We borrowed a boat and rowed out to one of the islands on Lough Gill. It took longer than I expected. I was afraid of the water. My wife sat in the front of the boat eating a banana.

“There’s somebody out there,” she said.

She was looking at the island through her binoculars.

“He’s waving at us.”

“I don’t want to go to an island with somebody on it,” I said. “Especially not somebody who’s waving at us.”

“Maybe he needs our help.”

“He’s not getting in this boat.”

The island was so small I could have rowed around it in four or five minutes. Large mature trees – beech, oak, weeping willow – grew right up to the water. No one had ever gone ashore with a chainsaw. There was a small stone dock. On the dock stood the island’s waving man. As we came nearer he stopped waving, thankfully.

My wife took her shoes off, rolled her jeans up over her knees, and hopped out of the boat. She pulled me up alongside the dock. I got out and stood on the dock next to the man.

“You got anything to drink?” he said. He had a beard. His T-shirt was streaked with dirt.

I gave him a bottle of water.

“That’s water,” he said, handing it back.

“That’s all I’ve got.”

He started to cry.

My wife had already gone up the path. She was eager to explore.

“You’re the first person I’ve seen in two weeks,” said the man. He grabbed my forearm. I tried to back away, but he held onto me.

“Let go of me.”

He let go.

I went in search of my wife. The man followed.

“They left me out here with a tent, a flashlight, and a month’s worth of canned food.”

“Who?”

“My wife and daughter and mother. Three generations of women! They think exactly alike.”

“What did they do that for?”

“I drink too much. They want me to stop drinking.”

My wife was gathering mushrooms.

“Look at this,” she said. “These things’ll put a smile on your face.”

“Give me those,” said the man. He took the mushrooms from my wife and stuffed them in his mouth.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I said.

The man came with us.

In five minutes we were back where we started, having gone all the way around the island.

“That was wonderful,” said my wife. “I wish we lived here. Everything is perfect here.”

“It’s smaller than the rest of the world,” said the man.

“I wish we lived on an island.”

“We do live on an island,” I said.

“I mean a small island,” she said. “Like this.”

I thought: there is only room for one here.

“I think we’d better get going now,” I said.

I was afraid of what might happen once the mushrooms began to take effect.

“You’re not leaving me here!” said the man.

“Only room for two in the boat.”

“I’ll hang on to the back. I can kick my legs and be your motor.”

He was laughing.

“I’ll send someone out for you,” I said.

We got in the boat. As I rowed away from the dock he swam alongside us. He snatched at the oars.

“Take me with you,” he said.

“Maybe we should take him,” said my wife.

I rowed harder. He kept pace with us for a while, then he gave up. His head got smaller and smaller as we pulled away from him.

We came to another island. It was about the same size as the last one. Plenty of big trees. There was a little stone house on it.

“Look, we can spend the night there,” said my wife.

“I think my arms are going to fall off,” I said.

She hopped out of the boat and pulled me to the shore, which was made up of shiny black pebbles. I’d never seen such shiny pebbles. They were like magic.

“Hey, there’s smoke coming out of the chimney,” said my wife.

“Quick, back in the boat,” I said.

But it was too late. A woman had come out of the house. She saw us.

“Hello,” said my wife.

The woman didn’t say anything. Then she said, “Well, you might as well come in and have something to eat. I’ve just done my cooking for the week.”

We went into the house. Everything inside was made out of wood, stone, glass, or metal. There was no plastic.

“Sit down,” she said.

“There are only two chairs,” said my wife.

“I’ll stand,” she said. “Might as well.”

She was very old. I said, “You go ahead and sit. I don’t mind standing.”

“Oh, shut up and sit down. I’ve no time for chivalry in my own home.”

I sat down. She brought out a couple of bowls and ladled some stew out of a black iron pot that hung over the fire on a hook.

“Rabbit,” she said.

My wife watched me. Ordinarily I didn’t eat meat, but I was frightened of the old woman, so I ate it.

“Delicious,” said my wife.

“I hunt them down and kill them. They’re everywhere.”

“They’re from this island?” I said.

“You think I’d travel all the way to the mainland to shoot a few stupid rabbits?”

“No,” I said.

The woman watched us eat.

My wife said, “So you live alone out here?”

“I was born here, and I will die here.”

“What’s the name of this island?” I said.

“That’s none of your business.”

Then she said, “You won’t find it on any map.”

“Where’s your family?” said my wife.

“Gone.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Over there.” She pointed out the window.

“We were a sizable clan. I’m all that’s left.”

We ate our stew. I wondered about “over there.”

Then she said, “Every year I drift a little farther from the mainland. Someday you’ll row your boat out and you won’t find me anywhere.”

She took a pair of binoculars off a nail and peered out the window.

“There’s someone coming,” she said. “He’s swimming.”

“Can I see?” I said.

She passed me the binoculars.

And there he was.

“It’s him,” I said to my wife.

“You know that individual?”

“He was marooned on the other island,” I said.

The old woman opened a drawer and withdrew a small pistol. “Nothing good has ever come out of that accursed land.”

We thanked her for her rabbit stew and got back in our boat. She stood on the shore, on those shiny black pebbles, with the gun in her hand. The swimmer’s head moved closer and closer on the water. His arms never surfaced. He must have been doggy-paddling.

I said, “All he wants is a drink. Something strong.”

“Oh, is that all? I’ve swum for less.”

She twirled the gun on her finger and stuffed it into her belt.

I rowed away. My arms ached. My wife waved at the old woman. She didn’t wave back.

“Why don’t you row for a while,” I said.

“All right.”

We switched places. I sat in the front of the boat eating an apple.

“I thought you were enjoying the exercise,” she said.

“Oh, I was, I was.”

Now it was late in the afternoon. I wanted to find an island with nobody on it, if such a place existed. I wanted to pitch our tent, build a fire, go to sleep.

“Islands are like worlds,” I said.

“We’re island-hopping,” said my wife.

“Each world is different.”

“We might as well be in outer space,” said my wife.

I took the binoculars. Yes, there was another one coming into view. Not far to go. I studied it for signs of human habitation. As far as I could tell, there was no one.

“I think we can claim this one as our own,” I said.

“We can live there,” said my wife.

“We can stay the night,” I said, correcting her.

“Let’s pretend it’s ours,” she said.

“All right. Take us in. Take me home.”

She started rowing harder. We were almost there. Still no sign of anyone.

Our island was bigger than Mushroom Island or Rabbit Island. There was a small stretch of beach. My wife rowed right up onto the sand.

I gave her a kiss and said, “Man, I fucking love you.” Then we got out of the boat. Together we pulled it onto the beach, and I tied it to a tree.

“It’s not going anywhere,” said my wife.

“I know, but if I don’t tie it up I won’t stop thinking about it. I’ll get totally obsessed.”

Her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this.”

She walked along the beach talking on the phone. I hadn’t expected a phone to ring.

I sat down and drank some water. I saw a house on the mainland. It was on the edge of the lake. A light went on. It was starting to get dark.

My wife came back.

“Who was it?”

“Nobody. Sorry for the intrusion.”

“It sort of ruined the moment, but I don’t care.”

“You hate technology,” she said, and she laughed.

“I was just reaching that point where I’d forgotten those things existed. Then it rang. Fuck.”

“This is our island. We have one boat and one phone.”

“That sounds fine,” I said.

I took our backpack and tent out of the boat. We walked up the slope to the inner part of the island.

“This is beautiful,” said my wife.

“There’s no one here.”

“Look at this grass. It’ll make the softest bed in the universe.”

“It’s greener than any color I’ve ever seen.”

“And those trees! They’re like part of an enchanted forest.”

“Ah, I’ve have enough of that sort of thing for one afternoon.”

She laughed.

We found a good spot to pitch our tent. There was an old fire pit nearby. A few burnt Smithwick’s cans in the ashes. I set up the tent while my wife went for a walk.

I lay down inside the tent. Then I got up and got out of the tent.

I waited. It was getting dark.

“Hello?”

I gathered sticks and kindling and set it all in the fire pit. There were a few hunks of wood lying around where someone had chopped apart a dead tree. We had all the wood we needed.

I took the flashlight and went in search of my wife. Our island was bigger than the others, but you could climb a tree and see all of it at once. It would have been hard to get lost.

I shined the flashlight into the trees, but I didn’t see my wife in any of them.

I whistled.

Nothing.

After trekking all the way around the island I sat down beside the fire pit and lit the fire. Here and there along the edge of the lake you could see a light. Suddenly the water became a darkness.

I walked down to the water. The boat was still there.

When I went back to the fire I saw my wife.

“Where have you been?” I said.

“I was sitting right here. Where have you been?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Well I was looking for you.”

We sat side by side on the ground. Moths spiraled into the flames. We held hands.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said.

“I thought the same thing.”

We got inside the tent and held onto each other.

In the morning we were still there, both of us. While my wife made pancakes I went down the hill to check on the boat. It was tied to the tree.

We ate our pancakes. Then I rolled up the sleeping bags and took down the tent. My arms were sore from rowing.

I brought everything down to the boat. It was time to go home.

I waited on the tiny beach for my wife. I looked for the house I’d noticed the day before on the other side of the water but couldn’t find it.

I went back up the hill to our campsite. She was gone again.

I sat down. Then I got up.

I spent the morning searching for her, calling her name into trees. No one answered.

I found her sitting on a weeping willow branch.

She dropped to the ground and we ran to the boat. It was still there. I rowed us onto the lake as fast as I could.

She said, “Take me home.”

“What happened to your voice?”

“What happened to yours?”

“I was screaming my head off looking for you.”

“You sound like someone else,” she said.

“You sound like someone else.”

She said, “Did you cut your hair or something?”

“Whose shirt are you wearing?”

“Whose shirt are you wearing?”

I rowed toward the mainland, away from that strange, unspeakable island while my wife glanced at me as if she were worried I might attack her. It felt like there was an invisible person sitting between us, squeezing his little hands in silence. Neither of us said a word until we were in our car with our seatbelts on, already halfway home.

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Kevin Spaide is a writer who once lived in Ireland and now lives in Madrid, Spain. He blogs here.