When the fog fluttering above the sea's surface became so thick that no one could quit the shore to go fishing for days, even weeks on end (for those who dared to leave the island on those bleary days, never found their way back), and the sea seemed so sleepy that it lay flat, lapping languidly the rim of the dry land, ceasing to roar, to rumble, to make any sound, we knew that the White Ship was close.
Unlike the wise old ones who hid in their tiny houses clinging to the bare, tree-less rock towering above the infinite waters, our island, our home, we sneaked secretly to the lighthouse perched on top of the rocky hill, sat on the stone wall and peered into the allconsuming, suffocating fog, waiting for the mysterious vessel.
And it came as always, slipping to our shores silently, its ghostly white sails swelling in a non-existent breeze. We rejoiced at the sight of its sky-high masts slicing through the mesmerising mist, welcoming the Ship, the floating circus coming to disperse our despair, bringing smiles to our lips whenever we had no food to fill our mouths.
The old ones, the parents of our parents' parents, never failed to warn us not to get too confident with the vessel's crew, the mute performers dressed in long gossamer gowns, as light and white as if they were sewn from spider silk, or the sea fog, their faces as pale as ghosts'...
"Maybe they are ghosts," the wise ones whispered as they rushed inside their homes, bolting their doors, "maybe they are spirits, souls of those who could not find peace, not even after death." We never failed to laugh at those words, refusing to believe them.
Seeing the Ship sliding smoothly to our shores now, I smiled at my girl and my friends. We had had nothing to eat in days and felt faint with hunger, fatigued with fear of the fog, of the future, but at the sight of those snow-white sails we held hands, slipped from the sandstone walls and sprinted to the sea the second we spied the surplices of the strange sailors shimmering like silver through the mist.
We greeted the mute performers, welcoming them among us, accepting their gifts-- strange fruits, fragrant breads, sweet drinks-- which they brought from some remote islands, those places shrouded in secrets and mysteries, which none of us had ever visited, but we all dreamed about. We let our teeth sink into the fantastical feast, our tongues revel in its thousands of tastes, forgetting the fog, the wise ones' words, each other, ourselves...
We laughed as we watched the strange sailors eat flames and perform magic tricks, smiled as they acted silly scenes, sighed longingly at the angelic beauty of their faces.
They stayed for days, never venturing within the walls of the taciturn town. We blamed the old people for making our visitors feel unwelcome. We liked them, begged them to stay, or take us away with them... Before, they only shook their heads, vanishing with the veil of mist, when no one was watching.
But this time... I wouldn't let them leave without me. My eyes found the girl I had noticed when the ship sailed to our shores before. She seemed the same as then, if not more beautiful. And now I felt old and brave enough to finally follow her. She smiled shyly when she saw me near. The gelid tips of her graceful fingers grazed the palm of my hand as she took the string of sea shells I had made for her. Her bright eyes, boring into mine, whispered that we understood each other well enough even without words.
I did not go home with my friends that night. From the fog thinning faintly, I guessed that our guests would be gone by sunrise. So I laid down next to the pale girl on the soft sand, and we fell asleep, holding hands.
I woke up the instant she left my side at dawn and followed her to the Ship; she did not stop me. Even as my feet touched the sparkling surface of the White Ship, I heard her voice. It sounded like the sweetest song carried by the sea breeze. Smiling, she pointed at my worn-out clothes-- they shimmered and shone then morphed into a spotless snow-white robe, same as hers. I let her lead me, show me around the vessel, holding my hand in hers, as I listened to her murmured words weaving through the whisper of water when the waves lapped at the wood of the vessel, coaxing, caressing, carrying it away from the shore.
The Ship sailed to wondrous islands, distant lands with beautiful towns. I became one of the sailors, the mute, ghostly performers clad in white robes, appearing with the fog, with hunger, with despair. We brought hope to the hopeless and smiles to the sad, and sometimes we took someone away with us, but the Ship never felt crowded.
It was a long time before we reached an island that felt faintly familiar. As it took shape from the thick fog, I recognized the bare, rocky hill, the sandstone lighthouse perched on its top.
Even here, we were welcomed only by a handful of excited children, too hungry to heed the wise words of the old. They accepted the food we offered them thankfully, without fear, laughing at our tricks, sighing at our beauty.
An adult woman appeared nearby suddenly, an extraordinary event. I saw her looking at us silently from the shadows cast by the tall town walls. Her sea blue eyes were surrounded by a web of wrinkles, her hair seemed streaked with silver, shining, as if sprinkled with stardust.
She stood still, waiting for me to reach her, and as she caressed my cheek, her eyes filled with tears.
I thought I remembered her then...
I begged her mutely to join us, to leave the island with me, but she shook her head sadly, calling out to the group of children playing on the beach. With one last, teary look in my eyes, she led two of them away to the town I could not enter any longer.
I felt sad until the fog lifted, and the White Ship sailed away again, steering us to the sweet oblivion of the sea, making me shed my sadness on the shore.
When we reached the island again, a long time after, only the children calling to us from the coast watched the white vessel emerge from the mysterious mist. She wasn't there anymore... She must have only been a memory, a dream, a ghost...
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