The Promise Seed

by Cass Moriarty

  Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m being careful.

  And mind you don’t squash those capsicums we put in – do you know the difference between them and that weedy thing?

  The boy remained crouched, shook his head. I know, all right? Jeez. I helped you plant them, remember? I’m not stupid, y’know.

  No need to get like that. I never said you were stupid. The old man took off his hat, scratched his head and rotated the brim of his hat through his hands. ’Course, he muttered, you did pull out all those baby bok choys.

  Jeez, I said I was sorry, how was I to know they were proper plants? They looked exactly like those other things that you’re always telling me to pull out, how am I supposed to … He trailed off as he saw the mischief in the old man’s eyes.

  Ha ha. Very funny. He plucked a leafy intruder and threw it, clod of earth and all, towards the old man. Least I can see the difference between the two. You’d be lost without my perfect vision.

  The old man grunted. Very funny yourself. So long as you watch where you put your big feet, he said, as he brushed off his shirt.

  Later, they sat in companionable silence on the grass, the old man leaning against the fence, the boy scratching his back against a tree trunk. He had collected half-a-dozen fallen mangoes from the old man’s tree; the piquant smell grew stronger as he peeled one with his teeth and sucked at the flesh of the fruit. No matter how many he ate, dozens more littered the ground beneath the tree, their smooth yellow skins disfigured by bite marks from the greedy fruit bats.

  I would too, you know, he said.

  Would what? said the boy.

  Be lost. Without you.

  He paused.

  And it’s not only your vision I’d miss, either.

  The boy wiped his hands on the grass. Yeah, whatever.

  I’m serious, kiddo. I’m kinda used to having you around. And you’re right about the garden. It wouldn’t be half as good if you weren’t around to do the watering and the weeding and what not.

  So you’re the brains and I’m the muscle, is that what you’re saying? The boy’s tone was jesting, embarrassed.

  The old man allowed the quiet to settle between them. The insects had softened to a background hum. The clucking of the hens was subdued and intimate.

  You’re a good kid, you know that?

  Yeah, whatever.

  Whatever, whatever … what’s with the whatevers? I’m trying to tell you something here, something good about yourself.

  Nothing that good about me. Only a kid, hey. In the way most of the time, that’s what my mum says.

  The sun had disappeared behind the horizon and the sky was the discoloured purple of an old bruise. Dense clouds drifted overhead, swollen with the rain of an evening storm.

  Sometimes I think she’d rather I wasn’t here. Like, maybe her life would be different, better, if I wasn’t around. She’d be free.

  Free to do what?

  I dunno. Stuff. Go out. Not worry about me. Boyfriends and stuff, you know.

  The old man gathered his assurances.

  I’m sure that’s not true, kid. I’m sure your mum loves you. All mums love their kids; it’s a fact of life, isn’t it? It’s nature, the natural order of things.

  The old man heard his own words and wondered if he had ever believed them himself.

  He shuffled over to sit closer to the boy, reached out and ruffled his hair. You need a haircut, kid. You’re starting to look all bedraggled and neglect— His words stopped abruptly. Might take you down to my barber. Does a pretty mean number four.

  The boy shook his head out from under the old man’s touch. Get out of it. Anyway, it’s the holidays. I can have my hair as long as I like.

  They turned simultaneously to the rustle in the avocado tree behind them. A possum was clumsily making its way through the branches and landed with a thump on the deck railing. The sensor lamp clicked on and a blade of light cut across the back stairs, illuminating a wedge of grass. A flurry of night insects became visible, dancing. The old man heaved himself upright with a grunt and staggered in a bow-legged waddle towards the patch of garden. He placed one hand in the small of his back and bent over, fumbling amongst the foliage with the other. Miniature capsicums glowed red; inky globes of eggplant dangled from their stems.

  Whatcha doing?

  Hold on a second and I’ll show you.

  The old man straightened up, groaned again, and shuffled back to sit beside the boy. He opened his outstretched hand. In his palm lay a tiny ball no bigger than a matchhead.

  Go on, take it.

  What is it?

  The boy rolled the ball around his own palm. It was rough to the touch, striated with delicate lines.

  Have a guess, kid. What do you think it is?

  Um … it’s a seed, I guess.

  Correct. What type of seed?

  How should I know? Could be anything, a weed or anything.

  Nope, not a weed. You’re right about it not looking like much, though. Just a muddy-coloured seed, bit rough around the edges. If you didn’t know what it was, you might overlook it, hey. Throw it away, even.

  So what is it then?

  Guess, I told ya.

  Um … not tomato, I remember what they look like. And not carrots. We planted mostly seedlings; we didn’t have many seeds straight into the ground.

  Correct.

  I dunno, I give up. What is it?

  That, my boy, is two things. The first thing is, it’s a coriander seed. Come straight from the plants we put in. Remember that tall one that I said was going to seed? Well, that’s the result. Our own coriander seeds, falling on the ground and sprouting themselves up again without any encouragement from us.

  Yeah? Coriander, huh? The boy raised it to his nose and inhaled. Smells like the spices at the curry place down at Rosalie. Mum took me there once.

  Yep, it’s a different smell to the leaves.

  How come you never told me before that these were growing straight from seeds?

  Waiting for you to notice, wasn’t I.

  The boy pinched the seed between his nails and inhaled again. So, what was the other thing?

  The old man was staring off into the dark. Hmm?

  The second thing. You said it was two things.

  Oh, yeah, I did.

  He took the seed from the boy and held it up between them. A cloud changed shape in the breeze, revealing the moon.

  It’s you, kid. This seed is you.

  The boy remained silent, focused on the seed and the moonlight.

  This seed is just like you. Initially it’s not much to look at. A tiny lump, a bit coarse and rough, to be honest.

  The boy shot him a glare, but still said nothing.

  But you know what, kid? This seed is bursting with possibility; it’s a seed full of promise. It might be dormant now, quiet, waiting and watchful, biding its time, but when the time is right, it will open up and come to life, and sprout into that beautiful, aromatic herb that’s loved by millions all over the world, and it will serve its purpose. All it needs is the right environment. Water, good soil, nutrients, bit of sunlight. Keep the weeds away so they don’t strangle it before it’s got a decent chance to develop. Doesn’t need much.

  His voice was vague now, and dreamy.

  Nope, doesn’t need much for this seed to fulfil its promise, to reach its potential.

  He reached out his shaking hand and took the boy’s hand in his own. He placed the seed once again onto the boy’s palm, and enfolded his fingers over it. They sat like that for a moment, the boy and the man, their hands loosely gripped, the moonlight flooding the garden.

  Eventually the boy released his grip and stood up.

  I should be getting home.

  He bent towards the old man and helped him to his feet.

 
I’ll put the seed into my treasure box.

  The old man nodded, grunted, and began to tread unsteadily towards the house. The clouds had closed over the moon.

  The boy reached the fence.

  Is everyone a seed, then? he asked.

  The old man paused but didn’t turn around. I reckon so, kid.

  A beat.

  What about you? the boy said.

  The old man emitted a short, sharp laugh, or perhaps it was a cry.

  Me? Me … yep, I guess even I was a seed once. Not anymore though. Now I’m just a husk.

  And with that the old man moved again towards the stairs, almost seeming to float on the breeze and the shadows; an empty husk, light, and drifting gently.

  43

  Sometimes I dream about her. Emily. Not Sarah Emily, Girl Seated at Mirror. No, I don’t dream of my daughter. It’s my sister – the original Emily – who comes to me when I inhabit that other world of sleep. Not often, maybe once or sometimes twice a year. And always when I least expect her to appear; when I have almost – but not quite – forgotten her existence. And then she comes, creeping softly, a persistent ghost, entering my head through the portal of sleep. Arriving on a comforting sigh; leaving footprints on my soul.

  I always used to dream of her as a baby, the age she was when she died. But lately, she has been older – a child, a young girl of eight or nine. Yet I recognise her. She looks fragile and delicate, with wispy long hair and knowing eyes. All deception. I know that beneath the surface lie courage and determination, a steely resolve. I know this because she has been coming to me for seventy years. A loyal friend, a trusted keeper of family secrets.

  I dreamt of her again last night. At the instant she slips into my thoughts, when I become aware that she has arrived, I am always a little startled – Oh yes, I think, of course, it’s Emily. I am never surprised to see her, just momentarily bewildered that I could have forgotten her, like the bafflement you feel when you remember something after losing your train of thought – it seems impossible that you could ever have not known.

  She was quite ethereal. Her outlines were smudged, her movements slow and insubstantial. Sometimes she’s solid, you see, solid and dense and very … there, if you know what I mean. But last night she looked as if a light wind would not only blow her away, but actually blow right through her, so that she would disintegrate like a handful of ash.

  She never speaks. Her mouth opens and she gestures like some people do when they’re talking, when they’re trying to make a point, but I never hear the words. It doesn’t seem to matter. I don’t feel frustrated by the fact that I can’t hear her, and she doesn’t seem agitated by my incomprehension either. She talks continually, like I’ve seen mothers do to their infants – nonsense words, made-up songs, comforting noises for babies too young to understand. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m not an advanced enough being to understand her language.

  The location of the dream changes. Sometimes we’re in a proper place, somewhere I clearly recognise – the backyard, the Home, my own living room; once the local corner store, though why she chose that spot I never could fathom. And sometimes we’re just … somewhere. In the sky, perhaps, surrounded by cloud. Or submerged in a substance like water, but viscous and breathable. Sometimes there’s merely space, a huge empty nothingness. Just Emily. And me. Brother and sister again.

  I am never frightened by these dreams. Not even in the period immediately after she died, when I was a youngster. I suppose that’s why I’ve never been afraid of ghosts. I figure I’ve known one my whole life, and all she’s ever brought me is a sense of peace, though God knows she’d have reason to do otherwise, if any ghost would.

  People speak of unsettled spectres, of ghosts trapped between this world and the next, eager to frighten the heck out of us mere mortals. But that hasn’t been my experience at all.

  I’m unsure why she’s visiting me now as a small child. It did cross my mind that it’s ’cause of all the time I’m spending with the young fella next door. But that would mean that how I see Emily is dependent on what’s going on in my waking life, and that thought doesn’t sit comfortably with me. I like to think that she is real, you see – well, as real as a dream can be. I don’t like to think that I’m conjuring her. Seems wrong, somehow. Disloyal.

  So then I started to think that perhaps ghosts age much slower than we do, you know, like one human year is seven dog years or whatever that ratio is. Maybe one lifetime – seventy years or more – equates to only seven or eight ghost years. That would be something, wouldn’t it? Though the truth is, I wouldn’t mind a visit from an elderly Emily. A little old lady with powder-soft skin and wrinkled jowls and merry crinkled eyes. What must she think of me, after all these years. Grown old and saggy, bits not working, hard of hearing, eyesight not much chop. What must she think.

  Last night she hovered around in my dream, talking nineteen to the dozen, and with me as usual not understanding a single word. Not that it mattered. When she arrives, a feeling of stillness and serenity settles over me. I feel rested.

  After so many years of her visitations, I recognise when it’s time for her to leave me. It’s like the moment when you rise out of a warm bath, and the water runs in rivulets down your body and the chill of the air brings goosebumps to your skin.

  A shiver of loss.

  Last night she laid her hand against my cheek, her soft touch like fingertips on velvet, a chick’s down, the stroke of a child’s eyelashes. I struggled to hold on. I pushed my face against her palm, willing her to stay. And in that split second of consciousness, when I was aware of waking but had not yet opened my eyes, I fully expected to see her cool, pale hand pressed against me.

  But it was only the corner of the pillowcase brushing my face. Or maybe the idle play of the night breeze, masquerading as my dead sister’s caress.

  44

  The evening sky was lowering its curtain across the sun as the old man and the boy headed home. The cool air felt delicious on the boy’s nose and shoulders, pink and tender from the day’s heat, the burn that had reflected from the shimmering water and the sparkling sand. He was half-walking, half-skipping, every so often completing a happy little circle around the old man who shuffled forward in a weary but steady pace. In one hand he clutched the old man’s gift, meticulously rewrapped. The boy delivered a chirpy monologue, dissecting every aspect of the day since the second they had boarded the beach-bound bus.

  I can’t wait to put this on my bike. What a great present. Thanks so much. Again. I really like it.

  You’re very welcome. And thanks for the water bottle. I haven’t seen metal ones since we used to get those aluminium cups in plastic holders. Used to give us Alzheimer’s, apparently.

  Yeah well not these ones, these ones are the safe stuff. Plus it’s got your name on it, so even when you do get Alzheimer’s, you’ll still be able to remember who you are.

  Watch it, you. If I wasn’t so exhausted you’d get a clip over the ear. Anyway, it’ll be good for when I’m out doing the gardening.

  What about that seaweed? Wasn’t that weird? I wish I could’ve brought some back. Would’ve been so cool to shove that down the girls’ dresses.

  I told you, it would’ve smelt something horrible.

  Yeah, I know! That’s what’s so good about it! Smelly and slimy, perfect. And how about that jellyfish? I’ve never seen a jellyfish before. I didn’t realise they actually looked so much like jelly. You could see all its insides, its brain and everything.

  I don’t think jellyfish have brains. I don’t think they’re that advanced.

  Well, it sure had something in there. Maybe it was its nervous system.

  It was right to be nervous around you. I’m surprised it survived the experience.

  I only wanted to see what it looked like! I couldn’t see it properly in the water.

  I think that’s the whole point.


  The bus was great. Wasn’t the bus ride great? All those huge houses. Who do you think lives in all those humungous houses along that road we went along? They must be millionaires for sure. Maybe even billionaires. Really rich, anyway. Some of them had their own horses! And driveways as long as our whole street! Imagine having to go through that huge gate, probably you’d need your own key, or maybe the kids have a secret gate code to let them in, and then they ride their bikes all the way up that driveway before they even get to the house. Damn, that would be something.

  Oi, watch your language.

  Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?

  Sometimes being rich isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, so I’m told.

  I’ll bet it’s only the poor people who tell you that. The people in those houses would be laughing.

  Yes, but are they happy?

  Probably. Yep, definitely I’d say. Very happy.

  Hmm … maybe you’re right. Living the dream.

  And thanks for the fish and chips. That was the best fish and chips I’ve ever, ever had. Ever. Even better than that fish place at Rosalie.

  It was pretty good fish and chips, I’ll agree with you there.

  Wasn’t that dog cute? I wish I had a dog like that. What kind did the boy say it was again?

  Umm … I think he said a spoodle. Or maybe a labradoodle. Possibly a cavoodle. One of those newfangled breeds. Can’t see the point, myself. Nothing wrong with a mutt from the pound.

  But it was so cute and really smart. It wasn’t scared of the water at all. It came right on in after me. The water was so warm. You should’ve come in deeper. You hardly got wet at all.

  Up to my knees was plenty for me, son. I’m too old to be cavorting around in the waves.

  There weren’t any waves! That’s what was so good about it. You could swim out for ages and it wasn’t even deep.

  Yeah, I noticed you swimming out for ages. If you remember, I had to keep calling you to come back in.

  The boy fluttered his hand in a dismissive gesture. I was fine. I’m a good swimmer. I told you. Better than that other boy. He couldn’t even keep up with his dog. And what about when that car pulled up and all those guys got out and they were all pissed and that one was dressed like Santa and then he went in the water and his friends had to rescue him?