Revisiting Abracadabra

“Rose!”

The girl’s head snapped up in the direction whence the voice had come. Through youthful, grasshopper-green leaves and thick, decades-old underbrush, she could see patterned trousers, standing stolid atop the lazily rising hill. Watercolour pinks blossoming from the maternal horse chestnut made for pretty obstructions between Rose and her mother’s face. In the background, the Rainbow stood comfortably. Hot scents of coriander, turmeric, and fenugreek rolled Indian-style towards the little girl.

“Coming, mummy!” Rose twirled around and hopped lightly from her perch on the rotting log. She held in her hands the delicate form of a tiny green sailboat, fit for a crew of aphids. A leaf the size of her six year old palm was pulled upwards at both ends by rough sweetgrass to create the hull. These two pieces were then tied to a spindly stick that balanced rather precariously in the lower point of the hull. Rose had ingeniously proceeded to weave another wide leaf down the stick as the sail. She now placed it delicately – in the spirit of dandelion fluff – on the trunk of a tree that had fallen horizontally through the wild wood. The sailboat was nestled safely between the nook formed by the wizened trunk and a protruding branch. Tied to the branch hung four brassy bells all in a row, weathered and dull from years of exposure to the elements.

It was this set of bells that Rose now rang. The sound was shrill and without tune and ravens fluttered from their high above perches in the trees. A glimmer of a smile appeared on the young girl’s rosebud lips. Her green eyes twinkled with childish ecstasy and, with one last glance around the magical grotto, Rose pattered over the miniature bridge, ignoring its high-pitched complaints. Her mother, an ivory girl with dark hair and smiling eyes, waited at the top. She bent down and adjusted the large, doily-like collar of her daughter’s dress.

“Snooks, Abracadabra won’t come if you’re always trampling around in the Wildwood,” she said, walking towards the Rainbow. Rose scurried after. They climbed the front veranda stairs together and Mummy opened the screen door. They usually left the dark wooden door hinged to the interior wall because they were constantly going in and out. Rose approached with trepidation. It had not been so long ago that an aggressive wasp from beneath the doorframe had attacked her index finger. It had hurt and marred an otherwise fun memory with Grandpa, throwing a pool noodle back and forth, like a baseball run through a spaghetti machine.

Inside, the smell of spices hit stronger, but little Rose liked it. Grandma insisted on curry because Petie had loved it so much. It was the one thing he had insisted on when they had married and even though his wife had little aspiration to live out her days as a housewife, she learned how to make a mean curry. It all stemmed from his childhood growing up in Burma. And now Mummy had learned, in spite of the fact that no man sat loyally on her right.

The table was laden with all the proper condiments when Rose took her place in a woven basket chair. Mummy had placed sesame seeds, diced tomatoes, and spoonfuls of heavy yoghurt in blue and white china bowls. A purple-labeled glass jar, the contents oily with spice, was closest to Grandma’s seat; everyone knew she enjoyed chutney far too much. Grandpa had thrown in his two cents, adding paper thin leeks and watery cucumbers to the table. This was one of Rose’s favourite meals at the Rainbow and yet her mind was on Abracadabra, who she could only imagine was flitting about the Wildwood, dining on mushrooms with her neighbours the ants and beetles. So, as she dug into her delectable home-made meal, there was no hungry vigour, no smacking of the lips, but rather the movement of well-oiled gears in her mind, humming quietly.

When the meal was finished, Rose was still unable to escape back to her fantasy world. Grandma moved to the television room with the ghastly wool carpet to watch her Wheel of Fortune and the other three collected the dishes for the washing. After, Mummy showed Rose for the first time how to make a pink gin and tonic.

“This is Grandma’s favourite drink so this is very important to know how to do,” said the ivory-faced woman, as she pulled out a highball glass from the cupboard, dropped a few ice cubes into it, and placed it on a silver tray. She then stooped down so that she was eye-level with the liquor cabinet and pulled out a tall bottle with a blue label, the words “Plymouth Gin” in heavy-set font. Next was a much smaller bottle, topped with a frighteningly yellow cap, and it looked almost like something that might contain some sort of dreadful medicine. As Mummy opened it, Rose noticed her slight grimace. “This is called Angostura bitters. Grandma likes four dashes of this followed by two shots of gin – that’s the other bottle.”

Mummy retrieved a small shot glass and passed it to Rose, gently instructing her to pour two of those of gin into the glass once she herself had thrown the requisite amount of bitters. Finally, cracking open a yellow can of Schweppes, the little girl slowly topped up Grandma’s drink as her mother smoothly cut an inch-long strip of lime. She lightly cut this into the side of the glass and the pair stepped back to look at their work.

Rose liked the colours. The drink itself was a soft pink, but the ice cubes gave it a whitish tinge. The bright green lime made everything seem a little more jazzy and interesting. However, when Rose took a step forward, the smell made her nose wriggle up in disgust. She could not understand how her grandmother could take pleasure in such a strange, unpleasant concoction. Perhaps when she was older, classier, and wiser.

The six year old took up the silver tray in her two hands – “Be steady, Snooks,” reminded Mummy – and walked with the utmost care and patience through to the television alcove, which was just off of the sitting room. Grandma sat in a large rocking chair, diagonal from the screen, that had been refurbished with heavy white cotton years ago. There was always the high, silk wingback chair with the oak arms and legs that was positioned at a much better vantage point, but it had been Petie’s so people rarely, if ever, sat in it. Grandma smiled appraisingly at Rose, who now approached with trembling arms.

“Here you go, Grandma,” said Rose hopefully. The older woman took the glass in a veiny hand and sipped.

“It’s perfect, darling.” Grandma gave her only great-granddaughter a loving pat on the head. Rose leaned forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before hopping away, silver tray in hand. She was happy because the drink had been approved, but she was even more happier that she was now off the hook. The Wildwood awaited and so did Abracadabra.

After quickly returning the tray to a bewildered Mummy, Rose put on her red leather shoes and raced at top speed over the small hill, down past the lake where the Ogopogo dwelled in its depths, and across the rickety bridge, where she immediately became immersed in the fresh scent of moistly decomposing leaves and blooming May flowers. A gentle breeze blew in from the water, catching long strands of brown hair that fluttered annoyingly across Rose’s face. She stepped softly forward towards the bells and where she had placed her minute sailboat. It was no longer there. Sometimes, Rose wondered how Abracadabra ever got around to collecting the little gifts that were left to her by the children that frequented the Rainbow. She couldn’t have been much taller than the little girl’s smallest finger, with limbs not larger than toothpicks.

Actually, it was not uncommon that Rose ever wondered how Abracadabra would look like to the naked eye. The little girl swore up and down that she had seen the remnants of tiny footprints, gold and sparkly, trailing up the side of the tree trunk. Once, the silky head of a buttercup had been left next to the Wildwood bells and Rose was certain that it was a cap Abracadabra had accidentally left behind during her errands. Nevertheless, the imaginative girl never pictured her mysterious friend in anything but a loose gown made of the smoothest violet petals, with undulating hair the colour of prairie grass. Her skin would be as clear as porcelain, her kind eyes bright with sunny flecks, and wings so precious they might have disintegrated at a human’s most timid touch. Rose had at times spent hours scouring the rotting underbrush for Abracadabra’s home, eager to offer the elusive being sweet hugs and admiring kisses. She had upturned large mushrooms, mossy rocks, and soft driftwood but to no avail. Rose had never laid eyes upon her Abracadabra.

But now was not time to mourn the unknown and unseen. Rose’s sailboat was gone, which only meant that a gift lay hidden somewhere in a forested cranny. This was how it worked: the bells were rung and Abracadabra would leave a special little something for that special little someone. It was not required to leave something as well, but that was Rose’s warm-hearted initiative. Her heart remained idealistic and hopeful in the face of the evasive woodland dweller. So now she trotted carefully between the weeping willow’s tears, roots that sabotaged even the most skilfully placed steps, and mud that squelched like quicksand. Her red shoes were soon brown, the backs of her legs splattered with dirt. As she ventured further into the more overgrown parts of the Wildwood, the sound of the creek dissipated and only the ravens fleeing their heavenly posts kept Rose solidly in reality, although it was only a matter of time before the young girl would be lost to the fantastical lights of a dreamscape.

In the dimming light, Rose saw a faint paleness. Moving closer, she abandoned all hopes of keeping the last of her dress’ hem clean as she ripped past ancient logs and sticky burs. She crouched down and withdrew a tiny porcelain figurine from two rocks and a jumble of roots. In her hand was the most magnificent fairy, with silvery wings, long flaxen hair, and a slender purple gown. She stood on a careful representation of a mossy knoll, dotted intermittently with lupins and white yarrow. On her face was an expression of utter serenity and wisdom. Her eyes, though really only small, painted yellowish dots, seemed to penetrate Rose’s own childish ones. There was something almost familiar about the fairy, something almost alive about her, that the immature six year old couldn’t even begin to to place. Rose was a thousand fathoms from reality, wrapped up in the fairy that stood lightly in the centre of her palm.

With stars in her eyes, Rose ran back up to the Rainbow where the sun now set upon its front door. She glimpsed Grandma through the window, who sipped the last dregs of her bitter pink gin, and Mummy who had joined her after the dishwashing – although boredom was most evident in dull eyes. Grandpa was, of course, nowhere to be found, having likely holed himself up in the Bunny Room where moth balls and weighty volumes abounded. Their great-granddaughter, daughter, and granddaughter, respectively, was far from their minds, and she now slipped by with whispering footfalls. She entered the Big Bedroom that she shared with Mummy, a place forever plagued by a strange, damp chill due to badly insulated windows. The stone fireplace was never used except as a dust collector. Sometimes, it played host to other dust collectors as well – trinkets better left forgotten. The flowery rug imported from some distant cousin’s dilapidated Tenbury Wells estate had faded from years of sun abuse. Whatever grandeur this room had once possessed only now remained in its name, nonetheless condescending.

Yet, the Big Bedoom had that air of authenticity, of nostalgia not gone amiss, that sparked such a pastel whimsicality within Rose’s soul. This was the best place for her newly acquired cadeau, she decided. Moving to the other side of the room – for some reason, a part she rarely ventured in – she glanced around, wondering where might the best place for the porcelain figure. And then she saw it: a series of five dusty books, the gold text on their spines no longer legible, that were positioned underneath an oft looked-over windowsill, as was made clear by the fact that it hosted a variety of insect corpses. It was an enduring place. Rose placed the fairy in front of the ancient tomes, before starting for the door. Just as she was about to exit, the little girl turned back, eyes alight.

“Don’t worry, Abracadabra, I’ll be back soon.” And so it was that Rose skipped away, skirts sashaying, into the real world.

But she never forgot.