By Frampton Jones
Helke Jonkman had not, it turned out, even intended to be on this side of the Atlantic, but is not so very good with directions. And of course sometimes directions here are complicated. We’re so used to the way paths come and go. There are places you can only ever reach at the full moon, doors that only open in winter, graves that are only properly visible at twilight – if you’ve been here a while, you likely already know this. It bemuses newcomers and of course there are always people who are confused by directions that include questions of time, or wind direction. Perhaps as island people we are more used to thinking about tides, and places that are sometimes unavailable.
The shortage of reliable maps has always been a problem, but how do you map that which changes? Being someone who struggled with directions, Helke became one of the few people to ever try and map the island, in all its oddness.
Helke has gone, but the maps remain. One map could never be enough. There are paths painted in silver, and one marked with a note that it requires blood to walk it. There are paths on these maps that I have never seen myself and would not venture down.
I speculate that there is also a missing map; the one Helke took along on that final journey. The one that tracks the route into whatever mystery occurred, two weeks ago. The map from which Helke may well never return.
We none of us know what might wait for us in the trees, in the darkness, in the silvery trail of moonlight we have never seen before. The unknown is always so alluring, but seldom treats anyone kindly.