She described, too, the melancholy she felt when she watched Balinese children running barefoot through the streets under the care of grandparents, cousins or older siblings because their parents were too busy making a living elsewhere. And how she’d cried in the street outside Ubud Palace one day, after meeting a ragged beggar woman holding a limp-looking infant in her arms, who told Cara she couldn’t feed her baby anymore.
‘I could care for Astrid,’ she told Lorenzo now. ‘I devoted myself to her, but she was taken away. Why is life so unfair?’
Lorenzo drained his coffee, his face sombre, evidently considering the question. Cara looked down at her lap, shocked by how much she’d divulged, and exhausted by the telling. Her two closest friends in Bali—Indra and Jasmine—had never been privy to such an outpouring. No one had, in fact.
‘Why is life unfair?’ murmured Lorenzo. ‘It is hard to say, Cara. But I know from personal experience that sometimes parents do and say things that they don’t mean, or that they live to regret. Sometimes these things are within their control, but many times they are not.’ His voice was a little shaky.
‘I have known a mother’s love,’ he continued. ‘They do their best to protect their children and keep their family together. But sometimes mothers, too, make mistakes. Sometimes they don’t have everything they need in their lives to make better choices. Whatever happened to your daughter, Cara, I can see that you loved her deeply. When she was alive, she would have known that. She would have felt that, deep inside her. And that is all that counts, in the end.’
Cara’s eyes smarted as she remembered how she’d soothed Astrid off to sleep with old-fashioned lullabies, or danced her around the kitchen to ballet music. How she’d fretted incessantly about Astrid’s body temperature, her appetite, and even changes in her bowel movements. How she’d celebrated her first smile, her first commando-crawl, her first tentative steps. How she’d sat beside her crib after midnight feeds, watching Astrid’s tiny chest rise and fall, enthralled by her sheer perfection. Did Astrid feel all that love? And had it been enough for her, when the time came for her to leave?
The tears spilled over and she gripped Lorenzo’s hand, searching for the right words. ‘How do you know?’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘Pain understands pain.’
Cara saw the hurt in his eyes and wondered who or what had wounded him so badly.
‘We should go,’ he said, standing up. ‘Before they really do leave us behind.’
Cara got up too, hastily wiping her eyes. They hurried along the path to the car park and onto the waiting minibus. Sarcastic cheering greeted them.
‘What took you so long?’ asked Remy. ‘Something foul to cleanse from your soul, Lorenzo?’ He grinned cheekily.
‘You’d have to ask the priest that,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘We got lost in the moment, I think.’
‘Excellent!’ Pak Tony exclaimed. ‘When we are fully present in the moment, fear is pushed from our minds.’
The man has a maxim for everything, Cara thought, as the minibus nudged its way out into the traffic.
‘Did you get a souvenir photograph at the sacred spring?’ asked Janelle, waving hers.
Lorenzo shook his head. ‘Some things cannot be captured by camera. As a photographer, I know this.’
Cara gave Lorenzo a quick, grateful smile. Life’s most precious moments couldn’t be memorialised, she knew. Joy and suffering inscribed upon the soul were remembrance enough.
The day seemed to drag for Cara. Back at the resort, after another vegan lunch, they watched Henry deliver a faltering but heartfelt passion talk about citizen-driven science, entitled ‘Not just a hobby: how birdwatching can help humanity’s future’. This was followed by a crisp, rather intellectual delivery by Lorenzo on the topic ‘Is the camera a medium of art?’ Cara cringed at the conclusion of these talks, knowing hers was due for delivery tomorrow. With little other inspiration, she would have to talk about her freelance work as an online social justice reporter, mostly on issues affecting women and girls. It used to be a passion, before her world imploded.
In the late afternoon, Cara followed the hulking figure of Littlefish, the Yup’ik spiritual healer of whom Pak Tony had spoken so warmly, into a dimly lit outhouse for her ‘personal pow-wow’. A massage table was set against one wall, positioned beneath a rainbow-coloured dreamcatcher. Four recliner chairs were clustered around a low table in the centre of the room, on which an eclectic array of mystical objects was laid out: a collection of quartz crystals, a deck of tarot cards, a drum with a fish-shaped handle, and a jagged dagger that Cara recognised as a keris—an Indonesian blade believed by many to possess magical powers.
For a moment, Cara wondered what an Indo-European divination method like tarot, or New Age crystal therapy, had to do with Native American beliefs. The past four years had rendered her sceptical. Practically any rite was purchasable in Ubud, from pre-Christian European bonfire ceremonies and the chalice rituals of Celtic Wicca, to the incense and chanting of Hindu puja. Cara always felt troubled by this mixing and matching across multiple traditions, seemingly at the practitioner’s whim. While some expatriates embraced it as spiritual universalism—a kind of friendly global fusion declaring your God is my God—she often wondered if it wasn’t the worst type of appropriation, disrespecting all of the traditions involved. This was one of the reasons that she had ultimately embraced yoga as her daily practice. It promised nothing divine or eternal, but simply a space in which to nurture a hollowed-out body and a grief-numbed mind.
‘Please, sit down,’ said Littlefish, his voice strangely high for a man of his size. He motioned to a chair.
Cara obeyed, avoiding his gaze. Littlefish was an unnerving sight, his bulky girth arrayed in an animal-hide kaftan. He wore a headdress, too, in the shape of a bear’s claw. His hair was greasy and dreadlocked, his skin chalky—unusual for a resident of Bali—and his huge jowls quivered when he spoke. When she’d first seen him, she’d stifled a giggle. He looked like an Anglo-Saxon imposter dressed up as a medicine man for Halloween. And now that he’d spoken, his voice had a southern twang that didn’t sound Native American at all.
‘You doubt I’m a Yup’ik man, don’t you?’ said Littlefish suddenly, his brown eyes boring into hers.
Cara’s mouth dropped open. ‘I … I don’t know much about Yup’ik culture,’ she stammered, horrified that he’d read her mind. ‘You … don’t look as I expected, I’m sorry. In Australia there are many people who identify as Aborigines but sometimes they don’t look very indigenous either.’
Littlefish stared at her a moment longer. Then he smiled, apparently unoffended by her answer. ‘You are Australian,’ he observed. ‘But you don’t really feel at home anywhere, do you?’
I used to, Cara thought, determined not to disclose anything. She was sick of supposed healers who conversed their way through a session, gleaning important titbits of information to help them flesh out a picture of their client’s life.
‘I can see there is nowhere you feel at peace,’ he went on. ‘There is no refuge for you anymore.’
In spite of her cynicism, for a moment Cara felt as if she might burst into tears.
‘Have some tea,’ said Littlefish, gesturing to a steaming mug of brown liquid on the table. ‘The herbs will help you relax.’
She dutifully lifted the mug to her lips and sipped, before screwing up her nose at the bitter taste. She replaced the mug on its saucer. ‘What kind of herbs are these?’ she asked.
‘I am going to channel Great Spirit now,’ Littlefish said, ignoring her question. ‘Don’t be alarmed if I burp or sneeze, or move around the room as the energy works through my body. I may have to lay hands on you, and you may feel some warmth when I do. If there is anything you are not comfortable with, please tell me straight away and we will find another path.’
Cara nodded, swallowing hard.
Littlefish picked up the drum from the table. He began to strike it with a long thin stick, alternat
ing between the head and the rim, creating two distinct sounds.
‘Close your eyes now,’ he commanded. ‘Breathe slowly and deeply.’
Obeying him, Cara listened to the deep resonance of the drum, noticing how the sound changed. Littlefish began to sing, and his voice was surprisingly sonorous. The rhythm sped up, but just as Cara began to recognise some of the song’s repeating forms, Littlefish stopped drumming.
He snickered. It was a high-pitched giggle, followed by a long, deep burp.
‘My tummy hurts,’ he announced in a strange falsetto. ‘I swallowed too much water.’
Gooseflesh rippled across Cara’s neck.
‘Mummy?’ he whimpered.
The fine hairs on her arms stood on end. She shook her head, willing the voice away, while feeling compelled to keep listening.
‘You’re so sad, Mummy.’ It was a peculiar voice, accentless.
Cara’s lips parted. The air left her lungs in a sharp exhalation. He has to stop, she thought. Whatever he is doing, he has to stop it now.
‘Don’t worry, Mummy,’ said the diminutive voice. ‘It’s alright.’
Hot tears pooled behind her eyelids. She was paralysed between the desire to call an instant halt to the session and risk missing out on … what exactly? Or to allow it to continue, and risk being torn apart.
Littlefish made a guttural sequence of clicking and popping sounds. Cara’s head felt fuzzy, but she was certain that she detected an aroma in the room: of mashed potato and mince, the meal she had often cooked when Astrid started taking solids.
The soft, girlish voice said, ‘I am safe here.’
‘Where?’ Cara whispered. ‘Where are you?’
‘With you,’ the voice replied. ‘I never left. You must know that, Mummy.’
Cara’s chest began to heave. ‘I … I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I should never have let you … wander off.’
Littlefish began to whimper, then gave another loud burp. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Mummy. It had to be that way.’
‘No.’ The word blasted its way out of her constricted throat. ‘It didn’t have to be that way. I could have stopped it from happening. I should never have handed you over to someone else. I could have saved you, if I hadn’t been so selfish …’
Cara moaned, catapulted back to Astrid’s final minutes. How she’d toddled through the colourful chaos of bouncy balls strewn across picnic rugs, giggling and clapping her hands. How she’d called out ‘Du-du-du!’ in excitement as she spotted the ducks paddling in the distance. How she’d stood on tiptoes to reach the low trestle table laid with party food, stuffing her little fists with fairy bread, before turning and spotting a large dog belonging to one of the partygoers. How Cara had whisked Astrid up into her arms, deeming the animal a danger, and passed her instead to Miranda, a trusted friend from her mothers’ group. How the last words she’d ever spoken to her daughter had been utterly banal—Stay here with Miranda, honey, I’ll be five minutes—before she’d trotted away to talk to Ravi, an old flame from university. And how Astrid had called out ‘Mummy!’ one last time, before Miranda had distracted her with bouncy balls.
If only she could touch Astrid again. Shivering, Cara stretched out her hand.
‘Mummy, be careful where the ducks are,’ said the voice.
Cara winced, remembering the coroner’s report—and the media coverage that ensued—outlining that Astrid, in all likelihood, had followed the ducks into Manly Dam. ‘Astrid?’ Cara’s fingers fluttered in the air, searching for her daughter. Suddenly, she felt small, soft fingers pressing back against hers. ‘Astrid!’ she gasped, goosebumps cascading down her arms.
‘There is no failure, Mommy. There is only forgiv—’
Involuntarily, she opened her eyes.
Littlefish’s enormous hand was touching hers. Cara wrenched it away and covered her mouth, sobbing. The healer blinked and stared blankly for a second, before refocusing his eyes.
‘She was here,’ he said. ‘Your daughter. But now she has reverted. She is never far from you.’
Tears cascaded down Cara’s cheeks and she shook her head, overcome. ‘How do you … how could that happen?’
Littlefish lifted a glass of water to his lips. ‘I cannot explain it. Great Spirit comes and goes. I am just the receptacle. I am sorry she died. Your daughter loved you and … the red-headed man I saw.’
‘My husband, Richard,’ Cara whispered. ‘Astrid’s father.’
Littlefish nodded. ‘Did you understand your daughter’s message about your safety?’
Cara shrugged. ‘There were ducks … on the day she died.’
‘No matter,’ said Littlefish. ‘In time you will understand. Come.’ He gestured to the massage table. ‘You must be exhausted. I will lay hands on you and sing to Great Spirit, to rebuild your energy. Lie down and rest.’
She walked robotically to the massage table, her limbs leaden, and climbed onto it. Littlefish placed one hand between her shoulder blades, the other over her sacrum, and within seconds she began to feel a soothing warmth through her clothes.
Littlefish began crooning, a warbling, affecting song. Her body melted into the table, her ankles rolled inwards, and within seconds, she felt saliva collecting beneath her tongue.
Suspending all scepticism, she surrendered to the song.
An hour later, at the southern reaches of the resort, the group assembled for sunset drinks on a bamboo balcony overlooking the Ayung River gorge. They stood together next to a long timber bar, behind which two Balinese attendants offered them drinks and canapes.
A long wooden table was laid out for seven nearby, decorated with swirling trails of rose petals and tall white candles that flickered in the breeze. Cara was groggy, weary and acutely emotional. It was only because Pak Tony was joining them—and perhaps there would be a penalty for truancy—that she hadn’t boycotted drinks and dinner altogether.
‘What I want to know is, how does an Alaskan Eskimo end up in Bali?’ said Annie, moving closer to the women of the group.
‘Isn’t the term Eskimo considered a bit offensive these days?’ asked Janelle quietly.
‘Maybe,’ said Annie, rolling her eyes. ‘But he was a bit offensive to me, too. A real nineteenth-century spiritualist with all the trappings … burping and farting and spooky voices. There were probably magic mushrooms in that tea he gave us! After five minutes, I’d had enough and stopped the session.’
‘Did you really?’ Henry joined the conversation. ‘You’re much braver than me. Why, what did he do?’
Annie pressed her lips together. ‘It isn’t possible to speak with the dead.’
‘He didn’t, did he?’ Henry looked shocked. ‘What, with Kevin?’
Cara remembered that this was Annie’s husband, who’d passed away under tragic circumstances.
Annie’s eyes grew teary. Suddenly she looked vulnerable and rather old.
‘Oh, dear.’ Henry patted her arm. ‘How awful for you.’ He glanced around the wider group, his eyes stern behind his spectacles. ‘When I decided to join this course, I thought none of it could do any harm. But taking advantage of people’s vulnerability—that’s despicable.’
From his position seated on a bar stool, Remy nodded. ‘Maybe I am cynical, but I have been thinking … did Littlefish access our personal records?’ He spun the bar stool towards Lorenzo, seated on his other side. ‘All that information we wrote on our application forms, about major life traumas. Maybe Pak Tony shared it with Littlefish?’
Cara hadn’t considered that; there certainly had been sufficient media coverage for Littlefish to develop a good understanding of the circumstances surrounding Astrid’s death. It was all in the public domain, plastered across the internet: the coronial findings, the events leading up to the tragedy, photographs of Manly Dam, Astrid, Richard and even the members of her mothers’ group. Still, Remy’s theory jarred with Cara’s sense of her session with Littlefish, which had felt very real.
‘I doubt it,’ said
Lorenzo. ‘That would be a breach of privacy.’ He stared out across the gorge. ‘Littlefish channelled my grandmother. It was all very accurate.’ Cara noticed that Lorenzo’s hand shook a little as he drank from his glass.
‘For me too,’ she murmured, catching his eye. ‘It felt like my daughter was in the room.’
Annie’s face flushed red. ‘Well, even if it was accurate, what he’s doing is dangerous. I don’t think it’s real, but just say it was, then he’s messing with the occult. How do we know for sure that he’s channelling our loved ones? He could be contacting spirits who are pretending to be our loved ones. Did anyone think of that?’
Henry put an arm around Annie’s shoulders, attempting to soothe her. ‘It all sounds very distressing,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I didn’t meet any spirits in my session.’
‘So what happened in yours?’ asked Annie.
Henry chuckled. ‘Oh, Littlefish just put some crystals over my body, then I took a short nap on his massage table. He used some tarot cards, and the King of Cups is my big thing apparently, because it’s all about emotional maturity. He said I couldn’t grasp the feminine until I’d embraced the masculine.’ He glanced heavenward. ‘Then he told me to follow the truth in my heart or I’ll never fulfil my potential, which I fancy I’ve heard before … like, a thousand times.’
‘He used tarot with me too,’ said Remy, his face slightly more earnest than Henry’s. ‘I drew Lady Justice, with the blindfold, the scales and the sword. Littlefish said that justice was like love; blind to wealth and power. He told me not to fear heights, because that’s where the angels fly.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t know whether to laugh or leave.’ His expression turned wry. ‘Then I drew the Temperance card, reversed, which wasn’t good news at all. He warned me about imbalance and excess. And I say salut to that!’ Remy raised his glass and swallowed another mouthful of red wine, then turned to Janelle. ‘What happened in your session?’
Janelle winced. ‘He chanted loudly, which was a bit bewildering. Then he used crystals and talked about Great Spirit, which I guess is God for the Yup’ik people.’ She paused, her expression circumspect. ‘He said that I didn’t have to honour my mother’s fear anymore, that it was time to live my own life.’ Her voice was a little wobbly. ‘Right at the end of the session he told me, Your anger marks the path to love. I’ve got no idea what he means by that.’
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