Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 984

Chapter 984: Chapter 984

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

They withdrew into mist only when storm ended, dawn filtering white and clean.

Then they returned, to circle, shape orchard, carry memory into wet earth.

Months passed. Orchard produced ripening fruit; seeds turned into saplings at cave, cove, riverbank; watchers guided; river carried offerings beyond sight; children learned watchers’ names as real.

Jude and Grace walked one evening to the river edge where watchers had shaped statues of mist. They kissed under watchers’ glow and launched a final set of raft‑tokens to sea: messages of gratitude, homegrown seeds, Cloud-sown memory.

They watched them drift until the horizon swallowed them.

Grace leaned on his shoulder. "They’ll remember us."

He closed his eyes. "We will, always."

Mist rose from river. Watchers flickered. The island exhaled.

Twelve wives, two children, one man, watchers, island, they had built and been built. Now memory lived in seed, ribbon, root, river, storm.

Mist curled across the orchard at dawn, tracing each leaf in silver before retreating. Jude stepped outside, the weight of last night’s offerings lingering in his bones, and caught Grace’s hand as she stepped from the hut. Her hair was damp with dew; her eyes had that quiet light again. Together they paused, watching watchers drift along the sapling line, their misty forms painting ribbons of pale blue. Yesterday’s ritual had awakened something new, roots deeper, bonds stronger.

They moved toward the broken bridge, where carvings from Ostia remained clear in moonlight’s afterglow. Scarlet and Serena were already there, cleaning moss from the glyph stones. Layla and Susan followed behind, carrying bowls of petal-water and ribbons. Lucy and Emma brought the children, Raven and Laurel, each child holding a painted stick for drawing. Jude lifted Grace’s hand in greeting before picking up a bowl and stepping forward with the others.

"We gather at the bridge," he said softly. "Our roots now spread east. Today we celebrate the pact with river, watchers, and island."

Grace nodded. "We honor passage: from orchard to river, from memory to flow."

They placed bowls of petal-water at bridge ends, each rim ringing with ribbon and seed. The watchers drifted close, shapes pausing at echoing mist. Their presence felt like witness, not threat. Jude held his breath and spoke blessings: for roots to water, memory to breeze, life beyond the orchard. One by one the wives repeated his vow, placing offerings, seed, stones, words, petals, into the bowls.

When the last was cast, water shimmered and curved upward in an arc as if unseen hands guided it. Ribbons fluttered, watchers formed rings above, and then the water emptied back in ripples. Birds returned to song. The moment finished, quiet but filled. The watchers receded, drifting along the bridge and into forest beyond, but their pulse remained in every drop at Jude’s cardigan sleeves.

They walked back to orchard for breakfast. The children skipped among morning shadows; wives returned to chores. Stillness fell, but with a new undertone of purpose. The watchers gathered in repeating arcs at orchard edge, receding only when passed by working wives.

Mid-morning, Jude joined Grace and Lucy to reinforce the glyph circles around mature saplings. They braided ribbons with color-coded markers, white for memory, green for growth, blue for watchers. Watchers occasionally shimmered near their work, as if offering pointers, but never intruded. Lucie paused her weaving to whisper, "I think they understand our code."

Jude nodded, passing her a ribbon. "Language grows in silence too."

They finished knotting ribbons at midday, and the orchard gleamed, ribbed with color. Lunch tasted sweet. Even the flatbread seemed dusted with purpose.

Afterwards, they walked the bridge again, this time with the children leading. Raven pressed small stones into riverbank; Laurel tied petals to reeds. The watchers moved overhead, edging closer with each offering. By river’s edge, a watcher hovered low, brushing reeds but never wetting its feet. Jude knelt and placed gravel stones in the water; Laurel dropped petals. The watcher paused in mist, bowed its head, then drifted away gently.

Jude guided the group back to camp through the woodland trail. Along the way they encountered glyph-flecked stones that had not been leveled in yesterday’s storm. Scarlet pointed one out; Emma copied its etchings in pigment. Beneath it, moss glowed sickly under rain’s residue. Once back, they pressed new glyph tiles beneath saplings to help roots remember the arc of passage: orchard, bridge, river, sea.

When dusk arrived, they prepared for the evening’s ritual. Candles hung along ribbons; the well stone at orchard center glistened in lantern light. The wives wore woven wreaths of riverflower. Jude and Grace stood at the well’s rim. A watcher formed above, hovering nearer than ever before, its shape sharp, tall, light pooling around it.

Jude lifted the watchers’ shard and held it high. "We offer our lives to memory beyond ourselves. We sow seeds of story into island and watch it grow. Tonight, we bind the watchers into our story."

Grace added, "We accept your presence in our home, as family, not stranger."

With that, they dropped the shard in the well, the rim glowing under its weight. The children followed, dropping their painted sticks in as tokens of creativity and new growth.

The watchers responded. Mist churned, then rose in twisting arcs to form a spiral column above the well, light pulsing to each ribbon knot in turn, from orchard, across bridge, to river. The watchers dispersed through the mist ribbon-line, visibly marking interconnection.

Then the watchers descended onto saplings, two on each, and settled, silent sentries of memory. One watcher drifted over the bridge arch, another along the riverbank path, others at key glyph stones. They had moved in.

Jude and Grace embraced amid flickering light. The wives hugged each other and the children. A new warmth filled the orchard, richer than fire.

They slept under watchers’ shapes, no closed doors, no hidden fears. Mist and ribbon and memory held them safe.