A woman stands on a rocky outcrop at the edge of the lake of legends. She stares at the distant island, a black hole of tales resting on a bed of crystals, a place from which stories did not escape.
The woman seems neither very young nor very old. She is not tall or short, thin or fat, nothing to distinguish her except that she is bent, weighted down.
She tries to let go of her thoughts. Thoughts, she tells herself, are just emotions with stories attached. Let go of the story and know the emotion. Stop thinking and feel.
She remembers her grandmother’s house, drawers full of newspaper clippings tied up with string, collected stories, stories that had nothing to do with her grandmother or anyone else she knew, but clung to as if they held answers.
She wondered how many others had stood on this spot since the ancient ones, the original inhabitants, had discovered the seven islands that mirrored the Seven Sisters.
The woman placed a small wooden raft on the water. On top was a plain manila envelope stuffed with history, documents, photographs, love letters and momentos. She lingers, hesitating, then lights a homemade fuse and sets the little raft adrift on the outgoing tide.
The flames grow bright as the small flatboat of stories floats off on its journey to the crystal island.
The woman watches, hearing the voices of all who stood there before her rise, then fade away.