Ghost and Wednesday

Anne Ryden

‘It’s okay,’ Wednesday once whispered to no-one in particular.

Ghost and Wednesday have a favourite game. ‘Step. On. The. Black!’ Ghost releases the light’s reflection, and the dogs complete their leaps in the dark, throwing themselves into a fight. ‘Break your sculptor’s back!’ Wednesday gazes into a chandelier and the light recaptures the dogs in a tumble of teeth and legs. The caverns fill with their laughter.

When the visitors are in, Ghost and Wednesday try to keep the dogs in place. But it is difficult not to blink when you stare into a light for a long time, and not to shimmy when your shroud makes such beautiful folds.

Once, when Ghost shimmied just as Wednesday blinked, the silvergulls scavenging near the dogs accidentally became part of the exhibition. ‘It’s okay,’ Wednesday whispered to Ghost then. ‘You didn’t know what could happen.’

The visitors fill the caverns with wonder at the movement in stillness and admiration of the exquisite craft. But in one place, they all become silent.

Wednesday mustn’t look. ‘Step on the black,’ Wednesday keeps one half of the chant going. ‘Break your sculptor’s back,’ Ghost the other.

The dogs are shiny black under the lights, their teeth too white. Like the dogs frozen mid-leap, the visitors are briefly frozen in place by unheard growls, though soon emboldened by invisible leashes.

The visitors do not know that without light, dogs and darkness are one. But Ghost knows because Ghost learnt from Wednesday, and Wednesday knows because Wednesday learnt that day when Ghost first came to stay.

‘It’s okay’, the caverns echo to no-one in particular.

Author’s note

Abdul-Rahman Abdullah’s works are filled with life frozen in a moment. At the exhibition Everything is True, one of the first pieces I saw was Little Ghost who appeared to have spun around just as I walked in. Deeper into the space, separated from Little Ghost by a wall, there was Wednesday’s Child, sitting on his flying carpet staring up into a beautiful chandelier. And I wondered why Wednesday’s Child is full of woe.

Anne Ryden lives, works, and gardens on Wadjuk Noongar Boodja. She writes to fix her thoughts and memories in time or at least on a page. Her work has been published in Lifewriting Annual, Axon, Meniscus, and Westerly, and by Night Parrot Press. She has also published several translations. She is a senior lecturer in the professional writing program at Curtin University.