Undine

by Penni Russon

  “Cool name. Weird. Who is he?” Grunt had asked.

  Undine had answered, still in a dream. “My father.”

  There was no sign of him. Undine realized that he wasn’t necessarily expecting her. She looked up at the road where Grunt and Richard had been only minutes before. She half hoped they would come back, tell her it had all been some terrible mistake, that they had met a Prospero Marine on his way to buy the paper—or some other profoundly normal activity—and he hadn’t been the one she was looking for at all.

  She continued walking around the house, giving it a wide berth, reluctant to knock on the door.

  “Yeah, good,” she told herself. “Come all this way and then change your mind.”

  The garden was enormous, and filled with a strange collection of things: fat roses and fatter hydrangeas, fuchsias with pink flowers and hard dark purple pods, a peppercorn tree, lemon trees, a peach tree. From hanging baskets on the veranda grew long tendriling succulents, bright green, full of new growth. Late-flowering jasmine was entwined around the beams of the veranda and clung to the lip of the roof. Raspberry canes were bursting with fruit in one sheltered corner of the garden. Sunflowers were everywhere, displaying vivid auras of yellow petals to match the house.

  In places where the soil was sandy, and dry, spindly plants of a grayish blue color grew; small and mean-looking, but hardy, they were probably natives, products of the harsh environment. Beyond the garden there were gum trees, bent and twisted by the wind. There were also a number of prickled, scrubby bushes: more natives, adapted to the salt air and eroded soil.

  Against that backdrop, the garden looked even more unlikely. It must have taken some work to make this garden productive; it was almost against nature for plants to flourish here.

  It was so quiet. It felt otherworldly, peaceful, and yet underneath it there was something else, a kind of buzzing. When she concentrated on it, it became higher pitched and filled her head with noise, or noiselessness. White noise, Trout would call it. It was more like vibration than noise, like movement, currents in the air. But it was not dissimilar to the voice she had lived with for the past days.

  She saw a glimmer of movement and jumped, then felt foolish. It was a cat, a long low sleek thing, emerging from the rhododendron. As it turned its tail to her it looked odd and lumpy. Pregnant, she thought. She held her hand out to the cat but it ignored her. She followed the cat around to the back of the house, where it slithered into a space under the veranda. There was a back door, at which sat two large Wellington boots. The first sign of human habitation, they made Undine uneasy, as if they could conjure Prospero from his booted feet up.

  She turned away from the house, telling herself off for being a wimp. It was then that she noticed the narrow sandy path leading through the grassy dunes toward the sea, and all at once it was as if she’d always known it was there.

  She left her own shoes and bag by the Wellingtons, and walked along the sandy path barefoot. She climbed over the rise, and it was from this high vantage point that she saw properly—for the first time in her life—the sea.

  It made the river, the only other expanse of water she had known, seem listless and dull in comparison. This was the buzzing she had heard, this was the vibration in the air, but here it was a thousandfold. The drumming of the sea, the awesome power of the waves. They were huge, and each one seemed to have a colossal life of its own. Or the sea itself was like an animal, the waves its wild, primal language. The gusty wind that blew in from the water seemed to be a product of the sea, generated from the force of the waves.

  She felt energy coursing through her and knew this: some part of her—the secret, dangerous part—was home. This was where her magical self belonged. It was as if she was feeling the storm pass through her, as it had that night, but all at once and only for a moment. The outside world remained unaffected. The sensation was not unpleasant; she was filled with adrenaline and her heart raced.

  It excited her to realize that she might learn how to control the magic, how to use it. It was a new and powerful idea, that this immense magic could become part of her life, seamlessly bonded to her, something not to fight but to embrace.

  The beach was an extended half-moon shape, covered in dull yellow sand. It curled around so that nothing could be seen at either point but the high cliffs that encircled it. About a kilometer out to sea from the shore stood tall columns of rock, four of them, jutting out of the water. They looked smooth and bright, and the sun drew out a rosy, golden hue from the stone. Undine guessed these were the “angels” after which the Bay was named.

  And far beyond the angels the sea stretched to the fine, far-off line of the horizon, beyond which there was apparently nothing. This was where the world curved away from her, Undine thought, toward distant foreign places.

  There was a man at the far end of the beach, walking with some difficulty but nonetheless making rapid progress. She could not discern any detail of his appearance from where she stood, except that he had on a flapping coat that fluttered in the wind like a sail, and to Undine it seemed that this somehow contributed to his quick pace. He had a dog with him, a large brown one with a wonky gait, which was running up the beach in her direction, churning sand under its paws, barking happily.

  She slid down the dune and, with a deep breath, walked up to meet them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  On the beach, the dog reached her first, greeting Undine as though she were an old friend, leaping up to rest its paws on Undine’s shoulders, tail wagging ceaselessly.

  The dog turned and loped back up the beach to Prospero, and then returned to Undine, looking up brightly and encouragingly at her face, as if it were formally introducing them.

  They stood for a moment, looking at each other.

  “Undine,” Prospero said. “Welcome home.”

  Prospero Marine’s face was craggy and worn; years of wind, salt, and sun had weathered him, as it had weathered the house in which he lived. He seemed very old—too old to be the father of a teenage girl. His body was crooked; his voice shook. His left eye was motionless and a vivid, translucent blue. The other eye, though paler and a grainy gray, glittered and traveled effortlessly to and fro, exploring its surroundings as though it were living, sentient.

  That eye, the glittering one, frightened Undine, though the other lifeless one appeared more immediately unsettling. It seemed to see everything, to see deep inside her, scrutinizing and inscrutable.

  Prospero said, “And how was your trip?” as though everything about this meeting were ordinary. “What do you think of my bay?” he added.

  Undine looked out at the enormous waves. “It seems…familiar.”

  “Well, of course, you were born here,” Prospero said. “And my family has always drawn their livelihoods from the sea—fishing, harvesting salt and kelp. There’s seawater in your blood.” Fleetingly, Undine wondered if he meant literally.

  “The angels are beautiful,” she said.

  “We can walk right out to the closest one, there,” Prospero pointed, “at low tide.”

  Undine smiled weakly, made shy by Prospero’s self-assurance.

  They did not speak of the circumstances of their meeting, nor did Prospero ask how she had found him. As they reached the path to the house, the dog ran ahead into the garden. It collapsed under the shade of a large peppercorn tree, panting.

  Prospero held the back door open for her. “Tea?” After the long, glowing light of the setting evening sun, the darkness of the house seemed to swallow him. Undine inhaled deeply and followed him inside.

  They sat at a Laminex table in the kitchen of the yellow house. Undine played with the anodized aluminum sugar bowl, which was cherry red like the table. The benches were laminated in a groovy, vivid green, and the cupboards were dark wood veneer with red handles. There were red tiles on the walls, between the cupboards and the benches. Even the taps in the kitchen sink were red. It was like a time warp. Mim would love this kitchen, Undine thought. Mi
m would die over this kitchen.

  It was a reminder of her promise to Mim. Perhaps Undine should have told Mim where she was going. But Mim would have told Lou—how couldn’t she? Mim would have felt responsible. No, it was better that Mim didn’t know. Still, Undine couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had let Mim down, by making a promise that she couldn’t keep.

  But Mim was a world away and belonged to some other part of Undine. Undine was here now, and she had so many questions for Prospero that she couldn’t frame just one.

  Undine didn’t realize she was spinning the sugar bowl around and around on the table until Prospero reached out his hand and held it still. For a moment his fingers brushed hers. She expected something magical, a jolt like the electricity of the storm, but all she felt was the warmth of his skin. Her skin stayed warm as his hand left hers. There was a sudden pressure of tears against her eyes, though she did not cry. This was her father. But what did that mean?

  Ask him, she urged herself. But she couldn’t make the words come out. He had not mentioned anything about the magic, and she found neither could she. She wondered what he was feeling. Was he pleased to see her? Excited to know her? Did he see some vestige of himself in her? Did he see Lou?

  “I’ll show you where you can put your things.”

  Undine followed him down the hallway. He gestured at each room as they passed it. “The living room. The bathroom. Toilet’s on your left. My bedroom; my study is the annex off this room. The corner room, which was your mother’s. It’s still full of her things, I’ve never got round to clearing it out. And here. This is your room.”

  The last room was small but cozy, painted the same daffodil yellow as the exterior walls. It was furnished as a nursery, with a handmade wooden crib by the windows, veiled with a mosquito net. There was also a low, fold-out single bed, neatly made up, as if he’d been expecting her.

  “Lou made the crib. It was yours, of course.”

  Undine ran her hand over the textured wood of the crib. Lou had never made a thing in all the time Undine had known her. The crib was beautiful, wild and organic, as though it had been cobbled together from living branches. It released a faint woody odor, like resin.

  Prospero gazed at her smooth hand resting on the crib. He seemed such an old man, so powerless. And yet she felt sure that once he had surged with power; there was a dignity about him that hinted at a stronger man, as though his past, young self was trapped inside a cage of old bones, yellowed teeth, and loose skin.

  “We haven’t…I mean, I…I don’t know if I’m staying.” Undine looked at her hands while she spoke. Her nails badly needed a trim and a good scrubbing.

  “Well, you just make up your mind when you’re ready. Only, I don’t know how you’re going to get back up to town. The buses don’t come down to the Bay. And I don’t run a car. Do you have your license?”

  Undine shook her head.

  “I suppose you could always ring your mother, ask her to come and pick you up.”

  “No,” said Undine quickly.

  Prospero raised his eyebrows.

  “No,” Undine began again, keeping her voice steady. “I think I’d like to stay. At least for tonight. We do have a lot to talk about.”

  “Indeed we do,” he agreed, holding her gaze effortlessly, and Undine noticed that his left eye was not as bad as she first thought. It seemed to have some small movement in it after all.

  A vicious squawking resounded through the house.

  “Ah yes,” Prospero said cheerfully, “Caliban.”

  Undine followed him down the dimly lit internal hallway, which smelled faintly of dog hair and carpet shampoo.

  In a large bell-shaped cage in the living room was an oversized parrot that looked as if it had seen better days. It cocked its head and caught Undine’s eye, bobbing up and down, laughing at her.

  “Does it speak?” Undine asked, charmed.

  “Who’s a pretty bird then?” Prospero asked the unattractive bird.

  The bird released a stream of invective that would have made even the most hardened school-bus driver blush.

  “‘You taught me language, and my profit on’t is I know how to curse.’”

  Undine looked questioningly at her father.

  “Act one, scene two,” Prospero said.

  She shook her head, still mystified.

  “Have you not actually read The Tempest?” her father asked, dismayed.

  “Um, no. I haven’t quite got around to it yet…I brought it with me,” Undine added defensively.

  “What sort of education do they give you these days?”

  “We did Hamlet at school,” Undine offered apologetically.

  Prospero made a deep grumbling sound. “But my note. ‘Full fathom five thy father lies…’” he intoned. “Don’t tell me it had no dramatic effect whatsoever.”

  “Oh yes, absolutely,” Undine assured him. “I had a good interpreter.”

  With sudden physical pain she wished Trout were there. Prospero raised his thick eyebrows and Undine wondered if they were what books meant when they said beetling. If Trout was here, she thought abstractedly, he would know what a beetling eyebrow was.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Undine sat on the bed, listening to the sound of Prospero making dinner in the kitchen. The day was beginning to lose color outside, though there were still a few hours before dark. She felt a twinge of homesickness, wondering if Lou was missing her yet. Jasper would be eating his tea now. She missed his face, even though it was not that long since she’d seen him.

  Outside, the dog barked. Undine heard a car pull up. She heard Prospero muttering in the hallway, “All right, all right, no need to shout, Ariel. You needn’t sound so bloody happy about it.”

  From her window she couldn’t see the road. She couldn’t imagine Prospero having visitors, but presumed he must. Without a car he would at least need his groceries delivered. Unless he just magicked them up out of the air. Tinned tomatoes and magic beans, using his power for the good of his colon.

  Her thoughts returned to the car and she felt a sudden burst of excitement. Maybe it was Richard! Maybe he had come to see her, to apologize for his surly behavior on the journey down. She felt a surge of longing to feel his fingers on her face. Her stomach twisted with nerves. Of course it was Richard. Who else knew she was here? And it had been so close, they had almost…He was her boyfriend, wasn’t he?

  She had so convinced herself that she was surprised to open the door and find Grunt sitting on the steps of the veranda, talking to Prospero.

  “Hey,” Grunt said, looking a bit shy. “I had to get some supplies, so I thought I’d drop in to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” said Undine. Her voice rang with disappointment and she cringed to hear it.

  Ariel assaulted Grunt with kindness. Grunt was trying to pat her and fend her off at the same time, though it seemed to be a losing battle.

  “Your dad’s been telling me about the wreck in the Bay,” Grunt said, turning his head to one side to avoid getting a mouthful of dog. “I thought I might come back tomorrow and have a dive. We aren’t starting work until Monday, and I’m keener on marine archaeology anyway. That’s if it’s okay with you, of course.”

  “Yeah, no, that’s fine,” said Undine, feeling a bit bewildered. “Um, what wreck in the Bay?”

  Prospero beamed. “The Babylon. She went down in the 1890s. A cargo ship: slate, timber, copper, wool.”

  “Oh.” She remembered her dream: the wrecked ships, the drowned sailors, her dress weighted with stones. She thought about the Bay, picturing the seabed littered with human bones, and shivered.

  Grunt tipped his head back and finished his tea with a gulp.

  “You might as well have a look at the Bay. While you’re here,” said Prospero. “Undine will show you while I make us some dinner. Would you like to stay, Alastair?”

  Grunt hesitated. “No, thanks,” he said reluctantly. “They’re expecting me back.”


  As they walked to the beach, Undine asked, “Why do they call you Grunt if your name is Alastair? I guessed it was a nickname for Grant.”

  “I got stuck with Grunt in high school. I was pretty monosyllabic back then. Everyone thought I was a bit thick.”

  “But you’re not!” It was a statement not a question.

  Grunt smiled easily. “I played a lot of sports, and fell over a lot. Got bumped on the head all the time. Then I broke my leg and had to sit still for six weeks. Started reading. Was bored enough to do my homework. Turned out I wasn’t so dumb after all. Mum banned me from rugby after that. She thought it was a miracle.”

  Undine looked at him sideways, trying to work out if he was pulling her leg or not. “Truly?” she asked him.

  His face revealed nothing, though his eyes seemed to have an extra sparkle in them.

  “So why did you really come?” she asked him.

  “I just…had a feeling, that’s all,” Grunt replied. “I guessed you didn’t know your dad too well.”

  “This is actually the first time I’ve met him. My mother told me…” Undine broke off, instinctively loyal to Lou. “My mother wasn’t exactly truthful,” she amended, lamely.

  “My parents divorced when I was twelve,” Grunt told her. “It kind of broke my dad’s heart. He moved to Launceston, where all broken-hearted people go.” He smiled wryly and Undine imagined the small, shabby city filled with desolate people, injured by love. “He just kind of died inside. I don’t see him much. I think I remind him, you know, of my mum. He loves me. But it hurts him.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yeah. So how’s it going so far?”

  “I don’t know. Different, I suppose, from what I expected. Though I don’t know exactly what I expected. I guess I thought that everything would suddenly make sense. That all the pieces of my life would fall into place, that I would suddenly know myself.”

  Grunt, standing at the high point of the path, looked out over the angels, which glistened in the last rays of the setting sun. The sun also caught his dreadlocks, making his coarse white-blond hair luminous.