Riley watched as she opened a can of pineapple. His mother had never encouraged any form of friendship and destroyed his one attempt at making a friend.
‘It’s about time you got out there and met people. David was right. You need to live your own life now.’ She burst into tears. ‘I don’t know why I’ve opened a can of pineapple.’
He hugged her. She was too small, too easily broken. It came out as a whisper, ‘Mum, my father…’ He gently turned her face so he could read her eyes. ‘You really don’t know where he is?’
She shook her head and looked away. ‘Go and find that young woman. She wanted to talk to you urgently.’
‘Urgently?’
She went into her laboratory and shut the door.
Riley spent too long trying to make himself presentable, wincing every time he recalled his smell and dishevelled appearance on the jetty. Staring at the things on the ends of his legs, he remembered the first time he thought about his feet. His mother, examining them in disappointment, had withered. ‘You have your father’s feet.’
He loathed wearing shoes, but after what Ayla’s grandfather said about his feet, he thought it best to cover them, pulling on his only pair of shoes: black patent leather numbers his mother had bought him for David’s funeral. They felt slimy without socks.
He grabbed the largest of his flutes – thinking if Ayla wasn’t home he would get some practice in – and started for the beach, tripping in the hard, foreign things imprisoning his feet.
In the bay was the same red wooden boat, anchored now in a different spot. It looked like her cranky grandfather’s vessel. He wondered if Ayla was on board. There appeared to be no sign of life.
He walked to the headland on the point and climbed, with difficulty in his cumbersome shoes, until he could see the length of the surf beach curving around to the next spit in a half smile. Apart from a man and woman with three young children at the far end, the beach was empty. From this position, he had a clear view of the ‘No Trespassers’ sign.
As the waves crashed on the rocks below, a new tune crept into him, rising out of the cliff itself. He tried to change the melody to something less brutal, but his fingers weren’t his own anymore, they moved beyond him as a strange melancholia seeped into his soul, torturing and twisting it. Harnessing all his strength, he pulled the flute from his mouth. Disturbed by where the music had taken him, he scrambled off the rock and headed toward her track, faltering when he arrived at the sign. If he walked up the path and knocked on her door, she would know how he had discovered where she lived. She would have heard his flute the other morning and guess he had seen her naked.
Undecided, he trudged further up the beach and sat in the shade of a tree, feeling ridiculous in shoes now full of sand.
On the brink of abandoning his vigil, she came along the track, dressed in a bikini. As she threw her towel down, she spied him standing in his goofy shoes. ‘Riley.’
‘Gosh, fancy running into you here. I was just passing by. What a coincidence.’ He cringed at the idiocy pouring out of his mouth and tried not to stare at her skimpily clad body.
Her big warm smile brought a sun-filled melody into his head.
An unshakeable cloud of misery had settled over Grappa, and Ayla, his cloud buster, was nowhere in sight. He felt suspended in time waiting for her to come to the beach and wave, his signal to row in and collect her for a cup of tea. Or, sometimes, they would stroll around the island. If he could only talk to her, describe the dream, then she would understand and his world could spin freely again. The earth could revolve around the sun, and the moon could revolve around the earth, and all would be as it should be. He couldn’t sleep with the thought of her in the company of that creature.
He moored his boat on the western side of Hibiscus, where, through a gap in the trees, he could see the dirt track leading to the Johnston house. He watched for two days and a night, cursing every time he dozed off. Towards the end of the second day, he caught sight of Far Dorocha striding boldly onto the beach to glare at Little Beaudy.
Jesus Christ, Son of Mary. Grappa ducked, craning his neck to peer out. The creature turned and marched toward Mud Rock, wearing shoes this time to hide his unearthly hooves. Grappa noted how he had groomed himself to appear more human. But worst of all, his instrument with the strange markings had magically tripled in length. Grappa knew this was a bad omen as he watched the fiend head in the direction of Ayla’s house.
He scrambled into the dinghy and rowed to shore as quickly and quietly as his age would allow. The thing had climbed to the top of the Rock and was playing a tune that came from another world, mesmerising Grappa.
‘Concentrate, you fool.’ Dragging himself out of his stupor, Grappa ran for cover, scanning the undergrowth for a stick large enough to attack with. No point wasting a good oar. The music stopped mid-flight. He saw the beast leap from the rock.
Staying hidden in the shade of the cottonwood trees, Grappa scrambled through the scrub behind the headland and past the bent she-oaks, towards Ayla’s house.
He watched the creature approach the track, stop and circle, then walk further up the beach to sit and wait for its prey.
Grappa picked up a thick piece of driftwood and moved silently to position himself behind the fiend, just in time to see Ayla unknowingly amble down the path. The beast stood and accosted her, pretending he happened to be passing, rather than lurking in wait. Ayla was captivated, her eyes ablaze with longing.
God, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
Riley didn’t know where to look as Ayla came forward, the blood rising in her cheeks. ‘I want to apologise for the other night –’
Before she could finish, her grandfather jumped from the scrub, waving a club above his head, screaming.
‘Run, Riley.’
Riley bolted down the beach past the startled family, falling over in his stupid footwear. He could hear Ayla shouting and looked back to see another woman emerge from the track to take hold of the old man, berating him.
Ayla ran to catch up. ‘Follow me.’
Riley sprinted after her ponderously through the sand in his hard shoes, around the point to a beach full of dead trees. They both doubled over, catching their breath.
‘I’m sorry, Grappa...He’s…totally lost it.’
‘He seems very possessive of you.’
‘That’s not the half of it. I know where we can hide in case Mum can’t talk sense into him.’
She led him over and around and sometimes through the sun-bleached skeletons of trees to a track which zigzagged up a cliff. She ducked behind a prickly bush, then, on all fours, they scurried through the undergrowth. It was hard to concentrate with the way her bikini bottoms rode up her buttocks.
The track opened into an overhang you could almost stand up in. ‘This is my secret place,’ she said, sitting down in the shade, her back against the cave wall.
He loved her broken voice.
‘Promise not to tell anyone?’
‘Promise.’ He sat at a distance, too shy to look at her directly. He had already glimpsed the full beauty of her breasts. They appeared even more wondrous now, partially hidden. He followed her gaze and a jade coloured ocean with no visible end stole his breath.
‘Puts you in your place, doesn’t it?’
He could feel her watching as he stretched his legs and sand poured forever out of his ridiculous shoes. If only the cliff he was sitting on would crumble away and take him with it.
‘Grappa believes – that’s my grandfather – he thinks because you have black hair and play a flute, you are a dark lord from the faery kingdom come to steal me away.’
Riley checked to see if she was serious.
‘It’s my fault really. I got him going on the notion and now he can’t let go of it.’ Her frown deepened. ‘Actually, it’s my great-great-grandmother’s fault.’
‘Sorry?’ She was losing him.
‘Grappa’s Gran was brought out here from Ireland at the end of her
life, against her will, from what I can gather. Her two sons emigrated here and thought she would like it. Think she felt it was her duty before she died, almost like she owed it to the Irish in him, to fill her only grandson’s head with all the Irish stories, superstitions and myths she could muster. Grappa’s full of them and he lives his life by them, which makes him appear quite mad. Sorry about the way he’s acting. He’ll get over it, I hope. I’ve never seen him take things this far. He’s becoming worse the older he gets. Do you usually wear shoes on the beach?’
He hesitated, not knowing if he should speak the truth. ‘No. I never wear shoes.’ He took them off and tipped the rest of the sand out of each one, his toes wiggling, happy to be free.
‘Hope it wasn’t because of what Grappa said the other night?’
‘No I…no, of course not.’
She watched him. ‘How do you know where I live?’
‘I don’t I…um…’ He found her directness unnerving.
‘You saw me the other morning, didn’t you?’
Riley stared at his toes, blushing. She startled him by gently touching his left foot.
‘I think they’re the most human-looking feet I’ve ever seen.’
Grappa tried to twist out of his daughter’s grip. ‘Helen, let go of me.’
‘What has gotten into you?’
Befuddled by her rage, he dropped the piece of wood. ‘You shouldn’t let her run off with him.’ He tried to pull himself free but she grabbed his other arm and turned him to face her.
‘Dad. Ayla isn’t a child anymore. She’s a woman. Free to do what she wants. It’s her choice. You need to respect that.’
In his daughter’s angry face, he saw Nettie. ‘You’ve turned her against me.’ To his dismay, he almost broke down at the thought of losing Ayla’s love.
Helen’s face softened. Before he could stop it, he was lost in the folds of her embrace.
‘What are we going to do with you? Come and have a cuppa. We need to get this sorted.’ She led him up the path to the little wooden house he had built with his own hands when he and Nettie were newlyweds. He still couldn’t stomach the colour Helen had painted the place. Nettie’s red geraniums, growing wild now around the back steps, were in full bloom.
The warm cinnamon smell of freshly baked banana bread filled the newly renovated kitchen. The hand painted tiles on the splashback were the one remaining sign of his Nettie. Helen switched the jug on while he sat at the kitchen table watching his shaking hands. He hadn’t touched a drop since Ayla had called him a stupid old drunk.
Jesus, Son of Mary, what I’d do now for a snifter.
‘Imagine if you had hit that young man with that lump of wood. You could have killed him.’
‘He’s not a young man.’
‘Dad.’ She gave him one of her looks, so like Nettie, it was unnerving.
‘I wasn’t going to hit him. Just trying to frighten him off.’
‘You’re embarrassing Ayla. Can’t you see that?’
‘If she would listen to me, give me a moment to explain, damn it.’
‘Explain what?’
‘The dream I had.’
‘That’s where all this has come from? Tell me the dream, I might be able to make sense of it for you.’
He was apprehensive. Helen had never truly believed as Ayla had. When Helen was a child, he tried countless times to draw her into the world of the Nor folk but she always angled her chin down, like a doctor studying a patient and said, ‘Daddy, you’re funny.’ Too much of Nettie’s common sense in her.
‘Just the imaginings of a stupid old drunk.’
Helen put her hand over his. ‘Ayla feels bad about calling you that.’
He knew in his heart Ayla was already lost to him, submerged under the flute player’s spell. He didn’t want to cry in front of his daughter. Above all else, he needed a drink. He stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ She looked worried.
‘Back to the boat. Forget the cuppa.’ He couldn’t understand why his voice was shaking.
‘Here, take some bananas. All the trees have come on at once.’
She walked with him back to the beach. ‘From what Ayla told me, he sounds like a nice young man.’
‘Not young. Probably thousands of years old.’
‘Dad.’ She clicked her tongue like Nettie used to. ‘And his mother seemed quite normal.’
‘You met her?’
‘Only briefly.’
‘Where?’
‘The Resort the other night.’
‘Stay away from her. She’s bad news.’
‘You’ve been listening to Harley, haven’t you?’
‘What’s Harley got to do with it?’
‘He’s blaming Jip’s death on her.’
Grappa felt the hairs on the back of his ears stand on end. ‘Jip’s dead then?’
‘And Harley’s convinced she did it. Poor woman.’
Grappa went back to the boat via a detour to Harley’s. When he heard what Harley had to say, his Gran’s words from the dream taunted him. ‘Always a laugh for other people’s misfortunes. Some even said she caused them.’
The memory of the woman laughing on the barge at the child’s hurt sat with him as he rowed out to Little Beaudy. He had a bad feeling under his skin. His Gran had never come to him in a dream before. That dream contained a message of incredible importance and it was solely up to him to decipher it. With each pull of the oars, his shoulders ached. The fate of the whole island was resting on them.
Riley wanted to reach out and straighten one of the triangles on Ayla’s bikini that had moved, almost exposing her nipple, but he didn’t dare.
This close, he saw her skin was the same colour as the honeyed cliff face, and the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose reminded him of the microscopic fragments of shell grit he had found in the sand. Her eyes were the pale green of the distant sea. She’s not real. She’s carved out of this landscape, he thought, hypnotised, as she inched closer to place her lips on his. Her mouth was the softest thing he had ever tasted. Drinking her up, his hands wandered with a life of their own over her bare back as he drowned in her musky scent and the silky feel of her.
He struggled to pull away. ‘I...uh.’
‘Wow.’
‘I better uh…I just remembered I had to…’ He stood, smashing his head on the ceiling of the cave.
‘Are you alright?’
He rubbed his crown in pain. ‘Yeah, I’m…I just…I need…I promised Mum I would uh...’ His arousal made every movement indecisive, even where to place his gaze.
‘I’ll take you back, in case Grappa’s lurking somewhere waiting to ambush.’
He laughed too loudly and followed her down the path, the bump on his scalp throbbing in time with the blood of his erection.
They walked the beach in silence, stealing glances at each other. Still disoriented from her kiss, Riley furiously tried to think of something to say.
By the time they reached the path with the ‘No Trespassers’ sign, the lavender sky was streaked with yellow in the west where the sun was disappearing, and their silence had grown all sorts of meaning. The old man was nowhere in sight. Riley felt idiotic clutching his over-sized footwear in one hand and the heavy ornate flute in the other.
‘Sorry if I came on too strong before,’ she blurted. ‘I don’t know why I kissed –’
‘No I…not at all...I…I would like to do it some more...’ This time he initiated the kiss, moving in too quickly and dropping one of the patent-leather monstrosities on her foot.
‘Ow.’
‘Sorry.’
She started hopping. ‘Ooooh – caught me on the bone.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He leaned down to pick up the shoe as she bent to examine her foot and they smashed heads.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘I better leave before I kill you.’
She laughed. ‘Might see you tomorrow? I’m usuall
y here swimming most afternoons.’
‘Sure, that would be fine…just fine.’ Walking backwards, he tripped over a tree root.
‘Um, maybe go home via the road, not the beach. I think Grappa’s anchored off Hibiscus.’
‘Sure.’ He got up, waved and marched off, irritated by being so hopeless around this living, breathing island goddess.
By the time he arrived at the dirt road, he was grinning like an idiot and floated like that the rest of the way home. She had kissed him. She had kissed him. Even the old house hanging over the stinking mangroves couldn’t steal the stupid smile from his face.
Marlise counted the last of the notes and placed the money back in his flute case. She checked the room was exactly as he had left it.
The hallway swam with the thoughts rolling in her head, forcing her to rest against the architrave. She shut her eyes at the realisation that Riley had enough money to leave the country if he wished.
How long had he and David betrayed her during their weekly trip to the markets? Then there were the cyber cafe visits. Before he died, David revealed he had taken Riley to an internet cafe on a regular basis. Why? What had they searched? Pornography? The thought made her sick. David hadn’t been that kind of man. Then again, he was a man. Riley had become a man at some moment when she wasn’t paying attention. Men, thick as thieves – thieves of her heart, both of them, laughing together. She always missed the joke, her mind half with her mosquitoes, half listening. She tried to picture herself in their relationship and couldn’t see it. Who had she been to David? What was she to Riley?
Her beautiful baby boy would leave her soon to be torn up and spat out by the world. She could feel it. Unless she could help him find happiness here? Happiness was that pretty thing that didn’t kill mosquitoes. The perfect distraction to help him forget searching for his father. If Riley found Lorcan, then she would lose him forever. They would communicate through their music, beyond any level she was capable of, beyond her understanding. If Riley found Lorcan, she would be redundant, or worse, the enemy.
Beneath the Mother Tree Page 11
