My eyes met Kilda’s. Sometimes her laughter irks me. I studied her face, unravelling every part from her crooked yellowing teeth, light crows feet around her eyes, how her chin doesn’t envelope her right jaw, her thinning hair on her middle parting. Why am I marrying her? I reflected the past when I had sexual advances from other women who were more attractive. I always say no. I never cheat, because I am a good man. But I think of undressing them, putting my hand on the small of their backs and the intensity of their orgasms. But I never cheat, for I am a good man.
The first time we met was at an office party. She was a friend of my colleague’s. She clung onto me the whole night, listening to me speak, never interrupting, laughing at all my jokes and even offered to bring me wine. She’s reliable. A woman I know who will always cater to me, never says no to me, a woman I know who will get things done for me without towering over me and emasculating me. That’s why I am marrying her. Sometimes when we sleep, in between her snores, my disgust turns into a silent rage bubbling under my skin. I think of putting a pillow over her face, vividly imagining the struggle she would make and then the eerie abrupt silence that will follow. I laugh off these thoughts — thoughts of marriage doubts, thoughts of killing her. It’s kind of like when your brain does that weird thing when you think of throwing yourself off a building or stepping in front of a moving car despite the lack of a suicidal tendency. Or dropping a baby despite the lack of a murderous tendency. These thoughts come and go but it doesn’t matter because you don’t do these things. Just like how I, a good man, don’t cheat on his fiancée, didn’t kill his fiancée and will be definitely marrying his fiancée.
We are flying off to “The Land of the Winds”, one of the small remote islands off Australia. The island was so remote that it doesn’t have a name. People call it Land of the Winds because geologists observed that the mountains shift from time to time in the island. It was a mysterious phenomenon, especially for mountains to change its form this fast. The study of this island has been ongoing for 40 years now, but most of the research on this island was either abandoned or unreleased. Apparently one of the lead researchers died in an accident. No one specified his death, some said windsurfing, some said he had a heart attack. But his body was never found. His death was an urban legend, a cautionary tale, a cause for research; the answer changes depending on who you talk to. As a minerals and rock enthusiast, this island has always been under Kilda’s radar even though the research was not published yet.
“How fascinating would it be. I wonder how the rocks do that, or do you think the form of the mountain changes because the trees thin out?” Kilda quips as she looks out of aeroplane window.
I find her enthusiasm endearing but I couldn’t care less about rocks and minerals.
“I reckon it is a conspiracy all formed by these pseudo-scientists so they can write about some island no one cares about,” I said, knowing my comment would annoy Kilda.
The journey to the island was gruelling, I never thought I could suffer this extent of fatigue and exhaustion by doing nothing. Just when I thought the travelling ended with a plane ride, a boat ride followed and then a truck ride. Needless to say, the truck ride to our accommodation was quiet. It could have been the sheer boredom from each other’s company, or it could have been our exhaustion. There was no other way to describe it but a silence as stale and tiring as our relationship. When we got to our accommodation, we were greeted with a small house made of wood and hay built in a way where it was meant to be intentionally rustic or just downright simple, we could not guess which. Even in its simplicity, I was able to tell that the host was hospitable enough to accommodate our needs to soften our culture shock. The water dispensers and gas stove stood out like sore thumbs amidst the wooden furniture and shower made of bamboo.
We met with our host, Kilda’s friend whom she has met on the Internet from a forum of geeks talking about minerals and rocks. His name was Marcel. He explained that he has bought this holiday home earlier this year and have been staying there ever since. Like Kilda, he too wanted to witness the “shifting of the islands”. He told us that his enthusiasm for the phenomenon was laughed off by the locals. Some told him horror stories about the island that was rich in descriptions of the island being a black hole and an endless maze but every horror story was just that. A horror story, a myth, an old wives tale.
Every January, a mass migration happens on this island. Having been used to this nomadic life as part of their tradition, the locals pack light and head north. Because of this mass migration, Marcel was able to occupy this home for cheap. Some were reluctant to even take his money as if there was little point in this monetary exchange. “Maybe they’re just simple people who have no need for money and material things like us.” Marcel shrugged it off. This felt odd to me, but I am convinced Kilda and Marcel know better. After all, they have been obsessing over this island for years. Like a Milgram experiment subject, I ignored my instincts and decided to put faith in Kilda and Marcel. I am tasked with one thing and one thing only, to go with the flow, to turn the notch up when told. And these two wear the lab coats.
