The Golden Day by Ursula Dubosarsky Page B

middle. ‘You sit at the back.’
    She lifted off the rope to release the boat from the metal pole. Then she picked up the two wooden oars, fitting them into the rowlocks, and dipped them into the river with a slicing splash and began to row.
    Cubby sat on the back bench, on a wet plastic cushion. She let her fingers hang over the side, touching the surface of the icy water with her fingertips. The oars swished and gulped. The little boat twisted through the reeds until it eased out into freedom, as Icara rowed on.
    The river began to narrow. The banks on both sides were overgrown with bush and trees, peeling paperbarks and low, creeping mangroves.
    We could be anywhere, thought Cubby dreamily.We could have gone back in time, thousands of years.
    They were being borne along with the help of a tidal pull – Cubby could feel it dragging through her fingers. Translucent jellyfish swam alongside the boat, so close she could touch them.
    ‘Look,’ said Icara.
    Cubby opened her eyes. Had she been asleep? She must have, because it seemed as though the sun was setting, black and orange, and the green of the bush had become stone-grey and the water around them blended in with the coming night. But it was too early for sunset – how had it become so dark so quickly?
    ‘What time is it?’ she said, sitting up.
    ‘Look,’ said Icara insistently. ‘Over there.’
    Cubby looked. Icara stopped rowing, letting the oars sit in the rowlocks. The boat swayed up and down. Cubby saw a tyre suspended from a tree branch that hung over the water, for swinging and jumping. Behind the tyre on the riverbank, half-hidden by a tangle of twigs and fallen branches, was a wooden cut-out figure of a deer with pale painted spots. Next to it was a sign, falling down on one side. It said, ‘Welcome to Fairyland.’
    ‘What is it?’ asked Cubby.
    ‘Fairyland,’ whispered Icara.
    The boat floated further on. Peering out from the depths of the gums stood a flat and faded wooden Snow White, black hair, blue dress, pink skin, red lips.
    ‘It looks so old,’ said Cubby.
    ‘It is old,’ said Icara. ‘It’s like a picnic place. It closed down. Ages ago.’
    The boat drifted.
    ‘I had a birthday party there,’ said Icara, ‘when I was six. There are swings and things. And a flying fox.’
    The boat was being drawn through the water towards the riverbank, closer and closer to the wooden figures and the collapsing sign.
    ‘My mother was there,’ said Icara. ‘At the party.’
    So Icara’s mother had not always been in Los Angeles. She had been married to the judge, and they had lived together with Icara, just like everybody else’s family.
    ‘Was it good?’ asked Cubby shyly. ‘The party?’
    Swish swish swish.
    ‘Everybody was happy,’ replied Icara.
    Cubby felt a shift of fear, she didn’t know why. The Snow White figure was too near, the peeling smile too sweet. She could see the wood rotting in the growing darkness. Something rustled deep in the ferns.
    ‘It’s late, it must be so late,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back.’
    Icara didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the swaying water. The trees on either side of the river had become shadows – they had lost all their colour. She turned to Cubby, two dimly shining eyes.
    ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Cubby?’ she asked.
    Thicker than shadows, the trees were like walls closing in on either side.
    I don’t know, said Cubby inside her head. I don’t know.
    Not now. Not ever.
    Worse than walls, they were black and huge, like claws moving forwards with predatory, scratching sounds.
    ‘Let’s go home,’ said Cubby, terrified. ‘Please, Icara. Let’s go home.’
    Icara sighed, such a deep sigh. She lifted the oars and began to row. She rowed away from the sharp claws and away from the trembling Snow White, back towards the house. Little lights shone at a distance, each moment getting closer. Cubby’s heartbeat began to slow, the danger was passing.
    They didn’t speak at all,