Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It should not be considered a work of anthropology, theology, psychology, high art, realism, or a behavioral guide. No political, social, or religious conclusions should be drawn from this story. It should not inform anyone of how to think of or treat human beings in real life.
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The storm clouds rolled in across the sea like a billow of smoke, darkening the sky. The water seemed endless, and the waves were tossing in the wind. At the center of it was Jack. He was soaked in salt water with his legs braced to the bottom of his fishing boat, each hand grasped around an oar. The fish he had caught were still flopping in the net, dragging alongside him.
The storm had caught him off guard, taking him out further than he had anticipated. The winds picked up speed, whipping the large brown sail above him back and forth as the small vessel crashed against the gaining waves. The rain had not yet started, but Jack knew it wasn't far behind the blanket of clouds. He pushed the oars against the waves, his thick, strong arms bidding his boat to head in a straight direction. In the mist ahead of him he saw a miracle. A small slip of green against the gray. Land.
With all his strength he steered through the lurching waves, pulling himself closer to the rocky shore. The water splashed over the sides of the boat, pooling around his leather shoes and spraying against his face, mixing in with his sweat. It was just as the thunder started to rumble through the sky that he noticed two men making their way down the grassy bank to the rocks.
"Praise the gods!" he shouted out as he neared the land. One of the men threw a thick rope toward him, and he quickly released his oars to grab it. Slowly, but surely, they pulled him, his boat, and his fish onto the land, just as the rain began to pummel down atop them.
"Up there!" one of the men shouted, pointing up the small hill just north of the shore. At the top of it stood a small fisherman's bothy with smoke already coming out of its chimney. The men clasped their wet hands around a side of his boat, and together they carried it up the hill.
Only a few minutes later Jack tumbled into the warmth of the bothy, and he could feel himself coming back to his senses. He pushed his long, brown wet hair away from his eyes and looked around. It was apparent that the men had been taking shelter there for some time. Rows of fish were leaned against the hot brick around the roaring fire to smoke and dry out, lengths of net and wire sat coiled in the corner, and the tallow lamps on the wooden table were already lit and flickering. He sank down on the ground right next to the fireplace, shivering.
"I don't know how I could ever repay you," he said to the men as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. "I can't thank you enough. I thought those were my last moments in this life."
"I didn't believe him when he told me there was someone out there," said the man who had taken a seat on the wooden planks that were propped up to create a makeshift bed. He was a thin, older man, with a graying beard; Jack supposed that he was about the age of his own father.
"I went out for a piss and saw you," said the other man, who had taken a seat on a thick blanket on the ground. He was much younger and seemed closer in age to Jack. "What were you doing out there with a storm like that coming in?"
Jack felt embarrassed. "I had taken a gamble," he said, taking off his soaking wet shirt and shoes to hang to dry by the fire. "A stupid idea, I know. I took myself out far, looking for more trout. Once the mist came, I couldn't tell where I was. Went in the wrong direction, I suppose. And then the storm started..." His voice trailed off with the sudden realization that he wasn't actually quite sure where he was.
"You won't find trout off of these shores over here," said the old man, taking off his own wet shoes. "I'm sure you could find some off of the mainland, but of course, it would be too far to go out there by myself."
Jack's mind began to spin in confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked. "We are on the mainland."
Both men, slowly shook their heads, sharing in the confusion.
"No," said the younger man. "Were you thinking that it was?"
"Yes," said Jack, slowly. "I'm from the mainland. I'm from the Turs. That's where I set off from."
The men looked at him, wide-eyed, then, much to Jack's bewilderment, burst into laughter.
"You've come all the way from the Turs? It is by the graces of the gods that you made it in one piece!"
Jack stared at them, incredulous. "Where am I?"
"This is Oileán Carraig," said the older man.
"The western shore, to be exact," said the younger.
Jack stood in silent shock, his mouth agape. How long had he been on the water? Oilean Carraig was a day's trip away on a longboat for the traders. It would have been a reckless, stupid idea to try and travel across it by himself on his little fishing boat. Yet here he was.
"Only the traders have longships," said the older man, pulling out a carafe of mead and pieces of wrapped cake with salted eggs. "And they left yesterday. They'll be back in a half-month's time."
Jack felt the pit at the center of his stomach deepening. He thought of his parents, who would be worried sick that he hadn't come home yet. And now, there was no telling when he would see him again. He looked at his small pile of flopping fish in the corner. Would it be enough to last two weeks?
"Let's go to the market tomorrow," said the younger man, noticing his gaze. "You can trade that fish for provisions."
The men spent the rest of the night peppering him with questions about his unexpected voyage. Jack borrowed one of their knives and began to prepare the fish he had caught. Outside the storm raged on. Rain battered down on the roof and winds blew against the brick walls, and by the time it was over, all three men had fallen asleep next to the warmth of the fire.
Jack woke up the next morning in a daze. Light filtered through the opening of the window and his eyes groggily opened to greet the day. Everything was just as it was last night. His surroundings still smelled like fish and salt, and the men still lay on the wooden planks, both of them snoring. Yet, as he came to, he noticed an eerie sound vibrating against the walls. The sound had a strange melody and it was unlike anything he had ever heard before. With the palm of his hand, he rubbed his eyes and propped his head up. What was that sound?
He pushed himself up carefully, surveying the room. The sound was coming from just outside the window. He crawled quietly a few paces across the floor towards the window and stood up, straining his eyes through the dust. Outside, the only remnant of a storm last night was the soft mist that swirled through the green hills. All was still and empty, except for three figures that were moving in tandem across the knoll.
They were three women, all dressed in long, translucent white robes with nothing underneath, and long, curled hair flowing behind them with every step. It was from them that the sound emitted, as each of them was singing. Each woman was walking with a different object in their hand. The first, held a harp in one hand while the other plucked at the strings. The second held a chalice firmly up to her chest. The third carried a basket filled with some sort of greenery.
An intense feeling of yearning stirred through Jack's body. He tiptoed towards the smolders of the fire to pull his clothes off the drying line. He was in the middle of hastily throwing on his pants when the old man's deep voice croaked from the other side of the room.
"I hope you think twice before continuing, young lad."
Jack turned, mid-trouser buckle, to face the old man behind him, who was now sitting up on the wooden planks.
"What d'ya mean?" said Jack sheepishly, turning back to his pants.
"You know exactly what I mean," said the man, moving his legs over the side of the makeshift bed and placing his feet on the cold, dirt floor. "Those women hold the delicate balance of our island in their hands. Any disruption in their routine would result in the demise of us all. They are walking to the altar, and cannot be disturbed."
"Oh, so they're temple women, then?" asked Jack, turning back towards the window and craning his head to see the trio again as they walked farther and farther away. His village had plenty of women that had chosen to dedicate their lives to the happiness of the gods, but none of them were as beautiful or performed in such a manner.
"Temple women?" This voice came from the floor next to where Jack stood, the other fisherman who had woken up. "Those are more than just simple temple women."
"These are the Maidens of Taranis," said the older fisherman. "They do so much more than mind the temple. They were sacrificed to it. They were picked five years ago, after their first bleed and began their duties when they reached the age of eighteen. Since then, they are not to be in any contact with a man. Not even a single touch. They will spend the rest of their lives praying to the mighty Taranis, so that he will spare our small island when he brings the heavy thunderstorms. Every day they will walk through the island, singing songs of thanks and prayer, and then spend their night sleeping by the altars."
Jack raised his eyebrows at this story and pulled himself away from the window, turning back towards the dimly lit hut. Virgins for the gods? He thought. How strange. "No one's been able to convince them to spend the night with them, then?" he said with a small laugh.
The older fisherman narrowed his eyes and stood up to walk towards Jack, wagging his bony finger in warning. "They have an important job. Our island has sacrificed three virgins to the gods for the past three hundred years. And in those hundred years, our island has survived every storm. Don't you go playing games, mainlander. It's best to watch and admire them from a distance."
"They're so beautiful," said Jack. "How is it that no man has attempted to touch any of them?"
