Saltskin

by Louise Moulin

  Tom looked up, shading his eyes from the sun, his tool-belt slung like a gun holster. The women walked towards him and Tom indicated to a young carpenter to take the sculpture off the ute. He wolf-whistled at Maggie because her usual overalls had been exchanged for a kimono-style wrap in teal green.

  ‘It looks terrific,’ Maggie said, marvelling at the house.

  Cecil appeared at the double doors, leaning on his cane. ‘All thanks to Tom,’ he said as the women surveyed the structure: an upside-down sailing ship, minus masts, on a solid foundation held up on stilts. ‘Take a bit to fit out the interior proper, but it’ll be done in about a week. Come and have a look inside.’

  Sophia raced a little to catch up with Cecil. As they went through the door he put a guiding hand at the small of her back and paused so that she went in ahead. Maggie followed with Tom, who walked a pace or two behind her. It rankled Maggie how he did that.

  Once inside, Tom started fussing with a piece of sandpaper on a table made from some of the ship’s panelling. Anyone could tell he was proud but bashful about his handiwork. The women looked about the place and noted the improvements since their last visit. Their faces reflected their appreciation.

  The space was large and open plan, with portholes for windows and rich wood detailing. The bedrooms snuggled up in the rafters, which would have been the below deck of the ship.

  Cecil beamed at them. ‘Hard to believe the Unicorn was still in use in 1971, isn’t it? Nigh on 300 years old she was when I got hold of her and still as solid as a house.’

  They smiled and nodded.

  ‘Sherry?’ Cecil offered, obviously delighted to have guests. He moved nimbly and poured drinks from a crystal decanter. They toasted the ship.

  ‘It’s been quite a journey from finding her,’ said Cecil. ‘Scraping her back in Ramsgate, working on her in winter with fingerless gloves and in summer instead of sailing. Then getting her over here. But it happened like a dream, really — everything fell into place.’ His eyes welled and he patted Tom on the back.

  ‘Bring out your surprise,’ said Tom conspiratorially.

  ‘Is it here already?’ Maggie said. ‘Oh God, is it here?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Tom. Then to Cecil, ‘Go on, then.’

  Cecil gave a little bounce and went over to a cabinet, from which he withdrew a rolled-up document the size of a map and spread it on the floor. With a little difficulty they all knelt around it, anchoring the corners.

  ‘A family tree?’ said Maggie.

  Cecil pointed to the top, where the name Angelo Page was linked with the names Angela Swan and Eve, and by extension with David Mills. From there the family branched and wove. Cecil looked at Maggie triumphantly.

  Maggie stared at the family tree and back at Cecil. She noticed he had shaved off his moustache, and her eye went to his beauty spot. Cecil smiled.

  ‘I wanted to show you when it was all finished,’ Cecil went on. ‘You see, the Unicorn came with old documents, and among it all I discovered the logbooks. This was back in Ramsgate. I saw the name David Mills listed as crew, and since I have an ancestor with the same name I followed the lead and contacted your local historians. That’s how I met your man Tom, and after a bit he gathered up the marriage and birth certificates in his collection and sent them to me.

  ‘That’s when I discovered that this Angelo was Grace’s father, not David, yet she was given the surname Mills. Then Tom became very interested because of knowing the Pages here in Riverton, and we both knew we were on to something. But what we didn’t expect to find was that your forefather was also my forefather. Angelo Page. We’re related!’ He looked at Maggie.

  Sophia hooted with delight.

  Maggie smiled and said, ‘Oh.’

  Cecil, animated, traced his finger along the branches of black ink. ‘There are big gaps in your branch. But no men, as in no fathers or husbands, because often the birth certificates had “Father unknown”. I thought perhaps you could provide me with some of the missing male names.’

  Maggie knew she ought to be thrilled with the discovery of a long-lost relative — everyone else was — but it all struck her as worrisome. Her mind went to Gilda, then she looked at Cecil, harmless old Cecil, and said, ‘I wouldn’t have a clue what the blokes’ names were. I guarantee you didn’t find many marriages.’

  ‘Not dead yet, honey.’ Sophia nudged her, and Tom laughed a little too loudly.

  ‘But why would you move to Riverton when you have grandchildren back home?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘It can sometimes seem to parents that they are mere bit players in their children’s lives.’ Cecil smiled, indicating that was only right and proper: children just needed a legup and they were off. ‘It had been my plan since I was a lad to live here. Even before I knew where New Zealand was. It was a compulsion that wouldn’t go away, and when I bought the ship and later revealed the family connection to Jacob’s River I saw it as a sign. I would have come sooner but I didn’t find out about the town’s name change until a few years ago.’ He rubbed his scalp. ‘Odd, isn’t it? The things we’re compelled to do and don’t know why.’

  They all nodded slowly in varying tempos, each marvelling at the swiftness of time and jigsaw fit of it all, once it was read backwards. There was a silence for a time, a salute to the passage of the past.

  Cecil coughed. ‘That’s why I approached your girl while she was in Ramsgate. Hunch is all it was. She so reminded me of that magnificent work I’d seen in that private collection — the postcard I showed you. I felt compelled to talk to her. If only she had waited for me on the beach while I went back to the hangar to fetch it she would have seen the postcard too, and yet life has its own way of working out. It was just plain odd that I worked out from Tom’s documents that possibly Angelo and his father — our ancestors — had crafted the thing.’

  ‘Really?’ said Maggie in disbelief. Sophia gasped and Tom smiled guiltily. Maggie narrowed her eyes at him.

  Cecil saw the exchange and went on hurriedly. ‘Oh yes. There was a letter of commission addressed to a Pierre Page to create it, and the tapestry bears his mark. Too much of a coincidence, surely, and voilà, if you will. And what could be more perfect than this? Look what I’ve found — family!’ His gesture embraced his guests.

  ‘Can I have another look at the postcard?’ Maggie asked. It reminded her of a card she had had as a child: of the Botticelli Venus, pinned on the wall above her bed.

  ‘No, don’t show her. Let’s wait to see the real thing,’ said Tom, stilling any objections from Maggie by clasping her hand.

  ‘We shall unveil it for Gilda,’ said Sophia, reaching for Maggie’s other hand. A vibration passed through them, like a breeze that leaves all slightly askew from its passing.

  23.

  Allies

  Angelo awoke with Davy and the captain pulling him up. Angie was asleep on his chest, her hold loose. She stirred and he saw her slip off him with disgust and mortification. His stomach felt vacant, as if his insides had been scraped by a surgical knife. The captain hooked his arm about Angelo’s waist and Davy waved them away, watching them for a moment until he was sure they would not turn around. The sunrise coloured the sky crimson and yellow. Davy lay down beside Angie, draping her arm over him, and stared at the beauty of the sky.

  Back on the Unicorn, in the captain’s cabin, Angelo groaned.

  ‘What have I done? She came to me and I was with another.’ He was sure it was the mermaid he had seen, but even as the certainty washed over him, so too did doubt. He was swinging from melancholy to mania, the way he had his whole life.

  The captain put bread and dried fruit in front of him. He felt he was with an unpredictable child in a man’s body. And yet he also felt that all the intervening years were conspiring in this one moment. That he was exactly where he was supposed to be, here in some way to make amends; God had given him this opportunity. He looked down, then up at Angelo again with sharp eyes.

  ‘Who came?’ Did a
mermaid visit you?’

  Angelo was not surprised at the question, for the mermaid was as real to him as soil. His faith was absolute and no affirmation was necessary.

  The captain sighed and took a deep breath. He sat down. He knew this was the time, and so he told Angelo his own story of the mermaid. On and on he talked, of all he had learnt since his flesh had been tight-skinned and he’d thought it would never change. He spoke of his crime, of his search, of his growth, and of the mermaid tales he had collected from other sailors. Each was dubious in its own way, each witness unreliable for lack of character, weakness of age or the sentimentality of drunkenness. None of it was proven: rather it was rattled off, yarns repeated many times over, like a story from a book, as improbable as climbing a ladder to the moon.

  The captain was aware that the sea with its vastness had a magnetism that drew men to fantasise. Angus acknowledged as he purged his soul to Angelo that it mattered not whether the tales were true or false, for in the time of the telling the air changed. The soul shifted.

  In turn, Angelo told his own story, and as he did, Angus realised that the young man with the raggedy brain had already told him this. He wondered why it was only now that he heard him, as if his ears had once been stopped with wax.

  Between them they spoke of the mermaid as a problem, and therefore as truth. Angelo showed Angus the whaler’s sketch and the captain smiled in recognition. His own art.

  ‘I love her,’ said Angelo. He wanted to sit at a table with her and talk until forever; he wanted to hold her hand at funerals; hide things in her bed for her to discover with delight; he wanted her to push at his chest; he wanted to pull her hair and bite her in passion.

  ‘Do you truly?’ said the captain.

  Angelo looked shocked. ‘She is perfection. She is the sunrise. She is all, and there is nothing without her.’

  But that is not enough, thought Angus. What of alchemy? What of the transmutation of silver into gold? What of the spiritual powers of love? Now he knew himself to be beyond Angelo, for wisdom was not granted to the infantile. But Angelo would grow too. He would learn — maybe the hard way.

  Angus scratched his jaw. ‘The old cannot save the young,’ he said gently. ‘And what if perfection is flawed?’

  Angelo moved impatiently; he did not understand. ‘Perfection cannot be imperfect.’

  The captain patted Angelo’s arm the way one might soothe a fractious animal. ‘Maybe you are only infatuated, for you don’t really know her. What about Miss Swan?’

  ‘I only want the mermaid!’ Angelo shouted, springing up, knocking over his chair.

  The captain spread his hands on the table and stared at them. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Folklore has it, son, that if one is unable to love a mermaid entirely, more than one’s mother and father, forsaking all others, then desiring her can be dangerous. She must be treated as valuable and vulnerable.’ He paused, watching Angelo, to weigh his worthiness.

  He went on. ‘The way the legends tell it, if you betray her once her legs are given, then disaster will beset all descendants for seven generations. They say the curse of lovelessness is as harsh as the banishment from Paradise.’ Captain Angus stood up and began to pace the floor. ‘Do you know what disaster is? It is a force from the stars!’

  Angelo paced also in the too-small cabin. He felt claustrophobic. His body seemed too big for the room, becoming magnified, so soon his head would burst through to the deck, his muscles tearing his clothing and his legs sprouting, splintering wood, pushing into the ocean. He grew confident. ‘She is my life. I have already fallen in love and now I wish only to love her!’ he shouted, his voice close to hysteria. The captain raised his hands to quieten him.

  Then for no reason they both began to laugh, hands resting on the table, heads nodding, gasping for breath.

  The captain wiped his eyes and went to his secret drawer. He withdrew the mirror and put it beneath the folds of his clothes. ‘Come.’ He motioned to Angelo to follow him and rowed them both to the lagoon.

  In front of a cave the captain said, ‘I have called for my mermaid all my life and she has never replied. Yet you called and she responded. Maybe she will again. Call her.’ He gave Angelo the mirror and without waiting walked away up the beach, and because his legs carried him, up he went as if beckoned, into the ferns of the mountain.

  Angie Swan considered that now they were lovers, Angelo was hers. She had been hurt to wake on the beach with sand sticking to her like lice and Davy squatting nearby like a manservant waiting to serve her, but had shaken it off, ignored whatever it meant, and now, with a smug face, she moved animatedly about the hut trying on dresses, smiling languidly, happily. She took long naps, daydreaming about her future with her limbs flung wide. She saw the two of them strolling, bodies leaning together in union, her in an ermine cape, him with a cane. She believed that because she had given of herself in the intimate act, the sacrifice of coitus, Angelo was bonded. For the first three days she was sure he would come begging for more.

  But as the week wore on she had the unsettling notion that she had trapped herself. It made her bite her nails. It bothered her that he had not sought her out. She would go to the door, drawn by a manly sound, and look out, as though he might just that minute be walking up the path, but she would see instead Davy chopping wood. By midweek her skin seemed to be losing its suppleness. She pinched her face in the mirror to bring it more colour.

  ‘You are pretty as always,’ crooned Mrs Faullen as she brushed the girl’s hair, and Angie swiped at her with a clawed hand. In seven days, as if with the onset of sickness, her face went from triumph to defeat. Her skin became yellow and she began to be physically ill. Mrs Faullen’s sympathetic glances made her scream.

  ‘Angie …’

  ‘He is coming.’

  The two women paused, looked at each other, and as it dawned on Angie that Angelo wasn’t coming, she stumbled backwards. Orchid saw pain and incomprehension ripple across her face. She looked no more than six years old as her face crumpled. Orchid gathered her in her arms and rocked her, but Angie shoved her off, and would not succumb to tears, which Orchid found more frightening. Angie seemed to become brittle before her, like a porcelain figurine fractured all over and beyond repair.

  Orchid backed out and pulled the curtain across the doorway. She stood chewing the flesh of her cheek, rooted by an idea. She opened her glory box and gathered up the two almanacs her mother had packed for her, then ran from the cottage and into the bush.

  The wind whipped at her dress. She ran as though being chased, her feet slipping on wet leaves, tripping over roots, her skirts caught between her legs. On she ran, down into the gully where the river flowed thick, until she felt she was far enough away to think without the thoughts of another whirling in the air. She slowed; her thighs shook with exertion and sweat itched inside her bodice.

  She came to a clearing overlooking the bay, and set about pulling out ferns and rolling rocks until she had built herself a shelter of a wall to protect against the sea wind.

  Under the high canopy of the forest, under its latticed light and with hot hands, she opened La Très Sainte Trinosophie (The Most Holy Triple Philosophy) by Saint-Germain. As she did so she offered up a prayer of thanks to her mother, and, by chance, on the very page at which the book opened, she found a spell.

  Captain Angus walked uphill through the bush. He felt his past slipping away from him — all that he had held onto. Where once he had thought his life was over, now he considered that maybe it lay before him. He felt he had passed on his obsession with the mermaid to an heir, and was all the better, all the lighter for it.

  He saw Orchid before she saw him.

  She was stepping on the boulders in the river, and once across she bent over, searching the ground, the hem of her black gown soaked with enough water to drown a baby, the weight dragging on her hips. Her bun was lopsided, tendrils were damp against her neck.

  Orchid had to find yellow-capped m
ushrooms for her spell, and her search was making her hot. Even as she searched she knew it was too far past the first frost: the moss was a clear green and the new growth told her spring was upon them.

  The captain knew he should make himself known, but observing her in secret gave him such pleasure. He noted the colour of her hair: exactly the colour of a fieldmouse, common, and yet he couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone with hair such a shade, and was arrested by the thought that something so plain was so original. He thought of all the things he had never claimed, for fear of others knowing what he wanted.

  Since the shipwreck, Orchid had detested the feel of wet fabric around her legs. As her dress became unbearable she cussed and peeled it off, stomping upon it, stamping out all the frustrations of the past, and stood in her chemise and bloomers. Her heart was beating fast and, uncharacteristically, she began to giggle, the cool bush air like a caress on her skin. Then, startled by laughter not her own, she looked up to see Captain Angus, fingers looped casually in his belt.

  ‘Pig-hunting?’ he teased.

  She laughed again and tilted her head in such a way that Angus was taken by her. It struck him as witty.

  ‘I’m hunting mushrooms for a spell,’ Orchid shouted to the forest, feeling strangely liberated. Her voice bounced off the trees like silver coins in a tin cup.

  ‘Sorcery?’ He stepped closer to her, and she did not make herself smaller but seemed to swell with his eyes upon her.

  ‘Alchemy, sir. The transmutation of silver into gold.’

  24.

  Spellbound

  Angelo lifted the mirror to his face and saw in it a small boy that was his former self. He jumped as if burnt; the glass caught the light of the sun and shot a beam out to sea, growing immense from the small diameter of the mirror with the blaze of a miracle. Angelo experienced a deep certainty that the love he had been seeking was also seeking him. He took a deep breath, slow and sure, and sent out a call from his heart to hers.