Ayla stood at her window, naked, watching the dawn fog twisting around the paperbarks; a mythical creature silently stealing toward the house. She longed for this time of year when the fog came in across the sea, so thick the ferry couldn’t run until the heat of the sun lifted it. She watched the mist hovering in the trees, waiting for something to happen. But nothing would happen. This was the island. Nothing ever happened. She was curious as to what it would feel like on her bare skin.
What the hell.
She tiptoed down the hallway past her mother’s soft snores, smiling at herself. Is this what her life had become, cheap thrills by streaking naked in the fog at dawn? In the kitchen, the half-finished painting made her pause. Her mother had added a tiny fishing trawler on the watery horizon. The familiar hard-boiled egg of grief slid up to stick in her throat. Why couldn’t she paint something else?
Her mother’s last painting was desperate: two men clinging to an upturned hull as waves engulfed it. She saw her fourteen-year-old self with Mandy before the cruel hand of death stroked them, marking them for life. They were coming home from school on the ferry, giggling hysterically over the day’s events, when half way across the strait they became aware of distress in the air and surreptitious stares. Ayla leant across the aisle. ‘What’s happened, Mrs Parker?’
Mrs Parker burst into tears as the boat slowed to tie up. Their mothers were standing at the end of the jetty, grasping onto one another as if trying to find the strength to face their daughters. The girls knew immediately. Something had happened to their fathers.
Ayla tore her gaze from the painting to halt the memory and snapped the back-door lock, almost breaking it. Her mother really needed to move on.
She ran down the stairs and along the sandy track through the paperbarks, the crisp air turning her skin to goose flesh. The sensation made her think of the flute player, his face turned toward the sky as if paying homage.
The fog became so thick, she inched her way along, the dewy smell of eucalypt, intoxicating. She crossed through the goat’s foot, its soft leaves tickling her feet, then the line of jumbled sea wrack – seaweed, sticks and pumice – until her toes sank into the softer sand. All around was whiteness, permeated by the loud breaking of waves. She couldn’t see her outstretched hands, lost in a cloud, spinning, dancing in it, making a silly deal with herself – once I touch the water, I’ll turn back.
Riley lay in bed listening to the mosquitoes working themselves into a frenzy, wired to get through the net and suck his blood. Awake all night, spooked by the continual creaks of the house, he now watched a purple sky fading into day and questioned if his mother was capable of change. Or would he be forced to leave, to prove to her he could survive on his own? If he left, she would be devastated, but surely she would cope? She had her precious mosquitoes, her obsession to the point of madness.
Grabbing a flute, Riley scrawled a note to his mother to avoid the search helicopter – she had done that once – and raced out of the house toward the beach, running to escape the swarm of mosquitoes that followed him from the swamp and the grief that followed him everywhere.
He sat in the dawn on the wet sand watching the fog drift over the water, eerie and silent. Too silent to disturb with music. What was this exotic place his mother had brought him to? The living creature of mist curled toward the island, filling him with awe.
In his idleness, the mosquitoes swarmed, the empty landscape making him their only meal. He ran towards the giant cliff looming at the end of the bay, wondering if the fog would be rolling in on the exposed beach he had discovered yesterday, where the waves crashed in. The tide was low enough that he was able to skirt the front of the headland, and there it was, the impenetrable whiteness devouring the surf. His run slowed to a walk until the mist engulfed him. Unable to see, he sat on the damp sand and waited, feeling lonelier than he had ever felt on Burrawang, trapped on a deserted island in the middle of a fallen cloud.
He heard the soft laugh of a woman. Or had he imagined it?
Eyes straining through the cotton wool curtain, he was greeted only with the repetitive folding of waves on the shore.
There it was again. Someone was laughing at him.
Maybe he should play a trill, echoing her laughter back? He pulled his flute from his pocket and placed it against his lips. The curtain of mist parted to reveal a naked woman, a mermaid washed in on the tide who had grown perfect legs, testing her new limbs by twirling in a cloud. It swallowed her up.
A mermaid? Was he going insane? Longing to see her again, he blew a ripple and heard her gasp. She was no apparition. He played another.
Nothing.
He had learnt he could affect people through his flute, but could he control the elements? He walked blind towards where he thought she was, breathing a melody from the depths of his soul, a song for clarity, calling the wind to lift the fog.
Ayla’s body went cold when she heard the enticing voice of his flute piercing the air.
She spun, disoriented by the sound, straining to see through the misty blanket, losing all sense of direction.
Where the hell was the track?
The melody was closing in. Through the drifting fog, she glimpsed a tall ragged shadow. The angophora; its sunburnt skin hanging in strips around the ‘No Trespassers’ sign. Stumbling blind, hands held out, she fled.
The mist suspended in the paperbarks hadn’t yet drifted into the yard. The white Silkie hen stared through the chicken wire, head cocked to one side, perplexed. Grabbing a sarong off the washing line, Ayla fell up the rickety stairs into her bedroom. She hid at the corner of her window to spy and listen and catch her breath.
A playful breeze danced in, lifting the fog as the heat of the rising sun hit the earth. She straightened up. Grappa’s Far Dorocha explanation was becoming irritating.
She found her mother in the laundry, ironing a blouse for work.
‘Grappa’s black-haired man – what was Nana Nettie’s version?’
Her mother gave her customary snort of disgust whenever one of Grappa’s stories was mentioned. ‘Why bring that up?’
‘Just wondering...what was Nana’s take?’
‘Nothing like your grandpa’s.’ She turned the blouse over.
‘What, then?’
Her mother held up the iron. ‘Those days, the island was lucky to have fifty residents, so someone new always made a stir. This stranger turned up who happened to be an amazing dancer, and Mum loved to dance. You remind me of her when you dance. There’s an idea – you could study dance if you don’t want to go back to veterinary –’
‘So, what…Nana danced with this guy and that was enough for Grappa to call him Far Dorocha?’
‘Dad can’t put one foot in front of the other. Mum claims he felt threatened and proceeded to get drunk, so drunk she went home in disgust. She said he got that drunk he blacked out and couldn’t remember a thing. God knows where and how he spent the night. When he arrived home the next morning, he was raving about this Far Dorocha’. She resumed ironing. ‘And he’s still raving. Why you insist on indulging him, I’ll never understand. The more people take him seriously, the more he keeps it up. I know the islanders love to egg him on to entertain themselves at his expense, but I don’t get why you do it.’
Ayla shrugged. She didn’t know either.
Walking onto the back deck, she caught herself listening for a flute, and wondered if she didn’t want to grow up. Is that why she hadn’t handled life in the city? Not mature enough yet? She remembered feeling nothing as she grew accustomed to watching friends off their face on drugs and stumbling drunk. She had slowly become a numb observer, detached and alone.
A gust of wind brought with it a memory of the first time she had seen a storm blow in from the open sea. Her Dad had buried her in sand up to her neck, and her Mum, lying on the towel beside them in a red bikini watching the horizon, observed. ‘Big storm gathering out there.’
‘Just a squall,’ her father had said, too busy patting the sand aro
und Ayla’s protruding head to look up. ‘See if you can move, Aylee.’
Surprised at the strength of the sand cementing her in place, she could only wiggle her fingers and toes.
‘That’s more than a squall.’ Her mother, half up on elbows, poised.
Her Dad’s pale blue eyes, as he studied the direction of the clouds, and the loudness of his voice were still vivid in Ayla’s memory. ‘Help me dig her out.’
She remembered their hands scrambled, scratching the sides of her five-year-old body as the wind hit the land and the sand became needles in her eyes, blinding her. The terror of being trapped as they tried to pull her up while the earth sucked her down, until her father’s strong arms wrenched her to the warmth of his chest. Like all precious memories of her Dad, Ayla had replayed the sequence so often, she questioned how much of it was real and how much was embellishment by grief’s only cure: time.
Riley gazed along the abandoned beach. The fog had dissolved and a breeze blew the last of it away along with any persistent mosquito. Nothing but footprints in the sand. He followed them to a track. Tacked on a tree was an old sign: Private Property. No Trespassers, please. Someone had painted a smiley face after the ‘please’. Not wanting to trespass, he found a boulder to sit on and watched the trail. As the sun rose, people began to walk on the beach: a middle-aged couple, a pimply teenage boy with a greyhound.
He lay down on the sand with his head against the rock and fell asleep.
The whinny of a regal white horse carrying an elderly lady in a straw hat woke him. ‘Buon giorno,’ she called out.
He waved, feeling sunburnt and hungry in a foreign land.
After examining the footprints in case his naked mermaid had returned while he slept, he headed home, turning to look back at the track until he could see it no more.
Maybe it won’t be that bad living here after all, he thought. A smile stuck in his throat.
4.
Grappa slept in, missing his usual dawn walk because he’d stayed up crabbing most of the night. Once he’d seen the size of the king tide dragged in by the fat orange moon, turning the water mercury, he knew it’d be a perfect night for crabs. To his disgust, every pot had come up empty.
Holy Jesus, another sign.
He rowed into Hibiscus and set off to ask the ferrymen if they’d seen a black-haired stranger catch the boat over. They’d seen nothing, but the bargemen might’ve.
When he reached the barge ramp, it was mid-morning. The mass of Blue Blubber jellies washed up on Three Mile, turning rancid in the sun, disturbed him. Something was wrong in the order of the universe.
The one car waiting to be loaded was Henry Pickler’s. Henry had been trying for years, without success, to design a bicycle that could become a boat, then transform back into a bicycle when on land. Grappa told him he was mad, so Henry had called Grappa an arrogant bastard.
A few walk-on passengers waited. Poor McClelland’s missus with her tribe of children and a little tucker riding her hip. The only other person was by herself. A striking looking woman Grappa had never seen before: thick black hair framing dark eyes too big for her face, pale skin untouched by the sun, as if she’d lived all her life where only shadows grew.
The bargemen signalled for Henry to reverse on. As he drove past Grappa, they exchanged wary nods. Everyone turned to watch the stranger walk on. There was a fragility about her that made all of them stare. The oldest of the McClelland children was so busy gawking as he ran past, he slipped. The crunch of the child’s elbows on the metal ramp was loud enough to make Grappa cringe from where he stood on the shoreline. But the woman merely glanced at the screaming child and kept walking. Other adults ran to the bleeding child’s assistance as the stranger sat down on a bench, smiling. Was she taking delight in the distraught child? The idea made Grappa shiver. As if sensing him, she turned and stared with those black eyes, forcing him to look away.
He signalled to the barge boys. They sauntered toward him and hung over the boat rail, rolling cigarettes for their next smoko. The smell of fresh tobacco washed over him with their hushed conversation. They were joking about who’d be the first to get into her pants, glancing back at her, trying to guess the woman’s age. She wasn’t young, that was certain, but she wasn’t what you’d call old either. The barge boys knew all about her, as was the island way.
‘Filthy rich widow – bought the old Johnston place on the swamp.’
‘Probably a bit old for me, but who gives a shit – check out the tits on her.’
‘Ranga, you got no idea, mate. Older women know what they want and how they want it. Sexiest thing I’ve delivered to the island in a long time.’
‘Wouldn’t go near her if I was you, boys.’
They both looked at Grappa who had been in this world long enough to have earned their respect. He knew the best spots for fish and crabs and could pick the weather and a person’s character.
‘Why’s that?’ snorted Grunter.
‘A feeling I got.’
‘Reckon she’s got a dick?’ Ranga blurted, and Grunter guffawed.
‘You boys see a black-haired man carrying a flute or something catch the barge across in the last few days?’
‘Nothin’ but locals.’
Grunter pointed to the woman. ‘Me wet dream came over yesterday in a removal truck. Two removalist guys with her, but they left on the three o’clock.’
The barge driver up in the tower blasted the horn.
‘Alright, already.’ Ranga yelled and signalled the driver to lift the ramp.
‘Bloody Macka. Any excuse to play with his horn.’ Grunter winked as the barge reversed away from the beach.
Grappa looked at his bare feet in the sand. Bright blue suicidal jellyfish decorated the shoreline for as far as he could see. He had a bad feeling in the ends of his toes. None of the boat boys had seen the stranger arrive. This confirmed it. Holy Mary. Far Dorocha had returned, coming via supernatural means during the storm yesterday, bringing that strange light from another realm.
He pulled his flask from his pocket and took a swig. The whisky burn soothing on the back of his throat. The barge with that woman on board swung round and chugged toward the mainland. Her amusement at the child’s pain had sickened him.
Maybe she was smiling for another reason? You can’t read a woman’s mind, silly old fool, he reprimanded himself as he headed up the beach, negotiating the intricate maze of blubbery jellies putrefying in the sun.
Marlise refused to let the banality of the shopping centre destroy her mood. She was so proud of herself, she couldn’t stop smiling. On finding Riley’s scrawled note in the kitchen this morning – ‘Gone for walk’ – she had resisted the urge to search for him. Instead, she too had written a note: ‘Grocery shopping.’ She hadn’t waited until he arrived home to fuss over him, trusting him to return safely of his own accord. This is what she needed to do to keep him from leaving, she kept reminding herself.
Gliding down the aisles of the supermarket with a newly-purchased metal file tucked in her handbag, she became subdued by the variety of choice on the crammed shelves, randomly selecting things they might need and cringing when she remembered Riley’s exasperation with her after her last grocery trip.
‘Mum, why did you buy five jars of pickled anchovies?’
David had always done the shopping because David had always done the cooking. With each new aisle, full of too many choices, she cursed herself for relying so heavily on him for all those years. The supermarket was a labyrinth, every aisle seemed increasingly complex and more protracted than the next. But she could endure it, feeling refreshed and vigorous today. Once that damn dog was finally silent, she had slept long and deep.
Appalled at the aisle devoted to lollies and chocolate, she wilted in the next at the sight of acres of canned food, stocking up on a selection to ensure she wouldn’t need to return too soon. She loathed shopping centres because they were crammed with people. People confused her. She found them difficult to r
ead and always said something inappropriate, upsetting and offending and never understood why. It was easier to avoid contact. This shopping centre was full of gargantuan women with oafish children and hoary pensioners wanting to gnaw on trivialities. She encountered one waiting in line at the checkout.
‘My granddaughter is pregnant with twins.’ The geriatric beamed.
Marlise nodded politely, feigning interest in the magazine rack.
‘Through IVF. I don’t know what’s wrong with young people today. In my time, we fell pregnant at the drop of a hat.’
Realising there was no escape, Marlise espoused her theory. ‘Maybe the decline in the fertility rate is the planet’s way of coping with the fact that there are too many humans in existence. We’re the most destructive species that ever lived. The world would be a better place if we all died off.’
The crinkled slits for eyes widened in shock.
Uncertain how to react, Marlise unpacked her trolley. She hadn’t meant to offend but was gratified to hear the old biddy harrumph off to another checkout. There was something about the papery skin on the back of her hands that reminded Marlise of her mother. A vision of the last time she had seen her mother overpowered her in the bright lights and piped muzak, forcing her to clutch the trolley. Her drunk mother, dried out and aged before her time, staggering up the road behind the taxi, shrieking like a banshee, one futile fist raised in the air.
This memory so affected Marlise, when she drove to the barge office with her car full of groceries, only to discover the barge was fully booked, she burst into tears.
The myopic girl behind the counter didn’t know where to look, her concern magnified by thick glasses. ‘There’s vehicle space on the next barge after lunch, if you’re willing to wait two hours?’
Unable to speak, Marlise raced to her car, scrambled into the driver’s seat and hid under her sunglasses. She tuned the radio until a voice announced, ‘Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor’. Usually she couldn’t tolerate any form of music, particularly in Riley’s presence, but in this instance the sound of all those human voices harmonising calmed her.
Beneath the Mother Tree Page 3
