My Grandfather Is a Giant Schnauzer

Iolka_Eson

May 3, 2025

My Grandfather Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Four — Where Names Are Born
Louise sat a little apart from me, as she always did — unobtrusively. She held two metal cups in her hands and handed me one. She didn’t look directly at me, only threw the occasional glance in my direction. I stayed silent. Ded was breathing evenly, just barely twitching. He wasn’t asleep — just pretending.

“Tomorrow the archaeologists will arrive,” Louise said, as if to herself. “A guest from Japan, someone from Brazil... But the French, as always, were first aboard the Équinoxe.”

I turned my head slightly. Équinoxe?

“That’s our ship,” she added.

I didn’t say anything. Just had a passing thought: if we called the boat Mirjam’s — because it belonged to Aunt Mirjam — then maybe this ship, with a name like Équinoxe, had an owner too.

So I asked, “Who is Équinoxe?”

Louise smiled, just barely. As if the question had surprised her but she liked it.

“No one,” she said. “It’s a word. In French, it means equinox. When day and night are equal.”

I stayed quiet, but inside it felt like someone was putting words onto shelves. A ship with a name — Équinoxe. As if it existed on its own. As if it had a soul. I figured everything big and important — like a ship — had to have a name. Our island had one too — L’Île Échouée.

“What does L’Île Échouée mean?” I asked.

Louise nodded. “It means ‘happy,’ ‘blessed.’ The missionaries gave it that name. They dreamed of making it so.”

“I know. Grandpa told me. But before that, the island had another name — The Island of the Black Turtle,” I said.

“Agreed,” she said. “The original name suits it better. Maybe turtles used to lay their eggs here.”

“I think it’s because of the pirates,” I said. “Grandpa used to sing me this song. It had these words: ‘Who seeks the turtle will find death or gold.’”

“Sounds like proper pirate wisdom,” Louise smiled.

I nodded. Then I began to hum — softly, almost whispering. My voice trembled, but I remembered the words:

Verse 1:

Yo-ho-ho! The crashing wave rolls high,

Black Turtle creeps through misty sky.

Beware that beast — let it drift away,

For here no gold, but a grave will stay!

Chorus:

Where shadows sleep in waters deep,

The turtle’s golden eyes still keep.

And he who dares to chase their light,

Will sink into the endless night!

Verse 2:

Three seagull cries — the devil’s near,

In coral jaws, the gems appear.

But touch the shell — it scorches skin,

And coils like death to drag you in!

Chorus:

Where shadows sleep in waters deep...

Finale (whispered, hoarse):

Yo-ho… the Turtle waits.

The treasure’s cursed — the rum is fate.

And luck? It’s grinning at your gate.

Louise said nothing, just

listened. When I finished, she nodded — briefly, like she was trying to remember it.

“That’s a good song,” she said. “Very vivid. Memorable.”

I shrugged. “I always liked it. Everything used to make sense in it. Before. Now… now that we’ve found the treasure, it makes more and less sense at the same time.”

“What would you call it? Do you want to give it a name?”

I looked into the fire. Sparks rose and vanished like they had their own purpose. I felt like they already knew the name. They just weren’t telling me.

“The Heart of the Black Turtle,” I said. “Because it lay underground, waiting. Like it knew we’d come. That I’d save the turtle.”

And I told her how the day before, Grandpa and I had found a turtle tangled in a net. How I freed it. And then the wave came.

Louise didn’t say anything. She nodded, took a sip, then added:

“Seems like you’re good at giving things their true names. In the morning, I’ll tell everyone — the island is once again The Island of the Black Turtle. And the treasure too.”

“Fine,” I said. “But the treasure should be The Heart of the Black Turtle.”

“I promise. That’s what we’ll call it.”

She stood.

“Now — off to the tent. It’s late.”

I looked at the motorboat near the shore. Reddish. Its name echoed inside me: Zarya.

Ded and I walked back to the tent. He curled up at the entrance, and I dropped onto my sleeping bag. Closed my eyes and started to repeat:

The Heart of the Turtle. Mirjam. Zarya. Équinoxe. Island.

But the fire — no. It’s always new. Doesn’t need a name. Or maybe…

And the wave?

They say I was named after a saint — Saint Thomas. During Hurricane Katrina, someone said: “Saint Thomas, help us unbelievers survive!” They hid in the mission. Back then, I was still in the womb.

I fell asleep with those words. Ded stayed by the flap. He didn’t sleep. He kept watch.

Morning came dim and soft, like fogged glass. Light hadn’t yet cut through the clouds, but the camp had already stirred — someone was brewing tea, someone else was wrestling with the folding mast’s ropes. The air was cool, and the sand under my bare feet was still damp — as if the night hadn’t fully left.

I crawled out of the tent. Ded was sitting by the entrance like he’d never even laid down. He glanced sideways at me, stretched out his legs, yawned. We were both still half-asleep — but together.

Not far off, under a tarp, Arina had set up her spot. She was jotting something in her notebook. When she saw me, she nodded and pointed at a mat laid out nearby. Looked like she’d brought it just for me.

“Breakfast later,” she said. “First — the island. Louise said you remember a lot. That matters, while it’s all still alive.”

I came over and sat down. Ded lay a bit off, but still in sight of both me and Arina.

“I want to start the island’s chronicle,” she said. “We’ll add maps, finds, layouts later… but first — the people. Tell me who you remember. I draw well — I can sketch portraits from descriptions. Look.”

She showed me a drawing — me and Ded by the fire. Then handed me the sketchbook. It was full: Louise, the captain, crew at work, a seagull, even a shark. Everything was clear, lively, beautiful. I didn’t know anyone who could draw like that. I studied the pages for a long time, then handed the book back and nodded.

“All right then!” she said. “Who was on the island with you? Describe them.”

I started listing them. Mirjam. Laurent. Fari. Grandpa. Me... Names and faces rose like someone was stirring up silt from the seabed. I told her who lived where, what boats we had, what pots, who grew sweet potatoes, who caught crabs. Arina never interrupted — just wrote, sketched, noted everything down. I could feel the things that used to live only in my memory now taking space on paper.

“And that boat on the beach,” she asked. “Is it yours?”

“No. Ours vanished with my parents. That one — it’s Aunt Mirjam’s. Grandpa and I borrowed it sometimes and shared the catch. She didn’t use it much herself — just to gather seaweed or check crab traps.”

Arina nodded. Wrote down: “Boat ‘Mirjam’ — old, with a scorched mark on the bow. Used for collecting seaweed and crabs.”

We heard footsteps. Elen and Maren approached. Elen wore a thin windbreaker, her hair tousled like she’d just woken up and forgotten a comb. Maren was tall, barefoot, holding a plastic container with sloshing water. He slouched slightly, like he wasn’t used to being this tall yet.

Elen smiled and dropped onto the sand next to us. She looked no older than twenty-two. Her smile was bright, her step light, and she sat like she knew nothing around her was permanent — but everything was worth enjoying.

“Hey,” she said, studying me. “That shirt and those shorts? They suit you better than they did me.”

I blushed and looked away.

“Thanks, I’m careful,” I mumbled. “I won’t ruin them.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re yours now,” said Elen. “A gift. And the sneakers — do they fit?”

“Thanks, they’re really nice. I’m just… not used to shoes,” I said, even more embarrassed.

Maren said nothing, but looked at her like he wanted to say something — and didn’t know how. Then he just sat down nearby and put the container between us.

Arina, clearly sensing we were getting distracted, asked Elen:

“Did you hear anything about breakfast? We won’t miss it, right?”

Elen looked at Maren. He nodded understandingly and jumped up to go find out.

Arina gave Elen a wry look.

“You know he’s sixteen and would do anything you say, right?”

Elen laughed, gently scratched Ded behind the ear. He nodded without lifting his head.

We hadn’t returned to the conversation yet when a low, soft hum rose over the camp — not a boat engine, not a chopper. It grew louder. I looked up: a seaplane was gliding over the lagoon.

It flew low and steady. Under its wings, the water shimmered like brushstrokes. The fuselage was pale, gleaming in the sun, a dark stripe along the nose. It barely seemed to move — descending so smoothly.

The seaplane touched down without a splash. It turned slowly, aligning with the shore. The water rippled under it as if unsure. We all froze. Even Arina paused her sketching.

“Archaeologists,” she whispered.

The plane taxied toward us. Now we could see — four people inside. A pilot in headphones and a dark jacket, two men, and a woman in glasses.

“They’ll stay until the main team arrives,” Arina added.

Ded stood and walked toward the beach — to greet the newcomers.

I followed him. Suddenly, it mattered: who would step out first? How would they look at the shore? These were the people now responsible for the treasure.

When the plane docked, the camp stirred. Even the captain stepped from the shade, adjusting his cap. Everyone went to meet them — not just guests, but the ones who’d take charge.

I walked with them. Ded a little ahead, as if clearing the way. He moved with quiet certainty, like he knew — he was part of this story.

The first to step out was a tall man with white hair and a calm face. Then came a woman with a tablet, a guy with a backpack, and finally the pilot — stocky, in a flight suit.

The pontoons bridged the surf, and all four reached the sand without getting wet. Louise stepped forward:

“Welcome. I’m Louise Marchand, marine engineer. We’ve been expecting you.”

The eldest nodded.

“Dr. Suresh Varma. Pleased to meet you.”

He looked over the camp, then introduced the others:

“Amélie Rua — our coordinator. If something’s missing — ask her. She’ll find it.”

The woman in glasses nodded. Her glance felt archival — like she’d already filed us into folders.

“Thomas Bellen, microbiologist. Neat freak. Obsessed with clean samples.”

Thomas gave a half-raised wave and dropped his gaze again. Crowds, clearly, weren’t his thing.

“Jean-Luc Forgé, pilot. Without him, we’d be wingless,” Varma added with a smile.

Jean-Luc grinned and gave a theatrical bow.

Captain Jules Branc stepped forward, palms pressed together, and gave a slight bow.

Everyone began heading toward the camp. Jean-Luc stayed near the plane. When he saw me, he walked over and extended a hand — warm, dry, calloused.

“Wanna see the cockpit?” he asked.

I glanced at Louise. She nodded slightly.

“Very much,” I said.

“Let’s finish unloading first,” said Jean-Luc. “Then I’ll show you.”

He climbed back onto the pontoon and started tossing bags to the crew. I watched the seaplane and already knew its name:

Albatross.

Later, in the cockpit, the air smelled of metal, grease, and aviation fuel. Jean-Luc pointed out the controls, even let me hold the yoke.

“This is throttle. That’s altitude. And this one...” — he tapped a lever — “...that’s if you ever feel like flying into the sun.”

I nodded, memorizing — not just with my eyes, but with my whole body.

When we returned, Ded was waiting by the pontoons.

“Well?” Louise asked.

“I loved it. I gave him a name.”

“Who?”

“The plane. He’s Albatross now.”

Louise smiled with the corners of her eyes. That was enough for me.

To be continued...

en 3

Correct

Corrections

foysteroyster

My Grandfather Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Four — Where Names Are Born Louise sat a little apart from me, as she always did — unobtrusively.

She held two metal cups in her hands and handed me one.

She didn’t look directly at me, only threw the occasional glance in my direction.

I stayed silent.

Ded was breathing evenly, just barely twitching.

He wasn’t asleep — just pretending.

“Tomorrow the archaeologists will arrive,” Louise said, as if to herself.

“A guest from Japan, someone from Brazil...

But the French, as always, were first aboard the Équinoxe.” I turned my head slightly.

Équinoxe?

“That’s our ship,” she added.

I didn’t say anything.

Just had a passing thought: if we called the boat Mirjam’s — because it belonged to Aunt Mirjam — then maybe this ship, with a name like Équinoxe, had an owner too.

So I asked, “Who is Équinoxe?” Louise smiled, just barely.

As if the question had surprised her but she liked it.

“No one,” she said.

“It’s a word.

In French, it means equinox.

When day and night are equal.” I stayed quiet, but inside it felt like someone was putting words onto shelves.

A ship with a name — Équinoxe.

As if it existed on its own.

As if it had a soul.

I figured everything big and important — like a ship — had to have a name.

Our island had one too — L’Île Échouée.

“What does L’Île Échouée mean?” I asked.

Louise nodded.

“It means ‘happy,’ ‘blessed.’ The missionaries gave it that name.

They dreamed of making it so.” “I know.

Grandpa told me.

But before that, the island had another name — The Island of the Black Turtle,” I said.

“Agreed,” she said.

“The original name suits it better.

Maybe turtles used to lay their eggs here.” “I think it’s because of the pirates,” I said.

“Grandpa used to sing me this song.

It had these words: ‘Who seeks the turtle will find death or gold.’” “Sounds like proper pirate wisdom,” Louise smiled.

I nodded.

Then I began to hum — softly, almost whispering.

My voice trembled, but I remembered the words: Verse 1: Yo-ho-ho!

The crashing wave rolls high, Black Turtle creeps through misty sky.

Beware that beast — let it drift away, For here no gold, but a grave will stay!

Chorus: Where shadows sleep in waters deep, The turtle’s golden eyes still keep.

And he who dares to chase their light, Will sink into the endless night!

Verse 2: Three seagull cries — the devil’s near, In coral jaws, the gems appear.

But touch the shell — it scorches skin, And coils like death to drag you in!

Chorus: Where shadows sleep in waters deep...

Finale (whispered, hoarse): Yo-ho… the Turtle waits.

The treasure’s cursed — the rum is fate.

And luck?

It’s grinning at your gate.

Louise said nothing, just listened.

When I finished, she nodded — briefly, like she was trying to remember it.

“That’s a good song,” she said.

“Very vivid.

Memorable.” I shrugged.

“I always liked it.

Everything used to make sense in it.

Before.

Now… now that we’ve found the treasure, it makes more and less sense at the same time.” “What would you call it?

Do you want to give it a name?” I looked into the fire.

Sparks rose and vanished like they had their own purpose.

I felt like they already knew the name.

They just weren’t telling me.

“The Heart of the Black Turtle,” I said.

“Because it lay underground, waiting.

Like it knew we’d come.

That I’d save the turtle.” And I told her how the day before, Grandpa and I had found a turtle tangled in a net.

How I freed it.

And then the wave came.

Louise didn’t say anything.

She nodded, took a sip, then added: “Seems like you’re good at giving things their true names.

In the morning, I’ll tell everyone — the island is once again The Island of the Black Turtle.

And the treasure too.” “Fine,” I said.

“But the treasure should be The Heart of the Black Turtle.” “I promise.

That’s what we’ll call it.” She stood.

“Now — off to the tent.

It’s late.” I looked at the motorboat near the shore.

Reddish.

Its name echoed inside me: Zarya.

Ded and I walked back to the tent.

He curled up at the entrance, and I dropped onto my sleeping bag.

Closed my eyes and started to repeat: The Heart of the Turtle.

Mirjam.

Zarya.

Équinoxe.

Island.

But the fire — no.

It’s always new.

Doesn’t need a name.

Or maybe… And the wave?

They say I was named after a saint — Saint Thomas.

During Hurricane Katrina, someone said: “Saint Thomas, help us unbelievers survive!” They hid in the mission.

Back then, I was still in the womb.

I fell asleep with those words.

Ded stayed by the flap.

He didn’t sleep.

He kept watch.

Morning came dim and soft, like fogged glass.

Light hadn’t yet cut through the clouds, but the camp had already stirred — someone was brewing tea, someone else was wrestling with the folding mast’s ropes.

The air was cool, and the sand under my bare feet was still damp — as if the night hadn’t fully left.

I crawled out of the tent.

Ded was sitting by the entrance like he’d never even laid down.

He glanced sideways at me, stretched out his legs, yawned.

We were both still half-asleep — but together.

Not far off, under a tarp, Arina had set up her spot.

She was jotting something in her notebook.

When she saw me, she nodded and pointed at a mat laid out nearby.

Looked like she’d brought it just for me.

“Breakfast later,” she said.

“First — the island.

Louise said you remember a lot.

That matters, while it’s all still alive.” I came over and sat down.

Ded lay a bit off, but still in sight of both me and Arina.

“I want to start the island’s chronicle,” she said.

“We’ll add maps, finds, layouts later… but first — the people.

Tell me who you remember.

I draw well — I can sketch portraits from descriptions.

Look.” She showed me a drawing — me and Ded by the fire.

Then handed me the sketchbook.

It was full: Louise, the captain, crew at work, a seagull, even a shark.

Everything was clear, lively, beautiful.

I didn’t know anyone who could draw like that.

I studied the pages for a long time, then handed the book back and nodded.

“All right then!” she said.

“Who was on the island with you?

Describe them.” I started listing them.

Mirjam.

Laurent.

Fari.

Grandpa.

Me... Names and faces rose like someone was stirring up silt from the seabed.

I told her who lived where, what boats we had, what pots, who grew sweet potatoes, who caught crabs.

Arina never interrupted — just wrote, sketched, noted everything down.

I could feel the things that used to live only in my memory now taking space on paper.

“And that boat on the beach,” she asked.

“Is it yours?” “No.

Ours vanished with my parents.

That one — it’s Aunt Mirjam’s.

Grandpa and I borrowed it sometimes and shared the catch.

She didn’t use it much herself — just to gather seaweed or check crab traps.” Arina nodded.

Wrote down: “Boat ‘Mirjam’ — old, with a scorched mark on the bow.

Used for collecting seaweed and crabs.” We heard footsteps.

Elen and Maren approached.

Elen wore a thin windbreaker, her hair tousled like she’d just woken up and forgotten a comb.

Maren was tall, barefoot, holding a plastic container with sloshing water.

He slouched slightly, like he wasn’t used to being this tall yet.

Elen smiled and dropped onto the sand next to us.

She looked no older than twenty-two.

Her smile was bright, her step light, and she sat like she knew nothing around her was permanent — but everything was worth enjoying.

“Hey,” she said, studying me.

“That shirt and those shorts?

They suit you better than they did me.” I blushed and looked away.

“Thanks, I’m careful,” I mumbled.

“I won’t ruin them.” “Doesn’t matter.

They’re yours now,” said Elen.

“A gift.

And the sneakers — do they fit?” “Thanks, they’re really nice.

I’m just… not used to shoes,” I said, even more embarrassed.

Maren said nothing, but looked at her like he wanted to say something — and didn’t know how.

Then he just sat down nearby and put the container between us.

Arina, clearly sensing we were getting distracted, asked Elen: “Did you hear anything about breakfast?

We won’t miss it, right?” Elen looked at Maren.

He nodded understandingly and jumped up to go find out.

Arina gave Elen a wry look.

“You know he’s sixteen and would do anything you say, right?” Elen laughed, gently scratched Ded behind the ear.

He nodded without lifting his head.

We hadn’t returned to the conversation yet when a low, soft hum rose over the camp — not a boat engine, not a chopper.

It grew louder.

I looked up: a seaplane was gliding over the lagoon.

It flew low and steady.

Under its wings, the water shimmered like brushstrokes.

The fuselage was pale, gleaming in the sun, a dark stripe along the nose.

It barely seemed to move — descending so smoothly.

The seaplane touched down without a splash.

It turned slowly, aligning with the shore.

The water rippled under it as if unsure.

We all froze.

Even Arina paused her sketching.

“Archaeologists,” she whispered.

The plane taxied toward us.

Now we could see — four people inside.

A pilot in headphones and a dark jacket, two men, and a woman in glasses.

“They’ll stay until the main team arrives,” Arina added.

Ded stood and walked toward the beach — to greet the newcomers.

I followed him.

Suddenly, it mattered: who would step out first?

How would they look at the shore?

These were the people now responsible for the treasure.

When the plane docked, the camp stirred.

Even the captain stepped from the shade, adjusting his cap.

Everyone went to meet them — not just guests, but the ones who’d take charge.

I walked with them.

Ded a little ahead, as if clearing the way.

He moved with quiet certainty, like he knew — he was part of this story.

The first to step out was a tall man with white hair and a calm face.

Then came a woman with a tablet, a guy with a backpack, and finally the pilot — stocky, in a flight suit.

The pontoons bridged the surf, and all four reached the sand without getting wet.

Louise stepped forward: “Welcome.

I’m Louise Marchand, marine engineer.

We’ve been expecting you.” The eldest nodded.

“Dr.

Suresh Varma.

Pleased to meet you.” He looked over the camp, then introduced the others: “Amélie Rua — our coordinator.

If something’s missing — ask her.

She’ll find it.” The woman in glasses nodded.

Her glance felt archival — like she’d already filed us into folders.

“Thomas Bellen, microbiologist.

Neat freak.

Obsessed with clean samples.” Thomas gave a half-raised wave and dropped his gaze again.

Crowds, clearly, weren’t his thing.

“Jean-Luc Forgé, pilot.

Without him, we’d be wingless,” Varma added with a smile.

Jean-Luc grinned and gave a theatrical bow.

Captain Jules Branc stepped forward, palms pressed together, and gave a slight bow.

Everyone began heading toward the camp.

Jean-Luc stayed near the plane.

When he saw me, he walked over and extended a hand — warm, dry, calloused.

“Wanna see the cockpit?” he asked.

I glanced at Louise.

She nodded slightly.

“Very much,” I said.

“Let’s finish unloading first,” said Jean-Luc.

“Then I’ll show you.” He climbed back onto the pontoon and started tossing bags to the crew.

I watched the seaplane and already knew its name: Albatross.

Later, in the cockpit, the air smelled of metal, grease, and aviation fuel.

Jean-Luc pointed out the controls, even let me hold the yoke.

“This is throttle.

That’s altitude.

And this one...” — he tapped a lever — “...that’s if you ever feel like flying into the sun.” I nodded, memorizing — not just with my eyes, but with my whole body.

When we returned, Ded was waiting by the pontoons.

“Well?” Louise asked.

“I loved it.

I gave him a name.” “Who?” “The plane.

He’s Albatross now.” Louise smiled with the corners of her eyes.

That was enough for me.

To be continued...

AllSubNoDub

237

My Grandfather Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Four — Where Names Are Born Louise sat a little apart from me, as she always did — unobtrusively.

She held two metal cups in her hands and handed me one.

She didn’t look directly at me, only threw the occasional glance in my direction.

I stayed silent.

Ded was breathing evenly, just barely twitching.

He wasn’t asleep — just pretending.

“Tomorrow the archaeologists will arrive,” Louise said, as if to herself.

“A guest from Japan, someone from Brazil...

But the French, as always, were first aboard the Équinoxe.” I turned my head slightly.

Équinoxe?

“That’s our ship,” she added.

I didn’t say anything.

JI just had a passing thought: if we called the boat Mirjam’s — because it belonged to Aunt Mirjam — then maybe this ship, with a name like Équinoxe, had an owner too.

You can drop the subject "I" in informal speech, but it sounds a bit off here, in my opinion. It's a stylistic choice though.

So I asked, “Wwho is Équinoxe?” ¶
¶
¶
Louise smiled, just barely.,

Aas if the question had surprised her but she liked it.

I think it flows better if you cannot this short sentence with the previous, but both are correct.

"Louise smiled, just barely, as if the question had surprised her but she liked it."

“No one,” she said.

“It’s a word.

In French, it means equinox.

When day and night are equal.” I stayed quiet, but inside it felt like someone was putting words onto shelves.

A ship with a name — Équinoxe.

As if it existed on its own.

As if it had a soul.

I figured ~~ever~~anything big and important — like a ship — had to have a name.

Our island had one too — L’Île Échouée.

“What does L’Île Échouée mean?” I asked.

Louise nodded.

“It means ‘happy,’ ‘blessed.’ The missionaries gave it that name.

They dreamed of making it so.” “I know.

Grandpa told me.

But before that, the island had another name — The Island of the Black Turtle,” I said.

“Agreed,” she said.

“The original name suits it better.

Maybe turtles used to lay their eggs here.” “I think it’s because of the pirates,” I said.

“Grandpa used to sing me this song.

It had these words: ‘Whoever seeks the turtle will find death or gold.’” ¶
¶
¶
“Sounds like proper pirate wisdom,” Louise smiled.

‘Whoever seeks the turtle will find death or gold,’ or more formally/poetically, ‘he who seeks the turtle will find death or gold.’

I nodded.

Then I began to hum — softly, almost whispering.

My voice trembled, but I remembered the words: Verse 1: Yo-ho-ho!

The crashing wave rolls high, Black Turtle creeps through misty sky.

Beware that beast — let it drift away, For here no gold, but a grave will stay!

Chorus: Where shadows sleep in waters deep, The turtle’s golden eyes still keep.

And he who dares to chase their light, Will sink into the endless night!

Verse 2: Three seagull cries — the devil’s near, In coral jaws, the gems appear.

But touch the shell — it scorches skin, And coils like death to drag you in!

Chorus: Where shadows sleep in waters deep...

Finale (whispered, hoarse): Yo-ho… the Turtle waits.

The treasure’s cursed — the rum is fate.

And luck?

It’s grinning at your gate.

Louise said nothing, just listened.

When I finished, she nodded — briefly, like she was trying to remember it.

“That’s a good song,” she said.

“Very vivid.

Memorable.” I shrugged.

“I always liked it.

Everything used to make sense in it.

Before.

Now… now that we’ve found the treasure, it makes more and less sense at the same time.” “What would you call it?

Do you want to give it a name?” I looked into the fire.

Sparks rose and vanished like they had their own purpose.

I felt like they already knew the name.

They just weren’t telling me.

“The Heart of the Black Turtle,” I said.

“Because it lay underground, waiting.

Like it knew we’d come.

That I’d save the turtle.” ¶
¶
And¶
¶
Then I told her how the day before, Grandpa and I had found a turtle tangled in a net.

How I freed it.

And then the wave came.

Louise didn’t say anything.

She nodded, took a sip, then added: “Seems like you’re good at giving things their true names.

In the morning, I’ll tell everyone — the island is once again The Island of the Black Turtle.

And the treasure too.” “Fine,” I said.

“But the treasure should be The Heart of the Black Turtle.” “I promise.

That’s what we’ll call it.” She stood.

“Now — off to the tent.

It’s late.” I looked at the motorboat near the shore.

Reddish.

Its name echoed inside me: Zarya.

Ded and I walked back to the tent.

He curled up at the entrance, and I ~~dropp~~collapsed onto my sleeping bag.

I think "collapsed" fits a bit better with the tone of the writing, but both are correct and synonymous in this case.

CI closed my eyes and started to repeat: ¶
¶
¶
The Heart of the Turtle.

Again, it sounds odd dropping the subject "I" here.

Mirjam.

Zarya.

Équinoxe.

Island.

But the fire — no.

It’s always new.

Doesn’t need a name.

Or maybe… And the wave?

They say I was named after a saint — Saint Thomas.

During Hurricane Katrina, someone said: “Saint Thomas, help us unbelievers survive!” ~~They~~and hid in the mission.

I would state who hid in the mission. If the person who said, "help us unbelievers survive" hid in the mission, then I would reword as:

During Hurricane Katrina, someone said: “Saint Thomas, help us unbelievers survive!” and hid in the mission.

Back then, I was still in the womb.

I fell asleep with those words.

Ded stayed by the tent-flap.

I would specify that you meant the flap of the tent or call it something less ambiguous, like the opening, entrance, etc.

He didn’t sleep.

He kept watch.

Morning came dim and soft, like fogged glass.

Light hadn’t yet cut through the clouds, but the camp had already begun to stir~~red~~ — someone was brewing tea, someone else was wrestling with the folding mast’s ropes.

"...but the camp had already stirred" sounds like a finished action in this context, rather than a ongoing action.

The air was cool, and the sand under my bare feet was still damp —, as if the night hadn’t fully left.

I think this punctuation choice flows better. "...as if the night hadn’t fully left," doesn't seem like a profound enough elaboration to emphasize with a dash, but this is a stylistic choice.

I crawled out of the tent.

Ded was sitting by the entrance like he’d never even laidn down.

So, the past participle of "lie" in the sense of "lie down" is actually "lain." This is one of the things native speakers most often get "wrong" (which is probably fine in speech - we'd probably never use the past participle there anyway), but you'll probably want to make sure it's correct in a piece of writing like this.

Note: The past participle of "lie" as in "to tell a lie" is "lied" and the past participle of the transitive verb "lay" is "laid."

He glanced sideways at me, stretched out his legs, yawned.

We were both still half-asleep — but together.

Not far off, under a tarp, Arina had set up her spot.

She was jotting something in her notebook.

When she saw me, she nodded and pointed at a mat laid out nearby.

LIt looked like she’d brought it just for me.

Technically, this sentence requires the dummy subject "it" in English, to be correct. As mentioned above, I think it sounds odd and forced to drop the subject here, but it's a bit of stylistic choice.

“Breakfast later,” she said.

“First — the island.

Louise said you remember a lot.

That matters, while it’s all still alive.” I came over and sat down.

Ded ~~lay~~was lying a bit off to the side, but still within sight of both ~~me and Arina~~Arina and me.

"Ded lay a bit off" sounds extremely strange.

Another alternative: "Ded lay a short distance away, still visible to both Arina and me."

“I want to start ~~the island’s chronicle~~chronicling the island,” she said.

“We’ll add maps, finds, layouts later… but first — the people.

Tell me who you remember.

I draw well — I can sketch portraits from descriptions.

Look.” She showed me a drawing — me and Ded by the fire.

Then she handed me the sketchbook.

It was full: Louise, the captain, the crew at work, a seagull, even a shark.

Everything was clear, lively, beautiful.

I didn’t know anyone who could draw like that.

I studied the pages for a long time, then handed the book back and nodded.

“All right then!” she said.

“Who was on the island with you?

Describe them.” I started listing them.

Mirjam.

Laurent.

Fari.

Grandpa.

Me... Names and faces rose like someone was stirring up silt from the seabed.

I told her who lived where, what boats we had, what pots, who grew sweet potatoes, who caught crabs.

Arina never interrupted — just wrote, sketched, noted everything down.

I could feel the things that used to live only in my memory now ~~tak~~occupying space on paper.

"occupying" or "taking up"

“And that boat on the beach,” she asked.

“Is it yours?” “No.

Ours vanished with my parents.

That one — it’s Aunt Mirjam’s.

Grandpa and I borrowed it sometimes and shared the catch.

She didn’t use it much herself — just to gather seaweed or check crab traps.” ¶
¶
¶
Arina nodded. and

~~Wrote~~jotted down: “Boat ‘Mirjam’ — old, with a scorched mark on the bow.

"Wrote down:" sounds very strange. I would combine with the previous sentence as shown.

Used for collecting seaweed and crabs.” We heard footsteps.

Elen and Maren approached.

Elen wore a thin windbreaker, her hair tousled ~~like~~as if she’d just woken up and forgotten ato comb it.

Something about "forgotten a comb," i.e. the act of combing as a noun, strikes me as British (even though a Briton wouldn't use "forgotten"). I would use the verb here.

Maren was tall, barefoot, holding a plastic container with sloshing water.

He slouched slightly, like he wasn’t used to being this tall yet.

Elen smiled and dropped onto the sand next to us.

So as not to sound repetitive with the previously suggested "collapsed," you can keep this one as "dropped." =)

She looked no older than twenty-two.

Her smile was bright, her step light, and she sat like she knew nothing around her was permanent — but everything was worth enjoying.

“Hey,” she said, studying me.

“That shirt and those shorts?

They suit you better than they did me.” I blushed and looked away.

“Thanks,. I’m careful,” I mumbled.

“I won’t ruin them.” “Doesn’t matter.

They’re yours now,” said Elen.

“A gift.

And the sneakers — do they fit?” “Thanks, they’re really nice.

I’m just… not used to shoes,” I said, even more embarrassed.

Maren said nothing, but looked at her like he wanted to say something — and didn’t know how.

Same comment as before regarding dash.

Then he just sat down nearby and put the container between us.

Arina, clearly sensing we were getting distracted, asked Elen: “Did you hear anything about breakfast?

We won’t miss it, right?” Elen looked at Maren.

He nodded understandingly and jumped up to go find out.

Arina gave Elen a wry look.

“You know he’s sixteen and would do anything you say, right?” Elen laughed, gently scratched Ded behind the ear.

He nodded without lifting his head.

We hadn’t returned to the conversation yet when a low, soft hum rose over the camp — not a boat engine, not a chopper.

It grew louder.

I looked up: a seaplane was gliding over the lagoon.

It flew low and steady.

Under its wings, the water shimmered like brushstrokes.

The fuselage was pale, gleaming in the sun, a dark stripe along the nose.

It barely seemed to move — descending so smoothly.

The seaplane touched down without a splash.

It turned slowly, aligning with the shore.

The water rippled under it as if unsure.

We all froze.

Even Arina paused her sketching.

“Archaeologists,” she whispered.

The plane taxied toward us.

Now we could see ~~— f~~. Four people were inside.

A pilot in headphones and a dark jacket, two men, and a woman in glasses.

I would put some kind of description of the men, since you briefly described the pilot and the woman.

“They’ll stay until the main team arrives,” Arina added.

Ded stood and walked toward the beach — to greet the newcomers.

I wouldn't even say this one it a stylistic choice. I don't understand the need to break this up with a dash.

I followed him.

Suddenly, ~~it mattered~~the significance dawned on him: wWho would step out first?

"Suddenly, it mattered:" sounds odd here. I'm not sure what you mean.

How would they ~~look at~~perceive the shore?

These were the people now responsible for the treasure.

When the plane docked, the camp stirred.

Even the captain stepped out from the shade, adjusting his cap.

Everyone went to meet them — not just guests, but th~~e ones~~ose who’d take charge.

I walked with them.

Ded a little ahead, as if clearing the way.

He moved with quiet certainty, like he knew — he was part of this story.

The first to step out was a tall man with white hair and a calm face.

Then came a woman with a tablet, a guy with a backpack, and finally the pilot — stocky, in a flight suit.

The pontoons bridged the surf, and all four reached the sand without getting wet.

Louise stepped forward: “Welcome.

I’m Louise Marchand, marine engineer.

If it's a title, as in part of an organization, I would suggest capitalizing "Marine Engineer." In a general sense, it's ok to leave uncapitalized though, as in "I'm a marine engineer." It's unclear from the context.

We’ve been expecting you.” The eldest nodded.

“Dr.

Suresh Varma.

Pleased to meet you.” He looked over the camp, then introduced the others: “Amélie Rua — our coordinator.

If something’s missing —, ask her.

She’ll find it.” The woman in glasses nodded.

Her glance felt archival — like she’d already filed us into folders.

“Thomas Bellen, microbiologist.

Neat freak.

Obsessed with clean samples.” Thomas gave a half-raised wave and dropped his gaze again.

Crowds, clearly, weren’t his thing.

“Jean-Luc Forgé, pilot.

Without him, we’d be wingless,” Varma added with a smile.

Jean-Luc grinned and gave a theatrical bow.

Captain Jules Branc stepped forward, palms pressed together, and gave a slight bow.

Everyone began heading toward the camp.

Jean-Luc stayed near the plane.

When he saw me, he walked over and extended a hand — warm, dry, calloused.

“Wanna see the cockpit?” he asked.

I glanced at Louise.

She nodded slightly.

“Very much,” I said.

“Let’s finish unloading first,” said Jean-Luc.

“Then I’ll show you.” He climbed back onto the pontoon and started tossing bags to the crew.

I watched the seaplane and already knew its name: Albatross.

Later, in the cockpit, the air smelled of metal, grease, and aviation fuel.

Jean-Luc pointed out the controls, even let me hold the yoke.

“This is throttle.

That’s altitude.

And this one...” — he tapped a lever — “...that’s if you ever feel like flying into the sun.” I nodded, memorizing — not just with my eyes, but with my whole body.

When we returned, Ded was waiting by the pontoons.

“Well?” Louise asked.

“I loved it.

I gave him a name.” “Who?” “The plane.

He’s Albatross now.” Louise smiled with the corners of her eyes.

That was enough for me.

To be continued...

Feedback

Excellent. I assume this is a machine translation that you wanted to have checked? Either way, it's written very well. It's hard to correct prose like this, since you can take lot of artistic license with the structures (especially with songs). A lot of my suggestions are stylistic. The only thing I'd caution is the overuse of dashes, which can make the text choppy and a bit hard to read.

gorg

When day and night are equal.” ¶
¶
¶
I stayed quiet, but inside it felt like someone was putting words onto shelves.

"putting words onto shelves" ??? This figurative language makes no sense to me

A ship with a name — Équinoxe.

From a writing standpoint this is a strange thing, because all boats have names. I think even legally they have to. So what's so strange about it?

“Agreed,” she said.

Could be a style choice but you don't normally say 'agreed' when stating facts. You agree with someone's subjective opinion, but you would say 'correct' or 'right' for an objective fact

Feedback

This is writing feedback, not English feedback: I personally find dialogue-driven writing exhausting and boring to read. I think this could be improved if characters talked less to each other and you wrote more narration. Just my preference, though

In French, it means equinox.