Sea Dreamer

by Elizabeth Pulford

  Help her. How those words have haunted me since first hearing them. But how can I? How can I help Rana, when I have no idea where she is?

  Twice I have been to the public library, knowing full well she wouldn’t be there, trailing up and down the five floors, pushing away the truth that Rana only ever stepped inside the library to please me. And yet … and yet.

  On my second search I see Ted coming out of the lift on the fourth floor. We talk for a bit and when he asks again if I’d like him to help try to trace Sarah Cassandra’s background, this time I say yes, my mind more on Rana than keeping him at arm’s length. If Mum and Ted are going to end up together, there’s little point in me fighting it. Besides, second to Rana, the most important thing in my life is finding out about Sarah Cassandra, walking her footsteps, learning the truth, not being a splinter in my mother’s relationship.

  Yesterday I even rang Bevan, thinking he might know where Rana was. I made out I had an urgent message for her, but he said he hadn’t seen her since the night of the movies. Over dinner tonight Mum told me if Rana didn’t contact her mother soon, Mrs Winters was going to bring in the police.

  Returning to the present moment, I shove my chair back and stand up. The room is getting stuffy. Turning off the heater, I fling open the door. The light from the cabin streams out into the night, makes a yellow path through the rain, and I’m back … oh, Rana … travelling home on the bus by myself the night you never came with me, trying to understand — feeling nothing but total abandonment — but too late, too late.

  Is that when the tide finally turned between us, Rana? Is that when the waves carried you out to sea and left me on the shore? Or was it earlier, when you found out about your real father? Or was it when you slept with someone? Did you? Did you? No, I can’t believe that … I won’t. You might have done a lot of things, but not that. Not yet. But if you did, was that your way of trying to hurt your mother, trying to get back at her for not telling you the truth?

  My thoughts are interrupted by a temporary lull in the wind. Seizing the opportunity, I make a dash for the toilet. On my way back, I go to the rock wall, flash the torch over the water. Low tide, with angry waves. Soon the inlet will begin to fill up. Tonight on the radio there were warnings about exceptional high tides. Over dinner, Mum told us about the time back in the 1930s when there was a freak tide and the inlet lost five boat sheds, all smashed to pieces against the rocks, and how broken boards were seen sailing out to sea for days afterwards. After hearing that, Richard, his eyes as big as moons, decided to spend the night in the main cabin with Mum. But not me. I’m not worried. We’ve had warnings before, and they’ve never come to anything.

  I turn my back on the inlet, go inside my cabin and close the door. Come home, Rana. Please.

  That night I dream. I dream of water, warm and lovely, my feet touching the bottom of the ocean, walking soft on the sand. High above the sky is blue. Then I see Rana. She’s floating, floating in the blue sky, staring down, her eyes vacant. As I open my mouth to cry out, water fills me and I start to sink. Deep, far down, until I know I’m drowning.

  I wake, sweating and full of panic. But within that terrible moment is a single thought. I know where Rana is. And remembering the high-tide warnings and knowing the danger she could be in, and without caring what has happened between us lately, I fling back my bedcovers, pull some clothes over my pyjamas and race out into the night. I’m convinced she’s in our secret meeting place. The old boat shed, which even on a normal high tide is in danger of being swamped. But tonight? I’m coming, Rana. I’m coming.

  Slipping, sliding, up the track behind our place, muddy from the days of rain, through the howling wind and the darkness so black. Where is the rest of the world? Is there only me left? My throat aches, my face streams with rain, hair soaked, fingers and feet numb, I stumble … my ankle … it hurts … it hurts.

  Running, running, under the yellow street lights, little moth lanterns caught in the rainy web. Running round the curve of the bay road, shaped like the edge of a skipping rope, ‘You’re out, Rana.’ ‘Am not.’ ‘You are so.’ ‘Whose rope is it anyway?’ ‘It’s yours, Rana.’

  The water so near, hidden in the blackness. How high is the tide? Skidding, my feet go from under me and I fall in the long grass, grass that should have been cut and tidied up long before winter, but this is the bay, not Miss McKenzie’s neat and tidy street. This is where the sky is the sea and the stars are sailing ships. ‘Get up, Cassie.’ ‘I can’t my ankle hurts.’ ‘Hang on, I’ll piggy-back you.’ ‘Where are we going, Rana?’ ‘To a magic place in the sky.’

  Careful now, near the rocks, water lapping, slapping the rutted track, sea rushing over my feet, numbing them, can’t see … I’m frightened, clinging to the slippery bank, half-crawling, slipping. I want things to be the way they were, I want … crying, I want … What are you crying for? Ring-a-ring o’roses … wind so loud and the water … a pocket full of posies … I want …

  Suddenly I’m at the boat shed, scrambling up the side. Already the water is swallowing the wooden decking.

  I bang on the wall.

  ‘Rana!’ I yell.

  No answer.

  ‘Rana,’ I shout, banging again. But my cry is lost to the wind and rain. I’m soaked through, shivering in the bitter weather. There’s nothing else but to try to get round to the front, the south side. Pressing my back hard against the wooden structure, I inch my way along the side, water rushing over my feet, praying the rotten deck will hold me.

  Turning the corner, I meet the storm full blast, and as I cling to the boat shed, the weirdest feeling passes through me. This is what it was like for Sarah Cassandra.

  I move slowly, calling Rana’s name, holding on so tight my fingers turn numb.

  When I reach the door, it takes less than a second to realise all my efforts have been for nothing. Rana’s not here. The door is half-open, dragging back and forth with the waves. She’s not here. My insides collapse. I was so sure. Next minute there is an awful crumbling feeling under my feet. Ring-a-ring o’roses … ‘You’re not meant to fall yet, Cassie. You’re meant to wait …’

  Falling, falling, through a hole into the ocean, through the splintered ramp, down, down like my dream, trying to grab hold of an edge, trying to wake up from the dream, hitting my head on something. Such coldness, down and down into the raging sea. I fight my way up to the surface, but there’s too much water. Rain, rain go away, come back another day. Choking, I go under again. Why is everything so wet, so heavy? My arms have turned to lead weights. I’m moving so slowly. My head hurts. If only the noise would go away, then I could sleep. It must be the water in the inlet, high tide lapping against the rock wall beside my little cabin.

  That sounds like someone calling. It’s Rana. Rana, I call in my head. I’m over here. I was right. I knew she was in the boat shed. Knew all the time, knew she was waiting for me. All the time. I knew. I’m here, Rana. And you’re right, there’s nothing to be frightened of, it’s just like you said, the sea is the sky and the stars are sailing ships and it is magic. Oh look … look at the ship, see how silver! Isn’t it beautiful, Rana? Bags it’s mine. I saw it first. But where are you? Why aren’t you here? I’m getting tired of playing the game on my own. I thought we were friends? I’ll give you one more chance, just a bit longer. Just a few …

  ‘Cassie!’

  The scream pierces through me, jerks my limbs. At the same time I feel a pair of unseen arms lifting me up and away from the silver ship, dragging me through the rough sea, through the swallowing ocean and choking rain, until I land on sharp rocks.

  Again, I feel myself being pulled, but this time roughly, the feeling different to the one in the water. This time the arms do not have the strength, do not have the power I felt in the ocean. Coughing, spluttering water, vomiting, I hear Rana’s voice, then I’m floating again. Her arms around me, persuading me to stand, but my legs … my legs, I’m walking on waves, and all the time Rana is urging me to k
eep going, a thin yellow beam of light leading our way. How much further? My head hurts.

  ‘Nearly there, Cassie.’

  Nearly where? Home? Oh! How lovely.

  ‘It’s lucky the water washed you up,’ says Rana, guiding me. ‘Otherwise, who knows …’

  But I wasn’t washed up. I was pulled up. I know the truth; even if my mind is murky, I can still feel the strength of those arms. Next Rana is pushing me up a few steps into a wooden room, then onto a sofa, untidy with blankets.

  ‘Now don’t move,’ she half-teases, going to shut the front door and turning on the light. The burning brightness hurts my eyes.

  Where are we? It’s not home. I start to cry. Tears roll down my cheeks. I’m so tired and my head hurts.

  ‘It’s all right, Cassie. You’re okay.’ Rana comes over and puts her arm around my shoulders.

  I nod, but the tears keep coming, like that Friday night on the bus. What’s the matter with me these days? Why do I keep crying?

  ‘Okay,’ says Rana, after a few moments, a practical tone in her voice. ‘First some dry clothes. Then a drink.’

  I shake my head and swallow hard.

  ‘What! You’d rather sit around and die of cold?’

  I know Rana’s trying to make me feel better, keeping the half-hearted jokes coming, trying to keep a lid on what could have happened, but her attempt only makes me feel worse. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Nope. Out of the question.’

  And before I can protest, she vanishes from the room, reappearing a couple of minutes later carrying a pile of clothes.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I whisper.

  ‘What’s the whispering for? There’s no one here except us.’ Rana dumps the dry gear on the floor, then pulls out an old heater from behind a chair and turns it on. It crackles and sizzles until the two bars are red and glowing.

  ‘High tide. Has it been?’ I ask.

  Rana shrugs. ‘Sometimes, Cassie, I wonder about you. Here you are half-drowned, asking about the tides. But if you must know,’ she says, glancing at the wall behind me, ‘it’s just after four.’ She leans forward. ‘Arms,’ she instructs, tugging at my jacket.

  I draw a breath of relief. That means the danger time has passed. High tide would have been about three o’clock. ‘I can do it,’ I tell her, releasing the anxiety about the bay flooding and really seeing Rana for the first time since entering the room. She looks pale, hollow-eyed and as wet as I do.

  ‘You sure?’ asks Rana.

  ‘I can manage. Thanks.’ As I’m changing, I realise we’re in the cottage belonging to the Hoopers. It’s been in their family for years, like our place, except they don’t live in it all year round, they only use it in the summer. It’s not far from the deserted boat shed, up a small bank. I should have guessed Rana was too smart to stay in a place so close to the water and the Hoopers’ key would be easy enough to find. Probably under a rock.

  Five minutes later, when we’re both in dry clothes, Rana notices the gash on the side of my head. After making sure it’s clean, she insists I need a proper drink. I don’t ask where the brandy comes from and after the first mouthful, I don’t care. She’s right, it’s making me lovely and warm inside.

  Rana is sitting on the floor, leaning against a chair. As she pours herself another drink she starts on about her mother, and how she doesn’t understand why she needs to contact her real father, and how it’s all her fault she’s left home. ‘Serve her right if I had gone and done it,’ she says, pouting and sulking for a few seconds.

  What does Rana mean, ‘Serve her right if I had gone and done it?’ Done what? I presume ‘serve her right’ means her mother? The room’s getting hot and the drink’s making my head swim. Does that mean she is pregnant and her mother found out and that’s why she left home? And does ‘done it’ mean Rana was thinking of having an abortion?

  Rana starts up again. ‘I can’t seem to do anything right by her books. Yet look at the mess she’s made of her life.’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ I blurt out.

  ‘What!’ Rana’s face flushes. ‘God! You get some weird ideas.’ She stops and looks at me. ‘You didn’t really think …?’

  ‘No. It was just that … no … just a … no,’ I finish lamely, swallowing the rest of my drink.

  ‘Yeah, well. That’d be a good one. Like mother, like daughter.’ She gives an angry laugh. ‘I nearly did it though.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Rana,’ I say, suddenly realising I’ve no idea how she came to be at the boat shed, how she knew I was in trouble. ‘How did you know I needed help?’

  She is quiet for a moment, then says, ‘I dunno. One minute I’m in bed — well the sofa actually — the next I’m running down the track.’ She frowns. ‘Stupid, eh?’

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, remembering the arms that had saved me. ‘When I …’

  Rana interrupts, ‘And you want to hear something else? Something totally crazy.’

  I wait.

  ‘This is going to sound dumb,’ she warns, pulling a face, ‘but what the heck!’ And she adds, ‘I kept hearing someone calling my name.’

  I open my mouth to tell her it was me when she adds something that makes the hairs on my neck stand up.

  ‘But it wasn’t really a voice. It was more of a whispering … a sort of singing sound. It called my name, over and over, telling me I must go down to the sea.’ Rana looks sheepish. ‘Daft. But I couldn’t get you and that poem Miss McKenzie kept reading to us out of my head. The one about the sea …’

  ‘“I must down to the seas again.”’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. And don’t ask what took me to the right spot, ’cause I’ve got no idea. Too weird, eh?’ Rana lapses into silence. And at that moment I begin to understand. Not only about the ‘voice’, not only about the arms that pulled me from the water, but about other things. I begin to realise that all the happenings with Rana and me are somehow connected with Sarah Cassandra. And with that understanding I know another truth. I know why I have liked to think of Sarah Cassandra as the sea ancestor. It’s because she drowned at sea.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’m sailing. The sea is blue and calm, I can see for miles.

  ‘Cassie, wake up.’

  There’s only the smallest breeze, a few white clouds, it is total bliss.

  ‘Cassie, your mum is here.’

  ‘What!’ My eyes fly open. The dream is snatched away. Where am I? Then I remember last night. I’m in the back bedroom of the Hoopers’ summer house. But Mum here? How?

  ‘Rana came and told us what happened,’ says Mum, coming and sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Oh, Cassie.’

  I struggle up. ‘I’m okay, Mum. Honest.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You two … I don’t know. What are we going to do with the both of you?’ She leans over and pulls me to her, holds me tight.

  Rana turns, goes out to the kitchen.

  ‘Is our place all right?’ I ask, my voice muffled against her shoulder.

  ‘Fine. A few pieces of wood and seaweed washed up on the grass. That’s all,’ she says, pulling away. ‘If it hadn’t been for Rana, I’d have been worried sick by now, wondering where you’d got to. She appeared on the doorstep about five o’clock and explained.’

  ‘Coffee anyone?’ says Rana, appearing at the doorway, smiling brightly.

  Mum gets up off the bed and goes over to her. ‘Thank you, Rana,’ she says, giving her a hug.

  ‘Hey! I’m fine.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mum. ‘I know you are.’

  And as Mum lets her go, I see Rana staring straight ahead, her eyes fiercely bright.

  The rest of the morning is a blur. Except for one thing. After Mum has gone, taking with her all the wet clothes, Rana and I are tidying up. I’m in the back bedroom and Rana is in the lounge. All the time Rana is talking. Like she can’t stop. Telling me how she’s going to go home and have it out with
her mother and how she’s going to make her understand how important it is for her to know about her real father. I’m half-listening, half-not. I’m more preoccupied with the understanding I came to early this morning about Sarah Cassandra, so when I gather up Rana’s clothes and a bottle drops onto the floor from the pocket of her jeans, I take hardly any notice. But just as I’m about to shove it back, something makes me take a closer look. I freeze. Mrs Winter’s sleeping tablets. Then I realise the full truth of what Rana had meant when she said, ‘Serve her right if I’d gone and done it.’ Rana was never pregnant, the help her was never anything to do with that. Oh, how awful! It takes me all my strength to allow the terrible thought to crystallise in my head: Rana had been thinking of committing suicide.

  I feel sick to my bones. What if I hadn’t gone looking for her? What if there hadn’t been a warning about the high tide? What if the high tide had been tonight instead? What then?

  ‘What’s happening in there, Cassie? You’re too quiet.’

  I keep my voice level. ‘It’s all this gear you’ve left lying around,’ I call, quickly stuffing the bottle back into the pocket of her jeans. ‘Nearly finished.’ I force myself to pretend there are no tablets, but how can I, as with every movement I feel the hard bottle against my arm.

  By early afternoon the rain has stopped and instead a pale watery sun washes over the bay. I’m sitting on my bed, putting the papers from Grandma Sarah’s suitcase in chronological order, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I call, thinking it’s Rana.

  The door opens, Mac stands there. ‘Hi, Cassie.’ His face is serious. ‘I heard what happened.’

  My insides burn, my face too. I smile, sort of … with a glassy countenance … ‘Richard, I suppose?’

  He nods. ‘Are you all right?’