Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 893 - 895

Chapter 893: Chapter 895

They arranged themselves, each wife standing before her pillar, torch held high. Jude stood at the center, facing the largest pillar behind them, which bore his own tokens, prayer scroll, broken knife, the queen’s tear stone, the witch’s symbol burned, a wormwood sample, a burnt seed, the map of the island shell, a scrap of the scroll promising that to kill gods, be gods, there were infants, the mark of binding. Twelve tokens writ into the rock.

The hum deepened. The pools glowed brighter. A voice formed in their minds, not molded by shape, but by thought, a composite of ten thousand rustling memories.

"You have come," it said. "To speak what endures amid oblivion."

Jude raised his voice. "We speak our names. We stand as witness. We are here."

A blast of air answered, cool and broad. The pools flared. Memories flooded: each wife saw early childhood, joys and pain, each named name. Jude saw first flame, first blood, first oath, first loss. First curse. First infant silence.

The voices spoke again: "You speak. We record. We hold. Should you falter, our memory remains. Should you rise, we rise. But you must choose."

They repeated: "Must choose."

Jude stepped forward, torch lifted. "I stand by them. By their names, their memories, their right to name themselves. If Shadow or Smoke or Shell wants then, let them remember us." He spoke louder: "Let this island, our island, hold our names. Hold their stories. Hold our promise."

A pulse. The pools glowed white. Some pillars shattered. Others absorbed light, reforming tokens as glowing veins in the rock. The hum softened to warmth.

In the center, a voice: "You choose self. Not dream of me. You end the spell."

Jude reached to his wives and touched Lucy’s shoulder. "Together?"

Lucy nodded. Grace leaned on Nefertari. Each wife held out tokens, touching pillars. A chain reaction: stone trembled, dust fell. Faint tall shapes rose from ash like translucent crab-limbed forms, edges blurred. Not hostile, but sentient.

A form in center, larger than rest, shell-spiral, crab shape both young and old.

It bowed. Hiss of steam. Voice: "We are the shell. We are the dream. But you are the dreamers. Now the dream remembers its dreamers."

Soft lights danced. Sound became crackle, then calm.

They pressed tokens onto pillars like seals. Jewels etched.

When they stepped away, the forms receded. Pillars remained intact, etched. Pools cooled. No longer flared.

The chamber became bookstore, tomb, furnace, heartbeat, archive. Yet quiet. At last.

They left as one. The artisan fissure withdrew behind them, rock re-banding to near-normal; the trace still visible: scars of promise.

The climb down was steep and slow, bodies weary but light. At the plateau, they camped. No fire except torches. Inside them, new warmth.

As dawn broke, stones glowed spectral pale. They shared water and roots, looked at each other without fear.

Jude held Lucy close. Grace and Nefertari walked to water’s edge. Emma lay curled near Jude’s boots. The others huddled close, forming a new covenant.

He spoke softly. "We started as castaways. We vowed to survive. To love. To parent our children... even if they hadn’t lived."

They exhaled.

"Now," he said, "we’ve asked the island to remember us . Our names. Oaths. Nothing more."

He looked across the plateau toward crater rim. He wasn’t sure what lay ahead, sea creatures, arcane puzzles, gods, rebirth, death, but they had written themselves into the shell.

They stood, hands joined, as the sunrise crested: not a shell crushing them, but a sky opening. And everything, every rock, every stream, every pulse, felt self-aware.

Jude looked at his wives and saw reflection not in pit or smoke, but in their eyes, named, living, unconsumed.

They haven’t left the plateau yet. They gathered once more: planted small tokens into the earth near mossy patches, feathers, root dust, carved beads, to mark a safe path, and offer thanks.

Then, when the sun was full, they began their descent. The story is still unwritten, but now authored by many, unforgot to the shell.

They walked as living memory.

Moss grew heavy on his boots by the time Jude reached the edge of the forest rim, the plateau’s pulse still echoing in his chest. The morning light had softened now into an amber glow, illuminating stone and fern alike as though showing scars old as lifetimes. He paused, took a breath in, and remembered the chamber: tokens sealed into pillars, the shell acknowledging them by voice and tremor, the tremulous bond between island and memory. Now here at the forest’s edge, the trees leaned forward in quiet outreach, welcoming, or waiting.

He stepped forward, leaving the plateau behind, and the others followed. Lucy beside him, Grace on his right, the rest murmuring behind. Their shapes moved through moss and weakened roots, the path steep down the slope toward new ground; yet where before the terrain had bent and shifted in stone’s living pulse, now it felt settled, stabilized by their affirmation. Not fixed, but pregnant, like the breath of something newly aware, half-formed into home.

They entered the jungle’s depths again, side by side, protective in group but attentive to new signs. The ground was softer here, blanketed in wet leaves, and air glimmered with motes of light drifting like spirits. The canopy overhead rustled in gentle wind; tropical birds called out of sight. There were footprints, faint, leading deeper, older than any human set. The shapes, they resembled those echo-guardians, but were smaller, more wild: borrowed shapes of fox or jaguar, partly human. They paused each time they emerged, turning to watch, then sliding away among the roots.

Jude’s heart pounded. Not fear, but awe, ashamed in the face of the island’s secret life: reaching beyond the shell into forms that moved between worlds. They were guardians or watchers; unsure. Bigger watchers lingered by the edges, but none confronted them now. The island trusted them again, or at least tolerated their passage.

They came at last to a creek, babbling, clear, mossed.