by H. S. Norup
Something falls out of the sky, swirling round and round like a helicopter seed from a maple tree, and lands at our feet. A red feather. Its tip is scorched.
“Was that a phoenix?” I ask, picking up the feather and twirling it between my fingers. The bird didn’t look like the phoenixes I’ve seen in films and books. An unpleasant burnt smell, like the time I singed my hair on the campfire because I’d forgotten to tie it back, comes off the feather. It’s so long that the blackened tip sticks out, after I’ve put it in my biggest pocket.
“My mother called it the vermillion bird.”
“The vermillion bird of the south?” I ask. Clementine mentioned that too. “Oh, you remember your mother?”
“I have this glimpse of waking up next to her…” Ling closes her eyes. “Ma is asleep on our mat. Her hair is out of its usual tight bun. Long strands tickle my toes. Light creeps under the door into our windowless room. I hear sounds from the nursery and open the door a crack, to see who is there, whether it is safe to come out.”
“What do you mean ‘safe’?”
“I… I do not remember.”
Nearby, a high-pitched wail pierces the air. It must be the vermillion bird, but it sounds like a baby. It’s as if I’m in Ling’s memory, hearing a baby cry from the room next door. As if I’m the one who’s remembering.
A smoky breeze makes me cough.
North of us, a sprawling lake that resembles a lizard with too many legs, is blocking the wildfire. But, to the west, the blaze advances. At the bottom of the hill, flames lick at the trees.
Roaring, a bulky white shape shoots out of the inferno. It bounds up the slope, in our direction.
“The white tiger of the west,” Ling says.
“Shouldn’t we run?” How can she stand there so calmly? A tiger is running straight at us.
But perhaps nothing can harm us here. Perhaps this place isn’t even real? I don’t think I’m dreaming, but I pinch my forearm. It smarts.
The tiger’s twice as big as the white tiger I saw at the zoo. It gets so close to us I see the panic in its pale-blue eyes. Then it leaps towards us—and vanishes below the ground.
An ear-splitting roar reverberates over the hill.
Ling pulls me forward, one careful step at a time, until we stand at the edge of a large pit in the ground. Inside, the white tiger springs up and throws itself against the walls, growling. But the pit is deep and its sides almost vertical. The tiger can’t escape.
Dried grass is scattered across the ground beneath it. One of its hind legs is stuck in a net of lianas. The tiger thrashes to get free. Instead, it gets more entangled with every jump. Someone must’ve covered the pit with a net of lianas woven with grass, camouflaging the huge hole in the ground. There’s no doubt the pit is meant to be a trap.
I survey the hill, expecting to see a flock of hunters emerging from a hidden camp.
“Ling, it’s too dangerous to stay here with that forest fire… and whoever has built this trap might be coming soon. We should leave. If we can.”
“Yes,” Ling says. “Something is wrong here.”
At the sound of our voices, the white tiger stops struggling. It looks up, its blue eyes pleading, and I wish we could set it free.
When we walk back up to the tree, the deep growls begin again.
“How are we going to get back?”
Ling shakes her head.
“Let me think… It was as if the spinning transported us here. You said you’ve often been inside the tree, making wishes. Did you always sit still?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. We were running, so perhaps that’s what we need to do to get the tree to spin.”
We’ve reached the opening in the roots, and I cast a last glance out over the rainforest and the ocean. The eastern side of the island is still peaceful. I hope it will stay that way, and that something stops the wildfire before it destroys this magical place.
Inside the ring of roots, I ask, “Which way?”
“We ran one way first and then the other,” Ling says.
“You’re right.” I pause to remember. “We ran clockwise—three rounds—then anticlockwise.”
I take Ling’s hand and give it a squeeze before we start running.
“Think about my father,” I shout, when we turn. To be absolutely sure I’m returning to the right place, I think about Clementine and the twins too.
“My father,” Ling repeats.
I want to correct her, tell her she shouldn’t think about her father, but her hand slips from mine. We’re in the wind tunnel. Dead leaves spiral around us, and everything’s spinning. My body presses against the root cage. I close my eyes to avoid seeing the towering gates. Too late to stop me from hearing the wails, I cover my ears with my hands.
When the surroundings stop revolving, I’m lying curled up under a brown cover of leaves.
“Did it work?” I ask, getting up.
No one answers. It’s almost dark inside the tree.
“Ling!” I walk around the trunk, but she isn’t here.
Outside, it’s raining. I stumble out of the opening, as a crack of thunder booms above. Gravestones jut out of the undergrowth around me. Hanging roots from the banyan tree’s long branches are tangled into other trees further down the hill. I’m back in the real world.
“Ling!” I call again. Where is she?
If she thought about her own father, perhaps the wishing tree took her to the time when she was alive. Perhaps that will make her remember. Or she might’ve ended up in the realm of the dead, if that’s where her father is. I shudder and cross my fingers, hoping she’s safe.
A flash lights up the banyan tree, followed by another boom, and I start jogging. It’s too dangerous to be in a forest in this weather. Within minutes, my clothes are soaked again.
When I reach the cemetery gate, I slow to a walk. My phone pings. I tear it out of my pocket. The ping’s a reminder about our dinner plans in one hour.
My phone’s working normally again. For a moment, I wonder if it was all really just make-believe. But as I push my phone back into the pocket, something tickles my hand. It’s the singed tip of the long, red feather.
—19—
While I’m winding the rope up, after climbing in through my window, there’s a knock on my door. Has anyone seen me get back? I run into the en-suite bathroom, as the door to my room opens.
“Freja,” Clementine calls. “Don’t forget we’re going out in half an hour.”
“Taking a shower now!” I peel off my soaked clothes and hide them under a towel, in case she comes in here.
“It’s a very nice restaurant… Could you wear a dress? Perhaps the white one I got you?”
Pretending I haven’t heard her question, I turn on the shower, because there’s no way I’m putting on a dress.
Perhaps if I tell Dad I’m not feeling well, he’ll let me stay home. Then I can wait here for Ling. I’m worried about her. I desperately hope she’ll come back tonight, so I know nothing bad has happened to her. That she’s safe.
I wonder what it means, that she remembered checking to see if it was safe to leave her bedroom. Why wouldn’t it have been safe?
Showers are good for mulling things over. Sometimes too good—too many thoughts flood my mind at once. Glimpses of the things we saw in that other world with the mythical creatures come rushing in. The white tiger of the west and the phoenix-like vermillion bird. The curious blinking brightness in the empty sea, east of the island. And the raging wildfire.
Could Ling’s memory loss really be linked to the red flames in the north-west? Are Clementine’s beliefs in the influence of energy flows true?
The spray of water pounds on my scalp and shoulders. It makes me think of rain. I wonder if that would be enough to extingu
ish the forest fire. Perhaps then, Ling could remember more. But there were no clouds in the blue sky, and what else could put out a wildfire?
After the shower, I cram my wet hair into a ponytail and put on a T-shirt—white even—and clean shorts with the bare necessities of survival equipment in their pockets.
In the twins’ room, Maya has dressed both boys in white trousers. She’s trying to button a striped light-blue shirt on one of them before he can wiggle away. Clementine’s overseeing her from the doorway in a long blue dress. Her shiny hair falls in soft waves. She frowns when she sees what I’m wearing.
“We’re leaving soon, Freja. It’s okay to get dressed now,” she says as if she doesn’t know this is what I plan to wear. “Do you want me to do your hair?”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing… It looks… nice. But we could blow-dry it and plait it into a crown. Or how about a French braid?”
“I like it like this.”
When Dad comes out of their bedroom, buttoning his own light-blue shirt, she says, “Could you help me a moment, Will?”
The only word I catch before I go back into my room is “dress”, so it’s no surprise when Dad follows me.
“I don’t like dresses.” I stand by the window, peering into the garden, without turning.
“Please, Freja,” he says. “It means a lot to Clementine. The restaurant is one of her main sponsors.”
I don’t understand why She needs sponsors. It’s not like she’s doing any sports. “Can’t I stay at home, Dad?”
“I’d like for you to come, and so would Clementine.” He places a hand on my shoulder.
“You know, Dad, the girl I saw in the garden last night, she’s actually a ghost.”
“Freja… Please…”
I swivel to face him, shaking off his hand. “She isn’t imaginary. She’s a hungry ghost, and she’s somehow connected to us. That’s why she haunts the garden! She remembers someone with blue eyes like ours. From like a hundred years ago. Did everyone in our family have blue eyes, d’you think?”
Dad shakes his head. His eyes are sad. “You really are too old for imaginary friends.”
“I’m telling you, she’s not imaginary. Her name’s Ling, and she’s—”
“Freja, please stop.” Dad presses his fingers against his temples.
He seems so worried; I decide I won’t talk to him about Ling again until I’ve discovered who she was when she was alive. “O-kay, I’ll wear a dress,” I say to make him smile.
Both dresses are too short and flimsy to hide combat shorts, but the dress with pink dots at least has pockets deep enough for my Swiss Army knife.
After dinner, the owner of the restaurant comes over to chat with us. Or, rather, with Her. Clementine talks and talks, even more than usual, about her fancy party. I don’t listen and keep glancing at my watch. While Dad takes Eddie to the loo, Billy’s eating olives. I’m watching him closely, afraid he might choke on a stone.
When we get home, I sit in my open window, twirling the red feather, hoping Ling will return. The rain has stopped. It’s taken the smell of bonfires away. The air feels almost cool. Twice, I climb down and take a stroll around the garden, calling for Ling.
Why isn’t she coming? What’s happened to her?
At one o’clock, she still hasn’t appeared.
—20—
The moment I wake up, I want to go to the cemetery and search for Ling. But I can’t, because I can’t climb out of my window or get hold of my hiking boots or even leave the house without anyone noticing. Billy and Eddie and Dad are in the garden. Through a gap in the curtains, I watch them play football. The twins are so funny and cute. When one of them stumbles and falls, he doesn’t even cry, because Dad is right there and tickles him. In the end, Dad’s the one lying down with both boys crawling all over him. They’re so happy.
“We should wake up Freja,” Clementine says, coming out from the house.
“Where Frej-ja?” one of the twins asks, then starts shouting my name.
“Shhh, Eddie, she’s still sleeping,” Dad says.
A couple of days ago, I thought they were completely identical, with their dark eyes and black shiny hair that stands up at the back, but there are small differences: a mole on Eddie’s neck, a scar across Billy’s forehead. And Eddie is chubbier. Billy is as thin as I was in baby photos. For a moment, I want to open the curtains and shout, “I’m here!” to see their reaction.
Dad extracts himself from the twins and throws the ball to the far end of the garden. Like puppies, they chase after it.
“Let her sleep a bit longer,” he says, and sits down. His bare feet on the sun lounger stick out from under the covered terrace.
“It would be good for her to come outside and spend time with the boys. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want anything to do with them.”
The twins have kicked the ball under the frangipani trees and are busy tearing flowers off the low branches. They’re chatting and one of them keeps saying, “Frej-ja.”
I’d hoped it would be much easier to avoid them, that they would ignore me if I ignored them. They don’t.
Dad murmurs something I can’t hear.
“Did you notice yesterday at the zoo, when Eddie took her hand and wanted to drag her over to the giraffe? She shook him off and turned away. He was so disappointed…”
“I’m worried about her. I think she has an imaginary friend again,” Dad lowers his voice. “She had that when… after it happened… when Marianne was… coming here… perhaps it’s too much… makes me sad…”
Although I’m standing stock-still, I can’t hear all he’s saying. This is precisely what I didn’t want to happen. Now that I’m here, Dad’s becoming sad. I’ve even made little Eddie unhappy.
“Let’s hope it’ll get better when she starts school,” Clementine says. “Perhaps she just needs to get out and about, instead of moping in her room. Why don’t we go to the beach?”
Maya’s off on Sundays, so I gulp a glass of orange juice and eat a bowl of cereal, like I would’ve at home, before we get into the car. I’m sitting in the back, squeezed in between the two toddler car seats. We haven’t even left the driveway when Eddie prods me with his board book.
To make up for yesterday’s giraffe incident, I read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to him seven times. Billy keeps throwing his toy car down on the floor and whinges until I pick it up. Clementine’s curled around her seat, turned backwards, shushing Billy and pleading with him to listen to the story. She interrupts my reading more times than him to tell me about buildings and places we pass.
Dad isn’t on the phone, but I don’t think he’s listening to us. I keep glancing at him in the rear-view mirror to see if he looks sad.
After what feels like for ever, we drive across a causeway to an island. Its name, Sentosa, is written in elephant-sized letters on an arch that spans two fake medieval towers. Behind it, a small fairy-tale castle with countless turrets outshines two roller coasters.
“Were there ever lions here, Dad?” I ask, when we pass a colossal statue of a merlion with a viewing terrace in its mouth. There’s a photo of a smaller merlion in the tourist guide Aunt Astrid bought me. Singapura means ‘the lion city’ and this unfamiliar half-fish, half-lion is the city’s mascot.
“No. Only tigers, I believe,” Clementine replies.
“White tigers? Like the one—” I stop myself before I can say, Like the one I saw with Ling. I can still remember the panic and pleading in its pale-blue eyes. “The one in the zoo?”
“Zoo! Zoo! Zoo!” Billy chants. “Want Zoo.”
“No, Billy. Today, we’re going to the beach,” Clementine says, getting out of the car in the car park.
“The other day, you talked about the vermillion bird of the south and the
white tiger of the west…”
“Yes?” Clementine stands up after strapping Eddie into the double stroller.
“I’ll take the boys,” Dad says. “You girls go ahead.”
“I can’t remember where you said the other animals could be found.”
“The mythical creatures are metaphors linked to Chinese astrology. They aren’t actually real, Freja.” A row of waves appears on Clementine’s forehead above her oversized sunglasses. “I’ll ask my feng shui consultant to come round and explain the details, if you’re interested.”
I shrug. “But there’s a dragon and a turtle, right?”
“Yes. The black tortoise of the north and the azure dragon of the east.”
An image of the terrapins in the lake at the Botanic Gardens swims into my head. There was a lake north of the banyan tree. A lake full of water. Maybe that’s where the black tortoise lives. It isn’t an ordinary animal but a mythical creature. If we found it, perhaps it could help us put out the fire.
In my mind, I’m already sketching the beginning of a plan. But what’s the point if Ling doesn’t come back? Fear gnaws at me, growing a knot in my belly.
“We’re here!” Clementine leads us to parasol-covered deckchairs in the fenced-in enclosure of a beach club. It’s very organized, with proper menus and waiters. There’s even a swimming pool for people who aren’t keen on seawater and don’t want to come into contact with the sand. I’ve never seen a pool on a beach before—it seems kind of unnecessary, like putting a T-shirt on over sunscreen. Which is exactly what Clementine does to Billy and Eddie. Both are lathered in a white creme under their rash guards.
I play ball with Dad and the boys for a little while, but as soon as Dad flops down on a lounger, I escape to the edge of the sea. Clementine keeps the twins in the baby pool. There’s even a lifeguard, so I don’t have to worry. Sitting alone on the fine, yellow sand with my legs in the green sea, I let the waves lap at my swimsuit, but I can’t stop fretting about Ling. My insides tie themselves into granny knots.
