Witch Island

Take my waterlogged skull

For I am drowning in my own fear

With my hands I take my will

And pray for those I hold dear

"Today is Reaping Day."

Corbin forced open an eye. The house was dark, and he could just barely make out the silhouette of his sister, Aislinn, bending over the wooden table in the corner. She had her hair shielding her face, but he could tell from the sound of her voice that she'd been crying.

"I know," he said groggily, shivering beneath his threadbare blanket. The chill of early morning air ran its fingers along his skin, raising goosebumps on his arms.

"Eat," Aislinn said. He heard the scraping of bowls and cups, then the rustle of bedsheets as she tucked the blanket neatly into her mattress.

As he reluctantly rose from his bed, he wondered if it would be the last time his sister tucked in his sheets for him. The last time she'd make breakfast for him and not her, because Aislinn never ate on Reaping Day. She was always afraid that she'd vomit in front of the village from the nerves.

He trudged over to the table where a bowl of glistening blackberries awaited him. He sat down and lifted a berry to his lips.

Aislinn took off her nightgown and began to dress.

"Good berries," Corbin said, wiping the juice from his mouth. "Sweet."

"They're painfully sour. I tried one when I picked them."

"I like sour," said Corbin quietly. He looked down at the rest of his berries and felt like sweeping them off the table and onto the floor.

But if he didn't finish his breakfast, Aislinn would threaten to not go to the Reaping, and that above all things was most important to abstain from.

Aislinn finished dressing and reached for her hairbrush. Corbin watched from the corner of his eye as she cradled it lovingly in her hand, her fingers gripping the cherrywood handle as she ran it through her sable locks. That had been their mother's hairbrush, gifted to her by their father, adorned with pearls of the island sea and left to Aislinn upon their deaths.

She looked back at him, and Corbin focused on his berries. Then he looked back once more and saw her slip the hairbrush into the pocket of her apron.

He swallowed thickly. If she was chosen, the witches would burn it. Then he would have nothing left of his mother if Aislinn was to leave him.

"Finished?" Aislinn asked, coming over to him and peering into his bowl. She sighed, and Corbin could now see how tired she was. He'd fallen asleep the night before with the shadow of her sitting against the window, her head resting on the wall, and now the dark circles beneath her eyes told him that she'd been subject to such quiet solitude well past midnight.

"I'll eat them later," Corbin promised. Then he hesitated and said, "We can pick new ones for dinner. Together. After the--"

"We'll go now," Aislinn interrupted him, taking his arm and dragging him towards the front door. Her grip was rough and her words were hard, filling his eyes with tears. This was not how he wanted to spend his last day with her. He wanted them to hug and tell stories, to eat breakfast together and for him to braid her hair just how she liked it, with the yellow daffodils from their garden woven into the strands.

But he knew his sister, and she knew him. He wanted to give her hope, and she wanted to take his away. That was the way it had been every year ever since the gallows.

The sun had not yet risen, and grey clouds cast shadows upon them as Corbin and Aislinn stepped outside. They silently trudged down the muddied path through the woods, courtesy of last night's rain, and the sound of chatter from the nearby village grew closer.

Corbin eyed his sister's hand, stained black from the berries she'd served him. For a harrowing moment he imagined it was blood, dripping fresh from initiation wounds.

They walked into the village. Gloominess in the form of cold fog surrounded the houses and central water well, the grass beneath their feet dull and covered with dew. Villagers, silent and their faces etched with dread, moved in a crowd towards the ocean.

Aislinn gripped his hand. He could feel the slick remains of blackberry juice against his own fingers.

Caethwood opened towards the shore. It was roughly ten minutes from the sea, and the villagers moved together, a pack of wolves protecting their young until something bigger took them, helpless and soon to be forgotten, away into the mist.

The icy air bit at Corbin's face, but he did not let go of his sister's hand. He squeezed her fingers and waited for a squeeze back. But Aislinn's face was tuned towards the sea, her skin clammy and pale, sweat beading her upper lip.

He looked as they walked. Chadd Graeyson, a friend of Aislinn's, walked close by with his lips pressed into a thin line. The other villagers stayed clear of them, the silence only slightly broken as some whispered hurriedly to one another. Many kept their daughters close, under their arms or cradled into their chest, shooting glances at Aislinn. Corbin glared right back, resisting the urge to scream.

One more year, he told himself. One more year of them wishing that she's dead. One more year...

The forest opened, the sky wide and clear and wind ruffling through Corbin's curls as his boots sunk into sand and the sea, big and grey and roaring as waves crashed against the shore. They walked towards it, their hundreds of feet leaving footprints in the sand as they approached the water.

Girls embraced their families, silent tears streaming down their cheeks. Corbin looked up at Aislinn, refusing to let go of her hand as she stooped down and kissed his forehead, her tears wetting his skin.

"Aislinn--" he began in a whisper.

"Shhh," she shushed him, cupping his face. Her eyes, a more brilliant blue than the sea itself, stared straight into his, and for a second all he could see was his father staring right at him before the echoing crack of his neck as the rope closed on his pleading throat.

"Blood will find its brother," Aislinn said, whispering a quote from Corbin's favorite bedtime fable.

"And bone will find its sister," he finished, his voice trembling no matter how hard he tried to stop it. She nodded, wiped her tears and released him, turning back and walking towards the group of girls that stood near the water's edge. Chadd, his hazel eyes sparkling with unshed tears of his own, stood by Corbin and watched. The villagers held their breaths.

Then, in the distance, Corbin saw it.

The boat.

He hated the silence. He hated the fear. But he wanted to be strong, just like his sister, so he rooted his feet in the sand and kept his arms planted to his sides. Blood will find its brother, he thought with a sharp intake of breath. Bone will find its sister.

The boat was small, large enough for only one person--perhaps two if necessary, though it never was--and it now floated, rocking gently against the waves as they all stood, silent as corpses, waiting.

Corbin's heart hammered in his ears. Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

A minute now.

Blood rushed through his ears. His throat closed in on itself. One of the girls should have been chosen by now, enchanted by the witch's song, walking towards the boat.

Ten more seconds.

Then there was a whisper, and he looked towards Chadd. Chadd stared back, confused.

There it was again, like a wail. A cry. A scream?

Aislinn looked at him, her eyes wide and fearful. The villagers murmured.

The cry grew louder. Stronger. It vibrated in his ears.

He closed his eyes. Something terrible, like horror and misery and utter perplexation wormed into his stomach.

There was no cry. There was no wail, and there was no scream either.

No. Corbin heard none of those.

Corbin heard a song.