Undine

by Penni Russon

  But the magic inside her stirred. She watched a hole open up at eye level, a fine rip through the air. She could hear seagulls. She could smell the sea. She felt a fine spray of water on her face. Something—a book—dropped out of the air. Then the schism sealed, and was gone.

  It was startling, and yet…not. She was not sure if she had done it, if she’d made it happen, or if it was merely a coincidence. Or if perhaps somehow, her father had known she was trying to contact him and had bridged the gap between them.

  She picked up the book, The Tempest. The leather cover was brittle, as if the book had been exposed to salt and sand, damp perhaps, or a dry, desiccating heat. It looked like it might fall to pieces in her hands. Carefully she opened the front cover which, as she had feared, cracked. The spine crumbled, and the pages hung loosely, ready to spill onto the floor, each one coarse but frail. She began to close the book but noticed in the corner of the first page, written in elegant curled letters, a name and an address.

  Prospero Marine

  Bay of Angels

  Tasmania

  It didn’t seem to Undine like an actual address. She couldn’t imagine, for example, that she could write it on a postcard and expect the card to arrive anywhere real.

  She would like to find the passage again, the one on the scroll of paper from the cigar case. How had it started? Something, something, thy father lies…

  “Whatever,” she told herself impatiently. “What about a bloody road map?”

  She stood at the top of the stairs, listening for Lou. All was quiet. She quickly located the book of road maps downstairs. Bay of Angels. It was southeast of Hobart, a tiny, remote-looking bay. There was one small road in from the peninsula road, Beach Road, represented by brown dots, indicating it was a dirt road.

  Undine felt a surge of excitement. As she stared at the map, another thought occurred to her. She found the phone book and with shaking hands looked up Marine. He was there, the only resident amongst businesses like Marine Construction & Towing Services Pty. Ltd. and Marine Insurance.

  As she dialed the number her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she thought he might hear it. The phone rang and rang until she was sure it would go unanswered. Her heart nearly broke through her ribcage when someone picked up.

  She stood there, holding the receiver. She said nothing; nor did the person who had picked up on the other end. She had the feeling that the person on the other end of the phone was listening to her silence, as carefully as he might listen to her speak, and she waited for him to say something. And then he did.

  “Undine,” said a perfectly ordinary—if slightly shaky—male voice on the other end of the phone. “Undine. It’s time to come home.”

  Part Two

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Trout lay on his bed, listening to the sound of car doors opening and closing, and Richard’s footsteps on the stairs as he ran up for one last thing.

  His mother followed behind, chanting the items Richard was expected to take with him, as if she were performing some bizarre ritual or conjuring a spell: “Toothbrush, laundry detergent, soap, phone card, white socks, black socks…” The list droned on. Richard, apparently oblivious, clattered back down the stairs.

  Trout was nearly asleep in the heat of the afternoon, listening to the rise and fall of the boys’ voices as they packed up the car. Then, so close to the edge of sleep that at first he thought he was dreaming, he heard her. Undine. He wanted to get up and look, but he knew the movement of the curtain might catch someone’s eye. He sat next to the window, listening to what they were saying.

  “So, are you running away?” he heard Richard ask. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  Trout heard Undine answer, but couldn’t catch the words, just the rising lilt of her voice.

  Then Richard again: “Is this about Trout? About us?”

  This time Undine’s answer was clear. “No. Really. It’s complicated. There’s been some other stuff going on lately that I can’t explain. Family stuff.”

  So Undine hadn’t confided in Richard. It gave Trout a dull sense of satisfaction. Yeah right, he thought. Dull like a dull knife, sticking into my throat.

  Then Grunt was saying, “Is this all you’ve got?” and they were gone. As he heard the car rev up the street, he couldn’t help but look out the window. It seemed so unlikely, but there was Undine, in the backseat. And he had no idea where she was going! How would he find her?

  He felt anger rising. “Why do you want to find her?” he asked aloud. “Let Richard find her.” Though of course, Richard already knew where she was going. He kicked his bed petulantly and stubbed his toe, bringing tears to his eyes.

  His toe throbbed. He rubbed it absentmindedly, still preoccupied with thoughts of Undine. Was she on a wild goose chase, searching for answers that didn’t exist? Was she running to something, or away from something? Either way she might get hurt, and she was alone. Richard didn’t count. He was sure Richard didn’t have a clue about the danger Undine might be in. He hadn’t seen the storm spilling out of her, or the way it almost crushed her.

  “Forget about it,” he instructed himself sternly.

  “It’s not your problem anymore,” he said two hours later, as he struggled with his physics textbook.

  “She doesn’t even want to be found,” he told his reflection in the microwave as he waited for his meal of leftovers to reheat, while Mrs. M lay down in her room to recover from their nice family meal.

  “Even if she did,” he mused to his upside-down self in the teaspoon after he’d sucked off the Oval-tine, “she wouldn’t want to be found by you…”

  Undine, he pondered, Undine…where would you go? His eyes came to rest on yesterday’s newspaper, and he stared at the headline for some time before he was able to take in what it was saying: FREAK STORM CATCHES WEATHER WATCHERS BY SURPRISE. He read the article twice and then pushed the newspaper away. Where had she gone? How could he find out? He squinted blearily at the paper.

  He died before you were born…. That’s what Louhad told Undine about her father. But Trout was sure that wasn’t true. He still had that quote from The Tempest and he’d read it over and over. He was convinced it meant that Undine’s father was somewhere alive, trying to communicate with his daughter. Which meant Lou had lied to Undine, all her life.

  He shut his physics book with a satisfyingly loud clap. “Head,” he addressed his swirling brain sternly. “Shut up.”

  He opened his textbook again and began to read, but even physics made less sense now that he’d seen Undine produce a storm out of nothing. Actually, science in general suddenly seemed on wobbly ground.

  Usually Trout found patterns of numbers comforting. Once he began calculating equations he would find himself transported to the same place, he imagined, where artists went when they painted, or musicians when they played. But today, he stayed firmly where he was, trapped inside his disappointing self.

  He was flicking restlessly through his physics book when his eye rested for a moment on the chapter heading for chaos theory. He remembered his idea—the one he’d had a million years ago, the night Undine turned into a girl who could make a storm—that Undine’s magic might have been like chaos theory. The butterfly effect: a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan and causes a storm in North America a few weeks later…. Perhaps instead of making a whole storm, Undine had simply made the right butterfly somewhere flap its wings. At least then she would be using energy that already existed, because it made no sense that energy could come from nowhere.

  His dad came in. “You going to digest that, son?” Trout realized he was gnawing on his pencil.

  “Can I use your computer, Dad?”

  “Games?” Trout wasn’t allowed his own computer. Something to do with spending eleven hours straight playing Doom in Year 6. Undine had said, “I’m sure it’s a good thing. Give you your own computer and within a week you’d be taking over the world.”

  Trout told the truth. “Research.” He didn�
�t have to say what he was researching. His dad shrugged (which meant yes) and reached for the coffee plunger.

  Trout hadn’t been the first to put the concepts of chaos theory and magic together. There were sites plastered all over cyberspace, some of them highly theoretical and almost incomprehensible and some mind-bogglingly insipid: “How to perform a simple glamor. This spell will change your eye color. (Note, you will not be able to see the difference, nor will anyone else.)” “Well, duh!” Trout said out loud. What he couldn’t find, though, was anything about real magic, the magic he had witnessed, the kind Undine was capable of.

  He noticed that one of the sites about magic and science had a chat facility. Looking at the stats he could see it was a pretty active site, with several members currently online. He sighed. He thought it was worth a go, though online chatting made him nervous. It was like going to a party where you didn’t know anyone—worse, because there were no cheese puffs! What if no one talked to you? What if even computer nerds thought you weren’t cool enough?

  He signed in, and entered a room called Magick and the Chaosphere and posted his query.

  TROUT: I’m trying to find info about chaos magic. Can anyone help me?

  MAX: What info? hookgirl: fishy! here fishy fishy fishy…

  iceWitch: Not another teenwitch!

  MagicMan2000: No love potions here. hookgirl: come and play fishy fishy…o…o…o

  TROUT: Not playing. Important.

  A new window popped up. It was a private message from the poster called Max.

  MAX: Just ignore those cyberpunk losers. They don’t know anything about magic. Last year they were Satanists. Next year *shrug*

  TROUT: Can you help me?

  MAX: What you want to know??

  TROUT: What is chaos magic?

  MAX:?? Impossible to say. It resists definition.

  TROUT: What are the rules? The laws?

  MAX: No rules. No laws.

  TROUT: But what does a chaos magician do? Is it real magic?

  MAX: Why you want to know??

  TROUT: For a friend. Please. It’s really important.

  There was a pause. Trout wondered if Max was still online. But it became clear that Max was simply gathering his thoughts.

  MAX: How does the universe work? How did the universe come to exist? We used to answer these questions with a simple answer: God. But the Greeks knew that the universe was born of chaos. Now scientists know too. The Big Bang. Order from chaos. The dictionary defines chaos as: utter confusion or disorder, wholly without organization or order. But chaos theory is equally concerned with order as it is with chaos. Do you know what chaos theory is?

  TROUT: Patterns of order that can be found in apparently disordered systems. Like in the weather. MAX: Yes! But not just the weather. The patterns of Saturn’s rings, heart attacks…

  TROUT: But that’s science. What about magic?

  MAX: Not finished. More background. Be good.:)

  TROUT: LOL. Sorry. Go on.

  MAX: Chaos magic is kind of postmodern magic. It doesn’t accept basic truths. Religion, science, occultism…

  TROUT: I’m not sure I understand postmodernism.

  MAX: TROUT, no one understands postmodernism! LOL. Anyway, basically if you were into Wicca, you’d have to perform rites, rituals, invoke the Goddess, that sort of thing. That kind of magic is based on a system of beliefs but chaos magic = no rituals. No beliefs. It just is.

  TROUT: So anyone can be a chaos magician?

  MAX: That’s what those cyberpunks would like to think. But to tell you the truth, no. I get it. I understand all the theory but I’ve never been able to make magic happen. In fact, I don’t know anyone who has.

  Trout’s fingers hesitated over the keys. He was so tempted to tell Max everything, but how did he know if he could be trusted? Max could be anyone…but so, Trout reflected, could Trout. The Internet gave Trout anonymity—there was no way Max could figure out Trout’s, or Undine’s, real identity.

  The decision was made for him. “Come on, mate.” His dad stood in the doorway. “That doesn’t look like research to me. Don’t let your mum catch you.”

  “Yep,” said Trout and wrote Gotta go. He bookmarked the site before logging off. But even as he watched the flash of blue on the last screen as the computer shut down, he knew that he was going to confide in Max. He needed a friend. He needed whatever he could get.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The house on Beach Road had once been painted a bright buttery yellow. The color had faded with the weather, and sea salt had eroded the paint, so that it flaked off in large pieces. Yet the house still managed to look cheerful despite its weatherworn appearance, sitting upright in its overgrown garden, tucked off the road. From the road the house looked deserted, so still and quiet it was hard to imagine it had ever known human occupation.

  As she drew closer though, Undine heard the chime of a clock from somewhere inside. It was a relief to know that time moved inside the house in the same way it did out here, because she could easily have convinced herself otherwise.

  She wished now that she had asked Richard to stay with her. Grunt had offered but it wasn’t Grunt she wanted. Richard had refused to meet her eye. Undine didn’t have the expertise required to melt the frosty air between them. So she had feigned confidence and sent them away, extracting a promise from Richard that he would not tell Trout or anyone where she was. He had given it indifferently, as if he didn’t really care what became of her.

  “Well, bye,” she said, and her voice sounded forlorn, even to her own ears, so much so that for a moment Richard softened. He reached his hand through the open window and squeezed her arm good-bye.

  Grunt had sped off, the wheels of the Fiat spinning on the gravel road, leaving a long skid mark and a whirl of dust behind him.

  Undine felt she might have underestimated Grunt at the pub. He had kept up a steady stream of cheery banter as they drove through the city, almost disguising the awkwardness between Undine and Richard.

  They drove past the markets, past the docks and the botanical gardens and Government House, over the arching bridge that spanned the Derwent. They continued down the highway that bypassed Hobart’s eastern suburbs. Undine watched as the suburbs became farther and farther apart, separated by tracts of countryside, until they were passing through what were more like towns than suburbs.

  They had been driving for less than an hour, but they stopped for coffee and doughnuts in Sorell and ate by the side of the road, leaning against the car.

  Undine felt hyperaware of Richard beside her. She would only have had to extend her little finger to brush his skin, yet it was as if there was an unfathomable distance between them, a distance that she had no talent to fill.

  Part of her wanted to touch him or have him touch her, take her hand, kiss her, and say beautiful things. But then he moved slightly, and she felt herself pull back, so abruptly it was impossible for him not to have noticed. His face was unreadable. He screwed the paper bag into a tight ball and stuffed it inside his empty polystyrene cup.

  Thinking about Richard made her twitchy; thinking about her destination made it ten times worse. Undine followed their progress on the map and, as they drew closer, felt her stomach seize with nervousness. She almost asked Grunt to turn around and drive her back to the city.

  Grunt twisted in his seat to look at her every time he talked to her. “Are you okay?” he asked her eventually. “You look kind of pale.”

  “I’m okay. Just a little carsick,” she lied.

  Grunt slowed the car and pulled over. “Sit in the front, Undine. Wind the window down for her, Richard, and then get in the back.”

  Richard did as he was told, and Undine climbed sheepishly into the front seat.

  The road unspooled ahead, black as molasses, slick and new, shimmery with sunlight. At the edges it crumbled away, new into old, gravel and blue metal scattering into dirt and scrub. Puddles formed just over the rise and then dissolved, mirages, mag
ical tricks of the light. On the side of the road lay a whole dead bird—a seagull, its torn feathers teased by the wind. Undine watched as they approached the bird. For a moment they seemed to hover in the air, time stopped as she contemplated its still form. Then the moment was gone and they whizzed past; she craned her head back and watched until they disappeared around a bend in the road, and it was forgotten forever.

  With the window open she could smell the sea. Most of the time it was a fresh, salty, ever-so-faintly fishy smell, similar to the smell in her bedroom the last few mornings. But sometimes, when they were driving past inlets of stagnant water or sheltered coves where seaweed was gathered in huge mounds on the beaches, the smell was almost unbearably strong, seaweedy and fishy, like tinned anchovies, but also sulphuric, like bad eggs.

  Eventually they reached the turnoff to Bay of Angels. It was marked with a small white sign, the paint blistered with age.

  Undine consulted the map. “You can just let me off here if you like,” she said. “It’s not far to walk.”

  But Grunt had already made the turn and was driving down the deteriorating road.

  Fifteen minutes later, they turned right on a road that was equal parts sand and gravel, which was, they all agreed, Beach Road, though there was no street sign, and the water could only just be glimpsed through the thick scrub.

  It was not hard to find what they were looking for. When the house came into view, Undine had a glimmer of déjà vu. She recognized it, as clearly as she would have recognized her own house if she were returning to it after a long and difficult journey. Besides, on the mailbox, written in thick, wobbly black letters, was the name Prospero Marine.

  Undine stared out the window of the car at the tattered yellow house. Yellow like butter, yellow like daffodils. Less yellow than the highlighter pen she had used to mark passages of The Iliad. More yellow than her student copy of Hamlet.