve into a feeling of something once-known, but forgotten, not quite a memory, but something akin to the lights burned into closed eyes after staring for too long at the sun. Only a bitter longing for what was gone remained. He tried in vain to read the words written on the stone tablet, but they blurred before his eyes.

He trod wearily back through the echoing tunnels, and into the cold winds above. After one last glance at the mountain, the shepherd placed the stone upon the cairn, perhaps for some other lonely soul to discover.