Mists

Sitting on the wall, she lets her feet hang into the old chapel. The congregation fell silent long ago, their passionate adorations no longer giving the place purpose, for what are walls without people? The priest continued longer so the histories say, staggering through life on a pitiful wage, trapped on that savage land so remote and distant from company. But he was loyal to his duty and his lord and so stayed as he was bidden. 

The ruins are quiet now, empty and lonely as it is wont to become in winter, once the frail tourists have abandoned it for the warmer climates of their towns and cities, back to their fast dull lives where myths and legends hold no sway. She looks around at the patchwork of low stone walls and green rises that cover foundations. There are a few people left. They steal their last pictures with the king that never was, before the drizzle drives them to better things; hot tea and fresh scones, a warm fire and a glass of something to ease the day, laugher as the raw vision of this place fades to memory. 

Leaving, they cross the bridge in the sky back to the mainland, the old natural path having fallen, succumbing to time and tide many years before the woman sat upon the chapel wall. Some will return, those that understand. But there are not many left now. As she watches, the woman sees a boy turn on the bridge, hanging between land and island as his family walks on. For a breath he takes it in, filling himself with it to keep him going until he returns again. 

It is nice to know there are still some who feel it. 

Now the castle is not only quiet, but empty. It is wrong, all of this. The island craves its people, the bubbling life of the hardy who made their living and their home on this unforgiving coastline. She can tell that it does not understand, that it reaches for those it loves with the last of its wavering strength. It is so tired. The magic is fading. 

Running her hands over the stones put there by strength, now nothing but dust, she traces the natural lines of the local rock that forms the walls. The drizzle has strengthened now, the damp revealing grooves and rivulets previously hidden by dry weather. It takes a moment to connect, to remember, but then they are with her.

Their calloused hands are warmed by the work despite the driving rain they are forced to work through. They are wet to the skin, droplets running down their spines like knives. But the men do not mind. They are being paid well for their work, rightly so for the dangerous nature of the nearby cliffs, and they are well supplied with warm drink to fuel their aching muscles. One tells a joke, a crude witticism which has no place near a house of worship, but the others laugh and it does not matter. 

The wind has picked up, tossing the woman’s long hair to the left, towards the sea. Turning, she can see a ship skimming through the state grey sea. It is an ancient galley, well caulked and riding high, bearing precious cargo from the continent. Wine, food, pottery, and beads, all are welcomed heartily by the people of this land. They will exchange it for what is so readily available here; the metal from the deep mines which they do not mind losing for the right price. Some of the goods will be kept, others moved on for further profit, as there is more to the larger island than this coastline and these places have things the people here desire. 

Figures move on deck. Hauling ropes, the sail is dropped and stowed, the wind too unruly now to be trusted. Oars are taken and held above the pulsing sea then, as one, lowered to beat the waves and drive the ship into the harbour where waiting men prepare to unload. 

Peeling laughter draws the woman’s eyes away from the sea. The working men are gone now, finished for the night, away to their homes and hearths. In their place, a little way across the grass is a small girl, blond hair plaited in two braids, strands creeping out to curl around her little face and neck. Trembling with delight, she points at the approaching ship, looking with gleaming eyes towards her mother who smiles in turn and shakes her head. To have a daughter so in love with the sea could not be a blessing, she knew she would lose her one day to a sailor and that would break her heart. But her husband would insist on granting the child her every wish and whim and besides, no one controlled that girl's destiny. 

The woman on the wall smiled to see them and the land smiled with her; it knew its people. 

The mother and daughter have gone now, and darkness has fallen. Starless and bleak, the bitter night was worsened by the whispering wind slicing through the air and piercing the lungs, making each breath as sharp as love. Somewhere in the darkness the sea crashes over rocks, ripping at the solid surface, tearing at it with its icy fingers as it roars in fury. 

Light arose from the blackness, small, weak, and flickering but with power enough to warm the land so long bereft of those it loved. Around her, the woman felt the island stir and she was glad for it. Along the path, well-worn but narrow, came the priest, one hand holding the light aloft, the other gripping his hood to prevent it flying back and exposing his chilled head. 

Quickening his steps, he hurries to the relative warmth of the chapel, closing the door quickly behind him to escape the frightful night. Removing his hood, he extinguishes the flame and sets the lantern down on a table to the side, moving to the altar to prepare for the evening rite. 

Still sitting on her perch on the ruined wall, though the chapel was complete, the woman watched him perform his ritual with the practised movements of a man exhausted by ceaseless loneliness. The island cried in sympathy. How it had missed him. How it knew how he felt. 

Task complete, the priest clears the altar, returning the chapel to the stark bareness he always left it in. Picking up his small lantern he relights the light and makes ready for the hard struggle back to his little room where he can leave this world for a time and enter the dreaming where well missed faces await him. 

Opening the door, the priest draws a rushed breath as the raw air hits him, unreserved in its biting cruelty. Making to pull up his hood, the priest goes against his usual habit and pauses. Curious and waiting, the woman and island watch him as he turns around to look back inside the chapel then out again, up at the sky where the clouds had parted allowing the blinking lights of stars to show through. 

‘Wonderful place,’ he whispers, shaking his head before striking out into the night. 

Shining light filled the chapel, warm and blinding so the woman was forced to cover her eyes. 

Opening them, she had returned to the present. The sun was fading, dipping below the horizon as it took its last bow, and the cold had worsened but not yet to the level of that night aeons ago. 

Standing, she stretched her legs and looked around much as the priest had done. She would have to leave now as they closed the castle for the night and they would force her off if she refused to move. The ignorance. How could they think they had the power to shut up a place when it was just as alive as they were? No – more so – for it had lived a thousand lives each of them bright, vivid, and meaningful whereas they had only one and even that they blinkered, refusing to see all. 

With a last touch, she bade farewell to the island. ‘Wonderful place’, she said, and it smiled back at her, alive again for it remembered and knew its story was only continuing, its purpose had not yet ended. 

Walking back across the bridge, the woman stopped at the halfway point, turning back towards the island for a last searching look. Last for a time at least, she would return. They always did.