by Leanne Hall
That’s where the eyeball tree should be.
Iris walked along the raggedy edge where the forest started, clutching her torch. Underfoot, the grass crunched with the very beginnings of frost.
The path was narrow when she found it, but it quickly widened into a dirt road that ran straight and true through the trees.
‘Dog, are we really doing this?’
The shadowhound nudged the back of her knees in reply.
Iris made her way up the tramped earth road with the shadowhound a faint breeze beside her. The trees were uniformly brown and eerie. The road was lined on both sides with the simplest of fences—just posts and coils of barbed wire.
‘This isn’t so bad, is it?’
Talking out loud to the shadowhound was mildly comforting. There was enough light from the moon, so Iris switched off her torch. Clouds of mist hung near the ground.
Iris shivered. The temperature had dropped. She climbed a stile over the barbed-wire fence. After climbing, she turned to see if the shadowhound had managed the steps, but he had disappeared. The way they’d come was dark, except for the patches of mist spreading into the treetops.
More mist was coming; wet fingers that burrowed into the neck and sleeves of Iris’s coat. It was now almost impossible to see so she turned on her torch again.
‘Are you with me, boy?’
Iris whistled, hoping the dog would follow. The mist made a corridor. Iris steadied herself against a tree.
The path became visible again for a few metres. Iris turned a full circle to look for the shadowhound. It was a mistake—she lost her bearings and couldn’t figure out which way lay forward. The mist swirled.
I’m alone, she thought. Parents stuck me on a plane. Jordi stayed in bed. Shadowhound doesn’t care. Aunt Ursula is never there.
It was seriously tempting to close her eyes and rest, but instead Iris retrieved the compass from her backpack and tried to figure out how it worked. The needle spun nonsensically. She knew she had to keep walking or freeze to death; her jeans and coat were clammy with dew.
At the end of a long hill climb, Iris found herself above the mist. Below was a layer of cloud, interrupted only by tree trunks bursting through. She walked down into another mist soup. There was the faintest whirr behind her, but when Iris looked, nothing there.
There was no way she could keep walking all night. Iris began to calculate: If I find a sheltered place to rest, what are the chances that I won’t freeze to death in my sleep? Or is it better to keep moving?
Iris chose to keep moving, but was stopped again by a sound behind her. A low whirr, and an unfamiliar popping sound. She stood still until she placed it—it was the low purr of a car engine.
Iris turned. The Beast Car waited about fifty metres off. Mist rolled across its scratched duco and snarling grille mouth. Its headlights flashed, once, twice, a warning that it could charge at any moment.
Iris tried to play it cool. She started moving backwards until she was going as fast as she dared. The car followed her, with a constant rev. It stayed at a distance but it didn’t let her escape.
Suddenly, Iris dived to the left, running through trees and ferns. She stepped into an unexpected hollow and jarred her ankle. Shrubs whipped her face.
The car lumbered after her, making up ground. Its big clawed feet travelled over the uneven terrain with ease. The next time Iris turned around, it was closer than ever and flashed its headlights again.
She stumbled to her knees, painfully, but she managed to pick herself up.
The mists had cleared and the pine trees had become more orderly, but there was no point running anymore. She would never be able to outrun it.
Iris’s throat ached. Her shoes were sodden. She turned to face the car.
Its headlights were on; there were lights on inside the car too. All four doors swung open. The car sank onto its belly, claws tucked underneath. The silver bumper and grille sagged. The car quietened its revving to a purr, then turned the engine off completely.
Iris waited.
The car glowed yellow inside. One by one the doors slammed shut, leaving only one passenger door open.
Iris circled the car, keeping at a safe distance. The back seat was red velvet, the interior lined with cream silk and mahogany panels. As Iris moved closer she saw a moth-eaten cushion and a crocheted blanket on the seat.
When she was sure, she poked her head inside. The radio switched on and ragtime music filled the car. The lights flickered.
Using her last shred of courage, Iris climbed into the car and shut the door. It was warm inside and hot air seeped from vents. With the lights dimmed, and music playing softly, Iris curled into a ball.
When she woke, it was still dark outside. The car windows had fogged up. The lights were now off, and the Beast Car seemed to be snoring.
Iris tucked the torch under her armpit and aimed it at the catalogue of Uncle James’s paintings.
She’d looked at the Iris and the Tiger painting so often she’d lost count. The eyeball tree was still there, and so were the waves and the wall and the window. Iris Freer stood with her hand on the windowsill, as she always did. She wore a two-tone stripy brown jumper and a determined look.
The catalogue fell into Iris’s lap; she let her gaze soften. Maybe every time you looked at a painting it was new, because you looked at it through whatever mood you were in.
Iris Freer wore her frizzy blonde hair in two bunches that almost—if you weren’t looking at them directly—looked like ears.
Iris sat up.
Wrong tiger, she realised. I’ve been looking for the wrong tiger all along.
The stripy brown jumper, the yellow hair standing up in two wild tufts.
Uncle James had painted each fold of his wife’s blue skirt so carefully it was easy to miss what could be a stripy tail, cleverly camouflaged. Then again, it could have just been the way the skirt fell.
Iris had found the tiger.
She put her coat and shoes on, and stepped out of the car. The windscreen wipers fluttered when she shut the door. She stretched her arms over her head and her back cracked.
She was no longer in the pine plantation.
While Iris slept the Beast Car had rolled to a dark and ancient part of the woods. The trees arching above were so tall she couldn’t see where they ended. It was like standing in a cathedral.
A breeze wove through the grove. There was a pale-blue glow in the distance.
As Iris walked, her feet threw up dust, and after a moment she could make out a faint voice.
Irisssssssssss.
The blue light grew until the grove was fully illuminated. A stand of trees emerged, from faded nothings to something that had always been there. Purple and blue trees as pretty as they were in the painting,
Irisssssssss.
Iris touched the smooth lavender bark. It was real, solid under her touch. The leaves were thick and rubbery, as big as her hand and inky in colour. Iris kept moving, looking for a wall, a window and an impossible sea.
She stepped around a tree and it blinked.
The eyeball tree.
An eye as big as a dinner plate nestled into its trunk. The folds of bark were eyelids fringed with mossy lashes. It watched Iris pass.
Irisssssssss.
At the centre of the trees was a bare patch of dirt where the wall, the window, the impossible sea and Iris Freer the tiger should have been.
Iris waited. Nothing happened.
It seemed the trees—the ancient ones and the newer blue-and-purple ones—were all holding their breath.
What could be wrong? Iris racked her brain.
She remembered Señor Garcia’s trick at his special tree.
Iris found a stick and made a flat space in the dirt. She was no great artist, but she drew a woman’s face, with a kind smile, curly hair and big eyes. Iris pictured the photo of Iris Freer and Aunt Ursula laughing, and did her best to draw the original Iris.
When she finished, she st
epped back.
Did it work?
A blue brick appeared in the clearing. A second brick stacked on top, then several more came to form a line across the ground. The wall built itself out of thin air, and left a hole for the window.
Iris raised a hand to her hair; it felt lighter and fluffier than usual. When she stepped forward, she was struck with dizziness. Her legs were now long and thin—she was further from the ground than usual!
Irisssssss, sighed the voice happily.
The wall was complete and the sound of the ocean came from the window.
There was the faintest imprint of a hand on the dusty windowsill. Iris placed her hand over it, standing exactly where the other Iris had once stood.
It was daytime, clear and bright. The sea was still and endless. The wall went down further than Iris had expected, almost as if she was at the top of a tower and the sea was calm.
Aunt Ursula is wrong about what the water means, Iris realised. The painting is about Iris Freer’s feelings, not Uncle James’s.
A rough sea meant she hadn’t been calm or happy. The tower could be a sign that she felt trapped. No one could know for sure why she’d felt that way—it could have been living so far from home, or because people didn’t approve of her, or memories of the war.
But Iris finally understood. She’d found her own version of what the painting meant.
There was a commotion when Iris walked out of the forest, her hair and legs returned to normal. The entire household had gathered on the patio. Sunrise painted the rear wall of the house pink and orange.
‘Oh, oh, I almost gave up atheism for you!’
Aunt Ursula rushed forward. She wrapped Iris in a hug and this time Iris did not resist.
‘I knew you would return, I shouldn’t have worried so. Jordi assured me you knew what you were doing.’
Jordi waved from a banana lounge. He still looked sickly green and wore a blanket as a cloak. Marcel and Elna were there too, dressed in coats and boots.
‘I didn’t know what I was doing at all.’ Iris waved weakly. To her surprise Marcel smiled at her. Even Elna seemed relieved.
‘Show me someone who does,’ said Ursula. ‘You’re not going to like this, but I contacted your parents in a fit of guilt. Let’s go inside and have a hot drink before we call them, shall we?’
After a hot chocolate, a plate of churros and a bath, Iris was ready for the phone call. She decided to open with a lie because, after all, her parents had told her plenty of those.
‘It was all a mix-up,’ she said, once her mum had stopped with the hysteria. ‘I got up early and went for a walk. I left Aunt Ursula a note, but it must have blown off the table.’
Iris sat alone in the upstairs sitting room. Marcel had fixed the old dial telephone. From there she could see the grand piano. It had been over a week since she had witnessed the mutant ants and this whole thing had started.
‘We’re very relieved to hear you’re safe,’ said her dad. They had her on speakerphone.
‘Are you?’ asked Iris. ‘Because it seems to me that the most important thing is that I do exactly what you want me to do over here.’
‘I don’t think that’s very fair.’ Her mum’s voice was tight. ‘You’re so far away and we have no idea what’s been happening. Of course we’re concerned.’
‘I think it’s very fair.’ Iris’s pulse raced but she had to say it now or she never would. ‘And I can tell you what I’ve been doing. I rode a horse for the first time ever, and I ate blue soup, and I learnt about art and I tried to draw and I went to Barcelona, and I made new friends, and…I think that you’re more worried about yourselves than me.’
‘Everything we do is for you,’ said her dad.
Iris ignored him. ‘I didn’t take your advice, by the way. I found out more about the people who are trying to buy Bosque de Nubes.’
The line went very quiet. There was only the sound of breathing on the other end.
‘It was a big surprise,’ she continued.
‘It’s not what it looks like,’ said her dad. ‘It’s complicated. We wanted to tell you—’
‘No, it’s not complicated! You lied! You said you wanted to protect Aunt Ursula’s house. But what you really want to do is knock everything to the ground for a stupid amusement park.’
‘There’s a lot of money involved,’ Iris’s mum chipped in. ‘Your father has finally managed to get back in the good books with his family with this deal—’
‘It’s more than an amusement park. It’s a whole new concept involving beautiful gardens and landscapes and art and hotels. It’s more of an all-round tourist destination idea.’ Her dad was already slipping into his architect mode.
‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Iris decided to use one of her parent’s own lines on them. ‘I’m very disappointed in you. I thought you knew better.’
It was satisfying, and true. She hung up the phone.
The greenhouse studio door was wide open.
‘Hello?’ Iris called out.
She could hear music and talking as she stepped inside. The insides of the studio looked the same as ever, but the gilt-framed mirror that usually lay flat against the end wall had swung open.
‘Aunt Ursula? Elna said you wanted to speak to me?’
‘Up here!’
Iris pushed the mirror open further. It was hinged along the side like a door, and it concealed a narrow staircase.
‘I don’t believe it,’ breathed Iris. Now she knew how Aunt Ursula had appeared in the locked studio when she’d been terrorised by the paint.
At the top was a small attic with a bank of sloping windows. Aunt Ursula stood at an easel, palette and brush in hand. Iris recalled the times she’d noticed movement and shadows in those very windows.
Iris entered with the feeling that she was finally seeing the full truth.
A flowery bedsheet hung from the rafters beyond Ursula. Señor Garcia sat on a nest of beaded cushions in full, undisguised insect mode, wearing a fringed leather vest and an embroidered headband. A gerbera poked out of his vest pocket and he held a guitar.
‘I need your opinion, Iris,’ said Aunt Ursula. ‘This isn’t working and I’m not sure why.’
All those times I searched for Aunt Ursula inside, she was here, painting!
Everything in the secret studio was simpler than the luxurious house.
The floor was bare, except for a faded Persian rug, and there was a sagging couch by the wall. The wooden beams of the ceiling lay above, while the attic was bathed in daylight. Canvases and supplies were stacked neatly in the corner.
‘Don’t be nervous!’ Aunt Ursula slid off her reading glasses and beckoned. ‘Reynaldo informed me that you’ve already seen him in his insect form. Come!’
Iris stood next to her great-aunt to see the painting better. A packing crate tipped on its end held tubes of paint, brushes, rags and a jar for cleaning brushes. Señor Garcia waved at Iris and chirped.
Iris still wasn’t completely used to seeing his buggy black eyes. She couldn’t wait to tell him how she’d used his trick to solve the mystery of her painting.
The portrait was only half finished but Iris recognised the style.
‘The arms are very insecty,’ she said after a moment. ‘Maybe they should be more human, like, in their position? I don’t know.’ She flushed.
Señor Garcia clicked and waggled his head. The strap on the guitar kept slipping off his green shoulders.
‘Good point. He says it’s hard to look natural when he’s never held a guitar before.’ Aunt Ursula circled the easel. ‘You’re right, Iris. I’ll do the arms again.’
‘Aunt Ursula, how many of Uncle James’s works did you actually paint?’
‘Ahh. When Jordi told me that you’d visited the Dangercrofts for a second time, I knew you were onto me.’
Aunt Ursula put down her brush.
‘I did a good job ageing Shirley’s painting, didn’t I? It’s amazing what you can do with a bit of sand
and varnish and a hairdryer. I used a compass point to pick cracks in the paint.’
She didn’t seem at all ashamed about discussing her forgery techniques.
‘My portraits of Reynaldo have been my private project for years. I found my muse in him. You only have to look at him to be inspired.’
They looked at Señor Garcia. He was deep in conversation with the gerbera in his buttonhole.
Iris pictured the number of zeros on the cheque written by Shirley Dangercroft.
‘You didn’t answer my question. People bought your paintings because they were supposed to be by Uncle James. Lots of people, not just Shirley Dangercroft.’
‘Bosque de Nubes is a huge estate. It’s expensive to run, Iris. It takes a lot to keep it from falling into ruin. I only wanted to keep its magic from being lost. And I needed money to do that.’
Iris was not in the mood for being lectured on practicalities and money again—not after the phone call with her parents.
‘Do all adults lie so much?’ she asked quietly.
‘I would like to tell you, poppet, that adults do not lie, but I can’t tell you that in good conscience. Sometimes I feel as if my entire life has been a lie.’
Aunt Ursula led Iris to the couch. Señor Garcia began stacking cushions and placing them in the corner.
‘You look upset, Iris. Can you tell me what this is about?’
Iris swallowed. In a moment the tables would turn and it would be Aunt Ursula who was disappointed.
‘My parents haven’t been telling the truth, and maybe I haven’t been either.’
Aunt Ursula nodded encouragingly.
‘They sent me here to find out who might inherit Bosque de Nubes when you…in the future, that is. They were hoping that maybe I, or my family—’
‘Oh, I knew that,’ Ursula said, much to Iris’s surprise. ‘It was my first thought when your mother rang. After all those years, I knew something had to be up. She hardly had the greatest time when she visited. It’s nothing to feel bad about. Your mother has always been—how shall I say?—practical. Let’s go with that.’