The Survivors

St Kilda, Scotland. CC photo by Neil Wilkie.

The Survivors

The dingy slid through oily waters, treacherous waves causing Isabelle to cling onto the ornate box in her lap. Muttering a prayer to St Ellard, Isabella looked back at the sullen isle. A sanctuary that over time had lost its way, traditions discarded, community replaced by dissent and mistrust.

The awaiting ship was vast, callused hands helping Isabella aboard. No cabin for privacy, just the darkness of the hold, weakly resisted by a lantern’s flaxen light.

Settling in a corner, Isabella ignored the mute stares of her fellow evacuees. Their ignorance had caused this, their lack of appreciation, of respect.

A man, emboldened by shadows, whispered that Isabella and her kind would soon reside within the forest of bones on the seabed. A woman’s trembling voice hushing him.

Isabella ignored them it was time to feed the baby. The blade drew scarlet across her wrist. Isabella lifted the box’s lid, resting her hand within.

A rough tongue lapped hungrily.


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