The Island

They tell stories about those who try to leave the island.

Natia had grown up on those stories; her grandmother was the People’s oracle, wise woman and prophet and healer in one, and Natia had spent her childhood at her knee, listening as the older woman worked. She’d learned how to blend herbs and cure fevers, to read the stars and predict the weather, how to tell if the soil was right for the crops to grow.

And, she’d learned of their past.

The island (it had no name, needed none, for it was the only one for at least a day’s travel and no one went farther than that. They simply called it the island, and that was good enough) was warm, and comfortable. Fish abounded, crops grew well, and the People were, for the most part, happy.

For the most part.

There were dissidents, of course. Those who were not suited to boredom and sameness and confinement to a land mass one could cross in a day. Dreamers and wanderers who came to Grandmother looking for star readings and copies of old, old maps, made by those who’d first come to the island more generations ago than anyone could now count. Grandmother talked to them, of course, and some were convinced to stay.

Others weren’t. At least one a year, sometimes two, occasionally a couple who wanted to leave and start over far from overbearing parents or stifling families. Natia could sympathize with those, at least. The tribe was large for the space they had, and privacy at a premium. There were times even she longed to get away, and she knew what lay beyond better than most.

She’d seen the wrecks, after all.

Grandmother had taken her, once, and that had been enough. 

Miles and miles of half-sunk ships, almost completely circling the island, just over a day’s travel from shore. The only break in the ring was a half-mile stretch at due north…

Where the fog sat.

It hadn’t even looked like much; it was thick, yes, almost impenetrable, but looked at from an angle it didn’t seem to be more than a hundred yards deep. It was just… a mass of fog, sides perfectly straight, as if some giant had cut it from a cloud and anchored it to the sea. No lights moved within, no shadowy figures, and yet Natia’s very soul screamed at the thought of going near it. 

“Has anyone gone through it?” she’d asked later, once they’d gone back home and were safe in Grandmother’s hut, the door closed against the night.

“Our ancestors, if you believe the tales,” Grandmother had answered as she worked with mortar and pestle, breaking dried herbs for a salve. “They came from the other side of the fog, of course, but the stories say it was much farther away. Miles and miles and miles, a place where the weather was much colder, the seas rougher and less bountiful. Explorers looking for a paradise, and they found it. Of course, some tried to go back anyway.”

“What happened to them?”

Grandmother had simply shook her head. “Some are the oldest of the wrecks. A few others tried to go back through the fog.”

“Did they make it?”

A shrug. “No one knows, little one. Two days later their boat returned, caught on the current. They were not on it.” 

That had been ten years ago. Natia is a woman grown now, second in line for the post of Oracle after her mother. It’s a post she does not want, for it comes with a marriage to a man (the chieftain's son, a loudmouthed lout of a scoundrel) she despises with every fiber of her being. It’s tradition, though, one she’d been taught to respect and revere since infancy, and yet…

And yet…

And yet…

Grandmother had died four days ago. Natia had been the last one to speak with her, and she’d had the strength for only a single sentence, whispered so low Natia hadn’t been sure at first the old woman had actually spoken.

“The password... is looking glass.”

Natia’s engagement had been announced the following day.

She’d spent the next two days planning. 

Food, extra clothing, a map and simple compass from Grandmother’s hut…

And a boat, one of the fishing vessels, stolen in the dead of night.

That had been just over a day ago. Now, as dawn broke, she reached the edge of the fog. Standing in the bow, she took a deep breath, and yelled.

“LOOKING GLASS!”

**************************************

“Sir! Sir!”

The officer of the watch turned from his display, facing the radar tech. “What is it, Ensign?”

The young man gulped audibly, then pointed at a blip on his screen. “The gateway to the Carroll simulation, sir. It’s been opened from the other side. There’s a boat coming through.”

“Oh.” The officer thought about that for a second, then blanched. “Oh.”

Natia gasped as she cleared the fog. The passage had seemed to take days, yet no time at all, and on the other side…

It was cold. 

And there was… a boat? A huge boat, gleaming white, larger than anything she’d ever seen. People dressed in odd clothing scurried about its deck, most lining the railing, staring at her and yelling in a language she didn’t recognize. As she watched, a smaller boat lowered, four men and women in it, and headed her way.

One of the women was standing in the bow of the skiff, and she called out when they were close enough. The language was hers, but strange, almost formal. “Greetings. My name is Commander Malory Reynolds of the RNS Alice Liddell. May I have your name, please?”

“Natia, of the People,” she replied, too stunned for caution.

“Natia,” the woman repeated. “Please, join us aboard my ship. We’ve been waiting for one of you to come through.”

You have?

Natia nodded, and the boat pulled alongside hers. One of the sailors helped her across, and they made their way back to the ship.

Unseen, behind her, the fishing boat retreats, caught in the current. The fog swallows it, almost greedily.

Two days later, it's found run aground on a sandbar, the maps and compass still inside.

**************************************

Fifty years later:

“Grandmother, tell us of Great-aunt Natia,” the child begs, staring up at the old woman as she mixes herbs with coconut milk.

“Again?” she says, unruffled. The story of her sister’s disappearance was a favorite, for some reason.

“Yes, please,” and the old woman relents.

“Alright…”

They tell stories about those who try to leave the island.

Sometimes, they're even true.