Aurabel Page 4

  Do a stupid face.

  Murray laughs. Leans in as her hands creep. My tapestry shimmers in shivers – pastel-chalk pink right up next to powdery turquoise. We once found a two-tone tea set in the sand that looked identical to my tapestry colours. It lay perfectly lined up, the mini plates all exactly aligned, as if stacked on a shelf.

  ‘Oi, not now.’

  ‘Ow!’ Murray snatches her walking fingers back as I whack them away, flipping onto the backseat. Her plaits are loose and beginning to unravel.

  ‘I need to look fresh.’

  ‘You always look fresh, Bel. I don’t know quite how, but you do.’ She holds a cheeky grin in. Her hands are in prayer position as she tucks them under her chin and watches me move. In our mirrors I see her. Like a beautiful scribble of colour in the corner of my eye. Shell-shaped eyes. Tattoos scrawled all over her body, only with sea quills so not forever ones. All over her shoulders and stomach and entwined around her spine up to her neck are looping, swirling, mad illustrations and splattered patterns. Think they might be inspired by her tapestry but you wouldn’t know that because she draws all over her tail in ink too, which she isn’t really meant to do but whatever.

  ‘Shut up, you,’ I growl.

  ‘How are you gonna wear your hair then?’ Murray asks. I’m known for my hair, see. Weird. To me it’s just hair.

  ‘Same as always. Just like this. And before you even ask, no make-up. I don’t feel myself when I wear it. It don’t suit me. I look like a clown fish.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say that!’

  ‘You were!’

  ‘I wasn’t!’

  She was.

  ‘You don’t need make-up, Bel.’

  ‘Here we go …’

  ‘No, not here we go at all, actually …’ But she can’t help herself. ‘I was thinking, you could maybe wear just a little bit? Some gemstones or roses? Just to –’ I jump on top of her and tickle her ribs. ‘I’m joking, I’m joking!’ she squeals.

  ‘You better be!’ I snap back up and finish getting ready. I tip my hair down – it brushes the tip of Murray’s tail; it’s like a waterfall. ‘What do I do if I run out of things to say?’

  ‘Let’s be serious for a second, please. When does that ever happen, Aurabel?’

  ‘What if I get nervous? Or if it’s too much?’

  ‘You know what to do, remember?’ She closes her eyes and takes a big, deep breath, holding my wrists. ‘You just close your eyes, inhale … breathe and count, six, five, four, three, two, one … and then exhale all your fears and worries away.’

  ‘That counting thing works for you, Muz, but not for me.’

  ‘If it works for me, then it can work for you.’

  ‘No, you’re all … hippy-dippy peace and love …’

  ‘So are you,’ she argues, almost defensively, like she’s arguing my case against me. She looks at my tapestry; she’s into reading them as well, constantly trying to work out how I’m feeling. I turn away from her.

  ‘I’ll think of you doing it and then maybe it will keep me calm, how about that?’

  I feel Murray’s eyes tracing my back. ‘Can’t I come with you? Just for the adventure?’

  ‘No, Muz.’

  ‘Least let me swim there with you.’

  ‘No, it’s mad far.’

  ‘Can’t I just slip into your hair and hide?’ She leans forward again, crushing her face into my neck, pushing my hair up into a bunch, whispering in my ear: ‘I’ll be as quiet as a starfish.’ I push her off. She slumps back into the bed, all moody now – grumpy sea cow – but I ain’t got time for her pulling one of her moods. ‘You don’t need to change, Aurabel,’ she hisses.

  ‘Stop using that change word, Murray. I’m not gonna change, I’m not changing. I just want to … do good … get us out of this … pile of shit.’

  ‘Pile of shit?’

  ‘I meant it as a joke.’

  ‘Thought you loved our slam.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why’d you call it a pile of shit then, Aurabel?’ She frowns. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing, Murray, it’s just small, isn’t it? It’s lovely and it’s ours but what if one day we want to salvage? Can’t do that, no space – we’re practically living on top of each other as it is.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go back to my crate. I’ve still got a bed there.’

  ‘I didn’t say that!’ I shout. She turns her back on me. I see her eyes looking down. I know it’s weird. No one from Tippi ever gets a job. Ever gets anything, really. Murray and me are used to being together. And just yesterday we were young and for ever with no responsibility and now … we can’t be that so much any more. Cos I got work. Work in the Whirl.

  I knew she was worried. She hates the idea of me working there, in the forest, no matter how many times I reassure her that I’ll be protected by the royal beasts and that I’ll be safe; she just doesn’t like it.

  Murray looks about my slam. Our slam. (But it’s mine really.) The things I’m into. Even though they’ve enveloped around her for all this time; seen them a trillion and one times before. My instruments. The few crappy findings I own. The things she’s given me. The beauty she finds in tininess. All the pictures and stuff I like stuck to the metal angles of the vehicle walls. Photos from magazines: nature. Planets. Volcanoes. Hurricanes. Storms. Waterfalls.

  She spins about. Her cheeks all rosy, nervous. Her silhouette – the tip of her nose all flat and then dipping up into a peak. Murray’s hand clenched up in a tight ball, waiting to surprise me I suppose, because that’s what she does next.

  ‘Good luck on your first day at your new job, Aurabel. I’m proud of you.’

  She stuffs a little string into my hand and on it is a blood pearl. The most special of all pearls. The blood pearl is formed inside the red oyster, one of the rarest creatures in the water. They say that finding a blood pearl is a miracle because their breed is so uncommon they are almost extinct. And when the blood pearl is formed, the oyster perishes. These blood pearls are deep red. You know pearls are formed from a toxin? Say, a grain of sand gets caught in the oyster flesh, and the oyster produces a protective layer to coat the grain, so it doesn’t infect or contaminate the purity of the oyster. Over the years, all of the layers add up and up and eventually make a pearl. So mad to think that something so beautiful can come from an impurity. And my cod, have you ever seen an oyster? They are so bloody ugly. That’s the thing about nature – it gives unique beauty to one of the ugliest species.

  And here I am holding one. I look up at Murray. ‘It can be a bracelet or a necklace, whichever you like better …’ She admires it. ‘Or annoys you the least, I guess. I made it.’

  ‘You made it?’ I gasp. ‘Why?’ I didn’t mean to say why but it just bounded out of my gob. Cos so beautiful is this little simple thing. All string with its one delicate handsome red bead. I can’t believe why anybody, even Murray, who I am closest to, would take the time to make me anything so pretty.

  ‘I wanted to. It will bring you luck.’

  ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She smiles. ‘Luck I suppose.’

  So touched. ‘I’ll wear it as a necklace, because I don’t want to lose it now, do I?’

  ‘I thought you would, that’s why I made it longer. Here. Let me help you do it up.’ Murray turns me round and lifts my hair. ‘Bloody hell, your hair is so heavy!’ She knots up the back for me. It tickles. ‘You’ll need the good luck to take this thing off.’ She laughs. ‘I had to double knot it.’

  ‘Good.’ I blush. ‘I don’t want to take it off.’ I feel so important now and safe somehow. I check it out in the wing mirror of the car. It’s all shiny and lovely and catches the light of my bluey-green hair and I touch the pearl softly and then I turn to face Murray to see what she reckons. But we catch ourselves in a kiss. Kissing like we are out of breath and the only air we can get is from each other like this. All mad hands in hair and tight gr
ip; can’t get enough of the warmth. Squash. Press – restless heat and fluttering of hearts banging out of chests and sliding tongues and hot breath and gentle raw sting, cling, in this moment but tingling all over and my tapestry changing colour – all shy now – as we roll over into the back seat of my car. Scooping. Tumbling, clumsy, shapes of us, reaching, tessellating, fitting, locking, sticking, stuck. But a velvet, soft landing from the women-ness of us, so simple. Fingers. Mouth. Neck. Bound. Knotted up together all nice. Too nice.

  Six, five, four, three, two, one.

  Six, five, four, three, two …

  Six, five, four, three … Six, five, four …

  THE PETRIFIED FOREST

  I said goodbye as normal. Heavy with the warmth of Iris’s burnt sausages and creamy mashed potatoes in my stomach.

  Even though I know nothing will be there, just like it never is, I can’t help myself.

  The water is already almost too high. Sinking the forest in the night-time. The salty sea lapping at the bark. But parking my bike, flipping my pumps off and rolling up my jeans, I’m able to walk towards it. Even though the summer air is warmish still, the sea is cold. Needling, wincing and urgent. Every time I step into the sea it feels like the first time, over and over. Reintroduces itself, sniffs me out, like I’m a stranger with a face it will never remember.

  The petrified forest; the in-between. I forgot how fortunate I am to be able to know this forest in both of its lights. Stark, bald and desolate to the Walkers – a dark and exciting landscape for hide and seek, climbing and dog walks. But underneath, when it reacts with the salt of the sea, it fruits, blossoming into a bounteous bloom of exotic wilderness and colour.

  There are Rory’s words. As always. Engraved into the same tree. A year older.

  ‘I REMEMBER’

  Nothing new. Nothing added. Untouched. Almost as though the Mer are no longer using it, or maybe my eyes just can’t read their messages so well any more.

  But something makes me go in further. I touch the stumps and trunks of trees, allowing them to rest in their disguise. Their husky croaks give away no secrets of what they see on either world. My fingers jostle into the grooves of all the places I know. The circles. The words. Flashes of my past. I can hear my small self giggling into the empty claws of branches – and as quickly and as suddenly as those thoughts enter my brain and vanish, a black dart heading for my eye misses me, just, stabbing the tree behind. I scream and slam my mouth closed. I can’t see anybody. Nobody at all. Only the water rippling in the shooter’s wake. Gulping, I walk towards the arrow. Winged, it comes with a rag. I close my eyes, begging that this is word from Rory. Something.

  A sharp whistle rings, piercing the moment like a balloon popping. I jump. It’s the lifeguard; they have to have them twenty-four hours now after the trouble two years ago. No thanks to me. The flags alone won’t do any more. ‘Excuse me, miss, the tide is coming in. I have to ask you to come away.’

  Scrambling, I lunge forward, almost losing my footing on some craggy clutch of rocks. I snatch the rag from the tree, leaving the spike naked. I unpeel the note and see the words:

  ‘UNDER THE PIER. MIDNIGHT.’

  FIRST DAY

  The palace is mad big. Pretty. I almost have to pinch myself to remind myself it isn’t a dream. All flowers and leaves and wispy water willows, all wild growing but proper cared for. Not like the flowers we have in Tippi. They are just dead weeds there. The gates are tall, proper. Nutty hench things with spikes at the top – I mean, don’t stop nobody from floating in the top now though, does it? But it looks impressive.

  I breathe. Nervous. OK, Aurabel. Ring the bell.

  The pups bark. Nervously I roll Murray’s pearl in between my fingers. Six, five, four … What if they don’t like me? Murray was right. I should’ve worn make-up. Why didn’t I wear make-up? My hair is too long. It’s gonna get in my eyes – what if I don’t … Calm down … it’s OK … it’s … Six, five, four … three …

  Eventually the palace gates creak open and out comes that massive scaled snake, Marcia, the palace guard. My instinct is to slit her throat and shed her skin but I have to control myself because she isn’t like the monsters we are used to. Nah, this snake is groomed ! And trained. With manners better than mine probably. She sniffs me out.

  ‘Hiya.’ I blush. ‘I’m here to see the king. It’s my first day.’ She breathes me in, her eyes on me, then she sneezes in my face before turning away and slurping back into the palace, leaving the gate open for me to follow. Charming. So maybe her manners aren’t so good. I wipe the gunk from my face and close the gate behind me before catching up with her.

  Inside the palace is RI-DONK-U-LUS. My cod! The walls are sandstone colour and covered in this print like a turtle’s back. Speckled like egg and brushed down, so soft to the touch and deliberate. Everything is curved naturally as though the sea built the walls itself – the windows are all warped and melted-looking. Like big groaning mouths. The light just pours in. It’s so bright and echoey. Decadent and grand. The rooms are open, which makes you feel proper safe and relaxed even though it’s so large and swallowing. Cave-like bends and arcs; sweet areas filled with sponge and coral and sandbags and cushions to chill out. Pillars hold the floors up, covered in broken mosaic chinks of mirror and stone and shell. Art everywhere. Findings everywhere. Murray would LOVE it here! I can’t help think about the princess. Lorali. How lucky she was to live in a place like this.

  The sea snake coughs, interrupting my wondering, and nods her head upwards.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I scramble over to her, looking like a right nosy parker, but I can’t help it, it’s all so stunning. ‘Pretty decent place to work!’ I nudge the snake but she ignores me. Well that went down the hole like a rotten winkle.

  Marcia Zs her body for me like a staircase, which is weird – I don’t know how to use a staircase so I just float up as I normally would, using my hand to hold onto her jagged banister of a spine so she doesn’t think I don’t know how to be in a palace or something.

  ‘Cheers.’ I bow my head. Dunno what I do that for. Embarrassing.

  The next floor is even greater, biggest I’ve ever seen, and so bright too. As if the genius sea designed every room with her hands. Small glowing sea-bugs and crazy neon fish light up corners. It’s unreal invention. And there’s a balcony and all.

  But then I see the painting. A massive picture of her. Lorali. Like a photograph, her eyes leaping out of the wall, so deep and true to life. It’s like a shrine now. Covered in flowers and more of those bug lights. It’s proper beautiful. I am transfixed; imagining her living here, being in this room, sends chills up my spine.

  The pattering of feet makes me jump. A sea-monkey in a butler suit hops towards me on two feet, interrupting my nosiness. His back is so straight – how do they train these creatures? He invites me to come closer before snootily opening up the door to reveal the most wonderful, bright room. The walls are made of smashed glass and glimmering stone – a mosaic of chipped crockery and rock.

  And there he is. His Majesty. The king. In real, actual, life.

  ‘Ahhh, there she is!’ he greets me. He has a warm face with a long, dark beard, bushy brows and straight, dark hair. He is tanned and strong-looking but not as big as I’d imagined. Murray would say his tapestry was healthy and ripe; I’d reckon she’d say he was a good person with a gold heart – not that I’m any good at reading tapestries …

  I bow to him. ‘Your Majesty,’ I offer.

  ‘No, no, please do not bow to me. I hate all of that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Maj—’

  ‘No. No. Stop all this fluffing and flapping and apologising – none of that.’ He bats the air like he’s trying to get rid of a bad smell, then he smiles. ‘I like us to be equal.’

  ‘Me too.’ I smile back. That’s a relief.

  ‘We are delighted to welcome you to the palace and even more thrilled that you’ve taken on the position. It’s quite a task.�
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  ‘I’m ready for a challenge.’

  ‘I thought you might be, which is why your fellow Tips nominated you for the job, I’m sure. I’ve heard about your work, Aura— it is Aurabel, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir – Aurabel.’

  ‘We know that you’re politically engaged and very active; it’s very impressive to see a young Tip like you be so ambitious.’

  ‘To be honest, sir, I was surprised you’d even heard of me.’ Meaning, you’ve not visited Tippi once, EVER.

  ‘Ah, I have my sources.’ He clasps his hands proudly. His crown is battered and perched awkwardly on the slant of his head, like it might slide off, like he hopes it might.

  ‘We are so excited to invite you as the first participant of our new programme, where we are aiming for all Mer to work together – beginning with the rejuvenation of the much-loved forest.’

  ‘I am excited too.’

  ‘I, for one,’ he says, as though he’s rehearsed the words, ‘am so looking forward to revisiting the forest once again and enjoying the tranquillity and charm the gardens have to offer.’

  I nod. Trying not to laugh at the sweet little king speech he’s prepared. ‘Me too, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I hope it gives you an enormous amount of pride to know that you have a hand in restoring it back to its original beauty.’

  ‘It does! The other Tips are well jealous,’ I joke cheekily. Zar considers me. He can’t help it and begins to laugh. Breaking character.

  ‘You are paving a way then!’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Of course there will be a reward … a salary of sorts.’

  TRY TO ACT NORMAL.

  ‘But I think it best to wait until you’ve visited the forest to gauge how much work there is to be done before we talk business – but do not for a minute think we undervalue your work here in the Whirl. I can assure you that you will be rewarded handsomely for your bravery and creativity.’