Path to the Night Sea

by Gilmore, Alicia;

  The moon disappeared behind clouds and the plunge into darkness drew Ellie out of her trance. It was time to go home. Ellie ran her thumb over the edge and back of the shell, marvelling in the change from smooth to gritty. As she made her way back along the street, keeping to the shadows, she knew what she had to do. Daddy needed the earth; he needed a grave. He couldn’t stay in the house. She couldn’t make a stone angel like the one she’d seen in the graveyard, but she could dig a grave for him, bury him in the dirt.

  ‘Dead and gone.’ To be gone, you had to be in the dirt. Maybe that was how it worked. She wouldn’t see him, hear him, if he was out there… She remembered there had been a shovel in the shed that he had used long ago to pick up the dog shit from the cage and to dig in the yard. She could use that to dig. Her fingers rubbed against the shell faster now, her steps quicker. Yes, this she could do, but where? How? The garden was full of plants; the rest of the yard was taken up by the lawn, the shed, the dogs’ enclosure. The clothes line was in the middle of the lawn. Besides that was too open, too exposed. Daddy had buried Dash and Spencer inside their enclosure years ago; would there be room for one more? Staccato images of the cemetery at night flickered before her. There had been the grave topped with pebbles and ringed in stones. She squeezed her fingers around her shell. The beach was covered with shells, rocks, and stones. If she gathered enough, she could mark his grave with shells and rocks from the beach. He could lie in the ground, in the dogs’ enclosure. She could do it. She would.

  Ellie grinned. She had gotten out tonight; she could get out again. After all, this was for Daddy. The timing had to be right. Perhaps if she dug during the day, the neighbours, if they were there and heard anything at all, would think it was just cranky old Mr Clements, pottering around in his garden. The idea blossomed. She could wear an old pair of his overalls, twist her hair up under his woollen beanie, the dark one he’d worn when working outside. She could dig. If she heard a noise, she could hide. No one would see her, see the freak, and no one would stop her from doing her duty. Daddy was dead and it was her job to see him returned to the dirt.

  With her thoughts focused on her plan, Ellie had had no need to count her steps. She had reached the front yard and was squeezing past the side gate that she had left ajar when she thought she heard a sound from inside the house.

  ‘Daddy?’ Had he woken? She paused, but there were no other sounds. Ellie entered through the back door, and was about to lock it behind her, when Percival sneaked in.

  ‘We’re back.’ She locked the door and pocketed the keys. She was home. Ellie took off her father’s shoes and lined them up before heading to her father’s room and peeking inside. His body was motionless on the bed in the same position he’d been in when she’d left. He’d stayed, just like a good boy, she thought, and almost giggled out loud before catching herself. It was wrong to make fun of Daddy like that.

  Ellie returned to the kitchen. She was safe. Placing her shell on the kitchen table, she looked around her in amazement. She had been outside! Her legs felt suddenly weak and she sat on one of the kitchen chairs, her body coursing with a mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion. Her extraordinary late-night adventures had taken their toll. It was time for a sense of normality. A snack, possibly a cup of tea, then sleep. There was no one to say otherwise.

  Day Three

  Ellie awoke with a start, disoriented. No welcome shards of light fought their way through papered glass and around the blinds. It was not yet dawn. Rain pattered onto the corrugated-iron roof above. But there was another sound, closer. Someone else was breathing in the room—she could hear the whistle of air through damaged airways, the intake and slow, almost measured exhalation. The wheeze of years of working in the colliery and smoking.

  ‘Daddy?’ Ellie held her breath and the sound continued. She wasn’t alone.

  Ellie huddled under the threadbare cotton sheet and scratchy woollen blanket. She remembered coming to bed and Perce trying to crawl in with her, his claws picking and plucking at the blanket. She had lifted the top sheet and blankets to let him underneath, his warmth and rumbling purr against her back lulling her to sleep. There had been no Daddy last night, none of his lumbering into bed beside her nor a coldly voiced summons to his room. It was rare she slept alone and undisturbed. There had been a dream though. A vicious one. The dogs had come back. Their hot breath and wet muzzles on her skin, the smell of their fur.

  After all of these years, her skin still felt taut where it had been carefully pieced back together. She had become used to the prickling sensation where the nerves had been damaged. She’d had stitches across her scalp to join the tender flesh that had bled so brightly. Black stitches that curled and crawled across from the crown of her head where Spencer’s cruel jaw had shaken her helplessly. Stitches to her face, along the eye socket, down her cheek, and across to what was left of her nose, the tip lost in the mauling. Tiny stitches that had attempted to recreate what was lost.

  The ward had been full of lights and eyes peering down at her, gloved hands prodding and poking. Strange words like ‘fascia’ and ‘suture’ had whirled around her in an anaesthetised blur.

  ‘You’ve had more than one hundred stitches, dear, did you know that?’ A kind face had looked down upon her as sure fingers had adjusted the bag that hung above her bed. Ellie had tried to speak but the words were mumbled, her mouth numb, and the side of her face heavy. Her vision was obstructed by thick, white bandages.

  ‘The doctors had to reattach your ear.’ The nurse had leaned down and patted her upper arm, the one place that seemed unencumbered by bandages or tubes. ‘You’re a very lucky girl.’

  ‘Mmmm…Ma…Mummy,’ Ellie had finally forced the word out of her mouth. The sound wasn’t right, but the nurse, the one with the kind face, had understood.

  ‘Your Mummy’s in the waiting room, poor love. She’ll be glad to see you.’

  She had been. And Dolores had wept as she’d called Ellie ‘her beautiful girl’, ‘her darling’, and as her soft, comforting hands had tenderly stroked Ellie’s bandaged face and her mother had kissed her and promised to come back tomorrow and the next day and the next and the next but then one day Mummy didn’t come. When it was finally time for her to leave the hospital, only Daddy had come to take her home. Mummy had gone. Disappeared, forever.

  Ellie hadn’t known what she looked like. She hadn’t seen her true reflection again after that first disastrous attempt in the hospital; she could only guess from the shocked expressions of those who peered at her, from the tears that had welled in Mummy’s eyes, the revolted look in Daddy’s, and the contorted grimace of her grandmother. Daddy had removed all the mirrors from the house by the time she returned home. No need of a repeat of those hysterics she’d had at the hospital, he’d said. In the bathroom there was just the empty wooden frame on the front of the narrow wall cabinet above the basin. Ellie would turn on the light when cleaning her teeth so she could move before the blank space, trying to create a person out of her shadow.

  Daddy had caught her one day trying to spy her reflection in the glass screen of the newly purchased television. Her hair had finally grown down to her shoulders and, with her head tilted, it almost covered the scars on her cheek. She’d pulled the hair away from her face and tilted her head towards the television set. Catching the unmistakable odour of beer and cigarettes from a late afternoon session at the pub, Ellie had sensed her father’s volatile mood even before he had pushed her face into the screen so that all she could see were dots.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘I…I just wanted to see…’

  ‘You want see what you look like, huh? You little freak. Here.’ He had rocked her head from side to side, ignoring her cries of pain. ‘You wanna be on television?’

  Without warning he had let go of her head and disappeared into his bedroom. Ellie had wanted to bolt to her room and hide, but she barely had time to mo
ve away from the set before he returned, a small pocket mirror in his hand.

  ‘You wanna see?’ It was the mirror he used for shaving that he normally kept locked in his drawer. He had knelt down behind her, holding her chin in one hand and the mirror in the other. He thrust the mirror before her. Ellie caught glimpses of her father’s sneering face behind a clump of greasy hair framing one smooth cheek and one deformed, white, patchwork cheek. She blinked and the eyes she could see in the mirror blinked back.

  ‘You think they’d let freaks like you on television? Or out on the fucking street?’

  ‘No.’ Her desire to flee was forgotten; Ellie couldn’t take her eyes off her reflection. She couldn’t see her whole face. But this tiny mirror showed she wasn’t really little like she had once been. She wasn’t pretty either, not pretty like Mummy had been pretty, but she was real. She was there in the mirror. There were parts of a face. There were parts of a girl. It was still her, so why did Daddy hate her so much? Her father put the mirror down and wheeled her around to face him. His scowl was terrifying.

  ‘You’re nothing to look at. You’re a fucking, ugly dog. No one wants to look at you, and no one ever will. Not even you.’

  ‘I won’t look, I promise.’

  ‘You’ll never leave me.’

  ‘I won’t, I…’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he had screamed, his face a mask of fury. He ripped the plug of the television from the wall and kicked at the set, glass exploding across the carpet and contorted wires dangling from his foot and ankle. ‘You won’t ever look again, you vain, disgusting girl.’ He had lashed out with his foot once more, sending odd electrical innards flying around the room. ‘You’re a freak, understand?’

  Ellie had understood. She wasn’t to look; she was too deformed. Only Daddy could put up with looking at her, no one else could. No one else would ever love her.

  He had never replaced the television. From that time on, they had just sat in the lounge room each evening, listening to his albums or the radio or sitting in silence, until he declared it time for bed.

  Ellie shifted on her mattress, yawned, and rolled onto her back. Half-awake, she opened her eyes to find the room had brightened with morning light. There was no sound of another person’s breath, of another’s presence. A soft paw batted her face. Percival was perched on the pillow beside her head, his face so close his whiskers touched her cheek.

  ‘What d’ya want, puss? Breakfast?’ Her voice was husky as she tried to sit up. For a second the room spun away and she couldn’t remember why she had slept so late. For years she had gotten up at dawn to make her father his breakfast before he had gone to work. Even when he had retired, that routine had been impossible to break. Daddy first.

  ‘I’m late. I’m lazy, puss. A lazy, good-for-nothin’ girl.’ She had to get up. She stretched and wriggled her toes, convinced she could still feel gritty sand on her feet. She had been out. Outside into the night, into the world.

  ‘I went out.’ She smiled at the cat. Out. Such a small and beautiful word. She stood, feeling as if she were floating. She had had an adventure.

  Ellie wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle. A cup of tea was called for. Daddy was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table, waiting for his morning cuppa.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s coming, Daddy. I’m making it now.’

  ‘You’re fucking hopeless. What would you do without me?’

  Ellie didn’t know how to reply. His tea cup rattled in its saucer as she placed it on the counter. She cursed herself as she reached for a tea bag. She was bad, she was late, she was a good-for-nothing. She had kept him waiting.

  Ellie made his cup of tea and carried it to the table, hoping her shaking hands wouldn’t cause the tea to spill. She placed it down in front of him, but he didn’t acknowledge the gesture. She had upset him. Ellie hesitated, then returned to the bench to make her own tea. Her hands were still trembling as she carried her cup to the table. She spilt some of the tea into the saucer and hoped he wouldn’t notice. He would comment on how clumsy, how useless she was. ‘Women are only good for one thing…’ he would say, but he surprised her and said nothing. She sat opposite him at the table, her head bowed. They drank their tea in silence. When she raised her head, her father was gone.

  She looked out the kitchen window, still amazed at the glass and the presence of the world beyond. It was hard to make out much in the yard; a lingering sea mist enveloped everything, giving the plants and shed a spectral appearance. The mist had stolen all sense of distance. Even the weather knew there was only here and now. The grey-green shades of the gum trees floated eerily, their trunks unnervingly disembodied. She wondered, if she went outside, would the scent of late buds and oil-infused leaves give clues to their presence? The wet bark looked silken and smooth, reddened and lightened in patches where sheets had peeled off. The trees had shed their skins to the floor.

  She could hear birds out there, but she couldn’t see them. There was a sharp whistle, a chattering laugh, followed by high-pitched trills. These were the birds from the bush, not the raucous gulls of the sea. It was as if the leaves were speaking, chipping and chirruping away with enthralled squeals and she heard the distant, lowering grating of cockatoos. A whispered chorus underscored the trees and their singing cargo; it was the constant combination of waves and wind. The ocean had never left her. They had been there, the sand, the shore, the waves, all waiting for her. There had been rocks, shells…

  ‘My shell.’ She turned back to the table. The shell was there. Why hadn’t Daddy commented on it? How could he have not seen it? Ellie picked the shell up tenderly, rinsed it under the tap, and placed it on the windowsill. It was hers, and she was glad he hadn’t noticed it and thrown it away. She was glad he’d gone, wherever he’d gone. Looking at the shell, she remembered what she needed to do. Daddy would be buried, grounded. He would be in his earth and he would stay there. His deep, dark underground. It would be okay. She wouldn’t hear him, see him, anymore. Ellie smiled. Daddy must have liked the earth; he had worked at the mine for so long. He wasn’t afraid of the dark.

  ‘I know what to do, Daddy.’ She didn’t know if he was listening, but that was okay too. She would find a pair of his overalls and his beanie, make sure no one was outside to see her, go into the backyard, and dig. She wasn’t sure how big the hole, the grave, had to be.

  ‘I’ll make it big enough to fit.’ A Daddy-sized hole. She smiled and touched her shell. She had something to do now. He would be happy with her; he hadn’t had to tell her what to do. He could return to the dirt. He could return to his dogs. Dead and gone. The words reverberated around her in a giddy whirl. She felt a warm brush of fur against her bare legs as Percival walked past.

  ‘I’m going to dig, Perce.’ As she walked towards the bathroom to shower and dress, the air seemed lighter around her. ‘I’m going to dig.’

  Something dark caught her eye as she stepped under the shower. There was grit beneath her toenails, wedged into the corners. Ellie tried to dig it out with her fingernails, but the dirt seemed to burrow deeper into her flesh, staining her skin a coal black. She shivered, despite the warm water. Daddy used to return from the mine, his skin black-seamed, traces that remained even after he’d scrubbed.

  She knew of the fire down below. She had heard her father’s rare tales of the workday world he had inhabited underground, and she’d read in her encyclopaedia of molten rivers of heat and fury running deep beneath the Earth’s thin crust, fuelling the rich coal seams that ran along the coast. Ellie knew that fire wasn’t the only thing that lay beneath the surface. Water, too, wove and seeped underfoot, deep below where immense tree roots struck out in faith.

  Her grandfather had been able to divine water using metal rods. Her grandmother had told her that one day, but Daddy had bristled and retaliated, calling it a lie and a cheap trick. His fat
her had lived in the district a long time and knew where the water lay. Plus, it was only logical, Daddy had sneered; water had to run down from the escarpment to the sea. He had tried to do it himself—he hadn’t told Ellie this part of the story, her grandmother had—Arthur had tried and failed. Grandmother Clements had been the witness.

  

  ‘Hold the rods steady, son, not too tight… not too loose, now…’ The instructions weren’t clear enough, weren’t direct enough. That was what Arthur had said. He had always wanted things in black and white, in straight lines, even as a child.

  ‘No, you’re doing it wrong.’ His father’s brusque words had caused Arthur’s face to redden with equal blasts of rage and shame. He couldn’t do it right. So he had vowed that he wouldn’t do it again. He had thrown the thin metal rods on the ground in disgust. Miriam had come running over; she had been following Arthur and his father, eager to try. She had grabbed the rods and waved them about for a second or two before steadying her grip. As she had walked around the same patch of earth Arthur had trodden, the rods crossed over. Their father had laughed and clapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘That’s the way, my girl, you’ve got it.’

  As Miriam had basked in this rarely delivered praise, Arthur had stalked off saying he didn’t believe anyway. It was all a con.

  

  Ellie knocked and waited outside her father’s room. Had he heard? Did he know she hadn’t forgotten his rules? She needed his overalls and didn’t want to just take them—that would be rude. Taking a deep breath, she entered. The air around her was stale, tactile with death. She brushed away a couple of flies. They had gotten in here somehow and hovered over his pyjama-clad body, settling on his eyelids.

  ‘You took your time, girl.’