by Anna Romer
I gazed along the path meandering through the trees. Wintry afternoon sunlight shone through the branches, casting twiggy shadows on the damp ground.
I had spent the morning cleaning up the glass photo negatives, while Morgan rode back into town to continue his search for a darkroom. He had returned with good news. A portrait photographer in Queenscliff, further east along the coast towards Melbourne, had offered the use of his set-up in return for print copies and permission to include them in his archive of historical images. Morgan had agreed to be there the following day. In the meantime, I was giving him a guided tour of my grandfather’s garden.
‘Lucy?’
Reluctantly, I went along the path through the copse of mulberries, bypassing quinces and lemons and plums, down towards the shady hollow on the lowest level of the garden. It seemed a thousand years had passed since I had entered this dank, secluded corner. Yet the big old oak and the grassy mound, the tall trees smothered in vines, were all just as I remembered. As I joined Morgan in the little clearing, I had the eerie feeling of time unravelling, of being a child again, of standing here with the icy weight of keys in my hand, shivering with anticipation.
Morgan gave me a curious look. ‘Fallout shelter?’ he asked again.
I glanced at the door, then away. ‘It’s the icehouse.’
‘Ever been inside?’
‘Edwin kept it locked.’
‘Do you know where he stashed the keys?’
I shook my head. An icy gust howled in the back of my brain, bringing with it the distant echo of a child sobbing. Rubbing my arms, I stepped into a patch of sunlight.
Morgan walked over and joined me. In the sun, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. ‘Tough old time for you back then, wasn’t it?’ he said quietly.
I shrugged. ‘It seems like someone else’s life now.’
‘You were so lost when you came to stay with us. First your mum, and then Ron’s breakdown . . .’
I gazed up at the twisted old oak, past its naked silvery branches to the blue sky. ‘Dad did his best.’
Morgan watched me for a moment longer and then when I turned away he wandered back over to the icehouse door. ‘Your grandfather really liked his fires.’
I braved a closer look. The icehouse door was blackened around the edges, the iron reinforcements along its length buckled. At some time in the recent past, flames had escaped under the door a short way, charring the stone step. The smell of old smoke lingered in the damp air.
‘There used to be a kerosene lamp hanging in there,’ I said. ‘Maybe Edwin left it burning and it caused a fire.’
Morgan kicked the door. Soot puffed out of the crevices. ‘I wonder how badly damaged it is inside.’
‘Maybe all burned out,’ I said hopefully. ‘All the beams were wood, the roof has probably collapsed.’
Morgan tested the door handle. ‘I wonder if Edwin set it alight deliberately, like he did with the photo album.’
‘Why would he do that?’
Morgan lifted his brows. ‘Maybe he had something to hide.’
I took a step back. An image flashed into my mind, a drawing. It was one of my preliminary sketches for Dad’s story, only now I saw the final version in full colour. The dungeon in the depths of a castle, its violet shadows retreating from a row of suspended figures. Four ghostly women, their bloodless faces darkened by the holes of their eyes . . .
Maybe he had something to hide.
‘What is it?’ Morgan came over, searching my face. He placed his hands lightly on my elbows, the way he had when he’d told me about my father’s fall. ‘You’ve gone white.’
I shrugged away from him, but something kept me near. ‘It’s nothing.’
A stretch of silence followed. Rather, a stretch of time when neither one of us spoke, because it was far from silent. A magpie warbled overhead, and the raucous chatter of lorikeets drifted from the orchard. In that quiet beat, a memory surfaced.
Treading gently into the dark. The sensation of wrongness, that I was unwelcome, that I had no right to be there. Yet still I stumbled deeper along the passageway, my torchlight jittering about, catching shards of glass on the floor, sweeping across a ceiling thick with cobwebs. I heard the shuffle of my feet, the noisy huff-huff of my breath . . . and then a whisper from somewhere nearby—
‘Do you know what I think, Lucy?’ Morgan frowned, his eyes bright despite the shadows. ‘There’s another reason you’ve come back here.’
Goose bumps pricked along my arms. ‘What reason?’
‘You stayed here after your mum died. It’s only natural you have uneasy memories of the place. Maybe the universe has led you back here to confront your demons.’
I met his eyes briefly, then looked away. Over the years, Morgan’s beliefs had shaped the way I looked at the world. He voted green, even before it was fashionable, he was vegetarian, had a soft spot for the elderly and an enduring passion for anything historical. There was just one ideology I’d never been able to get my head around: Morgan believed in fate, in the playing out of some cosmic scheme that connected us all. My leanings were more towards the existential side of things: we were born, and we lived our lives. When we died, we turned to dust. I just couldn’t align with Morgan’s view that our souls were eternal, that death was just a doorway through which the spirit flew like a bird, circling for a time in a heavenly place, before returning to earth in a different form.
Maybe the universe has led you back . . .
Shivering, I rubbed my arms. ‘I don’t have any demons.’ Before he could reply, I turned and hurried away, heading uphill along the path to the orchard, back into the dappled sunlight.
The lie was still haunting me the following morning as we stood in the driveway. Morgan was about to drive to Queenscliff to develop the photos. I had insisted that he take my van, to preserve the box of fragile glass plates secured on the front seat. We had wrapped each plate individually in newspaper, padding the box with old clothes I’d found in one of the guest rooms. The box looked ready to withstand a nuclear blast, but I wanted to give the negatives their best chance.
‘They’ll be fine,’ Morgan reassured me, taking the car keys from my hand. He climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled up and started the ignition. ‘I’ll guard them with my life.’
Still I hovered, strangely reluctant to see him go. ‘Try not to blow the speed limit,’ I added, patting the van roof. ‘I’m kind of fond of this old girl.’
‘Are you sure you won’t come with me?’
‘Quite sure.’ I stepped back, gave a little wave. I had told him I would stay and make headway on clearing the guest rooms. This was partly true, as I was keen to continue my search for the mysterious something Edwin had promised me in his letter. But I’d planned another activity, one I had to do alone.
Morgan revved the Volkswagen to life and cruised away along the road. I dragged shut the gates. For a while, I stood gazing out at the ocean. The water was light blue-grey in the sunlight, the exact colour of Morgan’s eyes. I imagined swimming out as far as I could, losing myself in the vastness, letting the tides wash away the uneasy feeling that had dogged me since my return to Bitterwood.
The universe has led you back here, Morgan had said. The words haunted me. In a way, they were true. The universe – or at least, my grandfather’s letter, and then my father’s request to find the album – had indeed lured me back. But for what eventual purpose, I didn’t know.
I retreated along the drive to the house.
With my van gone, I felt strangely desolate. In an emergency, I knew how to ride Morgan’s Harley, or there was Edwin’s ancient Toyota in the garage. My clothes and toiletries waited in my old room at the top of the stairs, just in case Morgan had to stay overnight in Queenscliff.
I sat in the kitchen, restless.
Basil had devoured a can of tuna and half a bowl of kibble, and now paced hopefully at the back door, waiting for me to let him out. I hadn’t needed to butter his paws. He seemed
reluctant to stray far from my side. But I didn’t want to open the door. Not yet. I kept glancing at the window, watching the trees sway in the morning breeze. Morgan’s words echoed in my mind.
The universe has led you back.
I got to my feet. From under the sink, I retrieved a torch. As though in a trance, I went to the pantry. Ducked behind the door and reached up onto the lintel ledge where Edwin concealed his keys. There were two keys on the ring. One large, the other short and stubby with a square head.
From the safety of the kitchen, with its blazing fire and cosy warmth, my plan seemed foolproof. I only had to walk to the bottom of the garden, unlock the icehouse door. Poke my head in, acknowledge that my horrors were nothing but dust, and then return, fulfilled and somehow stronger, to the house.
Demons confronted.
With a sigh, I replaced the keys on the lintel. Retreating to my spot at the table, I took Dad’s manuscript from my satchel. Flipping through, I found my place and escaped back into the story.
The man of shadows waited patiently for Fineflower’s answer.
Your heart . . . given willingly.
Fineflower listened to the rustle of silkworms as they chewed their leaves. She listened to the creak and sway of the wives in their everlasting dance. Time ticked away. In a few hours, the King would return. He would discover her failure and hang her from the rafters, drain out her blood. She would never see her baby son again.
‘All right,’ she told the man of shadows. ‘I’ll give you my heart.’
‘Willingly?’
She nodded.
Around her in the cell, the shadows shifted. The man stepped nearer, and smiled. Fineflower recognised that smile, she had seen it that day in the marketplace; it was the smile that had begun all her troubles. As she pondered the soldier’s face – the eyes like black fire, the straight white teeth, and the dimples pushing the edges of his lips – she knew she could not be angry. Instead, she began to melt a little, to bask in the glow of that smile and let her fears unravel.
Reaching into her bodice, she drew out a crimson handkerchief that had once belonged to her mother. It was Fineflower’s most treasured possession.
The man of shadows took it gently from her fingers. He drew it to his nose, breathed its scent, and then tucked it into his pocket. He sat at the spinning wheel. Scooping up a handful of cocoons, he moistened them with his breath and pricked away the fine sticky thread. He wound three silken lengths around the flyer and began to pump the treadle; the bobbin spun and the thread gathered quickly around its shank, only now the silk was no longer white – but pure gleaming gold.
While he worked, the soldier bowed his head and began to sing. His song was sorrowful, and Fineflower felt the darkness gather heavily on her chest. Her empty chest. She pressed her hands to the place where her heart had once been, and felt the stillness there. It was a fair price, she reasoned. Soon, she would see her little son.
Gold and bright, sang the soldier, darkest night,
Seek the spinner in the light.
An hour passed. Two hours. Three.
The moon rose, drifted across the distant sky, and then began to set. The first rays of dawn trickled through the small high window above. Fineflower blinked awake and gazed around in joy. Her soldier had kept his promise. Wooden reels sat in piles around the cell, their bellies fat with gold thread that glimmered brightly in the early sunlight. Fineflower went to the soldier and spoke her thanks. He gazed at her through weary eyes and took her hand.
‘Forget the King,’ he told her. ‘Leave with me now, we can start a new life together.’
Fineflower shook her head. ‘Not without my son—’
Before the soldier could reply, footsteps sounded in the corridor. The door burst open. In marched the King. When he saw Fineflower standing at the spinning wheel with her soldier, he drew his sword and shouted for his men. He rushed at them, but the soldier was faster. He drew his knife and drove the King back towards the doorway. Then the King’s men arrived and surrounded the man of shadows. With savage cries, they dragged him to the floor and laid into him with their boots. Moments later, they were hauling his motionless body away along the corridor, leaving Fineflower alone in her cell with the angry King.
Rather than calm me, Fineflower’s story had made me more restless, made me realise I was teetering on the edge of a precipice.
I had two choices. I could continue to ignore the darkness building in the back of my brain; continue to ignore the nightmares, the sweaty guilt that prodded me awake in the night. Or I could leave the cosy warmth of the kitchen right now and venture into the garden. I could walk along the path through the orchard, open the icehouse door and march into its shadowy heart with my torch blazing. I could prove to myself that what I had seen – or imagined I’d seen – as a frightened ten-year-old was nothing more than a pile of disused bricks or a harmless bundle of old rags.
My time at Bitterwood as a kid had thrown me off kilter, causing me to view everything from a place of uncertainty, a dark place where frightful things lurked in every shadow. I could put an end to all that.
Getting to my feet, I went to the pantry and retrieved Edwin’s keys. Collected the torch, opened the back door and stepped out. Breathing deeply of the cool night air, I crossed the verandah and hurried down into the garden.
The smell of damp grass, rotting leaves. The chill of the overhanging trees as I walked beneath them. Branches creaked in the wind, unseen creatures rustled in the shadows; the back of my neck prickled. Through the orchard I went, following the path down the slope to the dank clearing beneath the dead oak. The old tree gleamed white in the morning sunlight, its bleached branches stark against the cloudless sky.
I stood in front of the icehouse door.
Singling out the big key, I forced it into the lock. The brass doorknob was cold under my fingers, slick with last night’s rain. I pushed the door open. Its base squealed against the flagstones and a burnt smell rushed out. I found a brick to chock the door, and then stepped inside. The scorched smell intensified, acrid and stale, and as I shone my light around I saw that the bases of all the beams were blackened and burned away in sections. Smoke had discoloured the rock ceiling, and I was suddenly aware of the weight of stone above me. Tree roots had grown through between some of the supports, and pockets of grit had crumbled away.
Further inside, the reek of charred wood gave way to other smells. Mould and dust, dampness. As I took a shuffling step forward, my outstretched hand collided with something hard and cold, a wall. My dream flashed back. The cold, clammy stone beneath my touch, the freefall back through time, my mother’s urgent whisper. If only you hadn’t lied. I hunched my shoulders against it and walked on. My torchlight fell on rows of shelving, several stacked with dusty Fowlers jars and some old wood boxes. Broken glass littered the floor beneath.
Go back, said a voice in my mind. The place is unstable, the beams half burned away . . . The roof could fall, go back. Instead, I went deeper, but then hesitated when I came to a short flight of steps. Four narrow wooden risers led down into a darkness that was so dense I could almost taste it, almost feel its dampness on my skin like fog.
Go back.
Slowly, I descended the steps. Gritty things crunched beneath my shoes, dirt and insect husks, years of dead leaves blown under the door.
My torch beam seemed diminished, unable to penetrate the heavy gloom more than an arm’s length ahead. At the bottom of the steps, I paused again. My breathing sounded harsh and overloud, as though I wasn’t the only person present. I listened, straining to hear beyond the roar of blood in my ears.
Suddenly the roar became my father’s voice. It’s not her, he had cried in the foyer of the morgue. That’s not my wife in there, you’ve made a mistake . . . I’m telling you, it’s not her—
I kept going. My body seemed to be folding in on itself, growing smaller. My feet taking littler steps, my fingers curling protectively. I was ten again, and as I pushed along the
passageway, a feeling of wrongness overcame me, a sense that I was unwelcome, out of bounds.
The police had explained to my father that two weeks submerged in water changed a person’s physiology. They knew how difficult it must be for him, but he was the only one who could identify her body without question. He must see beyond the bloating, the injuries and violent discolouration, see beyond his own horror and grief, look only at the features, identify them, and try to find peace in the fact that her remains were no longer adrift.
But it’s not her.
While my father ranted, while he tried to drown his last vision of her in a wine cask, I had curled in a ball at the foot of my bed, hands pressed over my ears, hot tears leaking into my hair. If Mum wasn’t at the morgue, I had wondered, then where was she?
I took another step into the darkness. Something whispered around my legs, a gust of breeze from outside bringing with it the smell of damp grass and rain. Dead leaves stirred around me, their rasping voices taking on a familiar tone.
I’m in here, Lucy . . . Drowning all over again in this damp darkness.
A flush of heat surged through me, and then I went cold. I saw her then in my mind’s eye, slumped on the floor in the dark inner chamber ahead of me, frighteningly still. Her skin had turned black and withered away, her features melted into bone, her hair – her lovely blonde hair – a mess of dust littering the flagstones beneath her fractured skull—
I began to back away, sick with dread. It wasn’t her, it couldn’t possibly have been her. What I’d seen that night in the dark heart of the icehouse when I was ten had been nothing more than the wretched imaginings of a grief-stricken girl. Abandoned rubbish, perhaps, like the broken preserve jars and old bottles in the passageway behind me. A pile of bricks, a roll of mouldy carpet. Better yet, not real, merely a figment, a trick played by a young mind pushed to its limits.
You lied, Lucy . . . and now I’m trapped here . . .
Turning, I fled back along the passage and up the stairs, crashing against the wall in my haste, almost tripping. Bursting from the icehouse, I staggered out into the garden, dragging shut the door and locking it tight, the keys gripped in my trembling fingers. For the longest time I stood on the path, jangled and shaking, wanting to laugh at myself, how foolish and scared I’d just been, startled by shadows. But I didn’t laugh, I couldn’t. I just waited for the quaking to stop, and then trod unsteadily back up the path, through the copse of mulberry trees, back towards the house.
