By Mairi Campbell-Jack
Illustration by Ida Henrich
I am hesitating. I will have to make a decision soon.
I am teetering with my feet on the edge, my toes are getting cold on the stone and becoming numb. Warm red blood is trickling down my leg. My palms are grazed with a series of fine, straight bright pink lines with small flecks of dark rock embedded in them. My hair waterfalls; the weight of liquid in it creating a constant trickle, which meets the fluid saturating my clothes, trying to find the shallowest point of existence with the help of gravity. When the water splashes against my stone it hits my legs, and the salt stings the gash, making me flinch with pain.
It has taken me a long time to get here. At first there were hands to help me. Some strong, enveloping and warm. Others were boney, and tended more to poke and prod, not wanting to stay too long in contact with my flesh. Pushing me forward, but making as little contact as possible.
After a time, the warm enveloping hands started to become a little looser, starting to lightly guide me rather than steer. When they first fell away I didn’t even notice. Suddenly I turned around and I was on the stones, alone. The helpers now only shimmering shadow, rather than flesh and blood, muscle and bone.
All the stones are different shapes, some are smooth and square like slabs, others jagged like miniature ridges of mountains. The ones that are harder to navigate are ahead of me and I see the girls on them now having to balance, stretching their arms out wide, palms facing down as they wobble from side to side, trying to find their perfect centre, so they can straighten up, survey what’s around them, and make the next leap forward.
The scrape on my leg still stings, when I put my hand down I can feel a flap of skin, and the pain shoots through me again. I got it on the last leap; I misjudged the jump, I almost didn’t make it. My feet slipped when they came into contact with the wet, green algae. I scrambled to regain my footing, then fell back into the water. In the shock I opened my mouth and swallowed, tasting and breathing all the living things that are waterborne, small algae, large eels, things which slime and have no name.
The stones behind me are beginning to fill up with other girls. They are waiting for me to move on, so they can claim this space. I can see a long way backwards, and behind there are other girls waiting for them, and others waiting for them too.
In front of me, I can only see the next two stones. Where the third is there is only a faint outline, most of it is shrouded in the mist covering the loch. I am never very sure how far forward I can go, what I might see next. I wonder if I will ever get to the other side, and what awaits me there. Where am I really heading? I don’t know.
When I look again more girls are gathering behind me. They are eager to be where I am, on this rock. Their faces don’t look patient, they are anticipating, they need me to jump. My leg still hurts. It stings from the last encounter. I am weary of the leaping, weary of being wet and cold, weary of not knowing quite where I am going.
When I’ve come this far I can’t go back, the only choice other than leaping again, risking injury, risking a fall, is to slip into the water on purpose. I’ve seen others do it. It was so quiet, so still. Suddenly they were not there, and after the seconds it took us all to register what had happened a cry went up. We all turned our heads to the sky, and let out a howl. It lasted long and echoed round the mountains that surround our loch, bouncing back to fill our ears until all we could feel was the vibration and all we could hear was the sound of our grief being expelled then coming back to tug furiously at us.
I look forward to the shrouded rock so dimly present, and think that no matter what awaits me, it must be better than the slip and howl.
I crouch down, moving all my weight into my toes and the balls of my feet, and get ready to spring.
Mairi Campbell-Jack
Mairi Campbell-Jack is a poet and writer living in Edinburgh. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Scotsman, The List and Octavius. Her double pamphlet of poetry This Is A Poem, dealing with post-natal depression and separation was published by Burning Eye Press. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Edinburgh Napier. She works in Scottish politics for a UK charity, is a single Mum, and autoimmune. She is currently working on a poetry graphic novel (artists with capacity, talent and commitment welcome to get in contact), and a creative non-fiction book. In her spare time, she enjoys embroidery, photography and TV.
Ida Henrich
Ida Henrich is a German Cartoonist, Illustrator and Designer based in Scotland. She has worked with award winning publishers, online coaches and magazines. Ida is a graduate of Communication Design at the Glasgow School of Art where she specialised in Illustration. In her own work she explores themes such sex-education, growing up, and women’s experiences. Her comics and illustrations are written for both men and women and aims to start an open dialogue between partners, friends, parents, and children about their one’s own experiences. She believes that Art is a powerful way to make ideas and feelings tangible.
As Art Editor, Ida is responsible for all things visual at Fearless Femme including the correspondence with our visual artists, the design and realisation of the online magazine and the illustration of our amazing cover girls. She will also be creating artwork for some of our articles, poems and stories.
Ida loves her coffee in the morning, that feeling after finishing an illustration and going for a run in the (Scottish) sun; and pilates on the rainy days. Ida enjoys SciFi books and autobiographies, and autobiographical comics. She is always delighted to meet new people on trains but is also smitten being home alone colouring in an illustration that she has made way to intricate while listening to Woman’s Hour. You can contact her at ida@fearlessly.co.uk.
