*New Story*

I’m absolutely thrilled to share my latest story—The Turquoise Tree! Set on a tropical Island, it’s a heartfelt tale of love, loss, and hope. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments section below!

The Turquoise Tree

“It scares me. It’s full of creepy crawlies and God knows what else!”

“What are you talking about, girl?” Mum replied, wearing that bemused look she wore so often, creased brow with half a smile.

She always put on that face when she thought I was being silly.

“The jungle is full of horrible insects, bitey things, even snakes. The snakes terrify me the most!”

Mum nodded passively. I sensed she was waiting for an opportunity to shut me down, cut me off. I studied her face. She wasn’t buying anything I was selling.

Push harder, girl. Push harder.

“And you can easily get lost,” I quickly added.

“No, I don’t like it. Remember that poor girl, the one who went missing a few years ago? You know, the one from the village by the river…. Well, they didn’t find her for days. Then, when they did, she was covered in sores, starving,… half dead, she was!”

“Mmm,” Mum murmured, flicking greying hair away from her face. Despite the heat and humidity, she always looked like she’d walked out of a supermarket chiller—stone cold.

It was hot, too hot. The flies and mozzies wilfully ignoring my constant attempts to wave them away. Misery was a game to them, and they liked to win.

I’ve always believed there were only a finite number of flies and mozzies in the world. That at hatching, they were assigned individual humans to follow and annoy. Every living person was adopted, the flies and mozzies forming a unique tribe, a personal posse of pain and annoyance. Mine seemed overly vicious and persistent. They followed me everywhere. I’ve never told anyone about my theory. Mum and everyone else already think I’m a bit mad.

‘Silly girl’ is Mum’s signature phrase.

“All your cousins, aunties and uncles will be here at 2 o’clock. Now, I need you to go pick mushrooms, please.”

There was a stiff authoritarian tone to her voice. Her eyes projected dismissal.

“But Mum,” I protested, “can’t one of the boys go?”

“Your brothers are helping your father prepare the pig and set up the Karaoke.”

I studied the yard. It was barren and dusty, a stark, comedic taunt to the jungle beyond. A bird flew overhead, unusual for midday and the treeless space in front of the house. Perhaps it was looking for a mate, possibly shade. I knew which one I’d prefer.

“He’s not coming, is he?”

“Who, child? Who’s not coming?”

“Mr Bakunawa!”

I scratched myself. The inside of my elbows started to itch at the thought of him. He gave me the heebies. I looked at Mum; she looked back as if expecting me to argue. She knew I hated him.

If only she knew Mr Bakunawa was a thief. How every time he visited, he walked away with something that didn’t belong to him. Once, I’d caught him rifling through my oldest brother’s wallet, and another time, I’d seen him try to steal some of my father’s tools.

At every family occasion, he’d be there, drinking everyone else’s beer, drinking until he got so drunk someone would have to take him home. The man always smelt, too, sitting there unshaven in a dirty yellow singlet. His shorts were so baggy, his saggy balls made regular unwanted guest appearances, frightening the food and disgusting the women. Apart from his balls, the man was a bag of bones. His singlet gaping whenever he raised his arms, showcasing protruding ribs and hairy armpits. His elbows and knees were hinged like awkward skeletal levers. He looked like a giant, yellow praying mantis. Only twice as creepy. He only smiled when he was drooling over me or my sisters as we served the guests, his two front gold teeth mocking an always empty wallet.

Staring at Mum, I wondered whether, for once, she would believe me. I knew she didn’t like him, although she would never say or hear a bad word about him. I tried to coax her into an admission.

“He’s not family, Mum, so why does he always have to come?”

“He’s an old friend of your father’s.”

“But this is a family party. I don’t get it. I don’t think anyone likes him. He’s rude and such a creep. He’s always checking us out! Staring at me and the girls. I don’t trust him.”

Mum gave me another one of those looks. One I’d seen hundreds of times before. Acceptance, submission! Whenever she disagreed with Dad, she’d walk away with that exact look. Her eyes were soft and downcast, but her mouth and lips were tight, her neck stiff. It was a look that made me think her face was arguing with itself. I knew; she knew I was right.

“He’s a friend of your father’s; that’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

I paused and looked up toward the verdant mountain beyond the river. Flying things hovered about my face. I imagined they were grinning, waiting to get me alone in the jungle.

I made one final attempt to escape purgatory.

“I don’t think everyone likes mushrooms.”

My left ear rang as I took the track into the jungle. Mum always packed a mean slap.

I’d hoped the dense foliage would make it cooler. The hope was in vain. It was stifling; sweat poured off me. My flying posse trailed only inches behind, threatening to overwhelm me the moment I hesitated or stopped, but they were a secondary concern now. Snake and leech spotting were the priorities.

How can you spot mushrooms when you’re trying to avoid poisonous, bitey, or sucky things?

I wanted to stop, sit down and cry, but I knew as soon as I did, the ravenous posse following would engulf me, and I’d become the main course in a furious feeding frenzy.

I continued, climbing ever upward, gasping for air; I had to encourage, even fool, my burning thighs to carry on, pushing my hands down on one while straining to raise the other.

Nearly there, nearly there. Push harder, girl. Push harder.

Beyond the ridge lay a tableland, a plateau. This is where the plumpest, tastiest mushrooms grew. I guessed I had ten minutes of climbing left. I felt awful, and I’m sure I must have stunk. Jungle grime danced on my skin before it ran away with my sweat—a short and despicable tryst. I hated being dirty, but I kept plodding upward.

“Do you want a drink?”

A voice startled me.

I looked up but couldn’t see anyone. I was only thirty metres away from the ridge line; the voice was coming from up there.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

Someone was watching me, but I didn’t know who. I hated that. Adding to my misery was that they could see me at my worst. Heat stressed; I was quick to anger.

“Who’s there?” I called. “Who is it?” I demanded, a little too bluntly.

“You’re almost there. Keep going, Rose! When you reach the top, I’ve got some cold water. You can have a drink.”

He knew my name, but I didn’t recognise his voice.

Who was it? What a jerk.

I slowed down to gain extra time to think; my father always warned me, ‘there was a snake in every jungle.’

There was a rustling behind a lush bush ahead of me. My skin was shocked to cold in an instant, goosebumps tightening my slippery limbs.

As I looked up, the sun broke through the canopy. Then, a figure emerged from the bush like a resurrection from Golgotha. It basked in the sun’s halo, holding onto a frightening, intimidating machete. A snappy leather satchel was slung from his shoulder, hanging low around his waist. I squinted; I gulped.

“Hi Rose.”    

The moment he walked toward me, I recognised him. His name was John, and he lived in a nearby village.

He smiled. “Do you want a drink?”

I greedily accepted the flask, taking two eager gulps. I worried he might be annoyed as I nearly drained it.

“Thanks,” I gasped.

I stood there studying him while catching my breath.

John was a quiet guy. I hardly knew him at all. I’d seen him around in town. And I’d seen him at Mass occasionally, but I’d never really spoken to him. He was always in the background. He was a ‘watcher,’ like me. Most of my friends thought he was aloof and arrogant, but I’d always seen depth within those dark, moody eyes, not indifference. I saw understanding. God was gracious, and so was John.

“Are you okay? I never thought I’d see you in the jungle.”

I smiled. I blushed, although there was no way he could have known. I was sure my skin was either bright red or blotchy, ruddled, pig pink. I much preferred ceiling fans to forest canopies. I couldn’t help noticing his skin was darker than mine. I put this down to him always being outside. John was a mountain guy. He preferred his own company. He loved nothing better than exploring the rugged mountains and jungle on his own.

“Yeah,” I replied, wiping sweat from my brow. “Neither did I! I’ve been sent to collect mushrooms. We have a family party this afternoon.”

John nodded. “Come,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’ll show you where the best mushrooms are.”   

We walked off, hand in hand, my heart thumping, my head filled with so much chatter I suddenly understood why swooning birds never shut up. His skin was rough, his grip strong, yet there was a gentleness to his touch I couldn’t explain.

I instantly trusted him. While there might be a snake in every jungle, it definitely wasn’t John.

We entered a magnificent glade filled with a kaleidoscope of asters, orchids, and lilies. In no time, jungle hell had transformed itself into a sensory paradise. Nirvana, Shangri-la, and Eden were mere imitations compared to this place.

The air carried a perfume so sweet my posse lustfully deserted me, seduced by a far sweeter offer. The vibrancy of the flowers was impossible to describe. Nature was fooling my eyes. No artist, living or dead, had ever captured the brilliance and hue of this place.

Plump mushrooms grew in abundance around the perimeter of the glade. They sat coyly, teasing my eyes, tempting my tastebuds, just waiting to be plucked and cooked. I knew they would taste amazing, especially the giant browns with their earthy, nutty flavour. I started to salivate, thinking about the stir-fry and curry Mum would make with them later.

“Let’s sit,” John said.

We sat in silence, the birds speaking for us.

He lay down, staring through the canopy toward the bluest sky. I stole a peek. Although John was slight, he was athletic. His body was hard, rippling with muscles. He lived a life of action. Still holding hands, I lay down beside him. He smelt good.

“I’ve always liked you, Rose,” he said, the words seeming to fall from the sky he was staring at.

I closed my eyes and smiled. This was heaven.

“I have a gift for you,” he said suddenly.

My skin tingled. I opened my eyes. I felt light as a feather. Gifts in my family were as rare as farts in a confessional booth.

I sat up.

“…What?”

John sat up, too, then reached into the satchel still slung over his shoulder.

He rummaged for a moment, then offered me a closed fist.

“This is for you.”

“What?”

“This is for you, take it!”

I hesitated before rolling his wrist over; I studied his alluring dark eyes and his magnetic smile, then gently pried his fingers open.

In his palm was the most beautiful stone I’d ever seen.

My mouth opened; my eyes widened.

He smiled at me.

“It’s turquoise.”

I remained speechless.

“See that tree over there,” he said, pointing. “That’s a Turquoise Tree. The rarest tree in the jungle. Probably the entire world!”

I looked over; the tree towered over everything else in the glade. I’d never seen anything like it before. It looked wise, its trunk gnarled by the passage of time, its creases and knots, its weathered bark telling tales of seasons past. It was a fine tree.

Its shimmery canopy kissed the sky and danced on the breeze, its cheeky leaves whispering, sharing secrets of days gone by. The leaves were the finest colours I’d ever seen, spinning between the richest blue and the deepest green. I drew a deep breath. This tree was impossibly glorious.

“I found the turquoise buried amongst its roots.”

I gazed, studied its roots. Strong and agile, they were like songs weaving their way into the ground, intertwining and harmonising with the earth, tapping its strength and pitching its joy.

“Oh my God,” I whispered in surprise.

Sitting amongst the roots were brilliant orbs of precious turquoise. They gleamed in the dappled sunlight, their tones contrasting between the lushest green of the jungle and the deepest ocean depths. Each one adorned textured patterns of intrigue, imitating the veins of the leaves above, the litter layer, and the richness of the earth’s soil below.

“The turquoise I picked suits you,” John said. “Can you see how the flecks of brown match your eyes? How the soft green lifts your skin tone into a tantalising mocha. It makes your long hair glow like candlelight.”  

I felt faint. The turquoise seemed infused with the essence of time and unfathomable wisdom. In one triumphant moment, I knew I was in love.

John slowly moved closer. We embraced before tumbling to the earth.

Beneath the tree’s grand canopy, we made love—our passion conducting a tender orchestra of ecstasy.

In the afterglow of our lovemaking, we stared wide-eyed at the tree and sky above it. A gentle breeze blew, cooling our bodies and creating a soft melody of rustling leaves. The tree exuded a calming influence over the glade. Birds sang loudly, gleefully throwing melodic songs into the air, their voices chorusing the rich notes of joy that filled me. The tree stood nonchalantly—a living chronicle of nature’s beauty and indifference. The tree had seen it all before. It looked proud, a steadfast presence proclaiming the silent power of the natural world.

John interrupted the silence. “I only collected one turquoise,” he said.

“But you could be a rich man,” I countered.

“I am already,” he said, pulling me closer. “I don’t need turquoise when I have these.”

“What are you talking about?”

He reached into his satchel again. “I collected these,” he said with a grin.

“Turquoise seeds are rare—incredibly rare. In jungle legend, they are said to carry the tree’s wisdom and strength. So, Rose, I’m gifting them to you. Those who possess them receive a blessing—a connection to the tree’s spirit—a permanent reminder of its strength, resilience, and beauty. These seeds symbolise a new beginning, a promise of potential just waiting to take root and grow.”

I shivered.

“When will I see you again, John?” I asked sleepily.

“God has other plans for me, Rose. Our paths will cross again, but in another place, in another time. I will watch and wait for you.”

When I woke, I reached for him, but John was gone. I cried as I picked up the turquoise and the three seeds he had left for me. I sensed I would not see him again in this lifetime. I felt overwhelmed. It was too much to bear.

“Well done, Rose, thank you. These mushrooms are perfect. Where in the jungle did you get them?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno.”

I turned and sprinted away, now grinning.

“Hey, where are you going, girl? I need some help here.”

I pretended I didn’t hear and ran into the room I shared with my sisters. They were out doing their chores. I was relieved. Ignoring Mum was fraught with danger, but I knew I needed to hide my gifts. Needed to hide my face. After making love for the first time, I felt different. I was conflicted with pangs of shame and jolts of excitement. I felt strange, more alive, and I feared anyone who looked at me would know. I knew Mum would sense it immediately. While she might turn a blind eye to Dad’s indifference, she was right up to speed with the affairs of her children.   

I needed to get changed. I took the gifts out of my dress pocket. I carefully studied the seeds. They were long and thin, shaped like granite chips. Their smooth surface reflected remarkable light. It was like the tranquil soft hue of a late summer evening sky. The seeds were weighty. I sensed within them, within their very essence, contained the secrets of healing and hope. Carefully, I wrapped them in a tissue and placed them in the pocket of the cotton dress I’d wear to the party.

Then I picked up the turquoise. I immediately felt warm. My insides tingled. The turquoise cast a spell upon me. It enchanted me, inviting me to pause and reflect. Demanding that I stop to appreciate the beauty of life. It taught me about acceptance and how to listen to the stories emanating from the heart. The turquoise was a talisman, a timeless bridge connecting me to the earth, the ethereal, and wherever John might wander.

This turquoise was so precious I knew I needed to hide it. It was a gift for me. Only for me. I looked around. A modest three-room house afforded few hiding places. Like a dog trying to hide a bone, I became frantic, started running around in circles. Stressed, I felt an overwhelming tightness bind my chest. I struggled to breathe. I could hear and feel my blood pumping behind my ears. I started to sweat.

“Rose,” my mother called. “Where are you, girl?”

I panicked. The underwear drawer I shared with my sisters would have to do. I fumbled the drawer open, then burrowed the turquoise deep within it. I slammed it shut and sprinted back to Mum.  

The guests arrived in dribs and drabs, each bringing gifts of noise and excitement. Family gatherings were fantastical events where jealousy and resentment were swept under the tablecloth right until the moment people left. Mum was famous for the food she prepared, always trying to best the last party’s offerings, especially if it’d been hosted by one of her sisters. In our family, food was the currency of familiarity. The closer you were, the bigger and better the plate.

The men sat in the corner under the awning, subdued, deep voices discussing farming, the weather, and politics. As the afternoon wore on and the liquor kicked in, the younger men would gather closer, hoping to hear a bawdy story or a joke. Only when the men loosened up did they pay any attention to the women, throwing occasional, salty, or sultry glances, depending on their brooding moods.

My sisters and I were expected to top up drinks, smile, and pass around snacks. We were tasked with creating an air of elegance and conviviality, lubricating the tracks of good humour. Family pride was at stake; we were expected to be heavenly maidens of happiness and innocence.

I hated it.

I told my younger sisters to focus on the women, only concentrate on them. I couldn’t stand the thought of Mr Bakunawa passing snide comments, ogling, and lusting after them—or even worse, trying to grab them. I also couldn’t stand the thought of listening to the women, feeding their prying minds, lubricating their vicious gossip, and suffering through the catty, snide comments some of them dished out.

Do you have a boyfriend yet, Rose?

Have you got your eye on anyone?

Why don’t you lose weight? You’re such a pretty girl. That might help!

Food was served at 4 p.m., which meant I had two hours of shmooze to endure. I hoped I could stomach it for that long.

I like quiet. Noisy parties aren’t my thing. The karaoke always started after dinner, and I hoped I could disappear then. The tipsiest and loudest women would always get up first, enthusiastically imitating disco divas, gyrating wildly as more wine took effect. A few of them could sing, but most couldn’t, and trying not to laugh or cover your ears was a constant struggle.

Not to be outdone, about thirty minutes after the high-pitched female cacophony started, the men would have had enough. The bravest and the drunkest would snatch the mic, crooning their best versions of a lounge bar lothario. Their bloated tummies threatening to spill over their shorts like the froth in the beer can they held. The karaoke was as predictable as my second cousins sharing a cheeky kiss and cuddling behind the house.

“You’re a good girl,” Dad said as I brought the circle of men some more beer. He must have had a couple too many already because he quickly added, “Thanks, love,” as I collected the empties.

He was sitting by his brothers and my two brothers. My eldest brother ignored me; he was quickly learning the social rules that separated men from women. You can sleep with them but don’t have to be with them. I didn’t know whether to feel sad or angry. My younger brother pulled a funny face as if he were trying to find a thought. There was an established pecking order here, and he was the runt. I hoped he didn’t find his thought; it would probably be stupid. Younger brothers tend to have a mortgage on stupidity.

I sashayed to the other side of the circle. My cousins and Mr Bakunawa sat there, having little side conversations. All the men ignored me, except one.

“What a fine young buxom woman you’ve become, Rose.” Mr Bakunawa leched.

I cringed. I felt myself stiffen. Trying to ignore him, I picked up the empties as quickly as I could.

“Can you please pass those bottles to me?” I asked one of my cousins, pointing to the empties scattered around the low table in the centre of the circle. He either ignored me or didn’t hear.

Oh, God, please don’t make me bend and reach over.

I asked him again. “Can you please pass those bottles over?”

“Let me help,” a voice slithered from behind. I felt an unwelcome hand on my hip.

It was Mr Bakunawa. I shuddered.

Behind me, I felt him motion to stand. He stood rigid, jamming me between him and the table. I was trapped. I smelt his foul odour envelope me, then I felt his hand lower and grip my rump as he bent and reached over. His body pressed hard against mine. I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to push him backwards and run away, but all I did was say ‘thanks’ as he pivoted and placed the empty bottles on my tray. He didn’t immediately move away. His eyes tried to contact mine. I frantically diverted them; they screamed for help.

I looked to the other side of the table; my stupid brother had found his thought, and Dad’s and everyone else’s eyes were focused on him. I turned toward the gaggle of women hovering by the kitchen. I caught Mum’s eye. My face pleaded protection: she stared momentarily, then turned away.

Sensing my distress, my cousin pushed Mr Bakunawa back into his seat.

“Sit down, you drunken old fart,” he chastened. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

I whispered thanks and scuttled away.

I ran around to the back of the house, where I found the younger children chasing the chickens. There would be no eggs tomorrow. I ran as fast as I could, straight past them and into the bush hiding the river.

I sat for thirty minutes calming down, trying to listen to the earth and the birds. I slowly began to feel at one with the world, connected and grounded. How I wished John were beside me to hold me, protect me, to tell me everything would be all right.

If I couldn’t have him, I wanted my turquoise. I needed it near me, needed to hold it. I decided to rescue it from its hiding place. I raced back to the house.

As I entered the house, Mum was standing outside my bedroom. She had her hands on her hips and was yelling at someone.

“Get out,” she screamed. “Get out of my house, you dirty old man. You’re disgusting. Leave. Leave now… go!”      

I ran forward, brushed her aside and witnessed Mr Bakunawa sheepishly moving away from the underwear drawer. He had an evil glint in his eye and a pair of knickers in his hands.

Arms flailing, I went to attack him, but Mum held me back.

“No,” she said. “Not at the party. We have guests.”

When I saw Mr Bakunawa standing in front of the open drawer, I knew the turquoise was gone. I wanted to tell Mum and Dad, but I knew no one would believe me. If, by a miracle, they did, I would have a lot of explaining to do. Appearances were everything, and there was no way Mum and Dad would make a fuss at a family party. God, I hated them. God, I hated parties.

How can you do this to me? I asked God. How can you turn the best day of my life into the worst? Why would you do that?

He didn’t reply.

I asked again and again, but there was no response.

Dad was right, sort of. There may be a snake in every jungle, but I learned that snakes were lurking closer than you might think.

Suddenly, I felt a slight vibration in my pocket. I looked down. The pocket in my dress began glowing with a blue-green tinge. The pocket felt warm against my thigh; then I heard John’s faint voice call from far away.

‘Dig deep, Rose, dig deep.’

That evening, a policeman visited our house. He told my father that John had been found dead on the track that led away from our house up to the mountain. He had died up there. The police suspected a snake bite. The party was shocked into silence; the lights came on; the Karaoke shut down. Everyone went home. The theft of my turquoise was now inconsequential. Not only would no one believe me. Now, no one would care. God knows I didn’t even care.

My tears waited. I forced them to. They were patient sufferers. They waited and waited; I held them back for as long as I could. It was agonising.

Then, when everyone had gone to bed, I found my way to the dry, parched earth in front of the house. I collapsed to my knees, and I cried. My tears didn’t just fall. They exploded. I didn’t just cry. I wailed. I screamed till I could scream no more. Mum came rushing out of the house. She threw her arms around me. She said nothing; she just held me tight and quelled my shakes.

Dig deep, Rose, dig deep.

A week later, Mum approached while I was doing the laundry.

“Mr Bakunawa won’t be coming to any more family parties, she said. “I’m so sorry, Rose.”

She left a tissue on the step and turned away.

“This is for you.”

I hesitated before opening the tissue. I made sure no one was watching before gently unwrapping it. My heart thumped; my breathing stopped. My hands shook, and my clumsy fingers refused to work. I wondered whether God had changed his mind; was this a miracle?

I gasped when its contents were finally revealed; safely deposited within the soft tissue lay Mr Bakunawa’s two gold teeth.

Mum always packed a mean slap.

The jungle and the mountains remain, and I’m still terrified of them. I try to avoid them at all costs. Supermarkets sell mushrooms, I tell Mum.

The jungle and the mountains have a sad beauty, a gnawing emptiness I know can never be filled. There’s a pain that comes and goes. It’s fickle like the breeze, like a bird on the wing. I sit and stare, thinking of the Turquoise Tree.

“Here’s your coffee,” Mum says.

I look up at her, hair now greyer, complexion still flawless. I smile.

She puts her hand on my shoulder and sits beside me.

“You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah, nah.”

I have good days. I have bad days. I stare a lot.

What’s worse? I wonder, something lost or something never had?

I smile, thinking of a precious stone that was once mine to hold and keep for the shortest time imaginable. The joy of having it was a gracious gift from God, and the pain of losing it unbearable.

A bird flies overhead. It darts from one tree to another. There is chatter amongst the leaves.

The front yard is full now. It’s cool. The three seeds that were planted have grown into majestic trees—strong, tall, and proud, full of love, throwing generous shade and keeping the posse away. People come from miles around to marvel at them. They are a cherished wonder, and whenever I feel sad, I sit and stare. They’ve done me proud.

My turquoise stone, my John, might be gone, but I see and enjoy his precious gifts every day. I see them grow. I see them flourish, and I’m reminded not what could have been but what I had and now have.

They have strong roots and a beauty so rare I sometimes feel giddy. I’ve never looked for another turquoise. There’s no point. Despite my aching loneliness, I already have everything I could possibly need. I’ve been blessed. The trees thriving before me symbolise a new beginning, a promise of potential taking hold and growing tall and strong. They’re a permanent reminder of John’s strength, resilience, and beauty.

I sip my coffee. I smile. It’s a good day.