Once upon a time…

I am old, older than the smoothed stones by the long cold sea. When I was young, I sailed with a small crew, Dayak men whose blades sang and whose charms were plaited from rattan and bone. We came north to a coast of dark firs and low red cottages, where people kept a custom called the Night Net. On the first thaw, they cast a mile of woven rope across a fjord-like inlet, to catch not fish, but a wandering light said to test the heart.

They asked me to stand at the pin of the net. “If the light comes to you,” the elder said, “do not step aside.” My hands shook. I remembered the old stories of the prophet who lifted his knife and trusted the unseen. I told my fear to hush.

Near midnight, the light slid along the water, pale as breath. It faced me like a calf at birth. I held the pin and did not move. The light pressed, and the net rang. Morning found the inlet bright. Our boats did not ice that spring, and the fields grew barley tall as my belt. I learned belief is not sharp. It is steady.