Storm clouds bruise the sky with flashes of forked lightning, highlighting the depth and power of the approaching gale. Around us the air hums with electrical activity and thunder pounds across our lonely island. The squeal of broken wires whiplashing around our house makes me tremble. You shrug and say we’ve seen storms before.
Under the roar of waves, a rhythmic ripple-clink of cleats keeps time to my heartbeat. I watch you haul our small boat into its hollowed-out slipway. Our escape from this island of isolation is now protected, but useless in this coming storm. The fishing trawler you serve on has gone to harbour across the water, leaving you behind with me. They begged us to come with them, but you saw the fear in my eyes and the bitterness on my lips. I sneak our photographs into our survival pack with the top tier of our wedding cake. You collect torches, extra water, and flares.
The wood burner backs up and smoke swirls like our own personal smog. Candles flicker as the chimney howls and soot billows from a crack in the flue pipe. Your frown makes my chest tighten. We sit on the sofa dressed in full waterproofs. You sing a sea shanty; making me echo the chorus to keep negative images at bay.
The windows are within walls so deep I’ve laid on the sill watching for your return, cosy in my nest of blankets and cushions. The thought of you deep within crowds on the mainland makes me gull-shriek; so many people, how can you breathe the air they exhale? It creates a hurricane in my head, pounding the nooks and crannies of my brain; nausea a mere touch away. The solid stones of the house lament as the wind hurls unrelenting hail. We listen to the roof tiles flap, our faces watching the ceiling. You rope us together, each of our lines you marry in a double fisherman’s knot.
Crashing groans herald a crack blossoming between the window and the chimney nook. A demonic shriek echoes as wood splits from stone and the chimney topples out, leaving a yawning hole. Knuckles of rain thrust through. Our island is undermined, you say our foundations have gone. The ceiling keens, shivers, and sprinkles ancient dust down like wedding confetti. You help me cross broken stones and the bone-gray ribs of wattle out into the storm.
The sea encroaches and water swirls around our ankles, then our knees, determined to make us join the dance in the wild waves. We move under overhanging rock, and I grasp the wet granite with my soaked Fair Isle gloves. We watch our house slide screaming into the ocean, scouring the sand off the beach. I mourn our belongings. You whisper, I hated that wallpaper.
We crouch down in the half-cave on the lee of the island, a solid refuge you use for fishing equipment. Nausea grips me with the rubber of tarpaulin, oily rope, and dried shellfish filling my nostrils. Time slows to a sodden thrum of noise. You whisper tales of pirates and lost treasure deep within caves under a lonely island.
The wind calms and we emerge, stiff and wet-weary to the sun rising over a tranquil sea. A door floats past, and balanced on it a gull swallows a stranded fish. Most of our island has collapsed into the sea, nothing of our past remains, only rocks and shingle. You stretch, salute the sun, laughing with joy at our survival.
You ready the rowing boat and point it towards the mainland, you must try to live among other people, you say. The sun warms our bones. As we leave my sanctuary, I whisper, I’ll try. For you.
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