Syeda Mansur

Sands of Unrequited Love

Winter winds began to arrive from the northwest as the first week of November came around, leaving Kūpuna’s fragile body with shivers as he clung more fiercely to his ragged burgundy shawl. The sea breeze trying to comfort an old friend, caressed his wrinkled cheeks.

“Have you ever heard the tale of the lady of the manor?” asked Kūpuna with a soft and trembling voice, awakening the eager hearts of the dozen Keikis surrounding him like a flock of sanderlings. He urged again, “Do you know the lady of the manor who immersed herself in paint brushes and canvases, but none of her artworks exist here because she never gave or sold them to anyone?”

“I heard she burned them because she was not a good artist and feared everyone seeing how horrible her art was!” said a sanderling.

“No, I heard she did not want anyone else to copy her art. So she would bury them, keeping the beauty of her art safe in the chamber of her memories,” said another.

At that moment, Kūpuna’s eyes shifted from the sanderlings and fell on the irresistible beauty of the pearl grey sky over the jet black sands and the storm blue sea.

The gentle breeze becoming impatient over the sudden pause, started to sway a few strands of his silver grey hair, nudging him to come out of the reverie. Kūpuna chuckled sensing the impatience, and spoke with a steady voice despite the tremors of his delicate fingers, “I'll tell you what I believe to be the truth.”

The sanderlings squealed and flocked their wings as he began the tale. “The lady of the manor was an artist known for her cappuccino skin, hair darker than the dye of the Kukui nut, and a pair of mystical grey eyes, greyer than the clouds of the stormiest skies. She was a work of art herself, made by two unknown indigent artists who left her on the porch of the widowed, childless master of the manor when she was just a baby. She grew up learning the etiquettes of the high class. He loved her dearly like a long lost daughter and thus she became the heir to the lonely master. When the affectionate master passed away, she sought ways to hide the tumultuous waves of grief and found herself entranced by the healing power of art. She would paint from morning until the sun drew the last strokes of sunset upon the sky. In the evening, the cappuccino girl, let's call her Noelani, would often invite the small inhabitants of this town to her manor and serve delicious Haupia Pineapple Pie.”

“What! But people say she would never let anyone near her!” exclaimed the eldest sanderling.

“Oh, no! She did,” beamed Kūpuna. “And I was there, relishing the scrumptious pies and praising her beauty, wit, aura along with others. Oh, how she would smile half a smile at my praise, it was ineffable, just like the half moon on a cloudless night sky. And I was just one of these many selenophiles, who could only admire from afar. She would summon us on weekends in the evening when everyone had no jobs to attend to, and all the men and women and children would wait with anticipation for the weekend to arrive. Sometimes, even sailors and merchants from other parts of the world would be there.”

Kūpuna’s face suddenly darkened as if some foreign shadows had fallen on his euphoric glade of memories and he spoke with a grim voice, “I remember, like a tattoo inscribed upon my eyes, the face of a merchant in his mid-thirties. He was not very tall, not very handsome, but he had a charm that gravitated everyone in the room toward him and everyone witnessed Noelani naively gliding with the rhythm of hula with him that night.”

The sanderlings started fluttering their wings, “did they fall in love?” asked one.

“Did they sail away to another land?” asked another.

“No, the merchant was here for business, as merchants do from one place to another.” said Kūpuna bitterly. “They never settle down and never tie strings when they are already attached to their homeland, to which they eventually return. The merchant told tales of perilous voyages amidst the treacherous sea, and he sailed through the open shores of Noelani’s wanderlust heart. After a fortnight, he announced his return to the sea on a quest, leaving Noelani behind with a heart glowing with a feeble flame of hope. He promised he would return after two years. He said to Noelani on these shores, In year one, he would collect the treasure of I. In year two, he would collect the treasures of Love. And in year three, he would collect the treasure of You.”

“Yay, so they did fall in love!” cheered the naive sanderlings.

“Well, one of them did because it was the first and last time the whole town saw a painting by Noelani. The painting was of a woman with unruly brunette hair in a white silk gown standing on the moist ochre sands of a gloomy shore, and far away, a ship barely visible on the horizon, arriving under a brilliant host of sunbeams bursting through the sullen clouds. The merchant was elated to receive this impossible gesture! Everyone knew she could never stay separated from her art, and by presenting it to him, she proved her true love.”

“Then the merchant must have returned, right?” mused the tiniest sanderling.

Kūpuna shook his head in total dismal, “Alas, first year, second year, no messages, no letters. The next year, Noelani resided in a small cottage on the shores of the caramel sands and waited for her merchant’s return but days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. She overlooked everyone who implored her to snip the wick of the faithless candle that kept burning in her heart.”

“She was in deep love,” uttered a sanderling.

“Yes,” replied the melancholic Kūpuna. “Every day, we saw her wrapped in a velvet burgundy shawl, gazing beggingly at the outlines of ships far away on the horizon as they grew bigger and bigger and then smaller and smaller. A host of merchants and sailors arrived that year. Some were tall and some were handsome, some were not so fortunate in height nor features. Finally, on New Year's Eve, Noelani stood on the tempestuous beach. The shawl, this time forgotten, hung on the hook of the cottage door, and she trembled in an alabaster muumuu as the winds played rigorously with her untied hair. She waited until the first rays of the new year to burst from the sun and a few more and then with butchered hope and violated promises she returned to the manor, just as I expected because I never trusted the merchant from the start.”

Silence fell over the flock of sanderlings, until one timidly asked, “What happened to her then?”

The question hung in the air as everyone waited for Kūpuna to answer, but he remained still, as if etched into his memories like the Ki’i Pōhaku.

Fidgeting their feet in the sands, the sanderlings questioned, “Did he never show up?”

“Did she find another love?”

“What happened to her?”

“Tell us!”

“Tell us!”

“Where is she now?”

“Where is she now?”

The questions pulled Kūpuna back from his pensive thoughts, and he states, “ She lives here, in this very town.”

“What!” exclaimed the jittery flocks of sanderling.

“Betrayal and a broken heart turned her into a living but unlively being. Succumbing to seclusion, she closed the gates of the manor forever. We only knew from her housekeeper that all Noelani did everyday was paint the merchant’s portraits with earnest longing and devotion. However, at night, when the melancholic rage would drown her, she burned the portrait to ashes and watched until the sun ascended to his throne at every dawn.” Kūpuna’s voice became a whisper and his face grew a hundred years older now than at the beginning of the tale. His sea green eyes glistened with salt water under the thin feathers of white lashes.

Before the sanderling could pester him with more questions, he raised his delicate hand and shuddered as he said “On one moonless night, the wearied flame conspired to usurp the cappuccino artist along with her art. And so she burned, so did her art. Eight-seven years ago, just above the hill behind us, my Noelani burned, her art burned, and the manor burned. In one covetous flame, everything turned to ashes.”

The gentle breeze billowed Kūpuna’s spirit gently, and he murmured, “But by one benign breeze, the ashes were taken adrift and alighted to these shores, turning its sands to pitch black from caramel. And so, that is how it came to be known as The Black Sand Beach. She lives here. All of it is all of her.

Born and raised in the beautiful landscapes of Bangladesh, Syeda Anika Mansur finds solace in poetry, storytelling, and painting. Her work draws inspiration from nature, people, diverse cultures and places, and in-between moments of emotional turmoil. Cats are her forever companions. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in In Parentheses, Barzakh Magazine, The Passionfruit Review, BarBar Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. She shares her art and creative journey on Instagram @hearthacker_anika.