her enemies banished the radical and set her adrift to sea aboard bits of driftwood cobbled together with fishing line and old string. for thirty days and nights she bore the open waters which tossed her here, there and wherever they pleased. her weight pressed down into the raft so she neither sank nor rose above sea level, moving about the surface of the water like a single bubble in a storm. blisters erupted where she cooked in the afternoon sun, and at night she shivered until her eyes froze shut and she could finally sleep.

but she never forgot the country she called home, nor the loved ones she left behind: her mother, her sister and her children. she thought of the summer gardens blooming along her street, the way the mornings sang through the trees which stood sentinel over the parks. she thought of the fires that burned late at night, of the bustling city streets, of a people struggling to breathe.

but on the thirty-first day, after returning from the edge of dream, a beautiful island emerged from out of nowhere and nothing. white sands sloped into the shallows. green palm fronds waved hello. she paddled and pulled until her feet touched the sandbanks and she hauled the driftwood ashore. but she no sooner collapsed breathless on the beach than a great need to do overwhelmed her. she dreamed of home, yes, with its corrupt regime and its downtrodden people, and she dreamed of all the ways she might one day return: first, she would need a bigger boat, so she set out collecting sharp stones to cut down the trees.

she hiked inland, braving the dark and stalking jungles. she carried stones in her arms as though they were her children whose voices guided her from one lost babe to the next, lurching down to grab a stone without letting the rest of them go. and at last she stumbled upon an island lagoon, a colossal inner lake crowned with a brim of cliffs and crumbling crags. there she discovered an old woman squatting on a distant promontory, reflecting in silence on the immensity before them. simple garbs hung from bony shoulders, and her bald head shimmered in the sun.

the old woman smiled as though seeing an old friend. she outstretched her wrinkled hands and shook both of them above her head. hello, she yelled, and the sound echoed among the cliffs. the radical wobbled. was the old woman real? she looked around for others. finally she dared herself to call back: hello! i am looking for stones. the old woman smiled and nodded, and brought her hands to her lap. are you now? she said, as though she knew that already, knew more than that, knew already who she was and the miles she had travelled and the road she was walking. i will meet you on the other side, the old woman said, and pointed her the way.

following the cliffs to the other side, she followed that old woman deep into the jungle. but no matter how fast she clamored to catch up, the old woman stayed out in front of her. she held onto the stones, pushing through the tangled thickets and lianas which stripped the sunlight of its yellow hue so that it burst forth as bright bands of scarlet and blue. the old woman led her to a makeshift hut of palm fronds and branches, and there the radical discovered tools and bowls and cups and a straw mattress on which the old woman invited her to rest.

when she woke again, she found the old woman cooking over a fire. the spices of her mango chutney stew wafted through the air. the old woman handed her a bowl, silent as a blank page. once the radical had her fill, she asked the old woman to borrow the ax. she told her of the country she left behind, of those she loved. the old woman said nothing and listened. she nodded her head in sympathy and concern, but when time came for her to surrender the ax, she lifted no finger to help. but the radical needed no permission, so she took the old woman’s ax and carried it through the jungle and the rain back to where she first came ashore. she chopped down the nearest tree. and then the next. and then another after that. down the coastline she went until she felled over a dozen trees along the beach.

she woke early every morning to build the raft. but there was no rope to rig a sail, no nails to secure the hull, no sealer to treat the wood. by midday, she set sail on open waters, and by evening, she washed up on shore. days passed like this. and at night she cried for her mother and sister and fell asleep on the beach. but in the morning she woke with a new idea to return. eventually, however, the ideas stopped coming, and weeks drifted along the beaches which she walked at night, chucking gobs of wet sand into the wind and screaming at the moon. somehow she came to believe that only a total collapse of mind and spirit would unlock the door.

this was the cycle of doing and undoing, of coming and going, of death and rebirth. some days the old woman sat on the beach and watched from within her small silences. but soon the radical realized that all her efforts were hopeless. no boat could be built, no knot untied, no rescue was coming. nothing nothing nothing. everywhere on every side.

so she cried into each grain of sand that passed as through an hourglass. each grain a day, which filled into weeks, which piled into months, which in time would be years, and then the great wide span of her life. she cried for the faces of loved ones she was destined to forget, her children she would never hold again, for all the injustices she would do nothing about, for all the memories of home that were the building blocks of who she was, now scattered, drifting, in the breezes upon an empty beach. she collected stones and assigned to each a treasured memory, a loving face, and then threw them with a yawp into the crashing waves.

at last the old woman emerged. she took a tender seat beside the radical, curled into herself like a fist. the younger turned to the older: have you never wanted to leave? how can you stand it? the old woman laughed and took a deep breath.

and then another.

and then another.

and then she turned and said: it has no shape, you know. no colour. it is invisible and

without a name.

what? the radical replied. what is?

the old woman laughed and took a deep breath.

and then another.

and then another.

and as if from the grave, a hand reached out to clasp the other. bound hand in hand on the beach, two hearts took one breath.

then another.

and then another.

that night, the younger slept deeper than she had ever slept before. she dreamed of home, of the summer gardens blooming along her street, the way the mornings sang through the trees standing sentinel over the parks. she dreamed of her children’s faces, of her mother’s voice and her sister’s laugh. she was there again, somehow. sitting in her living room, surrounded by her loved ones.

but she could not stay, she said. so she stood and walked out the front door. she walked to the shoreline where she found the raft waiting for her. she sat down in the middle of it and paddled out to sea. she breathed through her stomach and watched the horizon. she waited for the island to appear once again, and she brought herself to shore. she barreled through the jungles, through the rain, and came to the cliffs overlooking the lagoon. and there on a distant promontory she sat.

the old woman smiled as though seeing an old friend.

and the younger woke.