Guardian of the Dead

by Karen Healey

  It smelled comfortingly similar to the backstage of my Napier school hall-and-theatre – closed air and old sweat, sweet baby powder and the sharp scent of cold cream. I took a deep whiff and tried to stop the irritation from showing on my face. We’d been practising for half an hour, and they still wouldn’t stop arguing with me.

  ‘So I can’t kick her in the face?’ Carrie complained. I was beginning to think it was her default tone.

  ‘It would be hard to look realistic without actually kicking her in the face. Especially since – you’ll be wearing shoes, right?’

  ‘Boots,’ Carla supplied, looking apprehensive. ‘Like those ones Reka was wearing.’

  I shook my head. ‘Bare feet can do more than enough damage.’

  ‘I’d be careful,’ Carrie insisted.

  Muscles bunched in my jaw. ‘If you made contact, you could break her nose, cheekbones, teeth, jaw, or the orbit of her eye, give her concussion or make her bite through her tongue. And if you missed very badly, you could crush her windpipe.’

  ‘And you probably wouldn’t even see it from the fifth row back,’ Kevin added.

  Carrie dropped her gaze. ‘I just want it to look good,’ she said, tugging her polar-fleece hem with short, sharp motions.

  ‘Let’s practise the shoving again,’ Carla said quickly, going to stand between the boys. ‘Um, right. Lysander, whereto tends all this?’

  ‘Away, you Ethiope!’ Lysander scowled and gave her a hearty shove that sent her stumbling halfway across the room.

  ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘Lysander—’

  ‘Patrick.’

  ‘Right, Patrick – you can’t just push her like that. The movement comes from her. You okay, Carla? Then let’s try it again, slowly.’

  My brief temper tantrum had at least shut Carrie up for a while. We went through the rest of the scene until the bones of some decent work were there and I was sure they weren’t going to hurt themselves or each other accidentally, then called a break.

  On stage, Reka Gordon was cooing over the stocky, dark boy who played Bottom. She was really, really good, and I didn’t want her to be. I knew it wasn’t fair to dislike her without giving her a chance, but my skin crawled unpleasantly when I thought of that meeting on the hill and her creepy eyes. We waited in the wings until she yawned delicately and curled gracefully into sleep around the boy. She raised her head and shot us an irritated glare when we came in anyway.

  Iris was taking notes in her neat handwriting, but she immediately turned to me when I sat beside her.

  ‘Did it go okay?’ she whispered.

  ‘It needs more practice,’ I whispered back. ‘It’s pretty rough-looking up close.’

  Iris waved behind us at the vast expanse of the auditorium. ‘The forty-foot rule can take care of a lot of it,’ she said. ‘So, what do you think? Can you make it to the next three rehearsals?’

  I nodded, and felt ashamed of myself for not liking her more when she looked so grateful. ‘You’re the best, Ellie!’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Guys, it’s costume-fitting time! Come on back.’

  Everyone perked up and bounced toward the greenroom – except Reka, who apparently did not bounce; me, who was largely uninterested; and Kevin, who lagged behind to speak to me.

  ‘Don’t you want to play dress-up?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I do,’ he said, grinning. ‘I was holding out for Theseus in a feather cloak, but none of the local elders wanted to lend a taonga that precious to a bunch of ignorant students.’

  ‘Theseus is Mori?’ I wondered.

  Kevin pointed at his chest. ‘Duh. It’s a reimagining of Shakespeare’s classic comedy for extra extreme relevance to modern New Zealand audiences. Come on, I told you this. Last night.’

  ‘Oh, last night,’ I said pointedly. ‘I think I remember bits of it, before someone got me drunk and nearly expelled and dragged me into his play.’

  ‘Come on, don’t lie. You love it.’

  I sighed and surrendered. ‘Okay. I like teaching.’

  ‘Say, “Thank you, Kevin.” ’ ‘Get stuffed, Kevin.’

  Throughout, I’d been conscious of Reka, waiting at my shoulder. She didn’t fake patience very well, and the second the conversation lagged she stuck her hand out at Kevin. ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m Reka Gordon.’ Her voice had an accent I couldn’t place, part upper-class English, part something that purred around the vowels. Her acting voice had been pure Royal Shakespeare Company.

  Kevin’s social training kicked in. He took her hand and gripped it firmly. ‘Kevin Waldgrave. And this is Ellie.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ I put in. ‘Briefly.’

  Reka’s eyes flicked toward me, then back to Kevin’s face. She was directing that beautiful smile at him again, and I wondered if I’d imagined that brief glimpse of surprise and malice in her glance at me. Kevin, unusually, hadn’t let go of her hand as soon as was polite. He was smiling back, looking slightly dazed.

  It wasn’t fair. I was doomed to be surrounded by beautiful people being beautiful at each other.

  ‘Come on,’ Iris called from the wings, and Kevin dropped Reka’s hand. I thought Iris’s mock frown wasn’t entirely faked. ‘I want to see if Sarah’s costume might fit you, Reka.’

  ‘Coming,’ Kevin said, and led the way to the greenroom.

  The reason Iris had borrowed Kevin’s car became apparent, as bags and boxes disgorged from Theodore’s boot and backseat. I did my bit, carrying in a long white cardboard box. It was light in my hands, and I thought it must contain something delicate, so I sat on the sagging couch with the box in my lap, balancing it over my knees. It was about the size of three of my Granny Spencer’s old hatboxes stuck together, but much flatter.

  The greenroom was crowded with activity. Some of the actors were already snatching up costumes, admiring the lush fabrics and darting in and out of the dressing rooms in states of undress that might have made Samia blush. Well, definitely would have. She was very careful about being covered up in front of boys.

  Iris was talking into her mobile phone, looking increasingly more strained, and I shamelessly eavesdropped. ‘Well, of course, your exams are important. Yes, yes, but you did say . . . all right, can you just give us everything you’ve already organised? . . . really. No, no, that’s fine. I’m sure we’ll find someone to take over. Thanks for letting me know.’ She snapped the phone closed and took a deep breath. ‘Well! Malika’s quit.’ She shook her head and darted into one of the dressing rooms.

  ‘Who’s Malika?’ I asked the room at large.

  ‘The props mistress,’ sighed the guy who was playing Puck. He sat down beside me, wide mouth quirking. ‘This production is cursed. That’s what we get for putting a first year in charge.’

  ‘If you didn’t want a first year, why did you make Iris the director?’ I asked tartly. ‘She looks like she’s doing a good job to me. And how old are you?’

  He grinned and waved spindly fingers. ‘Oh, I’m an ancient and world-wise twenty. Forgive the complaint; she’s doing fine. She shouldn’t even have to do all this, but the producer is useless. What’s in the box?’

  ‘All the evils sent to plague mankind.’

  ‘Hah! Someone’s a classical scholar.’

  ‘I just like Greek myths,’ I said, absurdly pleased. It was ridiculous to be so thrilled just because a uni student thought I’d said something clever. Too late, I remembered that Pandora had actually opened a jar, not a box, but he didn’t seem to have noticed the slip.

  Carrie waltzed over and sat in Puck’s lap, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. I swallowed envy and tried not to let it show on my face. ‘This is a disaster,’ she moaned.

  ‘Just a small one,’ he told her. ‘There’s hope still.’ He winked at me, and I grinned back. Carrie, reacting to either the disagreement or the wink, glared at me.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, and grabbed for the box on my lap. I let her take it and she ripped the lid off to reveal a pile of costume jewellery. I
reached out curiously, but she backed away. ‘Don’t smudge them!’

  ‘They’re plastic, Carrie,’ Puck said, raising his thick eyebrows, and I decided to like him, girlfriend and all.

  She hesitated, then inclined her head. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit stressed. This damn show.’ She handed the box to me and sat back in Puck’s lap.

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ Iris said, appearing out of no-where like a perky jack-in-the-box. ‘Now, can anyone help me with props on Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘I’ve got to study,’ Puck said.

  ‘Me too,’ Carrie said, wriggling a little more into his lap.

  Iris’s shoulders bent infinitesimally. ‘Okay! I’m sure I can manage by myself.’

  ‘I can probably help,’ I blurted. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Oh, fantastic. Just into Cathedral Square. Kevin said we can use Theodore, so it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Thank you so much!’

  Oh, God. A city centre full of people looking at Iris and me and making the inevitable comparison. ‘Sure,’ I said weakly. ‘No problem.’

  She whirled away again. Carrie shook her head and stalked off, bullying Lysander and Demetrius into helping her carry out bags.

  Puck sighed happily and got up. ‘Show business,’ he said, and sauntered into the crowd.

  Kevin came over to add my box of fake jewels to the pile in his arms. ‘I saw that. You’d better watch it; people might start to think you’re nice.’

  I gestured at the chaos – Carla trying to duct tape a bodice onto busty Hippolyta, Demetrius and Lysander trying to whip each other with rolled up scarves, Reka leaning against the wall and ignoring everything but Kevin – and screwed up my face. ‘Hardly. Kevin, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but you and all of your friends are insane.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself down, Ellie,’ he said, shaking his head wisely. ‘You need all the self-esteem you can get.’

  By nine-thirty the security guard had appeared to boot us all out and Puck had laughed at three more of my jokes.

  Iris was the last to leave, locking the outside door of the greenroom with her own key, and stepping carefully down the narrow flight of stairs that slanted to the mist-dampened car park. I was huddled outside Theodore, waiting for Kevin to unlock the bloody doors. Reka was hanging around too, apparently trying to get Kevin to drop her home.

  ‘Sure,’ he said easily. ‘You, then Iris, then Ellie and me. Where do you live?’

  For the first time, that melting smile vanished while she was looking at him. ‘Never mind,’ she said at last, putting her face back together. ‘It’s not a bad night. I’ll walk.’

  It was freezing, and wisps of fog still hung heavy in the air. Reka walked around the corner of the theatre’s foundations and disappeared. Kevin looked as if he might call her back, then shrugged and finally let us into the car. I hugged my cramped knees and shivered until the ancient heater warmed up.

  Iris lived fairly close to the university and to Mansfield, along one of the roads that wound about the little rivers that cut through the city. On the way, Kevin was less talkative than usual; Iris was much more so, chattering about blocking and budgets and set design. ‘Oh, look, Ellie,’ she interrupted herself, leaning over my shoulder and pointing. ‘That’s Riccarton Bush. Have you ever been?’

  I craned to make out the rounded heads of kahikatea trees rising over the dark houses. ‘No. That’s the patch of original forest, right?’

  ‘Yes. Right in the middle of Christchurch. They’ve stuck a big wire fence around it to keep bird predators out, so it’s really left as it would have been before. The family of the first settlers left it to the city government on the condition that it never be cleared.’

  ‘The first white settlers,’ Kevin murmured, and took a right. The Bush dropped away behind us. ‘We should go in the summer, Ellie. There’s a boardwalk, it’s cool.’

  ‘We should definitely go,’ Iris agreed, and I fought the urge to say that she hadn’t been invited. Kevin seemed to be working himself up to his promised confession, and being nasty to Iris right now would be even more than usually like kicking a cute but annoying puppy.

  Sure enough, when we stopped outside Iris’s neatly painted front door, Kevin offered to walk her to the door and in, shooting me a look that I had no trouble interpreting as an invitation to stay in the car with my book for company. At least he left me the keys, to drive the engine and keep the heat running.

  I did more worrying than reading, biting at my already well-gnawed nails. There were so many ways this could go wrong. Iris could react to Kevin’s revelation like my parents had to Magda’s. She could laugh at him, or insist he must be wrong, or tell him it was just a phase, or any number of other horrible, devastating things. Kevin was the second-bravest person I knew, I reflected. I wouldn’t have had the guts to do it in a thousand years.

  When he returned, Kevin’s face was tight and closed in the car’s internal light. I could see no trace of tears in the few seconds it took him to turn off the light and brace his arms against the wheel, bending his big head into the tense darkness there.

  I was horribly curious, but it could definitely wait until tomorrow. ‘It’s been a long day,’ I said.

  Kevin sat up straight. I caught the white flash of teeth as he directed half a smile at me. ‘Yeah. Let’s go home.’

  First period on Friday mornings was school assembly, where the principal made announcements and handed out awards to sporting, academic, and cultural high-achievers (not me). Musically or dramatically talented students (definitely not me) were given an opportunity to perform for an audience of their bored and whispering peers. This week’s performance was a skit by several fellow Year Thirteens, featuring students fearfully discussing which of the substitute teachers might be taking over their Geography class. It turned out it was only the Eyeslasher (Jeff Forbes, in a balaclava, with a knife I was betting he’d swiped from the kitchen) and they were all really relieved.

  A lot of people thought this was hilarious, but I wasn’t impressed. Real people with real families were dying, outside these walls. I leaned back into the uncomfortable wooden bench, trying not to crowd the people on either side of me, and wishing I hadn’t eaten quite so many scrambled eggs that morning. I was relieved when we were finally allowed to stand and make our way through a limping rendition of the school song.

  Second period on Friday mornings was Classics, which meant there were several good reasons to make it through assembly. I managed to snag one of the desks at the back, not too far from the best of those reasons, but my usual practice of picturing Mark Nolan with his shirt off was continually disrupted by a vague and traitorous memory. I couldn’t actually remember what it was I wasn’t remembering, but something about him was troubling, and it wasn’t that he still hadn’t washed his hair. My head started to ache again.

  I forgot all about Mark when class started, and barely noticed my headache fading. Professor Gribaldi always demanded complete attention. Her braided hair was pinned into a black-and-silver crown that, in the harsh classroom lighting, assumed all the menace of a hoplite helmet. Her arms were bared to the shoulder and muscles bunched ominously under dark, smooth skin as she flung her hands about, all flowing yellow skirts and passion. I wondered, for a moment, what La Gribaldi might think of Lysander’s line about ugly Ethiopes. She was Eritrean by birth, not Ethiopian, but I thought the two countries were related somehow. I made a vague attempt at chasing the memory down, but it faded when she started reading from Homer’s Odyssey.

  The original text was well beyond us. Mansfield offered Latin as a language option (mostly for the prestige; hardly anyone actually took it), but not ancient Greek, an appalling oversight that clearly enraged La Gribaldi. But she’d won the battle to use Chapman’s Homer instead of a more literal translation, informing us on the first day that, ‘Translation can never do more than approximate, so we shall, at least, be gloriously inaccurate.’ Today, her voice became Circe’s voice, her
American drawl transmuted into the witch’s clever seduction. Not even daydreams about Mark Nolan’s eyes could intrude very long into that.

  Which was just as well. ‘Ms Spencer,’ she snapped, flashing her rings at me. ‘What is the obvious thematic parallel in the presentation of Circe weaving?’

  ‘With Penelope,’ I said, and waited to see if more was required. She folded her heavy arms over the bulk of her breasts and lifted an eyebrow, inviting expansion. ‘Well, Penelope’s presented as the faithful wife, always with her loom,’ I said slowly, giving myself time to work it out as I went. ‘But Penelope’s only weaving during the day and secretly undoing it at night so that she doesn’t have to marry one of her suitors. So she’s doing the work of a wife, but then she’s destroying it, so no one will make her his wife. Oh, but she’s just making ordinary cloth. Circe is weaving enchantments. And Circe’s cooking is filled with herbs that transform men to beasts. She does complete the housework, but it’s, uh, twisted.’ That sounded reasonably clever. Best to leave it there. ‘So, uh, yeah,’ I concluded masterfully.

  ‘The sorcerous seductress as the perverted housewife,’ La Gribaldi said, slapping the book onto her desk. Her braided crown threatened to tumble down with the violence of the gesture. ‘Excellent, Ms Spencer. Mr Nolan, something to add?’

  ‘Circe’s pretty selfish,’ he offered, lowering his hand and glancing at me. ‘Penelope’s selfless, but Circe just wants to control men. She gets what she wants from them, and then she doesn’t care.’

  I wasn’t going to let even a cute guy get away with that. ‘She wants to be safe,’ I argued. ‘You think the men would let her get away with being powerful? She has to protect herself. There’re all those lines about her house being made of stone, and the wild animals under her command. Security precautions. Penelope wouldn’t need to unpick her work every night if she had some other way to keep those guys off her back. But the Greeks didn’t like women with magic – look at what happened to Medea and Ariadne.’