Shadows & Tall Trees, Volume 8

by Michael Kelly

  I tried to calm my thoughts. He wasn’t here to help me, not with this, and I didn’t want to be thrown out of the cab within reach of those—what were they, exactly?

  I closed my eyes a moment before saying the name of my hotel. He nodded and pulled away from the curb. I felt the distance opening between the car and the bridge and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Perhaps, now that I could speak clearly, I should try to explain to him what happened. I could ask for his help, get him to call the police. A picture rose: the inside of a cell, being questioned by sharp, lithe men in uniform, ones who didn’t care for my accent or my presence in that part of town or my lack of certainty about anything. I knew nothing of the police system here. I knew nothing about what may have left a body lying in an alleyway in the first place. I might have to drag Mai and her boyfriend into it, and that might cause trouble for them in ways I couldn’t foresee.

  I remained silent until we reached my hotel and I paid the driver and nodded to the doorman as I went inside and pressed the button for the lift and rode it up to my room, where I let myself in and sat on the bed. I stared down at my hands. I’d expected them to be shaking, but they were not. To all outside appearances, nothing had happened. It was only in my mind that those images remained.

  I sat and waited to know what to do, but nothing came. I pictured myself calling my parents in England, rousing them from their ordinary day, a pleasant morning in the garden perhaps, to say—what? And what would they say to me in return?

  I switched on the television, not looking at it, just letting the anodyne sound of advertising jingles wash over me. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, twice brushed my teeth.

  Then I sat on the bed again and persuaded myself I hadn’t seen what I thought I’d seen. That it was only the plight of the homeless that so shocked me; the thing they found nothing more than a chicken carcass or a discarded bone; that the after-image of a corpse I carried in my mind was as unreal as any of the things I’d heard that day.

  *

  The next morning I wandered aimlessly, discovering some of the sights of Hanoi more by chance than design. I saw Hoan Kiem Lake with its ancient pagoda, Thap Rua Tower, and St Joseph’s Cathedral where within, more stories were told, fed upon and believed.

  I didn’t think about any of it. The image that kept coming to me was Mai’s face; the way she had tried to smile as her boyfriend stalked from the room. I didn’t know which worried me the most—his sudden presence in her life or her listlessness. And looming over it all were the things I’d seen in the alleyway, so close to where she lived and yet so unreal. It all felt somehow part of a whole, though it surely couldn’t be. What I’d imagined could only have been the product of anxiety, combined with the heat and the wine I’d drunk.

  The day was passing into evening, the sky darkened and tainted with exhaust fumes and the scent of cooking, when I found myself standing outside a temple once more.

  The festival of the hungry ghosts was still happening. I could see it in the faces of the supplicants who filed in and out, men and women wearing grey robes. Once inside, they pressed incense sticks to their foreheads before lighting them and setting them to burn in a huge bowl. Fragrance poured into the evening, not quite masking the smell of the street vendors outside. Further in, open doors revealed the glimpse of a golden Buddha, more offerings set before him: the fruit known as Buddha’s fingers, neatly arranged packets of biscuits and dried noodles. One wall was covered with tablets bearing the photographs of ancestors safely delivered to the next life.

  In front of it all, right in the courtyard for the hungry ghosts to find, was an open fire. The ground was blackened in that place, the flame fitful, licking greedily here and there as it received fresh bounty. And next to it, bending to present some new offering, was Mai’s boyfriend.

  He straightened, closing his eyes to savour the clouds of incense, as if its perfume was intended just for him; as if he was relishing all of the things being transferred by fire to the other realm. He took a stack of hell money from the bag slung over his shoulder and began to peel off the notes, one by one, feeding them to the flame.

  He was facing towards me, but showed no sign of recognition as I went towards him. There was no one between us, no one else standing so close to the fire, and I remembered something I’d heard: that the offering pyres opened a doorway to the spirit world. Lingering by them could be risky, in case something should escape and possess the careless; but that didn’t seem to worry Linh. He felt no danger. The firelight played over his features and he gazed into it with longing, even with greed.

  The sight made me shiver. In the fierce light, the planes of his face were too harsh, making me think of bones. He had almost burned all of the money. Soon he would look up and see me, and the thought of what might take the place of his avid expression was discomfiting, but first he reached into his bag and removed another item. I recognised the little woman made of paper.

  I somehow didn’t like to see it clutched in his hand, though I could not have explained why. I crossed the last few steps towards him as he thrust it into the fire then immediately walked away, straight past me, heading for the way out.

  I didn’t catch at his arm or call after him. I didn’t say his name. I reached out and snatched the offering, brushing off the charred edges of its dress. I held it against me and turned in time to see Linh leaving the temple without glancing back. I had not examined the paper doll in detail before and I did not do so now. I already knew the face drawn onto its blank features was that of my friend.

  *

  I did not walk far. I could not stop thinking of Mai, of how she might be feeling at this moment. A woman in a too-tight top thrust a drinks menu in front of me and automatically, I smiled back, then let her guide me to a tiny table at the edge of the street. It wasn’t what I wanted, not really, but I accepted the drink she placed in front of me and watched as she lit a candle and set it on the table. She looked quizzically at the paper votive I placed next to it before she left.

  I sat and sipped, watching the hordes filling the evening street: a constant stream of men, women and children, all intent on going somewhere. Perhaps, I thought, we were all hungry ghosts; empty spirits with no real destination, no purpose, no controlling impulse other than to feast while we could.

  A shadow shifted in front of me, something small and speckled, and I realised it was a moth.

  The spirits can visit in the shape of moths. And other things. Bad ones.

  The insect drew closer once more, drawn to the candlelight, coming within a hair’s breadth of being singed. Its wings were already touched with black—and I saw the pattern written there and caught my breath.

  The moth had two dark eyes. They flickered so quickly they did not seem to blink; they regarded me, and below them I saw the outline of a mouth, slightly open, ready to strike. I wondered if this was the type of moth that mimicked birds, protecting itself by appearing a predator, but it didn’t look like that, not quite. The eyes were too far apart, the mouth too wide. The moth had a blunt, almost triangular form and I realised it didn’t look so much like a bird as a snake, seen from low down and in front; the point of view of a mouse in the moment before it is eaten.

  I reached out to the votive doll, wrapping my fingers around it. The moth fluttered before the flame, its eyes steadily gazing. I lifted the paper doll and brought it down, trapping the moth inside its hollow body.

  The creature’s struggles were loud, its wings skittering inside the paper dress. I glanced about me, but no one had seen; no one cared. I peered down at the ragged line where the charred dress met the table. Tiny black legs appeared, retreated, appeared again, almost methodical in their movements, as if the moth was systematically hunting for a way out.

  I lifted one side of the dress a fraction. New rustling sounds came from within. Was that a proboscis, tasting its freedom? I raised the doll a little more, grimacing at the dark, squat shape that appeared in the gap.

&nbs
p; The moment the moth emerged, I brought down my hand. The creature’s body collapsed inward, the touch of it on my fingers soft and grotesquely damp, though the residue it left behind was powdery, like fine dust; like ash. The scent of charcoal rose into the air and I told myself it was coming from the votive’s charred dress, but somehow I didn’t really believe that was true.

  *

  Mai turned to me and smiled. It was a good smile, still a little tired perhaps, but her glow had returned; her hair looked glossy and strong. She poured the wine I’d brought for her and handed me a glass. It was the evening after I’d seen Linh and she hadn’t mentioned him at all, hadn’t even alluded to him. When I asked how he was, she looked blank for a moment.

  “It is strange,” she said. “He did not come back yesterday. I suppose I will hear from him.” She looked sad, though briefly, and I didn’t know if it was because she thought she should or if it was something she really felt.

  I took a sip of wine—warm, rich—and wondered if she was right, if she would hear from him again. Somehow I didn’t think so. The flat seemed bigger without him. Lighter too, despite the dark pressing in from outside.

  “Do you feel better now, Mai? I was worried about you.”

  It took her a little while to answer. “I feel—” she paused, “a little strange inside. But better, yes. I do feel better.”

  I nodded. I did not think she would miss him. I really thought that she would be all right.

  Then she said, “Soon, I have to eat. But first we should go and see the lamps.”

  I didn’t know what she meant, but she gestured towards the balcony. She let me step out in front of her, into the heat and the sound of distant blaring horns, and in front of us, the dark blank of the river. But I realised it wasn’t quite blank after all: little lights were floating there, pinpricks in the dark, moving slowly outward from the bank as they were drawn by the tide.

  “The festival is over,” Mai said. “And so we float lotus lanterns on the river. When they go out, that is when the hungry ghosts find their way back to hell. Unless they can find a way to stay.”

  I stared at her profile, though she didn’t look at me; I couldn’t read her expression. I breathed deeply of the damp and heavy air. There were no moths, I realised, not tonight.

  We did not speak again. We only sat and watched the lotus lanterns floating away down the river, until they began to wink out; disappearing one by one into the darkness, until it seemed that not a trace of them remained.

  A Coastal Quest

  Charles Wilkinson

  • • ∞ • •

  One morning when Samantha accepts she’s sick of them all—her husband, son and daughter—she goes on a search, or so it seems, for the place where she will be happy. It’s bright holiday weather: the clouds on the blue gloss sky, white-plump playthings, bearing only an impossibility of rain. From the top deck of the ferry, she can see the island, its coast occluded by mist, so that it seems to be hovering above the sea, ready to take off, spacecraft-smooth but showing an underbelly of earth, into the unbounded morning. Now that she’s rid of her family, broken all the sacred connections of blood and relationships, she feels only euphoria.

  “Are you on vacation?”

  She hasn’t noticed a small man leaning against the railing, only a yard or two from where she’s standing. Even though there’s no edge to the breeze, he’s wearing a dull green jacket the colour of oxidised copper. Her mood drops slightly. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone, let alone someone whose leathery lack of expression matches his stout walking boots. But she makes herself reply.

  “I suppose you could call it a break—of sorts.”

  “You’re not with the survey?”

  “No.”

  “So you won’t even be attending the conference.”

  There’s something odd about his accent, which is mainly British but with a slight rising tone at the end of the sentences.

  “I am afraid I don’t know anything about this conference of yours.” She sounds testier than intended. Should she abandon everyday politeness just because she’s free of them? “What’s it about it?”

  “The geology of the island. It’s more varied that any comparable area of land in the country.”

  “Is that so?” She speaks flatly, turning the question’s tone into that of a statement. As she’s made a token effort at conversation, she doesn’t want any more involvement. If she’s not careful, he will ask where she’s staying.

  The ferry’s moving with so little resistance across unruffled water it might almost be sliding. Now that they’re closer to the shore, mist is less evident, no more than a softening of hard lines, a faint suggestion of diluted milk. When she looks round, the geologist, if that is what he is, has gone.

  Once they’ve docked and she’s hailed a taxi her spirits revive. The guest house where she’s staying is little more than a minute’s ride from the harbour. With only light luggage, she might as well have walked; embarrassed, she tips the driver generously. The paint on the façade of the Regency villa has the uneven texture of clotted cream. There are two ragged palm trees in the small garden on either side of the path to the front door. Someone, the proprietor she assumes, is watching her through a sash window on the ground floor.

  “Miss White?”

  She’s reverted to her maiden name.

  The proprietor has opened the door before she’s rung the bell. A squat, dark man in an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His patchy hair, greasy in spite of being sparse, has an unusual balding pattern.

  “Yes.”

  The business of signing in accomplished with commendable speed, she’s soon in a small room overlooking the bay. The ferry is moving out of the harbour and on its way to the mainland, the pale cliffs just discernible as a blurred line on the horizon. She opens her suitcase and takes out her copy of Robert Tamar’s Terrain without Time. An illustrated memoir of the author’s visit to an isolated cottage on the island’s coast, it describes how his stay becomes not merely a retreat from suburbia but a quest for permanent serenity. When had she first become convinced that if she found the place where Tamar had attained true contentment, she too would be able slough off the skin of an existence inflamed by the dissatisfactions of daily life? She’d read the book shortly after the birth of her second child. Was it that long ago her unhappiness had become evident? Perhaps. But it was only during the last year or so that her fantasy of escape had been translated into actuality. Now the principal problem was the dearth of proper nouns in the text. The area where the events took place was undisclosed. Neither the county nor the names of the nearest town or village were mentioned. Even the house was merely ‘a white cottage on a gentle slope overlooking a cove, a hundred yards from the beach.’ The author had spent most of time his alone. Those who had impinged on his solitary existence were referred to by their occupation (a sailor, the postman, the farmer’s wife who provided him with milk, and so on). Animals were alluded too more frequently than people. But there were some clues and they had led her to the island. Once again, she turned to the frontispiece, Tamar’s watercolour of the white cottage, the foam of may on the hawthorn bush, the white shingle, a half moon of yellow sand and then the blue-green sea, a suggestion of small waves idling in from the bay beyond. It is all waiting for her to find it.

  *

  As Samantha’s about to go out for the evening, she notices there’s no key to the lock on the bedroom door. The two on the ring that she’s been given are both for the front door. She finds the proprietor peering into a broom cupboard on the ground floor. To her surprise, there’s been no mistake. He’s also unmoved by her request for a key.

  “You’ll get one when it’s needed. But they haven’t even arrived yet?”

  “Who?”

  “The kids. Loads of the little buggers. If their teachers say that keys are needed, then you’ll get one.”

  His expression as he turns back to the broom cupboard is impatient and perplexed. Whatev
er resides amongst the dust pans and derelict carpet sweepers is a riddle resistant to solution.

  “I’d like one now—if you don’t mind.”

  This time he doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he steps over a bucket and moves further inside the cupboard.

  “Do you think I’m going to get one special just for you?”

  “That’s precisely what I’m hoping for. So yes.”

  With an impatient sigh, he swings round to face her. The lenses in his glasses are evidently of unequal strength for one eye appears larger and angrier than the other.

  “Look, can’t you see I’m busy? I’m the only person in residence apart from you.”

  “If you don’t give me a key now, I’ll move to another hotel.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself. But payment’s already been taken and there are no refunds at The Mariners Reef.”

  Her temper, which has been simmering, is about to boil over. But she tells herself its best to delay her decision. There’s no way of knowing whether the nearby guest houses are booked up. Traipsing around the town with a suitcase so soon after her arrival is an unappealing prospect. She contents herself with giving him a reproachful glance.

  Outside, there’s a breeze and a scent of seaside salt on the air. Something about the bay, redolent of childhood, reminds her of her brother, now long dead; how they were pirates in pedallos, smugglers on the sand dunes. Yachts tack in the middle distance. For a moment, she imagines a ship in full sail, a toy galleon flying the Jolly Roger and breasting tiny waves.

  As a move might soon be necessary, she keeps an eye out for alternative accommodation. Almost every building along the front is either a guest house or small hotel; none them have signs for vacancies in the windows. Neither are there any of the cafés or restaurants she was hoping for. A line of Regency houses has given way to Victorian villas, most painted in pastel colours, powder blue and pink; a few are a shabby vanilla with peeling paintwork. Some properties have palm trees in the front garden. For the first time since her arrival, she feels exhausted. Perhaps it would be best to go back, have a bath and then go into the town, where there are certain to be places to eat. The guest houses have nautical names, she notices: Golden Beach, The Sailors’ Rest, The Admiral Hotel and Bar, The Crow’s Nest B & B, Fair Wind, The Final Shore.