lightning garden

A high, rocky outcrop reaches over the sea at the eastern tip of the isle. On that outcrop stands a tower, and has stood perhaps for hundreds of years. Its walls are uncut black rock, each piece of a different size and shape, fitted together so snugly that no cracks remain. The tower leans dangerously over the edge of the outcrop and towards the sea. Numerous ropes attach it to the rock and poles support it from below.

In the Tower lives the Mistress of the Isle, and has lived for as long as anyone can remember. The oldest inhabitants of the isle recall their grandparents speaking of her as of the bedrock. She might be the one who built the Tower, or merely the latest to inhabit it. She does not talk about the past.

Once a day, when the tide is low and the sea around the Tower retreats revealing a long, sandy beach, the Mistress of the Isle descends from her tower to walk the beach 'round her Tower. Three servants walk with her: one to her left and half a pace ahead of her holding a parasol to keep out the wind and the rain, another three paces ahead of her carrying a staff and a lantern to show the way, and a third four paces behind her carrying an empty bag. Sometimes, not always, the Mistress of the Isle stops and points at something washed ashore by the sea — a stone, a shell, a bone, a driftwood, a piece of ambergris or amber — and the third servant delicately picks it up and puts it in the bag.

More rarely, on those rare few bright days when the winds that whip the isle cease their assault, the sea is calm, and the heavy clouds part to reveal the sun and the stars, the Mistress of the Isle leaves her Tower to visit the villages. On those occasions, she is accompanied by two more servants. One walks on her right, half a pace behind her, and rest their hand on the pommel of a sword. The sword is long and curved, its serrated blade black, shining stone. Its bared only rarely, and only for a single purpose.

The other walks behind her, for when the Mistress of the Isle walks the villages, she is followed not by a bag, but a barrow, big and heavy with an enormous wheel in the middle and handles at both ends, lightly laden with objects she has gathered or have been brought to her. The Mistress of the Isle stops in every village, and the villagers come to seek her justice. Though the Mistress does not demand it, every petitioner brings an offering, which her servants delicately lift in the barrow. Be the offering great or trifling, it makes no difference. The Mistress of the Isle listens to all sides in silence, only rarely asking questions; and when all is said, she renders her decision. The law she enforces is her own, and there is no appeal. Only very rarely is she ever disobeyed. The one who has been decided against will, even despite themselves, shift a glance to the sword whose blade is black stone resting in its scabbard, and nod. Often both sides leave the presence of the Mistress of the Isle feeling relieved.

When she has visited every village of the isle and given her justice to all who ask, the Mistress of the Isle circles back, the barrow her servants push now heavy with offerings; and when she now stops at a village, those who need it come to her and ask her for a gift, which her servants carefully lift from the barrow and give them. Some receive something useful or precious; others something they did not yet know they needed, or something altogether worthless. Only very few ever complain.

The inhabitants of the Isle praise the wisdom, generosity, and fairness of its Mistress, but breathe a sigh of relief when she has returned to her Tower. In the eastern parts of the isle, where the Tower sometimes is visible through the mists, the people turn their eye away. In every village, the inhabitants bring their quarrels and crimes to her, and in every village, the inhabitants tell their children stories of her to frighten them. Only very few have ever seen the naked blade of the sword which has only one purpose, but all know what it looks like.

The Mistress of the Isle has been on the isle longer than anyone can remember, perhaps as long as it has existed. She is as much a part of it as the worn-smooth, dark stones of its shores or the merciless winds that whip it. Its difficult to say if she is loved, feared, or merely accepted.