The voice from nowhere made her spin around. Marlise was standing outside her window beside a gaping hole in the fly screen.
‘Should have known from that first meeting what a liar you were,’ she said, and slashed at the screen with a knife.
Ayla ran through the house screaming, ‘Mum!’
Her mother still wasn’t home.
Marlise was on the back verandah now, knife in hand, opening the sliding door. The weirdest smile on her face as she gaped at the bloody cut on Ayla’s knee. Ayla grabbed the broom from beside the fridge and ran at Marlise. It was like hitting a wall. Marlise yanked the broom from Ayla and threw it clean across the room with the strength of ten men. The woman had entered some sort of psychosis. Ayla scrambled out the front door, slamming it behind her.
The only light in the street was Edna Ferguson’s. Marlise could easily hurt frail Edna, who used a walking frame now. Ayla didn’t think twice, she ran away from the safety of the light into the cover of the bushland across the road, stumbling along the track lit by the moon as fast as she had ever run. If she could make it to Three Mile, Len Pike’s house was the second from the end. The burly leader of the volunteer firefighters could easily help her overpower Marlise. Not daring to look back, Ayla ran until she reached the Pandanus palms, where she stole a glance over her shoulder. She stopped and listened, trying to catch her breath.
Silence.
Maybe Marlise hadn’t seen her go into the bushland? Had she gone to old Edna Ferguson’s, who would open her door to anyone? Ayla had to save Edna. She went to run back but a tawny frogmouth flew down and landed on the path, staring with his piercing yellow eyes. Any other instance, Ayla would have been delighted by the sight of this rare nocturnal creature but she had no time to stop and look at birds.
There were footfalls. Someone was running towards her. Ayla snuck off the beaten path into the bush, thick with acacias, wattles and native frangipani. She had the advantage of knowing the island intimately, but still, each rustle of a branch or crack of a twig was deafening. She squatted behind a grevilia and waited, spotting two creamy, speckled curlew eggs, camouflaged in the undergrowth. She knew curlews never left their eggs for long. They would return soon and hiss and carry on and give her away. The frogmouth on the track flew onto a low angophora limb to keep watch. Her saviour had stopped her long enough to hear Marlise approaching. It looked like Greedy, who she had nursed when she was sixteen.
Marlise ran past in sinister determination, continuing along the track, the blade of the knife glinting in the cold blue light of the moon.
Ayla waited, too frightened to wipe the sweat that dripped or swipe at the gathering sand-flies. The only time she stirred was to kill a mosquito that landed on the gash of her knee. She never knew terror would make her feel so clear headed.
When she thought it safe, she pushed her way through the thick scrub, but a large golden orb spider, as bright as day in the moonlight, dropped in front of her and commenced weaving a golden web. She heard soft footfalls and sprang down, peering at the track.
Marlise was retracing her steps, slowly, searching the bushland to each side of her, holding the knife out as if expecting an attack.
Why had she turned back? Could she smell her?
As Ayla thought this, Marlise stopped and pointed the blade toward her.
Could she sense her?
Ayla held her breath. The spider above her stopped spinning. She felt the pulse of the earth beneath her quicken.
Marlise reached into the leather satchel slung diagonally across her abdomen, pulled out a bottle of scotch and took a slug.
Riley said his mother didn’t drink?
She dropped the bottle back into the satchel. Ayla heard it clink. What else did she have in there? Jars full of killer mosquitoes? A flask full of chloroform to knock her out with?
Marlise left the track and crept toward her, the knife poised in readiness, chanting a child’s nursery rhyme. ‘Round and round the island, like a teddy bear. One step, two step. I’ll find you anywhere.’ The whites of her eyes too bright against the mad pupils.
Ayla couldn’t tell if Marlise ran into the web or if the spider jumped, but the sticky golden orb scurried down the middle of the woman’s face before flying to safety on a glistening strand. Marlise was screaming, nearly slashing herself with the knife, believing the spider was still on her. The two curlew parents appeared, lifting their wings and hissing, snake like, at Marlise. She ran backwards, shaking and cursing until she was on the track again. She turned up the path to the lagoon, brushing at her head and arms.
That path was a dead end. Marlise would be back soon. Ayla could hear her still mewling in fright as she crept to the track and ran towards the Nor Folk Tree. Not far from the tree, up Three Mile, were houses full of people who had known her all her life. People who loved her: big Len who would help her, Rachel Pinkerton with her three cats, Otto and Marg who ran the bush care group, Matt Bateman who lived with his elderly Mum and liked to crochet. The hundreds of people who lived here quietly stood together in her mind. She would protect them and they would protect her. Marlise didn’t stand a chance. This was Ayla’s community. This was her home.
In the dark, on his bed, where he had cried himself to sleep, Riley woke with pain in his hip from lying on the flute in his pocket. The memory of what he had done to Ayla twisted through him, spreading the ache to every part of his body.
The clock on his bedside table came into focus. He had slept only thirty minutes, but it felt like an eternity to wake into a life without Ayla.
‘Mum?’ He opened her bedroom door to find her moonlit room full of mosquitoes, the unscreened window wide open. His mother’s handbag on the floor, her purse, keys, phone, everything still in it.
‘Mum?’ He raced through the house then downstairs into the swamp. ‘Mum?’ The mozzies attacked.
His heart jumped into his mouth. He felt it beating wildly under his tongue. ‘Oh, Jesus. Ayla…’ He ran until his legs burnt and then faster, willing his body to catch fire. This is what he deserved for the pain he had inflicted on her.
He turned into her street and a car tailed him, the headlights blinding. ‘Want a lift?’ It was Helen.
He jumped in and asked where Ayla was, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
‘I haven’t been home yet. Popped in to see a friend. Caught the last barge. Thought I’d bring the car over, needs a good clean.’ Helen went to pull into her driveway, but Ayla’s mangled bike was there.
Riley was out of the car. In the light from the headlights, he found Ayla’s phone smashed on the ground.
Helen was beside him now, worried. ‘Riley, what’s happened?’
He raced into the house, Helen shadowing him. Ayla’s room was full of mozzies, her flyscreen slashed.
‘Riley, what’s going on?’
‘Ring the police.’
‘Why? Where’s Ayla?
‘Tell them she’s missing,’ he shouted as he raced next door to the beginnings of the tree house.
Everything was as they had left it, the half-built wooden platform and Grappa’s tools, all clear and distinct in the luminous night. He could hear Helen screaming for him but ignored her to run onto the beach.
No trace of Ayla. The waves crashing on shore seemed too savage and the stench of the rotting mutton birds turned his stomach. The sight of the radiant moon chilled him in the sweltering night. What had the old man said? ‘Bad things happen on a sun moon night.’
‘Ayla?’ he shouted as he scrambled up the rock to see if Grappa was moored in the bay. ‘She’s with Grappa. She’s with Grappa,’ he repeated like a mantra. There was no sign of the boat. ‘What have I done?’
He reached for the flute in his back pocket. If he stood on this rock and played the love song he had written for her, she would hear it and come, she would know then that his love for her was as constant as the turning of the tides. He faced away from the ocean, toward the island, so the sound would travel acros
s the land, playing without thinking. Her song began to bleed into another melody. Fed by his own grief and fear, the tune he always heard on this rock took hold of him. He tried to back away from it, but it pulled him under and rode over him like a wave. A fourteen-year-old girl, pinned down, whimpering in pain; a mother bellowing, watching her baby smash against the rocks; a young man, shot in the back of the head. The brutal memories of the place drifted up through every crevice and wrapped themselves around him, trapping him, compelling him to play.
Grappa was the first to hear it over the engine noise, but Dora was the first to see him. She couldn’t speak, just pointed to Riley on top of Mud Rock, playing the flute, inching his way backwards towards the precipice. Grappa pulled into the bay as close to the rock as possible, cut the engine and hollered, ‘Riley.’
Riley took another step backwards.
‘Bloody idiot. What’s he doing?’
‘It’s not him. It’s them,’ Dora was gaping, her brown face pale. ‘See them? My people.’ She had tears in her eyes, her face glowing.
Grappa had no doubt she could see something. ‘Bloody fool. He’s called the spirits up.’ He looked again, but all he saw was Riley dangerously close to the edge. The dolphins were circling the base of the rock.
‘Row me to shore, quick.’ She was already hauling the dinghy in. Half way to shore, she jumped out and swam. Riley was too close to the edge, his flute frenetic now.
Grappa rowed in and dragged the boat up the beach as Dora finally reached the top. Riley took another step back and she ripped the flute from his mouth, pulling him to safety. He collapsed, dazed. She turned to her ancestors and spoke in their language. The ancient song hung in the air. To Grappa it appeared that time stopped for a moment, resting on the shoulders of his noble Dora as she tried to catch her breath.
They all waited for something.
When Grappa heard an old woman’s wail come from the direction of the mangroves, his heart hiccupped. The Banshee. Or a bird’s scream? Either way, he felt it. Someone was about to die.
A breeze blew along the tops of the trees and the spell was broken. Dora helped Riley to his feet. They spoke together as they climbed down. Grappa clambered to meet them.
‘Where’s Ayla, son?’ He asked, the banshee’s wail still ringing in his ears.
‘I broke her heart. Now I can’t find her, or my mother.’
Grappa felt a sharp pain in his chest. ‘When she was little, if she was upset, she’d run to the tree. Bet that’s where she is.’ The boy was already off. ‘Riley, do you have a phone?’
‘No.’
Grappa fished his from his pocket and threw it to him. ‘We’ll go to Helen’s and put the word out. Text Helen’s mobile as soon as you find her.’
The boy was running again, so he had to yell. ‘Whatever happens, make sure she stays at the tree. She’ll be safe there.’ Grappa believed that was the one place on the island Marlise would be powerless to penetrate.
Dora started to shake.
He put his arms around her. ‘It’s shock.’
‘You should have seen them, standing there.’ The tears ran into her wrinkles. ‘So proud, so strong.’
‘Like you.’ He held her and felt generations of pain alive in the air they were breathing.
Where was that little slut hiding?
Marlise was disoriented, melting in the feverish heat where the bush was thick and sharp and kept grabbing at her. The more she drank, the thirstier she became. The night was sticky, making her clothes bake. She needed to strip before she burnt up.
There…far more pleasant being naked.
As if she summoned him with her body, Lorcan materialised, stepping out from behind a ghostly trunk. She tried to speak his name, but it was lost on an intake of breath. He hadn’t aged, but his hatred had grown. She could taste it sweltering in the air, enveloping her as he moved forward, spitting the words. ‘I hate you. I wish you were dead.’
When his fist met her jaw, the world spun around and the earth came to meet her. He was a black shadow standing over her. ‘Put your clothes on, Mum. Go home.’
Mum? ‘Riley.’
It was the scent of Ayla somewhere to the southeast that woke her. How long had she passed out? Only a moment. She could still hear her cherished son who wished her dead, in the undergrowth heading toward the beach. She stretched her wings and flew through the hot night air. A whiff of Ayla’s deliciousness, enough to keep her flying in the right direction, smelt very real. The poor little dear thing had cut herself on the knee, the trace of her blood fresh and open. Marlise’s mouth watered. She swished the deadly pathogens around in her mucous, searching for a path out of the trees. A perfect night; there was no wind to battle and the moon shadows were sharp, visibility superb.
Via a gap in the foliage, she saw the beach with her darling son running through a pattern of rotting birds, a pod of dolphins trailing behind him.
Running to his sweetheart. And you promised Mummy you would never see her again. Tsk tsk, naughty boy. Lucky Mummy knows you now for what you are: a liar and a sneak.
He would lead her to the meddling little bitch. Marlise began her ascent, her thirst raging.
Riley peered into the grove of pines to find it empty. His heart sank as he pulled the old man’s phone out and wrote: she’s not at tree.
Glancing into the topmost branches of the fig, he recognised her familiar feet, deleted the not and sent the text. He tiptoed into what felt like hallowed ground. There was a gash on her knee with a dry trickle of blood snaking around her calf. She was watching from the shadows, ashen. ‘What do you want?’
Shocked at the sharpness of her voice, his own broke with love. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. I wanted her to believe I hated you so she wouldn’t hurt you.’
He went to climb, but within a heartbeat she had descended. Neither could speak at first for crying.
‘I thought you were her, so I hid.’ He could feel her heart thudding. The way she was whispering and shaking, he had never known her so frightened.
‘Oh God, what have I brought on you?’ He looked her over, stopping at her bloody knee.
‘I fell.’ Her eyes kept darting wildly to beyond the circle of trees. ‘We’re safer with two of us: one to tackle, one to grab the knife.’ He pulled the knife from his pocket. ‘I told her to go home.’
She sobbed in relief.
Riley ripped his lips from hers when he heard the whine of a mosquito. ‘Look out. There’s a mozzie.’ He scanned her body.
Ayla examined him, searching his soul for madness. ‘You don’t believe Grappa, do you? The silly stuff he said about your mother?’
‘I don’t know. He knew where the box was.’
They both heard it at the same time. The noise sucked the air out of Ayla’s words. ‘Sounds like…’
They walked to the edge of the circle of trees. The moon had turned black. The cloud of mosquitoes so large, it ate the stars in its path.
‘They’ll eat us alive,’ she whispered in his ear.
He pushed her back into the protection and cover of the old tree.
‘No.’ Ayla’s voice cracked in terror.
He could feel his mother’s presence.
‘We have to run.’ She was struggling to break free.
‘Stop.’ He gripped her. ‘We can’t outrun that swarm.’
The sound was frightening. He pressed her into the folds of the tree. ‘It’s better we hide. They’ll fly straight over. Trust me.’
She kept struggling. ‘They’ll smell us.’
‘Ayla. Please. Trust me.’
She stopped.
He spoke fast. ‘Turn around and hug the tree. Shut your eyes and talk to the Nor folk. Ask for their protection.’
Part of him said this to keep her calm, another part was desperate, deciding to place his trust in Grappa, grasping for belief in the old man’s Nor folk while intrinsically knowing, ‘there’s a logical explanation for everything.’ His gut contracted as hi
s heart and brain fought each other.
She whispered fast into a gnarly opening in the trunk, a circular chant. ‘It’s me, your Ayla, I’m here, I’m with you, I feel you, I know you, I love you, I need you. I need you to protect us, oh please protect us. I am your Ayla. I’m here. I’m with you…’
The swarm was closing in. Their reverberating drone made him cover every inch of her body with his, while twisting his neck to look over his shoulder, expecting his mother to step into the circle.
As Ayla chanted, he remembered Grappa’s story about her and the tree. He didn’t know if it was the moon suddenly exposed again, or if it came out of his imagination as if he willed it to happen, but the tree appeared to glow, starting at the base and spreading beneath the earth. He could see the root system shining under the soil, reaching above into the branches towards the circle of pines. It was so subtle. Was it real? Or was it just the moonlight against the shadowed pattern of the trees? Either way, he held his breath at the possibility of magic.
As Ayla spoke into the dark crevice of the tree, the doorway to their realm, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her terror took her beyond herself where the Nor folk appeared as she had always envisaged them, decorated with silver butterfly dust and seashells adorning their heads. The whole tribe gathered: men, women, children, and babies. So many babies alive and well, asleep at their mothers’ breasts. They quietly linked hands, even with the babies, and they hummed. They hummed until the hum of them turned into the drone of millions of mosquitoes.
As the swarm passed overhead, the vision faded. Ayla opened her eyes in the silence and secretly thanked her grandfather for the power of her imagination.
They peeked from the circle and saw the luminous moon, a giant search light beaming down once more.
The phone in his pocket buzzed. ‘Grappa and your mum are almost here. They’re just parking. Whole community knows you’re missing, all out looking for you.’
‘How embarrassing.’
Riley walked back to the tree. ‘She protected us.’ He tried to hug its trunk, both arms stretching around the bulk of it, not even reaching half way round its expanse.
Beneath the Mother Tree Page 27
