Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 983

Chapter 983: Chapter 983

When the last seed touched water, watchers rose several at once, gliding above shimmering surface like constellations in motion. Chaucer of them formed a circle, rotating, pulsing. Then they streamed upward, as if carried by unseen wind, and dispersed into the sky along the north winds.

No one spoke at first. The water rippled. Ribbons on the bank quivered longer than any breeze.

Then Jude whispered, "They carry it."

Grace held him close. "Our story."

They returned to camp and extinguished lanterns. Watchers returned to orchard, but tonight even they spoke in silence.

The next dawn broke clear with promise. Jude, Grace, Scarlet, and Serena left for Ostia again, to trace the ribbons downstream and learn where the seed story had gone. They walked gently, carrying small lanterns and map stones. The others went about routine with careful direction, making sure all returned, tasks done.

At Ostia, they found ribbons snagged on reeds near the water’s edge. Some bundles had drifted into hidden nooks; others hung from branches. In each ribbon was a token: a seed cluster or tiny carved piece. And every one bore a new message scratched into wood: three symbols, spiral, river, flower.

Jude traced the symbols with his finger. "They returned signs."

Grace gathered the tokens. "They honoured it."

Scarlet knelt and pressed a glyph into the mud. The river lapped it gently. When she stepped back, glyph glowed silver once then dimmed.

They spent midday marking the messages and finding more ribbons further downstream. Some ended in old fishing huts; others near rock outcroppings. At each location they left a reply, new ribbons, seed clusters, glyph stones.

It became a dialogue. A memory network spanning the land and water.

In late afternoon, they reached a long cove, a place where waves rippled inward to meet the river’s mouth. There the watchers waited in shapes aligned along the shore. Their forms were more substantial now, less mist, more outline, some even stretched high like statues of light.

Grace stepped forward and placed a seed cluster on each watcher-form’s head as if adorning a crown. The watchers pulsed with blue light.

Jude smiled. "They accept gifts."

Scarlet knelt and carved spiral glyph again. Serena tied ribbons in loops at the watchers’ feet.

Then the watchers stepped apart, revealing a hidden path of flat stones leading around the cove into the interior. The watchers didn’t follow, but turned to stand guard as the group passed.

Jude looked back. Grace nodded. They stepped across stones, entering new territory.

The cove path wound inland toward gentle hills covered in fern and orchid. They paused at a small grotto washed by river spray. Inside, etched into stone walls, were scenes of watchers and people intertwined, shared labor, gift-giving, children held by watchers. Scenes similar to what they’d built in the orchard. Ancestors carving memory into stone.

Jude ran his hands over the carvings, light in his eyes. "They remember. And we remember."

Grace kneeling beside him, traced glyphs. "They created a covenant long ago."

Scarlet found a cavity in cave floor and placed their glyph stone there. Serena and Grace tied ribbons to nearby stalactites.

In the cave dusk, lanternless, the watchers drifted into shape, soft and present. They did not approach, but their forms illuminated from below by natural phosphor glow, shimmering sentries among memory’s murals.

Jude spoke: "We’ve walked the conversation. We hold it in water, soil, ribbon, seed. We preserve here."

Grace whispered: "Their story becomes ours."

They carved their names and date into cave floor. Laurel and Raven watched, wide-eyed, tiny hands in each other’s grip.

They returned at dusk to camp after lighting torches at cave entrance. The wives had prepared stew and bread. The air smelled of rosemary and smoke. Watchers drifted near by firelight, observing, not hide nor threat. The meal slipped into the quiet hum of accomplishment.

After second helping, Scarlet looked up. "They’re waiting for something new tomorrow."

Jude considered. "Then we bring the children’s voices."

Grace squeezed his arm. "We share–not instruct–just presence."

"Music?" Jude asked softly.

Grace nodded. "Song, laughter, play."

They made circle at orchard edge at dusk. Lanterns hung in trees. Children chased fireflies. Wives joined, holding hands, forming ring. Jude picked small guitar from cabin and strummed gentle chords; Grace began to sing; voices joined, rising in laughter and lullaby.

Ribbons fluttered. Watchers drifted forward slowly across the saplings until they stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder with his wives and children. Not human in shape, but their posture mirrored family closeness, watching, not barrier but companion.

The song ended. Children giggled. Parents clapped. Silence bloomed around watchers.

Jude stepped into orchard. "Come closer, friends."

A watcher’s mist form pulsed bright and stepped forward a few feet. Another followed. Within minutes ten mist forms surrounded the circle, glowing bluish light among trees.

He gazed at the watchers, matched eyes he couldn’t see, only presence, memory. He felt their trust. He felt his own.

"This is our promise," he murmured. "We live here. Together."

Grace pressed his hand. The orchard hummed.

The watchers stayed through night.

In the coming weeks, memory network crisscrossed island, river, orchard, ruin, cove, cave. Ribbons flew, tokens carried, glyphs drawn. Seeds spread. Songs sung.

The watchers became guides, leading children to new wildflowers, shading harvest, or reflecting dawn light into paths.

One dawn, fourteen watchers came into orchard, two for each wife, plus two for the children. Each watcher formed near a thornless rosebush. Jude knelt and placed watchers’ shard at the base of one. More shards followed. Then wives tied new ribbons around stakes.

It was like planting watchers not as watchers but as guardians.

Grace leaned into him. "They take root."

He kissed her hair. "And with us, they grow."

One evening, storm approached, a distant rumble of thunder, wind in the trees, clouds rolling. They gathered tokens at camp, secured seeds, and braced. The watchers stood at boundary facing the storm, bodies like statues of mist. Children hushed. Fire stabilized.

Rain came. Heavy sheets of water brushed leaves, flooding paths. Yet watchers stayed, straddling saplings, boundaries, waterline, refusing to retreat.