Make Some Magic

by Morgana Best

  “Thanks, I might take you up on that.” Bill and Ben had told me that I could tell my housemate the general details of my assignment, but not to discuss anything specific that I found out about the evil entity with him. They had also said they would tell Brandon that I was there to find out whether there was anything behind the massacres and mining accidents, but nothing specific.

  With this in mind, I gobbled another mouthful of lasagna, and then asked, “Do you know anything about bunyips, yowies, or goonges?”

  Brandon poured us each another glass of champagne, and then sat down. “Hmm, all from Aboriginal legend. Everyone knows about yowies, the Australian version of the yeti. Everyone’s heard of bunyips, too. My grandfather used to scare me with stories of them, said that if anyone heard the bunyip’s wail, they’d die. The mean old man used to tell me that at night, right before bedtime, and I was only about six years old. I never heard stories of what one looked like though, only heard that they lived near rivers. What on earth are goonges?”

  I was getting a little light headed due to drinking a whole glass of champagne before eating. “Goonges are spirits. I don’t know much about them, only that they seem to live in one area. People need to be invited into certain areas by the goonges, and if they don’t get permission, bad things will happen to them if they stay in that area.”

  “Dessert?”

  I was taken aback at Brandon’s segue. Had he heard anything I’d said? “Yes, please.”

  Brandon left the room followed by an uncharacteristically admiring Merlin, and returned soon after with two heaped dishes of rocky road ice cream with liberal lashings of caramel sauce on top. “Back to goonges,” he managed to mutter with his mouth full. “Do you think the spirits have anything to do with the massacres?”

  I shrugged. “I doubt it. I doubt goonges are homicidal maniacs. Anyway, I’ve googled a bit and I can’t find anything on the massacres at all. When I was at university here, it was common knowledge, but nothing seems to have been recorded, which is weird.”

  “Is there anyone you could ask? Local indigenous Elders?”

  I yawned and stretched. “I wish! No, I asked an Elder and she didn’t know. She was one of the Stolen Generation, so she doesn’t know much about her culture. She referred me to someone else, but he didn’t know anything either.”

  “What does Stolen Generation mean?”

  I looked at Brandon. “Oh sorry, I thought you were an Aussie.”

  Brandon shook his head. “I was born here, but left when I was about eleven. I went back to England with my mother when my parents divorced. That’s why I don’t have a British accent. Anyway, what is it?”

  I sighed and launched into the sad tale. “The term ‘Stolen Generation’ refers to the official policy of kidnapping indigenous Australian children from their parents by the Australian government between 1909 and 1969, although it happened prior to and after those dates. Many of the victims were put into institutions, while some boys were sent to be farm labourers and some girls to be domestic servants. No official apology was forthcoming from the Australian Government until as late as 2008. Didn’t you hear about it?”

  Brandon shook his head and started clearing the table. He appeared to have lost interest again. I got up to help him. As we stacked the dishwasher, he launched into another story about Fred. “I’m sure he’s my soul mate. I’ve never felt like this about anyone else, never. He’s all I can think about.” He stopped talking and peered into my face. “Do you mind me talking about him?”

  I didn’t know what to say so said a half-hearted, “No.”

  Brandon’s face lit up. “Great!” He took me by the elbow and led me to the sofa. “It’s so good having someone to talk to.”

  I smiled weakly and laid my head against the back of the sofa. I was having trouble staying awake. As I drifted off to sleep, Brandon was saying, “And then he said to me... and then I said to him...” for the umpteenth time.

  I awoke in the middle of the night on the sofa. Brandon had thrown a blanket on me and Merlin was asleep on my feet. I struggled to my bedroom and went back to sleep with some difficulty.

  I was woken by Merlin running up and down the bed, her usual behaviour when I’d slept in. I staggered out the back and topped up her bowl of dry food with a little more. For some reason, she always expected to get fed, even when she still had food in her bowl.

  My first morning duty taken care of, now it was time for coffee. I stumbled out to check out the coffee situation. Sitting on the bench top was quite a fancy, stainless steel, espresso machine. I didn’t have a hope of figuring out how to work it, especially pre-coffee—they should make caffeine patches for this type of situation—so I walked in a caffeine-deprived state to my bedroom. From the top of my luggage, I took out the Nespresso machine and a box of capsules, and made my way back to the kitchen.

  Two Fortissio Lungos later, and I was ready to face the world. I tipped the rest of my suitcase out all over my bed, grabbed some clothes, and then headed for the shower, tripping over Merlin on my way.

  When I returned to my bedroom, Merlin was spread out all over my clothes. They were now covered with cream hair. For a medium-haired cat, she sure could shed fur everywhere. I set up my laptop on the desk by the window, and managed to retrieve a notepad and pen from under an uncooperative Merlin.

  I made another coffee. I always have two to get me going and then a third to enjoy. I returned to my desk and typed in the wireless key that Brandon had given me to connect to the net.

  Then I drew a sudden mental blank. Where to start? I googled ‘Hillgrove massacres’ again. Nothing. As I’d heard that the massacres consisted of the murdering of Aboriginal people by whites who threw them over the cliffs in the early 1900s, I googled ‘Aboriginal massacres.’ That led me to ten journal articles all of which stated that many massacres of Aboriginal people were covered up and not recorded. Even the Wiki entry entitled, List of massacres of Indigenous Australians, opened with the statement, Massacres on Australia’s frontier were often not recorded and generally tended to fall under a veil of secrecy due to fear of possible legal consequences, especially following the Myall Creek Massacre in 1838. Well, that explained it.

  Then I thought of Professor Bill Dolan, who was right here at the University of New England in Armidale. He had helped me only recently. The only problem with him was that he liked to spell out people’s names to his thoroughly bored listeners.

  I called the switchboard and was put through to his room. He picked up immediately.

  “Hi Professor Dolan, this is Misty Friday, that’s F, r, i, d, a y.” I suppressed a wicked giggle only with some difficulty. “We met recently when I asked you about voodoo spirits.” I must say I took somewhat malicious delight in getting my own back.

  Unfortunately, Professor Dolan, as delighted as he was to hear from me, protested that he had no knowledge of Hillgrove and merely referred me to the local council.

  I called the local council and was put through to the Aboriginal Liaison Officer. I left a message there, as well as a message on his mobile phone. I then called the council back and was transferred to the office of one of the city’s historians. He too was out, so I left a message there as well. I then emailed an academic who had written widely on massacres and asked if he knew anything at all. I made a note to call the historian I’d met at Bakers Creek.

  By then it was late morning and I was starving. I decided I would have to head downtown at some point through the day and stock up on food for my stay. I felt quite stiff after a day’s travelling, so decided to walk to the centre of town and buy lunch at a café. It wasn’t far to walk, and I thought I’d enjoy it. As it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Chapter 12

  I walked downtown and then through the mall. Cafés were everywhere. I looked in the window of a crystal shop and was about to continue when I saw a little wooden door sandwiched between a lawyers’ office and a newsagent. On the door was a big sign, Mr Boggin’s Book
Emporium. I gasped. Surely they didn't have one in every town all over the world! I pushed the door and went inside.

  The man sitting behind the counter looked just like the man sitting behind the counter of every Mr Boggin’s Book Emporium I had ever visited. In fact, if it hadn't been impossible, I would have sworn it was the same man. That wasn't the only shock—Aunty June was engaged in conversation with the man.

  She turned around. "Misty. What a surprise." Only her tone held no surprise. It was as if she expected to see me.

  "I went to your motel, but you weren't there," I said.

  "I was shopping of course," Aunty June said. “I'm having a lovely time in this strange country town. Most of the people here seem to be either academics or farmers.” She turned to the man. “Anyway, this is my niece, Misty Friday. We’re not blood relatives." Both she and the man chuckled.

  I noticed she didn't tell me the man's name. He looked at me. "Misty Friday. What a surprise. I've heard all about you." However, he too did not look surprised. "I trust the book is serving you well?"

  "Err, yes," I said, wondering how he knew about the book. Surely, it couldn't be the same man?

  I ran through all the possibilities. Douglas had mentioned other realms—could this bookstore somehow follow me? I shook my head to dispel my thoughts. The whole idea was preposterous. How could a bookstore follow me?

  "Let's go shopping," Aunty June said altogether too cheerfully. "I want to buy you some clothes."

  "Thanks," I said, wondering if Aunty June would buy me bright red clothes. I said goodbye to the man over my shoulder. Aunty June marched me down the road about a kilometre and up some stairs into a shopping centre. "They have a pretty bra shop here," she said. "How are things with that young man of yours?"

  "I don't have a young man," I protested.

  "Not yet!" She shot me a huge wink. "You’ve had a most unfortunate underwear incident on several occasions, so now I'm going to buy you some lovely underwear in case it happens again."

  Unfortunately, she guided me straight past the sort of undies I would wear before coming to an abrupt halt. “Why would they have toys in a bra shop?” she muttered to herself.

  "I don't know if this is the um, normal underwear section, Aunty June," I said hesitantly, wondering how I could explain to her exactly what sort of section we were in.

  "Nonsense!” Aunty June said. "Are the underwear police going to apprehend us? I think not." She reached into the rack and pulled out the most hideous pair of undies I had ever seen in my life. They were bright red and covered with huge frills. She held them against herself which camouflaged them nicely, before waving them in the air. Other shoppers turned to stare. "These will look good on you," Aunty June said. “And they’re your size too."

  I didn't know what to say. I stood there, speechless. I leant forward to inspect the ghastly undies more closely. On the front, a devil’s face, complete with black sequinned horns, was embroidered, and under it the words, “Let’s have a devil of a time.”

  "And I will need to get you some suspenders and stockings to go with them," Aunty June said with another wink. "Mark my words, Misty, men absolutely love suspenders and stockings. Why, seduction is a subtle art, and these are your best weapons of choice in the game of seduction."

  I don't know how, but she did manage to find a bright red pair of suspenders and bright red stockings. "Do you know how to work the suspenders?" Aunty June said.

  "I don't have a clue," I admitted.

  "It's easy. You just click them on.” She pointed to the clasps.

  "I'll buy you two pairs of stockings because stockings get ruined so easily these days. That is, unless they’re the thick ones, but the thick ones are hardly seductive now, are they?"

  "No?"

  Aunty June hurried past some dubious looking items and dumped her purchases next to a cash register. "These are for my niece to wear for her boyfriend-to-be," she announced to the shop assistant.

  "How nice," the shop assistant said. I could see she was doing her best not to laugh.

  "That’s very kind of you, Aunty June," I said.

  "Well, your boyfriend will certainly see you coming in the dark," the shop assistant said.

  Aunty June's hand flew to her mouth. She removed her hand and said, “That's a good point! Do you have any luminous, glow-in-the-dark underwear?"

  The shop assistant appeared taken aback. "No we don't, I'm sorry."

  Aunty June waved one hand at her in dismissal. "Never mind. I'm sure I could find some online."

  Aunty June handed me the bag and said, "I'm hungry, Misty. Shopping always makes me hungry. Let's eat."

  She marched me back down to the main road and into a little café. The café was busy, and the barista appeared impatient. We sat at the back of the small room. "Now Misty, tell me what you're doing in town. I'm surprised to see you here."

  I knew that wasn't true, but I equally knew I couldn't call her on it. Instead, I said, "My boss sent me to do a story on the recent murder."

  Aunty June arched one pencilled-in eyebrow. "Murder? But you work for a paranormal magazine?"

  I nodded. "I have to try to tie ghosts to the murder somehow."

  "But what if it's not true?" Aunty June said.

  I snorted rudely. "Skinny doesn't care if it’s not true. She just wants to make sales. And besides, the truth doesn't have much to do with our magazine. It’s pretty much all made up."

  "And she’s still giving you trouble?"

  "She sure is," I said. “She cut my hours and now I'm only part-time." I had wondered whether I should tell Aunty June this news but figured Cordelia would tell her soon enough. It was going to come out, so it was better that she heard it from me.

  I expected Aunty June to be terribly concerned but she simply said, "I’m sure something else will turn up."

  Could she possibly know about SI7? Under normal circumstances, she would be awfully worried about my finances. But here she was, completely unconcerned. Something wasn't right. "Is there something you're not telling me?" I asked her.

  Aunty June’s face was a picture of innocence. "What could I possibly not be telling you, Misty?"

  "If I knew that then I'd… well, then I'd know what it is," I said, thoroughly confusing myself.

  "You’re obviously hungry. Misty. You’re carb depleted, so you can't think straight." She tapped one long red fingernail on the menu. "Eat up. I'm paying so eat as much as you can." She chuckled.

  I ordered a latte and a Thai green curry before asking her, “How long are you staying in Armidale, Aunty June?”

  She shook her head. "I'm leaving as soon as we eat Misty, sorry to say. I can't interfere."

  Aunty June often said that to me. "What do you mean, you can't interfere?" I asked her.

  "I can't interfere in your life. You're a grown woman. You have to make your own mistakes. Not that you always make mistakes because you don't. But what can I say?" She reached across the table and patted my hand. "Misty, all I can say is I am concerned about you investigating out at Hillgrove. There’s something not quite right about that town."

  "Well, there are all the rumoured massacres there, plus it was once a thriving town and now it's pretty much a ghost town, no pun intended," I began but Aunty June interrupted me.

  "No, I don't mean that, Misty. I mean there's something there, something that shouldn't be there. Anyway, I've said too much. Just be careful. Promise me you'll be careful."

  "I promise," I said.

  After Aunty June left, I decided to go to a different café and make notes. This café was too small and busy. I had a vague feeling that I was being followed but shook it off. I finally settled on a café in a side street on the basis of a sign boasting that the café roasted its own coffee, and sat in a secluded corner. This was a good place to make notes. There was no view of the street from back here, so I wouldn’t be distracted.

  I sat there for about three minutes or so, before I realised that I needed to order from the cou
nter; there was no table service. I couldn’t decide which coffee to have, but finally settled on my usual caramel almond latte.

  Just as I sat back down in the comfortable black seat, I had an incoming call on my iPhone. It was the Armidale city historian.

  “That’s the first I’ve ever heard of massacres at Hillgrove or Bakers Creek,” he said, after I explained the information I was seeking. “It’s an urban myth,” he continued. “Anywhere you have cliffs, people think indigenous Australians were thrown off them. Bald Rock, Buff Rock, and Boggabri are just three of the contenders. Now, there were several people over the years who fell off the cliffs, or even jumped off, but as for massacres, no, that’s just an urban myth.”

  I sighed deeply. “What about mining accidents? I haven’t been able to find much on the net about those either.”

  “Oh yes, there were lots of those. The old newspapers were full of them. People back then didn’t wear safety equipment, and their mining practices were pretty ordinary.”

  I sighed again, thanked him for all his help, and hung up. I opened my laptop and googled ‘mining accidents at Hillgrove.’ Again it came up blank, or to be precise, it produced very little. I found a web entry by a man trying to find information on an ancestor who had died in the early 1900s in the Hillgrove mine. He had found out that several other miners had died on the same day, but he’d been unable to track down any information on a mining disaster.

  As I was in a nice secluded part of the café, I decided to call the Aboriginal Liaison Officer again. This time I was in luck. He picked up immediately. He too had not heard of any massacres, but said he wouldn’t be at all surprised if it had happened. He did say, however, that he wasn’t aware of any oral history that would support the fact. I jotted down the five referrals he gave me, and said goodbye.

  That was quite a help, but I was not getting any further in my research. Bill and Ben had told me that there were massacres, but no one, not even the locals, had ever heard any such thing. But why would Bill and Ben, or the organisation they worked for, invent such a story? It made no sense.