Imaginarium 3

by Sandra Kasturi, Helen Marshall (ed) (v5. 0) (epub)

  My seascapes were beautiful, people said, but a little frightening.

  “Accurate,” my grandmother replied.

  My love of the sea showed clearly, but so did a certain wariness.

  “Sensible,” she said. One of the few times she ever called me that.

  The very occasional tourist came through town. Salianda’s not on anyone’s main road, and the routes leading in can be treacherous. Almost every summer one of our visitors goes through a guard rail. The year I was thirteen one of them took my parents’ car with him, sending them home to the Salamander.

  By the time I was eighteen a dozen of them had taken my paintings out into the world. One of them found its way to Tom, and the resale price made me worth looking for.

  The lure of profit made him want me.

  My pride delivered me up.

  Sadie’s painting brings the memories back with a rush. Among the swirls of colour there are darker images, barely visible unless you know to look for them. In dim light you can’t see them at all.

  “My husband gave it to me for our twentieth anniversary,” Sadie says.

  “Nate.”

  “Yes. How long have you been away?”

  Away. We used that expression in Salianda, too. It referred to everywhere else. I used to love hearing tales of away, and dreamed of a handsome man who’d come take me there. I didn’t know then that dreams could hurt you. A natural talent, Tom called me. His little primitive. I’m not sure he was always referring to my artwork; he also said it in bed.

  “I haven’t been home in ten years.”

  Our room is what I expected. The bathroom is small but will do fine. There are two beds, which we could push together but won’t. Wooden wardrobe, wooden bureau, mirror hung on the wooden door. Wicker trash can tucked discreetly behind the bureau.

  “It’s very nice.” Tom will hate it.

  “I haven’t put visitors in here for years. Most of them find it a bit simple for their tastes. But I had a feeling you’d like this,” she says, and sweeps back the curtains. The view stops my heart, then shocks me back to life. The hotel is near the cliff, the ocean just below the window. I weep quietly, salt responding to salt. Beautiful, beautiful, oh my father.

  The rock formations down the shore are beyond graceful. They seem to ripple and surge like the water that carved them.

  “The tourists always want to photograph them,” Sadie explains. “There’s a path down to the beach about a half-mile from here.” I nod, barely hearing the door close behind her.

  But I do hear Tom open it.

  “The fuel pump’s gone,” he says. “Six hundred dollars for a new one. Nate ordered one, but he says it won’t be here until Monday.”

  I open the nightstand drawer, just to be doing something. It contains a stone of Eroth and nothing else. “Monday? Are you sure?”

  “What do you expect in a place like this? Rustic doesn’t begin to describe it. Nate actually leaves his keys in his truck. I wouldn’t be surprised if the women cool their pies on the windowsill.”

  I turn away to unpack, finally annoyed. I was born in a place like this, and he doesn’t want to tell me about surprises.

  And I don’t want to tell him about Eroth.

  In Salianda we worship him, creator of all water, just as some farmers revere his smaller wife, Eroa. But we don’t talk about our father outside the town—not everyone understands his way. It’s best to be born to it.

  There was a painted stone like Sadie’s on my mother’s sideboard. She used it to hold down her recipe cards. There was one in both churches, the hospital, the bank, somewhere in the post office. They meant the eye of Eroth was on the house.

  Few visitors ever asked about them. I’m sure they regarded them as some talisman. They thought, What do you expect in a place like this?, and forgot about them.

  “They don’t even have a car rental agency here,” Tom gripes. I shift my things into the bureau, leaving the top drawer for him. My suitcase is still heavy when I set it in the wardrobe. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what? What do you want me to say, Tom?”

  “We’re stuck here for the weekend!”

  No, you’re stuck here. “There’s no bus station?”

  “No.”

  He checked? He must love her if he’d even consider taking the bus. He shakes the contents of his bag onto his bed, angry. Let him be, I think. There’s nothing he can do, and even if there was he’d be doing it alone.

  “What’s so fascinating?” he asks, looking over my shoulder. I feel him tense, and say nothing as he backs away. There’s nothing to say. The bottom of my suitcase is stuffed with cash in high denominations. Soon those far-seeing eyes will have seen the last of me.

  I sleep deep and easy, lulled by (oh) my father’s voice, soothed by the song of the Salamander. I dream of Salianda’s autumn rituals—screen windows going up, swing sets coming down, and the great bonfire on the beach to hold off the coming cold, sparks flying up like snapping angels.

  It was at one of those fires that I first heard a neighbour mention The Salamander’s Waltz. When I asked my mother what it was, she told me I’d misheard—that our village was built according to the lines of the land, and the great curve of stone that jutted out into the water was called The Salianda Wall. But her kitchen was always noisy, and I didn’t catch half of what she said. I thought I understood, though, and didn’t ask again. After that I always pictured Eroth as a great Salamander. The waves went out, the waves came in, as precise as any gavotte. We all knew there were things dancing in the ocean.

  Tom’s gone when I wake, his bedding rumpled and twisted. He’s had nightmares for as long as I’ve known him. But I don’t ask about them anymore—if I can’t set his mind at ease I can at least take it easy on his ego. To him my father’s voice must sound like the pleas he couldn’t utter as his breath was stolen.

  I try to feel pity for him, and fail. I’m sorry he slept badly; I suppose I owe him that much. But let Naomi pity him now. Let her try to cobble him back together.

  I watch myself dress in the mirror. My body is still strong and straight, but that face is barely my own. It used to smile more. I always thought I’d outgrow my homesickness, but never did. Some days I’m still as blue as the ghost I feel like. My hair is dry; my roots need a touch-up. When we met it was as dark as deep water, but one day I bleached it, hoping to please Tom, thinking it might make me look more sophisticated. He barely noticed—but then, by that time he’d stopped looking at me unless he had to.

  And by that time I’d stopped painting. I had no inspiration. Away from the sea, I lost my voice; and when I stopped creating, I stopped being profitable to him. I became just a reminder of the one fear he couldn’t overcome. Every time he sees me he remembers the Salamander pulling him down.

  I raise the window a few inches and listen to the sweetest music I know.

  “Is there someplace around here I can get breakfast?” I ask Sadie.

  “Right here, if you like. I’m just about to make tea.” My mouth floods with spit. I know the tea will be brewed properly, with boiling water in an enamel pot. Tom insists on his morning latte, the preferred drink in a place where breakfast is mostly an excuse for discussing business. We took time to enjoy our meals in Salianda, fuelling ourselves for the day’s work. In the city, meals are almost an afterthought, and often eaten with a degree of guilt.

  This one isn’t. Sadie’s eggs are scrambled with cheese and mushrooms, her wheat toast spread thick with butter and jam. The tea is strong and milky.

  “Your husband went out early,” she says. “I offered him breakfast, too, but he said he never eats it.”

  She doesn’t have to offer the details. The way she smiles into her teacup says it all. What Sadie cooked for me doesn’t fit his idea of breakfast. Tom doesn’t do rustic.

 
“He’ll probably spend the morning on the phone,” I say.

  “He was talking up a storm when he left.”

  “Want some help with the dishes?”

  “No, thanks. There aren’t enough to bother with until later.”

  “Thanks for the meal, then.”

  It’s colder by the water. I buy a grey hoodie in the dry goods store across the street, and head out back of the hotel, admiring the view Sadie doesn’t show most visitors. I’m too late to see the fishing boats go out. They won’t be going for much longer. The men spend their winters in maintenance, communing with the boats. The winters are long, but not long enough to forget the laws of Eroth. We call him father because he provides for us. The ocean takes care of its own.

  But it demands respect in return. Fair enough, we always said—you’re a fool if you insult what feeds you.

  I follow the cliff’s edge, marked clearly by a dozen new bricks inside a rail fence, looking for what I know must be here—a way down. The tourists’ path is an easy walk, but no matter how lovely those formations are, I don’t feel like chatting with strangers. If this town is so much like home in some ways, maybe it is in others.

  It is: there’s a stairway of sorts curving down the face, some of the steps natural, some hammered from the rock. I go down backwards, finding the chiselled handholds. Rock-walling was always my favourite workout at Tom’s gym. Just before my head goes below the edge I look up at the hotel. A face is barely visible at one of the lower windows, half-hidden by light glinting off the glass. Sadie, I think. Maybe.

  I cup my hands in the water and wash my face. When I look up again, I notice I’m under our room’s window. I forgot to close it.

  Tom died in the waters off Salianda. He and his friends had gone out in a small sailboat, thinking they could make it back before the clouds came up too dark. But you can’t do that; they darken when they will. I went out by myself sometimes, often as not coming round to watch the young men diving off the end of The Wall.

  That day one of them had stayed longer than his friends, unable to resist one more jump.

  “Hey, Ross,” I called, “are you waiting to grow wings?”

  “Yes!”

  We both laughed. “You need a ride in?”

  “No, I’m all right.”

  We were both young enough to not be afraid, and old enough to know we should be. I turned for shore, racing the storm, admiring the sleek sailboat ahead of me. It was manned by people I didn’t recognize. Tourists, they’d have to be. I saw the wave that lifted one of them out. His friends didn’t. I went in after him, into my father’s cold arms.

  He was far down and limp when I finally grabbed him. I lost my boat, but got him to the shore, both of us staring too closely at the next world. He still wasn’t breathing when Ross arrived. He’d gone deep into the Salamander’s mouth.

  I brought him back.

  Waking in my grandmother’s house, he said, “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “There was a woman in the water.”

  She gave him a mug of sugared tea to warm him. I thought she seemed pleased that he didn’t much like it. “That was my granddaughter, Maya,” she said, nodding at me.

  “Your name is Maya?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wexton?” I nodded. He introduced himself and said, “I came here to find you.”

  I knew The Little Mermaid, the story of a prince who falls in love with the woman who saved him from drowning. So did my grandmother, who pursed her lips with displeasure as we chattered on the couch. When I came to help prepare supper, she took me aside and said, “Just you remember, girl, our people don’t shy away from doing what needs to be done.”

  The only thing I remembered at that moment was my mother once saying the same thing. Maybe she’d inherited her knack for strange proverbs.

  Tom slept as I peeled the vegetables. I’d never met anyone like him. Even though his clothes were tattered, I could tell they’d been expensive. He was fair-skinned, and more handsome than any man I’d ever seen. I blushed as I recalled the feel of my mouth against his, giving him breath. His hands were smooth, not rough like a fisherman’s, and, startled, I wondered how it would feel to have them on me.

  The next day I found out.

  When we went to the cottage his friends had rented, it was empty. They hadn’t realized he’d fallen out until they beached; and by the time they called the police, my grandmother already had. Her conversation with the chief included the words drunk and stupid more than once.

  Their carelessness didn’t endear them to me, either, but Tom didn’t seem surprised. They’d left him one of their cars, and when he drove out of Salianda I was in it with him.

  “Don’t do this,” my grandmother said when I returned to pack my things.

  “I love him.”

  “You love your pride,” she spat.

  “I’m going with him and you can’t stop me!” I cried—and stepped back, shocked, as she took her sewing scissors in one hand and gathered up her hair with the other. Before I could speak it was on the floor.

  The women of Eroth cut their hair to mourn the dead.

  She locked the door behind me.

  I never understood the cause of her anger. For choosing Tom, for disobeying her, I don’t know. The memory still hurts.

  And yet, I’ve seen incredible cities and exotic animals, mountains, canyons, unbelievable works of art. Tom showed me away, and it was as wonderful as I’d hoped.

  As I turn back toward the cliff, a pile of white stones catches my eye. This, I realize, is where the bonfire is made. The stones are waiting to be set in a circle. I look at them for a long moment, remembering.

  Then I head up the rock face to find Tom. Like always, if I want to go to him I have to turn my back on the sea.

  “What did you do this morning?” he asks from behind the menu.

  “Slept in. Did a little sight-seeing.” I lie without thinking, sparing him from habit, giving him the kindness owed. He’d know what I did, if he cared to think about it.

  The diner is sparse and clean. I order the chowder; Tom, a clubhouse sandwich. I steal one of his fries. His brief smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The skin around them looks tight. He hates this place.

  “Have you found anything interesting?” I ask.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know—something in one of the craft shops? You’re always on the lookout for a new painter, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.” Then his cell rings, and he abandons his food. The man he’s talking to, Ian, was among those who drove off and left him in Salianda.

  Tom handles his phone the way he used to handle me. Naomi’s photo is in its memory.

  Much of modern technology is a mystery to me, mainly because so little of it interests me. I’m sure my indifference made them feel safe. But the one time I tried to use his phone I accidentally learned everything. She’s lovely, younger than me, and married. She says her husband doesn’t know about the affair. She writes fascinating texts. One of them makes a risqué reference to her new shoes.

  And how eager she is to step into mine.

  “And what are you doing this afternoon?” Tom asks when he’s done. He orders coffee. They do espresso here. I could never get used to it—too much like eating the grounds out of the bottom of the pot.

  “Shopping,” I lie again. He relaxes visibly. He understands shopping. “Would you like to come with me?” He shakes his head like I knew he would. “Then we can meet here for dinner about . . . what, seven o’clock?”

  “We close at seven,” the waitress offers, setting down his cup.

  “Thank you,” he says shortly, nettled that one of the staff spoke without being spoken to. Her answering smile is sweet and understanding, and directed at me.

  “I’ll get some take-out and meet you back at the room,” he says, and starts texting a new
message.

  “Okay, see you.” He nods, but it might be at the phone.

  The afternoon is warm, approaching thunder driving the heat ahead of it. I bypass the shops—there’s nothing I need that I can buy, and I’ve never had much use for trinkets—but the museum draws me. I pause at the door, taking in the No Cameras sign, the soft light, the smell of wood polish. The blurred shadows of things that once watched us, and give the appearance of doing so still.

  The few tourists ahead of me laugh furtively at the sepia photos of early Bormaine, at pictures of so-called sea monsters. One of them glances around, whipping out his cell phone to get a shot of the mutant squid, and sputters as the curator’s hand blocks the screen.

  “You saw the sign,” he says amiably, and plucks the phone from the man’s fingers. “I’ll keep this at the front desk. You can pick it up on the way out.”

  The whispers that follow the incident try to be indignant, but are only embarrassed.

  I trail after them, thinking they know nothing about the sea. If they did they wouldn’t call its creatures monsters. Several glass cases contain the small remains of wrecked ships, and I offer a silent prayer for the sailors called home. Where life is given, life is owed, and sometimes Eroth collects.

  The hand-written cards in the corner of the cases give only names and dates, but I can fill in the spaces. There were lives and families and dreams behind those names.

  On the far side of the room is the last item for consideration: a giant squid in a cut-glass case. It would have been graceful in its element, tentacles drifting delicately. Deadly in the way of its kind, but only when necessary. Not one to shy away from what needs doing.

  “Hello,” the curator says behind me.

  “Hello.” My voice is rough with unexpected tears. “You have an impressive display here.”