The Island of the Day Before

by Zuni Chopra

  THE ISLAND OF

  THE DAY BEFORE

  Stories

  ZUNI CHOPRA

  To Nana and Nani, for loving me and nurturing me and stuffing me with sweets. Love you guys!

  Contents

  They’ve Got It Wrong

  The End of the Lane

  The Sailor’s Wife

  The Merchant and the Gnome

  The Little Town

  Blame

  To Stay Alive

  Just an Otter Day

  Sometimes

  H.A.U.N.T.E.D.

  The Party

  The Colourless Banshee

  Okkie

  Sunday

  The Path

  The Little Matchstick Girl

  The Island of the Day Before

  Red and Blue

  The Dead Tree

  The Knight

  Death’s Greeting

  La Ville D’amour

  Moments in Between

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  They’ve Got It Wrong

  They’ve got it wrong.

  Jack was foolish

  Red disobedient

  Punzie naïve

  Ella stubborn

  Aladdin a thief

  Goldy indecisive

  Puss a rotten crook

  And Beauty in love with a castle more than a prince.

  And yet imagine what we’d have left of them

  If they’d never strayed from the path.

  Because, between you and I,

  Granny’s house

  Burnt down long ago.

  The End of the Lane

  Often, when the wind grows rough and angry on an untameable night, the pub at the end of our road is full up with song and feast and drunken hearts. I walked down on one such night, my shoes squelching up to my ankles in the mud, my cook having returned home for the night, my dog having gone with her. The sky was charcoal, bits of ashes swirling off into the horizon. I looked for the moon but only saw flashes of its once-proud light. It seemed as though it was screaming at me from all directions of the sky.

  The pub door was ajar, heat and light flooding through it. I neared it, the sensation of burning up drawing down upon me.

  The pub surprised me: quiet were the ten or so men inside, each drowning in his drink, the bartender’s elbow slipping against the bar with the weight of his own head.

  ‘Evening!’ I called out, though it really wasn’t.

  They glanced up at me, some interested, some entertained, some stifling their anger at having the façade of comfortable silence shattered.

  ‘Afternoon,’ called a grizzled old man in a black overcoat, the left side of his face marred with streaks of explosions, his left arm swathed in bandages of dirty white. Afternoon it certainly wasn’t, yet I had the sense that time was playing along.

  ‘Charming spot,’ I remarked, as though seeing it for the first time, straying over to the bartender. He snorted under his breath.

  I asked for a drink and I got one. Silence had fallen again, yet this time it was an expectant silence. I turned to find watchful eyes on me, which I thought was rather unfair. I’d meant to start a conversation, not lead one!

  I was spared further internal deliberation by the quiet yellow man up at the front, wearing incredibly little for the weather, tinged red eyes sunken into his sallow face betraying he had other ways of warming himself. He hiccoughed, beginning, ‘Ye kno … hic … it’s been … hic … ser … veral days since me was laid off.’

  ‘Yeah, and each of those ser … veral days you’ve been back here!’ shot back the bartender, chuckling.

  ‘Yeah, but y-you know why me … hic … wa … sh laid off?’

  ‘Because you’re an idiot,’ a smartly dressed man at the front of the bar chimed in. His suit was clean (though not well-ironed), his eyes glinted like silver, and there was no trace of stubble upon his slowly wrinkling face. ‘You upset your superiors with rubbish talk and refused to do any work.’

  The man in yellow lifted a shaky finger to point in his direction. ‘Now, look here, I don’t know … hic … what a superior ish, but I never hic … up … shet nobody.’

  ‘Ya, went off telling stories, Archie,’ a man in similar yellow remarked from his place against the only well-lit wall. It was incredible how the same uniform on him seemed bright (if a little dusty) and lighter than the air around it, while it seemed to weigh his drunken colleague down like lead. He had a short yet messy mop of hair, hanging down behind his neck. His eyes were small and beady, yet so far apart that they failed to give him the look of a sensible man.

  ‘Did not!’ Archie retorted.

  ‘Ya did and ya know it, Archie.’ He turned to the rest of the bar, his drink quite forgotten in his hand. ‘Archie here was meant to be drillen’ the pipes, like the rest of us, but it’s hot and murky, so Archie says he won’t work no more. Then he sits on the pipe we was meant to be drillen’, so we can’t drill it, and starts tellin’ ghost stories like a senile grandmum for the next hour.’

  ‘No supervisor stopped him?’ I put in between sips, partly curious, partly eager for the pub not to forget that it’d been I who’d begun the chatter.

  ‘There weren’t no one there but us, ’twas teatime.’

  ‘Till they came back and fired him,’ I concluded, smacking the bottom of my glass down on the table, telling it for all the world as though I’d been there to see it.

  ‘Nope. Till he walked into the café where they was havin’ tea and started blubberin’ out his story to the boss. In the middle o’ our shift!’

  A chorus of laughter rang out, such ignorance and sincerity a pleasant surprise in the contorted world we knew.

  ‘But you know why me did it?’ gurgled Archie. ‘Because me stories real. True.’

  ‘No one’s gonna believe that rot!’ called the bartender, wiping down a glass so cracked along the edge that I wondered if it could survive its cleaning. He turned to the rest of the bar, leaning over the countertop with glittering eyes and chubby, smiling cheeks. ‘You know, he been in here yesterday talking about the phantom at the end of the lane.’

  ‘The phantom?’ I chuckled, drawn in by this man and his stories already.

  ‘Oh tell that story!’ called the man in the crisp suit, his stiffness dissipating slightly. ‘You tell it so very well.’

  An experienced man in this sort of thing, I am quickly able to tell a compliment from mockery. Archie, thankfully, was not.

  ‘Oh … ish nothin’ …’ He went even redder, his glass slopping out of his shaking hand. ‘Onsh … upon a happier time … even though this story isn’t happy, innit?’

  The man, with his grizzled face, and his coat, huffed loudly.

  ‘So dish man’s goin’ ’ome to his ugly wife. He’sh walkin’ ’ome and he sees a weird … shiny … thing at the end of the lane.’

  Here he paused to throw his arms up and suspend them so high that his shoulders knocked against his jaw. I heard gruff chuckles beginning to emerge.

  ‘He follows it. It’sh jusht a thing. No face. No arms. No nothin’. At first, he thinks it’sh an angel. Then he feels cold and scared and he knowsh it ain’t. But here’sh the besht bit. He never reaches the damn thing!’

  He slapped his hand down on the table, knocking over his glass entirely, so that the deep murky brown liquid spilled over his sleeve, soaking it through. He didn’t move it.

  ‘He walksh and he walksh, but he never reaches it. And so he thinksh he’ll turn round and go home … but he can’t!’

  ‘Why can’t he?’ put in his colleague, wiping away a tear of suppressed laughter.

  �
��’Caush he can’t!’

  At this, everyone in the pub roared aloud, overcome. I nearly choked on my beer.

  Archie, apparently under the impression that no one could believe him, went on hurriedly, doing his best to convince: ‘No, seriously, he walkshs and walksh … forever! But he’sh forshed to keep walkin’ towardsh it, innie, and he never reachesh, and he never leavesh.’

  ‘So, where’s he now?’ inquired the man and his coat.

  At this, Archie looked dumbfounded. He seemed not to have been expecting such a question. He scratched the left side of his scruffy face, muttering, ‘Still there, innie? Yeah, still there…’

  The pub broke into applause. Archie, quite overcome, began blowing kisses in random directions with a most lopsided smile on his face. He then slunk over his outstretched arms and fell asleep right there on the table.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ muttered the man with his coat, twirling his finger round the rim of his now empty glass. ‘I’m not saying his stories are true, but they do matter.’

  ‘Why couldn’t they be true?’ challenged his colleague at once, defensive as though taking up the mantle of a fight. An efficient scoff from behind us conveyed the suit’s opinion quite clearly. The man began to reply.

  ‘You don’t know what could go on out there,’ the yellow one rushed on, not allowing anyone to interrupt. ‘You never know. It’s a big, bad, scary world. But there’s a lot of goodness in it too. Like stories. And the world works in strange ways. Maybe all us here was meant to hear his stories. Maybe you’ll remember these stories. Maybe someday they’ll become more.’

  He took a tentative sip of his now lukewarm drink.

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ I burst out, my vote of confidence having an immediate effect as the faces in the bar turned from amused to incredulous.

  The man himself hardly dared to believe it, twisting his yellow jacket in his nervous fist.

  ‘Stories matter,’ I went on, sensing my luck. ‘Stories can hold more than you know. There’s a reason you’ve come back every night to hear these stories. Even from a drunk.’

  Far off in the distance, the town clock chimed twelve.

  I’d completely lost track of time, and rose in a hurry; I needed to be up early next morning. With the exchange of a few pounds, polite yet sincere goodnights, and a friendly wave around the bar, I was back on the windy road again.

  It seemed to have grown slimier since my feet touched it last, and I struggled not to stray off the path. The minutes passed steadily, the night howling around me.

  Finally, I glimpsed the creaky wooden doorsteps of home. I fumbled for my key, crossing the blank stretch of road as I did so.

  Some intuition, some pull of nature, something deeper than my own spirit, caused my head to turn.

  There was something at the end of the road. Something ivory, shimmering with moonlight, giving off gusts of chill. It twisted towards me, moving so slowly I could have almost imagined it.

  I smiled, tipped my hat towards it, and turned away, clamouring up to my own front door and finally stepping inside.

  The Sailor’s Wife

  She was blue

  And I wanted her

  I wanted her vibrant waves of hair

  Tumbling, one after another,

  To her shores.

  I wanted her depth

  Her gently swaying surface

  That swelled with life.

  I wanted her smooth, cool skin

  It slipped between my fingers

  Liquidized heaven

  Never truly mine.

  I wanted her resilience

  I wanted the fierceness of her spirit

  And so I confessed my love for her

  Hoping to have been strong, like she was.

  But I would be consumed by her

  So breath-taken by love that I went out too far

  Till my heart – the very heart I offered her –

  Smashed against the rocks

  I sank like a stone.

  She watched me go,

  Engulfing me forever.

  I loved her still.

  The Merchant and the Gnome

  Once upon a time, on a small strip of soil between two magical lands, there lived a gnome. He would buy, sell and trade gold, silver and magical items with all those who passed through the piece of land. This trade was his means of livelihood. This piece of land was all the world he knew. He had taken it over from his father, a merry and lively old salesman who had worked the days away on that very soil till he’d been buried in it. The gnome missed his father terribly, and tried with all of his little knobby heart to live up to his long and noble life.

  One breathtaking morning, he popped up and out of his gnome hole and sat waiting on top of the tree stump from which he did business. The clouds rolled like cotton balls over the hills, and the air was crisp and clean, the wind whispering its secrets to all who would listen. A small, ragged blanket was spread out in front of him, displaying an odd selection of dilapidated items: a helmet, a shiny bowl, a dented ruby, a rusty bangle, and an unusually smooth rock. Smaller items littered the edges of the faded cloth, like ants rushing away from their anthill. The gnome waited with a smile on his face, twiddling his stubby green thumbs for a customer. With the sun beginning to rise higher in the sky, the gnome peered down the path to see a figure cloaked in red. He assumed it was a wealthy merchant, come to trade his gold. It was, indeed, a merchant, but one that brought no gold, only grave news.

  ‘No, no, gnome,’ he snapped, hurrying on his way, ‘I have no time to trade anything with you today. I must get across the border before noon, or I’ll surely be killed.’

  ‘Be killed?’ the gnome yelled at his elbow, for that was all he was tall enough to reach. ‘By whom?’

  This made the merchant stop in his tracks entirely. ‘Why, haven’t you heard, little gnome? War was declared this morning! These two lands are no longer peaceful. You’ll have no more customers for a while, I expect, unless they’re attempting to flee or betray, like I am. Why, I would advise you to leave at once. You’re sitting right on their battleground. They’ll completely blow you away!’

  At this, the gnome frowned, his knurly nose twisting in displeasure. He couldn’t have that sort of thing. What about his customers? His business? His home! All destroyed for a mere quarrel! Well, he wasn’t going to stand for it. He’d go see one of the kings and put sense into them right away.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ he asked the merchant.

  ‘Me?’ the merchant replied, straightening his crimson robes haughtily, ‘I am going to see the King of the Land Beyond.’

  The gnome was confused. ‘The Land Beyond?’ he mumbled.

  The merchant raised an arm to point towards the right. ‘That land is known as the Land Beyond. And that over there,’ he continued, pausing here to look to the left, ‘is called the Land Above. Together they hold all that goes Above and Beyond.’

  ‘Above and beyond what?’ asked the gnome.

  The merchant looked puzzled, as though the answer was obvious. ‘Reality,’ he replied.

  Still, the gnome was at a loss, for this odd word meant nothing to him, but he put it out of his mind. It was probably something trivial and unimportant, and there were critical things to attend to. This … this ‘war’ idea … he must prevent it. Why, it was the most inconvenient thing, second only to splinters and common colds!

  ‘Can I come with you to see the king?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ the merchant spluttered. ‘A gnome, coming with me?’

  Immediately, the gnome saw that the merchant was not one to let such creatures be seen in his company, certainly not creatures with ambitious ideas of peace and heroism.

  ‘I need to ask him for protection,’ the gnome invented wildly, ‘or I’m sure to die in the war.’

  The merchant glared down at him. ‘I don’t need a little gnome chasing after me like a puppy. I am travelling fast, and across the hills, and you’ll only be
a bother.’

  ‘Oh, please, kind sir!’ the gnome yelled, throwing himself into his dramatic role. ‘You’re my only hope! I can catch my own food. I could pose as your servant for as long as the journey lasts.’

  This made the merchant pay more attention to the wrinkled, mucus-coloured gnome. He’d never had a servant before. He considered such things a waste of gold. Of course, to him, most things were. He quite fancied the idea of this little gnome following him around with a rough, bent stick, marking him out from the rabble.

  ‘Or perhaps,’ the gnome went on, sensing his luck, ‘if you would present me to the king, you being of far greater esteem than I, I will give you the solid gold bowl I received from a tarot-reader going this way.’

  That did it. Tarot-readers were said to be filled with mystery, and the bowl may indeed have had hidden powers. The gnome wasn’t interested in that sort of thing, nor had he any further use for powerful magic, so he’d kept the bowl in an unused bottom drawer where it had stayed for years.

  Once they had shaken hands and made the exchange, the merchant tucked the bowl away eagerly into the endless depths of his cloak, and the gnome packed up a small pouch of his things. Together, they began the long journey to the King of the Land Beyond.

  They first came to the Glass Wood. The gnome could see no trees and unceasingly bumped his head on the crystal branches hanging above. ‘I can see nothing,’ muttered the gnome, ‘nor could I see this vast forest from afar, from my home in a hole in the earth.’

  The merchant scoffed, guiding them skilfully through the branches as tinkling grass crunched beneath their feet. ‘Why, of course you couldn’t. I couldn’t either. And if I, being a wealthy merchant, could not see the woods, how would you?’

  The gnome didn’t respond to this comment. He found it extraordinary.

  They continued until the moon was high in the deep, smoky sky. It glowed, its yellow teeth emitting a ghostly light. The clouds unfurled themselves around it, and it soared above, flashing its sharp claws as light glinted off the Glass Wood.