Алия Уайтли - Skein Island

Geoff shrieked, and the cave reverberated with his pain. He ran towards Moira, his arms outstretched. David didn’t know whether he meant to love her or kill her, but either way, it made no difference. She reached into his chest and took his heart in her hands, a simple gesture, like plucking a flower, and squeezed it between her palms as he shuddered, his body convulsing, his head flopping. Then he dropped to the ground.

She tilted her head as she surveyed her conquest, then looked up.

She wanted him to join her.

David felt it, the strength of it, like the playful command of a lover when the game evolves from foreplay into capitulation. She wanted his eyes on her, she wanted to eat him up with her gaze.

He met it, and understood.

She loved to weave stories, stories of men and their great deeds. And, like every child who delights in fairy tales, she wanted to some day be part of the story: a princess, a damsel, a prize. But her loneliness could not be pierced. It was inviolate. Every man who drew close to her went mad under her gaze, misunderstood what he was meant to be, his part in the pattern. It left her desolate, empty. After thousands of years of hearing stories, she wanted to have a voice of her own, but it was an impossibility, and she was awash with her impotent rage. So many men would make more stories, new stories. She would make the world anew as a dark and dangerous place. Every man would have a part to play in it.

Unless he satisfied her. Unless he gave her a story, and saved the world.

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.

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.

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.