Elysium

  Maybe we should have listened to him, I thought.

  It was a pity that these questions were bothering me, because it meant that I couldn’t really enjoy Jason’s stories. I was also preoccupied by Ray’s astonishing news. I couldn’t believe that he was part Aboriginal. He’d never said anything about it – not to me, not to Bethan, not even to Mum. She was as amazed as the rest of us, when she turned up after her massage. Ray explained that the connection was pretty tenuous; his great-great-grandmother, he said, had been Gundungurra, from around Lake George. But Ray had never known her, or known anything much about her, except that her name was Fanny Russell.

  All the same, Matoaka kept trying to find out more. Whenever Jason wasn’t talking – whenever he was clambering up stairs in front of us, or sifting through his bundle of keys – Matoaka would sidle up to Ray and press him for details. What was Ray’s totem? Where were his ancestors buried? Had his choice of profession been influenced by any ‘deep-seated spiritual yearning towards the land’?

  Ray kept saying ‘I don’t know’, while Dad looked crosser and crosser. Perhaps he didn’t like the fact that his girlfriend was suddenly so fascinated by Mum’s boyfriend. Actually, I don’t know why Dad had decided to come along in the first place. He’d made it pretty clear what he thought about ghosts, and the people who chased them.

  He probably just didn’t want to be left out.

  Anyway, what with Matoaka whispering in the background, and Dad’s impatient snorts, and Bethan’s stupid questions (‘Do you ever get tables floating around, or anything?’) . . . what with all that, I didn’t get as much out of the ghost tour as I should have. Especially since I found myself missing great chunks of what Jason said, because my mind had wandered to the question of how you could actually track down a Mumuga. That’s why this section of my report, on the tour of Caves House, isn’t very thorough. I’m really sorry about that. I wish I’d paid more attention. I wish I hadn’t been so distracted.

  However, let me assure you that it could have been a lot worse – if I’d gone with Michelle, for instance. I found this out after Jason had left. Those of us who’d taken part in his tour were all standing around in the corridor outside our rooms, talking about lunch, when we heard heavy footsteps approaching: bang, bang, bang! All at once Michelle appeared, rushing along. I was too far away to reach her – she unlocked her door and slammed into her room without even looking around – but I could see that she was very upset. Within seconds, the sound of Colette’s voice reached us (‘Michelle! Michelle!’ ). Next thing we knew, Michelle’s mother was rattling Michelle’s door, trying to get in.

  ‘Open up, please, we have to talk,’ she said. ‘Michelle? Come on, now.’

  Mum gave me a prod. Looking up, I saw her jerk her chin at me.

  ‘Come on,’ she murmured.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We’re going to lunch. Bethan? Lunch.’

  ‘But Mum –’

  ‘Lunch, Allie. Now.’

  As we moved, Colette must have seen us out of the corner of her eye. She stopped knocking.

  ‘Is there another key?’ she demanded, her face all drawn and tight. ‘There must be another key.’

  The rest of us exchanged glances. Richard, who was slightly flushed, pushed his glasses up his nose and said, ‘At reception, perhaps?’

  ‘Please could you get it? Could you ask someone? I can’t get in.’

  Of course I didn’t want to go. I wanted to ask about Michelle: what was wrong with her? What had happened? Mum, however, wouldn’t let me stay. She took hold of my wrist and marched me downstairs to the bistro. No matter how much I protested, she wouldn’t give me a chance to find out what was going on. ‘It’s a family thing,’ she insisted. ‘It’s between Michelle and her mother. We have to leave them alone.’

  ‘But what if I can help?’

  ‘If they want help, they’ll ask for it. Now come and decide what you’d like for lunch. A nice roll, perhaps?’

  In the bistro we met up with Sylvia, who was standing in line at one of the counters. Poor Sylvia looked close to tears – even a little angry. But she wasn’t angry at Paul.

  ‘Such a silly episode,’ she fretted. ‘It absolutely ruined the whole tour. I have to say, I don’t think much of the way certain people behave, I really don’t.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mum, in astonishment. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sylvia glanced at her watch; the line was moving very slowly. ‘That Mrs du Moulin must have some serious issues, as far as I’m concerned. She’s a grown woman, for God’s sake, what’s she afraid of?’

  After a lot of careful questioning by Mum, Sylvia revealed the source of the problem. Michelle, she said, had been getting friendly with Paul on the cave tour. They had been chatting and laughing and having fun. For some strange reason, Colette had disapproved.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Sylvia complained. ‘I mean, obviously an adolescent sense of humour isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but there’s no point losing your temper. You’ll only make things worse.’

  Mum and I were very careful not to look at each other, though I noticed that Ray shifted uncomfortably. I’m pretty sure we all had a good idea of what Paul’s ‘adolescent sense of humour’ must have been like. Jumping out at people, spitting into pools, pissing on formations . . . it could have been anything. And Michelle had laughed! That was what I found very strange.

  Until Sylvia went on.

  ‘So then Michelle and her mother had a shouting match – it was terribly embarrassing – because the poor girl has evidently been forced to put up with all her mother’s various men . . .’ At last Sylvia reached the counter, and ordered a serving of hot chips. ‘All that noise, in such a confined space . . . it was really dreadful. The guide had to get quite firm.’

  Suddenly I understood. Michelle had been trying to make a point about Sylvester. She had used Paul to get back at her mum. (If Colette could object to Paul, why couldn’t Michelle object to Sylvester?) It was smart, I suppose – but I wouldn’t have done it.

  I don’t think.

  ‘So where is Paul now?’ Ray inquired.

  ‘Oh, he went straight upstairs, poor thing. He was quite disturbed.’ Sylvia paid for her chips. ‘I’m taking these up to him now. Then I think we might hit the road. Could you tell Richard, for me? I don’t want to be late getting Paul back to his father.’

  Mum and Ray agreed to pass the word to Richard. After which, having said goodbye to Sylvia, they took me over to the table that Bethan had already chosen. My brother wanted a hamburger for lunch, but Mum wouldn’t let him have it. She bought us each a ham salad roll, and made us split a serving of chips between us. At first, we didn’t talk much. Bethan was too busy trying to finish his roll quickly, so that he could get stuck into the chips before me. I was mulling over Michelle, wondering what I could do to help. So were Mum and Ray, I think. They were certainly mulling over something.

  At last Dad turned up, with Matoaka. Richard, they told us, had fetched the extra key to Michelle’s room. Colette had gone in and shut the door. No doubt, Dad said, she and Michelle were now sorting things out together. ‘Merging families,’ he added, ‘can be a very difficult thing. Absorbing an outside personality can really destabilise relationship patterns.’

  Mum looked up sharply. My heart sank, because I knew exactly what she thought: she thought that Dad was having a dig at Ray. I couldn’t tell you whether he was or not, but Mum always assumes the worst, with Dad. It’s probably a bit unfair.

  Fortunately, Ray jumped in before Mum could speak.

  ‘I went to the guides’ office this morning,’ he informed her, ‘and reported that smell. After you went off to your massage, Judy.’

  ‘And?’ said Mum.

  ‘They told me they’d look into it.’

  ‘Do you think they will?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. They seem like a fairly professional bunch.’

  ‘Did you mention the Mumuga?’ Matoaka wanted to
know. It was a stupid question. Ray pointed out that he hadn’t known about any Mumuga, at the time. Matoaka urged him to go back, and tell the guides what Rosemary had told him.

  ‘If you have Gundungurra blood, then the Mumuga might have responded to that,’ Matoaka suggested, in her high, excited voice. ‘It could have sensed that you were its traditional prey. Perhaps it only bothers people of your tribe, Ray, which would account for the way we haven’t heard about anyone else encountering the same manifestation.’

  ‘Except those guides in Elysium,’ I interjected, whereupon Mum leaned over and said: ‘Eat up, Allie. We’re all waiting for you.’ I got the feeling that she was trying to ignore Matoaka.

  But Ray frowned.

  ‘You know,’ he said, hesitantly, ‘the funny thing is . . . well, I didn’t mention it before, because I thought it was probably a branch, or something, but . . . to tell you the truth, something did catch me around the leg, while I was going down the stairs. Just before you tripped, Allie, remember?’

  I did.

  ‘You shouted,’ I remarked, with my mouth full of chips.

  ‘Yes.’ Ray gave an apologetic smile. ‘In the context of what Rosemary told us, I suppose it was a bit strange . . .’

  ‘Are you finished, Allie? Yes? Good.’ Mum stood up. ‘We might go upstairs, then, and get ready for the bushwalk. We have to pack up, too – late checkout is 2 p.m.’

  ‘Oh, but we just sat down,’ Dad objected, his hand on Matoaka’s arm. ‘We haven’t had lunch yet.’

  ‘Well, don’t let us stop you,’ Mum retorted.

  ‘When does the bushwalk start, anyway?’ Dad checked his watch. ‘It’s not for a while, surely?’

  ‘It can take a long time, putting sunscreen on an entire family,’ Mum replied, and hustled us off – me, Ray and Bethan. It’s the kind of thing she often does when Dad’s around. As if she wants us out of the way.

  We were climbing the stairs when we ran into Sylvia, who was hurrying down, still clutching her hot chips.

  ‘Have you seen Paul?’ she asked. ‘He’s not in our room.’

  ‘No. Sorry,’ Mum replied.

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘Did you check the billiard room?’ Mum queried. ‘What about the bathroom?’

  Sylvia didn’t seem to hear. She just kept going. I wondered if Paul was deliberately hiding from her. (It was the sort of thing he would do, I decided.) On the way to my own room, I passed Michelle’s. To my surprise, the door was open. Michelle was sitting on her bed, fiddling with a handkerchief.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, stopping.

  She glanced up.

  ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She didn’t look okay. Her face was covered in red blotches. Michelle, however, doesn’t much like it when you catch her in an emotional state, because she’s normally so elegant-looking. So she just waved her hand, dismissively.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she murmured. ‘How was the ghost tour?’

  ‘Oh – interesting.’ I sat down on the bed beside her. ‘No ghosts. I have to tell you, though: remember what we discussed in the Grand Arch, this morning?’

  Michelle frowned. ‘Uh . . .’

  ‘Remember? That bad smell, up near the sinkhole?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’

  ‘Well – Rosemary has a pretty amazing theory about that.’

  I went on to describe Rosemary’s theory, and how Ray was part Gundungurra, and how he’d felt something grab his leg. Michelle listened intently. After a while, she began to seem more like herself, asking questions and coming up with new ideas. How could we research this ‘Mumuga’? What exactly did it look like? Should we send Ray back up to the sinkhole, and see what happened?

  ‘He is going back to the sinkhole. In just a few minutes,’ I pointed out. ‘His adventure caving tour starts from there.’

  ‘Then we ought to go up with him,’ said Michelle. ‘Do you think a Mumuga would register on Richard’s equipment?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Maybe we’ll see something on the bushwalk, this afternoon,’ Michelle continued thoughtfully. ‘We should keep an eye out – especially around the sinkhole.’

  I was surprised at the way she had suddenly seized on the whole idea. But I suppose that’s not unusual, for Michelle. I’ve noticed that she’ll get all enthusiastic about certain things, especially when her mum starts hanging out with a new boyfriend.

  Speaking of Colette, all at once she appeared beside us – there, in Michelle’s room – and Michelle’s whole attitude changed yet again. Her shoulders slumped, and she gazed out the window.

  ‘Hello, Allie,’ said Colette, in a tired voice. She, too, looked as if she’d been crying. Her mascara was smudged, and her hair was dishevelled. ‘I asked Sylvester about going home,’ she announced, addressing her daughter. ‘He says he’s already paid for that abseiling tour, but –’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Michelle spoke quite calmly – almost loftily. ‘I don’t want to go home now after all.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘I want to go on the bushwalk.’

  ‘You do?’ Colette’s expression brightened. ‘Well, that’s good. We can do it together.’

  ‘Actually, Allie and I have something we want to investigate,’ Michelle replied. It was a mean thing to say, I thought. Colette’s face fell, and I wondered if Michelle was deliberately trying to get back at her for spending so much time with Sylvester.

  It wouldn’t surprise me.

  I have to admit, stuff like that makes me very uncomfortable. I suppose you can’t help it, sometimes, but I honestly don’t understand why people are so quarrelsome. It doesn’t improve matters. You start off by scoring points, then you begin playing parents off against each other, and next thing you know, you end up like Paul Klineberg – a real pain in the butt.

  ‘Ah. Allie. There you are.’ My mum had stuck her head around the edge of the door. ‘Can you come and help pack, please? Your knapsack’s here, and all sorts of books and pens and things –’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  It was a relief to get out of Michelle’s room. After all, I didn’t really belong there – not in the middle of a family spat. I escaped by helping Mum and Ray to pack our suitcase, while Bethan bounced around on the beds. Then we all went down to the car park, threw our bags into the car, and finally headed for the reception hall, where Ray settled our bill. I think Joyce or Richard must have arranged to meet in the reception hall, because upon reaching it we hooked up with the rest of the gang: Michelle and Colette, Sylvester (who looked a bit stupid in a pair of stretchy lycra things that were probably bike shorts), Richard, Rosemary, Dad and Matoaka, who wasn’t really dressed for bushwalking. She wore a billowy, Indian dress and sandals, while Dad had forgotten to bring a hat. When Joyce arrived, she made him go and get one. ‘No hat, no way,’ she declared cheerfully.

  He came back wearing a floppy rainbow hat, trimmed with a band of cowrie shells.

  Joyce herself was dressed in a wide-brimmed Akubra, proper walking shoes, khaki pants, and a Stonehenge T-shirt. She carried a neat little backpack which she said was full of water, sunscreen, insect repellent and other useful things, including a guide to the Jenolan walking tracks and a book called Mammal Tracks and Signs, by someone named Barbara Triggs. At this time of the day, she said, it was unlikely that we’d be seeing any wildlife, except perhaps the odd bearded dragon or skink. But if we kept a sharp lookout, we might spot traces of the animals that had passed across our trail recently. Footprints, for example. Or scats.

  ‘Scats?’ said Bethan.

  ‘Er . . . droppings,’ Joyce explained. ‘Dung.’

  ‘Poo, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Joyce cleared her throat. ‘It’s quite possible to distinguish between different types of droppings, if you know what to look for.’

  I didn’t hear what else she said about droppings, because Rosemary came up to m
e and tapped me on the shoulder. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt over beautifully ironed shorts. There was an eager look on her face.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me,’ she whispered. ‘About my grandmother.’

  I have to admit, I’d forgotten about her grandmother.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ I said, very quietly.

  ‘My grandmother was always so involved in family affairs,’ Rosemary told me. ‘She loved us all very much, and wanted to know everything we were doing. Maybe that’s what’s worrying her. Maybe she wants to know what we’re doing.’

  ‘I guess.’ It seemed like a reasonable explanation to me – especially if Rosemary’s grandmother was somehow stuck in Rosemary’s room. ‘Maybe you should just tell her what’s going on, every so often.’ ‘Yes, but how?’

  ‘I don’t know. Go to her grave?’ I would have suggested that Rosemary ask Delora for advice, if Delora hadn’t once been Richard’s girlfriend. ‘Why don’t you ask Richard?’ I suggested tactfully.

  Rosemary nodded, just as Michelle came over to find out what we were discussing. But before I could tell her, I was interrupted. Sylvia had approached our group, emerging from the guest lounge. She went straight up to Richard and inquired, in a trembling voice, if he had seen her son.

  ‘No,’ said Richard. ‘Why?’