Chapter 8
PHYLLIDA
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
Her mind sticks to a thought. What does it mean to die?
Surely between life and death there is barely a crease in time; a mere slip in the universe.
If one lives, one must die, and so it goes.
There is only the bird that sings, the exquisite emerald sheen of a leaf on the breeze, the silent heat of sun on skin, the smile of a child.
They exist, bright and burning, then they are gone.
She feels the touch of a hand, a voice speaking her name, rough cotton against her skin.
She has an urge to push open her thick lidded eyes.
Has her crease in time been uncreased? Her slip in the universe unslipped?
She lies, listening; an erratic leap of her heart as the noises become more familiar and she begins to understand.
She must still be … here.
This outcome is not ideal. She had an inkling, though, as she lay with the photographs of David and Francis to her breast. As sure as the deep double trill of the boobook owl who had sung her to sleep, there came an image of Mary, dropping something. A scream; a splintering. A knowing.
Phyllida’s lips twitch and curl. She wants to speak but cannot find her voice.
She is still alive. Gracious me. Not food for the beetles, then. Not yet.
So, what on earth does the universe have in store for her now?