The Garramoda

 

By Gayle Beveridge

 

Hhhrr, hhhrr, hhhrr.  Caralee puffed her breath on the mirror; watched the vapour form misty on the glass, and then fade slowly, delicately.  I should have thrown that mirror away years ago; accepted that it would never give back what it had taken and been done with it.

“Caralee, don’t blow on the mirror.”

“Why not Grandpapa?  I’m making beautiful clouds.”  She flashed an impishly defiant grin my way.  At her age, I would never have spoken back to my elders, but my great granddaughter was born of a different time. 

“To dwell too long at the mirror is to wake the Garramoda.”

“Now Grandpapa, don’t be telling her such tales; she’s only ten,” Caralee’s mother, Janelle, breezed into the room.  As she walked around the bed, her skirt, hanging from perfectly proportioned hips, swirled around her long, slim legs.  Her golden hair captured the sunlight peeping in through the open drapes and her infectious smile made me feel warmed inside and out.  Caralee’s sky blue eyes followed her around the room until she left, and then stared expectantly at me, the sparkle of curiosity radiating from them.

“When I was a boy, as old as you are now,” I told her, “and the duke was to visit our valley, my mother, a woman both beautiful and vain, ordered the seamstress to stitch her a gown of unparalleled splendour.  It was truly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, regal burgundy and milky cream and flowing as soft as a breeze.  My father was only a labourer and my mother could not afford to pay for the gown.  Such was the pity of our lives, for the seamstress was a witch and laid the curse of the Garramoda upon my mother and all her female bloodline.”  I had not seen Caralee so attentive since she and Janelle had come to live with me.  I wonder as I speak of the curse, will she be warned from it or drawn to it? 

“The mirror is the abode of the Garramoda.  They entice you with the beauty of your own reflection.  They lure you to blow upon the glass to view yourself through the lace of your soul.  With each breath they suck from you, they become stronger; beautiful women are drawn first to the mirror and then into the world of the Garramoda, where they are lost forever.

“Grandpapa.”  Janelle was back and playfully scolding.  “Finish doing your hair Caralee and don’t be worrying about Grandpapa’s fanciful stories.”

I sat on the bed, watching Caralee watch herself brush her silky, golden hair, twenty times, then fifty, then one hundred.  Her small frame was dwarfed by the mirror sitting on the dresser. It was raised on a serpentine base and crested with an alluring, scantily clad maiden, flanked by mythical winged creatures with bulbous bellies and forked tails, each with a clawed foot resting upon the maiden’s shoulder.  The Garramoda, claiming their prize.

Too long today the eyes of my sweet maiden child had looked upon them.  Quietly, with slow and deliberate movement I rose and took the brush from Caralee.  As I cupped her chin in the palm of my hand and turned her face away, her breath fell upon the mirror, settled like gossamer lace and for the first time in nearly thirty years, I watched the vapour fade from the centre out instead of inward from the edges.  My body prickled cold from head to toe.  I took Caralee by the hand and we left the room together.

After Caralee had gone to school, I begged Janelle to have the mirror removed.  My granddaughter offered me smiles and compassion but not credence.  She poured me a cup of tea from my favourite china pot, buttered some scones, softly patted my hand, chatted about the weather and the routine for the hens, anything but a silly old man’s superstition.  I let my guard drop, savouring this precious time with her.  When she was only eight years old, Janelle’s mother, my daughter, Anna, disappeared, just as my own mother had done all those years before.  I sent Janelle to boarding school in the city and after she graduated, I encouraged her to make her life there.  Stay where there are opportunities, I told her, keep her safe from the Garramoda, I told myself.  Now that I was old and she widowed, Janelle was home again.

Long after everyone should have been asleep that night and I lay staring at the cracks in my bedroom ceiling, I heard a strange squeaking sound coming from Caralee’s room.  It was like the soles of rubber shoes on newly polished floorboards, only melodious.  Caralee was sitting in front of the mirror, looking angelic in her nightie, her long golden hair cascading over her shoulders.  She had a cloth in her hand and was softly rubbing away at a large misty shape on the glass.

“Caralee dear, leave the mirror now and go to bed.”  I placed my fingertips gently on her shoulder.

“Isn’t it a beautiful sound Grandpapa”, she cooed and rubbed again.  “It’s music.”

“Come dear, you must get your sleep so you’re bright for school tomorrow.” 

As I reached over to take the cloth, Caralee swirled it over the mirror in a fluid circular motion.  “Listen Grandpapa, it sounds like a beautiful flute?”  Stooping, I placed my arm around her shoulders and gently pulled her away from the dresser.  Taking the cloth from her hand, I could not help but glance at the mirror.  The misty shape Caralee had been rubbing ebbed and flowed until it took the form of the Garramoda.  While I tucked Caralee into bed, the ice-cold hand of sorrow closed around my heart, and tears, hidden by the dark of night, ran down my cheeks.

“Isn’t the mirror fabulous,” she said when I kissed her forehead.  “Do you see on top how the creatures guard the beautiful girl?”

“They do not guard her,” I whispered, “they are the Garramoda; they mean to take her away.  Now my dear, close your eyes and don’t think any more about the mirror.”

I rose early in the morning, sat Caralee away from the mirror, and did her hair for her.  “I love you Grandpapa,” she said, throwing her arms around my neck, her lips brushing a dainty kiss on my cheek.  I cursed the feebleness that rides on the back of old age, for I would need to summon forth all the strength I had to protect my darling girls.

Janelle was walking Caralee to school; she would be gone for almost an hour.  Standing beside the dresser, I stared into the mirror.  My mother and my Anna were in there somewhere, but it was time to let them go.  Janelle and Caralee were what mattered now.  I pushed hard on the edge of the mirror.  I meant to shove it to the floor and shatter the glass.  When it would not budge for it was as heavy as I was old, I wedged my shoulder against it and pushed again.  I pushed until perspiration beaded on my brow and my shoulder burned.  Still the mirror would not budge.  Ignoring the pain I felt, I pushed until my feet slipped and I fell hard against the dresser banging my cheek just below my eye.  My aged skin tore like paper and for a time I was preoccupied with bleeding that was slow to stop.  When Janelle returned, fearful that she would think I was losing my mind; I told her I had slipped in the bath.

In the afternoon, although it was not my habit, I napped.  Nights were no longer for sleeping; they were for listening, for guarding.  Each morning I brushed Caralee’s hair for her, told her stories of life, taught her quietly but quickly, for there was an urgency, of the ills of vanity, that sit a girl too long in front of a mirror.  I hid my lessons in stories of times gone by.  Caralee came to look forward to our chats, and Janelle, to whom I made no further mention of the mirror, was pleased that we were getting along so well.  Each night I tucked Caralee into bed and told her tales of yesteryear until she fell asleep.  So passed the nights for two full weeks, before once again I was drawn to sounds from Caralee’s room.

The walls of her room flickered with the reflection of tiny pairs of lights.  Caralee watched the lights, not around the room where they fell, but in the mirror.  “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” she chanted, softly touching a finger to the mirror where they appeared.  The room light was off.  The heavy, brown, velvet drapes were closed; there seemed no gap to let in any light from outside.  “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” Caralee sang.

‘Caralee my little pumpkin, come back to bed.  The lights are just tricks your eyes are playing,” I coaxed, feeling already the cold sweat of fear forming on my palms.

“They are eyes, Grandpapa,” Caralee’s voice bubbled with excitement.  “See, lovely yellow eyes with golden centres.  They are my eyes.”

I looked into the mirror and saw in place of the reflection of Caralee’s own eyes, blinking eyes, fire golden and incandescent; the eyes of the Garramoda.  “Come away,” I gasped and grabbing her by the shoulders pulled her back, toppling her chair. 

“Grandpapa, what are you doing?”  Frightened, she began to cry.

“Hush my darling, come back to bed.”

“No!” she shouted and pulling away, righted her chair and sat again in front of the mirror.

“Caralee.  Please.”  I took her hand in mine but she wrenched away. 

“Leave me alone!”

“Grandpapa?  Caralee?”  The room light clicked on and Janelle stood framed in the doorway.  Her flowing, burgundy silk dressing gown, edged with bias and tied with a cream sash reminded me of the dress my mother wore to dance with the duke at the ball.

“Grandpapa hurt me and he tipped my chair over!”

“Come Grandpapa.”  Janelle took my hand and guided me from the room.  “Off to bed,” she called to Caralee as we left, but my little pumpkin was playing again with the lights in the mirror.

“Janelle, take her from the mirror.”

“It’s all right Grandpapa, she can stay up late.  There’s no school tomorrow.  Come, I know you’re having trouble sleeping.  Go on to bed.  I’ll make us some hot chocolate and sit with you for a while.”

The hot chocolate was gently warm, made for an old man’s sensitive lips and milky as I liked it.  Janelle softly rubbed my hand while we drank.  “You worry too much Grandpapa.  The mirror is just a mirror.  You know after father left that mother was playing around with that mechanic who came to town.  The police told you he left at the same time.  It’s obvious she ran off with him.  I know you’re worried because Great Grandma went away too, but it’s just coincidence Grandpapa.  Caralee is just a little girl who likes to play with her hair in front of the mirror; that doesn’t mean she’ll grow up to be flighty and promiscuous.  Anyhow, my dear sweet Grandpapa, she has both of us to guide her along the way.  She’s going to be fine.”  Janelle’s voice was as gentle as her soul.

“Janelle, I know you believe what you believe, but the Garramoda.”

“There are no Garramoda Grandpapa; they are nothing more than words spawned from the bad temper of a spiteful creditor.  You heard them when you were so young and Great Grandma leaving so soon after gave them credence, but please Grandpapa, these thoughts have ruled your life long enough, let them go so that you may have some peace.”

We talked into the night but nothing I said could convince Janelle to be rid of the mirror.  She was afraid that to cast it away might convince Caralee that the Garramoda existed.  I was afraid of what might happen if Caralee was not convinced.

Sleep took a tighter grip on me that night.  I awoke later than usual, startled by something.  I laid still and quiet waiting for my senses to take hold, before I recognized the sound of Caralee crying.  I cast my blankets aside, and jumping out of bed, stumbled over my slippers but did not take the time to put them on.  The slate floor upon my feet was icy cold as I ran to Caralee’s room.

Caralee was sitting, weeping at the mirror, her tiny hands pressed so hard against the glass that her knuckles were turning white.  Beside her on the dresser a bottle of window cleaner lay on its side and was leaking onto a rag.  I reached out and touched her arm as softly as I could, fearful she might cast me away as she had the night before.  She looked up at me, her face shrouded with a fear no child should have to know.  “Grandpapa, it’s my fault.  Mama’s gone and it’s my fault.”

“What are you saying,” I gasped and steadied myself against the dresser for my knees were suddenly weak.

“I made the mirror dirty.  I made the mirror dirty and when Mama tried to clean it the Garramoda took her.”

“No!” I sobbed, but even as the cry left my throat I could hear Janelle’s fading calls from within the mirror.  I dropped to the floor, put my head on Caralee’s knee and wept.  I wept for my mother, for my daughter, Anna and for my gentle Janelle.  Most of all I wept for Caralee. 

Gayle Beveridge

Born in rural Australia, Gayle Beveridge later moved to Melbourne where she lives with her husband.  Gayle settled into an accounting career, only starting to write in earnest approaching her 50^th birthday.  Gayle won first prize in 2008 Boroondara Literary Awards for 'Not Dead Yet’; was shortlisted in Positive Words 2007 Short Story Competition for Last Day'; was commended in Best of Times 2008 Short Story Competition for 'Trolleys International' and highly commended in Best of Times 2009 for ‘Danhooden’.  Her stories 'The Possum', 'Afternoon Tea in Amberley Lane', 'Trolleys International', 'Not Dead Yet', 'Snapshot', ‘The Peacock’s Lair’ and ‘Danhooden’ are published.