by Mudrooroo
‘ “And as if her suffering wasn’t enough,” Carla exclaimed, her voice rising as she got some of her spirit back, “Maria wanted to be buried with her family in the main cemetery at Hermansburg. It was an overpowering desire. In fact, it is a custom here to have large family graves, and a family member not to be buried with the rest is considered a catastrophe. If a person is lost at sea as sometimes happens, an effigy of the loved one is buried in the grave. But in Maria’s case, they refused to bury her in the family grave. What with her being a suicide and a huge, bloated corpse which bore no resemblance to the Maria they used to know, they actually disclaimed all knowledge of the corpse and left it to rot on the hillside. It was only when it had begun to decay and to stink to high heaven, that an Indian servant dug a hole and using a long pole pushed her corpse into it. Poor, poor Maria,” she wailed out, but she still managed to keep her poise, so that I felt she was acting out a role. She exclaimed theatrically: “I feel like leaving this place; but no, I still feel that Maria has not bidden me farewell. I feel her presence.” She looked around wildly, her gaze fastening on something behind me. Taken in by, by her performance, I darted a look behind. Nothing, of course.
‘ “God, go into the kitchen and get me a gin and lime and one for Miss Tamada too. God, I feel, feel so utterly devastated. I want to die,” she wailed, her fist thudding into a silken cushion. The pug dog scuttled in alarm under the divan, and I left for the drinks as Carla dramatically flung her arms about Miss Tamada and cried: “Thank God, I have you, I really need you.”
‘I returned with the drinks to find both of them recovered except for a slight redness around the eyes. It had been an emotional scene, though now, on reflection, I consider it to have been somewhat far-fetched. I have a problem with those days. There is a kind of haze over them. It is almost as if I was drugged for the whole time I was there and suffered hallucinations. In fact, there was worse to come; but this occurred later ...
‘After we finished our drinks, Carla suggested that we stroll in the spacious garden which surrounded the bungalow on both sides and above and below. Miss Tamada particularly wanted to see it, as the garden had been landscaped by a Japanese who had been washed ashore during the Second World War and who had occupied his time with things Japanese.
‘Miss Tamada, her past sorrows forgotten, that is if they had ever existed, hummed and hawed over the meandering paths and miniature plains, over the seemingly haphazard placement of the pine trees in which she found significant patterns hinting at the arrangement of the Imperial Gardens in Osaka, or Kyoto, or some such place. She was especially touched by the blue and white wisteria. Her excitement pushed away Carla’s grief. We strolled along the main path which twisted and turned, ran back on itself and forked. One branch ran up the mountain; this Miss Tamada took as she wanted to get above the house and look down on the whole garden. The other branch, which Carla and I followed, descended to a huge cherry tree which seemed far too mature to date from the war.
‘Carla stood against the dark trunk and as I stood staring at her beauty, all the unease caused by her relationship with Miss Tamada fled. If only the memory of the death of Maria had not clung to me, I might have tried to make love to her then and there. Instead, I admired her and the tree. Huge clusters of cherry blossoms hung from the austere darkness of the branches like masses of pinkish, white seashells spread over a beach of black volcanic sand, which I had been told existed on the island and had been marked for development, naturally by Kitsune Corporation, as the first tourist resort.
‘How my mind and words go on. I assure you that I did not think those things then, at that precise moment. It was a sensual experience of a particular intensity, enhanced by the magic of that time between day and night. A cool sea-breeze brushed my skin as it went past to play with the tips of the branches. They bent gracefully in a rustle of cascading blossoms, then the thick, widespread boughs began themselves to sway with an easy grandeur as the day playfully fled the clutches of the pursuing tropic night. As I gazed, the tree-shape with the form of that beautiful woman blurred into a oneness; but the black of the tree trunk grew heavy and sombre. Carla herself was a splash of fading, golden light—now, see, it is that poetic streak I discovered in myself on the island. It lies, falsifies and beautifies. Too much harmony in this scene. Carla was too alive to be seen as merely part of the scenery, too much, I say, a woman of the world; at home in the boardroom as in the bedroom. Then, then, there is something else I admit. At the foot of the tree I caught the opening of some sort of cavern. Soft light gleamed. I started forward, then, then ...
‘This really happened. I swear it. Carla ripped herself from the dreary tree and the mouth of that cavern and ran to me. Her golden arms, pale in the gathering darkness, glided out and about my neck. She pulled my lips down to hers, gave me a hasty kiss, a mere touch, then drew back to ask: “Would you like to go and see one of the plantations tomorrow? You might find it of interest. You really need to know some of, some of what I would call, the transitional economy of the islands.”
‘ “Tomorrow? Well, why not, but tomorrow is tomorrow,” I exclaimed, pulling her to me.
‘ “How sweet you are, darling,” she murmured.
‘I buried my face in her hair. It held a strange animal odour which intoxicated me. I began backing her towards the cherry tree; but she resisted and murmured: “Not now, darling, not now, later. You’ll enjoy the plantation, oh yes you will,” she whispered in a tone which might have held promise or threat.
‘I tried to kiss her again, but she pulled free just as Miss Tamada appeared to put a stop to my attempts at lovemaking. Carla, a swirl of silk, ran to Miss Tamada and linking their arms, they strolled back to the bungalow with me in tow. I tried to quash my disappointment; but my mood of despondency returned, and I looked forward to the relief of a gin and lime.’
SESSION NINE
'Well, what do you think of the, the idyllic scene in which I found myself? A lone man with two attractive female companions. Don’t begin to envy me just yet, or ever, for those women were not your true-blue Aussie sheilas at all. To put it mildly, they were somewhat perverse. The garden scene had been nice, and we went back to the bungalow where thankfully Miss Tamada made herself scarce. Carla took my hand and led me into a room hung with peach-coloured silk behind which lights glowed softly. She was one for cloth and draperies, and for couches heaped with cushions. Almost every room in the bungalow had one. Now she slipped down on it, pulled me down beside her, then stroked my forehead with her electric touch. At last, I thought, I was to be alone with her. But she was up almost at once and left to slip into something more comfortable. This meant a kimono, silk of course, and one which reflected her eyes and skin colouring. She entered fastening the sash about her waist, then threw me a dark silk kimono. I was expected to put it on, and in front of her. I managed to do this and she left me on the couch while she fussed about a low table. It was then Miss Tamada came trotting in clad in a fresh kimono; but one which was more elaborate. She also had a huge wig on her head and her face was made up stark white. Her feral eyes gleamed out at me. She carried some tiny jugs of saki and tinier cups. She motioned Carla to the table, shot a glance at me, then left.
‘ “Tonight’s the night for Riyoko’s gourmet special,” Carla smiled.
‘ “Oh,” I replied, thinking it might be some Jap delicacy, or other. We had some pretty good Japanese restaurants on the Gold Coast, and naturally I had been in more than one or two. What I didn’t like was raw fish. It wasn’t the taste so much as the, the texture of the damn stuff. I liked my fish and chips as did all Aussies, but well, my fish had to be at least half-done, if not coated in batter and deep-fried. Carla smiled at me as I muttered: “Not that raw fish, I hope?”
‘ “No, Riyoko has been dying to try our Fuju fish. If it is as good as I think it is, it’ll be a plus for our island. The Japanese love it. You know they have a saying, only a fool eats Fuju, and only a fool doesn’t eat Fuju. So, perhaps you�
�ll lose out both ways.”
‘It seemed that Carla was wrong for Riyoko came back carrying a steaming pot in which pieces of cooked fish were floating. I glanced at her and asked: “Is this the famous Fuju?” Then I added facetiously: “The fish and chips of Japan.”
‘Miss Tamada refused to be drawn into levity. In all ways she seemed as dour as the Scottish skipper of the Tui-tui. She carefully set the dish on the table, placed chopsticks and small bowls in front of us and said: “Chiru!”
‘ “And what is that?” I asked.
‘ “The Japanese equivalent of fish stew,” she replied, and I remembered that the skipper also had had a dry sense of humour.
‘ “But a special one,” Carla laughed, “and who’ll be the first to try it? They say the first one who does takes her life in her hands.”
‘ “Just a fish stew,” I exclaimed. “Well, if someone has to be the first, I shall.”
‘Both of them watched me seriously. Ignoring the chopsticks, I poured some of the broth and fish pieces into a bowl, and demanded a spoon. Carla sighed and Miss Tamada trotted off to the kitchen to return with one. Under their eyes, I spooned the soup down. It hardly had any taste. Not much taste at all. The women continued to watch me.
‘ “Well,” Carla said, “I’ll sample a piece.” She took up a pair of chopsticks, broke them apart and daintily picked up a piece of fish. She held it in front of her face. I suddenly gave a gasp, which stopped her from completing her action. My mouth began tingling and I tried to drag in a breath through my contracting throat. Suddenly a spasm went through my body.
‘ “You, you,” I managed to whisper at the Japanese woman, then I felt myself sliding off to one side. Carla caught my body and stretched it out on the floor. I tried to move and couldn’t. Paralysed. Panic. I couldn’t do a thing, couldn’t move a muscle. But my mind was as clear as a bell.
‘ “Riyoko,” Carla exclaimed, bending over me, “I believe your chiru has claimed a victim.”
‘I stared up at her face, marvelling at the redness of the lips uttering those words and at those emerald eyes glinting with specks of gold. I was dying. I knew it; but I couldn’t do a thing about it. They had got me.
‘Another face, a white mask with glittering eyes came to bend over me. “Sometimes it happens like this. Chiru should be respected, not gulped down. It must be savoured. Too bad. The toxin drains from the flesh into the broth. It should not be drunk; but a fool and his life are quickly parted.”
‘In my field of vision, she calmly took the chopsticks from Carla’s hand and ate the piece of fish. “It is tangy, not as good as Japanese; but, ah, there is the tingling of the lips you get from this fish when it is properly prepared. There it is on my tongue. Only a slight numbness. Have a piece,” and she extended a morsel at the end of her chopsticks to Carla. I watched the fish disappear between her ruby lips. I wished to shout that it was poisoned, but could not move my lips.
‘Carla chewed gently, then said, “Yes, I see what you mean.”
‘ “A little saki will bring out the full flavour,” Riyoko added.
‘Leaving me on the floor, they sipped on their tiny cups of saki and chewed on the morsels of fish. I tried to feel anger at this callous treatment, but my mind refused to accept it. Now I knew that their plot had succeeded and I was dying. I wondered what they would do with my body. It was then that Carla bent over me again. I stared into that lovely face slightly flushed from the alcohol. It calmly regarded me for a moment, then her face came down close to mine and her hand went to my chest. “You know, Riyoko, he isn’t breathing at all. We must do something. We can’t leave him here all night. I know how poisonous puffer fish can be; but, well, do we sling him into a spare room and leave him there? Can he be revived?”
‘The Japanese woman knelt beside her. I watched her arm slip around Carla’s waist, although watched wasn’t the proper word. My eyes too were paralysed and I saw what was only in my narrow field of vision.
‘ “Sometimes, people recover quickly, sometimes they do not,” Miss Tamada stated as if, as if it was simply a minor business matter. “They say that it is like a living death. The body is paralysed and the mind remains clear. There is a ceremony which the Ainu, the original people of Japan, have, except that the shaman who does the ceremony is said to own the soul of the person he saves, and who wants to own this soul? My Australian friend, the Aborigine man, was most interested in the Ainu and their ceremonies. They were most interested in him too. He and I are very good friends and when he came to Japan ...”
‘ “Riyoko, I know him too. I wonder how he is getting on. It is some time since I saw him. He put me onto a most interesting natural remedy, though very, very expensive. It is a honey, extracted from what they call the honey ant and it appears to retard aging. Of course, it is still undergoing research, but the results are more than good. In fact, excellent. I meant to look him up in Australia, but the Prime Minister told me that he was on a most sensitive mission and that I might run across him sooner than I expected.”
‘ “He is like that. He appears when you least expect him ... But at the moment we are concerned with this person lying in front of us. You know, sometimes they only appear dead. I have heard that people have been buried alive.”
‘Inwardly I shuddered. I struggled to make them aware that I was alive. Paralysed yes, but alive. Already, I could feel the grave closing over me. I struggled, but could do nothing. Was I doomed to a fate worse than death?
‘ “Do you think that he is alive?” Carla asked. “He doesn’t look it. Perhaps, if only you knew that ceremony. It should be quite amusing and I might take the ownership of this soul upon myself. After all, if you own a car, you can leave it in the garage for years, if you want to. Ownership does not suggest responsibility, does it?”
‘ “Not to the person who is the owner, but perhaps to the person who is owned,” Miss Tamada replied gravely.
‘ “Do, do you, recall how the ceremony went?” Carla asked, somewhat breathlessly. She bent over my face again, her green eyes gravely regarding it. She took a pinch of my cheek between thumb and forefinger and nipped. At least, I think she did, for I had no feeling or response. “Well,” she again asked the Japanese woman, “do you know it?”
‘ “Maybe, for some of my family were double-lived ones, were shamans, and there is the matter of the fox. That will make a connection. There are also certain things I need, a drum, a wooden wand, a fox skull and some other things.”
‘ “Well, a drum is easy to obtain, but I don’t know about the other things. You said shamans. My family are great collectors and I believe there are ritual objects, skulls and things, from this island and others. My grandfather was an avid collector of such curiosities. Come on, let’s go and check over his collection.”
‘They ran off like, like two schoolgirls, leaving me to my misery, or rather to my clear consciousness of the room. My field of vision held the table and part of the ceiling; my ears collected sounds of crickets, cicadas, the call of a night bird, the brushing of wind against the walls, the sound of a door being opened, the female voice, sounds of Carla and Miss Tamada.
‘They were gone for too long. I lay there in a blue funk. I could see myself in a coffin, the lid being screwed down, the darkness, the thud of earth on the wood. I wanted to be mad, I wanted to cry out; but all I was was a clear consciousness without the ability to do a thing.
‘The women came back into the room, seeming light-footed and eager. They passed through my field of vision and I saw that they had found what they had been seeking. I also saw that they were naked, except for strange ornaments of bone, teeth and dull stones. Necklaces, bracelets, anklets and what have you. Miss Tamada put other things on the low table, collected the remains of, of the repast and left the room again. Carla looked at me, then tapped on the drum while she waited. She grew impatient and came to me. She felt my forehead for some reason, then twisted my head so that my field of vision now swept across the table and room. “I wond
er if there are any dances,” she murmured to herself, and attempted a few steps,
‘ “No dances,” Miss Tamada said, entering the room with a hibachi stove from which flames flickered. She placed it on the table, took up the drum then warmed it over the fire. She then picked up what looked suspiciously like a human femur and gave the drum a few whacks, heated the skin some more, then set up a fast, circular rhythm. “Here you try it,” she said to Carla. She did so and the drum rattled out. “Just let it come naturally like that,” Miss Tamada advised her. “The drum will talk to you, and you’ll go along with it.”
‘Carla brought the drum and sat next to my head. She began beating out the rhythm. The Japanese woman took up a carved stick, frowned at it, then passed it over the fire. She tapped it on the ground a few times and muttered something. She picked up a skull of some animal and warmed that too. It was filled with small bones. She spilt these out on the table-top, then scooped them up again. She waved and warmed the wand, while flinging handfuls of stuff into the fire. Some caused the flames to leap; others caused them to smoulder; still others raised a thick cloud of smoke. Finally she passed the skull and then the wand through the fire for a last time, then came towards me. Carla increased the tempo. Miss Tamada carried the skull in one hand and the wand in the other. She passed the skull over my body; then gave a loud “Lha-ha-ha-ha-ha” and began striking me with the wand starting at my feet. I felt nothing; but I heard what seemed to be some animal alight on the roof and scrabble around up there. The Japanese woman took the wand back to the fire and flung it down on the table. She turned and her face looked angry and fierce. She stalked towards me, grabbed the drum from in front of Carla and beat out a stronger rhythm. She flung the drum back at her, then returned to the table. She picked up something and turned. It was a snake. She flung it towards my head. I saw its mouth gape, heard it say, “Pish, pish.”
