Belinda's Rings

by Corinna Chong

  Well, I said, you just haven’t seen them. They’re these really small slits, and they’re on the sides, sort of below her armpits. I scratched under my armpits like a gorilla to show him.

  But how come I never saw them? Squid asked. Nuh-uh, he shook his head. You’re just teasing.

  Nope, it’s true, I said. Think about it: Mum is always wearing shirts that cover up the spots under her armpits, right?

  Squid narrowed his eyes.

  Plus, I said, she doesn’t need to use them when she’s not in the water. So they’re hard to see ’cause they just lie flat, like flaps of skin.

  Squid was quiet. He crossed his arms, slid his fingers back and forth along the tops of his ribs.

  Are we ever gonna get to go to Mere? he asked.

  I dunno, I said, how long can you hold your breath?

  Squid got all excited about that. Oh a long time, he said, nodding like a bobblehead. I’m the only kid in grade one who can blow up a balloon. The other kids say it’s too hard.

  You should probably keep practicing, I said. And you need to be a good swimmer too.

  Like an amphibian? Squid asked. Amphibians are good swimmers.

  Yep, you’re right, I said. In fact, that’s exactly what the people in Mere are. Amphibians.

  Looking back now, I realize it was my fault that Squid got into trouble at school. When I got home the next day, the little red light on the answering machine was blinking. Wiley must not have heard the phone ring ’cause he was out in the garage. The message was from Mrs. Trainer, Squid’s teacher.

  Hello this message is for Belinda Spector, Sebastian’s mother? This is Louise Trainer, your son’s teacher. Yes I’m calling because Sebastian had some difficulties at school today. Please call me at your earliest convenience. Two-four-six, twenty-five-hundred, thank you.

  Without even thinking, I erased the message. I didn’t think it was any of Mrs. Trainer’s business to know that Mum was away and couldn’t return her call. And I got this feeling from the way she talked that she was probably just another prunecrotched ol’ battleaxe (as Wiley says), and that whatever Squid did must’ve been her fault anyway. It’s hard to understand why Squid does some of the things he does, but I guess I did some pretty weird things when I was younger too. For a while when I was four or five I insisted on drinking everything from a sponge because I thought it made things taste better. Didn’t matter what it was — juice, water, chocolate milk — it had to be put into a bowl so I could soak it up with my yellow sponge. It was a real sponge too, not one of those cheap synthetic ones you can get at the dollar store. This sponge used to be a living thing. Makes me gag to think about putting my lips around it now, and I wonder why Mum even let me drink from something that was supposed to be for scrubbing our dirty bodies in the bathtub. Just goes to show you that those neuroscientists are probably right when they say your brain keeps growing until you get into your teens. You start looking back and wondering what the heck was going through your head when you did all those ridiculous things. And so because I knew that I did my share of freaky things as a kid, a tiny part of me wasn’t all that surprised when Squid finally told me that he had taken the class newt out of its aquarium and accidentally killed it. Don’t get me wrong, I was shocked, but not altogether surprised, if that makes any sense. Before I let myself lose it on him I tried to tell myself that ‘accidentally’ was the key word. Shit happens, right?

  All right, I said to him. How did this happen? We were in his bedroom and I had made sure the door was closed even though Jess wasn’t home yet. She’d stayed after school that day for bio tutoring, which was lucky ’cause I knew she would’ve freaked if she found out about this.

  I was making a potion, Squid said quietly. The juice of a newt, remember? Suddenly everything made perfect sense. One of Squid’s favourite books was about a friendly little witch who could stir up potions that would give kids superpowers. One of the kids in the story had wanted to be able to swim like a dolphin, so the witch prescribed the juice of a newt, which she said would give him the power to breathe underwater.

  That was a story, Squid, I said. I was pressing my fists to my ears to stop myself from yelling. Just a goddamn story!

  But I didn’t think it would hurt! he said. Tears started to pool in his eyelids.

  What did you do, squeeze the thing to death?

  No! he wailed. I just scraped him a little. On his back. Squid made like he was scooping ice cream.

  I could picture what had happened then. Squid holding the newt against the table and scraping its back with the plastic spoon from his lunch bag, the newt wriggling and Squid’s fingers mashing down so it couldn’t get away. Squid not knowing how hard was too hard ’cause he was only a kid and didn’t think it made any difference.

  I wondered if newts had blood, and what colour it was if they did.

  IX

  IN ALL THE YEARS she’d lived in England, Belinda had only once seen Stonehenge. She’d been a sullen schoolgirl on a class field trip and she couldn’t remember anything about the experience. She hadn’t felt compelled to visit Woodhenge. History had not been a topic of interest in her mother’s household. But when Belinda came across a diagram of Woodhenge in one of the crop circle books she was studying, she felt its importance resonate like an echo. The diagram mapped the site where archaeologists had uncovered the remnants of 168 post-holes arranged to form six concentric rings, and buried in the centre, a small child’s skeleton. A dedicatory sacrifice, they presumed. The post-holes originally held wooden pillars, though the function of these was still a mystery. Some suspected the site had a religious purpose, and other theories touted moon and sun patterns to suggest it was a giant cosmological calendar that signaled the summer solstice when the dusk-light struck the pillars in a particular way. With Stonehenge just two miles away, a connection between the two monuments was almost undeniable. If you were to stand in the centre of Stonehenge with a map of all the archaeological sites in the area, you would be able to see Woodhenge in the distance, as well as dozens of surrounding burial mounds, simply by rotating on that fixed spot. You just needed to know where to look.

  That Belinda had been raised in an English town only forty kilometres west of Salisbury was a coincidence solely of geography. She saw no significance in this fact. Twenty-three years before, she’d told her mother she would never return to Mere. It was a vow she would not allow herself to break. On the map of her memory, she’d drawn an invisible circle around Stourhead Gardens and Castle Hill, the town cemetery, the old bacon factory, the market square, and the perpetual clock tower — sealing the town behind a quarantine boundary, solid and unwavering. If she were to even think about how reachable the town really was, she might risk breaching that boundary.

  On the phone the previous night, Wiley had begged her to come home. Belinda could hear the tightness in his voice. He’d obviously swung into one of his high-energy moods.

  I’ve decided to reorganize the garage, he said. By myself. I’m going to turn it into a jam space. Maybe even build a stage.

  Sounds great, Belinda said, knowing he would never follow through with the plans. So you’re doing fine then?

  Oh yeah, yeah, he said. I’m just fine. Wonderful, in fact.

  Good, she said. I’m doing well, too. You might be interested to know that I’m going to Woodhenge tomorrow. It’s going to be incredible.

  Oh, Wiley said. That’s nice.

  Do you even know what Woodhenge is? Belinda asked.

  Think so, Wiley said. Like Stonehenge, but wood, right?

  You’re impossible, Belinda said. Jessica says you haven’t been helping out.

  Jesus Christ, you’re gonna nag me from across the Atlantic?

  You’re not giving me a choice, she said. I mean it — I need you to help the kids.

  He sighed, and Belinda could tell he was rubbing his face. She could hear the phone in his hand, creaking. Please, he whined, just come home already.

  What did he mean ‘home’? sh
e’d thought to herself, but decided it best left unsaid. Having always lived in the Canadian prairies, Wiley wouldn’t understand how she could feel phantom pains from a removed landscape: a recalcitrant longing for rain-soaked air, pastures salted with woolly sheep, the knowledge that rocky beaches draped in solemn grey seas lay within an hour’s drive.

  And yet when she was finally there, riding the local Salisbury bus to Old Sarum where she and Pierre would take the footpaths to Woodhenge, the place seemed entirely foreign. Sitting across from her on the bus was an old woman in a flower-print skirt carrying a fraying basket of brown eggs. How quaint, Belinda thought. The woman’s mouth was cracked and sunken like a deflated pudding. She seemed a quintessential accessory to the stone, brick, and timber façades reeling past the window behind her. Belinda had expected Wiltshire to have changed drastically since she was a child. It was enchanting to see that it hadn’t, and yet the sight of the old woman made Belinda slightly sick to her stomach. With the bus bumping and lurching, Belinda felt the sensation of riding a merry-go-round, cantering on the slick back of a fibreglass horse while giant carnival tents revolved around her.

  Pierre was an Englishman with a thick South-Country accent and uniformly crooked teeth, which Belinda hadn’t expected. He wore a tweed flatcap and rough callouses on his red hands. For the entire bus ride, Belinda humoured him as he reminisced about growing up in a small Cornish village and his Mum’s Stargazy Pie, the crispy sardine-heads stuck up through a golden crust. But when they’d stepped off the bus and found the footpath, she seized the opportunity to interject. She asked Pierre how long he’d been working with Dr. Longfellow.

  Marshall? he said. I’ve known Marshall for — ohh . . . four years now? Ever since the crop circle appeared in my barley field.

  A crop circle? Belinda repeated, nearly tripping on the long grass brushing her ankles. In your field? What was it like?

  Pierre chuckled, pulled his cap down over his eyebrows and pushed it back up again. Well Ma’am, he said, it was like a circle is all I can say. It was just a plain circle, very large. Nothing like those extravagant pictures you see on the news reports.

  But did you see it? she asked. Did you see it happen?

  Ah, no, he chuckled again. I didn’t think much of it until Marshall arrived on my doorstep and asked to take photographs. Pierre walked steadily, pulling up handfuls of grass along the path and picking off the seedlings ritualistically.

  Tell me something, Belinda said gravely, and Pierre stopped walking and turned to face her expectantly. What’s your opinion? she asked. Who do you think made the circle?

  He smiled sheepishly, revealing a yellow eyetooth that stuck out like a fang. I haven’t a clue, Ma’am, he said. I haven’t put much thought into it, truth be told. I’d’ve mown it all down if Marshall hadn’t come to my door. Didn’t know a circle in a field could be worth something.

  A nervous laugh trilled from Belinda’s mouth. But — aren’t you — a researcher? Dr. Longfellow’s assistant?

  He laughed again in response, with less sincerity. I suppose I’m something of an assistant, he said, grinning.

  Belinda felt a finger of panic sliding up her spine. Pierre had begun walking ahead, and suddenly he was a stranger and Belinda was sure his smile had an oily look to it, and they were alone. Alone together on a deserted country path.

  Wh-Where are we going? she stammered, planting her feet in the dirt. What’s going on?

  Pierre stopped, turned, and removed his cap. His eyebrows furrowed. Belinda realized she looked like a petulant child with her fists pressed into her hips and her mouth set in a stern frown. She let her arms loosen and dangle.

  I — I just mean . . . I’m confused, she said. I thought you were part of the research team.

  The who? Pierre scratched his head. I’m sorry Ma’am, he said. I don’t know anything about research. I was told you wanted to see Woodhenge. The lady should very much like to see Woodhenge, Marshall told me. And I know the way.

  Belinda bit her thumbnail, searching his eyes for dishonesty. Was this really Dr. Longfellow’s idea of an assistant?

  Look there, Pierre said, and pointed to a grassy plateau up ahead, ruins like stony knuckles breaking its green surface. Old Sarum, he said, his finger tracing the ruins.

  The sight of a famous landmark quickly dissolved Belinda’s uncertainty. It didn’t matter what Pierre was, she told herself. He was only showing her the way. The remains of Old Sarum’s magnificent motte-and-bailey castle emerged from the green like a misty spectre. Pierre followed behind her, and stood at a distance as she wandered among the old walls hanging off the hillocks in conglomerate sheets. This was what she had come for, she thought. To be awed. Surrounded by enigmatic wonders and left to her own silent contemplation.

  We’d best be off, he announced after watching her for some time, and she obeyed, hoping her compliance would constitute an apology for her outburst. After this first glimpse of the ancient history bound to the land around her, she felt invigorated. The sky was a swatch of boundless grey, and the air tasted as crisp as an apple. She asked Pierre good-naturedly how far the walk to Woodhenge was.

  Not far, he said, only about six more miles.

  Six miles? Belinda cried. But that will take us all day!

  Pierre shrugged. Do you have another engagement? he asked.

  The sun was setting by the time they caught the bus from the parking lot at Woodhenge back to Salisbury station. Belinda asked why they hadn’t taken the bus all the way there and Pierre told her, with a hint of disdain, that he’d thought she would enjoy the walk. Belinda had trudged along silently for most of it, and Pierre had quickly resigned himself to her irritable attitude like a guilty husband. In the end, Woodhenge had been much smaller than she’d imagined. Crooked concrete posts, pocked and devoid of any ornament, marked the places of the original timber posts, long since decayed and crumbled away. Dozens of tourists loitered about the posts like bored construction workers.

  Belinda searched for a feeling of reverence, but she could only think about Dr. Longfellow. Had he planned this all along? She thought about his letters, and how her mind could not, even with the greatest effort, reconcile the gracious, encouraging character of those compositions with the man she’d met the day before. She wondered if the letters, the invitation to come to England, the meeting, the field trip to Woodhenge, had all been attempts to placate her, in the same way that she would sometimes indulge Sebastian’s pleas to help with the laundry, knowing he would quickly grow bored or frustrated and leave her to re-fold the messy, balled-up bundles he left behind. Caught up in her thoughts, she forgot to remind herself of the child’s grave in the centre of the monument. She had intended to walk over it and contemplate the scene, imagine the bones beneath her feet, even though she knew they’d been long since extracted by archaeologists for analysis. How many hundreds of years had the sacrifice outlived the wood? Before she could think to wonder, she’d walked away, leaving the posts with their lengthening shadows like heavy black capes.

  10 Hide and Seek

  MOST PEOPLE DON’T KNOW that the Lost City of Atlantis is actually a real place. It’s a chain of hydrothermal vents in the mid-Atlantic — basically a series of underwater volcanoes. The vents look like giant chimneys with smoke pouring out, which is partly what makes it look like a city. But the chimneys are also between thirty and sixty metres high, so the chain in its entirety looks something like the Walt Disney castle covered in algae. And because of the hydrogen and methane produced when the cold seawater reacts with the mineral-rich magma, there are actually thousands of weird microorganisms living on and around the vents, feeding off the chemicals and basking in the warm water. Of course, those microorganisms attract invertebrates like snails and shrimp who prey on them, so it’s really one big deep-sea smorgasbord where everyone’s invited. My kind of party. All you need to think about is eating, and no one cares how cool you look or who you talk to.

  It depresses me sometimes to think abo
ut how trivial life on earth is. Wiley always says that high school is supposed to be the best time of your life, which pretty much makes me wanna slit my wrists and get it over with. Last year I had this friend named Nikki. She was one of those girls who would check her reflection in the vending machine whenever she passed by the cafeteria, thinking no one would notice. She was always talking about her boyfriend, Doug said that movie blows and Doug hates when people say that and yesterday Doug and I did this and on and on. Doug was the scrawniest kid I’ve ever seen, and he always wore these skinny black punk-rocker jeans that made his legs look like tube balloons. I couldn’t help picturing a clown grabbing one of those legs and twisting it into a poodle or a butterfly, Ta-da! I really didn’t want to think about what his legs looked like without pants, but Nikki did her best to force that on me.

  He’s got so much hair all over his legs, she said, and at the tops of his thighs it just stops. Then it gets all bushy again around his thing. It’s so funny. It looks like he’s wearing white shorts with a hole cut in the crotch.

  Don’t wanna know, I said, covering my ears. Luckily Rose was there too, and she’d just gotten dumped by her boyfriend a couple of days before. His name was Zack and he bleached and gelled his hair in a swoop to look like Zack Morris from Saved by the Bell. Dead serious. I only met him once when his basketball team was playing against our school’s team, and Rose made me sit in the bleachers with her and watch. It was more stimulating to watch Zack’s hair flopping out of its do as he jogged back and forth across the court and him smoothing it back into place every chance he got than to actually follow the game. Rose had spent three hours making an orange poster-paper banner that said ZACK ATTACK in huge cloud letters. She’d drawn the letters by hand on sheets of blue construction paper, and by the time she was ready to cut them out and glue them to the banner, bits of the paper were flaking off where she’d pressed hard with her pencil and then erased the lines over and over again, trying to make them look perfect. I helped her cut the letters out ’cause I felt sorry for her spending so much time working on it after school, but she’d made so many overlapping lines that it was hard to see which one to cut along. In the end it was a total waste ’cause nobody else in the bleachers had a banner, so hers just sat rolled up at her feet during the whole game. I saw her bend down a couple of times to touch it, but I could tell she was too embarrassed to just whip it open and wave it proudly over her head. Anyway, when Nikki was nattering on about Doug that day, Rose was feeling all cynical because Zack had dumped her with a note scribbled on a piece of looseleaf — Looseleaf? Rose had said, Can you even imagine a more jerky thing to do?