Bonzer Words!: Ravaged
...She walked towards me, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Her hands were gripped together in front of her. She gave the impression of wringing them together in anguish, but there was no discernible movement...
Shirley Henwood tells of a hauntingly unforgettable encounter.
Shirley writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au
The rain had ceased, leaving behind its effects on the canvas of nature. The green of the dripping wet shrubs and trees shone in the hot and humid air. The raised, wooden, nature walkway was dark and slippery. With sunlight filtering through the trees, patches of light and shade intensified in colour. Clouds of steam rose from the walkway.
My husband and I had become momentarily separated, as we wandered around. He'd stopped to read a plaque by a tree that took his interest. I walked on. The rain and the lateness of the afternoon had given us the impression we were the only visitors to the popular, tropical, nature walk. Although beautifully constructed, it seemed very artificial to me, and I longed for a walk along a barely discernible track, alongside a bubbling stream, through native bush, where there were no snakes to worry about.
I had no fear. As tourists, we weren't aware of any local rapes, robberies, or murders, as we would have been at home. I could imagine of this place as the scene of a murder. A body could be hidden under the walkway in numerous places, I decided, and never found. Suddenly the atmosphere felt sinister. I wondered how far Tom was behind me.
I became aware of somebody coming slowly towards me from a lower level. She was dressed all in black with a black headscarf. I immediately assumed she was Greek, perhaps because when I had been in Melbourne as a child when the New Australians started coming into the country, most of them in our suburb had been Greek, and dressed like this woman. I tried not to stare at her. She walked towards me, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Her hands were gripped together in front of her. She gave the impression of wringing them together in anguish, but there was no discernible movement.
Her face stunned me. I stopped. I would speak to her, I would ask whether I could help, I would do something; but I did nothing.
She walked past me, her lips moving. I wondered whether she was praying, or perhaps was insane. As she passed, leaving me in a state of shock and horror, I shuddered. Her face was the most tragic face I had ever seen—the embodiment of all suffering, a face one hopes never to see on another person, or especially in a mirror. I wondered whether she had lost all her family to famine, war, or an accident.
Any number of explanations ran through my mind. I couldn't imagine what could cause somebody to suffer so. I knew that her face would haunt me forever, would come unbidden into my dreams, and that I would never erase the horror of the face of her suffering until the day I died.
Filled with fear and foreboding, I called to my husband. His voice came from an upper level, but he arrived behind me.
‘Did you think I'd got lost?’ he asked. I took his hand in gratitude.
‘Did you see that woman in black, you must have passed her?’
‘What woman, nobody went past me? Are you sure you didn't imagine it?’
‘Don't be daft, why would I imagine it? She was spooky though, maybe she was a ghost.’
‘Well, let's get out of here before we're locked in. If she's a ghost she'll be able to float out.’
I could see he wasn't about to give any credence to my story, so I vowed to keep her memory in my heart. If I ever see her again, I’ll speak to her. I will.
© Shirley Henwood
