Flash fiction by J.A. Pak
Merewif Island
Merewif, an abandoned island, beautiful because of it. Once long ago three large fishing villages had prospered there. All three villages vanished within a heartbeat. The Demon Wave. Furious, the legend says, at having been cuckolded by a Merewif girl. So great was his anger, the Sea of Anmiathor had churned for a fortnight.
Eerie too, Merewif. The beach a graveyard of fossilized tree stumps. Further in lay half-eaten buildings squatted by ghosts, a narrative of haze. Visitors often came to the island for a day of fun, but no one dared make the island home.
Klairey and Ata had never been to the island before. "Shall we explore," adventurous Klairey asked, threading her arm around Ata and pulling her along. The flat parts of the island where the villages had been were barren, desolate, the hulls of fishing boats rising out of the ground, stuck in morbid twilight. But up in the hills, vegetation was green and lush. There was an old path, with much of the stepping stones still intact. Beguiling red flowers lined the path. Klairey and Ata followed the line of red, forgetting the sea.
And then, somehow, they were lost, unsure of where the path had gone. Instead of a path, there was a tiny cottage. And a woman. Sitting on an old, splintering chair. Long white hair swirling in the breeze. She had on a white blouse tucked into a voluminous red skirt. Her stockings red, too, and her shoes elegant wooden clogs painted white like enamel. The woman seemed astonishingly beautiful.
"We beg your pardon," Klairey said. "We did not mean to disturb you."
"You did not," the woman answered, her voice unusually deep yet gentle like a soft current riding the top of a river. "I saw the two of you coming up the path."
"We did not know that anyone lived on the island," Klairey said. "We were told the island is deserted."
"Deserted. Yes," the woman agreed. "Of people. Perhaps you are thirsty. It is a long walk up from the shore. See the hut over there? Go inside and you will find water to nourish you."
It was true. They were thirsty, their throats dry as paper. In the hut was a running stream of spring water. And a red ceramic ladle which they used to scoop the water up. It was astonishingly sweet, the water. Like the nectar of flowers. Cold and invigorating. They drank several ladles full.
The woman was singing when they came out of the hut. A beautiful song in a language that was foreign to them. Klairey and Ata sat on the grass and listened to the song, so touched they couldn’t speak.
"It is a song of us," the woman said after she’d finished. "Not a song of apology or lament. Not a song of celebration or defiance. But a song simply of us. Women who have caught the eyes of the gods. It is a song only we can hear."
The woman stood up and pointed down to the beach: "Look. They are preparing to leave. You must return. You must not spend the night on the island. It is not a place for you. Never come back."
Klairey and Ata were suddenly fearful. They ran down to the beach and never looked back.
Merewif, an abandoned island, beautiful because of it. Once long ago three large fishing villages had prospered there. All three villages vanished within a heartbeat. The Demon Wave. Furious, the legend says, at having been cuckolded by a Merewif girl. So great was his anger, the Sea of Anmiathor had churned for a fortnight.
Eerie too, Merewif. The beach a graveyard of fossilized tree stumps. Further in lay half-eaten buildings squatted by ghosts, a narrative of haze. Visitors often came to the island for a day of fun, but no one dared make the island home.
Klairey and Ata had never been to the island before. "Shall we explore," adventurous Klairey asked, threading her arm around Ata and pulling her along. The flat parts of the island where the villages had been were barren, desolate, the hulls of fishing boats rising out of the ground, stuck in morbid twilight. But up in the hills, vegetation was green and lush. There was an old path, with much of the stepping stones still intact. Beguiling red flowers lined the path. Klairey and Ata followed the line of red, forgetting the sea.
And then, somehow, they were lost, unsure of where the path had gone. Instead of a path, there was a tiny cottage. And a woman. Sitting on an old, splintering chair. Long white hair swirling in the breeze. She had on a white blouse tucked into a voluminous red skirt. Her stockings red, too, and her shoes elegant wooden clogs painted white like enamel. The woman seemed astonishingly beautiful.
"We beg your pardon," Klairey said. "We did not mean to disturb you."
"You did not," the woman answered, her voice unusually deep yet gentle like a soft current riding the top of a river. "I saw the two of you coming up the path."
"We did not know that anyone lived on the island," Klairey said. "We were told the island is deserted."
"Deserted. Yes," the woman agreed. "Of people. Perhaps you are thirsty. It is a long walk up from the shore. See the hut over there? Go inside and you will find water to nourish you."
It was true. They were thirsty, their throats dry as paper. In the hut was a running stream of spring water. And a red ceramic ladle which they used to scoop the water up. It was astonishingly sweet, the water. Like the nectar of flowers. Cold and invigorating. They drank several ladles full.
The woman was singing when they came out of the hut. A beautiful song in a language that was foreign to them. Klairey and Ata sat on the grass and listened to the song, so touched they couldn’t speak.
"It is a song of us," the woman said after she’d finished. "Not a song of apology or lament. Not a song of celebration or defiance. But a song simply of us. Women who have caught the eyes of the gods. It is a song only we can hear."
The woman stood up and pointed down to the beach: "Look. They are preparing to leave. You must return. You must not spend the night on the island. It is not a place for you. Never come back."
Klairey and Ata were suddenly fearful. They ran down to the beach and never looked back.
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J.A. Pak’s writing has been published in a variety of publications, including 7x7, (b)OINK, Joyland, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Luna Luna and Art/Life. ‘Merewif Island’ is an excerpt from the forthcoming fantasy novella Illume. More of her work can be read at https://medium.com/triple-eight-palace-of-dreams-happiness.
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