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 emasculated 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.