The storm came later that day. Suddenly the air tasted awful, almost like sucking on a coin. Monkey hid in the box where the fishing nets were kept and then everything went black. There was no light, no horizon.
‘This is just like being at home,’ thought the boy, and he didn’t enjoy it one bit. It started. The sea disappeared, and rose again like a wall around them, over and over. Pirate shouted orders. The wood shuddered, the ropes stretched and they clung to whatever they could. They didn’t know what was up or down, and it went on forever.
Then, with no warning, the blackness eased. It withdrew like a big sigh. The sea flattened, and dawn was painted on the horizon in two bold strokes. The boy started to cry in relief, but tried to hide it by helping Monkey out from the box. Just as they were about to go below deck, they realised that there must be an island close by. A tin of paint bobbed alongside the ship and it was then, when the boy stood leaning over the railing with a long hook, trying to fish the paint tin out, that she came floating by.
She was a foot beneath the water and she was beautiful, like a princess of the sea. Her arms were spread, her palms facing up and she was wearing a blue dress. Her skin was very white and her long red hair was moving like reeds. Fish swam around her, lots offish, and she wore just one shoe. It looked as if the movements of the fish were carrying her forward. Pirate and Monkey came to the railing, and they all stood there looking at her until the boat sailed on.
The story made me sad. Terribly sad. My eyes started to hurt and my chest felt too big, as if no matter how much air I breathed in, it wasn’t enough. Papa’s mournful voice rose and fell from the blue room. And my lips started moving and I spoke too.
‘You should not have left, Mama, you should not have taken Turtle. You should have stayed.’
Outside the window the moon shone on the snow cover. It stretched, sparkly grey, into the sea.
‘Did you walk into the ocean, Mama? Or did the wind blow you over Theodora’s Plateau?’
Papa’s voice brushed against Boxman’s accordion music, and against the sound of broken waves. I imagined Boxman in his cape, sitting on a bale of hay with the accordion. I thought of his red stone ring. And I thought of the circus and Mama in the darkened barn with him.
‘Mama, you should have come home with me that night. Papa waited for you. For a long time. He wanted to tell you how good you were at singing.’
And they were my words, they came and they went and they travelled with Papa’s, over the ocean, reaching the silverfin tuna, reaching the box at the bottom of the sea, reaching Galileo’s stars and the end of the world. Then the words became sound and I heard Papa was crying too.
And across the forest No Name started howling, the accordion playing grew louder and it felt as if the whole island, the house, the tower, the ceiling was weeping. Then the church bell started, furiously, dong, dong, dong, dong, again and again.
In my belly was the froth of the sea, it kept welling up in my eyes, and I couldn’t stop it. I choked and spat, and cried. And at last it all ended with a long lingering moan. After a while No Name stopped howling, the church went quiet, Boxman stopped playing and Papa fell silent.
Then I heard Mama’s voice. ‘You have grown, little one.’
I turned and looked out towards the sea and saw her sitting in a bathtub in the middle of the ocean. Her long hair was washed white in the moonlight. She gave me a wave and as I watched the bathtub move steadily through the water I imagined its clawed feet, cleaving through the sea.
I waved back, and then she was gone.
I woke in my bed the next morning to the drone of the delivery boat somewhere in the distance. I sat up slowly and looked out the window. The island was white and untouched.
I got out of bed and tiptoed to the blue room in bare feet. The three ravens were asleep, heads tucked under wings, and Papa slept in the armchair with the blanket wrapped around him. His fur hat had fallen off, but his ears looked warm despite the cold. I looked at the dead boy. More frost had covered his face and his bulked-up jacket with its shiny gold button. But he looked kind of happy beneath the frost. Maybe he had heard the drone of the delivery boat and was looking forward to being on a ship again.
I went straight to Mama’s table and got the pale blue flower out of the old cookie tin.
‘Papa,’ I said, as I crossed the floor. But Papa didn’t stir. I clipped the blue flower in my hair. ‘Papa.’ I shook his shoulder.
Papa opened his eyes, and shuddered.
‘Is it morning?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Is the boat on its way?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Then you better put some coffee on, my girl. Boxman and Priest will be here soon.’ Papa rubbed his eyes, and looked at the dead boy. ‘It’s been quite something having him here, hasn’t it, Minou?’
I nodded.
Then I went to the kitchen. I picked up my boots near the door and held on to Mama’s shoe rack as I pulled them on. I looked at her shoes on the rack, then picked one up and held it against my cheek. It was dark brown suede and smelled of leather and the sea. At that moment I noticed that the kitchen felt good, like the time we had scrubbed the floors before Uncle visited. The orange smell had gone.
Just as the water was boiling Priest arrived carrying a small white cardboard box. He seemed cheerful with no signs of a cold.
‘Have you seen the ravens on your rooftop, Minou? They have all left the church tower, I didn’t know where they had gone. It’s most peculiar.’ He put the box on the table.
‘What’s in the box?’ I asked.
‘Wait and see,’ said Priest and winked at me. ‘Make me a coffee and I will show you.’
‘You don’t have a cold anymore,’ I said, scooping coffee into the pot.
Priest wandered into the living room. ‘I had the most extraordinary dream last night,’ he called out to me. ‘I dreamed your mama was in a boat right in the middle of the ocean, such a funny boat, almost like a bathtub. She waved to me and I felt so much better when I woke up.’
I could see Priest through the doorway, studying Mama’s painting of The Great Shine and his tiger on the living room wall.
‘Isn’t that silly, Minou?’ he said, sounding happy.
I got the sugar out of the cupboard, knowing that Priest liked four teaspoons in his coffee.
‘I should have asked your mama,’ he continued, ‘to decorate the church while she was still with us. She could have painted the rabbits and No Name and all the things on the island. Theodora would have enjoyed that.’
‘Mama would have liked that too,’ I said.
Priest nodded. ‘Do you mind if I have a look in the blue room, Minou?’ He moved towards the corridor. ‘It’s so long since I last admired the painting of her arrival.’
But before Priest reached the door to the blue room I remembered that he knew nothing about the dead boy. ‘The box you brought, Priest,’ I called out, ‘it’s moving.’
It was true. The box had skidded to the edge of the table. It was about to fall when Priest rushed back and grabbed it.
At that moment No Name barked and Boxman’s wheelbarrow clunked against the house.
No Name was wearing his scarf and ran in ahead of Boxman, who stamped his boots free of snow on the mat. He noticed the box straight away. ‘Are you doing a magic trick?’ he asked Priest.
‘No, no,’ said Priest. ‘It’s for Minou. It’s a gift.’
‘Cardboard boxes are good for magic, I can teach you some tricks.’
Priest was gracious. ‘I only use boxes for gifts, dear Boxman,’ he answered. ‘Magic scares me a little.’
‘That reminds me.’ Boxman swung his cape open and withdrew a small pineapple from the inside pocket. ‘This is for you, Minou. It will cheer you up. Pineapples are funny. You looked so small and tired yesterday.’ He stopped. ‘But, Minou. You are wearing a flower in your hair. You look beautiful.’
‘I thought there was something different about you
, Minou,’ said Priest. ‘I must say, that pale blue suits you. It’s almost the same colour as Mother Mary’s dress. The one she wears in my picture.’
The coffee had just started boiling when Papa came out of the blue room. He looked the way he did once when dancing with Mama in the kitchen, slowly, round and round, his hand resting on her back, as though he knew every step they were meant to take. And Mama was quiet. She didn’t laugh or talk or get angry; she gazed at him with eyes like a quiet sea.
‘You can open the box now, Minou,’ said Priest. ‘I was waiting for your papa.’
Everyone gathered around the table as I lifted the lid. And there, beneath five layers of tissue paper, sat Turtle, the morning light reflected in his blind eyes. He blinked, and No Name barked.
‘Cheers to Turtle,’ shouted Priest, startling us all. Then he laughed boisterously. ‘He is alive, Minou, he is alive. I didn’t understand where all my pretzels were going. But look, he has grown fat. He was behind the cross all this time, I think he might have found God. He looks a lot happier.’
And Turtle definitely looked both happy and chubby as he stared blindly at all of us.
‘Maybe he should live inside from now on,’ said Papa, who was pouring coffee for everyone. ‘It might be too cold for him to go under the steps again, especially if he has been near an oven all this time.’
‘An industrial oven,’ added Priest.
I looked at Turtle and remembered the sound of rain and Mama’s shoes across the floor, and the moment when she paused to open the black umbrella and pick him up.
The boat horn sounded again, this time closer, and Papa put down his cup.
‘Priest,’ he said, ‘don’t be alarmed. There is something you need to see.’
‘Alarmed, but why?’ Priest placed the lid back on the box.
‘Follow me.’
I carefully put turtle on the floor. Then I ran after them and reached for Priest’s hand just as he entered the blue room. But Priest didn’t get scared. He studied the boy calmly, and Papa explained everything, starting from the moment I had found him on the beach, dusted with new snow in a cradle of rocks.
Priest moved closer. ‘He looks kind,’ he said. ‘As if you could confess all your sorrows to him.’
Papa agreed. ‘We will be sad to see him leave.
The box for the dead boy had J.G. Magician written on the side.
‘It’s a spare,’ Boxman explained with laboured breath, as he and Papa tried to lift the dead boy from the bed into the box. ‘J.G. died before it was finished and his wife didn’t want it. She didn’t want to pay for it either.’ The boy didn’t move and Papa and Boxman tried to lift him again. Boxman continued, ‘She sent me a letter saying, “I despise magic and do not require the box.”’
‘You are going back on a ship,’ I said, trying to encourage the dead boy, because suddenly it looked as if he didn’t want to go, as if he was trying his hardest to stay on the bed.
‘Imagine, a dead boy on this island,’ said Priest, standing aside for Papa who went around the bed to get a better grip.
‘He is too heavy,’ said Papa. ‘You have to help Boxman with the legs, Minou.’
‘If only I had time to prepare a sermon for him,’ said Priest, looking regretful.
I took hold of his feet. ‘He is very cold, Papa.’
‘Yes, my girl.’ Papa was puffing. ‘Yes he is. Let’s lift on three.’
The dead boy didn’t fit into the box. His bent leg sat stiffly above its edge, as Papa had predicted. Boxman went to fetch some rope to secure the lid, and I ran to the lighthouse to get the orange scarf.
Priest wanted to say a prayer for the dead boy. And when Boxman came back we all gathered around the box. No Name tried to jump in with the dead boy, but Priest grabbed him by the scarf and dragged him back. The three ravens observed the commotion silently from the windowsill.
The dead boy’s face was pale. Most of the frost had melted during all the activity, and I thought that he looked nice in his red sock and orange scarf. Priest cleared his throat and spoke with a calm voice, ‘May the sun shine upon you. May you feel God in the salt and the sea. And may you see Jesus’ feet beneath his robe, and remember that, even though he was the son of God, he too was a humble traveller.’
And I thought about Mama in the sea, floating like a sea princess. And I thought that somehow Priest’s prayer was for her as well.
‘We might just have time to finish our coffee before we secure the lid,’ said Papa. And then he left the room with Priest and Boxman.
No Name and I stayed with the dead boy, listening to Priest’s joyous laughter from the kitchen and the clinks of coffee cups. But when No Name tried to jump into the box once more, I pushed him out of the room and closed the door in his desperate face.
I put the postcard back in the bottle and returned the shoe to the box. No Name whimpered outside the door. ‘Go away, No Name,’ I whispered. Then I tore out my story from the notebook. ‘This is for you, dead boy,’ I said, as I lifted his frozen jacket and placed the pages in his pocket.
It still felt like he wanted something from me. I sat back for a moment and looked at him. And then I bent close and whispered my secret into his blue ear.
We placed the box on the wheelbarrow and pushed it out of the house, past the golden bowl and down the path. Priest ran alongside, holding up his robe, shouting, ‘Careful, careful,’ while the wheelbarrow bumped and jumped over rocks and ice, and No Name darted back and forth, barking.
Papa opened Theodora’s gates, just as the boatmen lowered their dinghy into the sea. And then, in one go, the ravens left the roof, spreading like a black cloud over the forest, to Boxman’s barn, to the church tower and a few flew boldly out beyond the reef to meet the boatmen.
‘I have missed them in the tower, I hope they all come back,’ said Priest. ‘They make such comforting noises in the night.’
And as we were waiting on the beach, hearing the boatmen swearing out beyond the reef, Papa bent to pat No Name. Priest started telling Boxman that Theodora had made plans to build a theatre on the island just before she died, with curtains and a wooden stage, varnished so no one would get hurt if they had bare feet.
Then I felt it. I felt the skeleton bird in my chest, pushing its wings against my ribs, wild and hard, as if it was about to fly, as if it was about to take off, and I knew with absolute certainty, clearly and distinctly, that I loved them all. It was all I had and all there was. I turned and looked at the snow-covered island. One day I was going to pack Mama’s red suitcase full of things and take Turtle. One day I was going with the boatmen to see China, the way Mama had wanted to do. When I was ready, but not yet.
I faced the sea again. The boatmen were coming closer. A raven swooped out of the sky and dived in a glorious arc towards the waves.
‘Here they come,’ said Papa.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to Michael Heyward and Caro Cooper of Text Publishing, Dr Anne Brewster, Dr Shalmalee Palekar and Dr Andy Kissane of University of New South Wales, as well as Narelle Jones and Angela O’Keeffe. You were all instrumental in bringing this book to life.
And to Matilde Martin, Andrew Shine, Deb Saffir, Vicki Hansen, Emily Sarkadi, Digby Clarke, Ester Sarkadi-Clarke, Trish Tagg, Nicky Esplin, Chris Lambert and Simone Fraser, thank you so much for your encouragement and feedback during the writing process.
About the Author
METTE JAKOBSEN was born in Copenhagen in 1964 but now lives in Newtown in Sydney, Australia. She has a BA in philosophy and a PhD in creative writing. She is a graduate of Australia’s National Institute of Dramatic Art’s Playwrights Studio, and several of her plays have been broadcast on ABC national radio. The Vanishing Act is her first novel.
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Praise
Shortlisted for the 2012 Commonwealth Book Prize
International Acclaim for The Vanishing Act
“Simple writing packed full of meaning and feeling told from a child’s point of view….
A wonderful story told with … a voice that will stay with me for a long time.”
—Sydney Morning Herald (Best Books of the Year)
“A remarkable work of fiction—a strange and vivid literary
fairy tale for both the head and heart.”
—Good Reading Magazine
“Mette Jakobsen’s first novel is a gossamer web, a work of fragile beauty….
A delightfully rendered portrayal of innocence coping with loss.”
—The Age
“This quixotic story explores the delicate dance between logic and imagination through
the minutia of island life. This is a stunning new voice, and reads like a thoroughly
modern Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.”
—Bookseller+Publisher
“A perfectly poised, fable-like tale of loss, written with delightful whimsy, deep
empathy and a beguiling sense of innocence. This book is a gem.”
—Graeme Base, author of Animalia and The Eleventh Hour
“A beautiful, moving fable. The Vanishing Act is one of the
best books I have read in a long time.”
—Eva Hornung, author of Dog Boy
Credits
Cover design and illustration by Jen Wang
Copyright
The Vanishing Act
Copyright © 2011 by Mette Jakobsen
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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