Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 979

Chapter 979: Chapter 979

He nodded. "We count ourselves, our memories, our ties. We catalog and share. We speak. Our story begins with one, then two, then many."

They returned to camp, spirits alight beneath heavy mist. Within moments, the well started bubbling again, more gently, steady, like a promise rather than a request.

They spent the day organizing. They gathered edges of meadow for ribbon-carrying, a large clay jar to collect offerings, a carved glyph-stone to mark the spiral entrance. They split tasks: Lucy and Emma would record counts, tabulate each offering and memory. Susan and Rose would gather petals and tokens daily. Scarlet and Serena would re-watch the boundary. Grace and Layla would attend the well each hour.

Jude walked among them, anchored pride to his chest. The watchers hovered beyond, visible in moments, as if witnesses to ceremony yet to come.

By dusk, they gathered again at the spiral’s entry. The first ribbon circle held archive space woven into grass. The well glowed, still and strange. A line of wives formed behind the boundary, each holding a ribbon bundle and a token to leave in the well.

Jude stepped forward. "We count ourselves. One at a time, we speak our name and memory, then leave the token."

First Grace: "I am Grace, wife, mother of memory. I remember the day the orchard breathed first life. I leave this petal for its bloom." She dropped the petal. The well glowed brightest beneath it.

Then the second, Susan: "I am Susan, heart of hearth. I remember the first stew."

Third, Layla: braided ribbon in hand, "I am Layla, younger than earth. I remember the petal’s fall." Ribbons slipped.

They moved to twelve, all wives, each voice a thread. Jude last: "I am Jude, keeper of ties and tendrils and memory-bound. I remember the watchers’ first touch." He dropped the watcher shard fragment.

The well roared, water erupting like birthed life. Light soared, ribbons fluttered in the mist, and watchers surged toward them, swirling above the well in shapes and patterns. They moved in arcs around each other, an aerial dance, then formed a spiral above the water.

The wives stayed motionless, breath caught. Jude reached for Grace. She stood still, calm.

The watchers parted above the well, leaving a column of light descending upon the well and through the couples. A message clear: memory is power. Connection is power. They answered innocence with creation, ritual with heart.

Then watchers receded slowly into orchard. Water stopped bubbling, returning to calm shimmer, but faint glyphs remained visible around the well rim. The garden light deepened to blue-green dusk.

They stood united, drenched in grids of memory and light. Then they spoke words in unison:

"We are remembered."

They embraced.

---

At dawn the watchers did not leave. Instead, they moved inward, circling saplings near homes. They hovered, eyes like muted gemstones, observing daily chores with patience transforming to trust. The orchard welcomed them but didn’t shift. Neither did the people.

Jude and Grace walked the well. Ribbons were thicker now, so many offerings that their bundles overflowed. They read names etched into wood, color-coded ribbons marking twenty-two memories over two days.

Grace offered a thought: "We grew roots deep. They anchored to memory."

Jude kissed her forehead. "Then we plant the next seed."

They turned to see watchers gathering near the riverbank, cluster of pale forms. Scarlet arrived at Grace’s elbow. "They drifted in the current at dawn. Rested. Watched water. Didn’t follow. Only observed."

Grace exhaled. "Water remembers too."

Jude laid hand on her shoulder. "So do we."

---

The week that followed settled into ritual: ribbon-spiral at dawn, memory-count, watchers’ dance at dusk, recording, harvest. The villagers, wives, children, wove their lives into the place. And watchers wove theirs alongside.

One evening, Jude walked alone to the old shipwreck. The vessel lay half-buried and silent. He reached inside the hull and found two circles painted in ash and red, glyphs representing watchers and memory. He traced one with his finger.

"I found your ancestors’ touch," he whispered. "They knew of you. They remembered. We’ll keep remembering too."

Behind him, footsteps. Grace joined him, hand in his.

"They shaped this place with memory," she said softly. "We shape it now."

Jude nodded. "Home is not bricks or walls. It’s what we remember here."

They stood together in mist, watchers forming pale silhouettes amid the trees behind. Memory was not power, exactly. It was purpose.

They walked home in silence but with hearts heavy full.

---

That night, as moonlight carved patterns around the spiral gallery in the orchard, Jude awoke Grace with soft words. "They’ve returned."

She sat up, watchers moved through forms of ghosts, vapor, art, across ribbons, ribbons, ribbons, watchers now draped in colors echoing the bundles.

"They’ve taken one," Grace said. From the edge of orchard, they spotted another watcher holding a small bundle of ribbons, single knot. It carried it toward the river.

Jude stood, breathing sharp. "Let it go."

They watched while mist pooled around the watcher’s legs, all held in silence. The watcher turned, offering the bundle back to the earth at river’s edge, placing knot in water. Then watchers drifted away, leaving orchard empty.

Jude and Grace exchanged a glance, they touched the knot later and found words etched across it in pale ash: flow.

Grace breathed, "Flow memory forward."

He pressed his hand over hers. "We let go sometimes."

They returned to bed, heavy but calm.

---

The next morning, watchers still absent, but ribbons on saplings had turned toward east, toward river. The whole garden pivoted, silent direction.

Jude gathered everybody near the edge at midday.

"They spoke," he said. "Flow."

Grace laid her hand on his. "It means we release into the sea."

Natalie nodded. "Maybe we spread memory beyond the orchard."

"They’ve opened a channel," Jude murmured. "We follow it next."

Silence.

Then Scarlet spoke. "If they flow, we can carry too."

Jude smiled. "Ribbon bundles. Tokens. Stories. We float them downstream. And see what arrives."

They planned. At sunset, they gathered memories mixed with petals into bark floats. Words scratched into wood: names, vows, messages of peace. The orchard wives, children, even watchers of mist watched as bundles were set on the river.

The lanterns cast orange halos on water. The current took each float, carrying them eastward.

Jude and Grace held hands and watched the lanterns dim into night.