Dear Son.

When I was much younger, I missed the island. I've never told you this before, but the reason I built this cabin on the mountainside is so I could spot it if it ever appeared again.

My brother and I had heard stories about it, from the old men in the town. While none of them had ever seen it, a grand-uncle or some such had. One man's grandfather claimed to have come ashore on the island and been welcomed by the castle's inhabitants. He even had time to attend a ball in the sprawling banquet hall. They had let him keep the tunic they gave him to wear at this ball, though the man telling the story admitted that by the time he remembered seeing the garment in question, it looked just like any other ragged shirt.

Our parents tolerated our love for these stories, but my brother Michael and I…well, we believed. And we waited for the day that we hoped would come, that it would appear out on the water, and we would row out to greet it. And then, as Michael swore, we would stay there, even after the island left. It would take us with it, he swore. And I believed him.

And it came to pass exactly as we had hoped. The island appeared and Michael went down to the boats to make for it before it left again. But I was slower than he, I was only thirteen years at the time. He reached the boats long before I and, being one of the best oarsmen even at seventeen, was entering the fog out on the water by the time I reached the shore. "Come on," he called to me, "catch up! Hurry!"

And then he vanished into the mist.

They found me in my boat, almost twenty hours later, exhausted and dehydrated. I had rowed out, fast as I could, to where I was sure the island must be, but found nothing. No island. No boat. No Michael. I hadn't stopped, though. I had rowed in a large circle in the fog, screaming his name until my voice left me.

Michael never returned. My parents forbad any more talk of the island. Michael, foolish and headstrong as he was, had chased a dream into the sea and it had killed him. So I finally agreed. But I never believed it.

I sold my parents' house after they died and built this, the place where you grew up. Your mother, God rest her soul…I told her the story once, when I felt the time was right. But she didn't understand. She came from far inland, and those who don't live near the water for a good portion of their lives simply don't understand that life here is different, living on the banks of an alien world. Such is the ocean, I tried to explain, and strange things happen at the borders between this world and others, but she didn't understand.

Regardless, finally, last week the island returned. I am older now, much older, and could not hope to row such a distance. But we are living in the future and there was no need of such exertion. I went down, climbed in my dinghy with the outboard motor, and reached the island's shore in less than an hour.

I wasn't sure what I would find. All this time, perhaps I thought Michael would be there to greet me. But as far as I could tell, it was entirely deserted. I climbed to the castle, only to find it in near ruin. Indeed, after venturing across the rusted metal drawbridge I dared not go inside. The entire structure looked ready to crumble if you but breathed on it.

I walked around the outside, however. And on the far side of the castle, I found my brother at last.

In one row of the graveyard there was a series of cairns, each marked by a crude plaque of metal and by a sword that stood implanted in the ground. The last one in the row had a sword with the word "MIKKHAIL" engraved on the blade, though worn and weathered. In worse shape was the plaque, though with some difficulty I was able to read "Pere, Sireah, Hiro."

I'm not certain what the words mean, though the first could mean father and the last could mean hero. Given what the sword must have looked like when it was new, it certainly didn't seem like it could ever have been wielded by anything other than a hero. And that was Michael. That was who he was.

I wondered why everything looked so old. It looked as though Michael–Mikkhail–had died centuries before, not anywhere near the decades he had been gone. And if he had been a father and husband, where was his family now? Where were the people who had held court at this place? Perhaps time moved at a different pace wherever this island went when it was not there.

I took a stone from my brother's grave, knelt and gave a small prayer, then went back to my boat. I did not look behind me as I made my way back here, but by the time I had climbed to our home again, the island had departed once again.

For the past few days I have sat here and turned the stone over and over in my hands and done little else.

If I had only been bigger, stronger, faster. If Michael had waited for me. If. If. If.

My brother had gone into a different land and found love and adventure and no doubt died a hero's death. I am happy for him. I am happy to know our parents were wrong and we were right all along. I am happy. Truly.

Son, I never told you any of this before because you are so like your mother, and I suppose I was afraid of what you might think. I don't know if I could have taken seeing her disbelieving eyes staring out of your face that looks so like mine.

I ask that when I am gone and you are left to take care of my effects, please ensure that the stone is buried with me. I'd like to be holding it as I pass into the next world. If you do not find it on my person, it will be on the mantle, where I keep it.

I suppose that's what I've really written you to say.

I hope this letter finds you well and in good health. I hope also that you will call at some point, when you find the time. I sometimes pass the time watching the cable TV, when it works, but that is not often. And the books have all been read.

Love,
Your father.