by Jack Dann
He stretches and looks about. The Tangier-Marrakech bullet train is in the station. So beautiful, so powerful. He glances up at the broken sky visible between the girders of the railbridge.
And then he’s flat on his back, gasping with a delight too huge to be borne.
The sky. What has happened to it?
It is made of bliss.
The mod is an addiction, as Tahar surmised. An addiction to the colour blue.
Based on the cortical architecture of the male Satin Bowerbird of Australia, it alters the wearer so that to see blue is to know joy. The effect is such that even the dirty Moroccan sky (postcard-blue, yes, but the blue of a postcard many years old, faded and smirched and smeared with greasy fingerprints) is utter beauty.
Salim breathes it in, feeling unworthy. How had he never seen it before? How could people walk about under it so blithely?
He lies there a long while, until clouds gather and his high dissipates. Then he moves on, climbing back up to the street, reentering the city, eager for more blues.
He dives into the turbulent deeps of Tangier, a wash of warm colours, splashes of terracotta and opium and dust. But that’s okay, because the scarcity of the blue makes it all the more precious whenever he finds it. He’s a treasure hunter, searching out gems, little bits of delight — the bleu-de-Fez tiles in the mosaics on the walls of the richer houses — the purpleblue threads in the hanging carpets of the weaver’s district — the clothes and hides and exoskeletons of various tourists — the pots in the market stalls, often just tourist trash; but the blues, the cobalts, the ultramarines … And then, at the dye sellers, the mounds of colour — just pure colour — indigo, hardcore, straight from the source … Crying out with the pleasure of it, he sits, plonk, just like that, in the middle of the street. He is overcome, all his troubles forgotten. Some passers-by look at him, others look away. The sight of a young person drunk on gasohol is not uncommon in Morocco.
The high fades once more. He needs a new blue, always a new blue, pulling him on. He’s tuned to it, following its vibrations to the Dar el Makhzen Museum. He slips by the guards to drink in the blue-frescoed ceilings, the plasterworks, the silks, the enamelled metal pots, the mosaic of Venus on a sea voyage — and it is the glass waves under her boat that ravish him, not Venus at all.
Then he’s out again, back on the street, perhaps tossed out, perhaps of his own accord, he neither knows nor cares. His need is stronger, helping him find the lucent greyblue of a stray cat’s eyes, then the iridescent turquoise of alien weeds brought as spores on visiting ships. By midday he discovers he can smell blue, its odourless scent pulling him through and through the city.
His desire is a muscular thing, pressing against his organs. He is breathing hard, cold and hot at once.
He pushes on, never noticing another, older boy, who spots him and begins to keep pace (and above, lenses flourish and slick. Michael Jackson’s avionics squirm. Should he do something? Not yet, not yet… He waits, his verniers fluting the tune of his early single ‘Shoo Be Doo Bee Do Da Day’).
Salim moves on, finding blue where others might not: a hint at the base of the smoke rising from a charcoal cooking fire; a suggestion in the sheen of a carcass in a butcher’s stall; a layer of paint on a house, hidden by its current colour, but still there, still muffledly humming.
But Salim is never satisfied. He stumbles down the Boulevard Mohamed VI (Michael Jackson watching as the older boy unfolds a cellophane cellphone and makes a call).
Suddenly, Salim stops. His breath quietens. Over the clamour of the city he hears something.
A crash of waves, the cry of a gull. His head lifts.
Of course.
He runs, leaps. Over a low wall, past the Café Celine Dion, around the back, losing a sandal as he scrambles under a fence, through the backyard of an old colonial house — a dog barking, chasing him onward — across a midden, cutting his heel, blood flows, doesn’t matter — then out the front.
Onto the beach. The sea, the surf. Waves of joy.
Weeping, he falls to his knees. He begins shuffling forward through the sand like a penitent.
A shout behind him. He turns, if only to share the joy.
It is Uncle Baba with two of his boys. Salim smiles. The man looks silly with his British-style pinstripes and polished brogues on the beach.
Uncle Baba says something Salim cannot hear, something about money. Salim shakes his head and turns back to the sea. Who needs money when there is this to be had?
He stands and walks on. He will enter it, drown in the blue.
A hand whirls him around. It’s Baba, who raises his fist — and freezes, looking behind Salim in horror.
Baba runs, his boys behind him.
Glancing back, Salim is annoyed to see his view of the sea has been blocked by a spaceship.
He looks at it disinterestedly. It is covered with a fur of innumerable tiny lifting surfaces — a fractal wing; the equivalent of a two-kilometre wingspan fuzzing the vessel’s lines, the merest breezes pushing it this way and that, keeping it half-aloft, touching but lightly on the earth.
Graceful landing gear drum manicured fingernails on the sand. A door opens, and a voice calls, soft and faltering. Blue spills from the opening, bluer even than the sea. It pulls him forward.
The ship sighs with pleasure as Salim enters it. He looks around for whoever it was who called to him. There is no one.
The voice Salim heard was the spaceship’s. Its name, as he will learn in coming days, is Michael.
The door closes, but Salim isn’t worried. It is warm, and there is food and drink and many splendours. And all is lit blue … Such a blue …
The ship speaks again to Salim, soft English words that he does not understand, but the tones are soothing as the vessel rises, a little uncertain at first, wobbling up into the stratosphere, gaining confidence as it reaches escape velocity, the sky unfurling — a rolling glory of stars — the ship accelerating now, its dreaming engines driving it ever faster, the wavelengths of the stars ahead Dopplering, shifting bluer and bluer.
And together Michael Jackson and his new friend laugh and dance as they shake off the sad old dirt of the world for the delights of the heavens.
Moonwalking without end into the blue forevers of Neverland.
AFTERWORD
Those who are denied a healthy childhood often remain emotional children in their adult years. In many ways, ‘Neverland Blues’ is a childhood fable, Michael Jackson playing the role of the fairy godmother. Many who have read this story have found Jackson’s transformation, from popstar to spaceship, strange. It never seemed strange to me at all. Indeed, it’s always felt almost inevitable — so much so that I wrote it in a hurry, lest the man himself make fiction into reality before I could get it published.
— Adam Browne
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THE JACARANDA WIFE
ANGELA SLATTER
ANGELA SLATTER is a Brisbane-based writer. Her short fiction has appeared in Australia, the United States, the United Kingdom and Canada, in publications such as Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, ONSPEC, and Shimmer. She has a Graduate Diploma in Creative Writing, a Masters (Research) in Creative Writing and is currently undertaking a PhD in Creative Writing. She is working on two novels and writing reviews for Australian Specfic in Focus (Asif).
Here she creates an Australian fable… a deadly, albeit beautiful, metaphor for colonisation.
Sometimes, not very often, but sometimes when the winds blow right, the summer heat is kind, and the rain trickles down just-so, a woman is born of a jacaranda tree.
The indigenous inhabitants leave these women well alone. They know them to be foreign to the land for all that they spring from the great tree deeply embedded in the soil. White-skinned as the moon, violet-eyed, they bring only grief.
So when, in 1849, James Willoughby found one such woman sleeping beneath the spreading boughs of the old jacaranda tree in his house yard, members of the Birbai trib
e who had once quite happily come to visit the kitchens of the station, disappeared. As they went, they told everyone they encountered, both black and white, that one of the pale women had come to Rollands Plain station and there would be no good of her. Best to avoid the place for a long, long time.
Willoughby, the younger son of an old Sussex family, had fought with his father, migrated to Australia, and made his fortune, in that order. His property stretched across ten thousand acres, and the Merino sheep he’d purchased from John McArthur thrived on the green, rolling pastures spotted with eucalypts and jacarandas. He had a house built from buttery sandstone, on a slight rise, surrounded on three sides by trees and manicured lawns, a turning circle out the front for carriages. Willoughby made sure the windows were wide enough to drink in the bright Australian light, and filled its rooms with all the finest things that reminded him of England. His one lack was that of a wife.
He had in his possession, it must be said, a large collection of miniatures sent by the parents of potential brides. Some were great beauties — and great beauties did not wish to live in the Colonies. Some were obviously plain, in spite of efforts the portraitists had gone to imbue them with some kind of charm; these girls were quite happy to make the arduous journey to a rich, handsome, dark-haired husband, but he did not want a plain wife. He had not made his way in the world to ornament this place with a plain-faced woman, no matter how sweet her nature might be.
The silver-haired girl he found early one morning was beyond even his dreams and demands. Long-limbed, delicate, so pale he could see blue veins pulsing beneath her skin — for she was naked, sleeping on a bed of brilliant purple jacaranda flowers, crushed by the weight and warmth of her body. As he leaned over her, she opened her eyes and he was lost in their violet depths.
Ever the gentleman, he wrapped his proper Englishman’s coat about her shoulders, speaking to her in the low, gentle voice he reserved for skittish horses, and steered her inside. He settled her on his very own bed, the place he had always hoped to bring a suitable wife, and called for his housekeeper.
The broad, red-faced Mrs Flynn bustled in. She was a widow, living now with Willoughby’s overseer in a fine arrangement that suited both of them. In Ireland, her three sons had been hung for treason against the Crown, and the judge who sentenced them decided that a woman who had produced three such anarchists must herself have strong English sympathies. She was arrested, charged, tried and sent to live in this strange land with an arid centre and a wet green edge. She’d been allocated to Willoughby, and although her heart would always have a hole in it where her sons had been torn away, she had, in some measure, come to feel maternal about her master and directed her energies to making him happy as only a mother could.
The sight of the girl on the bed, lids shut once again, and the mooncalf look in her master’s eyes troubled her but she held her tongue, pushed her greying red hair back under its white cap and began to bustle around the girl. Willoughby sat and stared.
‘She’s perfect, Martha. Don’t you think?’
‘Beautiful for sure, Master James, for all she’s underdressed. Who is she? Where’s she from?’ Mrs Flynn surreptitiously sniffed at the girl’s mouth for a whiff of gin. Finding nothing, her suspicions shifted; surely the girl was addle-pated. Or a tart, left adrift by a client of the worst sort. Or a convict on the run. Or a good girl who’d had something unspeakable visited upon her. She’d check later, to see if there was any bleeding. ‘Perhaps the doctor …’
‘Is she hurt?’ The urgency in his voice pierced her heart, and she winced like a good mother.
‘Not that I can see, but we’d best be sure. Send for Dr Abrams. Go on now.’ She urged him from the room, her hands creating a small breeze as she flapped at him. Turning back to the girl, she found the violet eyes open, staring around her, without fear, and with only a mild curiosity.
‘And what’s your name, little miss?’ Mrs Flynn asked, adjusting the blanket she’d laid over the girl. The eyes widened, the mouth opened but the only thing that came out was a noise like the breeze rushing through leaves.
Martha Flynn felt cold all over. Her bladder threatened to betray her, and she had to rush from the room and relieve herself outside. She wore her sweat like a coat when she returned (it had taken all of her courage to step back inside). The girl eyed her mildly, a little sadly perhaps, but something in her gaze told Martha Flynn that she had been entrusted with a secret. It moved her fear to pity.
‘Now then, the doctor will be here soon. You make yourself comfortable, mavoumeen.’
‘She’s a mute, you see,’ explained Willoughby to the parson. ‘No family that we can find. Someone has to look after her.’
The Reverend St John Clare cleared his throat, playing for time before he had to answer. Willoughby saved him for a moment.
‘She seems fond enough of me,’ he lied a little. She seemed not to hate him, nor anyone else. Even ‘fond’ was too strong a term, but he didn’t want to say ‘She seems slightly less than indifferent to me.’ Sometimes she smiled, but mostly when she was outdoors, near the tree he’d found her under. She was neither grateful for his rescue, nor ungrateful; she simply took whatever was offered, be it protection, affection, or food (she preferred vegetables to meat, screwing her nose up at the plates of lamb and mutton). She did, however, take some joy in the new lambs, helping Mrs Flynn to care for them, feeding the motherless ones by hand, and they would follow her.
He’d named her Emily, after his grandmother. She had taken up painting; Willoughby had presented her with a set of watercolours, thinking it would be a ladylike way for her to pass the time. She sat outside and painted the jacaranda tree over and over, her skill growing with each painting, until she had at last produced a finely detailed, subtly rendered image, which Willoughby had framed. It hung over the fireplace in his study; he would stare at it for hours, knowing there was something he was missing, some construction of line and curve, some intersection of colour he had failed to properly see. She would smile whenever she found him thus engaged, lightly drop her hand to his shoulder and finally leave as quietly as she had come.
‘Does she want to marry you?’ asked the parson.
‘I think so. It’s …’ struggled Willoughby, ‘it’s just so damned inappropriate to have her under my roof like this! She’s not a relative, she’s not a ward, she’s a woman and I …’
‘You love her,’ finished St John. Mrs Flynn had spoken to him quietly upon his arrival. ‘There’s always a charitable institution? I could find her a position with one of the ladies in Sydney Town, as a maid or companion?’
‘No! I won’t let her go!’ Willoughby wiped the sweat from his brow, felt his shirt sticking to the skin of his back. ‘I can’t let her go. I want to look after her. I want her to wife.’
St John Clare released a heavy sigh. He was, to a large extent, dependent on Willoughby’s good will — what mind did it make to him if Willoughby wished to marry a mute who’d appeared from nowhere? Younger sons were still kidnapping brides in England — this was marginally less reprehensible. ‘Very well. I will conduct the ceremony. Next Sunday?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Ah, yes, tomorrow. Very well’ He did not use the phrase ‘unseemly haste’, although he knew others would. What Willoughby wanted, Willoughby would have, and if it benefited the Reverend Clare in the long and short term then so much the better.
The ceremony was short, the groom radiant and the bride silent.
Mrs Flynn had dressed the girl in the prettiest of the new frocks James ordered made for her. It was pink — Willoughby had wanted white but Mrs Flynn insisted it would wash-out someone so pale and she had carried the day, on territory too uncertain for a male to risk insistence.
The ring was not a plain yellow band, but something different, white gold set with an enormous amethyst. She seemed to like the stone, staring at it throughout the ceremony, smiling at the parson when he asked if she agreed to the marriage. Willoughby saw only
a smile but heard a resounding ‘yes’, and convinced himself that she loved him.
She didn’t seem to care what he did to her body — having no experience of men, either good or bad, having no concept of her body as her own, she accepted whatever he did to her. For his part, he laboured over her trying to elicit a response, some sign of love or lust, some desire to be with him. Never finding it, he became frustrated, at first simply slaking his own lust, quickly. Gradually, he became a little cruel, pinching, biting, hoping to inflict on her a little of the hurt his love caused him. For all the centuries men have dreamed of the joy of a silent wife, Willoughby discovered that the reality of one was entirely unsatisfactory.
It was Mrs Flynn who first noticed the changes in her. Not her husband who stripped her bare each night and used her body as he wished. It was Martha, with her unerring woman’s instinct, who pulled him aside and told him the girl was pregnant. Willoughby became gentle once again, no longer insisting upon his conjugal rights, but sleeping wrapped around her, his hands wandering to the slowly swelling belly, praying that what he had planted there would stay, and would, in turn, keep her by his side.
More and more, he found her under the jacaranda tree. She sat silently for hours, no longer interested in painting, but stroking her growing belly as if soothing the child inside. Whenever he arrived back at the house at the end of the day he would go straight to the tree, for he knew that was where he would find his wife.
‘Where’s Sally?’ demanded Willoughby. On one of his infrequent trips to the kitchen, he found Martha alone; no sign of the indigenous girl (renamed ‘Sally’ in spite of her protests) who helped around the kitchen.
‘Gone. They’re all gone, all the natives. They won’t come here any more,’ said Mrs Flynn, her skin shining, hair trying to escape the cotton cap as usual.