The Vanishing Act (12 page)

‘An industrial oven,’ added Priest.

I looked at Turtle and remembered the sound of rain and Mama’s shoes across the floor, and the moment when she paused to open the black umbrella and pick him up.

The boat horn sounded again, this time closer, and Papa put down his cup.

‘Priest,’ he said, ‘don’t be alarmed. There is something you need to see.’

‘Alarmed, but why?’ Priest placed the lid back on the box.

‘Follow me.’

I carefully put turtle on the floor. Then I ran after them and reached for Priest’s hand just as he entered the blue room. But Priest didn’t get scared. He studied the boy calmly, and Papa explained everything, starting from the moment I had found him on the beach, dusted with new snow in a cradle of rocks.

Priest moved closer. ‘He looks kind,’ he said. ‘As if you could confess all your sorrows to him.’

Papa agreed. ‘We will be sad to see him leave.

The box for the dead boy had J.G. Magician written on the side.

‘It’s a spare,’ Boxman explained with laboured breath, as he and Papa tried to lift the dead boy from the bed into the box. ‘J.G. died before it was finished and his wife didn’t want it. She didn’t want to pay for it either.’ The boy didn’t move and Papa and Boxman tried to lift him again. Boxman continued, ‘She sent me a letter saying, “I despise magic and do not require the box.”’

‘You are going back on a ship,’ I said, trying to encourage the dead boy, because suddenly it looked as if he didn’t want to go, as if he was trying his hardest to stay on the bed.

‘Imagine, a dead boy on this island,’ said Priest, standing aside for Papa who went around the bed to get a better grip.

‘He is too heavy,’ said Papa. ‘You have to help Boxman with the legs, Minou.’

‘If only I had time to prepare a sermon for him,’ said Priest, looking regretful.

I took hold of his feet. ‘He is very cold, Papa.’

‘Yes, my girl.’ Papa was puffing. ‘Yes he is. Let’s lift on three.’

The dead boy didn’t fit into the box. His bent leg sat stiffly above its edge, as Papa had predicted. Boxman
went to fetch some rope to secure the lid, and I ran to the lighthouse to get the orange scarf.

Priest wanted to say a prayer for the dead boy. And when Boxman came back we all gathered around the box. No Name tried to jump in with the dead boy, but Priest grabbed him by the scarf and dragged him back. The three ravens observed the commotion silently from the windowsill.

The dead boy’s face was pale. Most of the frost had melted during all the activity, and I thought that he looked nice in his red sock and orange scarf. Priest cleared his throat and spoke with a calm voice, ‘May the sun shine upon you. May you feel God in the salt and the sea. And may you see Jesus’ feet beneath his robe, and remember that, even though he was the son of God, he too was a humble traveller.’

And I thought about Mama in the sea, floating like a sea princess. And I thought that somehow Priest’s prayer was for her as well.

‘We might just have time to finish our coffee before we secure the lid,’ said Papa. And then he left the room with Priest and Boxman.

No Name and I stayed with the dead boy, listening to Priest’s joyous laughter from the kitchen and the clinks of coffee cups. But when No Name
tried to jump into the box once more, I pushed him out of the room and closed the door in his desperate face.

I put the postcard back in the bottle and returned the shoe to the box. No Name whimpered outside the door. ‘Go away, No Name,’ I whispered. Then I tore out my story from the notebook. ‘This is for you, dead boy,’ I said, as I lifted his frozen jacket and placed the pages in his pocket.

It still felt like he wanted something from me. I sat back for a moment and looked at him. And then I bent close and whispered my secret into his blue ear.

We placed the box on the wheelbarrow and pushed it out of the house, past the golden bowl and down the path. Priest ran alongside, holding up his robe, shouting, ‘Careful, careful,’ while the wheelbarrow bumped and jumped over rocks and ice, and No Name darted back and forth, barking.

Papa opened Theodora’s gates, just as the boatmen lowered their dinghy into the sea. And then, in one go, the ravens left the roof, spreading like a black cloud over the forest, to Boxman’s barn, to the church tower and a few flew boldly out beyond the reef to meet the boatmen.

‘I have missed them in the tower, I hope they all come back,’ said Priest. ‘They make such comforting noises in the night.’

And as we were waiting on the beach, hearing the boatmen swearing out beyond the reef, Papa bent to pat No Name. Priest started telling Boxman that Theodora had made plans to build a theatre on the island just before she died, with curtains and a wooden stage, varnished so no one would get hurt if they had bare feet.

Then I felt it. I felt the skeleton bird in my chest, pushing its wings against my ribs, wild and hard, as if it was about to fly, as if it was about to take off, and I knew with absolute certainty, clearly and distinctly, that I loved them all. It was all I had and all there was. I turned and looked at the snow-covered island. One day I was going to pack Mama’s red suitcase full of things and take Turtle. One day I was going with the boatmen to see China, the way Mama had wanted to do. When I was ready, but not yet.

I faced the sea again. The boatmen were coming closer. A raven swooped out of the sky and dived in a glorious arc towards the waves.

‘Here they come,’ said Papa.

My heartfelt thanks to Michael Heyward and Caro Cooper of Text Publishing, Dr Anne Brewster, Dr Shalmalee Palekar and Dr Andy Kissane of University of New South Wales, as well as Narelle Jones and Angela O’Keeffe. You were all instrumental in bringing this book to life.

And to Matilde Martin, Andrew Shine, Deb Saffir, Vicki Hansen, Emily Sarkadi, Digby Clarke, Ester Sarkadi-Clarke, Trish Tagg, Nicky Esplin, Chris Lambert and Simone Fraser, thank you so much for your encouragement and feedback during the writing process.

METTE JAKOBSEN
was born in Copenhagen in 1964 but now lives in Newtown in Sydney, Australia. She has a BA in philosophy and a PhD in creative writing. She is a graduate of Australia’s National Institute of Dramatic Art’s Playwrights Studio, and several of her plays have been broadcast on ABC national radio.
The Vanishing Act
is her first novel.

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The Vanishing Act
Copyright © 2011 by Mette Jakobsen

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EPub Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 978-1-443-40985-8

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
First published in Australia by The Text Publishing Company: 2011
First published in Canada by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd in this hardcover edition: 2012

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