Now go and dig up some potatoes, she said, pulling her dark hair back from her face, trying to look businesslike. We’ve got guests coming, they’re already on their way from Port Alberni, and I need something to go with the salmon.
She went back into the house then and Luke stayed standing on the front porch for a few minutes. This summer he hadn’t been back to the island once, and it didn’t look like he would get the chance at all now. They were so busy. Gail and Jeff’s guesthouse was booked solid for the whole of July and August and then he would be back to school. He had a feeling his sister didn’t want to go back. He didn’t care either way, but he would have liked to see his grandfather. He wanted to tell him all about his school.
Luke hopped off the porch, kicked a stone down the slope of the garden and picked up the spade. He hated digging up potatoes.
He knew why Gail was in such a bad mood. She and Jeff had been trying to have a baby for ages now. He had been there three years and still no sign. He knew it irked Jeff to have to look at him all the time, the only child in the house, not his. So Luke tried to stay outside as much as possible. He prayed that they would have a baby soon.
Luke hadn’t meant to have a row with Gail. He had just got confused, because when he remembered the old stories his grandfather had told him he remembered this energy, the unseen spirit, and it was united with nature. It could transform into many different animals and creatures. It could take away your life and give it back in the breath of a hair. The Christian God wasn’t half as exciting. It was a man, and to Luke, just a man seemed far too ordinary to have all that power.
Luke walked a ways down the garden. It was early still and the sun wasn’t too hot yet. He wiped his forehead and looked out at the blue band of sea, the perfectly clear horizon. This was why his sister’s guesthouse was so popular. The views of the Pacific were spectacular. They even had visitors in the winter, strange people, Luke thought, who wanted to stay inside and watch the storms for days on end.
Suddenly Luke dropped the spade. His heart leapt into his mouth as he saw the familiar shape of an orca whale rise and fall through the ocean. He scanned around. There had to be more. Sure enough, he saw another one behind it, then another, and another. The whales rose and fell like a long, wavy black line, the rhythm of their movements hypnotising. Luke stood absolutely still. He could see not just one but two pods of whales out there, and not a boat in sight. He was the only person seeing this as far as he could tell.
Luke ran down the garden to get a closer look. He was up on a rise, at the edge of their land, right above the sea. The whales performed for him. One leapt out of the water, spinning and twisting her glistening body. They were playing. He would have liked to be out on the water with them, to be so close he could see their teeth, pink jaws and tiny hidden eyes. His heart surged with the excitement of this vision. Suddenly the day didn’t seem so boring after all.
The whales passed by quickly, but Luke stayed watching until they were tiny black dots on the horizon.
When he lay in bed that night he could still see the waves of whales in his head. They moved as one. All the different parts of one pod were a single beautiful movement that passed through the ocean. He sat up, turned on his light and lifted up his mother’s quilt. He looked at her killer whales, the strong black outlines with their round snouts, large mouths, perfectly symmetrical tail flukes and long dorsal fins. This was his family.
GRETA
The terror is real.
She wakes and it’s still dark. Her throat is dry. Her mind is hurtling away from the images that persist in haunting her. She crawls out of the tent and sits on the sand. There’s a quarter moon and a slight breeze. Shadows creep softly along the shoreline. She puts her head in her hands.
Brigit being restrained – that’s the first face she sees. It’s a scream, like the famous painting. Brigit’s mouth is open wide, howling, her teeth half gone, her skin like thick white plaster, her hair functionally short. Where did they take her then? Greta never saw her again.
And Maggie. In a way her face is worse because she’s smiling, yet her eyes are glazed over and she looks through her. Maggie sitting on the bed next to her, with the pillow propped up behind and clicking her needles together, knitting a hat for the man she’ll meet one day and the booties for the baby she’ll have one day. Maggie is chatting away, waiting on the trolley to come around with the drugs. Then she’s silent for hours, staring at the wall, tears rolling down her cheeks.
She sees herself now. Greta with the long orange hair, frightened eyes and wet pleading lips being escorted to the special room – ECT, electroconvulsive shock treatment – three words that fragmented her forever.
She asked the nurse, ‘What is my crime?’ and the girl had turned away.
Afterwards, when she woke up she had been terrified. She hadn’t known who or where she was. Nothing was familiar; everything was strange. And she had no identity. She had felt barely human. She felt feral, like a tiny animal. She was afraid to move out of the bed, afraid to speak or breathe. She had sat in her bed, rocking for days. They called her Greta and talked to her like she was a baby. They were so, so kind. And she kept rocking, and when they said, How are you feeling, Greta? Would you like a cup of tea, Greta? Look, isn’t it a beautiful day, Greta? she moaned and said, Bad, bad, bad.
If Henry could see all that he would understand.
She reaches into the tent and pulls out her sleeping bag. She can hear her husband snoring softly. She slides inside her padded cocoon and lies back, staring at the sky above.
She wishes for a miracle to transform her past.
LUKE
What comes to him now, as he lies in bed with the sound of the sea sheltering him, is a story his grandfather told him.
When his grandfather told stories, they weren’t fairytales or make believe like the books he had read to Sam when he was little. No. These were truth tales, legends with nuances added by each generation.
Luke had made him tell this story so many times because it fascinated him. It was about something his grandfather had seen with his own eyes. It was proof.
In his grandfather’s time, people would see balls of snakes hanging from trees. These black writhing globes had the power to turn ordinary people into shamans. When he was a little boy, Luke’s grandfather had met such a person. She was an old Indian woman, the grandmother of a friend of his. One day, as she was walking in the woods she came across one of these balls of snakes. She stripped herself naked and stood beneath the hissing mass. The snakes broke out of their ball and slithered down her body to the ground. This is what had turned her into a shaman, and from that day she was able to heal any broken bone or sore. With his own eyes Luke’s grandfather described how he saw the old woman pick up fourteen live snakes and put one of them into her mouth, right down her throat. Gradually she pulled the snake back out and it had turned from green to grey.
Luke had never told Sam this story. Teri became angry when he tried to, saying it was impossible, there was no way the old woman could have done that and survived. He flared up then, saying his grandfather was no liar. But she made him feel ashamed and he began to doubt his own heritage so that he didn’t have the heart to pass on anything to Sam.
He coughs, suddenly uncomfortable in the bed. He had turned his back on it all. In one moment he had made a choice to live life on the surface. He wonders whether it’s too late now to go back, to try to unearth what was left of his childhood.
He turns on the lamp and leans over the side of the bed, picking up his notebook and pencils. He thinks for a minute, then taking out a black pencil he draws a tree with one branch hanging low. Taking up red, he starts to draw wavy lines curving in and out of each other. Growing in weight and density, he gradually adds to his ball of snakes.
There’s a soft knock on the door. He gets out of bed, wraps the sheet around his waist and opens it. Christina stands there, her paleness shimmering in the dark corridor.
‘Are you okay?�
�� he says.
‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure.’ He steps back.
She notices the light, the papers on the bed. ‘You’re still up?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Me neither,’ she smiles awkwardly. ‘Luke,’ she says, going over to the bed and sitting on it, ‘I never got to thank you properly, for tonight, the meal…and on the beach…’
‘That’s okay.’
‘How did you learn to do that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Calm someone down like that? It was amazing.’
He laughs. ‘I’ve never been in that situation before. I just used my instincts.’
‘They were good.’ She pauses and shifts awkwardly on the bed. He can see her right breast fall against the inside of her T-shirt, the outline of her nipple, its open tenderness.
‘Do you draw?’ she asks, picking up his notebook.
‘No, I just started.’ She turns the pages. He goes over. ‘Don’t, I—’
But it’s too late.
‘Is this me?’ she smiles, looking at him.
‘I’m just practising…’
‘Do I really look that sad?’ She stares at him and he feels such a weight cast out from her eyes.
‘Tell me,’ he hears himself saying. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘I can’t,’ she whispers, and then she puts her hand to her breast like it hurts. ‘It’s too much.’
She takes his hand and pulls him towards her, then she stands up on her tip-toes and kisses him. He finds himself kissing her back. He can taste the alcohol on her lips, is repulsed by it, yet he can’t stop kissing her. He closes his eyes and he feels her hands on his face, pushing back his hair. Then she stops. He opens his eyes again, watches as she leans back and switches off the light, then pulls her T-shirt up over her head. Her hair swings back off her face and she’s completely naked, her lips parted slightly, her eyes glittering. She fingers his sheet and it falls from his waist to the ground.
‘Christina,’ he says softly, ‘you’re drunk.’
She says nothing, but hugs him. He wraps his arms around her. It’s been so long since he’s been able to embrace another person.
CHRISTINA
She wants to have sex. That’s all Christina wants. She came to his room because she wanted that feeling again, a sense of purpose like she used to have at the beginning with Paddy, like she counted. She’s shocked by her desire. The wine has brought it out in her, and now she wants this man, Luke, to be inside her. That’s all she needs. But something is happening, something else. Luke pulls back from her and his eyes are wet.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
‘Look at you,’ he says. ‘Christina, I can see your pain.’ He’s crying. He goes to hold her again.
‘No.’ She pushes him away, confused, afraid.
‘Let me hold you,’ he says huskily.
She begins to shake, ashamed of her forwardness. She doesn’t want him to see her, that’s the point. She just wants him to fuck her because that’s all she deserves. She grabs her T-shirt and tears out of the room.
THE LITTLE WHITE BOAT
The radio is on. Angeline hums as she works. Christina spins around the table, trying to dance. In the music there are giant ogres coming out of the woods and she’s with the elves, running away, skipping this way and that.
Her father comes in.
Jim gave me these, he says, dumping a basket of runner beans on the table. Shall we have them for lunch?
Oh yes, how wonderful, Angeline says, wiping her hands with a dishcloth.
Christina stops spinning. She steps back by the dresser, fingering the sleeve of her cardigan, watching the adults. Her father has hooked his arm around Angeline’s waist while she examines the crop. She glances behind her shoulder, catches Christina’s eye, and whispers something to Tomás.
But sure, she saw us the other night, he says, turning around and looking over at Christina.
He comes over to her then.
Come on out to the garden with me, Christina, he says. I want to show you something.
Can I stay here, Daddy, and help Angeline?
Looks to me like you’re more in her way. Besides, I’ve something for you. Come on. He holds out his hand. It’s big and rough and dirty.
Go on, darling, Angeline says, smiling. Get some fresh air.
Reluctantly she leaves the sanctity of the kitchen and goes out the back door to the river with her father. It’s bright out here, and breezy. They lean over the railings, looking at the water race by. On the other side of the river is a tiny landing. Tied to it is a little white boat, bobbing up and down.
See that little boat? says her daddy.
Yes.
That’s for you.
She turns to him, wide eyed. But Daddy, isn’t that dangerous?
He chuckles, Well, you’re not to go out in it on your own, not until you’re older and you can swim well. No, it’s for us, together, he says.
He leads her by the hand and they cross the bridge, down the garden on the other side and past the big old apple tree. Daddy climbs down the ladder onto the landing and holds his arms up for her. She lets him lift her down.
Now, he says, once I get us some fishing rods, we can take this little boat down the river and catch some trout.
Fishing?
Wouldn’t you like to go fishing with me? he asks. Don’t you think it would be fun?
She doesn’t, but she knows not to say so. Fishing would be smelly and dirty, and then there were those horrible maggot things that you put on the hooks for bait.
Come on, says her daddy, let’s go for a little trip.
Isn’t it time for lunch?
No, not yet.
He gets into the boat, moves the oars around and holds out his hand for her. Christina looks at the space between the landing and the boat. It looks wide and it keeps moving. What if she steps out, the boat drifts backwards and she falls into the river?
She shakes her head. No, thank you, Daddy.
He frowns and the colour of his cheeks deepen. This is a present for you, he says emphatically.
The little boat shifts around on the water. Nothing looks solid or safe at all.
I want to go back inside, she says eventually, looking down at her feet.
Ah Christina, he says, don’t be such a baby. Come on, look, take my hand.
She shakes her head and the tears begin to well.
But he won’t take no for an answer and he reaches out and grabs her hand, pulling her towards the boat.
No! she cries.
Come on, he growls. Don’t be such a silly girl.
He pulls her off the edge of the landing and she stumbles onto the boat, her feet slipping around on the damp wood so that she slides into the corner and lands on her bottom with a bump. She cries now, hard, not caring what he thinks.
Christina, get up, he says sternly. Come on, sit up in the boat and help me row.
But she refuses to move. She sits huddled with her arms around her knees, sullenly looking at her toes as he takes them down the river.
Moments pass. She hears her father sigh and the splash of the oars in the water. She smells the river, its brown, and as she feels the light change around her, she looks up and sees the trees drip down above them.
Look, Christina!
A large dragonfly spins past. She can see a thousand little flies buzzing above the surface of the water. They make her itch.
Her father rows them downriver but she stays where she was, rooted to the spot on the bank, watching her fear in the boat – a sad little thing, a child who is afraid of life.
GRETA
It’s hot. They walk up the dirt road, a gang of three small children tagging behind them. Greta can feel the heat off the sun beating down on her head. She takes off her hat and wipes the back of her neck with a handkerchief before putting the hat back on. She glances across at Henry, but he looks cool and collected in h
is khaki shirt. His eyes are hidden behind shades and his lips are pressed into a straight line. He has said nothing. Not since he came back from his walk this morning, not even while they ate and set off.
She wants him to speak, but she knows that she’ll have to begin and she doesn’t know how to. His silence irritates her because she feels that now he’s judging her.
A truck goes by. It kicks up dust in its wake, and for a couple of seconds they’re in a cloud. When it clears she can see the store ahead, a small ramshackle building with peeling white paint and a little brown dog panting outside, trying to keep cool behind an old water barrel.
Inside it’s dark. Greta heads for the chocolate while Henry buys some tobacco and papers. A large man sits behind the counter, reading a book. A fan whirs behind him and she can see a circle of tiny flies flying in a circle above his shiny black hair.
‘Hot day,’ he says, putting the book down on the counter.
‘Sure is,’ Henry says as the man takes his money, throwing it into a metal dish.
He stares at them both then, picking up a piece of liquorice and chewing it. His eyes remind Greta suddenly of a cow’s, deeply inquisitive and at the same time sure. Sure of what he is. ‘You two take care now,’ he says.
Back outside the sun feels even harsher.
‘It’s melting,’ Henry says, indicating her chocolate as she walks back down the road.
She tries to wrap it up in her knapsack, but the chocolate is already soft and misshapen.
‘That’s okay, I’ll eat it now,’ she says, peeling off the foil wrapper.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘All of it?’
‘Sure, want some?’
He shakes his head.
Greta fills her mouth with chocolate. She had wanted to save it, but now she feels she has to eat it all. The children are still there, accompanying them back down to the boats. They eye her stash greedily.
‘You guys may as well have this stuff.’ She hands the rest of her load over to the delighted children, who run off to share it down by the water.
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