The sea is rising faster than the walls.
The young scientist read the report’s summary to the island council without hesitation, though tears gathered in his eyes, and his voice nearly broke on the final paragraph. All I wanted to do was wrap my robes around him and whisper reassurances.
I did not. As High Priestess, I represented the Goddess in all her majesty and grace and must comport myself accordingly. I fervently wished I could express Her anger, though, in that moment, especially at the graybeards who stood behind their colleague. Under their serious miens lay obvious relief they were spared this task.
Cowards, I thought. What took you so long?
Anyone who lived on the coast already suspected the truth. On an island small enough to cross in a week, you’d be hard pressed to find someone without a strong opinion about the sea change.
For each of the last five hurricane seasons, I’d watched as the community’s favorite beaches shrank or washed away completely. Mangrove forests sought by lovers had become inaccessible as the ocean turned paths into streams, then bogs. Brightly plumed shorebirds had flocked to town after crabs invaded their traditional nesting sites, eager to break open eggs full of rich yolk.
Even the monks who dwelt in meditation huts along the great swamp had laid siege to the temple, armed with weather-related complaints. It was difficult to pursue inner peace, they explained, when brackish water seeped through the floorboards at high tide. They intended to live at my temple, their robes stinking of mold and rot, until the Goddess saw fit to intervene.
Thus petitioned, I’d fasted and thrown myself into the five secret prayer dances, listening for wisdom, for guidance. I’d given my entire life to the Goddess, set aside lovers and the possibility of children to better serve my patron, but my efforts yielded only silence.
So I buried my doubts and filled my days with dignity and confidence befitting my station. My nights, however, were plagued by dread and uncertainty. Should I have offered up more sacrifices? Spent every waking hour praising the Goddess?
The council reviewed the academy’s full report. When they publicly supported the findings, I found an odd solace in having my suspicions confirmed.
The council ordered the engineers to make the flood walls wider and higher.
Within two months, the construction scaffolding surpassed even the tallest date palms. But it wasn’t enough. Math doesn’t lie, the engineers reported. We are only delaying the inevitable.
The council considered this. After a mercifully brief debate, they voted to leave the island. Finally, I thought. Who can fight the sea? She was your lover, and while you dove deep into her bosom or danced across her skin with sails unfurled, your hair whipping in the salt spray, ultimately, she carried you into the deep, cold depths, leaving behind only your kin and the stories they told over the night fires.
The shipwrights built twelve vessels, cannibalizing homes, schools, galleries, workshops, even the temple, scavenging precious lumber and even more valuable iron. Almost every able-bodied man, woman, and child worked from dawn until late evening, directed by carpenters, weavers, and smiths. Poets and musicians raised their voices above the construction din, belting out working songs, ancient couplets, and ribald insults to distract the workers from their fatigue and fear.
The elderly took themselves to elevated platforms, where they bore witness and chanted prayers. Their gnarled hands passed specially blessed string from one end of the shipyard to the other. With each pull on the diamond-hitch knots, they released another prayer to the heavens.
I released my virgins and attendants to work the shipyards. For my part, I moved with light steps among the crews, stopping whenever someone needed to vent their anger or grief or simply weep because they had no words. I tried to accept it all, silently praying the Goddess would give me strength to bear the weight of my people’s sorrow.
I knew we couldn’t save everyone. Or everything. It was a useless wish, one unworthy of my station. Instead, I forced myself to walk the shipyards until my feet stumbled and my head swam with sleeplessness.
While the ships took shape, the council asked the people what to bring to their next home. In response, they offered music, stories, recipes, dances, flowers, birds, and songs. At the same time, the scientists gathered practical wisdom: the forging of knives, the making of paper and ink, and the curing of illness.
The brightest teachers, those who kept the histories, drank sacred meditation tea that brought intense focus and banished sleep. With bright eyes, the teachers disgorged a lifetime of memories to the scribes, who laughed as they recorded secrets they thought long forgotten. The scribes distributed those scrolls among the ships, sealing the fragile vellum in clay tubes that became part of the ballast.
We finished the twelfth ship as the first dark clouds covered the horizon. I chose the passengers through a lottery of turtle shell chips, colored markers shaken and thrown into the rising wind. But there were simply too many to leave behind. I did what I could to balance skills and family ties.
And knew I failed.
When the storm clouds closed in, we gathered the last fresh meat and fruit for a final feast in the largest public square. Everything else was packed in casks for the journey.
Between cups of sour palm wine, I gifted each captain a lantern. These ancient and clever devices had guided our forebears here when mountains vomited fire and choking ash covered the skies of our ancestral home for two entire cycles of the moon.
The lights would guide them again.
I gave the captains their charge.
Sail in all directions, I said. Look for traders. When you find them, offer praise and songs and honeycomb. They will lead you to other waters, to higher ground, someplace to call home.
You will live, I whispered to them. Our island may drown, but our children will live.
The next morning brought a storm surge that breached the walls. As the tide lifted the ships from their cradles, I stood with the remaining people and the few animals we’d allowed ourselves. When the last ship safely reached open water, I clambered to the top of the nearest wall so I might raise a hand in final blessing to the young priestess who now wore my robes.
It was a small fleet to carry our future, but it was better outfitted than the one that brought us here all those generations ago.
My tears mingled with the rain in gratitude. The Goddess had heard our prayers and given us another chance.
We would not waste it.
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Karl Dandenell is a first-generation Swedish American, graduate of Viable Paradise XVI, and Full Member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. He lives on an island near San Francisco famous for its Victorian architecture with his family and cat overlords. He is fond of strong tea and distilled spirits (mainly whiskey). You can find him online on his blog (www.firewombats.com) or lurking on Bluesky (@karldandenell.bsky.social) and Mastodon (@karldandenell)
P.S. If you liked this one, look for Karl’s story, “Krishna’s Gift,” in Stupefying Stories #24!
