photo by ldyck
Beware the Island Storyteller
The next day, Grace boarded the ferry, ignited by a clear mission—to warn her fellow Mayne Islanders. She marched up the steps to the passenger deck. A woman she'd seen shopping at True Value occupied a bench across from a man she'd met at Mary Magdalene Church. She didn't remember their names. Ever since she'd moved to the island a few months ago, she'd been bombarded by name after name. Across the aisle, around a table, were other people who also looked like Mayne Islanders. As Grace approached, the woman moved her purse to make room on the bench. They also made room for her in their conversation, and Grace seized the moment. "I opened my car door. But I wasn't alone. This strange old woman was sitting in the passenger seat. She was just there, acting like being there in my car without my permission was totally normal. She asked me to—sorry, she didn't ask. She ordered me to drive her home. I explained that I lived on the opposite side of the island. But she convinced me to drive her home—all the way home, right to her doorstep. And—and she insisted that I park my car and wait for her to finish telling me this story that went absolutely nowhere." (You can read about that occurrence here: Island Storyteller)
The woman dived in with, "Her stories are so...so..."
The table of Mayne Islanders overheard her comment and supplied, "Weird. Strange. Bizarre."
The man who sat on the bench across from Grace coughed into his fist. "And juvenile and morally questionable and..." A hush fell over the group. No one dared speak. They all just waited. Somehow they all knew he wasn't finished. The bold took a sip of water from their water bottle. The sip didn't rest easy in their mouth. It threatened to explode out in a spray, but they forced it down. Was it that swallow that prompted him to break the silence? "I was at the Ag Hall listening to my favourite Mayne Island musician when the Island Storyteller—"
"Island Storyteller?" Grace asked.
"That's what we all call her," the woman explained.
"She's been telling her stories for years," someone at the table added.
"When the Island Storyteller charged onto the stage," the man continued, "we all tried to stop her, but it was of no use. She hijacked the stage, ostensibly to thank us for listening to her stories, as if she ever gave us a choice, but it became a speech full of visions of grandeur. At one point, she even told us that she foresaw a time when Hollywood would be interested in her stories. As if that would ever happen." (You can read about that concert here: Island Storyteller on Stage)
"Tomorrow," someone at the table said and laughed.
Someone else at the table said, "I stood in line at the bakery for half an hour while she read one of her stories. Read. It. Out loud to. Everyone. Like she was doing us a favour." (You can read about what happened at the bakery here: Island Storyteller and the ice cream cone)
"She'll never change. She'll always tell her stories to anyone who will listen," someone said, and they all agreed, and Grace was caught in thought. Anyone? Anyone? So there's nothing special about me? I'm just a set of ears. She felt so deflated.
written on February 4, 2026
On Mayne Island...
Actually, it's more like what fell on Mayne Island.
On Tuesday, March 24, I turned off my computer and turned on the TV for a short break before making supper. I was enjoying the show and then... At approximately 4pm, the screen went black. Some may have wondered what was up, but I've lived on this rural island long enough to realize what was up had come down. The BC Hydro website told the tale—a tree on the wires. We lived without power for approximately 24 hours—no TV, no computer, no nothing. I warmed my soup on the wood stove. I read a book. I wrote in my journal. What did I write? This...
