IMPOSSIBLE SOLUTION
IMPOSSIBLE SOLUTION
I t’s completely dark by the time we reach the forest, and as we hurry toward the cabin I keep thinking that I can hear footsteps behind us. Twigs snap in the distance beyond the trees, the unmistakable sound of something, or someone, moving over fallen leaves. There are no birds on the island but there are plenty of other creatures. I tell myself that’s all it is and carry on. Regardless of my mind’s feeble attempt at being rational, I still rush through the giant redwoods, trying not to trip on moss-covered roots, the sound of my own labored breaths drowning out the other things I think I can hear. Even the soundtrack of the ocean in the distance isn’t as comforting as it used to be; it sounds like the end of something.
It is a huge relief when I see the log cabin.
I no longer care what is going on or why. I have to plan. I need to get the Land Rover back, then I’ll sit in it down by the dock until a boat comes. Any boat. I hurry inside, lock the door behind me, and reach for the light switch. It doesn’t work. I try again, but the cabin remains in darkness. For some reason there’s no power. I find the matchbox with the robin on the front that was here when I arrived and light a couple of candles so I can see what I’m doing. Then I open the curtains covering the huge windows at the back of the cabin, revealing a full moon that is bright enough to dampen the gloom. I spot low clouds on the horizon, like a slow-moving blanket starting to cover the sea, and I hurry. I grab a torch then go out to the shed where the Land Rover was kept, and for once, my memory is not playing tricks on me. Inside, among all the well-organized tools and cubby holes, I find exactly what I am looking for: a small red fuel can. I pick it up and am happy to hear it is full. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell myself there is no such thing as an impossible solution. I return to the cabin, pack up everything I can’t leave without. Then I do something that is very difficult for me.
“It will be quicker if you stay here,” I say to Columbo. He doesn’t look convinced. “I’m going to run to the village and then I’ll drive straight back to get you. I really won’t be long and then we’ll leave this place for good. Okay?”
I do run. Not just because I’m scared and want to get out of here but because I don’t want to leave my dog for any longer than I have to. I locked all the windows and doors in the cabin, and tell myself that if someone wanted to hurt Columbo they would have already. It’s me the people on this island seem to have a problem with. I’ll run to the village, I’ll top up the tank, drive back, load up the car and go. It’s a simple plan, a good plan, the only plan. What can possibly go wrong?
The temperature drops dramatically on the island as soon as the sun sets. The icy air slaps and pinches my skin, and my legs feel heavy as I try to propel myself forward. When I leave the forest to join the coast road, I see that what I thought was low cloud seems to have completely spread across the ocean. I can still hear and smell the waves crashing on the rocks below, but I can’t see them. Every time I look over my shoulder the mist seems closer. A few steps later I can’t see anything at all in any direction; the mist seems to have completely enveloped the island.
Then I hear the sound of children crying in the distance.
I wish I didn’t remember the story Sandy told me about the Children of the Mist.
But I do, so I remind myself what my nana always told me when I was scared as a child: there’s no need to be afraid of the dead, it’s the living you have to watch out for.
I force my feet to run a little faster anyway.
My heart is racing by the time I reach the village. The petrol canister is heavy and difficult to run with, so I feel a surge of relief when I see the lights in the distance. All of the windows in the thatched cottages appear to be glowing, as are the ones in the other houses and buildings, including The Stumble Inn. It seems I’m the only one with a power cut. Lights are shining all over the village and I can smell open fires, and see wisps of smoke snaking out of chimneys. It looks so welcoming, even in the dark. Picture-postcard perfect. The mist is thinner here away from the coast, and nothing feels as sinister or as threatening as it did a moment ago. Almost as though I imagined it.
I’m not imagining that the Land Rover has gone.
I spin around but it isn’t parked where I left it or anywhere else.
As usual I can’t see any signs of life in the village, but I can hear something: the sound of raised voices coming from inside the church.
I have never been in the village at night before. In the dark. The stained glass windows are illuminated from the light within, and as I get closer, I can see that they are not as traditional as I had presumed. They do not display religious icons. Instead, each one is made from glass images of faceless children. And every window has one word carved into the stone above it.
WE. WILL. NEVER. FORGET. OR. FORGIVE.
I don’t know how I didn’t notice this in the daytime, I guess sometimes we only see what we expect to see. I hear raised voices inside the church again. It’s a Friday night—not a typical time for a service—and there is a voice inside my head screaming at me to walk away. But everything about this island now feels slightly off-kilter, and I have to know what is happening.
The metal gate that leads to the graveyard has been left open and swings back and forth in the wind, squeaking on its hinges as though trying to break free. I leave the petrol can next to it, and creep a little closer to the main entrance of the church, putting my ear against the huge ancient wooden doors. I can hear multiple voices now, but I can’t make out who is speaking or what they are saying. After a great deal of deliberation I try to quietly push one of the doors. It swings wide open surprisingly fast, making a comically loud creaking sound. The chatter inside abruptly hushes. Everything stops.
They’re all here. Almost everyone I’ve met so far on the island, and from the size of the congregation, everyone I haven’t. I’m no great mathematician, but I’m fairly sure this is what roughly twenty-five people looks like. Most of them are sitting in the wooden church pews and have turned to stare at me. I can see Midge in the front row, sitting next to Arabella from The Stumble Inn and Cora from the corner shop. Alex the butcher grins at me while Mary just stares open-mouthed. Behind them I can see Travers with a baby. She holds the child as though she weighs nothing and looks at her as though she means everything.
They’re all women. Every single one. All of them.
That can’t be right, can it? An island with no men?
Nobody says anything, including me, because I’m staring at the person standing in front of the stone altar. It isn’t Reverend Melody Bates; she’s sitting in the back row.
Seeing the person standing at the front of the church is like seeing a ghost.
“Hello, Grady.”