The Enchanted Island of Burotukula: A Sailor’s Dawn Encounter
Here is Oliver Slater’s account of what he witnessed. Slater was a beachcomber in Bua, during the sandalwood trade. He was sole survivor of the Argo shipwreck off Matuku in 1802. His journal noted the following:
I awaken with a jolt to the gentle rocking of waves against my battered canoe. The first pale hues of dawn are unfurling across the horizon. Blinking salt out of my eyes, I lift my head – and catch my breath. Before me, where there was only endless ocean the night before, an island now rises out of the mist.
Against the ember glow of sunrise, tall palms and strange trees silhouette black and gold. Tendrils of morning fog cling to a verdant mountainside at the island’s center, the peak crowned with a wreath of cloud. For a moment I wonder if I still dream: the scene is unreal in its beauty, as if etched from an artisan’s wood carving – every outline sharpened in the high contrast of dawn. The shoreline curves invitingly, a crescent of beach that gleams like ground pearl. I dip my hand in the water and see it stir glitters of blue light; the lagoon is alive with bioluminescence that twinkles with each ripple, painting the underside of low clouds in faint aurora hues. Never have I seen an island shoreline literally glowing in such colors. It’s as if the very sand and foam are imbued with some magic, welcoming me with an otherworldly sparkle.
My heart quickens. I navigate the canoe closer, almost without thinking. As I draw near the luminous beach, I realize the shore is not empty – figures are gathering there. One by one, women emerge from among the flowers and palms fringing the sand. They move gracefully, each clad in garments of leaf and flowing fiber that flutter in the dawn breeze. There are six…no, seven of them, wreathed in garlands of tropical blooms that seem to glow softly in the dim light. The flowers in their hair give off that delicious fragrance that carries over the water – the very scent that must have lulled me to sleep hours ago. I cannot see their faces clearly yet, but their laughter echoes across the calm bay, bell-like and beckoning. One woman steps ahead of the others, wading knee-deep into the phosphorescent surf. The water lights up around her like a halo of aqua fire, illuminating her form. She lifts a slender arm and waves for me to come ashore, a smile on her lips.
I feel an almost hypnotic pull to obey. As I stand up in my little boat, the first rays of sun break over the horizon behind me, throwing my long shadow onto the glowing tide. The maiden at the front cocks her head curiously. In that new light, I catch a glimpse of her eyes – they shine a rich crimson for an instant, like the red of a dusk sky or perhaps the red of rare kula feathers. The unexpected intensity of her gaze sends a small shiver through me. I hesitate, suddenly aware of how quiet it has gotten. The other women have fallen silent, their laughter faded into an expectant hush. They stand very still on the shore, watching me. The gentle hiss of the surf and the pounding of my own heart are the only sounds now.
An instinct, primal and urgent, tugs at the back of my mind – a whisper of warning. I recall old village tales: “Do not fall asleep on Burotukula, or you may never return…” But I am not asleep now, am I? This feels so real, from the cool salt breeze on my skin to the golden-green gleam in the lead maiden’s eyes. I step forward on the bow, the wood of my canoe creaking underfoot. Alluring smiles return to the women’s faces. The leader extends her hand toward me; I can see the delicate web of tattoos on her fingers, patterns reminiscent of carved wood motifs. My fingertips reach out almost of their own will… yet at that very moment, a cloud drifts across the rising sun, throwing a shadow over the bay. The maiden’s outstretched hand pauses. In the dimmer light, the beautiful island suddenly appears more gothic than idyllic – the palms gnarled like twisted carvings against the sky, the once-bright lagoon now a darkling pool of ink. I blink hard, and for just a heartbeat, I think I glimpse something in those woods beyond the beach: a tall, silent figure standing among the trees, watching. The figure’s shape is wrong – spindly and too tall to be human – but when I blink again, it’s gone. Was it ever there?
A wave of dizziness washes over me. I realize I have hardly taken a breath. The lead maiden’s smile falters as if she senses my sudden doubt. Her eyes soften with what might be regret… or sorrow. She mouths words I cannot hear over the blood rushing in my ears. The sun edges free of the cloud, and daylight floods the bay once more. I rub my eyes and peer at the shore – my heart drops. The women who a moment ago stood vivid and beckoning on the sand are now translucentsilhouettes. Through them, I can see the greenery of the island fading into grey mist. I desperately reach out a hand and call, “Wait–!”, but it’s too late. Like a reflection on water disturbed by a splash, the entire island starts to shimmer and distort. One by one, the maidens dissolve into the air, their forms swept up in a now-rising fog. The towering trees and shining beach behind them melt into the sea mist, until all that remains is the outline of the mountain peak. For one last instant, I see the highest point of the island against the sun – a green summit ringed by cloud – and then it, too, is gone, swallowed by the morning light.
I am left staring at an empty horizon, the oar trembling in my hand. Only the scent of sweet flowers lingers in the dawn air and a few petals floating on the water – the only proof that I wasn’t simply imagining everything. In the distance, gulls cry out and the real, waking world reasserts itself. With a heavy mix of wonder and loss, I realize I have just glimpsed Burotukula, the vanished paradise of legend. It was real to me for those precious moments, as real as the sky and sea – and now has vanished with the night. I lower myself to the canoe and gently clutch a stray bloom that drifted within reach, its fragrance indeed not of any flower I know. As I turn for home, I know that this experience will live with me forever, a cherished secret and a haunting mystery, for I have been to the enchanted island and returned to tell the tale.
———— Acknowledgement————
Thank you, Josifini Grace Talebula for inspiring this piece.
—————-/ The End /—————
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