Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) (5 page)

Chapter
6

Alone

Tastes like: Salt without
pepper.

Smells like: A microwave
dinner for one.

Sounds like: Footsteps on
the parquet floor of an empty house.
 

Feels like: The absence of
arms around you.

Looks like: A single cactus
dotting the desert landscape.

The glass of the airport window is cool against my
forehead as I stand in OR Tambo international airport, trying to figure out how
my life has gone from ordinary contentment to supernatural chaos in the space
of a few days.

Through the tinted glass, I can see the plane that will
carry me to my new life taxiing toward the terminal. I watch as it comes toward
me through the haze of heat-waves simmering up from the tar. The sun glints off
the massive white body of the airbus as it comes to a standstill outside the
windows and I turn my face away from the glare that is so bright at this angle,
I can almost feel the heat through the UV-protected panes.

In less than an hour I will be saying farewell to the hot,
dusty Johannesburg that I love. In just over nine more, I will be stepping into
the damp greenery of my new home; the tiny village of Aylburton, nestled in the
heart of the Forest of Dean, halfway across the world, where the only familiar
face amongst the seven hundred odd residents will be the grandmother, whom I haven’t
seen in ten years.

I sigh dejectedly and place one hand against the cotton
tank covering my flat stomach. Even now, I can picture the grayish, tattoo-like
marking and I curse it for the monumental life change being forced onto me.

‘Mom, I still don’t understand why I need to go live
with Nan,’ I say for the hundredth time, turning from the window toward where
she sits on one of the metal benches dotting the airport.

‘I wish I could explain more.’ She stands and reaches
for my hand but I deliberately step back. The anger I feel toward her has only
grown over the past few days and I want her to know – I want her to feel what
she’s done to me. Hurt fills her expression for an unguarded moment but the
satisfaction I thought I’d feel is curiously absent.

‘Here you go, Mrs. G.’ Jenne’s timing is perfect as she
hands my mother a styro-foam cup.

‘Thanks.’ Mom makes a half-hearted attempt at a smile,
takes the steaming cup of coffee and sits back down on the bench. Jenne links
her arm through mine and leads me back toward the window.

‘Give her a break, will you?’ she says, but when I raise
my brows at her she shakes her head.

‘What am I going to do with you?’ she complains, and adds:
‘What am I going to do
without
you?’
I can see the telltale shimmer of tears in her eyes but she offers me a
tremulous smile. ‘Who’s going to eat chocolate coconut slices with me?’

I bite the inside of my lip and try to blink back the
wetness in my own eyes. Making friends has never been my strong suit, so the
friendships I have established are deep and lasting and of them, Jenne is by
far, my most precious friend. We’ve been together from grade one and there is
no secret we don’t share. I cannot imagine spending even one day without seeing
or talking to her.

‘I’ll call you, my friend,’ I promise. ‘Everyday.’

I give her a one-armed hug, and hold out my pot of
African violets to her.

‘They won’t let it on the plane,’ I explain. ‘Will you
take care of it please?’

I think for sure Jenne is about to burst into tears. She
is the only person in the world who understands what that plant means to me and
I know she will cherish it just as much as I will treasure the tiny golden
pot-plant charm she has given me for my birthday, which is sandwiched between
the ‘friends forever’ and ‘J’ charms on my bracelet.

My cell-phone begins to vibrate in the back pocket of my
jeans, providing a much needed distraction from the emotional tension. I know
who it is even before I glance at the caller identity and I reject without answering.

Luke has been calling non-stop for the past three days
but I’ve rejected every call. He’s left dozens of messages on my voicemail: ‘Shaylee,
please call me. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what came over me. Please
forgive me.’
 

‘You can’t avoid him forever,’ Jenne sniffs.

‘Well, technically I can.’ I sigh and slide the phone
back into my pocket. ‘I’m just not ready yet, Jen.’

My best friend nods in understanding. We’ve discussed
the incident with Luke at length already. Jenne thinks there is more to it than
meets the eye - that Luke’s reaction is somehow linked to the appearance of the
butterfly mark, but the horror of what almost happened is still too fresh in my
mind for me to try and analyze it.

‘Flight 201 to Heathrow, now boarding through gate two’.
The announcement blares over the intercom.

Jenne throws her arms around me and I hug her back
tight, like we’ll never see one another again. When she steps back, my mother
moves forward, puts her arms around me and kisses my forehead.
 
I keep my arms folded across my chest in silent
defiance.

I sling my back-pack across one shoulder and make my way
toward the boarding gates. At the passenger’s only point, I turn and see Jenne,
standing with her arm around my mother’s shoulders. I give a little wave of my
fingers and slip through the gate.

 
As I join the end
of the queue at gate two, I am painfully aware that each step draws me further
away from the comfort and familiarity of my life, toward the unknown. My throat
still burns with the threat of tears but I refuse to cry.

The flight attendant checks my boarding pass and waves
me through. On board, I go through the motions, stow my luggage and squeeze
past another passenger into my economy class window seat. With the voice of the
air hostess droning in the background about safety exits, I turn to stare at
the tarmac below, feeling lonelier than ever.

The airbus moves toward the runway, and with a sudden
burst of speed that forces me back into my chair, the wheels leave the black
tar and we are circling above the city that is my home.

Far below, I can see rooftops and swimming pools and I
feel my eyes grow moist again. There are so many things I will miss about this
city: the softness of the solar-heated water of our swimming pool; the woodsy
smell of burning charcoal on my dad’s braai; the spicy taste of biltong and
marmite and Mrs. Balls Chutney. Most of all, I will miss the rich culture and
diversity of this country that I have called home, that I will
always
call home.

The houses far below diminish in size until they disappear
completely from view as we soar through the puffy Highveld clouds. When I
cannot see the farms below, I turn away from the window and flick through my phone’s
music collection until I find something bluesy to match my current mood. I
recline my seat and close my eyes, trying to remember what I can about the
place I am returning to.

I still have a few vague memories of Aylburton; they are
good ones: me, curled in Nan’s lap before the flickering fire to listen to one
of her fairytales; the smell of the damp forest; the roughness of the bark of
my favorite oak tree; the lush forest floor beneath my bare feet…
 

This last memory is vivid. I can almost feel the texture
of the bluebell carpet against the soles of my feet. Not even the velvet petals
of my African violets could match it.
 
 

Aylburton and more particularly, the Forest of Dean is
probably one of the most beautiful places on earth and it is filled with happy
memories for me, but I cannot bring myself to feel anything positive about
going back. There are too many unanswered questions and I cannot escape the
growing feeling of dread that has taken root in the pit of my stomach.

My fingers go, of their own accord to the back pocket of
my jeans, where
Five
is nestled. The
pages give me comfort somehow as I pull it out and turn to the next blank page.
My pencil hovers above the page for a split second as I consider the many
emotions that are spinning around inside me; anger, fear, resentment. I have
written too much about all these words the past few days, but today, there is a
new emotion roiling around with the others, giving the mix a sweet-and-sour flavor.
I touch the nib against the paper and write: ‘Alone.’

Chapter
7

Frustration

Tastes like: Sour worms.

Smells like: Burnt banana
bread.
 
 

Sounds like: A two year old
trying to get a favourite toy that is just out of reach.

Feels like: A hairbrush
tangling in matted hair.

Looks like: The last train
of the day chugging out of the station just as you reach the platform.

It comes into view, towering before us
like something from a fairytale. The huge double storey in which I had spent
the first seven years of my life with Nan and my parents is exactly as I
remember it.

 
Surrounded by green forest and rolling
countryside, white walls covered with honeysuckle and ivy, the eight bedroom house
is enormous and ancient. Two tall, round structures at either end, inset with
bay windows, give the house the appearance of a castle and remind me of the
hours I’d spent as a child, in the attic windows, as Rapunzel, waiting for my
white knight.

Jake, Nan’s crinkle-eyed neighbor who
collected me from the airport and tried to entertain me with stories about the
mischief my mother had gotten into as a child, comes around to open the
passenger door, letting in a rush of fresh forest air and memories long
forgotten.

The wind-chimes on the porch tinkle in
the light breeze, like the sound of children’s laughter. They are the ones I
gave to Nan for Christmas when I was five. ‘Little fairies dancing in the
breeze’, I’d exclaimed, before she’d even had a chance to pull the wrapping
off. I had been so proud because mom had let me choose the gift myself from the
little gift shop in Lydney and the fairies had seemed so fitting for my beloved
tale-telling Nan.

The ornate front door creaks open as I
step out of the car and Nan’s graceful figure frames the doorway. I’m expecting
our reunion to be awkward, but the pleasure in her expression turns the clock
back until I am five again. I run up the gravel pathway and fling my arms around
her as if I’d never left. She hugs me back, with far more strength than her
fragile frame suggests.

‘Bluebell!’ Nan greets me with the old
childhood endearment. No one has called me that in years, and I’ve missed it. I’d
earned the nickname because I’d often gotten into trouble for the hours I’d
spent alone in the forest, playing amongst the bluebells. After each foray, I’d
return with a sprig of my favourite flowers for Nan, who would put them in a
vase on the kitchen counter and exclaim that they were the prettiest flowers
she’d ever seen.
 

She puts her hands on my shoulders and
steps back to study me at arm’s length. Her eyes take in my creased jeans and
tee, the wisps of black hair that have escaped my ponytail and my green eyes,
which reflect the shade of her own. She sighs.

‘You look just like your mother.’
 

I hate the comparison, but I say
nothing and just smile back at her. She looks like she hasn’t aged a day since
the last time I saw her. Only the chignon, swept back at the nape of her neck
hints at the passing of time and instead of making her look older, the silver
threads give a kind of ethereal beauty to her finely chiseled features. She
even smells the same: a sweet combination of lavender and roses that reminds me
of fires and fairytales.

Nan squeezes my hand.

‘I’ve prepared your old room for you. Freshen
up, and then we can have tea.’

I nod, thank Jake, give Nan a quick
kiss on the cheek and wheel my two heavy suitcases inside. The porcelain tiled
entrance, filled only with a carved mahogany entrance table and umbrella stand,
leads into a hallway which splits the house dead-centre. At the front of the mansion,
leading off both sides of the entrance hall, are two living rooms, both
formally decorated in Victorian style with a touch of Dutch Delft influence.
Huge glass windows overlook the front porch and sloping, landscaped gardens.

Down the hallway, in the right wing, are
Nan’s apartments and to the left, a vacant visitors suite – at least I
think
it’s still vacant - judging by
what I can see, nothing has changed since I left. I know if I walk all the way
down the hallway, I will reach the kitchen, with its cottage-pane windows
overlooking the forest behind and an attached formal dining room, complete with
long hardwood dining table.
 

On the left of the entrance hall is
the wooden staircase that leads up to the floor my parents and I had occupied.
I grab hold of both my suitcases and wheel them behind me, one stair at a time
to the landing at the top. There, I step across the passageway into the first
room.

What had once been my nursery,
overlooking the front of the house and lush forest stretching toward the Severn
River, is now a cosy bedroom with an uncanny resemblance to my bedroom at home.

In the middle of the room is a queen
size, mahogany bed, flanked on either side by a bedside table. At the opposite end
of the room is a matching wardrobe and desk. There is a door off to one side of
the bed, through which I can see a pristine white bathroom and in the parallel
corner, a leather wing-back chair.

The furnishings are elegant, but it is
the thoughtful touches of home that makes me draw in an appreciative breath. Beside
the window, is a large tree-like potted plant I cannot name and on each of the
bedside tables, two small pots of colorful chrysanthemums.

A gentle breeze stirs the chiffon
curtains at the bay window. I glide across the room, sink onto the quaint
window seat and run my fingers along the suede white upholstery, while I let my
eyes take in the exquisite view.

Stretching toward the horizon in every
direction is the forest and rolling countryside, magnificent in the glory of
springtime, dense in some areas, and in others just empty meadows and farmland.
A line of dark green bushes separates Nan’s property from her only neighbors
and just in front of the porch, a fountain flows into a large pond which
trickles in three levels toward the street.

Outside the window, close enough to touch
is a large oak tree that throws its afternoon shadow halfway across the room.
The tree makes me think of another one, somewhere deep within the surrounding
forest, whose bark I used to run my fingers over and whose branches I used to
fall asleep beneath.

The contrast to my city home is
striking in many ways but none more so than the incredible silence. In Joburg,
even on the quietest days, there is always the drone of traffic in the distance
or the bark of a neighborhood dog to break the stillness. I close my eyes and
try to listen but there is only the sound of my own breathing, the gentle
cadence of the fountain below and the rise and fall of Nan and Jake’s voices.

I glance down to the driveway where
they stand talking and pause, thoughtfully. Jake and Nan are not touching, but
there is something intimate in their bodies, angled toward each other and the
slight shortage of distance between them. There is a comfort between them that
could only be borne from years of deep friendship – or something more…
 

The thought of my grandmother in a
relationship is difficult for me to reconcile. She is too independent to need a
man, although I know that at one time, she was married. I never knew my
grandfather, since he died when my mother was very young, but I remember how
Nan always kept his tobacco pipe on her bedside table. It’s seems like something
you’d only do if you missed someone very much and my mother had always warned
me that when a Greene woman fell in love, it was always hard.
 
 
 
 
  
 

With a sigh, I reign in my runaway
thoughts and turn back to glance around the room. My gaze falls on the two
suitcases standing by the door. I consider unpacking them but decide they can
wait. I rummage in my back-pack for the spare set of clothes I always travel
with, just in case my luggage goes astray, and head for the bathroom.

When I enter the kitchen, Nan is
sitting at the granite kitchen counter, staring out the back window that
overlooks her stone-walled herb garden. She turns at the sound of my footsteps
on the tiled floor, smiles and gestures to a stool on the opposite side of the
counter. In between us, on the counter-top, stands a clear glass vase with a
handful of bluebells. Beside the vase are two plates with two iced chocolate
cupcakes, one of which sports a single, lit candle. Nan has gone to such
thoughtful lengths to welcome me that I am filled with guilt and cannot stop
the tears from pooling in my eyes.

‘I missed your birthday,’ she says as
she pushes a porcelain cup and saucer toward me.

‘I hope you still drink mint tea?’ she
asks. ‘It was always your favorite.’

I don’t have the heart to tell her
that the only tea I’ve had for the past ten years is Rooibos, so I nod and pull
the cup in front of me. The steam rising from my mug smells fresh and fragrant.
I take a tentative sip and decide it’s a decent enough substitute to replace my
staple Rooibos, at least until I’m able to find one of those South African
shops Jenne told me about.

‘Make your wish,’ Nan prompts.

I glance up at her expectant face, then
at the candle-lit cupcake. I close my eyes, think of home, lean forward, and
blow out the candle. When I open my eyes, Nan is holding out a small box to me
and I’m flooded with guilt again.

‘Happy birthday, Bluebell,’ she says.

‘But I already got your cheque, Nan -’

‘I know, but this is a special
birthday.’

The words remind me of the day before
my birthday, when I was sitting in the car with my mother. I push the memory
aside as I take the box from Nan and lift the lid. Inside, is a silver locket.
It looks like a family heirloom that has been passed down reverently through
many generations.

‘It was your mother’s,’ Nan says, ‘and
mine before that, and my mother’s before that.’

I lift the piece carefully from the
box and hold it up to the light. The locket is oval-shaped, but instead of the
photo I expect to see inside it, between the fine, cage-like twirls, I can see
something that looks like dried herbs. I bring the silver to my nose, take a
sniff and give Nan a quizzical look.

‘It’s sage,’ she explains, ‘for
protection.’

When I raise my eyebrows further, she
sighs, takes the locket from me and lowers it gently back into its box. She
reaches across the grey counter top to place her cool hand over mine.

‘I know you have a lot of questions
Bluebell,’ she says, ‘but first, I must see it.’

I know immediately what she is
referring to, so I stand, lift the soft hem of my sweater and shirt and reveal
the grey butterfly marking on my belly.

‘
Tofa
,’
Nan breathes, ‘I never thought I would live to see the prophecy fulfilled.’

She stands and comes round the
counter, to peer closely at the marking. Her expression is intense as she
studies it, her fingers move in the air before me, tracing the curves of the
marking without touching me, then she frowns.

‘Interesting…’ she mumbles.

‘What is it, Nan?’ I ask, but she
appears to be so deep in thought, I don’t think she hears me.

‘A five-fold,’ she says, more to
herself that to me. Her frown deepens and she turns her emerald gaze up to
mine. Something in her expression makes me draw in a quick breath.

‘What does it mean?’

Nan opens her mouth, stops and
considers me for a moment before she continues:

‘The five-fold is an ancient Celtic
symbol,’ she explains. ‘It represents the four elements, the four directions
and the four seasons, joined and balanced by the
fifth element
.’

She says ‘fifth element’ with more
than a little touch of awe. I wait, expecting her to go on, since this really
doesn’t make any sense to me, but she doesn’t. She’s holding back and I’m starting
to get impatient. Mom and Dad said she would give me answers and now I want to
hear them.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but how does it relate
to
me
, Nan? How did it get onto my
skin? What does it mean and what is this prophecy you’re talking about?’

Nan sighs and gives me an apologetic
smile.

‘Bluebell, I know you’ve been waiting
for answers and I promise, you will get them…but not right now.’

‘What?’ I say, a little rudely because
now I’m really getting frustrated with all these secrets. ‘But mom and dad said
you would explain to me.’

‘And I will,’ she promises. ‘You
will
get your answers tonight.’

‘But -’

My complaint is cut short by the
shrill ring of the telephone that is mounted on the wall beside the window. I
want to rip it off its mounting and dunk it in the sink. Why is everyone
refusing to tell me what is going on? And who the hell has such bad timing to
call now?

‘Excuse me,’ Nan says as she steps
away and lifts the receiver.