The 13th Descent: Book One of The Rosefire Trilogy (3 page)

“Lucas
Cartwright? No way. She’ll eat him alive!” I say, placing my hand over my mouth.

Mike
laughs. “Yeah, I know. These days, he walks around looking stunned like he’s finally realised what he’s gotten himself into.”

“
You know, she’s just practising on the quiet ones until you finally cave in.”

“Neve
r gonna happen, Ren. Not if she was the last girl on Earth.”

For a while
, we mosey along quietly, lost in our own thoughts. Going from how Mike is kicking his feet as he walks, I’ll bet he’s thinking about his footy grand final this Saturday. Me, I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have him as my friend. Ever since we were kids, he has always looked out for me, even more so since Mum and Nanna died. And most of the popular girls haven’t picked on me since high school first began because they know Mike won’t give them a second glance if they do.

It’s obvious why so many of them
want to be his girl. Michael Dural Kuldey is smart, sporty, tall, and as sturdy as a tree trunk. His short, intentionally messy, rusty-brown hair never has a bad day, and his eyes remind me of the chocolate drops from Mr. Walker’s sweet store. And he’s kind, most of the time. He can get pissy and lose his temper on occasion like the rest of us. Stubborn. My God, is he stubborn. But that’s only because he’s so sure of himself and what he believes in. I really like that about him. I wish some of it would rub off on me.

Mike
is not one for dating, or having girls as more than just friends for that matter. Gay? No. I’ve seen the way he flirts with the girls who catch his eye. Virgin? We’ve never really discussed it, but I bet he isn’t. Again, I’ve seen the way he flirts with the girls who catch his eye.

He ha
s never made a pass at me, but that’s no great surprise. I’m too plain for him to find me even remotely attractive. I am short and skinny. I have next to no boobs. I bite my fingernails. The freckles dotting my cheeks and my nose make me look five years younger than I am. I have long, springy hair the colour of hay. I have big poo-brown eyes. Mum used to call them amber, but they’re poo-brown.

“Lost ya,
Ren?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“It’s nothing.”

Damn it. I didn’t look him in the eye when I answered so he’s going to start.

He abruptly stop
s, turns me to face him, and with a hand on each of my cheeks he searches my eyes. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” I snap as I throw
his warm hands away from my face. “Can’t I even think without getting the third degree?”

He exhales
like he’s been punched in the gut. He drops his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“No.
I’m
sorry.” I say, reaching for his hand. “I just don’t know how to ask you this,” I add, wincing.

He stops us
again. “Ask me what?” His eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly meet his hairline.

“About girls,
” I sheepishly answer.

“About girls?” His face
scrunches up in confusion. “What about them?”

“Why
don’t you have one?”

“Ah,
” he says with a small grin.

“Well?”

He goes quiet. He suddenly seems more interested in our shadows blurring together on the footpath than answering my question.

I nudge him with my elbow.
“It’s not as if there’s a lack of interest.”

He rolls his eyes. “Give it rest,
Ren.”

Tha
t has always been Mike’s polite way of telling me to quit it.

After a short, uncomfortable silence, w
e walk the rest of the way, hip bumping each other, sideswiping each other’s feet and whacking each other with our backpacks, both of us resorting to what we know will lighten the mood.

W
e get to the school gate, and as I start saying my see-you-later’s, he cuts me off. “There is a girl, Ren.”

A hot
rush sears the back of my neck. Is that panic? Or am I actually mad? I have no clue why I’m reacting this way. Is it because he has a girl, or because he hasn’t told me about her before now?

“Who?” I splutter.

“She’s not here right now,” he confidently answers. “When she comes back-”

“Back? So,
she’s from around here?”

“Not
originally-”

“But
, she has lived here.”

“Yep.”

“So I must know of her then?”

“I have no doubt you’ll remember
who she is.”

“So, I’ll
get to meet her-”

“When she comes
back,” he reiterates.

“From where?”

He answers me by looking straight up like the start of an exaggerated eye roll and whistles an annoying little tune.

He’s dangling the carrot
and he’s enjoying every minute of it. I hate it when he does this. “Cut the crap, Mike! Who is she?” I scream.

“Yes
, Mike. Who is she?” Liesel
-effing-
Hadley says with a snort as she strides our way.

We both sigh and turn to face
her. “What’s it to you, Liesel?” Mike asks looking bored.

“
Eavesdrop much?” I add. I always feel braver when I’m with Mike. Usually when Liesel is around, I keep my mouth shut and do all I can to slink away.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. You were screaming so loud, I think the whol
e school heard you!” she snaps, throwing her hands in the air in one of her dramatic displays. Then, like someone flicked a switch, her teeth retract and her face softens. “I saw you two arguing and I just wanted to make sure everything was OK.” Her attempt at feigning innocence has us both rolling our eyes.

“
Thanks for your concern, Liesel, but everything’s fine. Now piss off,” Mike growls.

“Testy. Testy,” she
singsongs, waggling her perfectly manicured finger.

I giggle
-snort when I notice how her pus-green nail polish perfectly matches her snakelike eyes.

“Something funny,
Avalon?” she spits.

“I th
ought your finger was infected until I saw it was your nail polish,” I say.

All three of us gasp in shock
. Me, because I can’t believe my mental jibe shot out of my mouth. Mike, because he’s happily surprised that I’m standing up to her. Liesel, because it seems she’s in the presence of another mouse who’s growing a little too big for her hidey hole.

She grins at me, fangs and all
. “Grief has made you angry, Serenay. It’s very unattractive,” she snarls.

I kn
ow Mike would never hit a girl, but his wide eyes, set mouth and balled fists would have you thinking otherwise.

I’m
completely dumbfounded, but it doesn’t matter much because I know Mike will fill in the blanks for me. True to form, he takes a step towards Liesel with his finger pointed when Edlee comes prancing up beside me.

“Hi everybody!” she squeals.

Mike in his furious state doesn’t even flinch. Liesel half-heartedly groans, seemingly annoyed but relieved by Edlee’s arrival. I lightly yank my friend’s long, strawberry-blonde ponytail and throw her a small smile.

“
‘Bell’s going soon guys. Let’s go!” Giddy, chirpy, oblivious Edlee. It’s like she has this filter that only lets the sunshine through.

She prances away assum
ing Mike and I will follow. I start to, but then I have to turn back to convince Mike that now is not the time to get into it with Liesel. One second late to homeroom without a note and Mr. Fernandez starts handing out after school detentions like candy.

The day churns on
uneventfully. Biology. English. Recess. Then a double period of Social Studies. But through it all, I haven’t really taken in a damn thing. I’ve been thinking about every female who has left town over the eighteen years Mike and I have been alive and I can’t pinpoint anyone as a likely candidate. Holly Rice from the year above us moved away to a Queensland university at the start of the year, with her girlfriend. In year seven, Ebony Belfort went to the U.S. to live with her father, but no one has really heard from her since. Alyssa Lloyd and her family made a sea change, three, maybe four years ago, but I remember her as not really being Mike’s type. However, recent experience has taught me that people really can change. Maybe her and her family are moving back to Sky High?

I imagine
Mike walking someone else to and from school every day. I immediately push that thought from my mind because I don’t like how it feels. I think about him being protective of another girl the way he is of me. The play by play of that scenario makes me want to rip Alyssa Lloyd’s head off.

It
’ll be impossible to keep pretending to cope if I lose him too.

While everyone else tiptoed around me,
Mike stomped his feet the same way he always has. He gave me time to grieve, but not long enough for me to defect from the land of the living. At first, I resented him for it, but now I don’t know how I’ll ever repay him. Knowing I’ll see him at the start and the end of every day is the reason why I force myself to face it and get through it.

The
bell signals that it’s time for lunch. Edlee and I are walking to our lockers when an announcement comes over the loud speaker.

“
Serenay Avalon, please report to the office immediately. Serenay Avalon, please report to the office immediately.”

The
tingling at my neck starts and rapidly grows stronger as worsening images of Georgie Pa, pale, cold and unresponsive, blanket my thoughts. I realise my panic must be written all over my face when Edlee forces a smile, throws her arm around me and chirrups, “Maybe you won the school raffle?”

I push my books at her and
start running. People are in my way and I scream at them to move before I mow them down. I can see Mike’s blurry silhouette out of the corner of my eye; he is calling my name, but I don’t turn and I don’t stop. I finally make it to the heavy glass office doors and throw them open.

Aunt Romey
is sitting in the foyer with her head in her hands. I stand rooted to the spot, absorbing the fact that she’s here at my school, openly shattered, and the only likely thing that could mean.

Oh,
Georgie Pa. No...

She looks my way. H
er eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are strewn with tears. Experience hauntingly reminds me that the death of a loved one is the only sadness that will allow her to cry in public. But, when our eyes meet, there’s an emotion in them I can’t place.

“
Georgie Pa?” I just manage to choke out.

She smiles, shakes her head
, and stands. Her unexpected response leaves me confused and reeling.

Aunt Romey
takes a few hurried steps towards my frozen form. She places one hand on my shoulder and uses the other to gently dab my eyes with tissues. Then she puts her mouth to my ear and calmly says, “It’s OK, Renay. I’m not here about Georgie Pa.”

Relief makes me slump
, but her index finger lifts my chin so we are once again eye to eye. She is smiling big like she used to. The corners of my mouth instinctively turn up in response.

She
places her wet cheek next to mine and whispers, “Renay, we’ve just received word that your mother is alive.”

My nanna’s side of the family has a thing with R names, especially for the girls. My mum’s name is Rhoda and her twin sister is my Aunt Romey. My nanna’s name was Rosanna. Some of our aunties and our female cousins living on the other side of the world are named, Raisa, Roselani, Roxanne, Rydia and Ruzena. And although my given names are Serenay Rose, some of my family call me Renay, but most people call me Ren.

Another strange tradition in my Nanna
’s family is that if you are a girl, you inherit your mother’s maiden name, so centuries of females on that side of my family tree all carry a version of our ancient ancestress’s name. But, if you are a boy, you inherit your father’s last name which could be anything. So, if Mum had had a boy with my father, at least I would have had a surname to start my search with.

I
learned from a very early age not to ask about my father. Many wordless reminders still scream that you shouldn’t miss what you never had. And I had Georgie Pa, the best grandfather anyone could ask for. He was all I needed and then some. But not knowing where my ballistic curls, my dimples, and my near-sightedness have come from has been a hard thing to put to rest.

S
ince Aunt Romey first rushed me out of the school office, all of the imaginary snapshots I’ve taken of my father over the years have been picketing my thoughts. What set it off this time was seeing a concerned dad help his green faced, bucket hugging son from the school nurse’s station to their mud splattered four-wheel-drive as my aunt relentlessly dragged me towards her pristinely neat, silver shoebox on wheels.

My
delusional Dad album refuses to shelve itself when my head should be swarming with thoughts of Mum. I find that disturbing, until I think of my favourite depiction of him. It appears that knowing Mum is alive has resurrected the unlikeliest of my hopes along with her.

I
close my eyes and will that idyllic image of my father to hurry forward. The long line of lesser portrayals respectfully part as I excitedly watch my warmest fabricated memory take centre stage.

There he is.
Wavy, toffee-brown hair speckled with grey. Eyes, clear blue like the summer sky, twinkling behind rimless glasses, and a big white smile framed by weekend stubble. Although he is of average height, his broad frame stands tall. He is home, relaxed and happy, wearing old tracksuit pants, a t-shirt made up of more holes than cotton, and work boots, all sweaty and mud splattered after spending a warm Spring day working in the garden alongside Mum. Without warning, he swoops Mum up into his arms and plants a sloppy kiss on her lips. He doesn’t see the small watering can in her hand until it’s too late. As the cold water runs down his back, he shudders, gasps, and grins. She knows she’s in for it. She squirms and squeals. They laugh. Then it’s over.

Unlike my other
imaginings, some of which can take up an entire afternoon, this one is too short and bittersweet. Over the years, I have tried to add to it, but it feels like I am ruling straight lines through a Picasso. So, I’ve decided to accept it for the misshapen, brightly coloured snapshot that it is. It is my favourite image of him, of them, because it always tricks me into believing that I’m in the presence of the love that brought me to be.

I
happily sigh as Mum’s lively face finally comes to the forefront, and then nearly jump out of my skin when Aunt Romey barks in my ear, “For God’s sake, Renay!”

I
turn and throw open my eyes to find hers boring into mine. I had completely tuned out and she doesn’t like repeating herself. Thankfully, the traffic light has just turned green so she can’t keep staring me down with that face-melting look.

“Sorry, what
did you say?” I splutter.

“
I said that Uncle Craig has left work to sit with Georgie Pa. There’s no one at my place so we’ll go there,” she snaps.

“OK,” I
answer, my tone appeasing even though I would have rather have screamed it, but I know I’ve already poked the bear enough today.

When
Aunt Romey first told me about Mum being alive, the one, very loud loaded question I have asked so far was answered in record time. Switching like a chameleon, she threw the gaping school administrator a reassuring smile, and to prevent the scene we could both see coming, she gave my notorious doggedness the titbit it needed to quickly get us out the door and away from prying eyes. “Your mum is not in the country, but she’s OK. She is staying with family. And I will explain what I can to you once we get the hell out of here,” she half growled, half murmured.

It worked.
And although we both know my insolence will come back later to bite me in the arse, that scrap of information was enough to get me in her shiny little car, promising to hold my tongue like a good girl while we drive the ten minutes across town to Aunt Romey and Uncle Craig’s house. But, now we are on the road, she has given me another reason to stay quiet. To keep us and numerous innocent bystanders out of harm’s way, the last thing I want to do is to distract her any more than she already is.

For the first time I’ve
ever witnessed, my Aunt Romey is racing and weaving through the light, early afternoon traffic like the ‘bloody moron’s’ she usually mutters her disgust at. I am also eager to get to her place to talk about Mum, but my usually poised aunt is scaring the hell out of me behaving like a normal person, one who is actually letting strong emotion rattle her. Strangely, her current state reminds me of Edlee when she’s got something so phenomenal to tell me it can’t wait, or she’s got something so bad to say that she better do it quick before she loses her nerve.

But
, how does it get more phenomenal than hearing that after ten months of believing your mother was dead, she is alive and kicking? And, no matter how bad things have gotten, I have never seen my aunt lose her nerve. 

We pull into the driveway.
She wastes no time getting from her car to her front door.

“
Come on, Renay! You’re as slow as a wet week,” she snaps.

“Right behind you,
” I grumble, trying to coax my jelly legs to step out of the car.

She bustles us inside and disarms
her house alarm. She grabs my hand, leads me straight to the navy blue comfy couch and gestures for me to sit. “Drink?” she asks.

“No
, thanks.”

S
he goes to the kitchen and gets me a tall glass of water anyway.

Then
everything goes from strange to downright bizarre when she sits down, squishes in next to me, puts her arm around my shoulders and rests her cheek on my hair. I am wedged in-between her and the armrest: I couldn’t move if I tried, and I honestly don’t want to. Hugs from my one and only aunt are like sunny days in the winter. They are rare. They are warm. They smell of cream and cinnamon. They go by too quickly. And you know you’ll have to wait a while for the next one.

“Look at me,
Renay,” she gently commands. Bleary eyed, she carefully scans my face and sighs.

It seems she i
s already regretting what she is yet to say. A chill of forewarning forces a shiver: it sets my heart pounding and my legs that have finally regained feeling start to twitch and shake, preparing to run. She senses my panic and holds me tighter, and starts to softly hum a familiar tune that Nanna must have used to calm her down too. Slowly, the dread resides and the warmth returns. My stiff posture thaws allowing me to slump into her side. Realising she has been given the green light, she takes a deep breath and starts talking.

Aunt Romey
has never been one to beat around the bush. Simple English. No fluff. The bare facts followed by her opinion of them. But this time, the candour I usually appreciate brings with it a realisation that hits me so hard, that, for the first time since the bomb went off, I am relieved the undercooked takeout chicken kept me home that night.

Bedtime stories that once lulled me into sweet dreams
now leave me feeling cold, heavy and sick.

Horrifying truth gives
a voice to the intoxicated mutterings of a grieving husband and father.

Nanna’s
fairy tales.

Georgie Pa
’s drunken rants.

All
of the frayed strands and loose ends I’ve obliviously left hanging tangle and weave into the blood stained tapestry that is Aunt Romey’s history lesson.

T
hree versions of the same unfathomable story, each with its own conclusion.

The
fairy tale ends in hope.

The drunken rant
ends in fear.

And
the history lesson will only end with the death of the Three Roses, who my newfound enemies believe are Nanna, Mum and me.

Surrounded by
the ghosts of our ancestors and their vindicating screams, I cling to the only olive branch within reach.

Mum may be on the run
, but she is alive and well.

But the
sinewy little branch is not strong enough to bear the weight of centuries of lost life. It snaps, and I limply fall into large, familiar, bloodstained hands that carry me off into the black quiet.