The Ice Maiden

She knew the names they called her.
Never to her face, but muttered and whispered.

The more waspish in the harbour called her “uncan” -
meaning “from another area”.
All the names they used reinforced that she was a stranger.
One kept at arms length.
The untrusted.

Her looks betrayed her Nordic heritage.
Long, straight blond hair hung like a curtain
in front of her face, hiding her pale blue eyes.
Not that anyone ever looked her in the face.

Eyes were always averted, streets crossed.
If anyone had looked they would have seen
eyes of such a pale blue they almost froze your soul.

For her part this loneliness was now to her a friend.
Almost a comfort.
She hardly even saw those around her any more,
they passed like half-seen ghosts.

She kept herself to herself.
Kept herself away from any more hurt.
Trust no-one.
Rely on on-one.
Love no-one.

She only had two refuges in life.
Her tiny house and the coffee shop.
Not a well known, brash chain emporium,
but small, independent, tucked out of the way.
A shop always visited when she knew it would be empty.
When no-one would try and interact.
When she could retreat to the smallest table in the corner.

Back to the wall she was safe.
A book her only companion.
Earphones shut out the rest of the unwelcoming world.

Then one evening her world was thrown into disarray.
Invaded.
This time all the tables were taken.
Others were here.
And in her redoubt,
her castle amongst the aromas of steam and coffee.
Her refuge.
Her citadel.
Her sanctuary.
There was another.

Sat in her spot.
Sat with his back to the wall.
She felt the panic rising.
There was nowhere “safe” to sit in this tiny place.
This stranger had invaded her routine.

She stood transfixed.
Unable to go forward.
Unable to go back.

Then the stranger did something no-one had done for a very long time.
He looked up.
Looked her straight in the face, and smiled.
Looked her in the eye and smiled.

But still she was transfixed.
Her inner turmoil only increased when he said
“I’m sorry, I’ve sat in your seat.”
“But there is an empty one opposite me.”
“I hate to drink alone.”
“You could join me.”

He motioned to the chair in front of him.
She felt herself moving,
walking towards the invited chair.

And then she was sitting down.
Looking into a face that almost felt familiar.
Then she gasped as she realised something else.
“I see you!” she whispered.
For indeed she could.
Whilst all others wafted around her like half-seen spectres,
this man was as clear as looking at herself.

So, stumbling at first, she entered into something
that had become alien to her.
A conversation.
And as they spoke she realised something else.
He asked few questions.
Yet he knew her.

He knew her comings and goings.
He knew the thoughts that went through her mind.
He knew her hurt.
He knew her ghosts of the past.
He knew of the well of tears inside.
He knew her self-imposed isolation.

In this intimate exchange time slowed.
Slowed right down.
Until reality rudely asserted itself once more
through the stacking of chairs
and the sweeping of floors.

She did not want to leave this encounter.
She wanted it to continue.
To linger.
But her friend, no longer a stranger, stood up.
“I’m sorry, but my time has come.”

She stood to try and block his way.
To recapture the moments.
To stay in the moment.

Expecting the familiar rejection, tears of frustration formed.
Instead she was met by a warm embrace.
Something that triggered memories of long ago.
Something that took her breath away.
Something that made her gasp.
And the tears silently fell,
but for an entirely different reason.

As well as the embrace he left her with a
whispered parting gift.
“Believe.”

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Bio

The inspiration for this poem was again a picture of an individual and an alternative view on how Jesus’ conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well may have gone in a 21st century setting.

The word “uncan” is a real word. It is part of the Shetland dialect.

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