Magic or Madness

by Justine Larbalestier

  “See you both later,” she said, dashing out the front door. It slammed behind her. For a second I wished she had kissed me and instantly felt that I’d betrayed Sarafina. All because of some pretty-looking cakes. Don’t let her charm you.

  “Bye!” Tom called before turning to me. “Want to have the quiche now?”

  I shook my head. “Not hungry. You still going to show me around? Not touching the ground once?”

  “Sure,” Tom said. He grabbed a lemon tart and wolfed it down as we climbed out the window.

  9

  Cemetery

  “So how do we get across?” Reason asked.

  It had taken them barely ten minutes to get here from Mere’s. Reason did not climb like a girl. Tom was dead impressed at how easily she kept up with him despite the wind as they climbed along tree, fence, wall, roof, ladder to this corner where they now perched on the low brick fence around the microscopic front yard of Elohtihs Ruo.

  Every time Tom saw the plaque—all fancy cursive writing and a picture of a rose-covered cottage bearing no resemblance to this one—he cracked up. Elohtihs Ruo! He bet whoever’d first come up with Emoh Ruo was pretty cranky, ropeable even. Around here the other houses with plaques mostly had try-too-hard names like Bates Motel or Burning Palms Cottage with a picture of upturned hands burning. None came close to topping Elohtihs Ruo.

  He and Reason looked at the park on the other side of the road; all the rain this summer had made it ridiculously green. A Newtown mums’ group (including some token dads) were packing away a picnic, which involved much running after hats and rubbish and even Tupperware picked up by the southerly, holding skirts down and hair out of eyes while trying to round up their children crazily running around fuelled on sugar and barometric pressure, committing mayhem and interfering with the uni students’ already crap cricket game (they were using a tennis ball, a plastic bat, and for the stumps an upended esky, which kept blowing away). Beyond them was the cemetery wall, the church spire, and a jungle of trees, riotous in the wind.

  It all seemed impossibly far. Squat bottlebrush trees lined the footpath, none of them strong enough to support his or Reason’s weight. Not that any of the branches spread out far enough over the road. There was no way of getting across without touching the ground. Tom regretted his wild claim. He’d been half hoping for another opportunely placed ladder. Or a crane or something.

  “Well, okay, I admit it. I exaggerated a tad.”

  Reason’s eyebrows went up. “A tad? No way can we get across.”

  “We don’t have to go to the cemetery.” Tom had spent the whole windswept journey selling Reason on the glories of the cemetery, as well as hinting at the certain something he wanted to show her. He was pretty sure she didn’t know about it.

  She and Mere didn’t exactly seem to know each other well. He wondered what that was about. Reason seemed great, and he knew that Mere was, so why weren’t they getting on like a house on fire? Reason had gotten quiet as soon as Mere showed up, had hardly looked her in the eye. She hadn’t touched any of her food either, though she must have been as hungry as he was.

  And on top of that Mere had whispered to him not to mention things to Reason, giving “things” a slight emphasis so that he knew she was talking about magic. He’d raised his eyebrows, but Reason had been right there, so Mere couldn’t explain. Why would she tell him not to mention it? Reason was her granddaughter and seemed to be magic herself; surely she’d know all about things? Unless she wasn’t magic? Tom found that hard to believe; there was something about her, about the way she’d climbed that tree.

  As it happened, he hadn’t said a word to Reason. That was just standard cautiousness. It wasn’t something he talked about with anyone but Mere. His dad knew, but he wasn’t magic, and the idea of it scared him. Especially the way it was with his mum. They almost never spoke of magic. Tom wasn’t even allowed to tell his sister. Mere had been very firm about that. As far as she was concerned, it was bad enough that his dad had to know.

  But Tom’d planned on dropping Reason a few hints. Like taking her to the graveyard. He figured Mere wouldn’t mind as long as Reason brought the subject up.

  “We do have to go, Tom. You made it sound amazing. I want to see.”

  “I could carry you,” he offered. She couldn’t weigh that much. Not that she was likely to say yes.

  Reason giggled. “Okay. That counts. You didn’t say we’d both be able to go blocks and blocks, you just said me.”

  Tom liked her reinterpretation. He also liked the idea of getting to hold Reason. Best day ever. He grinned and slid off the fence. “Okay, my unworthy feet are on the ground. Shoulder carry or piggyback?”

  “Which is easier for you?”

  “Piggyback,” Tom said. The grin was not going to leave his face anytime soon.

  “Ready?”

  She sat down on the fence and put her arms around his neck. Their faces were very close. He slipped his hands under her thighs, filthy pleased with himself, and took an unsteady step forward. He let out a grunt.

  “You right?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said, talking almost normally. Heaven, he thought, stepping slowly to the curb.

  He looked both ways to check for traffic. Australia Street could be busy. A truck drove by, then two sedans, lastly two erratically riding cyclists, tennis rackets slung over their backs, having a shouted conversation about someone with the unlikely name of Chip. Tom looked both ways again, pausing briefly at the feel of her cheek against his when he turned his head left. Warm, delicious.

  “No cars, Tom. Let’s go.”

  “Right.”

  Think about the road, Tom. He sprinted across, feeling Reason’s cheek still resting against his, her breath mixing with his. It would be dead easy for them to kiss. Her warmth and closeness outweighed the annoyance of her hair flicking into his eyes. Tom kept running across the park.

  “Hey,” Reason said.

  Tom decided that with the wind, he could pretend not to have heard her. He could feel the tension of her muscles shifting; she definitely wanted down.

  “Hey!” she shouted, her mouth in his ear. “You can let me down now.”

  “It’s okay,” Tom said, still running. “You’re not heavy.”

  “Tom! Let me down. You’re too bony. My legs hurt.”

  Reluctantly Tom dropped Reason to the path. They were both wobbly for a second. Reason rubbed her thighs, looking up at him with a grin. “Made it. Ta.”

  “No worries.” Tom dodged a bit of newspaper flying past. He looked up. Clouds were hurtling by; the sun kept disappearing. He saw jagged lightning flash briefly in the south. “Come on. Storm’s not far off.”

  The delight on Reason’s face pleased Tom so much that despite his resolve to kill his inner dag (must not be too enthusiastic ), he clapped. Reason clapped too.

  “Bloody hell,” she said. “You’d hardly know you were in the city. It looks like a country graveyard. Only, I don’t know, spookier.”

  “Isn’t it great? You step from the street and the cars to this, and whoosh, everything’s changed. This place is so old they don’t even bury people here anymore.”

  Most of the graves were more than a hundred years old. Wherever you stepped, there were gravestones and statues falling to pieces. Where there weren’t graves, there were trees, lots of overgrown trees, their roots pushing up, knocking over more tombstones.

  “Used to be even bigger,” Tom said. “The whole park—you know, where they were playing cricket and everything? That used to be part of the cemetery too.”

  “You’re kidding,” Reason said, eyes wide. “We were walking on top of lots and lots of dead people?”

  “Yup. See all the gravestones along the cemetery wall?”

  Reason turned to look at the orphaned gravestones, long separated from their plots, sides touching, backs to the wall, like they were facing a firing squad. There were hundreds of them along the entire length of the high cemetery wall, made, like most of t
he gravestones, of sandstone. Their inscriptions so worn you could hardly identify so much as a single letter, though Tom liked to peer at them and guess.

  Sandstone wears fast. Tom had wondered why people used it all over Sydney since it practically crumbled in seconds, but then Mere had explained that sandstone was pretty much the only local stone. Granite and marble and other harder stones all had to be imported.

  “It’s normally much quieter.” The wall kept out sound, as well as blocking any view of the surrounding houses and most of the tall buildings on King Street.

  “What, when there’s not a gale blowing?”

  Tom grinned. It was way more than a bit blowy now. The sound of the wind through the trees, their branches waving wildly, assaulting each other, was a steady roar, almost drowning out the sound of thunder in the distance. The intense heat of the day had all been blown away—it was almost comfortable now.

  “You should see this place when the sun’s blazing through the trees.” He stretched his arms, taking in the dilapidated tombstones, the twisting trees, the church. “Everything glows. It’s like there’s a force field around it. The light’s brighter, no sounds from outside. You can’t even hear the cars passing by.”

  Reason shivered. “Perfect for ghosts.”

  Tom held out his hand, and she took it unselfconsciously. He led her along a well-trodden path. “Come on, I’ll show you the most famous resident. If there’s a ghost here, it’d be her. The story’s excellent. And then”—he paused dramatically—“the mysterious thing I have to show you. Watch out for the dog shit.” He stepped over it, pulling her after him.

  They passed a couple, huddled together on a tombstone that had been knocked flat to the ground, trying to light a cigarette that kept going out in the wind. Reason said hi and they both nodded at her.

  “I swear most of the people buried here drowned in Sydney Harbour,” Tom said, pointing to the nearest drowned-in-the-harbour inscription. “The early settlers weren’t much chop at swimming.”

  Reason giggled. “They still aren’t. I met these English backpackers at Woolgoolga on the beach, and they didn’t know how to swim. They just lay on their towels and turned pink, too scared to put more than a toe in the water. Weird, huh? Wasn’t even stinger season.”

  Tom nodded. “There’s this French girl at school.... Hey, do you know what school you’ll be going to?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hope Esmeralda doesn’t send you private. If you go public, you might be at the same school as me. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  Reason nodded, not looking as enthusiastic as he’d’ve liked, but he figured that was the thought of school, not the thought of school with him. He wondered again if Reason would be studying with him at Mere’s.

  “Anyway, the French girl couldn’t swim. Tried to get out of it when we were all doing our Bronze Medallions—”

  “What are they?”

  Tom looked at her, startled. “You know, lifesaving certificates? Jump in the deep end with all your clothes on and tread water for forever? Fake rescue someone?”

  Reason shook her head. “Never did any lifesaving.”

  “Really? I thought all schools taught it.”

  “We moved around a lot.”

  “But you can swim?”

  “Yeah. Of course!”

  “Right, then. So the French girl was trying to get out of it, but they made her have lessons. So we’re at the deep end pretending to drown and then saving each other, and she’s in the shallow end screaming her head off, sounding like she really needs to be saved.”

  “Did she learn?”

  “Yeah. But she’s pretty crap. Doesn’t like putting her head in the water. Worried about getting her hair wet or something. Almost there.” He stepped off the path, where three gravestones stood packed close together with no discernible graves in front of them.

  “So is this it?”

  Tom shook his head. “Not yet. Have to tell you the story first.”

  “Story?”

  “Have you read Great Expectations?”

  “Nope. Never heard of it.”

  “It’s by an old English guy. Shakespeare, maybe? Whatever. I haven’t read it, saw the movie, but. There’s this old nutter, Miss Havisham. When she was young, she was going to be married, but on her wedding day the bloke never showed up. She was rich, so the whole house was decked out with flowers and there was this huge cake and stuff. And everyone was just sitting around waiting for him to show, but he never did.

  “She went into shock. Totally lost it. Never took off her wedding dress or let them clear away any of the wedding gear. Not the cake or the flowers or the food or anything. It crumbled and decayed, was covered in the thickest dust and cobwebs. Stayed like that till she was really, really old.”

  “Ugggh.” Reason shivered. “But that’s just a book, right?”

  Tom nodded. “But it was based on someone real. That’s it there.” He pointed to a marble cross under a small copse of trees. “At the bottom, that’s her. The real person Shakespeare based the book on. She lived right here in Sydney. That’s her father, James Donnithorne Esq., at the top with the big important lettering.”

  Reason crouched down. You had to get close to make out the smaller letters. She held her hair out of her eyes and read out loud, “‘Eliza Emily. Last surviving daughter of the above. Died 20th May 1886.’ Yet another loony lady,” she said. “Sydney’s full of them.”

  Tom crouched down beside her. “Yeah. Just like our mums. Except, you know, ours have better hygiene: my mum changes once a day, not once a century.”

  “Did she hurt you badly?” asked Reason. “When she tried to kill you?” She looked concerned, which made Tom squirm. He didn’t much enjoy people feeling sorry for him.

  “No, Dad got there first. She was waving a knife around saying that she’d kill us. She cut Cathy, but Dad reckons it was an accident. Cath’s got a scar on her shoulder, it’s tiny, but.”

  “Cathy’s your sister?”

  “Yeah.” Tom stood up, then Reason. “She’s studying at film school in America.”

  “Wow.”

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  Reason nodded.

  “She’s studying at NYU. That’s New York University in New York City.”

  “Long way from home.”

  “When I finish high school, I’m going to go study there too,” Tom told her. “Or maybe London. Or Milan. I wanna study fashion. I’m going to make beautiful clothes for women and have my own label like Chanel or Balenciaga or Schiaparelli.”

  “Wow,” said Reason, sounding impressed, though Tom could tell she’d never heard of any of them.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll still make you normal clothes. I’ve already started on your cargo pants.” Reason looked blank. “The pants with all the pockets? You know? That you asked for?”

  “Oh, right,” Reason said. “Ta. That was quick.”

  Tom shrugged. “I’ll show you the sketches tomorrow probably, then we can go fabric shopping.”

  They were still staring down at Eliza Emily’s grave. Tom was imagining what her wedding dress had looked like, how it would’ve changed as it disintegrated. He fashioned the acute triangles in his mind until they became a dress of silver-grey cobwebs that hung from head to toe. Kind of fairytale goth, only with more elegant lines. Bias-cut 1930s à la Vionnet. The material would be designed to dissolve slowly. Sleeves melting away first, then maybe the back. He’d have to design an elegant slip dress to go underneath. But where would he get a fabric like that? Could he learn to make it himself? How about sleeves made from real cobwebs?

  Reason punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, Tom. Where’s the mystery thing you promised?”

  “This way.” Tom led her past more trees, graves, and the roped-off area where they were trying to get native grasses growing again.

  “Drowned in Sydney Harbour. Only sixteen years old.” Reason pointed to a broken-up grave whose tilting headstone featured two engra
ved anchors. “That’s five.”

  “See the anchor over there? The real one?”

  Reason nodded, looking across at the little alcove and the fenced-off grave with the anchor lying on top.

  “This huge ship, the Dunbar, went down in the olden days and that’s where most of the people are buried. All of them drowned in Sydney Harbour.”

  “How many?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Tom nodded. “The anchor really is from the Dunbar. They dredged it up from the bottom of the harbour. You want to look at it or are you ready for the thing I told you about? It’s just over here.”

  “The mystery,” Reason said.

  He led her to a tall monument next to a large palm tree. At its top was an angel holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other. Her wings were longer than her body. All four sides of the monument had names and dates on them, the oldest at the top.

  “Oh,” Reason said, staring at the names. Almost everyone shared the same last name: Cansino. “They’re my relatives?”

  Tom nodded.

  Reason circled the monument, staring, openmouthed. “They’re almost all women.”

  Tom nodded again, amazed that she really didn’t know anything about her family.

  “With the same surname.”

  “Yeah. See? Here’s one of the few men.” He pointed to the first male name, Raul Emilio Jesús Cansino, right at the top. “He’s a Cansino. I’m thinking he’s where the name comes from, but after him there are only a few men and their last names aren’t Cansino. All the women, though—”

  “All the same as me,” Reason finished. “Cansinos.” She was tracing her fingers across one name: Sarafina Maria Luz Cansino. “My mother wasn’t the first Sarafina.”

  Tom shook his head. “Nope. Look, there’s an Esmeralda. See how the names get repeated? Lots of Milagros and Luzs and that’s not counting the middle names. See how none of them are described as ‘loving wife’ or ‘daughter of’?”

  “Just ‘mother of.’”