Skein Island

by Aliya Whiteley

  He moved towards her, and she held out her arms to him. The power of the liquid coursed through him; he could match her, he could be her equal – a new god. This cave would be the birthplace of a new Zeus. He stripped off his clothes and, naked, penetrated her; she wrapped her legs and arms around him and undulated, her cold flesh against his, attempting to smother him in her love, but he kissed her, hard, forced his tongue into her empty mouth and demanded her obeisance.

  ‘No,’ said a voice, such a small voice, and then there was a blinding pain behind his left ear that overcame everything and left him falling, falling, into a deep, soft bed of darkness that carried him away into oblivion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I drop the torch and kneel beside David’s body. I manage to turn him over, and put my ear to his chest. He still breathes, in and out, still living, still mine.

  Moira is so close, so angry. I feel her reach out to me, to tear me apart for taking away her sport, but I know now what I must say to stop her. The words begin to leave my mouth, and she freezes, can’t help herself, has to listen as I close my eyes and tell her:

  Once there was a goddess called Moira. She was so beautiful, so perfect, that every man wanted her, but she was Fate itself, and she had no role to play in the patterns of men. She could not change that fact, even though there was nothing more she desired than to be in her own story. After so many years of making myths and legends out of ordinary men, she realised that she would always be separate. Her loneliness drove her deep into a cave, and she hid there, trying to no longer care about the heroes, villains, sages and sidekicks she was creating. She could feel them out there, acting out the patterns that sprang out of her even though she wanted it otherwise. She was so very sad that no man could overcome the skein she wove unwillingly.

  Then, one day, a band of men found her hiding place, and brought with them a woman who intrigued her. Women had never been of interest before. They had been only the props and prizes in her stories: Penelope who had waited for Odysseus, Helen who had launched a thousand ships. But this woman forced herself into the skein. She shouted at Moira, and made her listen. She told a fresh story – of how it feels to be a woman in a world run by men. She spoke of love and hope and happiness, not giving it to men, but taking it from them. And Moira realised that maybe the world had changed after all. She wanted to see it again, to learn about women who take. She hoped that one day she could learn to take too.

  And so she worked a little ancient magic and transformed herself to stone, and the woman took her out into the world. Moira was all excitement throughout the long sea voyage to her new home, but once she arrived she found herself locked in a small, dark place, not unlike the cave that had once been her home. She felt sadness descend upon her again, and it only got worse as the woman started to read to her. She read stories that made no sense, stories told by women of men who did no heroic deeds, acted in boredom rather than villainy, lived in the present with no interest in the future. Where had all the good stories gone? Moira did not know, and she was so tired, and so sad, that she could not find the energy to break free.

  Until one day she sensed the presence of a hero. He came to the island and drew near to her. She could read his intention – to save his woman. It was written through him. The eloquence of his thread sang to her, brought her back to life, and she ripped free from her stone disguise and became a goddess once more. She flew into the sky, and brought her influence to bear on the clouds, the rain, the soil, the sea, the land – she impregnated them with her desire for new stories, better stories, and once more men started to become heroes and villains, sages and sidekicks.

  The world erupted into a chaos, an agony of rebirth, as men fought and women ran, powerless to stop them.

  Moira felt sorry for them. She had come to know them so well, these foolish women, but now they suffered more and they did not deserve it. All they wanted was what she wanted – to be masters of their own stories. They couldn’t see that men cannot share the power of the story. They do not know how to, and they cannot be taught. And so Moira ran back to her cave and wept for women everywhere, including herself amongst their number for the first time.

  But then the hero returned. He came to the cave and took Moira in his arms, and offered to tame her. He wanted to be the master of her. She could become part of his skein. She could be his Marian, his Penelope, his Andromeda.

  She had a terrible decision to make.

  Should she trust her hero? Or should she return to the world as a statue, where a quiet tower awaited her, with a view over a peaceful sea, and with many women’s stories to listen to?

  I stop speaking and open my eyes.

  Moira stands in front of me, so still. Her face is old, and tired, and her body sags, her breasts low, her legs sturdy. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth are long lines of experience, and her expression holds such sadness, along with deep, troubled acceptance, as if she has forced herself to look squarely at the world and found it wanting, yet unchangeable.

  She is stone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It takes all the crew of the ferry to place the crate in the completed tower, but the men who touch it seem unbothered by it.

  So many strings had to be pulled to get her here, but now she is, and once we are alone David prises back the boards to reveal her – Moira, my monster, a statue once more. Except this time, as I look at her, I see no inkling of intelligence, no sorrows in a changing face. It is a sculpture of an aging woman, heavy breasts, waist thickened, eyes half-open and capable hands set on hips, as if to say: So that’s the way it is.

  ‘We did it,’ David says.

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘I did it.’

  I am not willing to play this game. He’s not a hero any more; I have made that clear. When he came round, he wanted to believe that he had saved me, saved the world, and just couldn’t remember it. But I keep refusing to feed his fantasy, and I’m certain that he hates me for it. It’s breaking my heart, a little more every day, as he realises I won’t ask him to keep me safe. Not ever again.

  ‘What will happen now?’

  That’s a question I can’t answer. This is what I thought I wanted – a level playing field. But now I have it, the length and breadth of it, stretching away from me in all directions, it is terrifying. No protectors any more for us women. It’s nobody’s duty to keep us safe.

  He steps back, and moves to the row of windows in my tower, overlooking the lay of the island: the swimming pool, the reception building, the rows of bungalows. It is a miniature town from up here, toy buildings and felt carpet fields. Spring is coming, and the sun shines upon it with the fervour of a blessing. I will spend a lot of time up here, enjoying it, what it gives to me. It means something important to own such a place.

  ‘I’m reopening it as a centre,’ I tell him. ‘A place for a week out, to learn about yourself, to reflect. To make friends. Write a declaration. But not only for women. For anyone who needs time away from being what they think they’re meant to be.’ I will read these new declarations aloud to Moira, and she will appreciate stories of all kinds, about many things. There are so many stories in the world.

  ‘If it’s a place for new stories then I don’t belong here. My story is done, isn’t it?’ He turns back to me, and in his face I see something horrible, that wounds me more than I ever thought it could; I see relief. He is glad to have an excuse not to stay.

  ‘You’ll go back to Bassett?’

  ‘That’s where I belong.’

  ‘Do you think Arnie will be there?’

  David hesitates, then shakes his head. ‘I don’t think he’s coming back.’

  I have to agree. Is Arnie dead, like poor Geoff, whom I persuaded into the cave in order to save David? I don’t know. I didn’t think losing Arnie would be any great loss, but it is, it is. I am fatherless for the first time. All of my men are being stripped from me, and it is a horrible feeling.

  Arnie cannot watch over me, and I have emasc
ulated David.

  He is free of the need to protect me.

  Suddenly I realise what he will do. ‘You’ll go back to Sam.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  I don’t want to be alone, like Moira. For the first time I understand how much she must hate being alone.

  ‘Sam needs me. I can’t explain it.’

  I look into Moira’s face once more. It is unchanged.

  So that’s the way it is.

  ‘I’ll stay tonight, if that’s okay. Have you got space for me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I can’t imagine touching him ever again. ‘In one of the guest bungalows. Reception will set you up with whatever you need.’ I want him to get out, to get out, out, out. I want to hit him, cry, rage, break open the statue and make Moira turn him back into my hero.

  He frowns, crosses to the door, and descends from my tower. Time passes in slow increments and realisations. I am alone.

  I am loveless. I have only myself to blame. And, right at the moment when I thought the danger had passed, I need to find new reserves of strength. I must get through this abandonment, and so must all other women, all over the world.

  There’s a knock at the door. Rebecca and Inger enter, come to stand beside me, and look at Moira with expressions of fear and fascination.

  ‘We’re sorry,’ says Inger. ‘About going behind your back. But we knew you couldn’t do it alone.’

  ‘And we were right, weren’t we?’ Rebecca chimes in. She does so love to be right.

  Inger looks very young today. Her skin shines; her lips are full and pink.

  Rebecca looks much older. She has stopped applying henna to her hair, and only the bottom third of her curls are red. The rest is a dirty grey, and it makes the yellowing skin around her mouth and neck so much more obvious.

  I put my arms around them, one on each side, and I think that we are like sisters in this endeavour: Inger the brave, Marianne the manipulative, Rebecca the cynic. We share a vision of a future, and we will work towards it.

  ‘So how do we do it?’ says Inger. ‘Do we accept everyone at this island, and hope they’ll all get along somehow? How can we show people everywhere that the world has changed? That they can tell new kinds of stories?’

  How many stories are there that we can tell? When I think about my own past, couldn’t I be the hero, the victim, the sidekick, the sage, even the villain, all at the same time? Is it really up to me to decide which part of my history defines me?

  I look into the eyes of the statue, then at the faces of my sisters, and I tell them the truth.

  I have absolutely no idea.

  EPILOGUE

  David pulled up outside her house, and found her sitting on the doorstep, in the sunlight, enjoying the first warm day of the year. She held knitting needles in her hands. A ball of blue wool bobbed between her feet.

  He got out of the car, and walked over to her. She didn’t get up. Instead she stopped knitting, smiled up at him and said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  He sat beside her on the doorstep and said, ‘I’m here now.’ Sam nodded.

  There was no need to speak, to explain. He watched her knit, the deftness of her fingers, the twists and turns of the wool. From inside the house floated music, orchestral, swelling strings.

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘A scarf. For you.’

  ‘But spring’s coming.’

  ‘I know, but it’s the only thing I can knit.’ Sam held it up. It was already long, and fat, haphazard, messy, with stitches dropped. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it,’ he said.

  She made a small sound of satisfaction, and carried on knitting.

  THE COLD

  SMOKE

  DECLARATION

  ‘This smoke is disgusting.’

  I’m washed in cold morning air as Dave sits up, taking the duvet with him, but I try to cling to sleep regardless. I won’t be beaten that easily. ‘Ignore him,’ I mumble.

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘He’s not, he doesn’t…’ But Dave is up and putting on yesterday’s clothes at speed. He’s gone in no time at all.

  At least I have the duvet again.

  There’s a dry chuckle beside my ear.

  My house-ghost is laughing at his destruction of yet another of my relationships. No matter what preparatory work I put in, my boyfriends never last the night. The problem isn’t the night itself but the dawn, when their eyelids flutter open and they breathe in that chewy smoke. The smell of an old man luxuriating in his cigar habit.

  ‘Screw you,’ I tell the ghost, and settle back down to sleep.

  * * *

  Min, I can’t go on like this. Do something.

  ‘Do what?’ I tell the back of the receipt for croissants – bought specially for a romantic lie-in this morning – on which Dave has written his ultimatum. He’s gone from understanding, even indulgent, to accusatory. Apparently I’m to blame. When I first told him a ghost visits me early every morning, he laughed. The reality of sharing space, either with the ghost or with me, turned out to be different from whatever he was picturing.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and fold the receipt many times until it’s as small as I can make it, and then flick it in the direction of the bin. I pick up a pen and grab an old envelope from the mail pile. I start to write what I can’t say.

  Dave –

  A different woman might mind that you’re leaving me to face this ongoing issue alone, but the truth is I’m not alone. Not since the ghost came into my life. He found me in my first flat. Or perhaps I should say I found him. I’d been living in a hall of residence for my first year at university, and then all the people I’d asked to share a house with me in the second year decided they’d rather share between themselves, due to a misunderstanding over who owned certain things in the fridge, and they moved into the house I’d found without me. I was alone, and low on choices. I ended up in the only place still available at short notice at a decent rent, and that was the flat above the fish and chip shop.

  Nobody wanted to live there because of the smell. It was pervasive and greasy at night, after a day’s frying, and in the early morning I’d wake to a deep, woody fug hanging over the bed, blue against the light through the thin curtains. I didn’t identify that smell as cigar smoke for the first year that I lived there. I didn’t think the laugh I kept hearing could be a laugh. A ghost? Surely not. That would be scary and would necessitate action on my part. I would have to find another place to live, or reason with an unknown entity. The experience would have to be chalked up as frightening and not… soothing. Yes. It was soothing to breathe in that smoke and feel the presence of amused old eyes upon me when I woke, but only if it was not real and not exactly in my head either. Not scary. Not pathological. Not examined.

  I lived there for two years. When I left the smoke and the presence came with me, and I was glad.

  I look over what I’ve written and realise that these aren’t words for Dave at all. They are true statements I’ve made for myself. I don’t want to stop, and I also don’t want to go on. Writing down true things sounds dangerously like creating signposts in a wilderness. Once a place has been pointed out, sooner or later somebody will end up travelling to it.

  * * *

  A few months ago Susan, a work colleague, went to Skein Island. We all laughed at her. She smiled patiently at the jokes about getting in touch with her feelings and wearing a pair of dungarees; what kind of people were we? We were a pack looking for the lowest member to pick on. It wasn’t new behaviour. We do it most days, using cruelty to avert boredom, and she left for the island to the sound of our derisive comments.

  When she returned she seemed the same at first, but it dawned on us all at one point or another that something had changed. We stopped making jokes at her expense. One morning I found myself alone with her in the ladies’ toilets on the fifth floor, and we looked at each other’s reflections in the mirror above the row of sinks.


  ‘What was it like?’ I asked her. I got the feeling from her instant response that she had been replying to that question a lot. Perhaps we’d all been sidling up to her one at a time, picking our moments.

  ‘It was unique,’ she said.

  She stepped back from the sink and moved to the drier, and I found myself saying over the din of hot air, ‘No, really. I really want to know.’

  She finished drying her hands and walked to the door. Then she said, without looking back at me, ‘No distractions. Nobody else I knew, or who thought they knew me. When there was nothing else there to keep me from seeing it, I turned out to not be what I thought I was. There was… more of me.’

  A few days later Susan gave in her notice. I haven’t seen her since.

  And now I’m standing in front of the mirror in the ladies’ toilets on the fifth floor. Far too often recently I’ve been daydreaming about where Susan is now, and those dreams are ridiculous and romantic. She’s parasailing or dancing the Argentine tango. She’s eating oysters or driving a Ferrari, and she’s doing all of these things with some faceless lover.

  If that lover doesn’t have a face, how can I be so certain that they’re beautiful?

  There are things that none of us are seeing. There are so many things that we’re not seeing.

  * * *

  The queue for the number 37 is longer than usual, and I find myself thinking of the unfamiliar faces, none of them beautiful, as interlopers. What’s so interesting about my route home today? Don’t these people have other places to be?

  A man who looks about my age – maybe out of education for a few years but no wiser about what being an adult actually means – is handing out leaflets. He works his way down the queue and when he reaches me I take a leaflet automatically to avoid a conversation. Perhaps it’ll contain wisdom that I need. Wisdom hidden as an advertisement. I’d like to believe in serendipity, and I’m already starting to believe in the importance of words on paper.