The Girl Who Painted Death
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โand with desperation (and no small degree of madness)
She takes the portrait of her love
And she takes one of the bone bowls from the kitchen
Because it has to be a bowl of bone
And she walks to the western water at sundown
Because it has to be there and it has to be then
And when the sun is at it's lowest point
And its reflection forms a bridge between the horizon and the shore
She dips the bowl into the water and fills it with sunlight
And then she carries it into the forest
And she sets it down in the darkest spot between the trees
The bowl of light seems to illuminate the very air she breathes
And she sits
And she waits
Around her, the old trees creak and moan to each other
As if offended by the encroaching sun
The first strange thing
About the Island of St Sasha
Is that there never was any St Sasha
There is no saint by that name
Mentioned anywhere
The Beast growled curiously
As it pads back and forth just beyond the veil of light
Dawn peers into the dark
But can make out only a vague shape at the edge of the shadows
She senses the Beast studying the portrait of her love
And when it finally speaks
The voice of the Beast seems to erupt from the earth
Like the forest itself must have done untold ages ago
Second, is that until the 1890's
When the last permanent residents left
The islanders considered themselves to be directly descended
From those who set up camp at the very edge of the world
Or at the very least the edge of known civilization
To the east of here lies mainland Britain
But to the west
Absolutely nothing
Just featureless sea
"Hmph. New miracles," it says
"Human miracles at that. A troubling perversion
What would happen, I wonder, if you painted a self-portrait?"
The notion makes Dawn shudder
The Beast grunts
"Of course, I should expect no better from a man
Brutish nosiness wrapped in the hide of curiosity."
"So," says the Beast
And Dawn feels its terrible gaze come to rest on her
It paws the ground restlessly
"The dirt of this place irritates my hooves
Make your request."
But there is a third thing about this place
That no one ever seems to talk about
And it's related to why
The people who crashed here were stranded
For as long as they were
There was nothing they could use
To repair their boat
And instead they were forced
To use the wreckage to build shelter
Which they later rebuilt with stone
And then learned to hunt seabirds
To compliment their diet of fish
And then
They became just another settlement
Who survived against the odds
On a planet full of settlements
Who survived against the odds
There's nothing unusual about that
Except
"You want me to undo this, do you?
Fracture the magic? Tell you
'It's alright, child
What the painting shows is meaningless
She might live another sixty years
Or she might die next week
Or tomorrow
Or five minutes ago, at home, in bed, alone
Wondering where you are while you were sat here
Waiting for me.'"
For all of the island's tapestry of fairytales
About the things that creep between the ageless trees
In the deep
Dark forest
There never was a forest here
No so much as a single sapling
Ever
"Listen. Listen to me now
You know for sure that she will not live to see old age
That is painful I expect
But look at the portrait. Look at your work
She is older in this painting than she is now, yes?
You know therefore that you won't lose her today
And you know you won't lose her tomorrow
And that is a comfort no other creature of your world can claim
Am I right?
"I can't save you from this
Nobody lives happily ever after child
We all just live
Until we don't
You know, it's funny
I am all alone here
And yet I feel
Compelled
To whisper
And as the sun rises across the water to the east
Dawn nestles gently in the crook of her love's arms
Her thoughts drifting to the days ahead
Their lives stretching out before them
Like wild, uncharted ocean
And believe me when I tell you that they lived
Happily