The Sea Bed

by Marele Day

  ‘Nori, honestly!’ Chicken watched a frown furrow its way into the space between her mother’s eyebrows. In a quieter voice Violet said: ‘She can still manage the hill, I don’t think it’s that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I don’t really want to discuss this at the moment, OK? Not while we’re eating. It’s making my stomach cramp.’

  Nori knew when to leave well enough alone. He changed the subject, told Violet that the festival planning committee meeting had been moved to Thursday because this month it clashed with the volunteer fire brigade drill. Violet said she’d been asked to work an extra day next week because they were cleaning the oyster baskets. Chicken dawdled at the edges of the conversation, looking at the fourth savoury custard with its slick supermarket finish. Pearlie probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.

  Chicken quietly slid open the door to the dining room, letting in moonbeams and the sigh of the sea. Despite Violet’s efforts, there were still traces, ones that she could not pick up in a cloth, or with a vacuum cleaner.

  In this room was the house’s most substantial piece of furniture, a chest of drawers made of cedar which still imparted a faint but pleasant fragrance, the suggestion of forests, sweetened by the not-unpleasant odour of fermentation that the rice-straw matting took on during the hot wet rainy season. If you sat in this room and closed your eyes the blend of aromas took you to a small mountain hut dwarfed by the great trunks of cedars rising from the pale matting of undergrowth like statues of warriors. In this hut lived a man who made rice wine using the water from the pure mountain stream. The man was young and darkly beautiful, with long silky hair. He had felled the cedar tree which was destined for the island.

  Great-grandfather Norbu made the cabinet for Great-grandmother Iris when they were young and first married. Chicken rested her fingers lightly on the surface of it, bringing the story it contained back to life.

  Norbu and Iris’s marriage was a true love match, famous on the island, but every joy had sadness stalking it, and their sadness was that for seven years there were no children. They went on pilgrimages to the Married Rocks, made love in the spring moonlight, lay on the beach all night when the moon was full and let the sea lap them. They fed each other raw abalone, shaped like a woman’s secret parts, to enhance both fertility and virility.

  In the sixth year, and still childless, Great-grandfather began making the cabinet with special wood that he ordered from the mainland. It came by boat, planks of cedar tied together and kept in place by rope. He treated that timber lovingly, planed and sanded it to bring out the grain till it was smooth as a baby.

  The making of the cabinet, with drawers for baby clothes, brought Great-grandmother to the edge of despair and hope. She dared not hope, yet if she was in despair hope would not find her.

  Out on the boat, in the relaxation after the dive, with the weight stone brought up, the rope coiled and stowed, and Great-grandmother’s tub full of abalone or turban shell or whatever she had harvested, she sometimes spoke her anxieties.

  ‘But isn’t it tempting fate?’ she asked in a soft voice so as not to offend the sea. ‘Defying the deities?’

  Great-grandfather looked at his dear wife, at the wide blue all around her. ‘It shows them that we continue to live in the fullness of life and haven’t closed ourselves into a smaller one,’ he replied.

  Shortly after the chest of drawers was finished a tsunami came. It was too big a thing to blame on one person, even a couple. The islanders had heeded the signs and taken to the high ground, many of them sheltering in this very house. When the wave subsided the rocky coastline had once again been rearranged; a few boats that couldn’t be moved in time were reduced to planks, but no lives had been lost.

  In fact, one was added—a baby in a seaworthy little cradle, gurgling quietly to herself. She was wedged between rocks above the beach where Norbu and Iris had lain. The cradle was made of cedar, like the chest of drawers—at least, that’s what it became in the story that was handed down. The islanders felt blessed. Tsunamis sometimes washed ashore surprises—once a small Buddha statue, another time a carton of beer—but never before had it brought a live baby.

  No-one came to claim her, and after enquiries to neighbouring islands revealed no missing babies, everyone decided that Great-grandfather and Great-grandmother should adopt the baby that came with the wave. They called her Cedar. Their lives filled with joy once again. And then, even with so much joy in the house that there couldn’t possibly be room for any more, three years after finding Cedar Great-grandmother became pregnant and a little sister, Pearlie, was born.

  Chicken’s fingers lifted, hovered over the cabinet. She imagined it full of bonnets and booties, table napkins and linen for big family dinners. She opened all the drawers, letting the ghosts out.

  Then Chicken lay on the f loor, letting the sound of the sea wash over her, feeling the heartbeat of the Great Ones pulse in her blood.

  9

  A rude awakening

  Yugen’s throat was as dry as parchment. Where had all the water gone? A small face peered at him, a small boy’s face. ‘Mama . . .’ the boy began.

  ‘Stand up, little one, you’ll get your knees dirty,’ his mother said. ‘Let’s go and see the penguins, shall we?’ She ushered him away. ‘Hold Mama’s hand while we go down the stairs.’ The woman glared back at the monk.

  He was lying on the backpack, something hard pressing against his cheek. The urn. He’d been using Soshin’s urn as a pillow for his watery dreams. Yugen gathered up his belongings, descended the stairs, and f led out the back exit.

  If only Soshin were here to strike him, bring him back to mindfulness.

  When he was finally out of the Oceanworld precinct he begged for Soshin’s forgiveness. Once more he had lost sight of his task. It would not happen again.

  Yugen made his way to the station and crossed to the other side. He did not stop to think about whether to take the escalator or the stairs, did not gaze at the hovering of birds in the portico. There was sea on this side of the station, and ferries.

  He walked down the street. The ferry was gone but the same men were there. This time they did not straighten up as the monk approached but continued slouching. He thought he detected suppressed grins. Was it like the monastery where everyone knew what the other was doing? Did the men know he’d spent the night under the bench at Oceanworld, even what he’d been dreaming?

  ‘I would like to take a ferry ride,’ Yugen announced with confidence.

  One of the men put on an official-looking cap and stepped into a small ticket booth. ‘Where to?’ The others watched with veiled interest.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the monk faltered. A part of the sea without tourists, that wasn’t private property.

  ‘Finger Peninsula?’ the ticket seller suggested.

  ‘Is it beyond the pearl farm?’

  The man nodded. ‘It’s way over on the other side of the bay. If you walk through Finger Peninsula town, you’ll come to the Pacific Ocean. The next ferry leaves in one hour.’

  The Pacific Ocean would be perfect.

  Yugen purchased a ticket. One hour. He must not anticipate, attach himself to the ferry by his desire for it to arrive.

  He strolled by some timber jetties. At the end of one sat a woman with a small portable easel. She was sketching the bay, the broad sweeps of shoreline topography, strokes that marked the glimpsed horizon, the curves of land that drifted into each other so you couldn’t tell if they were separate islands or more contours of the mainland. In the foreground was the outline of a man fishing.

  Yugen looked from the drawing to the bay. There was no fisherman. The woman continued the pencil line from the slightly curved rod down to the water. Her bay was gridded with lines marking something under the water, buoys, round and black, delineating the area. She was sketching with such speed, as if the bay was posing for her, a subject that might become impatient under her pencil strokes, and shift, rearrange itself. She stopped,
looked at the sketch. The monk saw her shoulders rise and fall. She turned the page and began afresh. Perhaps he had disturbed her.

  No sign of the ferry. Yugen came back to the waterfront shops. In the centre of the row was an old timber building with sliding doors, the vertical slats of different lengths creating a pleasing pattern. The once dark timbers above the facade were 66 bleached almost white by sea air. The building had a colonial tropical feel about it, a faded grandeur.

  Yugen entered the cool dark atmosphere of the past. The f loorboards had the same satiny sheen as those in the monastery, polished by centuries of softly slippered feet walking across them. The monk loved the feel of such f loorboards. In the smooth sheen he saw ref lected all the monks who had gone before him, and how his footsteps also contributed to the sheen, subtly changing it, so that the f loor itself was always in a process of becoming. Many feet had walked across the f loor of the shop. It was uneven, dipping slightly at the main entrance.

  Yugen heard the steady whirr of the electric fan on the counter, an old-fashioned fan, blades like clover leaves enclosed in a disc-shaped cage. The girl behind the counter gave a faint smile and busied herself with dusting, then rearranging a display of earrings and necklaces.

  On the walls were faded photos of men in tight suits and fixed smiles. A framed collection of different kinds of pearls, and the oysters that produced them. One of an abalone pearl. Photos of blister pearls, gold-lipped oyster pearls, curiously shaped wild ones, before cultivation brought regularity.

  The shopgirl worked on the display using only the tips of her fingers, as if too much touching would spoil it. She had delicately pencilled eyebrows, curled eyelashes, lips the colour of plums.

  Had she applied her make-up on the train, as Yugen had seen young women do, so expert at transforming their faces that they were able to carry on a conversation at the same time?

  ‘Looking for something in particular?’

  Yugen realised that he’d been staring. A prickling sensation rose into his face. He looked out across the bay; still no ferry. He was in the shop, he should buy something. ‘What is this?’ he asked, indicating two imperfectly shaped pearls on the end of a small silver chain.

  ‘A cell phone accessory.’

  Yugen did not have a cell phone. He stood for a moment contemplating the pearls then moved on to a basket of discounted items—key rings, brooches, little purses made of silk. Something caught his eye. A star on a white background. He picked it up—an ornamental disc attached to a key ring. He had seen this star before, only last night—at Oceanworld, in the sea woman’s bag. But the memory was older than that. Perhaps something in the city, at the Blue House. While Yugen’s mind busied itself trying to locate the memory, his fingers idly turned the disc over. On the other side was a pattern of lines—five vertical crossed by four horizontal. This too looked familiar. It could have been anything—netting, checked cloth. Yugen seemed to remember a man on the train wearing shorts with checks on them. He continued turning the disc—star and cross-hatching alternately coming into view.

  Now he knew where he had seen this, the two of them together: in Soshin’s coffin, on the little prayer bag. How did Soshin happen to have a prayer bag with this design? Had he been here, to this shop?

  ‘What are these markings?’ he asked the girl.

  ‘The talisman of diving women.’ The girl picked up another key ring from the basket. ‘The star is drawn with one line, to find the way back. And the cross-hatching represents a net to trap dangers.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Usually on their bonnets.’

  ‘No,’ the monk said urgently, ‘where are the women?’

  She was still smiling but something had changed. He was showing too much interest. ‘Would you like to purchase the key ring?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The girl spread a sheet of pale green wrapping paper onto the counter, and placed the key ring in the centre of it. She was folding the corners in when Yugen heard a juddering. He looked up and caught sight of churning white water. Not only was the ferry at the pier but it was preparing to leave.

  The shopgirl was still in the process of wrapping, a length of silver ribbon in her hand. ‘It’s fine as it is.’ Yugen grabbed the key ring, put money on the counter and raced towards the pier. He did not even wait for his change.

  10

  Taming

  Chicken had taken the photo off the family tree and brought it with her. She squeezed past the sign which said: seal performance—11.30, and entered the auditorium, her footsteps echoing in the big empty space as she made her way to the top. The room was as large as a basketball court, with tiered seating that rose steeply enough for everyone to be able to see, even those at the very back.

  Beyond the seating was a covered walkway connecting the auditorium to other areas of the aquarium. There was a view of the water, even though it was only the sludge of Boat Harbour. Sometimes rainbow patterns of oil spill marbled the surface, but mostly the harbour water was grey and insipid. The big ships, moorings and piers stood over it like playground bullies.

  Chicken sat in the middle of the back row and stretched out her arms. She felt powerful up here, the whole auditorium in front of her, like the conductor of an orchestra—she only had to point a baton at someone and they would do whatever she asked. She closed her eyes, imagined herself at the top of the family tree, all the seats filled with the generations to come.

  Chicken slid the photo out from between the pages of the writing pad. She smiled fondly at the missing corner, the raggedy edges left behind, which made it look as if a bite had been taken out of it. With ease Chicken slipped back into the photo, located the feeling, how she was sick of standing still and wanted to get away, the strong grip Lilli had on her.

  She no longer remembered the reason she was being difficult or why they were dressed up in their good winter coats, whether they were going out or had put them on especially for the photograph. Violet held the camera, made them stand against the white wall of the house and smile.

  Chicken wasn’t sure when she first saw the photo but she recalled vividly the day it got torn. Lilli had the photo box on her lap and was selecting pictures to show Chicken.

  ‘Look at this naughty, grumpy baby,’ Lilli teased.

  Chicken laughed till she realised who that naughty grumpy baby was. She tried to grab the photo from Lilli.

  The tussle persisted till Lilli finally yanked the photo away—minus a corner, which Chicken held between thumb and forefinger. They both sat there staring at what they had done. When the shock waves settled, Chicken offered the piece to Lilli.

  ‘Glue?’

  Lilli shook her head. ‘They’ll know. It’s probably best if it simply goes missing.’ Lilli put the photo down the front of her dress.

  When Chicken asked where it was Lilli said the photo had disappeared. Eventually Chicken forgot about it.

  She didn’t see it again till the morning Lilli went away. Chicken had woken to find a shadow moving around the room. ‘Who’s there?’ Chicken growled into the darkness. If it wasn’t Lilli, if it was a ghost, the gruffness of her voice would make it disappear.

  The figure froze for a second, then turned around. ‘Shh. Go back to sleep.’

  On Lilli’s bed was Cedar’s old suitcase, the one that did up with straps. Lilli was filling it with clothes.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Packing.’ Packing? ‘I’m going to the city.’ No-one had said anything about a trip to the city.

  ‘Is it a secret?’ Chicken asked.

  ‘It won’t be in a few hours when they f ind I’m not here.’

  ‘But you can’t just go like that, without telling anyone. What about Mum and Aunt Pearlie?’

  ‘Trust me, they won’t mind. No-one will.’

  Chicken watched Lilli walk briskly from the cupboard to the case and back again. ‘I’ll mind,’ she piped up.

  Lilli stopped, turned her head away. Then she said
in a bright voice, ‘Do you want to help?’ Lilli handed Chicken a dress. ‘Hey, which shoes should I take—the black or the brown?’

  ‘Black.’ Chicken started folding the dress. Something wasn’t right. ‘Were you going to keep it a secret from me as well?’ she asked.

  Lilli stopped again, her hand on the cupboard door. ‘Of course not,’ she said.

  It was starting to get light. Chicken could now see clearly what was happening. ‘You weren’t going to say anything, were you? If I hadn’t woken up you would have just gone!’ Instead of putting the dress in the suitcase Chicken threw it at Lilli. It landed at her feet, sleeves outstretched. Both sisters looked at the dress lying there like a war casualty. Lilli started to smile, biting her lip, trying not to. Eventually, Chicken was grinning too.

  When the bag was fully packed, the straps done up, Lilli combed her hair and secured it with a clip.

  ‘You look nice,’ offered Chicken.

  Lilli went over to her bedside table and pulled something out from beneath the doily. ‘I was going to leave you this,’ she said, handing her sister the torn photo. Chicken stared at it. ‘I wrote something on the back.’

  Chicken turned the photo over. Just because things disappear doesn’t mean you won’t see them again. She kept her eyes wide open, afraid that if she blinked it would push tears out.

  Lilli’s arms came around her. Chicken could feel her sister’s body trembling. ‘Are you afraid?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not.’ Then Lilli squeezed Chicken so tightly it pushed the breath out of her. Finally Lilli stood up. ‘Take good care of those girls.’ Then she left, shutting the door behind her.