Elysium

by Catherine Jinks

I can’t tell you how beautiful that pool was. It was quite long, and quite large, and it was as blue as toilet cleaner. Also, it was utterly, absolutely still – like a mirror. The reflections were so crisp that, if you had taken a photograph, and turned the photograph upside down, you wouldn’t have known which part was the reflection.

  We all just stood and stared.

  ‘This has to be a sacred place,’ Matoaka breathed, and appealed to Greg. ‘Is this a sacred site? Does it have an Aboriginal name?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Then it must be invested with the power of the earth’s own spirit,’ said Matoaka, closing her eyes. She placed one finger on each temple.

  Greg cleared his throat.

  ‘Uh – yeah. Maybe,’ he mumbled. ‘Now everybody have a look down there, and tell me how deep you think the water is.’

  We pressed against the railing, and stared down at the water. It was as clear as glass. At the bottom of the pool, I could see loose pebbles. There were no fish. No weeds. Nothing but pale stone.

  ‘Is it about six feet deep?’ Gordon hazarded. ‘Eight feet?’

  ‘It’s sixty feet deep,’ Greg replied, and we all gasped. ‘Twenty metres. You couldn’t tell, could you?’

  ‘Amazing,’ said Ray.

  ‘If you were to drop something into that water,’ Greg declared, waving us along the path that flanked the pool, ‘any ripples created would take weeks to disappear.’

  I don’t know what made me glance at Paul, then. Perhaps the shuffle of shoes on cement. When I saw him digging around in his pocket, I knew exactly what he was going to do.

  Fortunately, Ray was standing on the other side of Paul. And Ray must have reached the same conclusion as me.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said quietly, his fingers closing on the back of Paul’s neck. Then he nudged the stupid idiot forward, until the two of them were well past that tempting sheet of crystalline water.

  I heaved a great sigh of relief.

  ‘We seem to get a lot of phantom tour groups, around here,’ Greg informed us, as we left the Pool of Reflections behind. ‘We’ve had maintenance guys hiding in the shadows to let a group pass, but the only thing that passes them are voices. No people. No lights. There’s one guy called John who sings a lot while he’s doing maintenance in here. He says he does it so he can’t hear the ghosts.’

  We clattered on, beneath the lowest arch in the Jenolan Caves, past old ladders that were once used as escape routes in case of floods. From the River Cave we took a detour through a cave called the Pool of Cerberus, where Greg pointed out the formation that had given the cavern its name. This formation looked rather like a dog’s head. The second head was the shadow that it threw. The third head was its reflection, captured in the waters of the pool underneath it. ‘A three-headed dog,’ Greg explained. ‘Like the monster that guarded the gates of the Underworld in Greek mythology.’

  The Pool of Cerberus wasn’t as big as the Pool of Reflections, but it was just as clear and still. A bridge had been thrown across it; according to Greg, a mysterious growling noise had occasionally been heard coming from beneath the bridge. Bethan wondered aloud if some kind of ancient monster was living there. Rosemary and Gordon took photographs, while Dad made loud suggestions about film stock and shutter speed. (He’s a professional photographer. Did I ever tell you that?) Michelle’s mum snuggled up to Sylvester. I asked Richard, in a low voice, if he’d picked up any readings on his electromagnetic field detector.

  He gave a little shrug.

  ‘There seems to be some ambient energy,’ he replied, ‘but nothing conclusive.’

  ‘I still think there must be ghosts in here,’ said Michelle, solemnly. ‘There must be. It feels so weird. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m almost beginning to feel like a ghost myself,’ Mum chimed in. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if we came out and found that we’d been down here for two hundred years instead of two hours. It’s got that feeling of timelessness.’

  ‘That’s not timelessness,’ Dad corrected. ‘You’re mistaking timelessness for geological time. Geological time is on a different scale to the time that governs human existence.’

  ‘Oh – well, excuse me,’ my mother snapped.

  And then Rosemary said, ‘Where’s Matoaka?’

  CHAPTER # four

  Everyone looked around. Sure enough, Matoaka wasn’t with us.

  Greg frowned.

  ‘Who’s Matoaka?’ he demanded.

  ‘My partner,’ Dad replied, and Mum said, ‘The one in the quilted Mexican jacket.’

  ‘Okay. Fine.’ Greg’s voice suddenly changed. It wasn’t light and pleasant any more. It was hard and serious. ‘If you could all wait here – don’t move – and I’ll be back in a minute. Please don’t move.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Ray assured him, and Greg disappeared into the shadows.

  There was a brief silence. I may be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that my mum was thinking unkind thoughts about Matoaka. (Something along the lines of: ‘How typical of Jim to bring a total flake on a trip like this’.) You could tell she was impatient by the set of her jaw.

  ‘Oooo-ooo,’ said Paul, softly, making his ghost noise again.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Michelle.

  Sylvia opened her mouth, but before she could speak Rosemary interrupted – perhaps to prevent an argument. ‘I hope your friend isn’t lost,’ she said to my dad.

  ‘I’m sure she isn’t,’ Dad replied. ‘The trouble with tours like this is that they’re so tightly structured and inhibiting. You can’t linger where you want to linger. You’re surrounded by people – the magic gets lost –’

  ‘Well, no one forced you to come,’ my mother growled.

  ‘So you think she’s just lagged behind?’ asked Richard, ignoring Mum, and Dad shrugged.

  ‘Maybe a ghost got her,’ Bethan suggested, with a trace of satisfaction. I gave him a nudge that meant ‘shut up’. He’s always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Not that you can blame him, mind; he’s only eight, after all.

  Paul Klineberg didn’t have that excuse.

  ‘Maybe she’s fallen down a hole,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Maybe she drowned in the Pool of Reflections.’

  Only someone who really wanted to be annoying would have made a comment like this. As long-suffering looks were exchanged around the group, I wondered – not for the first time – exactly what Paul was trying to do. Did he want someone to punch him in the face? Was he trying to make his mother angry?

  If so, he didn’t succeed. She just puckered her brow at him.

  ‘Oh, Paul,’ she remonstrated. ‘Not now.’

  ‘I might go and see what’s happening,’ Dad suddenly remarked. ‘I might be able to help.’

  ‘No,’ said Ray. He sounded so firm, so blunt, that everyone looked at him in surprise. ‘No, Greg told us to stay here,’ he insisted. ‘We should stay here.’

  ‘Presumably he meant that we shouldn’t go on,’ was Dad’s opinion. ‘Doubling back won’t hurt.’

  ‘He told us not to move, Jim.’ Mum’s tone was sharp. ‘What help are you going to be, anyway? You were never much help when we used to go camping.’

  ‘Judy . . .’ Ray put a hand on her arm. It was so embarrassing. I just wanted to disappear, like Matoaka.

  Luckily, Paul was there to distract everyone’s attention.

  ‘Mum,’ said Bethan. ‘Paul just spat into the pool.’

  After that, I didn’t have to worry about Mum and Dad. They stopped arguing because they were too busy watching Richard scold Paul. I’d never seen Richard get angry before. He was quite impressive. He didn’t shout or anything, but his face turned red. He’s very tall, of course, and that certainly helped. So did the fact that he’s so very articulate. After he had accused Paul of being puerile, boring, inadequate, disrespectful, narcissistic, maladjusted, vindictive and contentious, there wasn’t much that Paul could say to defend himself – especially since he probably didn’t u
nderstand half of the words that Richard had used. So he sulked instead.

  Meanwhile, Sylvia apologised again and again. She tried to get Paul to apologise as well, but he wouldn’t. Gordon and Joyce were politely examining a stalactite. Michelle’s mum giggled into Sylvester’s ear. (I could see why Michelle was cross with them; they weren’t paying the slightest bit of attention to anyone except each other. Michelle might as well have been back at Caves House.) Rosemary checked her watch. Bethan yawned, showing everyone his tonsils.

  I wondered what was keeping Greg. I could picture him wandering around the cascades of calcite, calling Matoaka’s name. It occurred to me that if you wanted to hide in the caves, no one would ever find you. There were so many places to conceal yourself; I could imagine Matoaka crouched in a hollow somewhere. Falling asleep, perhaps. Falling asleep for a long, long time. For years and years. While the leaking walls slowly encased her in layer upon layer of ribbed and glittering stone, until she became just another one of those strange, unearthly formations . . .

  I shook myself. Imagining things like that wouldn’t help. It would simply make me nervous every time I was confronted by a large stalagmite. I’d be afraid that something might suddenly burst through the ice-like coating.

  ‘Where have they got to?’ Mum said uneasily. ‘Surely she wasn’t that far behind?’

  ‘She’s not on any kind of medication, is she?’ Joyce asked Dad, who snapped, ‘No! Of course not!’ Then he started talking about the evils of psychiatric drugs. Meanwhile, Richard had finished with Paul. He was muttering something to Rosemary, his cheeks still flushed.

  It was Sylvia who now hovered around her son, pleading with him in a low voice. Michelle, I noticed, was watching them both closely.

  ‘What an idiot,’ I murmured.

  ‘Who?’ said Michelle.

  ‘Paul. Who else?’

  ‘Do you reckon?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I think he’s pretty smart.’

  Before I could ask her what she meant by that, there was a yelp of relief from Gordon. Greg had reappeared. With him was Matoaka, who had a slightly hurt expression on her face. Greg’s face was unreadable.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Problem solved.’

  ‘What on earth happened?’ asked Joyce.

  Greg didn’t reply. It was Matoaka who said, ‘I couldn’t move. The pool was calling to me.’

  ‘You couldn’t move?’ Richard suddenly perked up. He turned away from his girlfriend, and rejoined the conversation. ‘I’ve heard of that happening. People reach a certain point in the caves, and feel some kind of force pushing them back.’

  ‘No, no.’ Matoaka waved her hands dreamily. ‘I was being called forward. Into the world of the spirit. Something was trying to communicate with me . . .’

  ‘That was me,’ said Greg, flatly. ‘I was looking for you.’ He gestured towards the stairs. ‘If we could move on, now, we’ll make our way out through the River and Lucas Caves.’

  I think that Greg was a bit cross. He didn’t really show it, but I got the feeling that he wasn’t happy from the way he hustled us through the rest of the tour. There was no more talk about ghosts or séances; he only referred to things like the 8000-year-old bones of a brush-tailed rock wallaby, lying calcified in Lucas Cave, or the fact that cave explorers with a proper permit sometimes have to strip off and scrub themselves all over before entering a new cave, to ensure that they don’t contaminate it with dust or dirt. He also mentioned that nineteenth-century visitors had often taken calcified bones away with them.

  When we emerged into the Grand Arch, he informed us that the Jenolan Caves Trust didn’t issue refunds in the event of the non-appearance of ghosts on the ghost tour. (Ha ha.) Then he asked us, politely, if there were any last questions.

  Bethan put up his hand.

  ‘Are there any tunnels that suddenly close up by themselves and totally disappear?’ he inquired.

  ‘Uh – no,’ said Greg. ‘Not unless there’s a cave-in. And we carry out regular safety inspections, so –’

  ‘Has anyone ever disappeared into the caves and never come out again?’ Bethan interrupted.

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Not even an Aborigine?’

  ‘Well – I mean, it’s impossible to know exactly what might have happened before the Europeans arrived, though of course –’

  ‘How do you know that the bones those visitors took away with them were animal bones and not human bones?’

  ‘All right, Bethan, that’s enough,’ said Mum. She smiled apologetically at Greg. ‘He’s a bit over-tired.’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘Bethan.’ Ray put a hand on Bethan’s head, and thanked our guide. ‘It was wonderful,’ he said. ‘Very interesting. Very atmospheric.’

  There was a murmur of agreement from everyone except Paul, who was moodily kicking at stones. Then Greg said goodbye. As the rest of us trudged back to the hotel, Michelle’s mum proposed a quick drink before bedtime. She and Sylvester were walking along with their arms twined around each other’s waists.

  ‘Oh – I don’t think so,’ was Mum’s response. ‘It’s very late. We’ve got to get these children to bed, I think.’

  ‘I’m not tired,’ said Bethan.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said Mum. ‘Thanks all the same, Colette.’

  ‘I’m very tired,’ Michelle announced. But if she was hoping that her mother would come upstairs, she was mistaken. Colette simply kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘You’ve got the key, haven’t you, my darling? You can sort yourself out – I’ll be up very soon.’

  Poor Michelle. She was furious, though she didn’t show it much. Even Ray, I could see, cast her a troubled glance.

  I’ve never been in love, myself, but it looked to me as if Michelle’s mum was seriously in love. She didn’t seem to care about anything . . . except Sylvester. And why she should have felt like that I don’t know, because he really wasn’t much. He was old, he had hairy hands, his teeth were full of fillings and he hardly said a word to anyone.

  When we reached the Caves House foyer, everybody split up. Joyce and Gordon declared that they were ready for a hot bath, and made for their suite in the lodge behind the hotel. (They had paid extra for their own bathroom.) Richard and Rosemary joined Sylvester and Colette in the Explorers Bar. Matoaka decided that she was going to commune with the west wind, or something; I don’t know exactly what she planned to do, but she disappeared into the night. So did Dad. Paul said he wanted to play snooker, and after a few quiet objections, Sylvia let him. Bethan wanted to play snooker too, but Mum’s not like Sylvia. She put her foot down so hard that it practically went through the floor.

  ‘No,’ she stated. ‘Come on. It’s bedtime.’

  Clumping up the stairs, I wondered what could have happened to Sylvia. During her two visits to our house she had been so cool, calm and collected. She had taken charge of the whole investigation, clicking around efficiently in high-heeled shoes.

  And now she was letting her horrible son walk all over her. It didn’t make sense. Why was she being so nice to him?

  Ahead of me, Mum and Ray were asking each other the same question, shaking their heads sadly. ‘From what Trish tells me,’ Mum was saying, in a very low voice, ‘the ex-husband’s a complete bastard. A total manipulator. Poor Sylvia’s been fighting him every step of the way – the custody question has been a nightmare. This weekend’s the first access she’s had for over a month, because the husband’s been so difficult. And of course Paul’s been in the middle of it.’

  ‘Even so,’ Ray murmured, ‘it won’t do her any good to put up with that kind of behaviour.’

  ‘I know. But the poor kid’s testing her boundaries, Ray. He’s looking for attention. It’s so obvious.’

  Ray sniffed. He’s a very patient sort of person, but he has his limits. ‘I’d give him attention, if he was mine.’

  ‘It’s an awkward age.’ Mum whispered something (about me and Bethan, probably) whereupon Ray inclined his head
.

  I looked back at Michelle, who was mounting the stairs very slowly behind us.

  ‘What did you think of the tour?’ I queried.

  ‘It was good,’ she replied, without much enthusiasm. She seemed rather glum, and more than a little distracted. ‘Pity we didn’t see any ghosts.’

  ‘Peter would have liked it, though. And Bettina. I wish they were here.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you think of all the ghost stories? Did they sound genuine to you?’

  Michelle shrugged, but didn’t reply.

  ‘We might still see something,’ I went on. ‘Tonight, even. Since this hotel is supposed to be haunted.’

  Michelle paused, one foot suspended above a stair. She peered up at me intently, opened her mouth, then shut it again. At the time, I couldn’t understand why my words had had such an effect on her.

  It only became obvious later, when I was in bed.

  Getting to bed took quite a while. Firstly, I had to have a shower. (I always shower at night.) Then Matoaka wandered back from her evening yoga session – or whatever it was – and insisted on hanging dream-catchers above everyone’s pillows. Ray had to slip downstairs and borrow a glass from the bar, so that Bethan could have water to drink during the night, if he needed it.

  Then, after our lights had been turned off, Mum and Ray talked for a while, in very low voices that I couldn’t hear properly. No doubt they were complaining to each other about Dad. After that, some people walked by our door, laughing. I could hear the plumbing in the bathroom as well.

  But at last I started dropping off to sleep. My thoughts were just growing fuddled when someone began to pound on our door.

  ‘Allie! Mrs Gebhardt!’

  It was Michelle. Mum snapped on her bedside light. Ray sat up.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he demanded. ‘Michelle?’

  ‘Let me in! Please!’

  Ray threw back his covers, and went to let Michelle in. By that time, I was wide awake again; the only person who remained asleep in our room was Bethan. He could sleep through a hurricane.

  ‘Michelle?’ said Mum. ‘What’s the matter?’