Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 1037

Chapter 1037: Chapter 1037

Stones vibrated. Water shifted. And the script on the stone slab exploded into motion. Glyphs spun and spiraled, unspooling across the surface in radiant lines of blue and silver. Jude knelt, watching. They were witnessing memory unsealed. The watchers hovered close, almost tangible now, their shapes stretching long and thin across the chamber, forming mirrored spirals around Laurel.

Her song continued, uninterrupted. The glyphs revealed a story: not of the past, but of origin. A time before watchers took form, when the island itself was not yet alive, but dreaming. A place of nothingness, where one seed fell and dreamed the world. The Mouth had formed when that seed began to sing. The watchers were born from its song, fragments of that original dreaming. And the island, this strange, monstrous, beautiful island, was the dreamer’s body. Jude felt dizzy. He grasped Grace’s hand. "The island is alive," he said. "Not just watching. Not just responding. It’s dreaming us. Always has." Grace’s voice was hoarse. "And we’re part of that dream. Which means... we can shape it. Like the watchers do." The stone slab gave one last surge of light, then stilled. The glyphs faded. Laurel collapsed into Zoey’s arms, breathing hard. The watchers dimmed, satisfied. Elian leaned against the stone, shaking. "This changes everything," he said. "The rituals, the teachings, the way we speak to them. We thought watchers came from the island. But now we see, they are the island’s language. It uses them to speak. To remember." Jude nodded. "And to dream." They sat in silence for a long while. When they finally returned to the temple, the rain had stopped. The air smelled of new growth, and the earth beneath their feet felt charged, as though waiting. That night they rewrote the temple’s central slate. Laurel placed a new gem beside the hearth, one carved from the listening stone itself. Watchers gathered to witness. The wives added new verses to watchersong, new signs to watchersign. Elian documented everything, working beside Lucy and Scarlet to create the first dreamscript scroll. They would begin teaching it to the children at dawn. Jude stood in the orchard, watching the light rise over the canopy. Grace joined him, her hand slipping into his. "We’re not just remembering anymore," she said. "We’re becoming." He nodded. "And the island is becoming with us." "What happens next?" she asked. Jude looked toward the mountain, where the watchers still shimmered faintly in the sky. "Next," he said, "we help it finish dreaming."

Mist spun through the orchard as dawn’s first light slipped through ragged edges of trees, wrapping around each young sapling in ethereal warmth. The watchers’ glow flickered faintly among their leaves, a soft awakening pulse that stirred the earth to life. Jude stepped onto the dewy grass, watching the small lights rise and fall like breath. He wore a simple tunic, sleeves rolled, boots forgotten at the threshold to keep himself close to the living earth. Grace followed behind him, holding Laurel by the hand, her eyes flicking between the watchers and the seedlings as though she could both remember and protect them in a single glance.

The wives emerged, carrying fresh water in clay bowls, baskets of flatcakes, coils of ribbons dyed with watcherscript pattern, bundles of petals and dew. Children tumbled behind them, bare feet bright against green, carrying carved stones slick with morning moisture. Together they formed a circle at the heart of the ring, the seedling grove bathed in watcher-light and morning promise. Jude inhaled, then spoke, with a voice both tender and resolute. "Today, we teach the children dreamscript. The island has spoken through the Mouth. It offered its origin song. Now we learn to speak back through dreams." Grace squeezed his hand.

Laurel stepped forward and laid the listening stone at the heart of the circle. Its surface still held the faint glow of watcherscript. Jude placed his palm gently atop it, eliciting a pulse of light that rippled outward. Wives and children gasped as the watchers stirred, light responding to tiny beat of memory secret shared through stone and hand. He introduced the ritual: each child would offer a dream, real or imagined, and they would weave it into watchersign, taught as dreamscript. The wives had prepared soft linens, tools, memory-slates, colored chalks. They had even crafted small dream gems at the temple workshop, polished by ember, glowing faintly with watcherscript runes.

One after another, children stepped forward. Lauren, Rose’s daughter, spoke of a field where butterflies sang instead of flapped, and the wives sketched glyphs in chalk to match. Shaun, Scarlet’s boy, described a river of fireflies weaving constellations in the sky; they painted its shape on memory-slates with glaze. Others spoke of cloud-castle dreams, of shining birds with watcherscript wings. With each dream, watchers’ light pulsed brighter, responding, acknowledging, welcoming. Laurel hummed low watchersong underfoot, adding harmony. The watchers drifted closer, arcs of blue shaping around the dream-scripts. The planting of each dream into memory felt sacred, cited in silent melody of earth’s birth.

After midday, they moved toward the temple-flank where walls stood ready for dream’s inscription. Jude led them there as watchers glowed overhead. Wives held glazed brushes and colored chalk; children carried dream-slates. They inscribed their dreams alongside watcherscript on temple walls, each glyph and sketch a promise, a seed of possibility. Laurel climbed a low scaffold to add final touches to the listening stone, carving a ring of runes around its edge to show that dreams belonged to watchers and to children alike.

The watchers thrummed overhead, forming a canopy of living light that wove between ribbons and ribs of the temple. Torches lit themselves at watchers’ approach, illuminating new glyphs and runes. Children pointed with delight; wives watched glimmering tears. Jude felt something hum in his chest, yes, the island was dreaming again, through watchers and through dreamscript.

Back in the orchard, midday ritual resumed. Bowls of pool-water and dew were poured around each seedling; dream-gems placed at their roots; chalked dream-runes brushed into soil, symbols for flight, memory, song, wonder.