Walking the Tree (18 page)

 

 

 

Phyto helped carry bags and loved to talk to the children. He could listen to their chatter for hours; the teachers loved him for that. He kept them going through the long days of walking. A messenger passed them without stopping, running at a steady pace; it exhausted Lillah just to watch him.

  The first test of how his presence as a travelling man would be taken by society came when they reached the Cedrelas/Rhado market after three weeks' walk. Those from Cedrelas who knew him were not concerned. Those from Rhado assumed he was trading and were also not concerned. It was a busy market, lively with jokes and laughter, people not rushing to get back to their Order.

 

Lillah had only distant memories of travelling to Rhado during her school trip. She remembered it was her special place; the place her mother came from. She had slept in the bed her mother had as a young girl, and saw the stones that had been set into the wall before her mother left as a teacher.

  Things had changed since then. Many women had left, travelling as teachers or taking the long walk home.

  Lillah remembered a friend she'd made here, a girl called Nyssa. Lillah was ten. Nyssa was seven. Then Nyssa went through Ombu when Nyssa was thirteen and Lillah was fifteen. Lillah had been home for a year, school like a dream in her past.

  They had laughed so hard, so long, the others were annoyed. Strange to find a friend so quickly, and one you knew would be gone in only days.

  They found a smoothstone each and exchanged them, so they would not forget each other.

  Lillah had long since lost hers, but she would never forget Nyssa.

  Lillah felt an ache from her heels, up the back of her legs. Each step was a jolt and her head thumped with it. Magnolia's hessian bag wasn't heavy but she felt as if it weighed her down.

  "I'm almost frightened about seeing Mother and her family again. What if they hate me now I'm grown? Mother always said they didn't like her much. They thought she was too different. What if they think I'm a failure, or ugly? What if they think I'm not her daughter, that I've been switched for a ghost from inside the Tree?"

  "What were they like when we walked through with school?" Melia asked. "I don't remember."

  "They were kind. But I was a child, then. They don't judge children. They think children are unformed. I'm a teacher now."

  "It'll be all right," Melia said. "It's nice to go home. Think how we've been when a daughter comes to us."

  "But why is this supposed to be home and not Ombu? Ombu is where I was born, where I've spent my life."

  "Ombu has changed already, Lillah. You know that. Just by us leaving, it's different."

  They could see a small crowd gathering on the beach up ahead.

  "Can you see your mother? I can barely remember what she looks like," Melia said.

  "I can't see her yet. She will be fixing a meal, knowing her." Lillah looked at the children straggling behind. "I hope they enjoy themselves here. It wasn't so much fun at the last place, when we got sick."

  "It's not always about fun," Erica said. "It's about learning. Meeting people. Finding understanding." She had not yet slept in anyone's cavity.

  "There are my people, here," Lillah said. "You might find someone you like."

  Erica blushed. "Time enough for that. Time enough." They heard a shout. Morace had fallen again, pulling Zygo down with him. "You're a pain, Morace. You hurt my arm that time," Zygo said. They liked Morace, most of them. He was funny.

  Morace had sand down his front and he limped. Suddenly aware she'd barely spoken to him in two Orders, Lillah took his arm and helped him walk.

  "How are you?" she said. His arm felt very thin, like a twig covered with sun-warmed Leaves.

  "I'm all right. I've started thinking about Mother. How do you think she is? Is she all right?"

  "We'll get news of her if anything happens."

  "Yes, but whatever it is will be long over by the time we get the news."

  Phyto carried children on his shoulders and told them stories, exciting tales of adventure and bravery.

  He pointed at a giant seabird overhead. "That one? Was once a human. All seabirds are. They are attracted to the smell of human beings. The giant seabirds catch and eat people. They like little children."

  He whispered to Lillah, "And get the taste for human flesh. But the children don't need to know that."

  She shook her head.

  There was a smell in the air Lillah didn't like. Sap gone sour or something, she didn't know.

  "I can't smell it," Phyto said.

  "Perhaps it's a woman thing."

  "I can't smell it either," Erica said. "It's because these are your cousins. You can't lie with them."

  Phyto patted Lillah's shoulder. "Good luck, Lillah. I'll wait near the trunk and walk past the Order at night. See you at the other side. Unless you decide to stay here."

  "I can't stay here," she said. "Why don't you come with us this time?"

  "Maybe next time."

  The group was quiet as they approached Rhado. A tall woman stood alone, her legs spread, her arms crossed. Her hair was piled high on her head. She didn't smile or walk forward to greet them.

  "They hate me already," Lillah said.

  "It'll be okay," Melia said.

  "Which of you is Olea's daughter?" the woman said when they reached her. Other locals came up behind the woman and stood silently.

  "I am." Lillah stepped forward. She peered through the crowd, looking for her mother, wanting to be held in her arms. She felt tears come at the thought of being held by her mother; she hadn't realised until that moment how much she missed her physically. She touched the necklace her father had given her.

  The woman grabbed Lillah's shoulder and span her roughly. "We heard you were coming."

  "My father sent this necklace for Olea."

  "She is not here. We will take it for you, if you like. It is better here than travelling. And we'll give you one in return. This is precious; I hope that you are worthy of it." The woman hung a string of shells around her neck. It was scratchy and ugly.

  "I'm sorry, but I will keep the wooden necklace my father made. It is for my mother. He would not be happy if I didn't give it to her."

  "You won't find her." The woman squeezed her chin. "You look like her. And already you are behaving like her. We're not interested in having people here who aren't Order-minded. Who aren't willing to put in a day's work for a day's meal."

  "No, no, I'm not like that." Lillah was confused. "I don't understand why my mother isn't here."

  "She was here. Was. Walked all that way then we weren't good enough for her. How she imagines she will find a better place I do not know. We have not found one because one does not exist. We do not want people like that here, anyway." The woman snorted. "I am your auntie. Simarou. I walked home and here I'll stay. You'll stay with me. Don't follow your mother out to sea or wherever it was she went. We think she went to sea. Just like her brother-in-law, Legum." She touched her ear. "They say he disappeared, without a goodbye. I don't know what the ignorant people in other Orders know, but we know that those who disappear are watching us, listening to us, and that they get very angry if we don't think of them.

  "Legum," she touched her ear, "sailed out to sea on a huge piece of Bark and has never been seen since. Some say that he sank to the ocean floor and built a home there. Some say he lost his flesh from hunger and floated into the air. Some say he is still on his raft, eating fish and shouting with loneliness. We will never know and we do not care for his rejection. Olea did not fit in. It was like she was found as a baby in the roots of the Tree; that she was sent from inside. They didn't want her in there so they sent her to us. You may find the spirit island as you walk. I don't know where it is and I don't know anyone who's found it. But on that island, if you sleep, you will dream of the dead. Your mother may be dead and she will come to you. Your ancestors will come."

  Lillah knew she would not be seeking any such thing. She was glad she had not allowed them to take her father's necklace. He had meant it for Olea, not this place.

 

The smell of the food cooking made Lillah's mouth water. She wanted to watch, to learn from these people who had taught Olea how to cook, but they didn't seem welcoming. They seemed to find the process upsetting, and they shouted to each other, abused each other, seeking perfection.

  "That is so like my mother," she said to Melia. Melia smiled.

  "Wonderful food, but you pay in tears for it," she said.

  "I'm not like that, am I?"

  "You? The day you cook a feast for this many people, perhaps you will be. When you cook for us; no, you are not like that."

  Borag stood just behind her. "Why are they fighting?"

  "Sometimes you can be too proud of your food."

  The fire-tenderers, too, seemed overly proud of their work. The flame changed for each dish and the cooking plate.

  The food was delicious. Fish cooked in coconut milk, greens diced with soft vegetables, flat bread salty and sweetish. The coconut milk had a wonderful, smoky flavour to it. They heated smoothstones in the fire then, using two sticks, lifted and dropped them into the milk, which boiled briefly and instantly.

  The plates, clay here rather than leaf, were crushed and then stamped beneath the feet, a shouting, thumping roar of an event that took Lillah by surprise.

  "Every six days we do this," her aunt said. "New plates made of old ones ground to dust. We'll soak the dust and dry it, make a nice glaze. Each glaze becomes stronger and better. Until the glaze becomes so good we no longer need to crush the plates, then we start all over again. I like to think the food improves with the aging of the plates, as if the memory of each good meal is absorbed into the next good meal. After a birth we will mix in the placenta to give life to the clay. We place dry leaves in some plates, but those are for a special feast."

  "I like the way you cook your fish."

  "Everyone eats their fish differently. Some like it shredded finely, others like big, barely cooked steaks. We like it with the coconut milk, but we also like it cooked hard in a fire. We like ours minced and marinaded, also. We like to eat food that has absorbed flavour; taken on the flavour as its own."

  The welcomefire saw the fruit wine exchanged for a plate, crushed and remade six times, then the Order walked out onto the beach and took to the seawalk. They liked it out there, it seemed. The warmth of the sun reached them, and, they said, helped digestion.

  "So your mother cooked well? Looked after you? And your father is a good man?" her aunt asked.

  Lillah nodded. She realised they wanted to hear no negatives.

  "She's lucky she knew a good man from bad. Her brother helped her to see that. He was a good man." Her aunt shook her head.

  "My uncle?"

  "Yes. He would have loved to meet you, I'm sure. You are so like your mother. But there was a terrible accident. Terrible. We think it was the punishment of the Tree because your mother was never as she should have been. She always thought more of herself than others did. We think the Tree punished her by taking her dear brother."

  "But how was he taken? She never said."

  "She never knew. He was taken at Leaffall. It was

punishment for her behaviour. You should protect your own brother by not behaving as she did."

 

  Then food again: some strange kind of meat, cooked with onions. Lillah didn't like it; it reminded her of the placenta cooked when Magnolia's baby was born.

  "We cook our placenta like this in my Order," she said. She felt uncomfortable in the silence that followed. "My mother taught our Order how to cook the placenta into a decent meal. She was well-liked because of that. And your Order was very wellthought of."

  "Well, that's good. It is a recipe to be shared." Lillah didn't believe the speaker supported her own words.

  "So you cook the placenta? How surprising and original," said one of the women, and they laughed. One hissed in Lillah's ear, "That is our tradition, teacher. If your mother told you about it, it's because she stole it from here."

  Lillah touched the wooden necklace around her neck. She was glad she had kept it from these people. She wanted to walk away with something still left of Olea's memory that wasn't tainted.

 

Lillah watched Melia and the other teachers testing out the men, and she couldn't understand how they found them attractive.

"They smell funny, don't you think?" she said.

  "You always find your relatives have a strange smell. It's a warning off, in case your memory of the chain is flawed. It shows you how certain it is you should not have children with those closely related to you," Melia said.

  "This one in particular you go nowhere near," Lillah's aunt told her. "He is your cousin, and flawed. He should not be touched by anybody." Lillah would not have considered the poor young man anyway. "He is flawed. If his father hadn't been well-respected he would have been placed in the Tree at birth to have his bones sucked dry. Those bones stolen by the ghosts inside."

  He was a charming boy, though, funny and thoughtful, and Lillah enjoyed spending time with him knowing they wouldn't mate. She wouldn't take any of these men: all of them too close to her. Morace joined them and the three talked of the mysteries of family and birthright.

  Thea came and took Lillah's flawed cousin's hand. He did not refuse.

 

Later, as the other teachers left for their evening's enjoyment, Lillah's aunt tried again to convince her to stay, to take her mother's place. "You don't need to be a mother," she said. "Your duty is to us, to take her place because there is a gap now."