Beneath the Mother Tree

by D. M. Cameron

  Two ciders, one puff on a joint, and that old empty feeling was visiting again. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she thrive on the city life, the socialising, the networking sites, the partying?

  ‘I’m abnormal,’ she told the warped moon.

  The night was so still she could hear the crabs breathing in the mud. The wind sighed. Her scalp tingled. It wasn’t the wind. From the end of the jetty, the tantalizing melody danced across the water.

  ‘What the…?’

  She slipped off her shoes and crept down the pier. Her world had become black and silver: the moon against the sky, the liquid flash on dark water, and the shed shining silver in the moonlight. There was no colour anywhere. Maybe he was a dark faery lord after all? Why else would he be here on the end of the jetty playing his flute when all the boats had stopped? Why else would the night look as if it was made from celluloid?

  As she reached the shelter shed, she could hardly hear the music over the pounding of her heart. She smelt him before she saw him, squatting barefoot on the seat, eyes shut. His whole body seemed to be playing the instrument. He looked like he had been soaked in mud. Had he crawled out from under the earth?

  Ayla stood transfixed, uncertain as to what to do. If she could sneak past to hide where the steps led down to the water, she would feel safer. That’s where Grappa would pick her up, and if forced to, she could jump. Swimming to the island might be possible on a still night like this.

  The melody changed – his playing became frenetic. She ran and ducked down. The tide was rising, soon all the stairs would be covered. To stay hidden she would need to stand in the water. He hadn’t seen her…or was he pretending? His eyes were still shut. She peeped from her hiding place at his splayed and hairy feet as the unearthly smell overwhelmed her. Was the stench coming from his feet? He stopped playing as his eyes opened on hers. She strangled the sound that leapt up her throat.

  The smooth tip of the flute dangled from his mouth, fingers still now, as he glimpsed something golden on the steps. Craning his neck, he saw it was a head of blonde hair framing two startled eyes.

  As he stood, she stood. The girl in the fog. Where had she come from?

  His blood thickened as he considered she was a mermaid who had used the cement staircase to climb out of the sea. He had read about mermaids in David’s Mythological Creatures book. They grew legs on land. Her legs were lovely. All of her was lovely. She couldn’t possibly be human.

  ‘There is always a logical explanation for everything,’ David often said. Riley clung to this. The silence of the night beat down on them while time moved in slow motion. The logical explanation came.

  ‘You snuck past me when I was playing.’

  A slight nod and he saw how frightened she was. He sat down to appear less threatening, combing his matted hair with his fingers, trying to make himself presentable.

  ‘Sorry. I stink I, I got stuck in the mangroves…’

  She was looking at him, deciding whether to trust him or not, her voice soft and husky when she spoke. ‘Why are you here in the middle of the night, playing a flute?’

  ‘I…I’m waiting for the ferry.’

  ‘It stopped at midnight.’

  He looked up the jetty, embarrassed, then back at her. ‘Looks like I’m stuck here then.’ He was struck once again by her presence. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘My grandfather’s coming to pick me up in his boat.’

  He had an uncontrollable urge to laugh. ‘I seriously thought you were a mermaid for a second’.

  ‘A mermaid?’

  He nodded through his laughter which, to his dismay, turned into a sob. Here she was, the girl he had been thinking of all day, and he looked and smelt atrocious. He felt his face go hot. ‘Sorry, I, I’ve just found out my father’s alive, and my mother’s a lunatic who has lied to me my whole life, and…and I miss my stepfather.’

  He could sense she didn’t know what to do.‘And you’re in a strange place you’re not used to?’

  He nodded.

  Tentatively, she approached and sat beside him. ‘When did you move to the island?’

  He held his breath, waiting for the spasms in his chest to subside and wiped his face with the back of his dirty sleeve. ‘Two days ago – no, yesterday? Ha. I’ve lost track of time…so tired. My mother bought this hideous house that hangs over a swamp. Find it hard to sleep there.’

  ‘The old Johnston house?’

  ‘Johnston house?’

  ‘There was a family called the Johnstons. They built it, lived there for years. Generations of them. My name’s Ayla.’ She held out her hand.

  It seemed too tiny in his large palm. ‘I’m Riley. Nice to meet you, Ayla.’ The smooth touch of her skin sent a spark through him. He pulled away, feeling shy, wiping his face again with his sleeve, fiddling with the rustic flute, spinning it on the end of his fingertips, showing off, wondering if it would be rude to play, anything to fill the screaming silence.

  ‘You’re very talented. Think I’ve heard you a couple of times on the island.’ She blushed.

  I’ve seen you naked, he thought and blushed back. ‘I can’t play at home. My mother can’t tolerate music.’

  Her eyes widened in astonishment. ‘I could listen to you for hours.’

  They stared at each other as another silence engulfed them. He liked the way her cheeks lifted, making the sides of her eyes disappear when she smiled. She turned at the sound of a boat.

  ‘Here he is. We can give you a lift if you want.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Probably best you hide that, he’s…a bit funny sometimes about… stuff.’

  ‘The flute?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’ She looked uncomfortable. Time was moving too fast now. He wanted to sit here talking all night but she was already shifting away, focused on the red wooden boat trailing a small tin dinghy in its wake.

  Grappa had been lying naked in the arms of Dora, admiring the silver colour of her hair in the patch of moonlight through the sun roof, enjoying the gentle rock of the boat, when his mobile rang. Dora had been in a rare talking mood. He ached to hear more of her stories but they were seldom shared. When it happened, he felt like he was receiving a precious gift.

  From where they were anchored, Dora could see the black mass of Big Island on the far horizon. He watched her watching it, knowing she had spent the first seven years of her life on the mission there.

  ‘They’ve got a new section at the Big Island Museum, about how the mission came to be. Got some real old government documents on display.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He stroked the outside of her thigh up to her waist, loving the feel of her ample hip under his hand.

  ‘In one of those documents, it talks about the policy of ‘clearing the land’, to open it up for new settlers.’

  ‘What – clearing the scrub?’

  ‘Nah, that’s what I thought. But clearing the land meant killing anyone that was already living there. After they ‘cleared the land’, they realised they hadn’t really ‘cleared the land’ because there were survivors, too many of them, so they decided to round them up and dump them all together on an allotted piece of dirt. That’s what became the Mission, three different countries of people with three different languages, all forced together –’

  The shatteringly modern phone tone of Grappa’s mobile interrupted. He almost threw the damn thing in the drink. When he heard Ayla’s distinctive voice through the little speaker, he thanked the Lord for such devices.

  ‘Ayla’s stuck on the mainland.’

  ‘Better drop me back to the island then. Don’t want tongues wagging.’

  ‘They wag anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, wag if you do, wag if you don’t. If you don’t, they just make it up, so it’s better if you do.’ She winked.

  Grappa chuckled. His passion for this woman had led him to ask for her hand in marriage ten years after Nettie’s death.

  Dora had replied, ‘You’re a drinker. You’ll
always be a drinker. Why would I go marry me another drinker? Had enough drinkers in my life. Let’s keep things the way they are, hey?’

  ‘I could stop?’

  ‘Let me know when you do. But if you can’t, promise me, when it all catches up with you and you start getting sick, take this boat of yours and go park it off some other island a long way from here, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit by and watch another person I love die from the stuff.’

  The tears he had seen in her eyes that day made him secretly stop, but only a month went by before the brown liquid touched his lips, coated his throat and gurgled in his belly again.

  ‘Thanks for dinner.’ She stood in the shallows and pushed the dinghy out.

  ‘Thanks for the company.’ He rowed toward Little Beaudy.

  ‘My pleasure, frisky old sea dog.’

  ‘You can’t talk, woman.’

  Her laughter rang out in the night. He called between strokes. ‘You keep me young, Dora. You keep me young.’

  By the time Little Beaudy arrived at the mainland, there was a coolness hanging in the air. He could see Ayla wasn’t dressed warmly enough. She had a friend with her. A scruffy looking bloke he had never seen before. Least it’s not that wanker Harry, he thought, glad to see the back of him.

  Grappa killed the engine and drifted into the jetty as he threw the rope for Ayla to tie off.

  ‘This is my friend, Riley. Mind if we give him a lift?’

  ‘Not at all. In you hop.’

  Ayla jumped in and turned to untie the rope. As the boy went to step down, something slid from under his shirt and came to a stop at Grappa’s feet. The boy stayed frozen on the jetty when he saw Ayla, horror-stricken.

  Grappa picked the flute up, examining the strange symbols carved and burnt into the wood. He recognized the markings as runic. After his Gran died, Grappa had borrowed every library book he could source on faeries and Irish folklore. He remembered reading about runes and discovering the official title for Gran’s black-haired man, Far Dorocha. The night felt lethal.

  ‘Where’d you get this?’

  ‘I made it.’

  ‘Then these carvings, you know what they say?’

  ‘They’re patterns I made up.’

  ‘Think I was born yesterday? They’re ancient symbols. What do they mean?’

  ‘I…I don’t know. They’re just random patterns. Honest.’

  Grappa took in the creature, only half listening. Something had been rubbed into its hair to make it less black. He stepped closer and smelt the ungodly stench. Then he saw the large hairy feet.

  Holy Jesus, Son of Mary.

  ‘You smell rotten. Like the livin’ dead.’ Grappa threw the instrument at it. The flute almost rolled off the jetty. As the creature ran to grab it, Grappa snatched the rope from Ayla and untied. He couldn’t get her away quick enough.

  ‘No Grappa. Please?’

  Thank the lord the engine caught first go. ‘Leave my granddaughter alone, hear me? Go back to where you came from. We don’t want you here.’ He pulled out in to the bay, his heart beating wildly.

  ‘Grappa –’

  ‘Didn’t you smell him? Didn’t you see his feet? They’re not human.’ He hadn’t meant to scream at her.

  Ayla called to the thing. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry.’ No denying it, she was in the grip of its spell.

  Grappa watched the monster as distance made it appear smaller. He waited for it to fly out across the water and attack, but it stayed motionless at the end of the jetty.

  Ayla was pleading. ‘Please – he doesn’t know anyone here. He was crying.’

  ‘That’s how he sucked you in, turned on the tears. Oldest trick in the book. Throw that rug over you, you’re shivering.’

  ‘What about him? He’s going to freeze stuck on the jetty all night. Please? He’s not Far Dorocha, I swear. His name’s Riley. His mother bought the old Johnston house.’

  ‘His mother…?’ Grappa needed a moment to process this. His dream appeared more vividly than before. ‘I’ve seen his mother. Ayla, listen to me. Look at me.’ He turned her toward him. ‘His mother – the Nor folk sent me a warning about her. If he’s her son, then you need to stay right away from him.’

  Ayla let out a frustrated shriek into the star peppered sky.

  ‘The Nor folk tried to tell me…makes perfect sense…she’s sending him out to do her dirty work.’

  She bellowed it, ‘You are a stupid old drunk. You know that? You’re just a stupid old drunk.’ Bursting into tears, she went and sat at the back of the boat.

  They rode in silence for the rest of the trip. At the island jetty, Ayla jumped out without tying off, then fled, not looking back.

  ‘Didn’t even say thank you,’ he muttered, reaching for his flask. He stopped himself from unscrewing the lid and threw it to the floor of the boat. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be hurt by this. She wasn’t herself. She was under a spell.

  Still, her last words became a morbid echo bouncing round in his skull.

  Ayla ran down the jetty, past the resort, up the hill and by the church. The slap of her sandals on the hard ground too loud in the sleepy island night. She didn’t give a stuff. The faster she could get away from Grappa, the better.

  ‘He’s lost his mind this time. He’s really lost his mind.’

  When she reached Aunty Dora’s house at the top of the rise, she leant against the front gate to catch her breath. The idea of poor Riley stuck on that lonely jetty made her hit out in frustration. A light near Hibiscus Bay caught her eye. At the bottom of Long Street, opposite the paperbark swamp, a house was lit up – Harley’s.

  ‘Jip.’

  She was running again, towards the light, towards Jip lying comatose on a towel behind the screen door, Harley huddled beside him looking up with his small eyes – such tiny eyes – too close together, swollen and bloodshot.

  ‘Ayla, what the fuck? It’s the middle of the –’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘He’s still breathing…just.’

  ‘You promised you’d ring.’ She slammed the screen door so it rattled on its hinges.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.’

  ‘Harley, you promised.’ She knelt by Jip and lifted the dog’s eyelid. ‘His eyes have rolled back. He’s in a coma. How long has he been like this?’ Her accusatory tone filled the quiet house.

  ‘I don’t fucking know. Kept having these seizures and…he messed himself…and…’ Harley’s face puckered in pain, making his small eyes disappear. Before Ayla could say anything, he was bawling like a child. ‘He’s dying, man, he’s dying. Just know it.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Harley. Hey?’ He was inconsolable. ‘I’m sorry.’ She patted Harley on the back with one hand and stroked Jip with the other as the poor dog’s breath caught and then stopped, sounding like a human sigh.

  Harley let out a strangled moan as he hugged the dead dog, rocking and babbling. The moment was so private, so full of grief, Ayla quietly slipped out the door. She wanted to smash her head against the verandah post and scream; ‘Useless Ayla. You are useless.’ Instead, she began the long walk up the hill, every muscle in her body aching with sadness and shame. When Harley had first asked for her help, she should have taken control of the dog. That’s what Stan would have done, taken Jip straight to a mainland vet. She had failed Jip. She had failed Harley. She had even failed Riley. Because of her he was stuck on the mainland for the night. If only she hadn’t planted that stupid Far Dorocha seed in Grappa’s alcohol-riddled brain. She turned the corner into her street and spat viciously. The salt from her tears tasted angry.

  ‘Cry as much as you want, idiot. Won’t change a thing.’

  8.

  Marlise woke from pain in her neck, unable to place where she was. A rectangular patch of sunlight on the floor blinded her.

  David? No. David was dead. She had fallen asleep on the couch last night waiting for Riley. The house was empty. She coul
d feel it. He still wasn’t home.

  Quickly showering and dressing, she decided the first step would be to discover if he had left the island, which meant talking to the boat drivers.

  When she walked past the dog owner’s house, she was relieved to see all was quiet. No sign of the dog and the house looked abandoned.

  At the top of the hill, on the opposite side of the road, people were spilling out of a small wooden church. She was crossing the street in the hope to ask someone for directions to the ferry, when she spotted the dog owner. He was standing with his back to her, the dead dog in his arms, holding it out like a sacred offering to the parishioners who gathered round. Mumbled words of condolence rippled through the air.

  In the church yard was a large hoop pine with a white horse tied to it. She hid between the horse and the tree, listening.

  ‘Least he looks at peace, Harl.’

  ‘Sorry Bob, can’t be no mascot no more. Gone and died on me, he has.’

  ‘Not to worry, matey.’

  ‘Know what he died of, Harl?’

  ‘Wasn’t natural causes, man.’

  ‘What, you think someone –?’

  ‘I’m sure no one would want to hurt Jip,’ the priest interrupted.

  ‘No one who knows him would, no one who’s seen him as the Whale Welcoming mascot, but maybe someone who’s just moved to the island would.’ The look on his face frightened Marlise.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t like dogs,’ said a child.

  ‘We haven’t had any newcomers in a while.’

  ‘There’s new renters moved in next to me at Three Mile,’ an old man said.

  ‘And new people in the old Johnston house,’ a teenage girl piped up.

  ‘That house is not far from yours, Harl. Maybe Jip disturbed their idea of a quiet island life?’

  ‘The woman came round and complained about his barking the day before he got sick. Doesn’t take much to join the dots, does it?’ Harley hissed.

  There was a general murmur after this statement. Marlise felt cornered, not knowing whether to run or stay hidden.

  ‘We don’t want to go accusing people when we have no proof,’ said the priest, then pointedly changed the subject.