The Mists of World’s End: The Diary of Shelly Gwynne

Day Forty-Two, The Island:

 

I figure that I am in a place that no-one can touch. I have made meself a cottage from the stone that become unearthed when the earth shook. What remained of the tarp after that storm I keep furled above the windows in the case it rains hard like that again, however, since that day, there’s been nary a cloud in the sky.

I also built meself a forge and cut meself a path from the cottage to the forge. I found fresh water and I tapped into it both at the cottage and at the forge, built a water wheel that serves two purposes. One is water for the forge and the other is a place to hang me swords.

Me beauties… nobody will ever see them again, save meself. ’Tis a pity, because they are right beautiful creations, if I do say so meself.

I placed the new blade in the water, the comforting hissssss as it quenches down sending a smile to my lips. My new home is cause for much rumination and I couldn’t stop thinking about it and how it works, who it is what might be taking care of me. Everything changed, just about the time I’d get used to it, it changed ever so slightly. I found something in the forest one day, and the next, its location would be just slightly different.

The well, I thought to myself. The well at the heart of the forest. The well with the Asian characters on it. Stepping out of the forge, I took a deep breath of fresh air as I looked towards the deep roses and golds with which the setting sun had painted the sky. I decided that a bath was in order and I ducked back in to thoroughly check the new blade’s cooling process. Removing it from the water, I wrapped a towel around it to dry it before setting it on my work table. Exiting the forge, I moved quickly to the cottage to grab the soap I’d made from sandalwood and coconut oil before taking the trail down to the stream. I slipped my clothes and stepped into the cool water, ducking under its surface with a smile, and for a long minute, I allowed the water envelope me and soothe me. Planting my feet in the silt-covered bottom, I stood up to begin my bath. As I lathered my skin, I glanced to my left.

I gave a dry laugh as I said aloud, “Well, I see ye’ve moved again.”

Finishing up in a hurry, I stretched out on the bank to dry and took my book, quill and ink out to sketch the well and the symbols, wondering what they meant. I moved my hand over to touch them, jerking back as it brought to mind my first memory of this place.

Coughing and sputtering, I lifted my head as I turned over to see a large funnel made entirely of water, stretching from the water to the heavy clouds, mere feet from me, and I skittered backwards in a hurry, not wanting to get caught up in its wrath. Strangely, I didn’t actually believe my fear, but somehow knew that the funnel guarded me until my eyes opened.

Shaking my head at the illogical statement, I watched as it began to move outwards, towards the horizon, and I would’ve sworn I could see a face in it.

Thinking on it, I looked towards the horizon and watched the last bit of light fade. As I stood and gathered my clothes, book and writing supplies, I wondered just what had stumbled onto me.

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