The Virgins of Hollow Bay

"My girls, you must practice every day, swiveling the guns of Hollow Bay. When the lechers come, and you know they must, those battery guns are your only hope."

Twenty feet of rocky shoreline separates thick pine forest from the smooth waters of Hollow Bay. The cove itself is an almost perfect circle, less than half a mile in diameter. Sheer cliff walls rise up on either side of the narrow mouth where it joins the sea. A battery of heavy artillery sits atop each prominence. Together, the gun installations can cover every inch of water, a mile out and up the coastline in either direction.

"But pray tell Old One, how are we to know which are the lechers and which are the princes?"

Two rope and wood plank bridges run between the cliffs, spanning the inlet. One across the top, hundreds of feet in the air--the other at the bottom, practically dipping in the water at spots. A rope ladder ascends each cliff.

"You won't know my child. You can never tell--not until it's too late. You must sink them all, prince and lecher alike. Feed their ships to the reef and their flesh to the sharks."

Ancient tides have carved away the rock at the base of one of the cliffs. Halfway back, out of the spray but not the light, lies the old woman. Her breaths come now as ragged gasps and she stares through cloudy eyes at the fourteen maidens kneeling by her side. The old woman tries to smile through a grimace. The girls turn their faces away even as they touch the sheets.

"Please don't leave us Old One."

"I'm sorry girls, I must."

The old woman closes her eyes and slips away. The girls rise and leave without a sound. The first seven out step to the rope ladder that hangs just outside the entrance and start to climb. Their grass skirts stream sideways in the evening breeze. The other seven walk single file across the lower bridge, heading for the far cliff. Hungry sharks track their progress.

Across the sea in uncountable numbers come prince and lecher alike. A thick swath of timber and sail does stretch between horizon curves. The word is out, the old woman is dead; surely the cliff guns will rumble no more.

The moon rises over the tiny cove. Bow lights twinkle in the distance--the first of the ships, on pace to arrive by dawn. With a practiced fluidity, the virgins of Hollow Bay swivel their guns in complex patterns. The ammunition stacks are double-checked.

But as the night wears on, each girl finds herself troubled by a single nagging thought--with a fifty/fifty chance the very first ship carries princes, shouldn't they take a chance and allow it to enter the bay? Then they can blast all ships that follow and live happily ever after. Isn't that a chance worth taking?

This nagging thought grows throughout the long night, as nagging thoughts tend to do. By dawn there is little chance a single fuse will be lit in the direction of the first ship.

The ships sail on, Hollow Bay dead ahead. One has the lead by at least a mile, but what manner of men walk its heaving deck? Be they prince or lecher? "Fifty/fifty chance" the virgins whisper and allow it to pass unscathed into Hollow Bay.

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Their guess turns out to be right, but also very wrong that day. For the princes are the lechers, and back again the same. Fifty/fifty, yes--but within a single frame.