My people have always lived on the island. This is a story told to me by my grandmother, who was told it by her mother. It concerns my great-grand-uncle, Padraig.
One Sunday morning, when he was quite a young man, he went down the the strand to look for pickings after a storm. He came across a young girl, not from the island, all alone and crying. She was quite naked, and cold, so he gave her his coat. He tried to coax her off the strand, but she wouldn’t go. He ran for his parents, and by the time they got back to the girl she had fainted away. Padraig and his father carried her up to the house, his mother calling out for help all the way.
She stayed in house three days and three nights. She wouldn’t talk at all, and wouldn’t eat, only the mackeral heads that the mother was throwing away, and she ate them raw. On the fourth day, she left, still saying nothing. Nobody saw her go, and nobody knew where she went.
That’s the whole story, as I heard it.
This is for Jane Dougherty’s microfiction challenge. The image is by Olav Johan Andreasson.