She Lies an Island

SHE LIES AN ISLAND

by Michelle Payne

Content Warning: Story contains depictions of sexism, racism, and physical violence.

"She lies, an island of the blest, something enchanted in our dreams."

-Katharine Tynan

When she was very old, Gran told me about Agnes.

Agnes made of stone, who turned to vines in her sleep, soft enough to pass on foot without notice of the monster you've scaled. A woman the size of a cottage, dressed in a tunic of dead leaves and butterfly wings; and at night they'd come alive, turning green and rainbow bright, wings still flitting, even without gust. Agnes didn't like to share apples from her favourite tree, but Gran ate them anyway, and she never got her hand bit for it. Agnes had an ugly face but a pretty voice, a gentle lilt, more Irish than Irish. More than anyone Gran ever heard in her little Antrim village beneath the mountain.

There were other stories. Gran rattled on about a house in the sky where faeries survived on wishes and dandelion seeds. How a tiny sprite named Oglievan could tug on her socks and pull her all the way through the front window. How she used to sit and laugh and feed her friends with wishes of her own.

But her father was a cruel man. A drunk. She rescued her siblings at 17, stealing money for tickets to board a ship that would barely cross the sea. As they left shore, she peered beyond the docks and into the woods, and a single branch waved back, wishing her safe passage to a better life. Away from her cruel father, yes, but also from the sprites and gnomes and giant friend.

Gran told me stories as her memory faded. Made sure I kept every detail safe as she recalled them, locked tight into what she thought was my impenetrable mind. Made me promise I'd go back on her behalf and say goodbye. In a wooden chest by the door of my apartment—the one I sit on every day to tie my shoelaces—I have a stack of maps and old photos of Glenarm taverns that once were homes. I have lists of flowers where faeries prefer to lounge. I even have a gardening guide with little notes written in the margins, like Gold flecks help the blossoms catch the sun, or Sprite tears turn the thistles blue, or even William the Teeny likes to hide under the bindweeds. Don't call him Teeny to his face.

I loved Gran's stories, and I collected all those bits and bobs of her beautiful youth, so fantastic in its unreality. Maybe I used to believe in her world, but that ended when she died. All that magic, lost with one person.

And back, with one Giantess.

Giants are real. We found one. Happy St. Patrick's Day.

A group of men went camping in the woods. An annual trip, they told CNN, to reconnect with their high school pals each summer. They put up tents, set up an archery board, and lit a fire. Right there, atop a mountain in Glenarm Forest. At night, the fire sparked a little too loud—or so they thought. The noise outside their tents grew louder, and maybe it was thunder, but they didn't feel like it would rain. They woke, and the trees around them shook, and whatever made that sound grew closer. Up the hill it came, until finally, they saw her: a Giantess, an ugly beast with hair made of grass and eyes shining red.

She stomped their flame and roared, and the oldest man retrieved his bow and arrow, and soon they all got the idea.

The Giantess fell dead in a few lucky shots. She never attacked. She never fought back.

And now she's a popular tourist destination. Month after month, hordes climb up the Antrim mountain and fire overpriced arrows into her carcass, posting selfies with their bullseyes.

Did you think the world should halt over a fantastic beast? Whispers of magic have always laced our history books. Stories passed through generations that we devoured with a pitying smirk. A real giant is a one-off, a fluke, a mystery of nature. It's magic, but it's science. It's unoffensive, unobtrusive to the lives of most.

But Gran asked me to bid farewell to Agnes, and who am I to say no? Who am I to bite her hand?

I fly to Belfast.

Five months since the Giantess was slain has meant a lot of people got to see her first; it's not easy to take your vacation days on such short notice. It's Autumn now, and that's better anyway. Better for the smell, they said on Fox News, since Summer sun tends to cook the corpse.

They call her “The Island.” It's a stupid name, but when news got out, they cleared the hill, mowed trees for better access. In pictures, she looks like one lump on a wide mountain clearing. When it rains, I wonder if the ground pools water, if she really lives up to her title.

I check into my hotel, collect my Island Tour itinerary, and nap in my newly redecorated room. It's all fantasy themed like Lord of the Rings, like whoever designed it watched one DVD and built a whole aesthetic around it. There's a lot more green than I'm used to, coming from the city. I don't plan to spend much time here anyway.

I'm kind of old now. Approaching the last year of my 20's, and I've never been in love. Never been properly touched, known. I regret starting so late. I regret that I haven't started at all. I'm in a foreign country, a safe zone where my friends can't judge my lack of experience, and my coworkers can't force me up to some stranger at a bar. I want the “in-between,” the “meet-cute,” like the movies call it. One night to play the hot girl, to meet a boy, and go to his room, and leave as mysteriously as I arrived. I downloaded a hook-up app for the trip, in case it didn't happen naturally. Called myself islandgirl71, because two other girls really wanted the 69. Irish men are friendly, they tell me. Chatty, I hope. I'm used to doing all the talking, but it's nice to listen sometimes. To be told what to do, how to respond, how to contribute.

A handsome red-haired lumberjack-type joins me at the hotel bar and requests the usual, and I can't hold back from quipping, "With or without a Guinness on the side?"

He tilts his head.

"Sorry," I mumble, and he asks for my real name. I give it to him.

"Blair, eh? I come from a long line of Blairs."

"We may be related," I tell him. "It's my grandmother's maiden name. Was her maiden name," I correct myself.

BillyTheIslandSlayer chuckles. "Is that a problem? If we're related?"

That's an invitation.

I force myself not to crash. I'm ready for this. I fucking shaved for this. There's a cute Irish guy in an Irish hotel, and I'm not going home without a taste of something I need to eat more anyway.

"I won't tell if you don't."

BillyTheIslandSlayer is a tour guide named Will, and I could have guessed that, honestly, but I think my capacity for awkward reached its peak as soon as I clicked an app called FMeAbroad.

Last night, I awkwardly dressed at the foot of his bed, back turned despite him already seeing everything. Like I didn’t want to subject him to more of my disappointing body, even if he’d made it pretty clear he didn’t expect much more from it than opening up, swallowing him. I left his room, showered in my own surprisingly under-themed bathroom. Slept on a pillow with a photo of The Island screen-printed front and back. Woke up at 6am to Do You Believe in Magic blaring from a clock radio.

And now I'm handing him a 8x11 print-out of my ticket, praying he won't say something embarrassing to the other three people in our small group tour: an elderly white man and a young Asian couple wearing matching sneakers. There's a driver too, a middle-aged Sikh in a stark white turban. He doesn't greet anyone.

"There should be a fifth," Will notes, offering a sly wink.

"My wife," the older man offers in a Southern drawl. "She passed last month, after purchasing the tickets."

Will catches my eye and makes a little cringing face. I mirror it, indirectly placing myself in cahoots against the poor old man. I hope he didn’t see.

Then Will coughs, claps, and redirects our attention to a yellow minibus. “Ay, there’s our ride. Hop on, and make yourselves comfortable.”

Seven cozy seats line the interior, including the driver’s, but I get on last. The Asian couple have already claimed the back two seats, and the older man is right-hand center, so I can either sit across from him… or Will, who’s already taken his spot near the front.

I sit just behind him. “Name’s Bernard,” the Southern man offers.

“I’m Blair.”

“What brings you all the way to Northern Ireland, Blair?” He’s chatty, lonely.

I’m not much help with that. “Who doesn’t want to see a Giant in the flesh?”

Bernard shrugs in response, smiling kindly in my direction.

Will's voice slices our moment. "Nice to see us all introducing ourselves. If you need me, I'll be Will. I'm your guide for the day. Rajan—” he emphasizes every consonant "—will be driving us the next eight hours, and we'll have you all back in time for supper. All good?" Bernard nods and I give a solemn thumbs up. Will gestures behind us. "You two catchin' me back there?"

"Yes. It is okay," says the other relatively young man on the bus, and Will knocks on the driver's seat.

Several desperate translation attempts reveal that Hyson and Hop flew all the way from Hong Kong for half a minute with The Island.

"It's going to be rather crowded," Will admits, looking back as he leads us up a stony path. “Though we won’t arrive ‘til late afternoon, and most tourists like to do the hike first, and catacombs second.”

The catacombs. An unbelievable discovery, one only made possible by following The Island's footprints back to an underground cave near the base of the mountain. In a country as old and small as Northern Ireland, how is it possible that no one had ever seen a Giant in the flesh? No one had ever wandered into this particular hole in the ground, a hole big enough to see from high above, if it weren't for all the tree cover?

"—But of course, she only opened the door this Spring due to shifts in temperature," Will explains in the long line up to the cave. It's pseudo-science, but well-researched. They assume that Giants prefer to live in the cold, and it was a long Winter, but the Earth is gradually warming. The Island, confused, wandered out of her cave and climbed up the mountain, curiously following the stench of smoke.

Bernard, who's been entirely silent since the two-hour drive to the edge of the forest, asks, "Did they find evidence of any partner? A husband?"

We all know the answer. There are long documentaries tracing a thousand potential origins for Giants in general, but one study holds the most potential: they're asexual, all women, reproducing one child at a time. The Island may have had a mother, but no mate. It explains why there aren't any more, despite desperate searching all over the country. All over the continent. All over the world.

The Island is a species all her own. And she's dead.

We've been in line at least an hour now, separated from the catacombs by only a few groups ahead. "I'll make sure everyone leaves with a proper photo-op, no worries," Will assures Hop, who's ventured out of line to take a photo inside one of the clay-preserved footprints. While we wait, he entertains Bernard and I with a few Irish myths that could still prove true. "My mother used to threaten me with little faeries in the Glens, underneath the hawthorn hedges. Made me superstitious my whole life, lest I upset 'em. What did she say... oh, of course: Upset the faerie throng and they'll turn your milk sour." He chuckles. "They got darker as I got older. A single faerie could turn a man's head back to front."

"Is it true too that all faeries are women?" asks Bernard, and again he knows the answer. We've all heard the legends by now, sparked from tiny fossils of two-legged, winged beasties found inside the cave.

"Of course they are. Vicious little faeries—just like a woman, eh?"

The entrance is a gaping hole with steel railing built in. A pretty young woman greets us with flashlights and asks us not to take photos, as though that stops anyone. It's a steep dip into the cave, and Bernard steels himself next to me, trudging down in a few long strides to reach a flat bottom. Hyson leads Hop down gently by the hand, and Will offers me the same treatment, and his boots are way nicer than mine, and... okay, this might as well happen.

Bernard’s waiting for us at the bottom, glances at Will and I. He smirks. When Will traipses ahead, he goads, “My wife was a sucker for gentlemen too.” Instinctively, I laugh, even though I can’t quite bring myself to agree.

“Come on,” I guide him, since Will hasn’t bothered. “Help me find a faerie skull.”

A hundred flashlights and camera phones light the walls of the cave, revealing more and more the thick gray bones of legends. The skeletons fit into the soil like portraits, face forward. If I think hard enough, I can imagine bright red eyes glaring from the holes in their skulls, still seeing, maybe as much on a human tour as we are a Giant one.

They grow taller the deeper we wander into the cave. There are studies on this, too: are they placed in order of matriarchy, daughter to daughter to daughter? Did Giants grow smaller as they evolved, until one was born small enough to venture out of the cave? Was The Island always meant to be the last of her kind?

There's no evidence of any food. Maybe The Island survived on burrowing animals and colonies of ants that accidentally dug themselves into her home. Maybe they hibernated through the winters. "Must have chewed through the bones, too, otherwise we'd be finding more familiar fossils," Will babbles on, spewing maybe-fact after maybe-fact as other guides do exactly the same. There's no bed, either, no evidence of life at all. Did the faeries conjure that for them? Did it disappear when The Island fell? Is the space big enough for two Giantesses, or did they prefer the coziness of a hole this size?

"And the waste?" a woman from a neighboring crew drawls amongst the crowd. "Are the walls made from shit, like how it smells?"

It does smell like shit, but we all read that flyer too.

It's a steep hike back out the entrance, and I slip to my knee. "Sorry," I mumble, and Will offers his hand again. "Sorry," I say again, as though it's an explanation. "Sorry," a third time, because it's a compulsion.

"You're funny when you do that," he says like he knows me. "You're really funny, actually."

"Thanks. I get it from my Gran." I shrug. "That and my good looks."

"I think you're quite pretty," he tells me. "I've always liked curvy girls."

"Is that why you do this?" He tilts his head. God, I've done it again. "You know? To see a giant one?"

The laugh I elicit echoes back through the cave.

"Like I said: funny."

The others take their time, and a clump of sand eats through the inside of my cheap boot en route back to the van, distracting me from further conversation.

"How old are you, by the way? Young and dumb like me?"

Is that supposed to be my turn to laugh? If so, I miss it. "I'm 28," I answer, shaking out my feet by the sliding door.

"Cool. 33."

Fuck. He's older than me, so why does he get to be young and dumb and chase adventure?

Lunch comes included at a small diner near the base of the mountain called “The Sixty-Foot Tavern,” allegedly named before The Island's discovery.

"If she's real," Will contemplates in a booth by the window, "who's to say there weren't others roaming Earth before? Maybe the Causeway Giant really was a man, and he impregnated his wife enough to have generations of grandchildren after his death? I don't think anyone else has thought of that one."

"Sounds like some powerful sperm." I guess I am still flirting. Chalk it up to wanting this excursion to end a pleasant one.

Will goes to let Hyson and Hop know we’re leaving soon. Bernard peruses the autographs of the Island Slayers on the wall. Rajan the driver sips beer. Beer I didn’t hear him order. He hasn’t said a single word since our tour started, simply nodding politely whenever Will requests a stop for photo-ops.

“I’ll assume you steer better with a few of those down the hatch,” Bernard scolds the driver, barely any heat behind his words.

Rajan laughs, soundless. Oh. Oh.

“How long have you worked for the tour group?” I ask as Bernard rejoins our table. Rajan holds up five fingers. “Since they found her, then. Have you ever seen her?”

A nod. Another sip.

“Have you shot her?”

His Adam’s Apple bobs up and down.

“It’s okay, I don’t plan to do it either. I don’t think it’s right.”

Bernard nods. “I’m the same as you. I ain’t here to shoot no giant.”

I don’t have to invite more explanation.

“My wife had all these fancies about magic,” Bernard tells us, though Rajan’s more focused on his beer. “She went blind before the weddin’.”

“That’s awful.”

“We survived.” Bernard looks me dead in the eye, tells the story like it’s old news, painless. “We got married young in those days, and she never stopped grieving her loss of sight. Found all these natural remedies, and all these imaginary potions. Our daughter bought her this book once, it said a Giant’s tears could cure the blind.”

“I’ve never read that.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” For the first time, Bernard’s foundation cracks, a frown weighing down his face. “Lorraine wanted so badly to see our girl.”

I change the subject. “My Gran believed in Giants, too. Said she met one as a kid and that it thought she was a faerie. They were best friends.”

Outside, Will unloads bows from the back of the bus and shows Hyson how to pose before his “kill.”

Bernard asks, “You think The Island is your grandmother’s giant?”

“Of course not, I’m not crazy.” Oops—even Rajan looks up at that. “No! I mean... it’s not like your wife was crazy. I’m just saying it’s a fluke of nature. A coincidence.” A coping strategy, I don’t add. A tale forged out from whispers.

“You should give the lady more credit,” Bernard suggests as Rajan downs the last of his drink, stands to leave. “After all, we’re all out here to prove the impossible. Experience the fantasy. Make it our own a bit.”

Maybe that's what Will's doing, with his bow and arrows and brand-new hiking boots. Seizing the opportunity he missed. His right to be a victor, even if it's already passed, and the Giantess is already dead.

Rajan drives halfway up the mountain. The terrain is unpaved, and the footprints are protected. No vehicles allowed. He stays to guard the bus while Will leads the rest of the way, and if the smell of laminate and gas is any indication, we're getting close to the clearing. The sun descends its peak in the sky. It's cool, a breeze pushing us backward, willing us away from the corpse.

And it is a corpse. I keep forgetting that this isn't a rock formation or fancy architecture, but an animal. A living thing, or a thing that once lived. A woman, maybe, if Giants play by those sorts of rules.

The crowd lets up in the afternoon, most families trying to reach The Island before too many arrows have struck before their turn. Still, a line of would-be Giant Slayers wind around the body, blocking it from view until you're face-to-face with the perceived enemy. It takes an hour to join the inner circle. Will offers us our bows.

Bernard, wringing his fingers, shakes his head. "Nah, I didn't come for the photo." Hyson carried his bow from the restaurant, and Hop blinks her eyes down while he mimes a strike. She refuses a weapon of her own.

So do I. "I'd rather watch, if that's okay."

"Seems a waste of the cash," Will notes, but doesn't force me. He adjusts the extra bows on his shoulder. "More time for the boys to get a few arrows in, eh Hys!"

Hyson offers a cheery thumbs up, and we march on.

Ah. There she is, tented from behind to prevent rogue arrows whizzing too far out. She's bigger than I expected, about the size of the plane I arrived on, head as big as the bus. We're staring down massive nipples, close enough to feel her breath. Not that she has any.

The Island lays with her face cradled in vine-like hands, eyes shut against her palms. She's more plant than animal, skin pale green and mostly grass. But her body has a human shape, belly flopped against the ground. The perfect target. Rows of arrows pierce that stomach, her chest, her eyelids. Her mouth hangs open, pine needle tongue hanging limp. I know from the hotel flyer she's been treated. Laminated, sort of, but with wax instead of resin. Every week they reapply, overcast Irish sky keeping the wax from melting, and moisture keeping her soft. There's more sheen to her skin that way, a real glow, like she's still alive. I imagine she'll catch the moonlight when we leave. I imagine she'll bleed, but that can't be true. Not anymore.

It's our turn.

"Ladies first," Will sings, emphasizing his Irish lilt. He's done this part so many times.

"I can touch?" asks Hop, and of course we can, everyone does. A line of guides stand before the body, holding arrows close to their chests so no one can shoot out of turn. There were accidents, at first, the anarchy of false heroism. You can't bring your own arrows or darts anymore. Safety first, even in the middle of a fantasy.

Hop tiptoes ahead of me, approaching first The Island's chest, but quickly veering left towards her stomach. She winds her hand through a dozen arrows and sweeps fingertips against rough skin. Pulling back, she clutches that hand against her blouse, suddenly very interested in the tops of her feet.

Hyson yells at her, waving his smart phone to get her attention, but Hop won't pose, stepping dead quiet back to the group.

"You're next, Miss Blair!" Will shoves me further, and I'm at The Island's face, and... she's alive, sort of. Her gangrene skin looks soft with peach fuzz, and if I squint, it might rustle gently in the breeze. I step around The Island's tongue, covered as it is with arrow after arrow, and picture its easy retreat back inside her mouth, ready to sauce us all in an Irish lilt like Gran used to do. Her chest could heave, and she could stand. She could... she could bite my hand, if I'm not careful.

Bernard shuffles up beside me, holding a long, white cloth. He pulls it against his eyes, tries to tie it around the back of his head.

"Here," I murmur, helping him.

"You're a sweet girl," Bernard hums, and he's reaching now, toward The Island's higher eye. Hands brush arrows, and behind us Will sets up the bow for Hyson, impatient to continue through the line. Finally, Bernard caresses a soft closed lid. "Cry for me, sweet girl." And he's no longer talking to me, he's waiting for her. "Just a little whimper, that's all it'll take."

Oh. This is happening now.

There's a metallic smell, and it might be him. I shouldn't watch. I shouldn't listen, but he's in tears now, and wet himself, and somebody needs to help him. "Let's go back to the bus," I offer, because I'm done with The Island now. She isn't Agnes. I can’t say goodbye.

Sorry, Gran.

Taking Bernard's shoulder, I nudge him back a step, but he won't remove his hand from The Island's face. "No!" he cries, shoving the other forward, pressing against the crease of her brow. "She needs to do it. It's for Lorraine! Fucking cry!"

"It's okay," I coo, and it's not enough. "It's okay, just come on back..."

Bernard shoves me aside, and I land on The Island's tongue, just between two arrows. A guide rushes forward.

"Sir, that's enough!"

It's loud, now. Tourists scream from the crowd. Bernard yells, and the smell of pee overwhelms.

I see Hop cry but hear the arrow Hyson fires from beside her. It pierces Bernard's hand, pins it in place. Bull's-eye, indeed. I roll off Her tongue.

I... roll off The Island's tongue as She tugs it back inside Her mouth. I'm drenched in pale gray saliva. The ground is so wet and sticky, and the Earth moves. The mountain vibrates, and Her belly rumbles.

My God. She's not dead.

She's hibernating.

My legs don't work. I crawl, practically paddle through The Island's spit and piss, and Hop reaches out to me, hysterical. I seize her hand, and the crowd escapes down the mountain, and there's no way through all the people, but there is a single tree that must have been too beautiful to mow down for the sake of a tourist attraction. We huddle next to it, and The Island takes Her stand.

Bernard doesn't hang long from Her pricked eye, Hyson's arrow breaking clean through his elderly fist so he plummets back to Earth. The guides and Will and Hyson fire blind arrows against The Island's roar, and She's so much larger on her feet, so overwhelmingly powerful, it's a wonder She went down in the first place. Maybe She just wanted a rest. Maybe She came to sleep by the fire and the arrows were no more than an inconvenience, annoying bugs against Her barely penetrated skin. She's waited to be angry.

She's made of grass, but She's on fire. A magic sort of flame that isn't hot, but ice. A fury that doesn't manifest in anything but destruction.

Poor Hop whimpers when Hyson's crushed beneath The Island's foot. Half a dozen guides are thrown to the side, arrows still screeching through the air, open fire. It's over. The Island survived, and She's conquered. This is Her mountain now. We're dinner.

And Will stands between us, the last surviving archer in a long-lost battle, fumbling with a duct-taped arrow. He's making some sort of plea, some sort of heroic battle cry, and as though touched, The Island stops.

"Yeah, ya heard me!" Will howls at Her bright red eyes, lids torn to shreds from months of piercing. "Go back to your damn hole, leave us alone, let us be!" He's begging, but he still aims his bow, and... She knows what that means.

Next to me, Hop's sighing tears have called The Island's attention. The Giantess frowns, and a dozen needles fall out between Her lips, fragments of arrows that maimed Her tongue. There's no pleasure in Her stare, but maybe... something human. Pity, almost, for making a young woman cry. She didn't want this fight. She waited for the crowds to pass so she could venture beyond the catacombs, give birth to Her descendants in peace.

We stole that. We stole Her life because She tried to live it. She existed, but not on our terms, and we shot Her for it.

She looks towards me, brow creased, waiting for permission.

I nod. She licks Her lips.

Will draws back a silver arrow.

The Island eats him whole, and She climbs down the other side of the mountain.

Hours after The Island woke, Rajan trekked up the urine-drenched mountain in knee-high rain boots. As he led us back to the minibus, helicopters blew through a starry sky, desperately seeking a fantastic beast they'll never again find.

Nobody knows where She went that day. They searched the forest, the catacombs, the entire country. She disappeared, concealed by faerie dust, safe again from a world that tried to contain her.

Rajan drove back to the hotel, dropping us silently into a media circus. Surrounded by cameras, Hop shook. Just shook, constant like a buzz, completely overcome with the horror we witnessed.

The horror we survived.

Your body regenerates every seven years. I felt it. I was near the end of my 28th year when something snapped. The tragic me of the past disintegrated, and it's like my body knew I was someone else. My heart snapped, and all that old pain blew like ashes into the wind and fire and smoke from Her fresh rising.

I'm not old, I realize, but rather young again. New again. Undefined.

I'm not running. I'm moving forward, and all those people—those voices in my head who told me I hadn't done enough, that I was too late to a fire I simply hadn't started yet—can't hunt me down.