Beneath the Mother Tree

by D. M. Cameron

  Mad old bastard.

  His mirth dried up when he thought of his thirst and his missing scotch.

  ‘Shit a brick.’

  Marlise watched him running up the dirt road. The local lunatic. There was always one. Memories of her mother were unleashed with the sound of those strange words. Her mother was leading her through a field to an isolated tree on the top of a hill. ‘Mammy? Where are we going?’

  Darkness was falling when her Mammy told her to wait. ‘Don’t you go moving from here. I’ll be back shortly.’

  She remembered how close the grey skull of a moon came rising over the hill as the afternoon turned to night, how frightened and cold she was when the mossy trunk grew too damp to lean against, how she tried not to look at the black gnarled and twisting branches above her transforming into faceless creatures of the night. She never knew what happened after that.

  She ripped the towel from her head and rubbed viciously at her hair trying to rid herself of her mother. Was the selfish old hag still alive? The hot flush forced her to lie on the steps. She had to find the cool. ‘Damn it.’ The temperature of the air was warm enough without her body contributing. The heat brought an image of herself as a teenager, watching her drunken mother rolling around the bathroom floor in her own vomit. Her mother’s various boyfriends leered towards her. She snapped her mind shut.

  Marlise breathed in her fury, slammed the front door, locked it, and clumped upstairs. The house was stuffy and smelt musty. Riley had hardly been here. Her mice had lost weight and her mozzies were dead. Those still alive were starving.

  Poor darlings. How could he be so cruel? She had driven half the night and raced for the first barge to surprise him before he left for work, and he wasn’t even home.

  She took her handbag into her room, collapsed on her bed, fished out a packet of paracetamol and swallowed two. It was still early morning but the night couldn’t come fast enough. She hadn’t slept in days.

  The new day slipping through the cracks of the house, already hot enough to prickle her skin, pulled her into a fitful sleep where tortured souls drifted up from beneath the house and stood in the shadows of her room, watching.

  Riley guessed there was one hour of daylight left. If the heat wasn’t too crippling, he and Ayla could finish work on the first of the treehouse platforms by sundown. A few more planks to hammer and it was complete. Because of the full moon tonight, they had planned a bonfire to burn the scrap wood piled on the block. He had second thoughts now about the fire. It was so swelteringly hot the idea melted his brain. But Ayla had bought a bottle of champagne to mark the occasion and he had never tasted champagne.

  As if thinking about her made her materialise, she came around the corner on her bike.

  ‘Where do you go to my lovely?’ He had taken to speaking to her in bad song lyrics for the reward of her smile.

  ‘Picking my pay up from Tilly.’ She jumped off her bike.

  ‘I need to do that.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘Might pop back to Mum’s first, grab some clothes. This heat…I’m burning up for your love,’ he sang, and kissed her on the neck.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re finally going to change your clothes.’

  He pinched her bottom. ‘That’s enough from you. Give us your bike for a sec.’ He sat on it. ‘Jump up.’

  ‘On the handle bars?’

  ‘Kelvin and I used to do it. Trust me, it’s fun.’

  They wobbled off down the road, Riley singing, ‘You looked so pretty as you were riding along,’ and pretended to lose control of the bike to make her scream. By the time they got to the house, his chest hurt from laughing.

  ‘You’re nasty and cruel.’ She play-slapped him.

  ‘Just like my mother.’ He feigned a wicked laugh, took the key from where he had hidden it on top of the power box and unlocked the door.

  Marlise’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Riley’s voice.

  ‘How did you work in this heat?’ That was the girl. She was with him, coming up the stairwell.

  ‘I was digging a pond for Mrs Boyd under the shade of her mulberry tree. I kept hosing myself down, and she kept bringing me iced drinks.’

  ‘Bet she did. She’s sweet for you. All those old ducks are.’

  ‘Are not.’

  ‘Are too. God’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This house. Gives me the creeps. When do you think your Mum will be back?’

  ‘Who cares? Haven’t felt this free, ever. I know it’s because she’s not here.’

  Marlise’s hands clamped across her mouth tasted of shampoo.

  ‘Do you really think your plan will work?’

  ‘What plan?’

  They were in the hallway. She sat up.

  ‘To move to the new place then sneak back? What if she follows you back and gets…gets nasty?’

  She stood, clutching at the wall. They were so close now, across the hall in his room.

  ‘If she becomes impossible, we go to the police with the story of the letter. I don’t know.’

  What is he talking about?

  ‘The official take on Harley’s death is accidental overdose, so even if we could prove she wrote a letter, I don’t know if they would charge her with anything.’

  ‘Can we try my plan first?’

  ‘The authorities might be interested in the deaths of Toto and Jip though, and what she’s breeding in her homemade laboratory.’

  Vindictive little bitch, spreading lies. She needs her tongue cut out.

  They heard it at the same time, the door of Marlise’s room opening. She appeared. A vile apparition, darkening the doorway of his bedroom.

  He had never seen his mother so wretched. She had lost weight and the black rings under her eyes, deep as ruts, made her old and shrivelled. Her wet hair stuck to her head, but it was the hatred in her face that sent his blood still.

  ‘Mum? I didn’t know you were home.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Her voice was dead.

  ‘I didn’t see the scooter. Mum?’

  Her smile twisted, but she remained focused on Ayla.

  He moved to protect Ayla, but she stepped forward. ‘Riley loves you Marlise. You’re his mother…of course he loves you, but he wants to live his own life now. He’s not –’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she screamed with such force, he knew being reasonable would be pointless.

  His brave Ayla grew taller. ‘I know what you did…to Harley… Toto…Jip. You don’t frighten me.’

  ‘Lies. She’s full of lies. Can’t you see what she’s doing?’ His mother was shouting so hard she had spit in the corners of her mouth.

  He stepped in front of Ayla. ‘Mum. I love you. No one can ever take that away. You’re my Mum.’

  She looked at him like she didn’t recognise him, then she reached to touch him. ‘Riley –’

  ‘But I’m not moving off with you. I’m staying.’

  ‘No. You’re not.’

  ‘I read all the letters. His name is Lorcan Gallaher. He’s a musician. You stole me away from him. Why did you do that?’

  ‘No.’ Her head wouldn’t stop shaking. ‘She’s lying.’ ‘I love you, but I’m an adult now. I’m not going with you.’ ‘No. No. No.’ She slid to the floor like someone had sucked the air out of her.

  She struggled to get up. He went to help, but she pushed him away. ‘Don’t touch me.’ Her face streaming tears and snot.

  He saw it before it happened. His mother pulled the whittling knife from his half-made flute on the table near the door and lunged at Ayla. She dived out of the way as he tackled his mother, knocking her to the ground. Ayla grabbed the knife. He pinned his mother down, sitting on top of her as she fought to get free bellowing over and over. ‘I have to kill her.’ He looked into her distorted face and the words turned into something else, his mother howling as she chopped into David’s cherished plants with his grafting knife. ‘You left me no choice!’ Chop. ‘I had to!’ Sla
sh.

  Had to what?

  The words he heard that day had been squashed in his memory, compacted, too horrifying to comprehend. A series of images besieged him: his mother sitting with David, smiling as he lay dying. Kelvin hugging his dead dog. His mother, naked, running through the rainforest as David tackled her, wrapping her tightly in a sheet while she screamed and screamed.

  He stared into her disfigured face. ‘David…’ He was scarcely audible, but it silenced her. The flicker of fear in her eyes confirmed the truth for him.

  He didn’t know how his hands got from her wrists to her throat but became fascinated by the fact that he could feel her windpipe bending. Her pleading eyes bulged.

  Ayla’s voice came from far away. ‘Riley, stop.’

  He looked up through a tunnel and saw his beloved standing pale in the corner of his room, a whittling knife in her hand. His grip relaxed, and his mother sucked in air. He watched her, the shock dropping his body temperature, and knew there was only one course of action left. He spoke before he changed his mind.

  ‘Please go.’

  Ayla stood immobilised.

  He couldn’t talk for the pain of it. ‘I can’t see you again.’

  ‘What?’ She didn’t notice the knife drop from her hand.

  He helped his mother to her feet and hugged her to him as she sobbed into his chest. ‘She needs me. I’m all she’s got. Please go.’

  Ayla’s mouth opened, but no words formed.

  ‘Please? Can’t you see what happened? I…I tried to kill her. This… us…it’s not going to work.’

  Ayla wouldn’t move. Unable to bear the hurt he was inflicting, he started to yell. ‘I said, go. What don’t you get about that? Are you deaf? Leave us alone. Fucking leave us alone!’

  Her face shattered. He gouged his heart out and offered it to her. It lay there twisting and writhing in the palm of his hand. A drop of blood landed on her foot between her sandal straps. She fled. He waited until he heard the screen door slam, then collapsed onto his bed, sobbing unrestrainedly.

  Someone touched him on the shoulder. He turned to see a blotchy face with red eyes and scraggly hair, smiling at him.

  ‘Poor baby.’

  Her touch made his stomach churn. ‘I’m going to move off with you and never see her again, so there’s no cause to hurt her now. Is there? Mum?’

  ‘Sleep, poor baby. You look so tired.’

  He curled into a foetal position away from her. ‘Promise me. Mum?

  You’re not going to hurt Ayla.’

  ‘I promise.’

  The end of the bed sank as she sat. The rustle of the mosquito net being tied into a knot above him. Why didn’t she go? Why did she keep stroking the back of his head like that? He shivered. Had she killed the man she loved? What was she?

  He sat up too late, vomiting onto the Persian rug.

  ‘Poor baby. You’ve had too much sun.’ She folded the mat to contain the soupy mess. ‘Can’t believe Tilly made you work in this heat. I’ll bring you a glass of water,’ she carried the rug out carefully.

  His head was throbbing from the heat, from the heartbreak, from a possibility too horrific to say out loud. He shut his eyes and hoped to never wake. To die in sleep, that would be best. The ghost of a dead baby drifted down and curled into him.

  Ayla pedalled through syrup. Her legs had turned to rope and she couldn’t breathe from the cramp in her lungs. Her lungs surrounding her heart, designed to protect her heart. Nothing can protect a heart.

  Where was she riding to? The memory of his words burning into her marrow made the earth spin off its axis and flung her out into the atmosphere where she floated like an empty husk with no direction, no purpose. She could ride off the end of the island and into the ocean. She could ride along the bottom of the sea and meet her father who would take her in his arms and hold her. Simply hold her.

  The moon rising over the tops of the trees was so immense it was going to fall down. To be crushed by the weight of it, what a relief that would be. To be killed by the moon is preferable to living with the memory of him.

  Someone called and waved, but the liquid in her eyes blurred the light of the colossal moon. She rode toward its glow until her bike turned to jelly and became tangled in her body. How hard the earth was and where did this blood on her knee come from? She found herself in her front yard. Something important to her hit the ground and cracked but she didn’t stop. Nothing was important now.

  ‘Mum?’

  Her Mum would put a band-aid on her knee. Her Mum would cry for the wound she knew was too big to bandage, the wound wedged behind her lungs, where her heart once was.

  ‘Mum?’

  The house was empty. She sank into her bed, the despair made her bones too heavy as the sun was eaten by the moon. Grappa had known all along, Riley was Far Dorocha. He had played and she had danced, willingly following him into the abyss where nothing but sorrow grew, wild and free.

  Twilight. Her favourite time. The sun was low in the swamp. It hit the window and set the scotch ablaze. She sat by her computer and stared at the pretty colours in the bottle. Riley knew her rule about alcohol in the house. Another sign of his betrayal. The swelling bruises on her throat where he had tried to squeeze the life out of her made her reach for the bottle, unscrew the lid, sniff it and take a swig. The liquid set her on fire. It had been too, too long between drinks. She gulped until her head was buzzing, until the grafting knife on the bench was in her hand. She sliced it savagely through the air. Ayla has such a pretty face. If she was disfigured, Riley wouldn’t find her half as attractive. He wouldn’t be tempted to run back to her. Or if she was dead, there would be no her to run to. Ever. She popped the knife into her dressing gown pocket and reached for her phone.

  Tilly answered directly. ‘Hello love, heard you were back. How was your break away?’

  ‘I’m running late, Tilly. Sweet little Ayla invited me for dinner and I forgot to ask the address. I can’t get hold of Riley on his mobile.’

  ‘Seabreeze, down the end, last house in the street…can’t miss it… its bright purple.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Might pop over in the morning and –’

  Marlise disconnected.

  Sorry Tilly, no time for small talk.

  She had noticed Seabreeze Crescent: the street on the left, at the top of the hill, not far from where puny sunglass man once lived. What a non-event he had turned out to be. She had been prepared to write several letters and it had only taken one. No fun.

  Maybe she would miss this island after all? She had created some lovely memories in the short time she had been here. She sucked again from the bottle and tiptoed down the hall. He was asleep now. Why he had wasted so many tears on that little bitch would always be a mystery to her. She quietly shut his door, went into her bedroom, opened her wardrobe and took another swig. The darling mosquitoes outside were calling for blood. After such a big rain and with this heat, their numbers were magnificent.

  She pushed against the fly screen of the window until it popped out, landing upright, stuck in the shiny mud below. She found the sight of it hilarious. The brown liquid fire had lifted her mood considerably. She could feel the pull of the full moon rising as the mosquitoes started to swarm and suck.

  ‘Hello, my darlings. What a perfect night to feed.’

  Grappa knew it was a king tide, but even he was shocked at the size of the pink moon rising over the island. Dora watched it fill the tangerine sky, threw the pot overboard and said, ‘Good night for crabbing.’

  Grappa didn’t like how there were two rings around the moon. ‘Pity it’s so bloody hot.’

  ‘Broke the record, hottest day ever, they reckon.’

  They both stared as a cloud of bats smudged the sky, leaving the island in their hundreds.

  ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘Maybe the heat?’

  They were accustomed to seeing bats from Big Island flying in. Neither of them had ever seen the local co
lony fly out towards the west collectively like that.

  Grappa handed her another chunk of raw meat to tie into the next pot. Dora jumped when the dugong surfaced beside the boat. It observed them then sank down to come up moments later in the same spot. It looked at Dora, tilted its head then disappeared below the surface.

  ‘Almost like old man dugong was trying to tell us something then,’ Dora said.

  A bat dropped into the boat, flapped around disoriented, then flew off. Grappa stared at the black mass of mangroves at the rear of the island. ‘That woman’s back and all the animals are acting up again.’

  ‘Thought you said you spoke to her.’

  ‘I did. Might take more than words but…’

  Grappa puttered around the sandbank closer in to the island, killed the engine and let Little Beaudy drift as Dora threw another pot. A pod of dolphins swam towards the boat, circling and leaping. Dora watched them. ‘They’re not playing. Something’s upset them.’

  Grappa was trying to ring Ayla. There was no answer. He tried again. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ayla always has her phone on her.’

  ‘Maybe she’s out of range.’

  He rang Helen but the home phone rang out. ‘I’ve gotta check on Ayla,’ as he said this, one of the dolphins hit the water hard, splashing the boat. ‘Alright, already. I’m going. I’m going.’ He started the engine and headed toward the island. The dolphins trailed in the wake.

  ‘Something big’s happening, old man.’

  He took in the brightness of the moon. The world felt too grim.

  She wiped the sweat from her face and scanned the still horizon. ‘Hope to God it’s not a tsunami.’

  Ayla was woken by the whine of mosquitoes and pinpricks on her skin. The phone in the kitchen was ringing. Switching on her light to find her room swarming with mosquitos, she screamed and hit out.

  ‘Thought you said they have as much right to be on this planet as we do?’