narrative-beyond the sea

 someone lives on a boat, watches the uncivilised humans on an island do terrible things, yet she can't/can survive by herself?

used to live in an equally uncivilised society

30MIN

It was as if, even after all the perfidious torture on the island, Bartholomew had still remained the same benign boy as he had always been.

Oh, how his heart ached when he heard the screams of the sacrifices, or when he cast his eyes on the gaunt, pallid expressions of the girls. Everyone else had been desensitised after witnessing so many horrors. But not Bartholomew Quentin, the meek mousy son of the chief.

It had been yet another banal day on the island. The sun's sanguine rays sifted through the clouds, onto the land which would once again be splattered with blood (as it had been the day before, and the one before that...). The nooses fluttered in the gentle breeze like washcloths. Bartholomew, who had been anxiously watching them, was ensconced onto a straw throne beside his dad. He didn't dare to steal a glance at his father's face, but sure enough he could feel waves of intimidation and belligerence rippling off the stocky, hippo-like beast. An unsettling emotion wrung his heart as he looked over the sea of sacrifices. They traipsed along the path, chanting a solemn prayer as they lined up before the executors as if programmed to do so. Bartholomew writhed uncomfortably in his chair, feeling the helpless eyes of  mere children burn into him as they looked at him from below. 

Yes, the matter at hand surely did not suit the convivial weather that morning. 

As Bartholomew strained to avert his attention to the sea, a speck in the distance caught his eye. It glided over the waters, in a dragged, lazy movement, before stopping still.

Was that... a person? 

Bartholomew's lips parted in shock. He gripped the scratchy armrest of his throne, but kept his mouth shut. After all, he had seen many times what his father would do to any foreigners who approached their island. 

How he wanted to wave the person away, to yell warnings of the island and save their life. 

But Bartholomew Quentin was a coward, and always had been. 

The person stood perfectly still and erect on their little sailboat, staring at the scene as if hypnotised. No one noticed them, even if they were the only sight on the horizon more miles around. As the screams echoed around him, and the usual thudding of bodies were muffled by the sand, they continued watching. Bartholomew squinted at the figure-perhaps a girl-and questioning yet admiring her flagrant courage (or was it temerity?) She continued to observe the crimson liquid seep into the sand, and then the cheering of Bartholomew's father as the bodies were dumped. 

How come he had been exposed to this sort of thing every day in his life, and yet he still flinched more than some girl who had never seen this sort of thing before?

It was only then that she started to make her leave. Bartholomew looked over in awe as she coolly steered around, sailboat shrinking in the distance. Questions whirled around his head as he ogled at her disappearing figure. Where had she come from? What was it like living beyond the sea?

But as quickly as she had retreated, another sight had appeared along the horizon. This time, it wasn't one solitary boat.

A villager noticed this. A yell resounded throughout the sacrificial site, everyone's gazes following the direction his hand pointed to.

A fleet. A fleet of ships, rapidly approaching the island like a swarm of ants. There was lots of them. They were clearly armed. A battle cry echoed in the distance. Bartholomew's father shot up from his seat, face twisted with evident confusion and rage. But one thing that was truly peculiar, as the islanders watched in fear, was a mere young girl on a handmade sailboat leading the charge with a sinister grin on her face.