Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 890 - 892

Chapter 890: Chapter 892

Natalie spoke for the first time: "Whatever this is... it’s part of the island’s memory. But maybe we can fracture that memory."

"What do you mean?" Jude asked.

Natalie held his gaze. "The island made this place by forgetting something else. A dream of baskets and children, of laughter and ordinary roads. I think... we can remind it."

Soft murmurs circled. She continued: "If we bring parts of ourselves here, our memories, our rituals, our names, maybe we can weld ourselves into the island, not as victims, but as partners."

Grace nodded. "We remember. We speak. We won’t disappear."

Then they all understood. And not one step faltered.

They went to strata: each wife returned to her shelter, gathered something meaningful, an old photo pressed into wood, a fragment of prayer inscribed on bone, a dried flower, even a child’s toy hidden days ago. They returned to the fig tree, each presented a token, set it in the center of the circle under the arch, spoke it aloud:

"I am me." "I was here." "I will return." "I have not forgotten."

The words clung to the arch like dew against moss. And they withdrew from it together.

Night gathered again. They separated into pairs, turned their backs to the arch, and kept vigil. Jude and Lucy first. Eyes bright under the tarp-roof. He held her hand until her breathing slowed. Then Grace and Nefertari. Emma and Sophie. Scarlett and Serena. Zoey and Stella. Susan alone, sharpened blade in lap, silent as stone.

After midnight, Jude woke again. Half the circle was asleep. The arch stood silent. The rain had ended completely, jungle soft as breath. Then he heard it: a footstep, wet, damp? But no bodies moved. His heart froze.

He whispered, "Wake." His hand at his knife.

Pair after pair stirred.

A single step, then another. A child’s laugh, brittle, empty. Then the arch lit from within by pale blue fire. Water beaded inside the stone and poured downward in vapor.

Then it spoke:

"We are not forgetting."

A thousand women gasped.

"We are becoming."

The stones cracked at the base. Roots curdled up between them. The defiant cry of the island’s heart beamed through the arch, into the night. And something heavy fell on each of them, not fear, but awe.

Jude felt blood in his head. He covered Emma’s hand, spoke silently: remember. He felt Lucy’s breath quicken against his chest. She held his sleeve tighter. In the stone, a name burned itself into bone:

J U D E .

And then the arch glowed brighter, then dimmed, and silence returned. Not calm. Quiet. Pending. Waiting.

The women clasped each other through the night, hands trembling. Each name had been spoken. Each life marked. Not a list to be forgotten, but a covenant. And beneath it, the island quaked.

They watched as dawn bled through the canopy, the arch now simply stone. But first light found mud at its base, carrying footprints not only of humans, but of something else. Something tall, loping, no toes, only palm-smudged prints.

They followed the trail. It led beyond the celebration of tokens, into the forest. No turning back.

Jude closed his eyes, took a breath, and stepped forward.

They would guide memory now, instead of fight forgetting. The island might claim them, but if it did, it would find all of them together, unmoving, unforgotten, named, and defiant.

And somewhere beneath the shell, something else watched, and learned.

They left camp before dawn broke, moving as one under the dense canopy of ancient trees. The footprints at the arch had faded in the night rain, but the deeper trail remained. It wound through spiraling roots and bramble, then rose into a slope, becoming firmer earth again. The air shifted around them as they moved, growing colder, heavier, as though the island was compressing the sky, tightening it down upon them. Every rustle of wind pulled their eyes upward even though it came from no wind at all.

Jude led the way, Lucy at his side, followed by Grace and Nefertari. Emma with Serena, then Sophie with Scarlett, Stella with Zoey, and Susan with Natalie brought up the rear. Each carried weapons, torches, and blankets; each had slept less in the past week than in the war years before the island. A hush governed them, not fear but focus. They slept around fires, hugged through blackouts, yet moved onward with purposeful intent.

The trail climbed until team passed the old grove, the site where Lyla and Nefertari had previously vanished, and there found new carvings. Small, crude, but shouting in their own way: eleven shapes with arms raised into an arch, echoing the stones ahead. Jude paused. Eleven wives. Eleven carvings. Their arms met at the top. A promise from the island that it knew them now, had shaped them into myth.

They didn’t linger. Their emotions were too raw for ceremony.

Beyond that, the jungle opened into a clearing at the base of the slope rolling up toward the volcano. The earth here was different, darker, oily, strewn with shards of black rock suggesting long-buried fire or earlier eruptions. At its center lay a shallow basin of water, filled with an oily film that rippled with violet opal. No fish, no plants, only quiet.

Jude advanced. The basin waters shivered. A single branch broke elsewhere. The forest hushed. Then six figures emerged from the jungle edge, humanoid, unchanged except for the eyes: milky white, blind, but fixed upon Jude.

They stood in pairs, spaced evenly around the basin. No one spoke. No one moved.

Jude felt his breath catch. He raised his hand, voice straining. "Who are you?"

The first stepped forward, tall with carved bark-like skin. "We are reflections," it rasped. "Parts of each of you. When you named yourselves, we arrived."

He recognized Grace’s stance. Her shoulders squared over her weight, arms firm at her sides. Simon: eyes closed, chest exposed. She opened her eyes, the milky white of sculptures. Then lifted a hand to her chest, as though touching a heart that no longer existed.