#FlashFictionMagic: Deserted Island

In the village, they whispered about what Sorcha must have done. It was understood that no one would live alone on an island in the lake for any other purpose than atonement. When Rigel heard the whispers in the shops and on the streets, he glowered at his former schoolmates, his neighbors and cousins. Why would Sorcha want to live among such ignorant, dismissive fools? 

Once a month, he went to the grocery, the sweet shop, and the library. He loaded the skiff with bread and meat, candy sticks and chewing gum, thick tomes of poetry and essays about nature, all wrapped together in an unassuming burlap blanket. He told his mother he was going fishing, and he rowed across to the deserted patch of forest. 

Today’s was the first trip of the year when the air was chill enough for Rigel to need his parka. Even with his face mostly covered, the air bit his cheeks and brought water to his eyes. Next month he’d need to come twice to be sure Sorcha had everything she needed before the lake froze. He’d start making the list tonight. 

As he dragged the skiff ashore, Rigel detected no signs of life on the island. He carried his parcels a good mile along a forest path he had discreetly marked for himself using signs only he would recognize. Just when it seemed certain there could be nothing ahead but more oaks and maples, Sorcha’s cottage came into view. Smoke puffed from the chimney and orange lamplight glowed in the front room window. He longed to be welcomed inside to warm by the fire, but he knew not to raise his hopes too high.

A flicker of movement at the corner of a curtain told Rigel he’d been spotted, but he knocked anyway to be polite. There was the sound of a clicking lock, and then the top portion of the Dutch door swung open. Sorcha’s clear blue eyes met his, and he forced himself to maintain eye contact despite how much it hurt. If he focused on just her eyes, he could pretend for a moment not to see the purple and yellow streaks of the scars that had overtaken the left side of her face. The colors, though, always taunted him, reminding him who had damaged his beautiful, precious love.  

His mother liked to say that Uncle Phobus had selected his victim at random, that the spell had never been intended for Sorcha. “He’s my brother,” she always said, “He’d never do this to you.” His mother was the biggest, most ignorant fool of them all. 

Rigel took the bundle from his shoulder and passed it through to Sorcha. She murmured her thanks, and Rigel swallowed thickly. He imagined the snug living room inside the cottage, with quilts and throw rugs and a wall of bookshelves. It was so cold out here, and he knew if he she’d just invite him in, they could both be warm and happy again. Gathering his courage, he leaned over the bottom half of the door, eyes closed, aiming to kiss Sorcha’s marred cheek. It was a disappointment, but not a surprise when his lips encountered only air. 

“I can’t,” Sorcha said gently. 

On his way back to the skiff, Rigel carried last month's library books and the mournful image of Sorcha's frown as she turned him away yet again. The frozen tears in his eyelashes on the journey home had nothing to do with the cold.