GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS
Fable stood inside the cottage doorway, beckoning small breaths past constricted throat. From the garden swelled music and laughter, chinking glasses, high heels clipping on stone pathways. The soiree was well underway, but the guest of honour had yet to make her appearance. Fable pressed her hand against her belly, then higher at her shallow-breathing chest. She told herself it was the too-perfect fit of her green gown having a corseting effect – though it hadn’t in the store.
It was indeed the faerie-tale gown of her dreams. The shimmering peridot, encrusted with Swarovski, skimmed every supple curve – from lacy cap sleeves at narrow shoulders, curving over generous bosom, nipping in at diminutive waist, flaring over graceful hips, tucking under the pert shelf of her bottom, and falling away in long, gossamer folds.
She was an effulgent faerie lichen glowing in the forest.
Fable spotted the blaze of Sonnet’s hair through the stained glass, hovering on the front stoop. It was her reaction Fable wanted to see first and foremost. Sucking in an inadequate breath, Fable swung open the door, and stepped into her shining future.
Her next breath was a gasp. The garden was no longer a garden at all, rather a faerie wonderland: every tree branch outlined in twinkling lights; mason-jar candles lining the winding pathways; hurricane lanterns set along the tables and dance floor, and upon the bar. Her heart throbbed with the resplendence of it all.
Sonnet’s exultant face was the first Fable brought into focus as she gazed from the lighted garden to the swarming circle of her loved ones. Plummy was already pulling at her arm to come see the wishing well lit up, and the dance floor beneath the faerie stars, and everything, quickly! Uncle Gav looked as though he might roughhouse with her. But Olive, now there was a face Fable hadn’t expected. Tears streamed down Olive’s cheeks, and it wasn’t for joy alone.
‘Are you angry, Aunty?’
Olive shook her head, crushing Fable into her arms. ‘Oh, bless you, dear girl, you’re the very image of her,’ Olive said in her ear. ‘This was her most favourite gown – no matter what. It’s only right you should wear it on your big night.’
Sonnet swooped in. ‘Come now, Olive. No one’s being maudlin tonight!’ She pulled Fable into a hug, or as much of a hug as Sonnet was wont to give. ‘It’s time for you to get out there and start mingling!’
Sonnet pressed a glass of sparkling wine into Fable’s hand, and pulled her from the intimate family clutch into a wider circle of well-wishers: Kate, lavishing compliments, Sarah Timmons calling her a ‘publicist’s dream’, Smithy complaining he was about to lose the newsagency’s biggest drawcard; and Marco, beaming proud.
Fable noted the blood-red wild hibiscus spinning in her champagne glass a dazed second before she raised it to her lips. She wiped Olive’s tears from her ear lobes, recomposed her countenance, and let herself be gathered up by the teeming crowd.
‘Everyone’s here to celebrate you, Fable Hamilton,’ she heard Sonnet proclaim as she was carried away.
*
Well, as it turned out, no, not everyone.
Fable had been twirled around the garden, across the dance floor, over to the bar, and by the box of books – in pride of place on its own table – by nearly every familiar face in Noah Vale.
But no Hulls.
Not one!
Somehow they’d come to the speeches, and Fable sat poker-faced atop the stage, with her uncle’s arm heavy about her shoulders, as her book was duly introduced.
Sarah proudly officiated – Fable wondered how she’d managed to get that past Sonnet – speaking of her ‘favourite’ new writer/illustrator in glowing terms, compelling Fable to centre stage for at least a bow, after she’d squirmed out of a speech.
Olive had spoken, eloquently, of how proud she and Gav were to see their niece achieving the dream her talented mother had always cherished. At this, Fable had buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder. She felt the shudder in his body, too, and dared not look at him. It was uncharacteristically vulnerable, yet unflinching of Olive to have said such a thing, in front of so many townsfolk. Again, Fable marvelled at how these speeches had slipped past Sonnet’s censoring net. What on earth would Sonnet bring to her speech, then?
Fable was delayed from finding out, however, by the young man who leapt, unprompted, to the stage, stealing the mic from Olive’s hands as it was passing to Sonnet, already bristling for her turn.
‘I can’t let this night go by,’ Marco began, in grand tones, ‘without something I have to say too.’
A warning prickle ran the length of Fable’s spine.
‘Fabes,’ he said, ‘I’ve known this day was coming ever since I used to sit next to you in art class. While I was drawing my dopey stick figures, there you were creating absolute masterpieces, and I told myself, “This girl is going to be famous one day!”’
Fable glanced at Sonnet, jigging at the stage edge. Beside her: Sarah Timmons stood with one elegantly pencilled eyebrow arching.
‘And look, she’s done it!’ Fable saw the red bleariness of his eyes and sway of his posture. Well, he’d overdone it tonight. Her smile fell from polite to enduring. She felt her uncle shift impatiently beside her.
‘Now if I may be so bold tonight . . . I’ve got some stories about our Fabes to share too!’
A loud whistle went up from the rear of the crowd, followed by a stir of laughter.
Fable flashed a wide-eyed, desperate plea at her friend. What was he thinking?!
Sonnet was an assassin, about to take down her target. Luckily for Marco, it was Gav who moved swiftly to jostle for the mic: ‘All right, my turn now, young fellow!’ And Olive, who directed Marco off stage, with a freshly opened bottle of beer proffered enticingly.
No public speaker, Gav was doing an admirable job of redirecting the audience’s attention with impromptu anecdotes. By the time Gav’s performance had come to an end, Fable’s queasiness was abating.
She squeezed Gav’s hand gratefully as he resumed his guard at her side.
Sonnet, final speaker, and prouder sister than ever known before, spoke of Fable at extravagant length and in such glowing terms, Fable had to wonder quite how many glasses of sparkling wine her sister had imbibed.
Who knew Sonnet could muster such princely praise?
‘Fable Winter,’ Sonnet declared, raising her glass, ‘you are capable of more magic than most people could ever dream of. And as Mama would surely have quoted, could she have been here tonight: you must always make a “wild dedication” of yourself to “unpathed waters” and “undreamed shores” . . .’ Sonnet choked on the words.
Fable’s throat swelled in turn.
In a voice controlled by effort, Sonnet proclaimed: ‘So, here’s to Noah Vale’s very own success story!’
The crowd turned, with glasses raised, towards Fable.
‘To Fable!’
Fable dipped her head to her chest, and Uncle Gav deposited a kiss on her crown. She looked up again, lips fighting to maintain tranquillity, and across the crowd, watched a tall figure step through the cottage gate, blue gaze already set upon her.
*
Wine flowed, music ebbed and swelled, dance floor whirled, lights twinkled; all her senses reeled with the unbearable pleasure of waiting until he finally came to her. For hours now, he’d been circling on the periphery of her vision, never out of her awareness for a moment; moving, ever so slowly, through the throbbing crowd. Everyone wanted a portion of Rafferty Hull tonight – he was surely the guest of honour now. Was there a person in Noah Vale who didn’t love Raff like a son, cousin, former student or playmate, who didn’t have a decade of news to impart? Fable’s cheeks ached from the blush withheld, the mild smile sustained.
When Raff reached her aunt and uncle, the restrained delight in their reunion made her heart beat double.
‘Raffy, my boy!’ cried her uncle as he enveloped him in a hug, though his ‘boy’ towered a foot above him. Olive reached to hold Raff’s face between two hands and murmured something Fable would have given every cent of her book advance to have heard. When was it ever to be her turn?
*
The night grew long, the crowd thinned, and those left were flushed full and mellow by alcohol, music and food. It was not unlike a wedding reception. Only, at the end of this eve, she would be carried off by a career, rather than the mate of her soul.
The way Gav held her now on the dance floor and how his eyes crinkled as he looked at her, was every bit the father of a bride.
‘I’m so proud of you, Beauty.’
‘You keep saying that, cut it out!’ She laughed, with an admonishing smack.
‘It’s an uncle’s job.’
‘No,’ she said, growing meaningful. ‘It’s the role of a father, and you’re the closest thing I ever had. I’m so thankful you’re my uncle-dad.’
‘Oh, Beauty—’
Gav pulled her into the heartiest of bear hugs – she sensed to hide his tears as much as her own. As they drew apart, the notes of a slow song began. Gav, wiping his eyes roughly on his sleeve, reached for his wife dancing nearby.
‘Come on, my love,’ he said, ‘this one’s for you and me.’
The exchange of partners was so quick Fable had no time to smooth her features. The face she raised to her new partner, shone already with raw emotion.
Rafferty.
Her feet baulked at the transition, but he was already catching her up in arms, moving her lightly away from her aunt and uncle.
‘You came,’ she breathed, lowering her face to stare at the pulse in his throat, struggling to control a full body shiver. If only he knew how his touch scorched, perhaps he would be more careful with those large hands.
‘Well, it was awfully nice of you to put on this massive Noah Vale welcoming party for me.’
‘Yes, you don’t seem to mind stealing my thunder tonight, do you?’
There was careful pause before he answered. ‘All eyes are on you tonight, Fable.’
She blew out a tiny breath, without confidence another would be coming along after it.
Raff’s arms on her waist were warm and confident, and burning a hole through her middle. Hers, strung about his neck, began to tremble.
They had fallen into a silence familiar in its weight, and waiting. Every heartbeat was a treacherous hammering; each inhalation, a victory. Would this song last forever, if she willed it so? Only the dread of leaving his arms stirred courage in her breast. She looked up, to speak.
At the meeting of their eyes, she stumbled. He held her, strong and sure. The faerie lights around Raff’s face were outshone by the lustre of his contemplation.
He spoke gently, the words meant for her alone. ‘So you’re finally all grown up, Fable Hamilton.’
Her gaze dipped hurriedly away. But there had been a question in his measured tone. And if she had any doubt, the insistent tightening at her waist, urged her reply.
Once more she lifted her face, her every hope. Fable had not mistaken the question. It was there, in his eyes, wholly undisguised.
Before her throat could close over, she must answer. ‘Yes.’
Raff’s expression did not outwardly change, but Fable felt the quickening of his breath, the tightening of his embrace.
To be sure, she spoke again. ‘I’ve never felt more grown up in my whole life. I’m only sorry that it might be too late . . .’
Raff unfolded her favourite expression in the world; his smile. A hot wave hit her eyes.
‘Not too late,’ Raff began, ‘I was—’
‘Oi, there you are!’ came a cry at her side. It was Marco – buoyant, inebriated pup. ‘Who says what’s too late?’
‘Marco!’ Fable started, flushing.
Marco was holding out his hands expectantly for her. ‘Nah, it’s not too late, Fabes. I reckon we can keep this party going all night and halfway into tomorrow, too! Look how much fun everyone’s having!’
Marco reached for her, as Raff’s hands slid gently from her waist. Before she could even excuse herself, Marco was already whirling her away.
Just like that, the song was over.
*
The empty garden, littered with glasses and chairs, still glowed with unextinguished lights. Sonnet had sent home the last stragglers offering to disassemble the faerie realm for her.
‘It can wait until the morning, go home!’ she cried, wanting nothing more than to topple off her heels into bed.
Home they all went, clutching their copies of Faerie Falls, personally handed out at the gate by Fable – more radiant at party’s end than she had been at its beginning.
‘Success suits her,’ Olive said to Gav, as they ascended the hill to Heartwood, her arm linked in his, her shoes in his hands. ‘Have you ever seen her look so happy, in all your days?’
Sonnet stumbled up to bed and, having imbibed far more wine than planned, watched the ceiling spin dizzyingly above her for a moment, before she tumbled into a dreamless slumber.
Plum, sleeping the night on the cottage couch after having made the mistake of closing her eyes for just one second while the party whirled around her, now blundered her way, disoriented, to the bathroom. Through the frosted glass, she squinted at a slim shadow sliding past. Back at the lounge-room window she rubbed her eyes, watching Fable stand on bare tiptoes to detach a lantern from a branch, before slinking out of the front gate, with a book tucked under her arm.
Across the field the slender green figure streaked then – the leaping flame of her lantern growing smaller and smaller, until it was subsumed by the rainforest.
*
In the lambent light, the long, buttress roots rippled like unearthly tentacles. The green woman knelt to lay her book in the heart of the deepest groove.
‘This is my book, Mama,’ she said, leaning forward to rest her head, as if she sought to kiss ageless feet, hidden within an undulating forest gown.
‘There were some pages missing for a while. But they’re all here now. I want you to have the whole book. You’ll hold them for me.’
Tears, hidden by the spill of rose gold, wet the ground; the book.
‘I have to go away tomorrow – just for a while. But I’m not leaving you, I promise. Keep my book safe, Mama.’
Fable rose, sniffling, to thread out between the roots.
Behind her, pages stirred, and turned.
*
The lantern flame danced as Fable floated back along the creek-side path. Closer to the cane bridge, a violent flap of wings in the canopy sent her heart rate rocketing skywards.
Only a bat, frightened away, taking all her courage along with it.
Darkness seemed to press in on her circle of light now, shapes leapt forward, and shadows loomed.
A moment later, she heard the crack of branches underfoot, followed by a muttered cursing. Fable stilled, peering breathlessly into the creek gloom. A carried light on the opposite bank bounced into view, travelling parallel to her path. At the bridge, the light turned towards her, and began to cross the tracks.
Fable’s lantern trembled wildly as she raised it to her face, straining to make out the advancing figure.
‘Hello?!’ she called.
Closer, relentlessly closer, came the light.
‘Oh, it’s you . . .’