HOLDING AN ISLAND by Isabelle B.L.
A captivating retelling of the Colapesce legend
Messina’s crystal blue waters lured the infant. Nicola rolled in the sand covering his baby skin in gold. He scuttled, like neighbouring crabs, toward a mirage over the horizon in the shape of a fish. Bubbles floated above the strait, in a single file toward Nicola and his mother. He lifted up on his elbows and collapsed, then lifted again and poked the big, round translucent bubbles.
The boy became a statuesque chiseled man. His ivory solid surface metamorphosing into flesh as soon as the tips of his extended fingernails brushed Poseidonisque waters separating Sicily and Calabria. He launched himself out of the water, meeting raptors, startling flamingos during their one-legged naps, and capturing the fixed gaze of the King.
The seaman met the challenges set forth by the roaring ruler. The King furrowed his brows, half-grinning, but when Nicola retrieved the gold rock and scooped the King’s crown from stubborn tentacles, the King’s arms fell to his side, a gust of wind speckling sand upon his scarlet-clad surcoat. Nicola leaped back into the water before the King’s speechlessness ceased. Nicola zoomed across the sea, hands leaving trails in the murky sands.
Humans are no fun, he once confided to a school of bioluminescent fish. Sharks displayed a toothy agreement. Swordfish interrupted their slash and snack. Their pointy nose seesawed pricking Nicola’s bulging biceps.
Nicola swam further along the narrow stretch of water. I have to get away from both of them. The King was rubbing his temples trying to produce another challenge. And his mother’s grating voice ordered him to act like a man. Her daily curses, you’ll lose your legs and become a fish, made his cheeks glow drowning him in a river of dreaminess from dawn to dusk. Fantasies about scales sent him crashing into a large milky pillar.
Three columns cupped the island of Sicily. Pleading tangerine fish, opened and shut frantic fine fins, wreathed the three alabaster columns. The third pillar stood seconds from subversion. The cancerous column broke Nicola’s flat gaze.
“I must be Sicily’s third tower of strength. I must hold her up—forever.”
Nicola’s eyes brimmed with tears when he waved goodbye to his mother and father. His cheeks red-rubied just like the King’s ring he had fished out seconds before. Whirlpools danced before his gleaming eyes. The sparkling sea, an ephemeral space, would now become his everlasting home. Existing in a single breath.
***
“Nicola is stretching,” say the Sicilians today whenever the earth trembles and Etna’s fury escapes. Nicola lifts, and the Sicilians return to work.
Century-old friends have ceased to swim, make love, and reproduce, meeting extinction. The underwater palette proposes fewer colors. Spears and long thin lines pierce his friends and angle them into oblivion. Tears merge with the sea, but the creatures that remain know the underwater transformation has made Nicola cry and grieve for what was and had now become.
“That’s it.” Nicola lets go of Sicily. The earth cracks. Torrential rain floods the towns. Thirsty terracotta-hued land triggers a wave of prayers. “Take that.”
“It’s a warning from Nicola.” The townsfolk bend their heads. Down not up. Their faces stop facing the heavens. Nicola lifts Sicily once again and humans return to work but do things a little differently this time.
Isabelle grew up in Australia to Sicilian parents. She is now living in France teaching and writing. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Visual Verse, Bluepepper and elsewhere.