Author: Dinah Kolka

I was sitting on the jagged edge of a cliff, feet dangling. The ocean was roaring like a hurt animal and the darkness marched slowly across the pale sky. Below, the sand looked grey and hollow. Something within made me want to launch myself down, but I constrained myself. Not today. Today is not a day for launching. Today is a day for constraint. So I gathered my thoughts and belongings, and while taking one last look out to sea, I saw a figure. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting – certainly not someone intruding upon my precious time of slight suicidal ideation. However, the figure was not moving. The slight silhouette was standing firmly in one place. I felt like someone had desecrated my special moment, seen me through my deepest ritual. The coast offered relief; the scent of the salt in the air was the only way I could stay grounded.

I slid down the rocks slowly and carefully, like a panther. Behind them I crouched low, out of sight, and avoided the seaweed waiting for me like a snake in the sand. Moving alongside the rocks I ensured I saw before being seen. But the silhouette was perfectly still; a quiet intruder. I walked towards it and, as I got closer, realised it was a statue. 

The statue was of a man, one I hadn’t seen, which was unusual – the coast was my domain. I was the soldier of the sea, a viper of the coast. I was the one striking, not the one defending. The statue looked aged, and it was well-chiselled. The detail was peculiar. The veins on the hands were thick, and the fingernails delicate. I looked at the well-crafted mouth, slightly ajar, as if the words were just at the tip of his tongue. I realised that the man looked somewhat familiar, yet the image of recognition faltered and disappeared as soon as it came to me. 

I looked around to check if someone may have been toying with me – was it Mother, again? But there wasn’t much else around – just the steady, tranquil sea, the long stretch of sand, and the statue in front of me. 

The statue was firmly and violently pressed into the ground, buried ankle-deep. I tried to push at it, to shift it but it wouldn’t budge. I walked around, looking for hidden clues, maybe a sign in the rocks, but there was nothing, other than clams busy with their erotic entanglement with the rock. 

I felt like I should leave, and yet, I couldn’t move myself. I was transfixed, almost a statue myself. I sat on the sand in front of the statue, trying to squint to notice the detail in the dusk. The man must have been about 6 foot tall, with long, almost Hellenic hair. A muscular body, chiselled with expertise and care. Suddenly, I became aware of a little crack on the side of his stomach. It wasn’t like anything I’ve seen before, a scar perhaps? Where had he travelled from? An image flashed in front of my eyes, my small hands touching a scar. It felt safe. It felt painful. I wiped the thought away, refusing to engage. It was time to play, not the time to ruminate.

I rushed back home. I climbed up the cliff with swiftness. Running across the yellowish grass, I passed the heather and the mountains looming in the background. I found myself in the safety of my home once more. 

However, as I prepared myself to lay on the bed, and for the ceremony of sleep, I noticed an envelope. I opened it and found a bird feather within. Questions, endless questions but never the answers! In the desolateness of remote Scotland, I found myself once again yearning for adventure and here it came. Unsettled, sure, but also charmed with the possibilities. The feather was from a wren, an omen? A message? A divine intervention? There was then a soft stab in my gut, one I couldn’t place. I set the father on the bedside table — within reach, but far enough not to touch.

The night was restless and sweaty, the way I liked it the most. It brought the respite of nightmares, the dream-logic I yearned for. It was in the hours after that I created, I painted for hours, with only a candle for elaborate distortion. I didn’t want order, I didn’t want clarity. I craved chaos and chaos I received. 

And so I fell in the slumber ready for the terrors of my own mind to come forth. It came to me, it came to me the man and the statue, but the statue was not man but a beast. He grew to a size of a giant, encapsulating me with his cold exterior and I had nowhere to run. I tried fighting him but I failed and just as I expected my own demise, I reached the waking state. 

I immediately reached for the canvas to harness the depth of the experience, lit the candle and painted until I got tired and went back to sleep. 

The morning was early, and it brought unexpected sunshine. I quickly showered and left, relishing in the early dawn. I ran alongside the mountains, teasing myself, forcing myself to avoid the coast for the sake of anticipation. Eventually, I couldn’t resist much longer and ran down the cliff. 

But the statue was missing, and I felt a jolt to my stomach. The newness was yet another figment of my imagination – the hope and the yearning failed to satisfy. I dragged my feet forward, trying to find the place where I saw him last. 

I had to admit I felt lonely. Moving into a remote village brings its own share of joys, but also brings sorrows. But it was my only choice since mother! Her death was like a stab in the chest for me; her love was like a blossoming flower. But she was no more and I was disjointed again, I was not myself. The natural reaction is to escape, to run, to go someplace for healing. And so I found myself in the house on a hill. 

This statue was my first real interaction with reality. A stone-cold reality, for sure, but it was a reality nonetheless. Stuck for so many months alone, I felt like I could breathe. So I followed, I followed the tracks – now I was the huntress, Scottish Athena, Boudica of the coast. 

Undeniably, there were marks in the ground suggesting that something was, in fact, here. A light tremor of excitement had returned, and I felt myself return to my usual anticipatory self. 

I ran back up the incline and to my great shock, saw the statue up on the cliff. He looked even greater than before, a stone statue against the backdrop of the Scottish sea. I was delighted, I welcomed the change. 

I took a little swirl around him to see if I could find any more clues – and I was lucky enough. In his hand rested a seashell. It was a gift. I took the seashell from his cold hand and took it home. As I rested it on my vanity table, I looked at the painting from last night. 

It was more than distorted – it was late Goya. The statue-man I painted was a disfigured monster, like a beast waiting to pounce. It was probably my best work. I felt smug and eternal again, the thrill of the art and the thrill of the chase. 

I decided to move the seashell onto the shelf in the bathroom. As I held it, I remembered. The father and the sea. The shell pressed lovingly against my ear. The sudden dizziness came on like a wave. The pill bottles were scattered across – was I supposed to take them? Who was to know, it most certainly wasn’t me. It made me ponder over mother, but I blocked that out. The mother was no more, the mother was not there for the thinking, the mother was there for avoiding. 

Holding the seashell, I grounded myself again and remembered my greatest goal – to pursue. I looked out the window to work out if I could see the statue from it. As I looked out, I pulled back in immediately. The statue was right at the window. 

It was obviously impossible, but it was exciting how mind could play tricks! I revelled in them, each passing day becoming ever so fascinating. I figured there could have been multiple of those. One statue on the cliff. One statue near the window. And some kind of exciting trickster. 

I giggled and sprayed flour all over the floor. I would find him. Then I left again, my feet this time taking me to the forest. 

The bird feather I found was from a wren, they were more likely to be found in the forest than the sea. So I went up up up and down down down to the little valley and found myself in the tranquility of the trees. I found a wren’s nest eventually and figured the next clue was going to be there. I wasn’t wrong – I discovered a little note. The note was torn, almost mimicking the scar. The note said the words ‘Come hither to the cave of the beloved for your final cold encounter.’ 

I was smarter than this! They weren’t going to get me. I ran back to the house and examined the flour. There were steps marked in it leading all the way to the back garden. The steps stopped at the oak tree. This wasn’t funny at all! This wasn’t a game anymore. And as I found myself at the oak tree, I saw the statue ponder. 

Was it pondering, or was it just the raised hand, pointing directly at the ground underneath the oak? I was in danger. I resolved to go to the cave to confront the secret admirer. 

I went down down down the old ancient cave and saw a multitude of statues, all pointing at the entrance – at me. I was found. But there was a knife on the ground, the ritualistic dagger of my own making. Muscle memory. I picked it up and started lashing and slashing, never the victim, always the winner. The statues oozed and bled, but I paid no heed. The mother, the chase, the thrilling slosh of the pills in the toilet. They rolled and rolled until they disappeared. The oak, the mother, the bones. 

Dinah is the founder of Decadent Serpent and a graduate of Edinburgh Napier University with a BA(Hons) in English Literature. Her work has been featured in publications such as The Salisbury Review and The Mallard. She was also published in the Scottish Book Trust’s 2018 anthology Rebel. In 2023, Dinah self-published her own collection of short stories, The Search and Other Stories.