The Sea Bed

by Marele Day

  Lilli took a breath and dived, followed the lifeline, pushing away the lolling tongues. She could just make out the shape of the wetsuit but did not have enough breath to keep going. Lilli resurfaced, called for help.

  Down she went again, this time reaching the body. Cedar’s arm was caught under a rock. Lilli tried to drag it free but couldn’t. The rubbery fabric of the wetsuit was wedged into a crevice. Lilli came up for breath, and saw Pearlie swimming towards her. Lilli dived again. This time the crevice released its catch, gouging out a piece of the wetsuit as it did. Together Lilli and Pearlie carried Cedar to the surface.

  Lilli gazed at the fibreglass grandmother. Her expression was hard, set. Hers was not the idyllic life of the women in the print, sitting by the warming fire after swimming weightless in the limpid waters. She seemed angry that it had all come to this, that she should end up as a museum exhibit. It had solidified in her, taken her over, pressed her mouth into a thin hard line, pushed her elbows out, curled her fingers into fists.

  If Lilli hadn’t stayed in the boat so long. If she hadn’t been afraid of the seaweed. If.

  Lilli reached out and touched the old diver’s smooth hard shoulder, felt the stiff ridges in the folds of her sleeve.

  ‘Would you like a tour of the museum?’ A clammy male voice. Lilli pulled her hand back. Beside her stood the man from the office, the one in the suit.

  Perhaps he’d come down because he’d seen her touching the model. He didn’t mention it nor did he say who he was or what qualified him to conduct a tour. He must have also seen from his vantage point that she had already spent some time looking at the exhibits and was not in need of a guide.

  ‘I’m about to leave,’ Lilli said.

  ‘Perhaps you will permit me to drive you to the bus stop. It’s raining quite heavily outside.’ A silence rippled through the whole museum, an alertness, as if all the fibreglass models were waiting to hear what she would say.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said politely but firmly. ‘I have an umbrella.’

  The man moved away, stood admiring the deep-water woman.

  Lilli entered the cafe and gift shop section, started examining the souvenirs—glass dolphins, snow domes with underwater scenes, a small diver suspended. She turned one upside down, felt the coldness of the glass. Silvery f lakes f loated down like grains of salt while the plastic seaweed and diver remained stationary. One section of the table had key rings with the divers’ talisman hanging from it.

  The man in the suit placed himself at the other end of the table. He picked up a snow dome, slowly turned it upside down, just as Lilli had.

  She grabbed one of the key rings and took it to the girl behind the counter. She waited while the assistant put the key ring into a gift envelope then tied it with shiny dark pink ribbon. Lilli let things take their natural time. He surely wouldn’t be brazen enough to come to the counter. The gift-shop girl popped the parcel and the docket into a thin white paper bag and secured it with a sliver of sticky tape. It was done. Lilli moved briskly towards the exit.

  She was almost there when she heard his voice again, his moist breath settling on her cheek. ‘It doesn’t have to be to the bus stop, it can be anywhere you like. I’ll make it worth your while.’

  ‘I said, no thank you!’ The loudness of her voice took them both by surprise.

  The man jerked back, as if she’d slapped him across the face. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, walking quickly out the door.

  Lilli glared after him. How dare he proposition her in here, in front of her people. She heard the sound of a car start up, then slink away.

  25

  The lost place

  Had Yugen left the shrine by way of the beach instead of taking the cobbled path he would never have made his discovery. Branches with broad, water-polished leaves overhung the path. He passed nerines and tiger lilies in bloom, saw a feral grapefruit tree with one lone yellow fruit on it.

  The foliage was interrupted by a thick curtain of fishing net draped over bamboo. Above the netting was a pole with old green or blue pegs, secured upside down to the pole by cord. Beside it was a gate of some sort, camouf laged or unattended for so long that it was seeping into its surroundings. Nearby was a trolley, the sort that old women used, either trailing it behind them or pushing it in front, leaning on it for support, a utilitarian walking frame.

  There was a blue plastic crate on the trolley, with rows of small slits on the sides and bottom to allow air or water to f low through. The wheels of the trolley were small and poignant, like a toy a child had outgrown, a scooter or a cart from another time. Little spokes curved out from the central hub like a cross-section of a nautilus or similar sea creature.

  In the crate was a loosely folded tarpaulin, and on top a plastic mesh shopping basket. Poking out of it were handles, perhaps of a gardening tool—hedge clippers—with bright pink adhesive tape wound around them. The shopping basket was inside a looser, more f lexible net basket designed for marine use. A few strips of faded cloth hung over the edge of the blue crate.

  Another net was draped over the handle of the trolley itself. It was a deep reddish brown, the colour of certain seaweeds. Faded red rods the size of pen-knives were woven through it. A dead leaf was caught in the net, blanched and still. Large f leshy vines grew over the trolley and trailed along the ground to a pair of blue rubber boots, fallen on their sides, one loosely over the other, the position of sleeping feet.

  Yugen distinguished the mesh of a wire fence through the shroud of leaves. Slumped over one part of the fence was a wetsuit, old, almost threadbare, either from use or being out in the weather.

  He knew where the cobbled path had brought him, it was all around, even in the transpiration of leaves. A pair of black fins, the nets, wetsuit, the trolley. This was the place of an old sea woman. Yugen had entered the remote territories of the vanishing.

  A turquoise canvas bag was tied to the frame of a second trolley that leaned at an angle, as if a couple of its wheels were missing. Yugen couldn’t verify this unless he examined the trolley, but he did not want to touch or disturb anything.

  Despite the appearance of refuse, of abandonment, there was a discernible orderliness, items stacked to take up as little space as possible, to be unobtrusive. Nothing infringed upon the cobblestones of the path.

  The place felt inhabited by the unseen presences of the past. The day was quiet, not even the sound of birds rippled the stillness of the air. On the other side of the path, tied to a fence post, were three upright poles of bamboo which came together at the top like a tepee. Parallel to the fence was a line of bleached timber, old nails sticking out, their rust bleeding into the wood. For hanging seaweed.

  The pathway led to the sea, in big steps descending like the vertebrae of an ancient backbone. It tapered off at water level, and was replaced by a black rock shelf.

  Beyond the rocks and into the luminous haze, the horizon was faintly visible, a pencil line beneath a layer of wash.

  On the ground near the tripod of bamboo poles lay a mound covered with a black tarpaulin, cord wrapped around it like a parcel, and weighted here and there around the edges with plastic bottles filled with water. Yugen turned his head to the side and peered in through a fold. Dried seaweed as black as the tarpaulin, streaked white with a residue of salt.

  He went back to the camouf laged gate. On the high side of it was enough of a gap to see what lay beyond—a crude walkway, perhaps a bridge, leading into a clearing. It was made from planks of old wood so frail they wouldn’t hold anything heavier than a raccoon. The bridge had been fixed many times, a patchwork of repairs, with struts across each plank to prevent slipping.

  Lush verdant plants threatened to overgrow the manmade structure. Small coral-coloured nerines spotted the greenery. Beneath the lowest point of the bridge was darkness, a depth under the planks, a small stream perhaps. The bridge rose up again into the lightness of the clearing.

  Yugen took a few more steps back up the cobblestone path,
trying for a better view. The clearing was, or had been, a garden of sorts—a framework of thin bamboo poles with the same fine red mesh netting thrown over it. There were trailing vines underneath, tomatoes or beans, he was too far away to tell.

  Everything but a house was here. Yugen strained to see further in through the crowd of leaves, and thought he caught the shine of a metal roof, but it could equally have been the ref lection off water. Behind, where he had come from, the land rose up steeply.

  He stepped down the vertebrae, towards the sea, trying to get another glimpse of what lay beyond the fence. He found another section of stream gurgling its way out of the foliage. It disappeared under the path.

  Yugen stood on the edge of the land, on the verge of stepping stones that grew smaller the further into the distance they went, till finally they disappeared from view, submerged. The path led so naturally into the sea that he felt he could continue walking from one world into the other, pass from air into water.

  The monk took the urn out of his backpack, held it up to show Soshin that he had found the place.

  A sound, barely perceptible. A small rusty noise like the creaking of a gate. Yugen turned, looked back up the path. There was nothing but shadows.

  26

  An outing

  Festival day. Lilli stood in the f lickering rain, under her blue umbrella, her piece of summer sky, gazing at the statue of the diving woman. The bonnet, instead of being tied under her chin, had been left open by the sculptor, the right side of it draped regally across to the left shoulder. The cement woman’s eyes were closed, allowing herself to be contemplated. There was a suggestion of breath around her mouth, as if she were about to whistle softly. Her left arm was bent so that the hand came into alignment with the central axis of the body. Three fingers were outstretched, with the thumb and forefinger curved into a circle, like the hands of a monk in meditation. Her strong right arm lifted skywards, holding a torch with a frosted globe. She stood steadfast, torch raised, heart open, impervious to the weather she endured, unwavering in rain, wind or sun.

  Lilli stood in the rain, absorbing the diving woman’s strength. She could do it, she reminded herself. Lilli would be just another tourist. She’d find a quiet spot and watch. Everyone would be too busy to notice her. Walk down to the terminal, purchase a ticket, get on the ferry.

  Lilli crossed the highway and made her way along the esplanade, past the row of shrubs alternating with benches for sitting and enjoying the view, the pearl museum walkway, the large blue and white aquarium bordered with palm trees and planter boxes of salt-tolerant f lowers.

  A few metres further on she took a side street and came to the local ferry terminal. She folded her umbrella, shaking drops of rain off it, then waited at the entrance for a moment before realising that the glass door did not open automatically. The louvres of the windows under the eaves were angled for ventilation but still it was fuggy in the terminal, the air damp and stale, a smell of wet fur and coffee.

  The terminal was as crowded as a busy railway station. Apart from a few old men sitting on the benches against the wall, it seemed to be full of tourists—small-brimmed hats, cameras and daypacks. A couple of small children were on the f loor moving toy dinosaurs around.

  Lilli went to the ticket booth. ‘Coming back today?’ asked the woman without looking up. She seemed familiar, from the island, one of the mothers from Violet’s generation.

  ‘Ah, I’m not sure.’

  ‘It’s full fare if you don’t return on the same day.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Full fare.’ Lilli slid the correct change under the glass. She didn’t have to decide now how long she wanted to stay.

  The woman scooped the money up and replaced it with two tickets.

  Lilli bought a bottle of iced tea from the vending machine and went outside into fresher air. Across the street, on the water’s edge, were the covered walkways leading onto the pontoons which served as piers for the local island ferries. She could see a boat approaching but it was still too far away to tell if it was heading for these piers.

  A car pulled up beside the terminal. Two men emerged from the back seat, and one from the front. The driver remained at the wheel. The men were all wearing crisp black trousers and shirts with no ties. Two of the shirts buttoned up at the wrist while the third, a tasteful white with a thin black check that looked as if it might have been purchased in the city, had sleeves rolled up to just below the elbows. The owner of this shirt said something to the driver then waved him off. The three started walking towards the pier.

  The boat was getting closer, turning into this part of the bay. Lilli looked at her watch. Another twelve minutes before the island ferry was due. Perhaps this was an extra one, to cope with the festival visitors. As Lilli crossed the street towards the pier the same car returned. This time the driver got out, held an umbrella over his two passengers and accompanied them to the covered walkway.

  Lilli was caught between the two packs of men, and worse, when the driver walked back to the car with the umbrella, she was able to see that in the second group of passengers was the man in the suit.

  He recognised Lilli immediately but quickly looked away. She stepped back, found herself pushed up against the railing, as the men converged. The man in the suit’s companion introduced him to the others. The man with the checked shirt was the mayor of Boat Harbour.

  Their attention was diverted by the arrival of the ferry. Lilli looked towards the terminal but no-one came out. Something was wrong. ‘Is this the ferry for the festival?’ she asked the attendant putting the gangway into position. When he lifted his head Lilli could see that it was the same boy, grown into a man and dressed today in a smart nautical cap and white uniform, who had been on the ferry that had taken Lilli away.

  He stood there looking at Lilli, trying to place her. ‘Special service,’ he said eventually, his eyes lingering.

  The mayor came forward. ‘I’m sure there is room for one more.’ He stood aside to let her on first. Lilli remained pressed against the railing. A special ferry taking a party of VIPs to the festival. Lilli couldn’t go with them. It wasn’t only because of the man in the suit. She couldn’t arrive on the island with VIPs, be swept up in all that fanfare.

  ‘Thank you. I am waiting for someone,’ she managed to say.

  They filed on board. The attendant pulled up the gangway, released the rope from the mooring. The engines started revving, churning white water.

  The men stood on deck, with the mayor pointing out features of the bay. As the ferry edged away from the jetty the man in the suit turned back, showed his triumphant, grinning face to Lilli.

  She could feel herself unravelling. Lilli left the dockside area, hurried back past the aquarium and the pearl museum. She did not even glance at the diving woman statue but kept going till she was back in the safe haven of the hotel.

  27

  Writing on the mind

  The sea women arrived in small boats, wearing layers of clothes—wetsuit, diver’s uniform and warm quilted jacket. They brought with them fins, masks, belts, ropes, tubs and firewood.

  Each group set about making a fire on the beach, huddling in on it, encouraging it, till eventually slim f lames appeared. Most of the women were young. Yugen saw few the age of the grandmothers from the corrugated-iron sheds at Finger Peninsula.

  In other boats came media men, large cameras carried ashore on their shoulders. Some had the same silvery metal cases as the crew Yugen encountered on The Sound of Waves island.

  Arriving on foot from the direction of the port were tourists, heads down, looking where they walked, the regularity of their steps thrown askew by the sand.

  As people crowded onto the beach, so did the rain. What had started early this morning as a thin piping here or there was now a bold chorus. Nobody seemed unduly perturbed by it, except the media men who started putting plastic hoods over the cameras. Tourists positioned themselves on outcrops of rocks or stood near the waterline.

&nb
sp; Yugen sat under glistening wet foliage, giving himself up to this rain that they all shared, sea woman and visitor alike. Even the VIPs were part of the community of rain. Only Soshin, nestled snugly in the backpack, remained rain-proof.

  At the square of tables, food was being unloaded from boxes. The monk saw a giant pot of soup, a barbecue being fired up.

  Some of the VIPs, dressed in pressed trousers and shirts, stood in small groups talking to each other. Others were already at the bench drinking beer and eating fresh sea urchins. Behind the VIP stand were colourful f lags and pennants which started at the sacred gate and ascended the staircase to the shrine.

  Yugen was making note of everything. Like the media men he could do a broad panoramic sweep and take in the entire beach from one end to the other. His eye followed the f lags up the steps. The f lags disappeared into greenery but Yugen’s mind continued up to where he knew the shrine to be.

  When he turned towards the sea, he could see the boats that had transported the sea women gathering in a semicircle offshore. Most of them also bore coloured f lags and pennants which f luttered intermittently in the limp breeze like an old man snoring.

  Yugen found the dragon. Today it looked like a tree. The pale underbelly had become a trunk, the bent arms and grasping claws dead branches. Its roots gripped the rock like splayed feet. The ridge above it fell steeply, then levelled out parallel to the water. Between the dragon tree and the sea was a sharp V-shaped gap, as if a chunk had been bitten out of the landscape, leaving a small pyramid by the water’s edge. In the weathering of time it would become an islet. It was bushy at the top and bare underneath, like a military haircut.

  The monk was reluctant to let his mind once again conjure fantasies out of the landscape yet he could not help staring at an odd-shaped rock in the hollow of the gap. He was certain it had not been there yesterday. It curved forward and, near the base, spread outwards. At the top was a small round protuberance, the size of a buoy. It looked like an old woman, sitting at the edges of the festival, head bent, her features indistinct, clouded by distance.