The Wishing Trees

by John Shors

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I survive this because of you, and because of things like we did yesterday, like helping out that girl. She’s probably halfway home by now, and that makes me feel good.”

  Mattie nodded again, glad for the girl, but sad for herself. “But what if something happens to you, Daddy? I’ll be all alone. Just like Jaidee.”

  He watched a longboat pass in the opposite direction, wishing that she didn’t have such thoughts. He shared her concern, often worrying about his health, about why his stomach hurt so much. I can’t ever leave you, he told himself. Not until you’re much, much older and you’ve got a family of your own. “I’ll be fine, Roo,” he said. “I’m from the bush and as tough as a dingo.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I just swam with a bunch of bloody sharks, didn’t I?”

  “You can’t die, Daddy. You just can’t.”

  “And I won’t, Roo,” he said, hugging her tight. He kissed her forehead, and then turned her to the side, so that her eyes could meet his. “And do you know what else? You’re like that bloke behind us. You’ve been kicked in the teeth, kicked so hard, but you’re going to end up all right. You’re going to be happy. Just like he is.”

  Mattie watched Alak, thinking that he did look happy. He stood in the stern, steering his boat toward an island that appeared to be little more than a gathering of limestone cliffs. As they approached, Mattie saw a break in the cliffs, one that created a narrow entryway. Alak pushed his steering pole to the side, and the boat turned right, toward the channel of turquoise water that led to the interior of the island. Once they were past the towering cliffs on either side, a lagoon was revealed. A white-sand beach stretched for several hundred feet at the far end of the lagoon. Behind the beach was a jungle full of immense tropical trees but still dominated by the much larger cliffs.

  Since her mother’s death, Mattie had often heard people talk about heaven, about its beauty. She wasn’t sure that such a place existed, but if her mother could go to one place to rest, Mattie hoped it was a place like this beach. She could hear birds calling to one another within the jungle. Flowering vines climbed the trunks of trees. And the lagoon was as clear as glass.

  Alak turned off the engine and his boat slid quietly into the beach. Mattie hopped from the bow into the deep sand. She studied the beach, which was flat and mostly free of debris.

  “It’s like a giant wishing tree,” her father said from behind her.

  A half smile formed on Mattie’s face. “It’s perfect.”

  “Shall we tidy it up a bit, luv?”

  “Good idea.”

  The two of them started to pick up leaves, sticks, and pieces of sun-bleached coral. Within a few minutes, they had cleaned a large swath of sand. Mattie then dropped to her knees and, moving backward, rubbed the sand smooth with her hands. Ian worked beside her, leveling the sand, wondering what she was going to draw but not wanting to ask. By the time they finished, they had smoothed out a section of sand as large as a basketball court.

  Mattie stood up and studied the area, debating if she’d best be able to draw with her feet, as she’d said to her father, or if a stick might work better. She finally decided on her feet. “Daddy,” she asked, “will you get as much of that coral as you can? The coral on the beach.”

  “What should I do with it?”

  “Walk where I’ve walked, and sprinkle the coral behind you.”

  Mattie envisioned the scene she wanted to create. She knew she couldn’t be too elaborate, but she wanted to draw something that her mother would enjoy. The waves will be first, she decided, beginning to shuffle through the sand, creating what looked like a giant snake. Once she finished the waves, she carefully made her way back to the middle of her wavy line and turned toward the island, dragging her feet, fashioning the bow of her boat. She then twisted to the right, and shuffled forward, making the top of the boat, adding a canopy and an engine. She wasn’t sure how to insert people into her creation and decided to leave the boat empty.

  As her father started to line her footsteps with pieces of white coral, Mattie jumped outside her picture, then moved above it. She began to shuffle again, her feet creating oversized, somewhat misshapen letters. Several times she paused to smooth out the sand and start over a letter, so it took her quite a while to write, “We love you, Mommy. Please show us the way.”

  After Mattie had finished her drawing, she helped her father sprinkle more coral within her footsteps. Alak also assisted, gathering coral and placing piles of it near the edges of her creation. The three of them filled the troughs made by her passing feet until the entire image, and the words, were highlighted in white.

  Mattie wasn’t sure what to think when she stepped back and looked at her creation. She knew that it was one of the most beautiful drawings she’d ever done, and that her mother would be proud of her for bringing it to life. But what if her mother couldn’t see it? What if her mother had gone to a place so far away that she’d never again see any of her drawings? Mattie despaired at such a thought. She wanted to feel her mother, to know that her mother could see the boat and the words. Just knowing that her mother could observe the drawing would shine such a light on her.

  “It’s lovely, Roo,” Ian said, taking her hand.

  Mattie nodded, not wanting to talk, knowing that talking would make more tears tumble.

  “Should I snap a photo?” he asked, as he pulled a small digital camera out of his day pack.

  “No.”

  “No? Are you sure?”

  “It’s for Mommy. I only want her to see it.”

  He put the camera back. “I’m dead cert she’s smiling right now, at what you’ve drawn.”

  “I hope so.”

  “It’s a beaut, Roo. A real gem.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked up at the sky, at dark clouds to the north. “I hate to say it, but I reckon we should buzz off.”

  “It’s going to rain, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, aye, First Mate.”

  Mattie walked to the longboat and climbed over the gunwale. She sat on the front bench, near the bow. Alak told her how much he enjoyed her drawing and she thanked him for his help. His smile revealed crooked and crowded teeth. “I’m glad your boy came back to you,” she said, taking a final glance at her boat.

  Alak shrugged. “I still miss my first son. So much. But now my heart, it is not as empty as before.”

  “Do you think your wife and your children, the ones who died in the tsunami, do you think they can see you?”

  “I am Buddhist, so I believe what Buddha say, that everyone wander through many births.”

  “Many births?”

  “Everyone born and die many times. Like how the sun goes and comes each day. My family, the waves take them away from me. For long time, I want to die too. But then my new son is born, and I feel lucky to have him. I see my old son in his smile, so my hurt not as bad as before.”

  Mattie saw that her father was also listening to Alak’s words. “Thank you for taking us here,” she said.

  “You are welcome.”

  She watched him move to the back of the boat and start the engine. Soon they were out in the open sea, headed back to Ko Phi Phi, which was shrouded in mist and storm clouds. Despite Alak’s words about rebirth, Mattie was afraid for the first time on the trip. She felt so alone, so little. Her mother hadn’t come back to her.

  Mattie imagined the sea rising to create the tsunami that had killed Alak’s family. This wave picked her up, carrying her forward, plunging her into darkness. She searched the sky, looking for signs of her mother, looking for something. But the world seemed to have turned black.

  She reached for her father’s hand, holding it tight. He must have sensed her fear, for without a word, he lifted her up once again and positioned her on his lap. He kissed the back of her head, then carried her, moving backward, under the canopy.

  He put his arms around her as the longboat plo
wed forward, into rising waves, into shadows and doubt and a cold rain.

  INDIA

  A Tear on the Cheek of Time

  “WHEN YOU WERE BORN, YOU CRIED AND THE WORLD REJOICED.

  LIVE YOUR LIFE SO THAT WHEN YOU DIE,

  THE WORLD CRIES AND YOU REJOICE.”

  —INDIAN SAYING

  “I have a surprise in store for you,” Ian said, patting Mattie’s knee. “What?” “You’re about to be a princess, Roo. Imagine that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just look out your window and watch. You’ll see.”

  Mattie did as he suggested—staring out of their decrepit taxi, studying the countryside of southern India. She hadn’t expected things to be so open here, at least not after the mayhem that dominated the city of Bangalore.

  Their itinerary allowed for only two weeks in India, and they had decided to hit the major cities and travel between them by train and plane. Though Bangalore wasn’t on the circuit of many tourists, Ian’s former company employed four workers who lived in the area. Feeling compelled to express his gratitude for the Indians’ hard work, he had met with them two days earlier.

  Now, as Mattie sat on the cracked leather seat of the old taxi, she watched the rolling hills outside the city of Mysore, which was a three-hour train ride from Bangalore. The hills were void of tall trees and were green, but not lush. They’d been told of a drought affecting the area, so Mattie wasn’t surprised. Much of the land they passed had been sculpted to accommodate rice and wheat fields. Teams of oxen pulled plows in the fields or wooden carts on the street. The carts seemed to overflow with bursting burlap sacks or bales of hay or disheveled workers, and shared the pavement with buses, trucks, rickshaws, cars, and people.

  Their taxi driver was small and impatient. Whenever something slowed him down, he honked at the culprit and muttered to himself. Unfortunately for Mattie and Ian, perhaps one out of four times that he honked, the horn stuck, continuing to sound as he drove on and pounded at it. The man would strike the horn with his right fist, cursing, wiping sweat from his brow. Sometimes the horn quieted, though more often than not it continued to sound until the man stopped the car, put up the hood, and temporarily disengaged the wiring. Despite the fact that this process took several minutes, the driver honked the horn at almost everything they passed.

  Soon Mattie was able to predict what he would honk at. A trio of Hindu monks on bicycles was overtaken in silence. A farmer and his water buffalo received a furious barrage of beeps, as did a disabled ambulance, a group of schoolchildren, a sari-clad woman picking up a spilled crate of apples, and a three-wheeled motorcycle that looked to have been assembled from a dozen different vehicles.

  Mattie smiled as the man continued to honk, pound the wheel, and pull over to fix the screeching sound. She wondered why he just didn’t drive in silence. Certainly all of the stopping and starting wasted more time than simply waiting to pass people. And surely he’d be happier if he didn’t have to pound his horn every minute or two. She came to realize, however, that most of the drivers honked as much as he did. They all seemed to have a love-hate relationship with their horns.

  The taxi continued to climb the gentle hills outside Mysore. Their driver turned off the main thoroughfare, following a well-maintained road that was almost devoid of traffic. Soon landscaped gardens replaced the endless farms. The gardens were ornate and geometrical in nature, rows of cypress trees flanking rectangular reflecting pools.

  Mattie looked ahead as a beautiful white building came into view. The two-storied building was dominated by a pale dome, which rose from the center of the structure. Stretching from either side of the dome was a series of columns that ran from the ground to the roof. Mattie had visited the U.S. Capitol once and thought that the two buildings resembled each other.

  “Where are we?” she asked, as the taxi came to an abrupt stop beneath a covered roundabout.

  Ian thanked their driver and handed him a short stack of rupee notes, the amount of which they had previously agreed upon. “Your mum and I stumbled onto this place,” he answered. “And now I want you to enjoy it.”

  A man wearing a green suit said hello while opening an oversized door. Mattie stepped inside the building, stopping as a new world blossomed before her. She’d never seen such opulence. The walls and floor were white marble, highlighted by mosaics made of semiprecious stones. Gilded and massive frames held paintings of turbaned men firing guns at British soldiers. Silver and golden chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. Arrangements of fresh-cut violet irises sprouted from immense porcelain vases.

  Ian led Mattie forward. “Mysore used to have a king,” he said. “This was his summer palace. And now it’s a hotel.”

  “A hotel?”

  “Fancy that, luv. And we’re going to have lunch here. In the room where the king and queen used to eat. That’s why I asked you to wear your best threads this morning.”

  Mattie glanced down at her red dress—which was too small for her—sorry that she’d argued with him about wearing it. “But I didn’t know where—”

  “No worries, Roo. I don’t blame you a bit. Now, shall we dine?” he asked, offering her his arm.

  She smiled. “Sure, Daddy.”

  “No, luv. You must speak like a princess to dine here.”

  “A princess?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Are you the king?”

  “Yes, my firstborn. I am your father, the king. Now I say again, shall we dine?”

  “Yes. Let’s dine.”

  He grinned and led her forward, delighted that she seemed to be having fun. Though returning to the palace caused painful memories to rise within him, he forced them aside, focusing on Mattie, on how he might make her happy for an afternoon. As they walked down a long corridor, he greeted other guests formally, trying to sound British rather than Australian.

  The dining room was magnificent. Silk carpets covered marble floors. The walls and vaulted ceiling, which was about forty feet high, were painted a pale blue and featured white columns that ran from bottom to top. Along one side of the room a series of oversized windows revealed an elegant garden.

  As soon as Ian and Mattie stepped into the room, a woman in an emerald-colored sari greeted them, asking about their day. Her English was as impeccable as her coifed hair and painted nails. Mattie thought she moved like the wind. The hostess seated them, pulling back ornate wooden chairs with silk upholstery. After handing Ian and Mattie menus that were bound by beaten silver covers, the woman left.

  “My lady,” Ian said, opening his menu, “what delicacies might you covet today? Curried lamb? Lentil soup? Shrimp with coconut?”

  “They all sound . . . lovely.”

  “Ah, but not as lovely as you.”

  Mattie smiled, sitting straight in her chair, surprised and pleased that no one else was in the restaurant. “What should . . . What shall we do this afternoon?”

  “What shall we not do is the more pertinent question, for we shall enjoy so many brilliant excursions. Why, our elephants await, and upon the conclusion of this fine feast, we might explore our forest.”

  “I would like that.”

  “As would I.”

  Their waiter, a tall man whose pants and jacket were also an emerald color, introduced himself and spoke about the specials of the day, recommending a combination of curries, meats, and vegetables. Ian and Mattie followed his advice and ordered accordingly, prompting him to smile. They continued to banter back and forth as a king and his daughter might.

  “Shall we have champagne, my lady?” Ian asked, pointing to an elegant glass.

  “Champagne? Really?”

  “Just a sip, of course, to cleanse our palates.”

  “Yes, to cleanse our palates.”

  Ian ordered a bottle of champagne as their food was served on oversized silver platters, segmented into round and rectangular sections. In the round sections were a variety of curries, while the rectangles were filled with s
mall servings of chicken, shrimp, cauliflower, beans, and okra. Indian flatbread, or naan, completed their meal. Soon after the food arrived, the waiter returned with champagne and carefully filled their glasses.

  “Cheers, my princess,” Ian said, raising his drink.

  “Cheers, my king.”

  Ian grinned, adoring her smile, thinking of her beauty, both inside and out. “You know, my firstborn, someday you shall make a lord quite happy. You shall give him the most glorious gift in the world.”

  “What gift?”

  “You.”

  “I don’t care about lords.”

  “I know, but someday you shall. And when that day comes, you will make an old king proud. As you do this day.”

  Mattie sipped her champagne, swirling it around in her mouth. “This is good.”

  “Will you promise me something, my princess?”

  “What?”

  “When that day has come and gone, after you have moved into that lord’s house, shall you be so generous as to not forget the old king? Shall you still hold his hand and whisper secrets in his ear?”

  Mattie looked more closely at her father, realizing that he was talking about the two of them. She set down her champagne. She remembered her mother reading her English poetry, and she tried to think of the words these poets used. Her mother had once written poems for her father, she knew, and she wanted to say something that would make him smile. “This daughter, my king, shall always tell secrets to her father.”

  Ian laughed, bringing his hands together in a soft clap. “I love you, my princess.”

  “And I love you, my king.”

  “Shall we eat?”

  “Yes. Let us eat and be merry.”

  THE TRAIN THAT CARRIED THEM TO AGRA looked as if it had traveled around the world a thousand times. The third-class cars were battered, overcrowded, and inundated with the scents of sweat, spices, and smoke. People sat on wooden benches, holding children and chickens and dirty canvas sacks on their laps. Since the train cars were so packed, many passengers were forced to stand—invariably the young and strong, who often half climbed out the windows. Though a dozen steel fans hung from each ceiling, very few of the fans worked, ensuring that the train’s interior felt like the inside of a clay oven.