Breathe

by Penni Russon

  The old man leaned forward and held out his frail hand, searching the air for hers. “Listen to me,” Prospero said when her hand found his, his voice strong. “Before I knew you, I thought you were special for your magic. I thought that was what I wanted. It’s powerful and impressive and it’s intoxicating. But I see you now, who you are. The magic is part of you, but it’s not the most impressive, the most powerful part of you. That’s the girl, my daughter. And I missed so many years.

  “You do belong here. You belong here in this landscape because you come from me, and I came from my mother who came from this land. You belong here, next to me because I am your father and I love you. You belong here,” and Prospero thumped his chest. “And you belong here,” he gestured vaguely at the hotel, “with your mother and your brother. And with Lena and Sofia.”

  The girl inside Undine who wanted a father and a family was moved by the tenderness of Prospero’s words. She wanted to tell him about the girl she had created made of stone and butterflies and packed earth. She wanted to explain to him about the magic, how she could feel it here in Greece in the same way she had felt it in the bay, taking her over.

  But she couldn’t—she felt the space that existed between herself and her father, between herself and everyone, everything, balloon. Once upon a time, she had thought her father could teach her about the magic within her, but how could he? This pale, fading man…he had once wanted the magic himself, wanted to possess it. But he was nothing compared to her; he was a shadow, an echo, reflecting back her own power; he was a mere child playing at his mother’s skirt.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said, and she leaned over Prospero where he sat and kissed his leathery cheek. He closed his eyes at her kiss and she felt tenderness and compassion wash over her. She lingered for a moment. Time was unmaking him, she observed; old age was grinding him away, piece by piece. But, she was beginning to realize, time was not for her. Time, space, this land, this sea, even Prospero and Jasper and Lou—all of them belonged to a place remote and foreign to Undine.

  On her way to her room, Undine saw Lou’s door was open. Jasper was alone, sleeping right in the center of the double bed, his fist curled up in his moist and springy blond curls. Undine went in and sat on the bed beside him. She swept his hair off his face. Jasper slept on.

  “Hi.” Lou stepped out of the bathroom wearing Chinese silk pajamas; her damp blond hair sprang up in curls around her face, like Jasper’s. She smelled of the sea.

  “Hi,” Undine echoed, softly.

  Lou smiled down at Jasper. “I remember watching you sleep like that. I could have let off an explosion right by your head and you wouldn’t have stirred.” She sat on the bed next to Undine. “About this morning, the things we said…”

  Undine shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I have to find my own path. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I just don’t want you to make the mistakes I did.”

  “What mistakes?”

  Lou sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you about this yet. I wanted to wait.”

  “Prospero said, what’s left to grow in the dark, neglected, grows up wrong, and I think he’s right. At least for me.”

  Lou said, “You’re young. You think you know…but you don’t.”

  “Then tell me. Tell me.”

  “When I met Prospero, my parents made me choose—him or them.” She smiled unhappily at Undine. “I know you must think it’s strange that I wanted Prospero. I was so young and he’s so old. But I grew up in a grim house, with lots of angry whispers and sharp words. Sometimes I feel like I’m still pulling out the shrapnel of those words, digging it out from deep inside my skin, right down to the bones. Prospero was…Did I ever tell you how we met?” Undine shook her head. “He was my first-year university lecturer.”

  “Really?” Undine couldn’t imagine it—Prospero seemed so disconnected from the world. She supposed it made sense that he’d had a job once: after all, he owned a house, and seemed to feed himself and pay his electricity bills and buy socks and things, so it stood to reason that he had earned money at some point in his life. “How…racy. What subject?”

  “Philosophy. I loved it; all these new ideas filled me, fed me, nurtured me in a way my stifling upbringing never had. And I was such a kid and he was a grown-up and he made me feel like I was one, too. And when he started talking about the magic—and all this time I’d felt it growing inside me, terrifying and exciting and desirable and unwelcome all at once—it was like he could see straight into the heart of me.” Lou tilted her head and thought for a moment. Her eyes sparkled, mischievously. “Plus he was kinda sexy for an old man.”

  “Lou!”

  “I’m trying to be honest with you. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Anyway, I chose Prospero, and my parents basically told me I could never come back.”

  “But they were awful.”

  “They were, and I was glad to leave. And I did enjoy testing my power with Prospero—together we were both stronger than either of us was individually. Prospero had already discovered the potency of the Bay of Angels. I dropped out of uni, he quit his position: not because of our relationship—it wasn’t so very uncommon in those days—but because we wanted to devote all our time to exploring our powers.”

  “What did you do?”

  Lou shook her head. “It seemed so important at the time. So impressive. But it was all frivolous. We changed the weather, we called up fire, we made the earth roll like the sea, we transformed things—drops of water into glistening pebbles, dry, dead sticks into living trees. The only thing we did, the only thing of any meaning, was you. We made you. Not with magic, but I can’t say it was love that made you either. We didn’t love each other. Well, I knew by then I didn’t love him; I don’t know if he loved me.”

  Undine thought about this: she wasn’t born from love. A few days ago the thought would have made her sad, but now…the words rolled over her and washed away into nothing.

  “After you were born,” Lou went on, “things changed. I wasn’t interested in the magic anymore. I wanted to be a family for you, be the family I didn’t have. I wanted to love you, to buy you things, to dress you prettily. I was proud of you, I wanted to show the world to you and you to the world. Most of all, I wanted you to live in the world, not hidden away in the bay. I left Prospero.”

  “He let you leave?”

  “He begged me to stay. He was desperate. He even threatened me, but I think I knew he would never deliberately hurt me…or you.”

  “Did he love me?”

  Lou frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t think he could separate you from the magic. He wanted to own you; he wanted to own the magic. He wanted to own me, too, but he couldn’t. Without love, he had no claim over me. And my magic was stronger than his.”

  “Was that when you moved into the flat in Bellerive?”

  “Not straightaway. I went…I went back to my parents. I thought once they saw you, knew they were grandparents, that things might change.” Lou smiled. “You were a lovely baby.”

  “But they didn’t think so.”

  Lou shook her head. “When they looked at you, with such…such bitterness…” Lou closed her eyes, as if she could see her parents’ expressions in front of her and couldn’t bear to look at them again. “You were six months old—not even. You had a smile that would break the sky apart. And they were cold to you. All they could see of you was the monster inside, the magic. I promised myself then that the magic was over. That no one would look at you like that again. I thought…I thought I could end it. I pushed it down, and I swear, Undine, it went away. At first, it was hard. And there were times when you and I fought, especially after we lost Stephen….” Lou’s voice cracked. “I felt so angry, so shattered. I had to leave, just drive and drive, or it would…it threatened to bubble back up, to leak out of the cracks, and I knew if I let it out, I wouldn’t be able to control it.”

  Undine didn’t need Lou to remind her what it had been li
ke to lose Stephen. The very mention of his name could conjure his face so clearly in her mind, she could almost touch it. Stephen and Lou had been to Undine these two enormous, radiating suns, and when one of them had been extinguished, Lou had had to become more immense to take his place. But to Undine now Lou seemed small, and as she talked she grew smaller still, until it was as if Undine could nestle her in the palm of her hand like a pearl.

  “Did Stephen know? About the magic?”

  “I didn’t tell him. I hid it; I thought I hid it so well. But Stephen, he loved me more closely, more attentively than anyone ever had in my life. If anyone could find it, he could, and he did. He told me…” Lou drifted off.

  “Lou?”

  “He told me it was beautiful. That I shouldn’t be ashamed. And sometimes he even got angry; he thought I should tell you, teach you. But I was sure if I kept it hidden, I could make it go away, that you wouldn’t have to…I’m sorry. I only wanted to protect you.”

  From very far away, Undine said, “It’s okay.” She felt herself drifting again, suspended over Lou in some way rather than sitting beside her.

  Undine knew she was sidestepping time, or time was sidestepping her, and that her place in this world was transient, fleeting. This story, about grandparents she did not remember who had not wanted her anyway, only served to remind Undine of the precarious place she held in the universe. Lou had been able to suppress the magic, but only barely, and Undine sensed that it had not been without some cost to Lou. Besides, Undine knew she was different. Holding the magic in, it would kill her eventually: she would fall apart into nothing, into stones and clay, ephemeral as butterflies.

  Suddenly she felt the promise she had made to Lou—which had been a relief and a burden—fall from her like her she’d dropped a heavy stone: a stone that had weighed her down, yes, but also had prevented her from being pulled away by the strong currents. It was good to put the stone down, but it was frightening, too, for now there was nothing to hold her back.

  Jasper stirred and grimaced as if dreaming. Absently, Lou stroked his back, lulling him to sleep. Undine kissed Lou as lightly as she had Prospero earlier, and to her lips Lou’s face felt papery and rough.

  “Good night,” she said.

  When Undine reached the dark space of the door Lou said, “If you use it, if you choose the magic, you might lose us, Jasper and me. You might not find your way home.”

  Into the shadows of the courtyard, Undine said, too softly for Lou to hear, “If I don’t use it, I might lose me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Trout lay awake in the dark. He stared at the ceiling. He was engaged with missing her; it was like a chore he had neglected. When Undine had said that her feelings for him would never change, she had taken a long loose cord that bound them together and severed it. But nevertheless, it was tangled around him, wrapped around his heart tightly enough to amputate it from his body. She had merely floated away, like a balloon that had been tethered to him by his longing.

  He was lying there, thinking about the life ahead of him with no heart, when the door clicked open and Max slipped into the room. Her naked body was long, lean, pale, white-brown like almonds. She said nothing, and neither did Trout, though his stomach spasmed and for a moment he thought he might vomit—he might vomit Undine straight out of his guts, leaving a space for Max.

  She lay down beside him, and the single bed creaked, protesting against the added weight but rearranging its springs to accommodate her. Trout felt her body, unnaturally smooth and hard and cool to touch, as if she were part shark. Trout did not entirely command his hands; it seemed of their own accord they explored her, trying to determine her exact composition.

  He didn’t want her, but he did. She was sensual, desirable, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t love her. Thinking of Undine and how abandoned he’d felt by her rejection of him, perhaps he owed it to Max to try; after all, it wasn’t like he felt nothing for Max at all.

  He wanted to want her, that was it. He wanted to replace Undine with Max.

  Trout kissed Max and she kissed him back. His hands found the cool, smooth curve of her back.

  Appallingly, he realized he didn’t need his heart for this. Perhaps love was overrated. Or maybe sex was more reliable, more honest.

  Max used her body like a paintbrush; it acted on him with bold, clear strokes. As the night progressed, Trout found that, without his heart, sex was not unlike death: it obliterated you, you disappeared, and all that was left was the body.

  “I feel it,” Max whispered, her face over his. “I feel it all the time.”

  Trout looked up at her. “What?” he asked, nervously.

  “The magic. It trembles inside me, just out of reach.”

  Afterward, Max lay with her face soft and relaxed, a whisper of a smile on her lips, smelling peculiarly of sun-dried washing and orange peel.

  But Trout’s dying heart flopped like a fish, ticking and twitching in the cold dry night, and his lungs opened and closed, searching for air.

  Trout left Max sleeping. She didn’t stir as he pulled on his jeans, a shirt, and the heavy, knobbly jumper his mother had knitted from homespun wool. In the faint moon and starlight he staggered across the garden, and found the path that split the dunes and led him to the sea.

  The water was a dark black-blue, as if the earth was stained. He searched the water with his eyes, peering through the darkness. He studied it like it was a book, full of text: a decipherable system of symbols and codes. He looked in the bay for himself, for that past, old Trout who, in one way or another, had been taken by this place.

  Cold penetrated him; it made his eyes ache and his body weak. But he maintained his vigil. He looked for Trout, and for Trout’s heart, and for Trout’s breath.

  When the sun rose, he was still searching.

  Max entered the kitchen wrapped in a sheet. She expected Trout, but found his friend. What was his name, something weird? Grunt?

  “Morning,” she said.

  Grunt raised his eyebrows slightly, though not apparently embarrassed by her state of undress. “Morning.”

  Max helped herself to the muesli on the bench. “Where’s Trout?”

  “Haven’t seen him. I assume he’s not up yet.”

  Max said nothing.

  Grunt looked at her circumspectly. She found the silence in the kitchen unnerving. She tilted her head. He was good-looking, sexier than Trout with his surfer’s body and dreadlocked hair. He wasn’t awkward like Trout. He had that inner calm thing going, like maybe he did yoga or Tai Chi or something. He met her gaze and seemed to study her, too.

  She smiled. “Have we met?” Max asked through a mouthful of muesli. “You seem familiar.”

  Grunt continued to examine her before saying, “I’m a friend of Charlie’s. And Johanna’s.”

  Max’s face froze. She got up. “I have to…I have to get dressed.”

  She stood in the hallway, her heart thumping. It was stupid. It was so stupid. It was nothing. It was this place, this island, so cramped, things kept coming back to you. You lived your life in a glass bubble, relentlessly observed. In other places—in cities—people fell in and out of love all the time. They betrayed each other, they met someone else, they had brief, intimate interludes, and then they disappeared. The city forgave them. But Hobart was like a maiden aunt, holding a magnifying glass to every ill affair of the human heart. Hobart gossiped and bitched; Hobart was haughty and sanctimonious.

  Max went back to her room, dressed, and sat on the bed running her hands through her hair. What was happening to her? What progress was she making? She wasn’t here for Trout, she told herself savagely. She hadn’t flown halfway across the world with the money she inherited from her father to fall in love. She was here for the magic. She was here to reclaim what had been taken from her, and the magic was the only way she could do that.

  She could smell Trout on her skin, but suddenly Undine hung like a specter around her—or was it just Grunt remi
nding her of Johanna? She remembered the bang of the brick hitting her front door like a small explosion, the feeling of its rough texture when she’d cradled it in the palm of her hand as she’d retreated inside. No. No. She pushed Johanna away. It was Undine. But not…There was something, but she couldn’t quite catch it in her mind, like a half-remembered song. She thought back to the kitchen, her bowl of muesli, getting the milk out of the fridge. That was it! A photo on the fridge—Undine. She’d been here. The magic. It was something to do with this place. That’s why Trout had brought her here, even though he hadn’t wanted to tell her why. After all, he was searching for it, too.

  Charlie and Johanna forgotten, Max thought about Undine and smiled. She got up from the bed, buoyant with the possibilities of what she might discover, and went looking for Trout.

  Grunt found him first. Trout sat on the beach, his arms tucked inside his jumper for warmth. His eyes were fixed on the farthest of the stone “angels” that the bay was named for.

  “Great place to watch the sun rise,” said Grunt.

  “Is it?” Trout blinked at the sky, realizing that it had lightened to blue. “Oh, yes.”

  Grunt sat next to him on the sand.

  “You know,” Grunt said, and stopped, as if reconsidering what he’d been about to say. He tilted his head to one side as if the right words might slide into place. Then he ploughed on, “There’s something out there, under the sea.”

  “Yeah?” Trout asked, numb from lack of sleep.

  “It…” Grunt hesitated and then said, almost apologetically, “It glows.”

  “Glows?”

  “Kind of pulses.” Grunt shook his head, having trouble describing it. The more words he tried to pin to it, the more it resisted any kind of language at all. “It’s like…liquid light…energy…electrons spinning…like…”

  But Trout knew. “Like Undine,” he said flatly.

  “Like Undine.”

  “Can you show me?”