Galea opened her eyes to a world bathed in gentle blue light. For several moments, she lay still, trying to understand where she was and how she had come to be there. The last thing she remembered was her father holding her as their ship battled through a terrible storm.
"Father?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper.
Galea pushed herself upright, surprised at how easily her body responded. For what seemed like forever, her limbs had been leaden with weakness, her chest tight with pain whenever she breathed too deeply. Now, she felt... different. Stronger.
Looking down at her arms, she gasped. The angry red spots that had covered her skin were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished flesh. Even the old scar on her knee from a fall two summers ago had faded greatly.
"Father?" she called again, louder this time as panic began to set in.
Galea stood shakily, brushing sand from her simple linen dress, now torn and salt-stained. The beach stretched in both directions, curving gently around a sheltered bay. Behind her, dense vegetation grew almost to the water's edge—strange plants with enormous leaves that seemed to pulse with the same blue luminescence as the sand.
That's when she saw him.
Her father lay face down at the water's edge, one arm still reaching toward her, as if his final act had been to push her higher onto the beach. The gentle waves lapped at his legs and torso.
"No! Father!" Galea screamed, rushing to his side.
She grabbed his shoulders, trying to roll him over. He was so heavy, but somehow she managed it. His face, once so full of life and warmth, was now pale and still. His lips had taken on a bluish tinge, and his eyes stared sightlessly at the unfamiliar stars above.
"Wake up! Please, wake up!" Galea sobbed, pounding her small fists against his chest. "The island was supposed to heal us! WAKE UP!"
"The dead are dead, child."
The voice came from behind her, deep and strangely accented. Galea whirled around to see a man standing a few paces away, watching her with an expression that might have been curiosity or perhaps merely boredom.
He was tall—taller than any man Galea had ever seen—with thick, dark hair that fell to his shoulders. His face was handsome in a way that seemed almost unnatural, too perfect, with not a single line or blemish marring his features. He wore strange garments made of materials Galea couldn't identify, formfitting black clothing that gleamed slightly in the blue light.
"Who are you?" Galea asked, instinctively positioning herself between the stranger and her father's body.
"A drifter, I suppose. Some have called me Merlin," Bobby replied with a slight shrug. "Others have used different names. It hardly matters."
"Please," Galea begged, tears streaming down her face. "Help my father. The stories said this island heals all sickness."
Bobby approached, his movements fluid and graceful, like those of a predatory cat. He knelt beside Acastus's body and placed a hand on the dead man's forehead.
"This isn't sickness, child. This is death. Your father drowned." He glanced up at her, his eyes unnervingly bright in the dim light. "The island heals the living. They can't restore life once it's fled."
"But you can help him!" Galea insisted. "You must have powers. I feel... different. Stronger. The spots on my skin are gone. If the island can do that, surely you can bring back my father!"
A strange expression crossed Bobby's face—something between amusement and irritation.
"Resurrection is technically possible," he said after a moment. "But he wouldn't be your father anymore. Not really. The body would move, perhaps even speak, but the consciousness you knew would be gone. Is that what you want? A hollow shell wearing your father's face?"
Galea stared at her father's lifeless form, considering the man's words. Everything inside her screamed to have her father back, by any means. But the thought of looking into his eyes and seeing a stranger looking back...
"No," she finally whispered, fresh tears flowing. "He deserves proper burial rites. His spirit must travel to the afterlife to be with mother."
Bobby's eyebrows rose slightly. "Interesting choice, like Art," he murmured. Then, louder: "Very well. I can help you prepare his body. There's a promontory on the eastern side of the island that makes a suitable resting place."
Galea wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "Thank you. But... what happens to me after? I have nowhere to go. No one left."
Bobby stood, brushing sand from his strange clothing. "That depends on you, I suppose. You're welcome to stay on the island. Most do initially, but they all leave eventually." His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the child. "Do you have any other family?"
Galea shook her head, tears still glistening on her cheeks. "No. Father was all I had. Mother died when I was very small." Her voice cracked. "I don't even remember her face."
Bobby sighed, the sound barely audible over the crashing waves. Another orphan washed up on his shores. Another test subject, though the girl didn't know it yet. She'd make an interesting addition to his ongoing experiments—her genetic response to the psionic field already showed promise, healing her spotted disease with remarkable speed.
"Very well," he said finally. "Help me with your father. The dead deserve proper respect, even in this forgotten corner of the world."
Together, they carried Acastus's body further inland, away from the tide's reach. The girl stumbled several times under the weight, but refused to stop. Bobby could have easily carried the man himself—hell, he could have levitated the body with a mere thought—but seeing the determination in the child's eyes gave him pause. There was something about her that reminded him of someone... someone he'd known in another life.
"We'll need to prepare him," Bobby said as they laid Acastus on a flat rock outcropping beneath the strange, glowing foliage. "Do you know your people's burial customs?"
Galea nodded solemnly. "We wash the body with sacred oils, dress it in clean clothes, and place coins on the eyes for the ferryman." Her brow furrowed. "But I have no oils or coins."
"The intention matters more than the materials," Bobby replied. "Wait here."
He disappeared into the dense vegetation, returning moments later with a small wooden bowl filled with a shimmering substance that looked like liquid moonlight.
"This will serve," he said, handing her the bowl. "It's not your people's oil, but it has... properties that will preserve him until we can complete the rites."
Galea took the bowl cautiously. "What is it?"
"Something I made," Bobby said dismissively. "Now, help me remove his wet clothes."
Together, they stripped Acastus's body and washed it with the strange substance. The liquid seemed to sink into the dead man's skin, giving it an almost lifelike glow. Under Bobby's instruction, Galea used broad leaves to fashion a simple shroud.
"Tomorrow, we'll take him to the eastern promontory," Bobby explained as they finished. "It overlooks the sea. A fitting place for a fisherman to rest."
Night had fallen completely now, the storm gradually subsiding to a gentle rain. The blue luminescence of the beach and plants provided an ethereal glow that bathed everything in cool light.
"Are you hungry?" Bobby asked abruptly.
Galea hadn't thought about it until that moment, but sudden awareness of gnawing emptiness in her stomach made her nod vigorously.
"Come then. My dwelling isn't far."
Bobby led her through winding paths in the dense vegetation. Strange plants towered overhead, some with leaves wider than a man was tall, others with bulbous structures that pulsed with that same blue light. Occasionally, small creatures scurried across their path—things that looked almost like lizards, but moved too quickly and with too many legs.
After walking for perhaps half an hour, they emerged into a small clearing. At its center stood a simple structure—a circular hut with walls of woven plant fibers and a roof of broad leaves. It seemed primitive at first glance, but as they drew closer, Galea noticed odd details: the perfect geometric arrangement of the support poles, the strange, smooth material that reinforced the walls, the complete absence of insects or vermin that would normally infest such a dwelling.
"It's not much," Bobby said, "but it keeps the rain out."
Inside, the hut was surprisingly spacious. A fire pit occupied the center, though no smoke filled the air—the flames burned with an unnatural steadiness, giving off heat but seemingly consuming no fuel. Along the walls were simple furnishings: a pallet of soft fibers, several wooden containers, and hanging bundles of dried plants and fruits.
Bobby gestured toward a sitting mat near the fire. "Rest. I'll prepare something to eat."
As he moved about the hut, Galea watched him with cautious fascination. Despite his strange appearance and manner of speaking, his movements were fluid and precise. He selected dried mushrooms, some kind of root vegetable, and what looked like strips of preserved meat from his stores, combining them in a clay pot with water.
"Are you a god?" she asked suddenly.
Bobby froze for just a heartbeat, then continued his work. "What makes you ask that?"
"The stories about this island... they say it's protected by powerful spirits. That the sick are healed by divine magic." She glanced down at her arms where the deadly spots had been. "I was dying. Now I'm not. That seems like something only a god could do."
A sound escaped Bobby's throat—something between a laugh and a scoff. "Gods are just stories people tell to explain what they don't understand." He stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. "This island has certain... properties. The healing isn't magic. It's just nature working differently here than elsewhere."
"But you control it," Galea persisted. "You made this place, didn't you?"
Bobby turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. "You ask many questions for someone who almost died today."
"Father always said I was too curious." Her voice caught on the word 'father,' and fresh tears welled in her eyes.
Something softened in Bobby's face. "Curiosity isn't a flaw," he said more gently. "But sometimes answers must be earned through patience." He ladled the steaming stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to her. "Eat. Tomorrow, we'll see to your father's final journey. After that... we'll decide what happens next."
The stew had a strange, complex flavor—earthy and rich, with hints of spices Galea had never tasted before. Whatever it was, it soothed her empty stomach and seemed to spread warmth throughout her body. As she ate, exhaustion descended like a heavy blanket.
"Sleep," Bobby said, gesturing to the pallet. "I'll watch over your father tonight."
"Don't you need to sleep?" Galea asked through a yawn.
Bobby's lips curved in what might have been a smile. "Not as much as you do."
Too tired to question further, Galea crawled onto the pallet and was asleep almost instantly.
After ensuring the girl was truly unconscious, Bobby stepped outside the hut. He gazed up at the night sky, where unfamiliar constellations wheeled overhead—familiar to him after countless millennia of observation, but still not the stars of his birth.
"Another test subject," he murmured to himself. "Let's see what you become, little one."
The blue glow of the island pulsed around him in response, as if acknowledging his words.