The Sea Bed Read online

  Marele Day is the award-winning author of internationally acclaimed Lambs of God as well as Mrs Cook: The Real and Imagined Life of the Captain’s Wife. She has travelled extensively, lived in Italy, France and Ireland, and survived near-shipwreck in the Java Sea. Earlier works include the Claudia Valentine mystery series—The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender, The Case of the Chinese Boxes, The Last Tango of Dolores Delgado and The Disappearances of Madalena Grimaldi. She is the editor of How to Write Crime and co-editor of Making Waves: 10 years of the Byron Bay Writers Festival. Marele lives in northern New South Wales.

  Also by Marele Day

  Lambs of God

  Mrs Cook: The Real and Imagined Life of the Captain’s Wife

  Claudia Valentine mystery series

  The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender

  The Case of the Chinese Boxes

  The Last Tango of Dolores Delgado

  The Disappearances of Madalena Grimaldi

  Short stories

  Mavis Levack, P.I.

  the

  Sea Bed

  the

  Sea Bed

  MARELE DAY

  First published in 2009

  Copyright © Marele Day 2009

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74175 841 2

  Set in 11.5/15 pt Bembo Std by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The Sound of Waves by Yukio Mishima

  (Vintage, 1994), Random House Inc.

  The night air lifts softly, then settles on their skin. They are sitting on the small island of rock at the end of the beach, arms close together, her hand a warm shell on his. In front of them the sea glints darkly.

  Her attention shifts. She separates from him, moves forward. Silently she eases herself in, disappears.

  She resurfaces, in a long steady sigh of outgoing breath, her head dark and sleek.

  He is still hovering on the edge. It is her world, her element.

  ‘Are you waiting for an introduction?’ she teases. ‘The sea isn’t polite. Just come in.’

  He takes a breath, steps into the shock of liquid cold. The sea swarms all over him. It is alive. He can feel it sliding through his hair, his ears, pressing for entry into his nose and mouth. It leaves no part of him unexamined. Then, release. He closes his eyes, succumbs to the gentle rhythms. He has dreamed of this.

  ‘Did you see?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sea lanterns. Move your arms.’

  From beneath the surface come thousands of pinpoints of light, showers of firef lies.

  He is laughing, euphoric, invigorated. He is here with her, in the sea. They make patterns with their limbs, playing with streams of phosphorescence, bringing it into being. Every time their bodies move, light follows them. He wants it never to end.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Into the wild

  He stepped off the pebbled path and entered the density of trees, heading for the single dead tree that marked the peak of the mountain. He could see the beginnings of the track, a soft tunnel into greenness. From the mountain behind him, on the other side of the ravine, came the reverberation of gunshots. There were clusters of them, and after each the echoing ark, ark of crows.

  Here at the threshold were low-growing plants with leaves of different shapes—broad tripartite, fern-like, some perfectly round, others with serrated edges—all intermingling. His robe brushed them as he walked. A butterf ly the colour of morning sun paced him for a while. Sometimes the spirits of ancestors take the form of insects and land on you, seeking connection.

  Another shot. The monk stopped, listening for whether the hunters were coming closer or moving away. A mat of webbing on a section of hydrangea bush. Not the delicate weave of a spider’s web nor its symmetrical shape. Nevertheless it was home to something, a creature quietly metamorphosing.

  A crow f lew overhead, along the line of the path, the monk heard the sound of its wings beating the air. He came upon a f leshy-leafed plant that was broken, revealing the fibres of its stem. Perhaps the boar had crashed through here. A few steps on was another broken stem, this time a wild raspberry, its four-petalled white f lower drooping, still intact.

  Further into the woods, the green path became brown with dead leaves, some the shape that the monk had seen earlier. There were pine needles, dead branches. If a branch fell now he would feel its impact.

  Another gunshot.

  The monk walked parallel to a small gully that would be f lush with water when the rains came. Kidney-shaped leaves grew lushly on the dappled path. A solid trunk of pine lay beside it. The even mark of a chainsaw along the cut, the lip where it splintered under its own weight. There were more felled trunks along the path.

  The monk climbed higher. Near a red arrow pointing the way were deep green, almost blue, tufts of grass beside a pool of black water shimmering with a breeze the monk could barely theSeaBed feel. Here the dank earthy smell of the forest became richer, sweeter, like rotting fruit. Occasionally a creature too fast for his eye—a frog, an insect—dived into the water, and he saw only the aftermath, the concentric circles of ripples fracturing the ref lection of overhanging vines, branches, trunks. The pool resumed its placid surface and he heard a muff led sound like someone quietly shuff ling cards or f lipping through the pages of a book.

  The undergrowth became less dense as he entered the grove of bamboo. The tall straight segmented stems narrowed at the top giving an even greater illusion of depth. High above was the sunlit foliage that made the canopy. The monk felt as if he were in the presence of a giant pipe organ. The older creamy-coloured trunks had a deep hollow resonance, the younger steely green ones a duller sound. It was soft underfoot, the track matted with dead bamboo leaves the colour of straw. He would be quite comfortable spending the entire day here, lying on this soft mattress, looking up through the shifting branches to the play of leaves and sky.

  There were holes and mounds of earth where bamboo shoots had been dug up. On the key ring of a hunter the monk had seen the tusk that did this work, the curve
d scimitar of it, the sharp point, the f lattened top edge, all perfectly suited to the tusk’s purpose.

  When he stopped again, to be in the conf luence of the moment, he heard a tap-tapping. Perhaps a wood-pecking bird. As he moved ever so slightly in the direction it was coming from, the sound stopped.

  The path took a sharp turn, leading the monk back into familiar terrain. He recognised the pool of black water but now he was above it. Out of the bamboo grove his footsteps were louder, crunching crisper leaves and forest debris. He stood still to listen to a tiny sound, barely in his range of hearing. It resembled distant wind chimes, but could have been the close-up whirring of insect wings.

  The more he climbed, the sparser became the canopy. Through the spray of sun-dappled leaves he could see the grey-blue of distant mountains. More clusters of gunshot. It seemed that there were several hunters, in several different places. Men walking in the forest, standing still and listening like the monk. Men stalking prey.

  The monk had never seen the boar in the woods, only signs of it. In the middle of the path he came across droppings, although that was not the right word. Droppings were from darting creatures, mice, who did not stay long in one place. This dark brown pile was like coiled rope. Though still moist and fresh it had no smell, or rather it smelled of the forest, of the forest things the boar ate then excreted.

  Another shot. How did the boar react? Did any noise cause it to be alert—the creak of bamboo, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the f lurry of crows—or had it learned to single out this one sound? Did the wild creature know the significance of the cleared path?

  The monk would like to meet the boar face to face, to wait in the forest day and night if necessary, till it showed itself.

  He had to press on. He must have been quite close to the peak because there were increasingly clear views of the surrounding mountains. Beyond the treetops was a thin line of road like the parting in hair. Near it was a huddle of red roofs surrounded by dark green.

  The path took another turn, in the opposite direction, zigzagging up the mountain. The monk found the next red-banded tree marking the way. Outspread on a large green leaf was a black and white butterf ly, its wings pulsing, gently fanning the air. Steeper and steeper the path rose. He had to climb over rocks, wary of the slipperiness of leaves, conscious of what he was carrying in his backpack.

  He arrived at a small stone shrine just off the path in a patch of wild azalea. It was no bigger than a letterbox, and housed a Buddha. There were a few coins placed as offerings in front of the statue, coins dark with rain and age. The monk bowed, laid before it his wishes for a safe journey. The sound of an unseen plane overhead, followed by the chattering of birds.

  The monk continued on, climbing the last rocky outcrop, the peak of the mountain. He was up here, higher than birds. He breathed in the invigorating aroma of pine, quenched his thirst with a single mandarin, felt the juice become part of him. Now he had an unimpeded view of the road. He watched a tiny red van crawling along, saw it disappear in the folds of the land. Beyond them lay his destination.

  The gunshots had stopped, or if not, they were too far away for the monk to hear. He opened his backpack and took out the parcel, held it lightly between his hands, letting the mountain air settle on it, a gesture of farewell.

  He stood up, breathed in the fragrance of pine once more and began his descent.

  2

  The train to the coast

  The bus dropped the monk off in front of the main city station in the full blast of evening peak hour. The city roads were wider than rivers. He stood at the edge of them in the press of pedestrians, watching the traffic lights, waiting for the green walking man, the staccato clatter that accompanied him. When the cars growled to a halt, people crossed in one fast rush, trying to get to the other side before the red man appeared.

  Even in the quiet side street where the backpacker hostel was, the monk could hear the stop and start of traffic, the hovering weight of the city booming in his ears.

  He slid open the door of the Blue House to be greeted by a crowd of shoes. They seemed to rush at him, like hungry carp in a pond, all of them at once, each vying for the best position. How different from the orderly row of sandals at the monastery. Some of these shoes weren’t even in pairs or facing the same direction. There was footwear from all over the world, all sizes, all types. Big sturdy hiking boots with hard toes and thick soles, some bearing muddy traces of the places they had been, others clean and polished. Flat thongs in red, green, blue and yellow. Nikes, Reeboks, Hina, Slam, La Spiga, Alligators, Blastmaster. Streaks of colour down the sides. Soles with cushions of air. Laces undone. No laces at all. Plaited leather decorated with blue beads.

  Where to put his own shoes? Sturdy monastery sandals belonged with hiking boots but the only shoes that had space around them were a pair of high heels with thin black straps.

  When he set his sandals down beside them they nudged one of the precariously balanced heels, knocking the shoe over.

  He was in the process of righting it when a couple approached the vestibule area. The young woman looked at him. Perhaps he was in the way. He stood up to let the couple through. The man slid his feet into a pair of thongs and the young woman scooped up the high heels. She went outside to put them on, frowning back at the monk. Now he understood. He’d been touching her shoes. He wanted to apologise, to explain, but as he made a gesture towards the door the couple walked away.

  The monk stood in the vestibule looking at his sandals. It was not a good beginning.

  He slept on a bed for the first time, a bunk bed. There were four, two up two down, with a ladder to climb into the top ones. Although no-one else was in the small white room when the monk entered, he could see signs of occupancy—three of the beds were a swirl of sheets and towels, a discarded red T-shirt on one. A pair of jeans hung limply from a ladder. On the f loor beside the bunk closest to the door were a dark green sock and a drink carton with a straw poking out of it.

  The monk climbed up to the bed that was vacant, a tight f lat rectangle of blue and black checks with a pillow at one end. He tried to sit for evening meditation but his head pressed against the ceiling. He lay down. The bed dipped in the middle. The monk had the impression of being in a hammock. He focused on the breath coming in and out of his nose, the soft moisture beneath it. Conversations and laughter seeped into the room. The monk was still awake at 4.30 am, the time the monastery day normally started. Shortly after, the door opened and three young men fell into the room, fumbling around, oblivious to the monk’s presence.

  He must have fallen asleep because the next thing that penetrated his consciousness was a volley of snores punching into the stark morning.

  The train to the coast. The monk made it with only seconds to spare. It set off slowly, as if waiting for him to catch his breath, before gathering speed. It was only when the train reached the city outskirts, where houses and fields coexisted harmoniously, that the monk’s composure returned.

  He had gone into the emporium to purchase an umbrella.

  He chose a plain black one then waited for the lift to take him back to the ground f loor. But instead of going down the lift took him up. The only other passenger was a young woman. The monk felt vaguely uncomfortable about being in this intimate space with her. On TV people sometimes had sex in lifts. It was always rushed and hungry as if there would never be another time and place for it. Afterwards, they came out adjusting their clothing, smoothing their hair.

  The monk tried to focus on the directory—ground f loor: jewellery and cosmetics; first f loor: ceramics; second f loor: clothing; third f loor: carpentry; fourth f loor: books and magazines; fifth f loor: prints and artworks.

  The small cube of the lift pressed them together. The monk kept looking straight ahead. Even though he and the young woman were standing far enough apart to fit another person between them the monk could feel the warmth radiating from her, imagined the blood coursing along the veins beneath the placid
surface of skin, all the great machinations of her body—the articulation of joints, the subtle tensing and relaxing of muscles as she shifted her weight from the balls of her feet to the heels. The monk smelled apples, and some other subtle aroma, deodorant perhaps, or moisturiser, then he felt a thickening sensation in his loins and the lazy surprise of his body being lifted through space with no exertion of its own.

  There was a small pleasant sound like a tuning fork. The lift stopped and the doors opened with a sigh of relief. He released his breath, unaware that he’d been holding it in. An apple-scented breeze brushed his cheek as the young woman moved past him.

  Fifth f loor: prints and artworks. The monk remained still, as he did in the forest, listening, absorbing, being in the place. On the walls were large landscapes, studies of nature—two cranes on a snowy pine, tiger lilies. There were folding screens decorated with bushy knolls and a sprinkling of leaves. Scrolls weighted with a stick of bamboo through the bottom of them. At the far end of the room the young woman was poring over a large rectangular book.

  The woman behind the counter welcomed the monk, and asked if she could be of assistance. The lift had brought him here; it would be rude to leave so suddenly. ‘Thank you,’ said the monk. ‘I am browsing.’

  He gazed at a print, Young Woman in a Sudden Shower. The streaks of rain were active, full of movement. The monk could almost feel the wind blowing the young woman’s gown. She was looking back over her shoulder; in her haste to bring in the washing, she had stepped out of her shoe.

  The monk heard the tuning fork sound and looked up to find his lift companion gone. He went over to her book, curious.

  At first the monk could see only patterns of red and white, then he realised what he was gazing at—a tangle of bodies and clothing, penises as long as thighs, frilly vaginas surrounded by tendrils of hair. He quickly turned the page but his mind had already photographed it. The next page was the same, and the next and the next.