by Anna Romer
She nodded.
With one hand, he gripped Orah’s fingers and prised them from the hull. His skin was a shock of warmth. Orah wondered vaguely why the chill had not taken hold of him as it had taken hold of her. She slid into the water, clumsy with fear, but the boy did not let her sink. The lifeboat drifted out of reach. She twisted, trying to splash after it, but the boy held her firm.
He drew her to him and pulled her arms around his neck. She clung to him, letting her cheek fall against his head as he swam towards the shore, his muscles bunching and lengthening, his lean body warm through the sodden cloth of Orah’s dress. He crested the swelling waves with ease, pushing strong and swift through the troughs. Soon the shadows of the headland loomed over them. Orah saw a cut of deeper darkness at its base, and realised with a pang of sorrow that Mam had been right. A tiny cove lay at the foot of the headland, with a narrow stretch of gravelly beach curving along the water’s edge.
They reached the shore and the boy laid Orah on the sand. She rolled onto her belly, retching. When the spasms stopped, she hunched into a ball to catch her breath. Finally, she looked up.
The boy was crouched beside her, his eyes fixed to her face. He wasn’t alone. A girl kneeled next to him. She was dark-skinned like the boy, and her wide eyes shone in the gloom.
‘Come on.’ The boy put out his hand.
Orah brushed him away and struggled to her feet. She stood shakily, then pointed to the water.
‘Mam’s out there. You have to help her.’
The boy studied her face, his brows drawn. He looked at the girl, and back at Orah, then nodded solemnly.
For the next hour, he dived and searched. Orah shivered on the shore, straining to see. The girl stood motionless at Orah’s side, her skinny frame ghostlike in the gloom. From time to time, Orah heard her speak, her words as melodic as birdsong. Orah couldn’t make out what the girl was saying. The roar of the ocean still rang in her ears, and her heart thumped too loudly. The boy was a shadow in the predawn light. Paddling in circles, swimming along the surface of the waves, and then diving deep. At times, he was gone so long that Orah thought the current had pulled him under, drowned him like all the others. Finally, he swam back to shore, emerging from the surf panting, his head held low. He collapsed on the sand next to her.
Orah dropped to her knees. She had bitten her lips, and the sticky ooze of blood mingled warmly with the salty crust of dried seawater around her mouth. She drove her fists hard into her temples, as if that would somehow stop the pain. She pressed her face into the sand, the cry inside her trapped, her body rigid.
‘Warra,’ the girl cried. Her small hands fluttered over Orah’s frozen skin like warm moths. ‘Oh, Warra, look at her!’
The boy took Orah’s hand. After a while, he helped her to her feet and led her along the beach. They entered the shadows of the headland. The girl hurried along behind them, and from time to time, Orah heard her speaking or singing quietly as they walked.
‘Watch the rocks,’ she called to Orah. ‘Uphill now, mind your feet.’
Orah had no care where she trod, no care that the stones cut her bare heels and bruised her toes. She cared nothing for where the boy might be taking her. She simply stumbled along beside him, following like a lamb, her heart in tatters. They climbed up into the rocks, and worked their way along a steep path. As they climbed, the ocean’s roar became a muffled, hollow moan. Several times, Orah had to stop and rest until the trembling in her legs subsided. Each time they stopped, the boy waited without a word.
His grip on her hand never wavered, his fingers strong and warm around hers. The girl stayed close, a dark butterfly flitting along behind Orah and the boy, sometimes beside them, sometimes ahead, never far.
Orah thought their climb would go on forever. The sun broke over the horizon and bathed them in its first yellow rays. Still they climbed. Rocks gave way to grasses. They entered a thicket of stumpy trees with small leathery leaves, and a while later broke through the other side onto flat ground.
Soon after, Orah lost her sense of place, of time. She walked blindly, as if walking was all she knew. She placed one foot in front of the other, dragging herself through a sludge of seconds, minutes, perhaps hours. In the swirling sea storm of her mind, she saw the ocean, the lifeboat, the wild rolling waves, the crash of water. She relived the giddying fear. Now, rather than the boy’s warm fingers, she was holding Mam’s cold ones. Clutching them for dear life, praying that this time, this time, if she only held tightly enough she would be able to save her.
5
Melbourne, June 1993
Cold hands closed around my ankle, dragging me deeper into the water. A voice murmured in my ear.
Why did you lie . . . Why, Lucy?
Black water, so deep; a bottomless abyss without light or hope. Just like my guilt. I struggled, but the grip on my foot would not let go. In my mind, I could see those hands clearly: long-fingered and freckled, strong and lean, the nails blunt and neat. My mother’s hands.
You lied, and now I’m trapped here, here in this dark place . . .
I tried to break the surface, to rouse myself, but the hands were too strong. My mother’s face shimmered in the water below me. Her blonde hair clung to her cheeks, her mouth curved in an almost loving smile, but there was no warmth in her eyes. Blue as the water she was drowning me in, cold and unblinking. Somewhere behind her, the ocean roared.
You lied . . .
Dreaming, I told myself. The same old dream. Just open your eyes and you’ll see the bedroom window with its yellow curtains, the dresser with the fresh roses, last night’s clothes on the chair. All you need to do is open your eyes.
I reached for the bedside lamp, but instead my fingers grazed cold, clammy stone. I felt my body – strangely insubstantial, as thin and small as a child’s – sliding away from me. I was falling, not down into the sea, but backwards in time, along a tunnel of almost pure black. If only you hadn’t lied, the voice whispered in my mind, I’d still be with you, darling . . . but now I’m trapped under the weight of all this water and it’s very cold here, Lucy . . . very cold indeed . . . The whispers grew more urgent, rising in pitch to a scream—
I kicked free and swam to the surface, woke up. Flicked on the bedside lamp. Placing my palms over my face, I breathed through my fingers until the panic ebbed. My cheeks were damp, my throat dry. The air felt sub-zero.
I checked the clock: 3 a.m.
My quilt was bunched at the foot of the bed, half-dragged to the floor. I yanked it back up around me and burrowed into its soft folds. Noises drifted in from the garden: night birds softly calling, branches creaking. The distant wash of water in the bay that seemed, at that moment, unutterably sad. Closer sounds – the rustle of bedclothes, the manic drumbeat of my pulse – were suddenly loud and invasive. Wanting distraction, I found myself remembering that moment on the verandah, Morgan’s palm against my face, my breathless anticipation as he leaned towards me, and then the sting of disappointment as his lips grazed my brow.
Outside, an owl shrieked.
There was no point trying to sleep. My mind was buzzing, my limbs jittery. I reached for my water glass and took a swig, and then spied the manuscript Dad had given me the night before. Eager to dispel the aftertaste of my nightmare, I picked up the pile of papers and settled back against the pillows. Dad had titled his newest story Fineflower and the Man of Shadows. Within minutes, I had forgotten my dream and became submersed in the world of my father’s story.
Marriage to the old King was not what Fineflower had expected. Before their wedding, he had been tolerant and fatherly, but lately he’d grown cold.
Fineflower stood at the window, rocking her son in her arms. Gazing down on the waves that crashed against the foot of the cliff below the castle, she sent her mind back, trying to pinpoint the beginning of the change. Six weeks ago, perhaps, when her son was born? Or the long lumbering months before the birth, when she had craved nothing but fish? She had barely seen t
he King in those days, caught up as he was with his imperial undertakings.
Then she remembered.
Market day. Three weeks earlier.
The day she had seen the soldier.
Her soldier, as she now thought of him. He had been standing on the edge of the crowd, so fine in his blue jacket with brass buttons and golden sash, his shiny black boots. His eyes had sharpened when he saw her glance his way and Fineflower thought she’d seen him smile. In surprise, she had smiled back—
Warmth flushed her cheeks.
Perhaps the King had observed the admiration on her face. Perhaps he’d seen the brightness in her eyes, noticed the subtle quickening of her breath. Perhaps he had even witnessed that fleeting smile. Fineflower pressed a kiss to her baby’s forehead. Why should the King care? He was always preoccupied with important matters that he said were of no relevance to a woman. He rarely spoke to her, and then only to criticise.
Fineflower drew her shawl around her shoulders. The King had no right to be jealous. He had not minced his meaning when he said that Fineflower was a trophy wife, nothing more. A means to an end, a union between two kingdoms. A chattel.
She pinched her lips together. If anyone should be angry, it was her. She hadn’t wanted to marry the elderly King. All she cared about back then was tending the roses in her garden. Her nostrils flared. How she craved the sweet heady scent of her blooms, but all she could smell was brine and the damp castle walls and the stink of rotting fish that wafted from the fishermen’s cove below. She bent her head over her sleeping child and breathed his scent instead. The milky sweetness, a hint of cinnamon. Her agitation eased. The boy was all she cared about now. And perhaps—
Her thoughts flew back to the soldier. How handsome he’d been, how proud; a brave soldier with knowing eyes and a secretive smile. In another life, perhaps Fineflower would have chosen a man like that to wed. Then again, perhaps she would not. She did not believe in love. Giving away your heart was a dangerous thing. It made you weak. It made you do things, and think things, and worst of all feel things that were not at all sensible.
The dinner gong sounded.
Fineflower sighed and drew away from the window. Another dreary meal with the King. Another tedious night with his dull courtiers. Another night of nodding and smiling, of stifling her yawns, of daintily nibbling her modest portions of salad, while she longed to fill her grumbling stomach with fish and potatoes.
After placing her little prince in his cot under the watchful gaze of his nanny, she went downstairs. When she reached the dining hall, she was surprised to see the King sitting alone. His spotted old head rested in his hands and his bony shoulders shook. Muffled sobs echoed off the high walls. The piteous sight stirred Fineflower’s heart.
‘My lord,’ she called from the doorway. ‘Are you unwell?’
The King shot out of his chair, startled. He twisted around, his hawkish face shiny with tears. He stalked across the hall to where Fineflower stood, and grabbed her by the arm.
‘Betray me, will you?’ he cried. ‘Wretched girl, you have broken my heart. I thought you were different, but I see now that you are cut from the same cloth as all the others.’
‘Others?’
The King did not answer. He marched her through a doorway and into a shadowed corridor. They descended a flight of seemingly endless stairs, where torches shed feeble light. Water dripped from the walls, rats ran from their path, and the darkness echoed with the roar of waves below. The stairwell was cold, but the dungeon in the dark belly of the castle was colder.
‘Here you’ll stay,’ the King told her, ‘until you make the spindle leap and dance and fill this room with gold. If you succeed, I will grant any wish you desire. If you fail, I’ll hang you from the rafters and drain your blood.’
The door slammed on her cell.
‘What of my son?’ she cried after the King, but he did not reply.
Fineflower gazed around in dismay. Moonlight wafted through a high little window, barely piercing the darkness. Nearby sat a spinning wheel. In the corner was a mountain of white cocoons. Looking closer, she saw millions of silkworms, their pale bodies wriggling in the moonlight. Worms, around her feet, rustling in the straw mattress by the door, in the shadows – and there, lingering in the dank air, the faint fetid smell of mulberry leaves being slowly devoured.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed four figures beneath the window. They hovered just above the floor, swaying gently, as though in a breeze. With a jolt of terror, Fineflower understood the King’s words.
I’ll hang you from the rafters . . .
The figures turned out to be maidens of similar age to Fineflower. Their arms dangled limp at their sides. Shadows made thumbprints where their eyes should have been, and their faces glowed waxy pale, the skin bloodless. Their feet did not touch the ground, Fineflower saw, but moved slowly this way and that, this way and that. On the flagstone floor beneath their stained silk slippers, their shadows shifted restlessly.
Setting the manuscript aside, I climbed from the bed. The night seemed unnaturally black. The air pressed against my skin, large soft fingers of darkness that made me shiver.
My father’s story had unsettled me, but I didn’t understand why. It seemed familiar, like an echo from the past that I recognised but could not quite place. Grabbing cardigan and slippers, I wandered along the hall to the sunroom. The cat was asleep in his box, a mound of white fluff that began to purr when I kneeled to stroke his back.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I brewed coffee and took it outside. Silver clouds etched the sky. A full moon sailed overhead like a hazy penny. Beyond the trees that sheltered my temporary haven, the city of Melbourne rumbled through the early hours. A siren wailed in a distant street. Traffic mumbled along Dandenong Road. Bats twittered in the fig trees that grew along the fence and the smell of onions and late-night sausages sat greasily on the ocean air. I breathed deep, savouring the familiarity of these sounds and smells of home, surprised by the longing they inspired in me.
Crossing the garden, I let myself into an old timber shed. The front garage area housed my former pride and joy – a Volkswagen camper, classic green and white with a split windscreen and every mod con from the 1960s. The van had languished in Dad’s garage for the last five years. He swore he’d been unable to find a buyer, claiming that no one was splashing out, thanks to the recession. Secretly though, I suspected, he hoped my old van might eventually lure me home.
At the back of the shed was a room that the owner had converted into a painting studio. In anticipation of Dad’s manuscript, I had brought the tools of my trade with me from London. Paintbrushes, several blocks of Arches watercolour paper, and a lovely old pottery water jar that Adam had given me. Dad had lent me copies of our books – twelve hardbacks to date, all written by him and illustrated by me. Six had won awards. I selected one and took it over to the big worktable, switching on the lamp.
My bright drawings tumbled across the page, spilling over the edges. Liquid ink, watercolour pencil, dots of gold leaf. The typesetting had a handwritten look about it, which suited the exuberance of the artwork. The finished illustrations appeared swiftly executed, but first impressions were deceptive. I had spent many hours sketching and re-sketching, erasing and sketching again until I deemed the illustration perfect. It was my way of making sense of my father’s pandemonium of words. If I could not fully understand the man, then I would content myself with understanding that part of him he poured into his stories.
Years ago, Dad had rewritten the Rapunzel tale, only rather than a castle, the girl had been trapped beneath a lake. She had flung up her long hair like a fishing line to snare the unsuspecting Prince and pull him to her. My drawings for that one had been very dark, arising from my memories of the summer my mother drowned. I asked Dad about it later, and he explained that his Rapunzel had been a kind of therapy.
Writing stories is how I work through things I don’t understand, he’d said. Karen was ever
ything to me, you know that, Lucy. When we lost her, I fell apart. The Rapunzel tale, probably the other stories too, was my way of keeping her alive.
I thought of Mum with her regal height and large-boned frame. She had towered over Dad. My little dumpling, she had called him, at which he would pretend despair, but anyone could see how he adored her. It seemed impossible that a woman like her, invincible in my eyes and perfect in Dad’s, had been taken from us so quickly. One wrong step on some slippery rocks was all it took to change our lives forever.
I sat at the drafting table, shivering in pyjamas and cardigan. The coffee was hot and sweet and quickly warmed me. For the next few hours, I escaped into the zone, surrendering myself to the swirls of jewel-bright inks and watercolour that flowed from my brush. The only sounds were the clink of my pens in the inkbottle, the whisper of paint washing across the paper, and from somewhere beyond the doorway the quiet drip of dew from the trees.
By the time the sun rose, I had done a day’s work. Buckled sheets of watercolour paper littered the studio floor, ten full-colour sketches, created in a frenzy. But as I gazed at them, my heart sank. The images were good, that wasn’t the problem. What depressed me was the figure they depicted.
In several, he held a cat. In others, he stood on a low brick wall staring out across the sea, his wild hair tugged by the wind. There was even one of him sitting in a dark garden surrounded by fairy lights and winter roses. And beside him – tiny and ghost-like, insubstantial – was a sad little figure in a red dress.
I tore that one up.
The others I collected and squashed into the bin. I felt no regret, just annoyance that I’d wasted so many hours, so much paper and ink and effort. Spending time with Morgan was a bad idea. Best to avoid him. Besides, I was only here for a few weeks. How hard would it be? Going back to the table, I took out a fresh sheet of Arches, swirled my brushes clean in the water jar, and tried to summon inspiration, but nothing came.