Inside the cairn are the histories that remain to guard this island, her spring, and her. Every morning, every evening, she stands on the cliff and looks down at the tide; how the sea rustles in, and is sucked back out. Twice a month, when Moon is at its thinnest and its fullest, its birth and its death, the bay below her cliff empties completely of water, and on those days she walks right out, in her long dress and leather boots, to ease sea creatures from the sand.

She calls herself Cwen, and Cwen is what the island will be called after she is gone; after her bones and her hair have been dispersed to the sea, and her thoughts to the winds, and the sea creatures whose relatives she ate are eating her. Cwen, call the tides; Cwen, say the bubbles of her spring; Cwen says the Moon, as the sea aligns and realigns her island’s bounds.

There is an island beside Britain where sacrifices and rites are performed like those at Samothrace in honour of the goddesses Demeter and her daughter Persephone.

Strabo, Geography (Greek), 7 BC

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Judge

The night Eva went out in her boat, the storm came in off the sea. It span across the islands in a great wailing tumult, blowing chickens into the air in Astrid; pulling washing off the lines in Tarn; darkening and deepening the sea in the harbour; causing the beech trees in the wood to rend their clothes and tear their hair. It lashed the shore with water, great sheets of it, grabbing at the earth, sucking at sand and rock.

Within hours of her leaving, there was little hope. But they went on looking: early in the morning, islanders were out, walking up and down the coast on both sides of the channel, as two creel fishermen searched the island of Cwen. Texts and emails flew back and forth. Have you heard? Such a tragedy. They tried–the coastguard was out all night.

When the storm abated, and the deserted main street in Ayrness filled again with people, opinions flared. ‘There’s still no sign of her boat.’ ‘What did she think she was doing? What possessed her?’ ‘It’s awful, not knowing.’ ‘We went to that Christmas party once, at the big house.’ ‘Do you remember her late husband, the minister?’ ‘She became a different person after his death.’ ‘She was flamboyant, wasn’t she.’ ‘She was a bit too much; everything she did was over the top.’ ‘I liked her. She taught my daughter.’ ‘What will happen now, to the Islands of Women Study Centre?’ ‘Not just that – the Archipelago Women’s Club. Wasn’t she the one supporting Inga at the council?’