The Mothers' Group by Fiona Higgins Page A

movement.
    She gazed out at the endless green expanse beyond, heaving with hidden currents. The ocean was alive, she could feel it. Her uneven breaths were barely audible above its rhythmic surge; she felt insignificant in its presence. This sea had delivered sustenance to the people of Bali since the beginning of time. A light breeze tugged at her clothes, like the invisible spirits of ancestors calling her on.
    The mist swirled and suddenly parted. In the semi-darkness, not two metres ahead of her, an elderly woman stood facing the sea. Her skin was dark and her frame skeletal. Her long hair, streaked with silver, cascaded down her back. Made gasped and immediately crouched down on the wet sand.
    â€˜Dewi Sri,’ she breathed.
    The woman was a crone: she looked nothing like the goddess of rice venerated in the small shrine in her father’s field. But the name had sprung instinctively to Made’s lips. A tingling crept along her spine and down her arms.
    The woman did not acknowledge Made’s presence. Instead she stood, unmoving, her eyes fixed on the sea. Her clothes flapped in the breeze. A batik sarong was wrapped around her body, fixed in place by a bright yellow sash. A blue shawl of woven lace lay over her right shoulder. Her lips were moving, but Made couldn’t make out the words. She stooped to place an offering on the sand. A lychee, rice, a sweet cake and several brightly coloured flowers were nestled within the basket. The woman staked the offering to the sand with a wand of burning incense, then turned towards Made and smiled. Her mouth was stained with the reddish-brown juice of betel leaf and several of her teeth were missing.
    â€˜The most important thing, child, is not what is in the basket, but that the offering is made with love.’ Her voice crackled like dry wood on the forest floor. She was terrifying, yet strangely familiar. ‘Even the fanciest offering, given without love, is worthless. True love is divine.’
    Made stared at the woman, speechless.
    The woman nodded once, then turned and disappeared into the billowing mist.
    Made took several steps forward. She wanted to follow the woman, to sit at her feet. To tell her about Wayan, her parents, Komang and the responsibility that was now hers. To beg for the woman’s help and protection against the many things of which she was ignorant.
    The first rays of sun fell on her face and stretched across the deserted beach. As the mist began to clear, the jagged outline of jetties, flagpoles and reclining chairs emerged, littered like flotsam and jetsam across the sand.
    The old woman was nowhere to be seen.
    Made turned back the way she had come.
    It was time to find Ketut.
    â€˜Little cousin!’ cried Ketut.
    Made stood to one side of the security post, conscious of the guard’s glare.
    â€˜You look awful. Are you alright?’ Ketut dropped her bags and hugged Made to her chest.
    â€˜I’m fine.’ Made lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘But I slept on the beach last night.’ She nodded in the direction of the guard. ‘He wouldn’t let me in.’
    â€˜That doesn’t surprise me.’ Ketut’s bright eyes danced. ‘What are you doing here? Let me look at you. You’ve grown so big .’
    Made smiled. Ketut herself, at twenty, looked much older in her crisp brown uniform.
    â€˜Mother would never admit it,’ said Made, ‘but it’s been terrible since Wayan . . .’ She bit her lip as tears spilled down her cheeks.
    â€˜Poor darling,’ said Ketut, drawing Made to her chest again.
    â€˜I need to find work.’ Made wiped her eyes with her sleeves. ‘I thought you might help me, Tut. Is there any work going here?’
    Ketut shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It is very hard now, after the bombings. Not so many tourists. But I can introduce you to Ibu Margono today. You’ll need to get changed first. Come with me.’
    Ketut marched