Breathe Page 5

  She found herself at Duncan’s fence line, looking through the bush to the flat park area of the old signal station. From the lookout you had a view of the city and Tasman Bridge in one direction; then your gaze swept over the Eastern Shore and down the D’Entrecasteaux Channel past the Iron Pot to Storm Bay and the northern tip of Bruny Island. Stephen used to bring her up here to watch fireworks over the Derwent on New Year’s Eve. She felt the familiar but acute twist in her gut of missing Stephen. It came on her like this, the grief: sudden, usually fleeting, but always painful. Now it took her breath from her.

  Prospero was her biological father, and from the moment she had seen him she had recognized him somehow. A part of her that had been longing for a father was almost satisfied by Prospero. But the shape of that longing and the shape of Prospero didn’t always match; there were gaps where the longing slipped through. Undine knew this was because deep down she would always be Stephen’s daughter, too, that she would truly belong also to him.

  With her mind, she reached out, searching for Stephen. Sometimes it was like he was just out of reach, as if she could almost…if only…Since the magic, since the world had opened like a flower, revealing hidden, secret parts, Undine had begun to think more about Stephen; about death. What had seemed so final before, so constant, now felt…negotiable. Like there might be a way to undo what had been done.

  Was death more powerful than magic? Could she—she dared to think it—could she bring Stephen back? The stars winked enigmatically and refused to answer.

  The magic was so unstable. She dared not use it to light so much as a candle flame. How could she ever channel it to perform something so specific, so delicate; how could she ask it to light something so infinitely complex as a human being?

  Something crashed through the trees behind her.

  “There you are!” It was Duncan and Fran, their legs tied together as if they were in a three-legged race. Fran’s face shone.

  “Are you drunk?” Undine teased, laughing at their sudden appearance, relieved to be distracted from her thoughts.

  “Are we drunk?” Fran asked Duncan.

  Duncan considered the question. “You might be drunk. I am merely high on life.”

  “Come on, you pair of lushes.” Undine helped manhandle them to face the other direction, and they returned to the party together.

  Trout came off the dance floor thirsty. He looked around for water, but found only beer. He opened it and at first sipped tentatively, but his thirst raged and soon it was gone.

  “Great shirt,” a girl said.

  He squinted at her; it was hard to see in the dark. “Thanks.”

  “Aren’t you Trevor Montmorency?” She was wearing a tie-dyed dress that billowed around her. Her hair was knotted up with feathers and what looked like a dried chicken bone.

  “Trout,” he corrected her, though he was surprised that she recognized him. Perhaps she was a friend of one of his brothers.

  “That’s right, Trout,” the girl repeated with a slow smile, as if she were tasting his name. “Trout. Wanna have an adventure, Trout?”

  “No,” said Trout. “Thanks all the same.” Or at least that’s what he intended to say. But the green shirt spoke for him. “Yes.”

  Before he really knew what was happening, the girl had stuck out her finger. On it was a strangely small piece of paper.

  “Put it under your tongue,” she said.

  Inside the green shirt, Trout was, after all, still Trout. He hesitated.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s only a taste; it won’t hurt you. It’ll just make the colors look pretty and you’ll go like Cathy Freeman all night.”

  Trout touched the tip of her finger with his tongue, and tasted both the saltiness of human finger and the metallic chemicals on the paper.

  “Here,” the girl said, handing him another beer. “Wash it down with this.”

  Trout threw his head back and drank.

  Undine found Trout dancing. He was still beaming, but his dancing had taken on a frantic yet oddly introspective quality.

  “Undine!” he said when he saw her. He came over, breathless, and put his arm round her shoulder, sagging so she bore some of his weight. “What are you doing? Do you want a beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Trout was unselfconsciously rubbing her arm. Undine’s black jumper was thin and ineffective against the wintry air, and Trout’s body felt warm against hers. Undine found herself leaning into him. She shivered.

  “You cold?” he asked.

  She nodded. He tightened his arm around her. He wasn’t looking at her, but watching the dancers twisting and bowing under the trees.

  “Warming up?”

  Undine could feel his voice vibrating through his chest. She was confused. It felt a comfortable, safe place to be, and yet tonight Trout seemed like a stranger, more confident, not just in his manner but in his body, the way he embraced her when usually he jumped a mile if their hands brushed.

  “Trout, I—”

  He looked down and their eyes met. There was such intensity in his gaze that her breath caught in her throat. Fleetingly, she thought he was going to kiss her. Fleetingly, she thought she wanted him to.

  Then from the throng of dancers a girl disengaged. “Trout!” she said, standing on the edge of the floor beckoning. “Are you dancing?”

  “Dance?” Trout said, and he disappeared among them.

  Undine was left reeling: relieved, disappointed.

  The night whirled. The night spun. For Trout it occurred in flashes. Flash: he was dancing with the chicken-bone girl. Flash: Undine was with him, he was holding her, and she seemed like she wanted him to kiss her. Flash: Undine was gone and he was dancing, dancing. Flash: he was drinking another beer, he was laughing, he was kissing the chicken-bone girl. Flash: the chicken-bone girl had gone. Dan was there. He was saying, “Take it easy, little brother.” Flash: he thought he saw the white-haired girl from the other night and he followed her, like Alice following the white rabbit. But he couldn’t see her, and he couldn’t remember why he was looking for her in the first place.

  Flash. Trout was on his own, under the wire bird, and his heart pounded in his chest. Thoughts jumbled up in his mind; he could barely hold them together. The trees seemed to merge into each other, undulating from the roots up. What was real? He couldn’t tell anymore. He looked at his own hand. It appeared different in the moonlight; he could make out individual scales on his skin, pale and silvery. Like a fish. Was he an impostor? What if the actual Trout had died on the beach? What if he was the fish, the changeling? And any minute the magic could drain out of him and here he was, so far from the sea. Was he the fish? Was he dead? Was Trout dead?

  Will darkness or light be born?

  And Trout found himself gasping for air. His knees buckled.

  He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

  Baby, here comes the dark.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Undine warmed herself by the small campfire Duncan had built. She looked up, noticing a small crowd forming at the dance area. She realized the music, which had been pumping a constant reverberating beat through the trees, had stopped.

  Fran emerged from the crowd. “Undine,” she called. “It’s Trout.”

  Duncan was already at Trout’s side when Undine pushed her way through the crowd. He’d wrapped Trout in his jacket; the green shirt was hidden within the brown folds. Trout was limp and white and barely conscious; his head kept lolling away from the water bottle Duncan was offering him. His breathing was labored, he wheezed and coughed. Undine stared aghast.

  “It’s all right,” said Duncan. “I don’t think he’s in any danger. What’s he taken?” Duncan asked the chicken-bone girl, who was hovering agitatedly at the periphery of the crowd.

  “It was just a taste,” she blubbed. “Honestly…”

  Duncan snapped, “You gave him drugs? He’s still in high school!”

  “He said he wanted an adventu
re.”

  Duncan touched his forehead. “Some adventure. We need to keep him calm,” he said to Undine. “And conscious. I’ll go up to the house and run a bath. Undine, talk to him. If we can’t get him calmed down, then we might have to call an ambulance.” He looked at the chicken-bone girl. “And you. Piss off! I said, no drugs. I told you.”

  Undine talked gently in Trout’s ear, stringing reassuring phrases together. He stopped wheezing, his breathing slowed, and though it was still faster and more shallow than usual, he didn’t seem to be having any real difficulty.

  But though his panic was subsiding, still he said, “I can’t breathe. I can’t…”

  “You are breathing,” Undine reassured him. “You’re fine.”

  “You’ve got to turn me back. You’ve got to make it right.”

  “Trout, I don’t understand….”

  “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Of course you are. You’re at Duncan’s party. You were invited. We all want you here.”

  “No, no,” said Trout urgently. He tried to sit up. “I’m supposed to be dead. Or…”

  “Trout! No.”

  Trout stopped, remembering. “Or not. Was it…a fish?”

  Undine kept stroking his hair. “It was a fish, Trout. It was just a fish.”

  “I thought…” Trout seemed to be returning to himself. “I thought it was me….”

  Duncan came back with Grunt and Dan. They helped Trout up. Undine stood to follow them.

  “You,” said Dan viciously. “I don’t like you.”

  Undine stopped, stung.

  “This isn’t the time,” barked Duncan. “She’s coming with us.”

  Undine waited in the lounge room while the boys took Trout into the bathroom. Fran made coffee in the kitchen. Undine sat forward, her insides tightly knotted, until finally she heard some splashing and the welcome sound of laughter from the bathroom. She slumped back, relieved.

  So she was taken unawares when Dan came out and wheeled on her. “This is your fault,” he accused.

  “My fault? I didn’t do anything.” Her voice wavered; she struggled to keep herself steady.

  “Yeah, right,” Dan spat.

  “What did I do?”

  “Let’s start with Richard. You did him. When you knew how Trout felt about you.”

  “I didn’t do Richard! And how Trout feels about me is nothing I’ve done. I can’t help it.”

  “Can’t you? Did you ever, did you ever turn to Trout and say, there is no hope. Did you ever tell him that you didn’t want him? Or did you keep him hanging, keep him interested, just in case?”

  Undine felt the magic whip and burn inside her and she longed to unleash it, just for a moment, to strike out at Dan.

  “He’s my friend,” Undine said. “He’s my best friend. I didn’t want to…”

  “Your best friend! Do you treat all your friends that way? Besides, the point is, he doesn’t want to be your friend, so it’s not really the great friendship you think it is, is it? How can it ever be equal, when he loves you, and you just…You use him, and you used Richard, too.” Dan shook his head in disgust. “You’re some kind of evil. And now my man Grunt…”

  “That’s enough, Dan,” Grunt said quietly, appearing in the doorway.

  But Undine deflated. Dan was right. She had never outright rejected Trout. She’d always deflected, avoiding the topic. She’d been so busy trying to protect the friendship for her own selfish reasons that she hadn’t been fair to Trout. She owed it to Trout to be honest with him.

  “Just stay away from me,” said Dan. “Stay away from all of us, or I’ll…”

  Grunt shook his head and almost smiled. “Believe me, you don’t want to take her on.”

  Undine sucked her breath in. She wasn’t sure if Grunt had meant his remark to sting, but it did. She turned, desperate to escape, but Dan wasn’t finished with her. He jabbed his finger savagely, contradicting his last statement. “No, you should go to him,” he said. “You go to my brother and you tell him—”

  “Tell me what?”

  Trout stood at the doorway. He was trembling, his skin still pallid and wan, but he looked much improved.

  “Trout! Are you okay?”

  He asked again, “Tell me what?”

  Dan crossed his arms and nodded at Undine. “Go on.”

  “Not now,” Undine begged. “It’s not the right time.”

  “The right time was years ago,” Dan sneered. “Or at least last year, before you messed around with Richard.”

  Trout looked at Undine and then at Dan. In that moment it was clear by Trout’s face that he’d worked out what Dan was asking of Undine.”

  “No,” Trout begged. “No. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Trout,” said Undine. “He’s right. I should…”

  Trout was desperate. “No. Don’t. It won’t make it better. It will make it worse. Please don’t say it.”

  “Say it,” Dan insisted to Undine.

  “Shut up,” Trout implored him. “Shut up.”

  Undine looked distraughtly from Trout to Dan.

  “It’s not like there’s no hope,” Trout said wildly, addressing everyone in the room. “Things might change. She might…” He looked at Undine. “You might.” He lowered his voice, murmuring to Undine, “What about tonight…I remember. We almost…didn’t we?”

  Undine stared at Trout, paralyzed. Could she really say there was no hope? In all the many possible futures that flowered before them, could she really say never ever? She hesitated. Their eyes met.

  She shook her head. “Trout, no. I’m sorry. But my feelings will never change.”

  Trout crumpled. “I hate you!” he shouted at Dan. “What did you have to do that for?”

  “I did it for you. You had to hear it.”

  “No,” he said, and he meant it. “I didn’t.” His jaw was set, and his hands were clenched into fists. For an awful moment, Undine thought that Dan and Trout were actually going to fight, until Fran came in and broke the spell.

  “Anyone for coffee?” she asked, with a cup in her hand. “You should have one, Trout. You look bloody awful.”

  Undeterred by the grim silence, she began bringing out more steaming mugs, and Undine used the distraction to slip out of the room, out of the house and away into the icy air.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wisps of gray cloud drifted across the surface of the pearly moon. Undine felt the magic surging in waves; it racked her body until she heaved, almost vomiting, but it was without purpose or intent: no magic could take away the memory of the expression on Trout’s face. Why had Dan kept pushing? Why couldn’t he leave it alone? Dan didn’t know anything about the feelings she had for Trout.

  Last summer, in the Bay of Angels, she had grieved for Trout; she had breathed air into his lifeless lungs and failed to revive him. She had listened to his body and heard nothing, no pulse, no breath, not even the faintest echo of life. Of course it hadn’t really been Trout. When the magic drained away, it was a fish she’d been trying to revive, one she’d accidentally turned into Trout when she had searched for him and found only handfuls of empty seawater. Needing desperately to find Trout, she had unconsciously conjured a copy of him from a fish’s body—that was the way the magic worked, as if governed by the same laws as dreams.

  Regardless, for her, for a time, Trout had been gone, and the grief had torn her to shreds. She had literally lost herself to loss: the permanent, unyielding fact of it.

  She could not love him, not the way he wanted her to. But his life was precious to her; she could never communicate to anyone how very much she valued his beating heart.

  She sat on the stone wall at the lookout, gazing over the flat black river to the scattered lights of the Eastern Shore’s suburbs. She sat, but she was restless; her spirit was restless. It was at times like this she found it hardest to suppress the magic. Strong emotions brought it on, yes, but also her will to fight it left her, and her promise to Lou se
emed empty and pointless.

  The night stretched away from her. The stars began to dissolve, as if her vision was blurring. But it was quite the opposite: her senses were heightened. Touch, the feel of the cold air on her skin, of the scratchy stone wall through her thin jeans. Sight, the grainy particles of darkness, and inside each particle the composition of space—proton, neutron, electron; matter and antimatter—she could see it all. Sound, the waves of sound from the diminishing party, the rustle of the slight breeze in the grass, the silvery tinkle of the gum leaves whispering against each other, and far off the lap lap lap of the river. Smell, the scent of eucalypt and ice; the faint dusky scent of the native possums and bandicoots and the sharp acid stink of feral cat piss. Taste, the taste of snow at the roof of her mouth, carried from distant currents of air.

  Her mind drifted upward, into the dome of the sky, skirting the stratosphere. Snow is always there: residing in clouds are crystals of ice. Mostly the ice dissolves in the troposphere, before anyone can observe its presence. It was not creating something from nothing, to make it snow. It was only a little magic, just something minor, just letting what is become, to reach its full potential.

  The landscape around her began to change. Her bleak heart, her bleak spirit, filled the air and covered the hillside, blanketing it, blanking it. Undine hushed the earth with snow; she made the sky dance with it. Part of her sang, to use the magic again. The bleakness leaked away, and she was left with a kind of bliss, but an erratic, ecstatic bliss that was almost alarming, and made her heart thump against her ribs until they felt bruised black and blue.

  She did not hear Grunt coming. “Snow,” he said. “Are you doing that?”

  It stopped, flakes suspended in midair. “I didn’t….” stammered Undine. “I was just…”

  “Wow. I didn’t actually think you were.” Grunt reached out with his fingers and plucked a snowflake from the air. It melted in his hand. “It’s beautiful.”