by Suzy Turner
CHAPTER SEVEN
Later, I felt the need to get out of the house and have a look around. Gabriel had told me not to wander too far and, above all, he warned, “Do not venture into the forest.”
I had no idea why I was to avoid the forest, but I did as he said and instead took the gravel pathway towards the water. I didn't have to go far.
As I wandered along the edge of the ice cold blue waters of the Pacific Ocean, I tried not to dwell on the fact that there was still no trace of my parents. Even after all these weeks, there was still nothing. We had been in touch with the British authorities but it was looking more and more like this case would be shelved. It would continue to be unexplained. An unsolved mystery.
Instead of dwelling on recent life-changing events, I attempted to fill my head with the beauty that surrounded me. From the deep blue ocean to the bright blue of the cloudless sky and the startlingly beautiful green islands off in the distance, I was left truly breathless by its utter magnitude. Having little chance to appreciate it before now, I thought of how narrow-minded I must have been while living within London. Why my mother and father had never told me of the awe-inspiring landscapes to be found here, I will never know. It was like stepping foot inside the most magnificent giant oil painting – a true masterpiece that no artist could ever imitate.
Had I grown up here, I would never have wanted to leave and everyone I knew would have been told of its breathtaking magnificence.
Suddenly something jumped high out of the water and back again with a loud plop. I was startled but curious. I searched for more movement but there was nothing other than the gentle lolling of the soft waves lapping against the shore.
Finding a huge piece of driftwood on the little beach, I sat and waited patiently for it to happen again. I was determined to see what was capable of jumping right out of the water before my eyes.
I didn't have to wait long. Another splash and a plop, and a large fish revealed itself to me. Having little experience of such things, I had no idea what type of fish jumped like this – actually, I had no experience of fish at all – not to eat, nor to catch or even to look at, other than in school books.
I had never been in the ocean, nor had I even been on a boat prior to my arrival in Canada. Narrow-minded, lacking in experience of all kinds and naïve is probably how the people here must see me, I thought, sighing. If only my parents knew what I was going through. I didn't blame them, of course I didn't. I just wished they had been more forthcoming with so many things. And now... perhaps they would never get the chance.
On the other hand, had they not disappeared, I would have continued on that same path. The same boring road with no twists or turns. The only 'fun' I had ever had was with December, and even then that was only ever at school. There had never been any excitement, unless you count the day when some kids had tried to blow up a school toilet. That was the extent of the excitement in my world. Until now.
Not even the stories from the fairy tales I was so fond of could match the magic that could be found here in British Columbia. Even though I'd only been here a day or so, I hadn't even realised I was in British Columbia. I had noticed it on the licence plates of some of the cars in the area... 'Beautiful British Columbia'.
So I'd found an atlas in Gabriel's huge book collection and pinpointed Canada and discovered how vast a country it was. A country that was divided into a number of different provinces. British Columbia was the one the furthest to the west of the country and Powell River, I discovered is right on the west coast, right by the Pacific Ocean. I was also amazed how close it seemed to Asia and how far from England.
Clearly, had I known when I was younger, I would have taken a lot more notice in my geography class. Now though, I would simply have to learn myself. I decided that I would start with Gabriel's ample book collection, once I had settled in.
As I admired the giant oil painting that surrounded me, I took a deep breath, breathing in that lovely scent of the fresh country air, the ocean and the pebbles around my feet. I could hear the faint squawks of birds in the distance where they flew from tree top to tree top and then soared overhead, eye-balling the fish below. But the breathtaking scenery could not stop my thoughts from once again returning to my parents, and I felt a little pang of guilt. Guilt for enjoying myself.
Shivering, I stood up intent on walking a little more to warm myself up. I continued along the same stretch, carefully climbing over gigantic pieces of driftwood, clueless as to how such immense logs of wood could find themselves washed up here. Where had they come from? Had they drifted for hundreds of miles, thousands of miles? Or had they just come from around the corner? Probably the sort of question that every Canadian would know the answer to.
Canadian. That was me now. Actually, that had always been me. My father was Canadian, I didn't know about my mother. I was just born in the UK, wasn't I? Suddenly I had doubts about everything. I remembered that photo Ben had shown me at the airport. I was just a baby. I had never seen it before and if I recalled correctly, the background certainly didn't appear to be London. Could I have been to Canada before? Could I have been born here? These were questions that needed answering.
Yes, I had an English accent that everybody absolutely loved here (they couldn't get enough of it, which was difficult for me, being such a quiet girl) but I was Canadian.
Another splash revealed yet another jumping fish to my side as I turned away from the water and headed towards a dirt track that I presumed would take me back to the main road to lead me back home. Home. Weird that it didn't feel wrong to call it that after so little time.
I was just a few metres down the track when a grey cat suddenly appeared from nowhere. It approached me and began to purr gently at my side. I bent down to stroke it and it stayed put for just a moment while it stretched regally before it began walking away from me, towards the sound of some softly playing music that took me by surprise as I hadn't noticed any houses nearby. Although the music sounded foreign, it was beautiful. Slightly eerie.
I approached, tiptoeing towards the sounds. Leaning against a huge tree almost twice the width of me, I carefully peered around it to get a better view of the property. The cat had left me alone and had wandered up towards the house.
Even though it was the chilliest day since my arrival, on account of the cloudless sky, I guessed, I saw an older lady standing outdoors with her back to me. She was painting. What she was painting, I couldn't quite see. She was humming loudly to the music as the cat positioned itself at her side.
Her grey and white hair was tied up in a bun, revealing an elegant long neck. She wore a woolly grey poncho that ended in a point just below her bottom. She was slim and sleek and as she moved, she did so gracefully.
“Come on over, child. I won't bite or scratch you,” she yelled above the sound of the music. She didn't turn, instead she continued to sing and paint as if I wasn't there.
I came out of my hiding place and slowly walked towards her, wondering why she would say that she won't bite or scratch me.
As I approached, she finally turned to reveal perhaps one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen on a lady of her age. But even with such beauty, I was startled by her apparent feline appearance. The way the colours in her hair intertwined with each other reminded me of the cat that had led me there. Her ears, although small, appeared to have a slight pointedness to them. And she had the brightest of light blue eyes. As she looked at me, she smiled a big hearty smile.
“I'm guessing you're Lilly?” she said with a voice that could melt chocolate. She must have every man in Powell River after her, I thought.
Nodding, I held out my hand, “How do you know?” I asked.
“You look just like your grandmother when she was young,” she said as she took my hand, kindly holding it in one and stroking it with the other. “Plus... you have the same scent,” she added, smiling. “She, however, didn't have dyed hair!” she said with a laugh. “I'm Rose. I know your family well.”
Rose. It suited her.
“Plus, not a lot happens around here without me hearing about it. I do like a bit of gossip and you've been the talk of the town for some time. People have been gossiping ever since your parents disappeared. Now, I understand that you probably don't want to talk about it but I just want you to know that when you do feel like talking, my door is always open to any of the Tulugaq clan,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Tulugaq” I repeated, “my grand-father told me what it meant this morning. I had no idea. I've always been known as Lilly Taylor so it's going to take me some time to get used to it,” I replied.
She looked shocked. “You didn't know what it means? And you didn't know that you are a Tulugaq?” she asked, clearly not expecting an answer.
Shaking her head, she gently pulled me by the hand and led me indoors. “Boy have you been kept in the dark.”
We walked in through the back door that led into a cosy country kitchen and she suggested I sit down at her breakfast bar while she placed a pan of water to boil on the hob and prepared a cup of tea for us both.
“I understand from Gabriel that your father changed your surname when you left the country. I'm sure it was because Tulugaq is not the easiest of names to pronounce. Especially for those English folk over there,” she added, smiling.
“The word itself, Tulugaq, as you now know, means raven and it has been your family's name for many generations. There is much more for you to know but perhaps you are not ready for that yet.”
“Can you tell me what you mean?” I asked curiously.
Stopping what she was doing for a second, she turned and smiled, “Now that wouldn't be right. It is Gabriel who will tell you but he will only do so when you are ready. Now, would you like sugar in your tea?”
I nodded as she dropped a heaped teaspoonful into the hot tea and swiftly stirred it before handing it to me.
“Rose?”
“Yes dear?”
“Did you know my parents? I mean, before they moved to England?”
“I knew your father, Jack, well, but not... not your... your mother. She wasn't from around here. I believe she was a city girl,” she sighed, “I am astounded that you know so little about your parents, your family and your ancestry. We are proud of our heritage here. I do know why you have been kept in the dark but, like I said... that's a conversation Gabriel will have with you when you are ready.”
More like when he's ready, I thought.
Changing the subject altogether, Rose led me into the living room, where I noticed about six cats laying in various places - a sofa, a soft rug, on top of a cabinet. Any nook and cranny seemed to have a cat curled up tightly inside it. The sound of soft gentle purring floated into my ears. It was so calming that I could easily have curled up with them for a nap.
“These are my babies,” pointed Rose, “I won't bore you with all their names. There are 11 of them altogether... for now anyway.”
We sat where there was a free space, and immediately three cats jumped onto her lap and another two rubbed themselves against her legs, purring even louder than before.
I looked around and noticed that almost every painting on the wall was of some kind of feline animal. A wild mountain lion, a domestic siamese, a ginger tom, a black puma, a lynx. The most beautiful image was of a white tiger – the animal seemed ready to jump out of the frame and into the living room. I stood up to take a closer look and saw that they were all painted by a person called Rosa Lima.
“Did you do these, Rose?” I asked. “They're absolutely amazing. So lifelike.”
“Why thank you dear, that's very kind of you. They are all mine. Rosa Lima is my real name. It's Portuguese actually. My great-great-grand-father was originally from Portugal and he married a local girl so you could say I have Portuguese blood.” As she answered me, it was then that I noticed her eyes appeared to have changed colour. No longer were they bright blue, but so dark that they reminded me of treacle. I had never seen anything like it. Or was I mistaken? Perhaps it was merely a trick of the light?
“Is that what language the music was earlier, Portuguese?” I queried, recalling that lovely music with the foreign words that, along with the cat, had enticed me towards Rose's house.
“Why yes that's right. It's my favourite song. Canção do Mar – Song of the Sea. It's traditional Portuguese music called Fado. Do you like it?” Rose asked me.
Nodding, “I love it,” I answered and she stood up and went to her stereo and pressed play again before returning to her soft brown leather armchair with slightly ripped arms.
Together we sat in silence and listened to the beautiful sounds of Rose's favourite song.
