The side path leading back to the cottage passed by the woolshed, a sprawling collection of buildings with rusty iron roofs and rotting walls. I could see Sullivan there, standing by his mini-tractor. I had promised him I would be no bother so I kept my distance. Besides, he was talking to the hammer-wielding maniac and I wasn’t going to get involved. But I did wave to them and Sullivan touched his hat in response. He was carrying a gun and holding a bunch of rabbits. That’s obviously what the dogs had been doing all afternoon. Bluebeard turned to stare at me but gave no sign of recognition. The dogs spotted me, though, and both came bounding over to tell me about their afternoon. They walked with me a little way along the road, before Badger turned and went back to check on the rabbits. Sullivan didn’t seem to mind that Bramble stuck by my side.
I didn’t realise how exhausted I was till I climbed onto the deck. I had a studio. One side and half the front were enclosed with the wavy panels, allowing the evening sun to flood the area. It was warm and sheltered and full of light. He had even swept the floor and stacked my equipment neatly against the wall. Perhaps the bearded wonder wasn’t so dim after all. I should thank Sullivan, but that would have to wait till morning. I wasn’t going to risk a run-in with the poor, dead bunnies. He might even offer me one.
A hot shower while pasta boiled—I was ravenous. I was aware of Bramble snuffling around the kitchen and occasionally putting her nose around the bathroom door. When I padded through to the bedroom she kept her distance, wandering out to the deck. She was still there when I joined her with my plate piled high.
‘No bunnies I’m afraid, girl. You’re welcome to a carrot.’ An
indignant sniff as she flopped down, leaning her head against my side. She smelt warm and dusty. I realised that this was the closest I had been to anyone all day. It came to me that this was the first time, for as long as I could remember, that I had spent a whole day on my own, completely immersed and happy in my own company, with no other human contact. This was the solitude I craved, just myself and the trees. Oh yes, there was the axe murderer, but I wasn’t sure you could class him as human.
‘And my dog, of course. Mustn’t forget my dog.’ She looked up at me with her chocolate eyes and nuzzled my arm and I knew I was falling in love.
Trees. Again the trees. This time I feel cold. Drops of dew cling to my arms and my bare feet are frozen. There are night sounds, the clicks and chirps of insects, leaves and twigs cracking beneath my feet. The wind is colder now and the broad fronds of ferns quiver around me. I must part them, like curtains, to force my way through. The path is not visible and yet I know that I am following a trail.
My progress is being observed, I feel the hairs at the nape of my neck rise and know someone is watching. It is like being in a crowded room when a stranger has you in their sights. Your fingers search out the place where their eyes touch your skin.
There is a sound, a very faint sound that should not be there. Music? A fiddle playing a long way off, the notes strewn on the night air. Could that be possible?
Upward, I must go towards…? The ground pulls steeper and steeper. Now there are rocks to scramble over. I hold onto branches to pull myself along. Is there some urgency? I feel it and the night will soon be gone. I have to reach…to reach…? There it is again, the fiddle music, something slow and sad. But it’s all wrong. And there is someone through the trees. I can see a face in the shadows, it looks familiar somehow. I move towards her and she comes closer to me, so close that we could
touch. I reach out my hand as she does. We both reach out to each other and I touch…
For a moment I couldn’t understand where I was. But my hands moved to the edge of the mirror, fingers tracing the carved branches and leaves. It was me. The woman was me. I was at the dressing table, seeing my own reflection glowing dimly in the pre-dawn light. What was going on? I must have sleepwalked. My arms and legs were bare. No wonder I felt cold. And yet I could hear…Was that music? Or just the wind in the trees. No, there couldn’t be music. Not here. Just the ragged remnant of a dream.
I
T
starts with the sharpening of the tools. It’s a meditation that hones the mind ready for the task and prepares the body as a channel for communication with the wood, rather like a musician tuning up his instrument. That’s how it always begins for me and that morning was no different.
I sat on the deck steps with my tool bag, unwrapping the leather rolls of gouges, chisels and knives, laying them in a straight row and greeting each one as an old and revered friend. The stones next, each lightly filmed with oil and stored in its own box since last use. I had performed this ritual so many times that my body knew the sequence of each movement, the exact pressure required to produce the perfect edge. Eyes and hands followed their tasks and conferred their own judgements, leaving the conscious and the subconscious minds to communicate without distraction.
My thoughts were still with the dream, the forest and the trees. And whatever it was that was watching me. I took each image in turn and focused on it until the edges were clean and sharp. Whatever was going on in my head, however shaken and distressed it had left me, the sensations it produced were also tools to be worked with. It was all a part of the process.
There was no chance of returning to sleep but a hot coffee and some warm clothes had made me feel more human. Even though I was still shaking inside I knew the best way to get my head together was to work. It was still early, no sun as yet, and the dampness of dewfall hung on the air. In the pre-dawn light the birds were creating that uproar poetically eulogised as the dawn chorus. Actually it is a territorial shout-off that puts me in mind of the racket set up by a rugby crowd the morning after a home win.
I claimed my working space by bolting the workbench together and adjusting the height. It’s not really a bench, more like a square platform with a cradle in which I fix the wood to be worked upon. The pictures drawn the day before were taped to the wall, reference information about what I had seen and, more importantly, what I had felt.
Using the kitchen furniture as a prop, I levered the first piece of kauri onto the bench and looked at it from all sides. Moving around the block, I drew it from several angles. This is my usual approach since it gives me insight into the wood’s true form. I always study the wood carefully, particularly the lie of the grain. If you ignore the grain, not only does it split, but also you find yourself at odds with what it’s telling you. If it’s not a straight grain then a circular movement is produced with spheres and hollow bowls. If the slab of wood has a flaw then the design generates around that, again working with the grain. The wood is the teacher. It carves itself if you’re willing to follow its lead.
After making fresh coffee, warming my hands around the mug, I studied what I’d drawn. Now I was contemplating the wood in the light of the images that arose in my mind when walking through the bush and the pine plantation. Again I reached for paper and pastels. This time I drew blindly, trying to project onto the page what I had experienced while among the trees, both in waking life and in the dream world. Sunlight inched across the deck as I taped the new sketches to the wall.
The morning was well under way and the wildlife had settled into its routine. Bellbirds and tui conversed in a more civilised manner and cicadas revved their engines, promising another hot day. The sun rose higher as the wall started to fill with squares of paper. Eventually I stood back and observed what had been achieved. It was important not to force anything. I would have to leave it for a while to work on itself, like wine fermenting in a darkened cask. Very soon a concept of the form would emerge.
The aim was to produce six new pieces ready for the Paris exhibition. There would be time and, amid this richness of inspiration, I was convinced of my direction. The energy was flowing. I knew I had tuned into something powerful and would try to do it justice.
The sun had climbed high and I was suddenly hungry.
I was having breakfast on the deck when I heard the sound of an engine. It had to be Jason’s motorbike. I jumped to my feet, tipping the bowl of cereal down my leg. Then, through the trees, I could see the bright red of Sullivan’s mini-tractor, the dogs riding shotgun in the back. They found me first, bounding all over the deck. Sullivan followed at a slower pace, carrying something.
‘Thought I’d better come over and make sure everything’s OK. Brought you some eggs. Do you eat eggs? Jason was telling me you’re on some sort of diet.’
‘No, not a diet, just vegetarian.’ I came down the steps to meet him, wiping wet bran flakes from my knees. Badger thought it was some kind of game and tried to join in. ‘Yes, I do eat eggs. That’s kind of you. I bet they’re freshly laid.’
‘Keep my own chooks.’ He pulled his hat off. The old-fashioned courtesies. He still had that grey look about him, even in the sunlight. And a kind of vagueness.
‘Look, I really need to thank you. About the deck I mean. This is absolutely perfect. It was good of you to go to so much trouble.’
‘No trouble for me. I told Connors to rig something up and that’s what he came up with.’
‘Connors? That’s the workman? The hairy one?’
Sullivan almost smiled. ‘That’s him. Good worker. Don’t suppose he’ll stay long. They never do.’ He stepped up onto the deck and inspected the new walls. ‘Made a good job of this. It makes a nice sundeck. Maybe Jason will keep it. He’s put a lot into restoring the place.’
‘Jason restored it?’
‘Yes, well it’s his cottage.’
My stomach did a flip. ‘I must have misunderstood. I thought it was yours. Thought you’d done it up so you could run it as a backpackers’ stopover.’
‘Backpackers? What here? No, no,’ Sullivan shook his head. ‘What would I want with tourists running all over the place? No, this is Jason’s. He used to spend time here when he was a kid. He won’t stay at the house any more, not that I blame him. Said he wanted this place for a retreat. Did some of the work himself or paid the workmen to do it.’
‘Oh, I see.’ But I didn’t see. ‘Does he ever stay here?’
‘Sometimes. Never know when to expect him. Just turns up out of the blue. He’s always gone his own way, never easy to deal with.’
If Jason had said this was his place I would never have come. He knew that. So where did that leave me now? It was hard to know what Sullivan wanted. His voice told me nothing. His face was a mask, eyes always focused on some distant landscape.
‘Perhaps it would be better if I left.’
‘No, no. Don’t do that. You’re not the problem. It’s the lad. Always been secretive. It’s not having a mother around, I expect. Lonely sort of childhood for a boy.’
I wanted to ask about the graves. I wanted to ask about Jason’s mother and how she had died and where they had buried her. But I also wanted to stay here and for once I knew when to keep my mouth shut.
‘The dogs seem to like being here,’ I said. ‘Bramble’s spending a lot of time with me. I hope that’s all right?’
‘Up to them. They have the run of the place. Yes, I can see she likes you. She’d be good company. It’s a bit isolated here for a woman on her own. Good to have a dog around the place.’
‘She doesn’t seem to like the bedroom much. Won’t go in there. I can’t see anything wrong with it.’
‘Dogs get notions in their heads. Any little thing can spook them.’
‘Well, there’s nothing unusual about it. At least, the dressing table is unusual. Quite beautiful. In fact I was hoping to ask you about it.’
‘Dressing table? I wouldn’t know. Don’t know what the lad put in there. I know he got some new stuff.’
‘No, this is old. Very old. A round mirror set in what looks like carved oak. A sort of wreath of branches and leaves and…’
As I spoke Sullivan’s face remained motionless. But he seemed to grow paler and, for a moment, something flashed across his eyes that was more than concern.
‘Would you mind if I took a look?’
‘No, come on through.’
He stood in the middle of the room, twisting the brim of his hat through his hands. It was a long time before he spoke. ‘Yes, it’s hers. It’s his mother’s mirror. He’s brought it down from her room. I didn’t know he had it here.’
‘Perhaps it should go back, then. It’s beautiful piece. Must be very valuable.’
‘No, no you keep it here. It’s never used. I sleep in my study downstairs. Have done ever since…She’d made the room just how she wanted it and when she…Well, it didn’t feel right to
change things. It’s still as she left it. I don’t know how he got in there. I always keep it locked.’
‘Why is that?’
‘It was Jason. When he was a kid, he kept wanting to go in there. Oh, I know he missed his mother and it was natural that he should want to be among her things. But it was more than that. He would just sit there for hours on end. Sometimes in the dark. Children are supposed to be afraid of the dark, aren’t they? Didn’t seem to bother him. It wasn’t right for a child. The doctor said I should try to keep him out but he wouldn’t have it. In the end I had to lock it up. Haven’t been in there myself for years. That mirror, she used to sit in front of it, staring at herself. I’d make a joke of it, tease her about being too pretty for her own good. She’d say she was listening to the trees. I wonder how Jason managed to get it over here? No, we’ll leave it here for now. As you say, it’s a beautiful piece. It deserves to be seen. You would understand that.’
I walked with him back to his vehicle. About to drive off, he turned to me and said, ‘You’re very welcome here. Just be careful. If you need anything come up to the house. Or there’s Connors. He’s staying in the woolshed, over there—you can see it through the trees. He’s a good man. The dogs like him, they can usually tell.’
‘Thanks, Sullivan. But I’m sure I won’t need him.’ Too right. ‘I’ll be fine. By the way, I do need some milk and stuff. Where can I shop?’
‘Along the main road, about two kilometres further on. Only a few houses, but there’s a dairy and a good bar. Ask for Maggie.’
Then he left with Badger. Bramble stayed by my side. The man seemed so nebulous. It was as if he’d hardly been there at all. A grey man, with a grey soul. Perhaps he lived in the past. Maybe that was why there was so little of him here in the present.
I worked on the sketches until nearly noon, refining some and creating more with greater detail, until the wall was nearly covered. It had grown really hot and I was ready for a break.
Bramble tried to get into the Land Rover with me but I thought I had better not take her off the station without permission.
‘Guard the homestead girl, I’ll bring you something nice.’ Then I keyed the engine and drove onto the lake track.
Driving over the pine-covered hill and down onto the highway I felt like a deep-sea diver resurfacing from the ocean bed. It made me realise how isolated the Sullivan place was, how removed from the real world. I noted the turn-off in case I couldn’t find my way back, and then drove onward. The same road wound on as it had two days ago, as if I had never stopped. I drove through the same crumpled hills past sheep that had not moved. The sun pounded relentlessly on the car. Tar on the road had started to melt into jet-black slicks and a heat haze warped the surface into impossible waves. After a while some isolated houses appeared, their white painted weatherboards cracking in the noon heat.
Suddenly my foot slammed on the brake and I threw the gears into reverse, weaving the truck backwards till I could see over the hedge. White stones, marble, crosses—a graveyard.
I walked between the plots, along narrow strips of mown grass, neatly edged and weed-free. The church was a way off, over another hedge and through a garden, but close enough to belong to this land. Many of the graves bore vases of freshly cut flowers. There was even a mound of bare earth, piled with wilting wreaths. All was cared for and loved, laid to rest by a small community who still tended their dearly departed.
The names were all strangers to me, of course, but the dates were not all recent. Some of the stones looked old, very old, especially over the far side, under the trees. I navigated the square set paths to head in that direction. Here the graves bore signs of age and wear, no fresh flowers, but everything was neat
and orderly. Of course the older stones were weather-marked and hard to read. But I saw 1945, and a little further on 1936. What had Jason said? The graveyard was too far away to take the Sullivan dead? This was barely two kilometres from the house, no distance, even by horse and cart. There was another marked 1925, another, 1931.
Then I found a name I knew:
David Sullivan
1865–1940
son of Michael and Anne Sullivan,
father of Thomas
Anne Sullivan. I had knelt by her gravestone yesterday, had washed her name clean and traced the letters with my fingers. Jason’s great-great-grandmother. This was her son, who died seventy-four years later. She had died in 1866 when David Sullivan was just a year old.
It was darker in this corner of the cemetery and most of the gravestones were smaller and less ornate, some a simple wooden cross telling of hard times and poverty. But a tall monument dominated the farthest corner. No carved figures or ornamentation; just a plain, marble block, some two metres high, and on it:
Michael Sullivan
1832–1913
The dairy turned out to be the only shop in the area and large enough to be a small supermarket. It was crammed with all manner of stuff: food, tins of paint, towropes, batteries. I was still trying to juggle with the maths, who was born when and how long they managed to survive, as I took a wire trolley and filled
it with milk, asparagus and melons, more wine (I was getting through quite a lot), fresh strawberries and some herb bread. In the pet section I picked up a packet of dog biscuits, then found an earthenware water bowl. You don’t need a dog, I tried telling myself, and she’s not your dog anyway. Even so, the bowl and the biscuits found their way to the checkout. On impulse I picked up a torch. There wasn’t one at the cottage, I rationalised, and out there in the bush it was an essential item in case of emergencies; one good, practical purchase to offset the others. What was really on my mind was that music the night before. I know I was confused but I was sure it came from outside.