Flames

by Robbie Arnott

  I never told my mother that I don’t like Notley Fern Gorge. Like the forests of the mountains, its thick walls of ever-wet foliage hem me in. The light is thin and the damp dirt sucks at my boots. The first time she took me there I stomped ahead, determined to show that I wasn’t scared; that the depths of the valley did not affect me; that the darker the green, the better; but with each sliding step, fear grew inside me. We went back a few years later and, although I was no longer scared, I still could not relax. The tree ferns blotted the sky and pawed at my face. Worms and beetles churned across the bracken floor. Water throttled in a stream; I was used to it crashing in waves. My mother found calmness there, down in the reaching, shading fronds, but all I found was a lingering distaste for wet soil.

  Give me white-chopped seas full of salt and fury.

  The third time I went there was to spread her ashes. And even though I was scraped hollow with the loss of her, even though I knew it was what she wanted, I still hated going down there. The worms. The beetles. The soft, slow water. It was so right for her and so wrong for me, and as I emptied the urn onto the damp earth I knew she would come back changed. I wanted to feel close to her, to feel like she and I were almost interchangeable; I thought this would make her loss less sharp. But whatever she looked like when she returned—however Notley changed her—it would only remind me of how different we were.

  I knew it would become my last memory of her.

  Now I am going back there.

  We take both cars; there’s no discussion of sharing a ride. The light is fuzzing golden and the shadows of powerlines are slicing the road into segments. At first Nicola asks me about the gorge, why Levi would go there, what he could be doing, but I am tense and anxious, and I can’t concentrate on what she’s saying. I answer each question with a shrug or dunno or a heavy, unclear breath, and soon she stops asking. One thing I know for sure: I’m no longer going to tell her to leave. Not now. Not this afternoon. I will do it, yes, I will be strong, but I can’t combine a trip to Notley with losing Nicola—not in the same day.

  Which means that no matter what we find there, we will spend the night together.

  As soon as I make this decision I am filled with relief. I shouldn’t let it take hold. I need to remember: she still has to go, as soon as dawn reaches us. But on the afternoon highway her hand finds my knee, and my relief soars.

  A long curl down the highway. A swing right, half an hour later. Then a turn onto a yellow gravel road that crawls up into the hills, snaking and climbing and crunching, before dropping into a low, sudden swarm of greenery. The car dives; the light chokes; the world hems: we’ve arrived. It has taken less than an hour. Afternoon is giving way to dusk.

  We reach a small car park that holds wide brown puddles and a white ute. I get out as soon as Nicola yanks the handbrake. The detective, who’d stayed twenty metres behind us the whole way, is on her feet nearly as fast as I am. She points at the ute. Is that his?

  I nod. Beyond I can see the wooden steps and handrail that mark the start of the trail, and before I can think too hard about it my feet are falling down those steps, past the information signs and picnic area, wanting this to be over, all of it. Nicola is there with me. The detective is behind her, muttering and panting.

  Down we trudge.

  The trees cluster, rising high, then thin out, giving way to a maze of ferns. Small bracken-like ferns that scrape our legs; carpets of ferns that spread across fallen logs; squat ferns; slender ferns; tree ferns that must be three metres tall, with great canopies of fronds that splay out above us, blanking out the sky. And all of them green, deep green, and the lower the wending path takes us, the deeper those shades of green become.

  After ten minutes of trudging we start hearing it: the knocking. A monotonous, heavy metronome of sound, coming from somewhere below us. I turn to Nicola and the detective. On their faces I see the same things I am feeling: confusion, apprehension and tinges of exhaustion. What’s that? Nicola asks, and I can only shrug. The knocking continues.

  We keep walking, drawn down by the noise.

  After a while—five, ten, thirty minutes; I don’t know—the ground flattens out. We have reached the low heart of Notley. The path runs adjacent to the small, sloshing creek I can remember from my childhood. Its gurgles are loud, but not loud enough to drown out the knocking, which is closer now, calling to us from the middle distance ahead. We keep following the trail, the knocks. Soon we are led into a flat grove, where the ferns are not so thick, and all of them are of the towering tree-fern variety. A small bridge chops the stream. We step across it and begin threading our way through the strange behemoths.

  And then we find it: the source of the sound.

  I was wrong: they aren’t knocks at all. They are chops. An axe is being heaved into the trunk of one of the tree ferns in an even, methodical rhythm. Its blade is biting into the fibrous trunk, spraying out stringy chunks of vegetation. The fronds shake and spray dew each time the blade lands. That’s the sound we can hear: the felling of tree ferns.

  The axe is being swung by Levi.

  It is cold down here, but he isn’t wearing a shirt. The pile of tree-fern logs stacked a few metres from where he is standing goes a way to explaining this, but still: he must be freezing. His shirt is lying on a sawhorse near the logs, along with some kind of furry hat or bag. Sweat pops on his pale skin. He does not look healthy. He has always been slender, but now he is emaciated. His ribs slant out at harsh angles, and the skin on his cheeks and collarbone has sunk into pockets below the bone. And the change does not end with his flesh—his hair, usually so neat, is long and knotted, spraying out from his scalp in greasy tufts.

  I have been so angry with him. But now all I feel is a rushing tide of worry.

  Nicola and the detective make sounds—gasps, I think, or just short breaths—but they don’t say anything. He hasn’t seen us yet; the axe is still swinging and biting. I walk towards him, and still he doesn’t see me until I say: Levi.

  His body jerks with sudden violence. His head snaps towards us. There is no recognition in his eyes. I keep talking. What are you doing?

  He stares at me. Huffing chest. Sweaty face. Narrow, red-streaked eyes. Charlotte. He repeats my name, as if reminding himself. Charlotte. His voice is thin. You’re back.

  Yeah. I focus on my breathing, keeping measured, keeping still.

  He lowers the axe. I was worried about you.

  I’m fine. There is more to say, so much more, questions and accusations and concerns and pleas, but in this dank moment, in this dim, special place, I can’t get my words right. And now his narrow face has been broken apart by a huge, manic smile. His once-white teeth, always meticulously scrubbed, are covered in a grey-green film. His eyes are whipping around the grove.

  I knew you’d be okay. He gestures at the axe, the sawhorse, the fern logs. I’m sorry—I’ve been a bit preoccupied. Finally he looks at Nicola and the detective. Who are they?

  Again I pace my breaths. Again I stay calm and cold. I lie a flat palm out in front of Nicola. This is my friend Nicola. Then I indicate the detective. And this is—well, you know her. You hired her to find me.

  His stare swings back to me. The smile has fallen, and his hand drops down to grab the furry object on the sawhorse, which he lifts to his chest. No. I don’t think so.

  Now the detective is stepping forward, saying: I’m getting paid whether you recognise me or not. But he’s already turned away from us to frown at the fern he’d been attacking as we arrived. His fingers are clenching and unclenching the fur.

  I ask again. Levi, what are doing?

  He looks back up. Oh. Yes. He gestures at the stack of logs with his axe. I’m building you a coffin.

  I don’t need a coffin. Now, when the heat builds and bubbles, is when I need to stay calm. More than ever; more than anything. I don’t want a coffin.

  He raises the axe. No, not yet. It thunks into the wounded tree fern. But eventually you will.

 
No, I won’t. I start walking towards him. Slow steps. Let’s go home, Levi.

  You will! In a pale flash he spins around—fast, rigid, as if every movement is a sudden thought. You just haven’t thought about it. If you’re buried in a coffin, you won’t be cremated. You won’t come back. He waves the furry object. You won’t have to go through it.

  It is as if he is trying to coax the flames out of me. Yet he can’t know—can he? It is so cold, so wet, and I am filled with so much heat. You’re not making sense, I tell him.

  His fingers shake as they burrow deeper into the fur. I’m doing it for you.

  I don’t know what you’re doing, Levi. The stream keeps gurgling. I want to dive into it. Why are you even down here?

  He blinks. Mum loved this place. He looks up at the canopy. It seemed right.

  I take a gamble; with heat pulsing beneath my nails, I reach out. It’s not. But it’s okay. My palm lands on his naked shoulder. We need to leave. I’ll find you some help.

  He looks at my hand. I don’t need help. I’m helping you.

  Please, Levi. You can help me by coming with me.

  You don’t understand.

  My hands grips. Levi. We’re leaving. I shouldn’t do it; I should let him go; but he is stoking my anger, and he does need help, and he is the only family I have left, and now I am pulling at his shoulder. He stumbles off balance, as if he isn’t used to how frail he has become, and slaps at my arm with the hand that is clutching the furry thing. I lift my free hand to grab at his, but instead I end up with a fistful of the golden-brown fur.

  His eyes fly wide. Let go of that.

  There is warmth in the fur, warmth different from the heat inside me. Where mine burns, this glows.

  He is shrieking now. It’s mine! And now we are both pulling at the fur. It’s childish, and reckless, but I need to help him, and we need to get out of here, and I don’t want to let go of this golden warmth. Suddenly Nicola is lunging at the axe hanging in Levi’s other hand. She grabs it and yanks, hard. We are all thrown off balance. But none of us lets go.

  Levi looks down at Nicola as she clutches the axe. He swings the handle with a strength that belies his hungry frame, and Nicola is thrown backwards. She crashes into the sawhorse. Her head hits the timber, and the sick crack of bone on wood rings loud. She slumps. Her eyes roll high. And then she is still, but I am not. The bent mess of her body flicks my mind white. Thoughts and plans are chased away by the heat I no longer have the will to contain. I rise; I roar; I rip the fur from Levi’s hand.

  He shrieks again, and jumps forward to snatch it back. But he is too late; the fur is already burning.

  I let the flames fly from beneath my nails, and releasing them is an exquisite relief. The tip of each of my fingers feels like a swollen dam, bursting and draining free. The fur sucks the flames into its fibre, smoking and sizzling in my grasp. Levi is screaming, high and horrible, like a kicked child, but he cannot come near me, for my flames are too hot and huge. They are pouring out my ears now, and my nose, and streaming out of my eyes in great blue rivers. From my toenails they are leaping, from my navel they are bursting, and from between my legs they are crackling, tides and floods I cannot control. Everywhere they are rushing out, and everywhere the heat is wild and glorious.

  It must be wondrous to see.

  Over the whooshing flames I can just make out my brother’s screams. He sounds like a distant whistle. I look down to see him tearing at his face with uncut nails, his eyes fixed on the fur in my hand. Unlike my blue flames, the fur is burning purple. A great plume of smoke is rising from its centre. The hairs fizz and spit, releasing far more energy than should be possible.

  But the fury of these little flames mean nothing to me. I watch as the pelt burns out. The last of its violet tongues die in my palm, and its final wisps of smoke rise into the night. I throw the ash onto the dirt. Levi falls to his knees and begins scraping it into a little black mound.

  I stand over him, allowing my flames to send delicate shudders through my skin. Then I see Nicola lying by the sawhorse. I remember the sound of her head hitting the wood. She still isn’t moving.

  I step towards her, but as soon as I move I hear a yelp. I look down and see Levi writhing in the dirt. Blue flames have run across the dead vegetation and are licking at his bare chest. I step away from him, and as I do I can see more flames spreading out across the grove around me. They are marching through the moss; they are lapping over the axe handle; they are climbing up the tree ferns. The more I move, the more drops of fire I shake free from my body. I turn back to Nicola. The detective is at her side now, helping her up. Levi is scurrying towards his pile of fern logs. The flames are rising higher.

  I close my eyes. I try to cool, to calm, to kill the burn, but I can’t. The flames keep gushing.

  And then it hits me. Not a thought, but a force. Something strong and fast.

  Nicola.

  She smashes into my torso, pushing me to the ground. I open my eyes and see her face inches from my own. Her mouth is a tight grimace. I try to push her off, but she is holding me down. Her knees are on my chest and her hands are wrapped around my wrists. The sparks in my nails halt, but fire is still streaming out of my mouth, my eyes, everywhere.

  I see tongues of it lapping over her hands and forearms. But she does not let go.

  Agony wrenches her face. And she does not let go.

  I struggle, I buck, I try to yell, but she won’t let me up. Not until my flames have stopped. And eventually they do, as they always do when she holds me. Under her touch I can feel the coals in my stomach smoulder and die, and as they do the fire ceases to flow. My head swims and flips, as if I’ve just fallen from a great height.

  Nicola falls off me. I blink and gasp, and slowly roll over. When I do, I see that the detective is dragging Nicola by her feet towards the little stream. She dumps her in the water and starts splashing more of it over her arms. I stand up; I need to help; she is hurt; but I can’t stay on my feet. I am woozy and hollow, and my limbs have no strength. All I can do is moan her name, but she doesn’t hear me. Or if she does, she doesn’t look up. The detective throws more water. I can’t see Nicola’s face.

  On the other side of the grove Levi is sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the fire dance around him. There is terror and confusion on his face. I start crawling in his direction, trying to say something. It’s only after a few lunges that I realise it would be impossible for him to hear me above the flames, for they are now monstrous. Their blueness has given way to regular orange-red fury, and they are climbing high, taking hold in every branch, frond and scrap of fuel.

  It takes the fire changing colour for me to realise it: we aren’t leaving here. Our ash will join our mother’s.

  Back at the stream the detective is still cupping water over Nicola. She hasn’t seen how large the fire has grown. Or if she has, she is denying it, preferring to spend her last minutes helping to ease Nicola’s pain. I lie my face against hot soil and try to remember everything I have loved, everything I have treasured, but I am so tired, and the images won’t hold. My fit has left me hollow. All I can think of is how much I want Nicola to live. I stare at the flames approaching the stream, wishing they would shrink or go out, wanting only to have had the strength to send her away before we ever came here; to have told her to leave me forever, back at the house. I am crying now: tears or fire, I don’t know. I will the flames down, knowing it won’t do anything.

  Yet, in the gushing face of the flames, I see something. They are shrinking. I am sure of it.

  Not all the flames. Not the high, surging fires that are spreading out from the grove; just the ones surrounding us, here by the stream. They are crackling down into glowing embers. The detective keeps splashing, noticing nothing. Neither does Levi; he is rocking back and forth, curled in a ball. Only I see the flames recede into smoking coals. And only I see the man step out of them.

  He smiles at me. I’ve heard people say that the
y can never remember what he looks like, or that he’s hard to describe, as if he has no defining features. But I’ve always found his smile unforgettable; when I think of him it’s always the first thing I see. His mouth skewing into a friendly arc while his eyes stay flat and cold. The sadness in these eyes: sadness that touches despair. His lips spread but do not open, a taut mask of happiness, while the sorrow leaks like tears or blood. He is smiling like this now. Small among the ferns. Lonely in the flames.

  I am dreaming. I must be. Or I am hallucinating, or I am dead. My father doesn’t seem to care. He mouths something to me and holds a hand over his chest. Then he looks up, into the sky, and releases a long, heavy sigh. His eyes are closed.

  That’s when the rain starts falling. First in small, hazy drops, then in a steady pitter-patter, and finally in huge swamping sheets. The remains of the fire are swiftly washed out. I wipe water from my eyes: my father has disappeared. A patch of mud gurgles in the spot where he’d stood. And now the rain, first so welcome, tries to drown us.

  CLOUD

  And how furious was that rain—how brutally did it lash the green gorge! How much rage and angst and sorrow was contained in those sheets of winter water! How much of herself did that cloud pour into her storm!

  As she smelt the smoke her fog body flinched, her wind voice screamed, her wisp eyes streamed, and in those sprinting streams was every scrap of thought she owned: every splinter of memory; every puff of pain; every big and powerful part of herself, swelling each drop and propelling it downwards with sky-high force.

  The rain hit Notley first, zeroing in on the smoke. From the ferns it spread outwards, across farms, roads and forests and the nearby Tamar, where it overpowered the salinity and bloated the banks. Down the fattened river the storm rolled, to the levees of Launceston, which collapsed beneath the heaving waves. The flat northern suburbs were instantly flooded. The storm kept raging, the river kept rising, and the rest of the city soon gave way to the unwelcome wetness as well. So too did its gorge: water climbed up its rocky walls and its forested foothills turned into the world’s strangest reef. It was a place accustomed to flooding, but not like this: not from this direction, not this violently.