I don't know when I landed here. It feels like it could be a year or an hour. What I do know is I cannot leave.
Maybe I'm in a coma? Or maybe I'm dead. Either way, I'm alone on this island.
The island is strange. It's like someone drew a tropical island based entirely on descriptions, having only lived in a castle in an alpine mountain town. There is an old, fairy-tale like castle stuck to a Mt. Fuji-like volcano in the center of the island. The trees covering the island are a strange mix of conifers and tropical plants. For some reason, the castle on the volcano has a moat. There are no freshwater rivers like I might expect on such an island, and rock formations, cliffs, and coasts flow from one type to another with no transition— almost like someone pasted them on a mood board to create a rough outline of an island.
The center of the island is tropical rainforest, with a band of conifers separating it from the tropical island plants on the periphery. Some places have snow, others are summer.
In short, this island makes no sense.
I bury my toes in the black, volcanic sand while looking at the sunset. I've tried getting into the castle a thousand times to no avail. I need a new plan. And I'm thirsty.
"I wish there was a fresh water river." I whisper to the waves.
A low rumbling starts behind me, growing louder by the second. I bolt to my feet, looking for the source. This is new!
Trees are disappearing from the horizon. Falling like dominoes behind me. Land slide? Avalanche? Either way I'm in danger.
I run to the cliffs on my right, and I climb as fast as I can to the top. High ground is the only escape I have. Whatever it is, it is coming fast. I won't make it to the top. There is a small ledge in three feet. I redouble my efforts, the whole cliff is shaking now. If I can make it to the the ledge, I just might survive. I reach the ledge just as the trees on the beach start to fall. The cliff is shaking so much I might fall before I can heave myself up. I'm far too focused to see what is happening behind me in the lagoon.
Finally, I'm able to pull myself up on the ledge. Pushing back into the cliff side as much as I can, I look to see what is happening in the lagoon. A new river has appeared trhough the forest and is now terminating into the lagoon. It seems to be flowing from the forest around the volcano in the center of the island.
How?
Rivers don't appear from nowhere. Did I do that? Maybe…
"I wish I had a sandwich…" I say uncertainly.
A sandwich appears on the ledge next to me. I pick it up. Bacon, pickles, and melted cheese… just like my dad used to make us as kids. After a moment, I take a bite. It may as well be manna from heaven, I don't even realize the tears as I relive timeless afternoon lunches with my father and sister. The way he laughed at our antics as he flipped sandwiches in the pan, the sound of the plates hitting the table, scrape of chairs, the sudden silence as we all savored our sandwiches, broken only when dad would make a stupid pun.
"I wish my dad were here." He doesn't appear. Whatever this power is, it only seems to work on the physical surroundings. I can't conjure people.
It is almost dark before I'm ready to move again. The ledge is not wide enough to sleep on, and my ass fell asleep long ago. I stiffly make my way down the cliff. I will decide what to use this for in the morning.
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The river looks pristine in the morning light. Clear and blue. I can see fish swimming and colorful pebbles litter the river bed. The water from it is crisp and cold. The purest I've ever tasted.
I spent all night thinking about this new power. What should I use it for? Can I change the island? Should I change the island?
There is no one else on the island. I've checked. It is what I spent the first century of this life doing. There are fish, birds, deer, crabs, and other wildlife— but no people. Nothing that might be considered sentient.
This is my island. It is time it looked it.
I start at the mountain in the center of the island. It looks volcanic and bare, like someone did a five second sketch of a volcano. No details, all straight lines. Not at all like a mountain on an island such as this should look. I envision the many mountains I've climbed. It's hard. How did their lines look? Where did the snow start? What season is it even? Am I on a tropical island or a northern one?
I'm not a big fan of heat, and I've only been to the tropics once. I'm not sure I could imagine a functional tropical island.
Something closer to home then. I imagine the craggy peaks of home, in autumn. Thousands of memories of hikes, playing in the mountains with my family, skiing and sledding, pass through my mind. And I wish. I need to see those mountains again. To see the snow blushing their peaks, see the forest in all its brilliant color. To be home.
I wish.
Not with words, but desire and homesickness so strong that were I somewhere with cell reception, it might summon a video call from my mother like some kind of cosmic siren song. I spent time in the memories, delighting in moments long past. I did not hear any ground changing or feel vibrations in the earth, I was too lost in the memories.
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Maybe I stood on the beach with my eyes closed for a minute, or it could have been a day. Either way, when I finally opened my eyes, my mountains looked back at me in all their bejewled autumn splendor. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, marred only by the monstrosity of a castle, set precariously on a peak I knew could not support it.
A problem for tomorrow.
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Over the course of the next decade, I slowly transformed the island. Reliving memory after memory to shape a beach I knew like the back of my hand, forests and glens I spent countless hours in. My house sat by that same river on the formerly volcanic beach, each room held a familiar view— even if the house was a strange accumulation of all the places I'd lived and homes I'd visited.
My friends basement pool, stood next to my mom's kitchen. My studio apartment sat where my room should have been had this been my childhood home. My father's sprawling garden provided food for me daily. I could will it to always be in bloom, and I spent my time making pickles, grinding flour and making bread… just so I could eat time making pickle sandwiches and ignoring the ugly castle on the northern slope of my mountains.
I spent time walking the forests, cultivating the garden, fishing, and running with my long deceased childhood dog along the beach, just like I used to as a child.
I could do this forever. There is no desire to leave.
Except for the voices. I started hearing them about a year ago. At times it was whispered passages from books dad used to read us as kids. Other times it was whispered pleas to "come back to us," whatever that means.
No matter how much I wish them away, the voices come. Over the last few months, the message has changed:
"Go to the castle"
"Fix the castle"
Over and over. I will see it written in the clouds or the stones of the stream. The crabs on the beach will click it out with their claws. My dog always steers us up the rod to the castle until I make him turn back.
I slowly make a sandwich. Then a second. I fill my thermos with coffee, and a bottle with water. Two oranges, an apple, some grapes, brie, and seeded crackers join the sandwiches in a backpack; along with a blanket and tent I won't need.
It is time to conquer the castle.
The hike takes the better part of a day. Each step is a struggle, the closer I come to the castle, the more I fill with dread. The castle looks familiar, but I can't place it.
I've definitely been here before.
The dirt path turns into a paved road, and I can't bring myself to go further. The dog stands in the middle of the road in front of the castle, urging me to go on.
I go down the mountain.
It feels like failure of the worst kind, sitting safely in front of my fire, drinking my dad's favorite wine. He takes any excuse to build a fire. We had one burning almost daily when I was young, except in summer when he would take his fire skills outside to the barbeque.
This settles into my routine for weeks, months, years. I pack food, walk up the mountain, make it to the road, only to turn back in disgrace.
Every time I turn back, the whispers on the wind grow more urgent. The clouds are now permanently shaped like arrows pointing at the castle.
I will do it tomorrow. Tomorrow I will face the castle.
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I did not do it tomorrow. Or the next day.
But today, I find my feet on pavement for the first time in centuries. It feels unnaturally hard.
One step. Then another.
Nothing bad has happened.
Yet.
Each step takes every ounce of will I have. I feel I might break, or have a heart attack.
Ten steps.
The castle looms.
A panic attack.
Ten more steps.
The dog won't follow anymore.
One more step.
Again.
In two steps I will be through the gate and in the courtyard they use for parking.
A step.
I close my eyes.
Two more steps.
SLAM!
The gate is closed. No turning back.
I reach the castle door, bring my hand up to knock.
It slams open.
"Did you see the look on their faces!" my dad is bent in half, laughing so hard he can't get breath, only still standing because of my shoulder braced under his arm. I'm in a lovely evening gown, his tuxedo slightly skewed from laughter and hours of dancing.
I pull off my heels. Strappy things, blessedly, no longer cutting in my feet. "Thank you for coming with me, daddy."
"As if I would miss your first gala!" he chuckles while taking the keys from the valet. "And it was in the castle! I mean, how wonderful was this place. Next time we come here, you'll be graduating. First prize and now your painting is hanging in the castle. I wouldn't miss this for the world!"
He is beaming.
We get in the car. It's a little red sports car he bought from a friend years ago. It didn't run then, we fixed it together. I pop the glove box back in place, we will finally fix it this weekend. I will miss it popping open every time the passenger door does.
I open the event booklet, "They are going to hang it in the main hall for the next month, then move it to the drawing room!"
He turns to look at me "Yeah?" he beams.
He doesn't see the truck coming. When it hits, when it pushes us off the road, when we fall off the cliff, his eyes nver leave mine. His smile is brittle, the spark gone. He died when it hit.
He never feels the impact of the car, or the tree's branches break as they slow our fall. His neck is broken, chest still.
Someone is screaming.
A hand takes mine through the window, "It isn't your fault, baby cakes."
He looks younger, care free.
"You can come back any time. I will be here for you, on the beach anytime you need me. But it isn't your time. It's time to wake up now."
"I don't want to go! Please don't make me go! This never would have happened if I hadn't distracted you, if I hadn't won that contest! I won't go!" I'm sobbing.
"You can go. You must!" He cradles my face in his hands "Live for me. And every night in your dreams, I will meet you on the beach, and you can tell me all about it. I love you. You need to live."
"No… Nononoononono!" He kisses me on the forehead.
"WAKE UP!"
I open my eyes. Everything hurts in a way I haven't felt in centuries. A rescue helicopter beats overhead, a rescuer hanging from a rope outside my smashed window.
"She's awake!" he shouts up, "Hi, do you know what your name is or where you are?"
"Kelly," I croak, turning my head. He is still there, smiling blankly at me. I will never see him smile again.
"Kelly, hey kelly! We have to get you out of the tree. You are hanging over a cliff. I need you to do everything I say."
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They weren't able to bring up the car. Dad was pronounced dead on arrival.
I spent a week in the hospital. Every night I went to the beach.
He wasn't there.
So I would talk to the waves. I talked to the waves in my dream and in the real world. Maybe he would hear me.
Time went on.
Survivors guilt. PTSD. Therapy.
I slowly moved on.
I met someone. Fell in love. I stopped going to the beach, right up until the night he proposed.
That night, I dreamed of my island again. I pet my old dog. Threw a ball, it ran out the front door, I chased the dog, enjoying a game I haven't played in years— only to stop short on the porch.
There, on the beach, stood my father skipping stones in the waves as if it were any random Saturday.
He turned, "There you are, baby cakes! I've been waiting forever." He beamed "Tell me everything!"