There are two ways to remember the island of Elathea: by the whispered memories of its remaining inhabitants or through the aching monument that barely remains. Both few in number, for you see, most of Elathea was long ago swallowed by a jealous sea. The present island is nothing more than a gently fading canvas of its majestic past. Just to the West of Elathea’s once vibrant heart, one can still discern the limestone tip of its now-silent bell tower — too intransigent to be engulfed by those envy-swollen waters. Yet silenced. To the East, the untouched homes on top greenlush hills where only five families stand still. It is the womb-dry women of these families who breathe life into Elathea with tales of its past. Like wind carrying pollen on its back. The men remember little for they choose to drown their memories in bitter ale as a sign of respect to Elathea’s fate and of reproach to God’s choice. The young are told to only listen and never repeat or write anything down because of superstitious fears that history may repeat itself in future generations. And yet, on certain nights, when Elathea is asleep and dreams stir, there brews a mysterious fog at the base of the hills. A fog that burns away with the warmth and light of the early sun. A fog that leaves in its wake the scent of jasmine, and a feeling of hope that cannot be explained, only vaguely understood. Not before long, these hushed memories will transform into myths, and the myths into a majestic island once again.
Elathea | Christopher Troy ©
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