Devic sprite clans found it strange that the ‘Have’ creatures were so aware of the body kings and that—as Pieter had amazedly learnt—the body kings were blissfully unaware of any species but themselves, save for the ‘wicked’ plants, animals and sprites that they considered got in their way. And yet, the thought-forms from Planet Have were firmly imprinted upon all their operations. A body king was apt to say at any part of the day, ‘I must have...’ (this or that).
And so they continued to primp and preen, adoring each other with detachment for fear of egos withering, and continued to remain awfully sensuous creatures who reproduced at alarming rates.
‘Rahwor,’ said the eagle.
Maleika edged away. The word ‘Rahwor’ sounded foreboding. Was the eagle uttering the beginning of an incantation?
‘Rahwor,’ the eagle said again. ‘That is the name of my spell caster. He has trapped my earthly self inside a shell of stony ignorance.’
Pieter proceeded to echo Maleika’s concerns. ‘This name you have given, sir. Its sonic signature confuses me...so I shall wish you goodnight and ask with the deepest respect that you continue on your way.’
‘Your doubt in me disappoints,’ said the eagle. ‘I shall leave then and bother you no more.’
Charcoal glowed on the campfires. Lanterns high in the trees swung bright. A new darkness had encroached on the cricket-whistling wilderness.
The eagle bowed his head and vanished.
<><> <><><> <><>
Rosetta snapped her book shut, reached for her document holder on the coffee table and turned to the others in her group. ‘Karma do you think? Pieter rejected the eagle because he’d slighted him. Not intentionally though.’
‘The eagle felt suspicious of Pieter when he met him,’ Royston said, ‘but I thought he had every right to be.’
Eadie, absorbed in examining the split ends of her dark hair, murmured, ‘Really? I thought the eagle was unfair. He gave up on the elf before hearing him out.’
Royston tapped his knuckles against the back of Eadie’s hand. ‘But to give him credit, lovey, he would have felt intruded upon. Can you imagine someone walking up to you at your beauty school and saying “Hi there. I’m from Planet Quock. Do you want me to enlighten you?”’
‘It’s a technical college, I’ll have you know,’ Eadie said pleasantly.
‘Oops,’ said Royston. ‘TAFE then.’
‘And I’m doing the make-up artistry unit of a Diploma in Beauty Therapy. But I get your point about the alien visitor, and the eagle was really sweet once his physical self slept. I wish Pieter had glugged some Remembrance Essence.’
‘Speaking of glugging...’ Craig said, ‘will we start up the coffee now?’
‘I’m interested in those gold pebbles we read about last fortnight,’ Royston said. ‘The ones Wallikin mentioned in Chapter II.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ Rosetta drawled. ‘Where can we get a few of those?’
Craig laughed a little and shook his head. ‘The body kings’ exchange of gold sounds like an alternate explanation for the beginning of money.’
‘What did the sprites trade for survival?’ said Eadie. ‘The Kindness Merits they earned in the Dream Sphere?’
‘Hm, don’t think so, Eades,’ Rosetta said. ‘I think the Kindness Merits just acted as fuel for their magical powers. That’s a good question. What would their currency have been? What do you reckon, Royston?’
‘I think Eadie’s on the right track,’ Royston said. ‘Kindness did happen to be their currency. I imagine they had some sort of bartering system.’ He leaned back as Rosetta collected his empty wineglass. ‘Off to bring out the supper already, Rosetta? I’m so pleased, my love, about the formation of those other book groups. And Perelda of all places!’
‘It’s brilliant,’ Rosetta said. She swerved to collect the emptied pretzel bowl. Eadie, one step ahead, swooped on it instead. ‘Better than we’d expected.’
‘A lot of good things come out of Sweden.’ Royston hummed an ABBA song, then leapt to his feet to do a celebratory little moonwalk. Eadie turned back and pounded the platter in time to Royston’s reverse shuffles.
‘Keep it down, you guys,’ Rosetta said over her shoulder. ‘Izzie’s trying to sleep.’
Craig followed her into the kitchen and watched as she arranged Royston’s European biscuits on a floral plate that used to belong to Mama. ‘Looking good tonight,’ Craig remarked.
‘A good-looking supper,’ Rosetta agreed.
‘I was talking about you, Rosetta.’ Craig chuckled softly. ‘You always look good in purple.’
‘Um...er...thanks! I do love dark colours. Would you mind popping these into the sitting room for me?’
Craig retreated. Rosetta settled the cups into their saucers and took the near-boiling kettle off the stove in time to stifle its heart-starting scream. All in the neighbourhood would remain asleep, forever unaware of her heroic attempt to protect their cardiovascular systems.
A shadow flitted past the kitchen window. Rosetta tensed.
Relax, she told herself. Nothing to worry about.
She sighed. Grasped the edge of the sink. They were safe here. He wouldn’t be…
A crashing thump. Rattle of glass. Shadows.
She yelped. Stepped back from the sink.
His emotionless stare…a writhing lizard…smirking lips an unnatural red in the dull ray of moonlight.
Gaze still fixed on the window, she tried to call to the others. Couldn’t.
A thud-thud.
Rosetta puffed out a sigh. The shadows continued to dance across the glass. She darted to the wall. Flicked on the outdoor light.
Yeeee-ow!
The culprit bounced away from the window, banging the pane once more.
‘Thanks a lot, Sidelta,’ Rosetta said in a groan. ‘You scared me half to death.’ Her cat had been skittering across the window ledge, clumsily pawing at a moth.
But the images…how did she stop the images? They were rolling in again in nightmarish flashes. ‘Scram,’ she said under her breath, echoing the command Royston’s American colleague suggested she use. ‘Scram! Scram!’
He’s not out there, Rosetta.’ Royston had subtly arrived in the kitchen and was doing his best to calm her with butterfly-light back pats. ‘He doesn’t know where you are. You’re safe.’
‘You heard the yelp?’
‘Nope. Only the “Scram!” All okay?’
‘Absolutely fine. I freaked out for a sec, but it was only Sidelta on a moth quest.’
Royston plucked up the kettle from the stove. ‘Now tell me. Who’s having what?’
Safe, she reminded herself. Completely safe. Izzie secure in her bed, and me about to enjoy a chatty supper with a few of my closest friends.
When she returned to the sitting room with the tray of coffees, Eadie was saying, ‘Shame Lena couldn’t be here. Do you know if she’s dug up any more background on the book’s author?’
Rosetta passed a mug across to her. ‘It’s slim pickings so far. We’re wishing we could access a diary of some sort, or letters even, but there’s not much out there. Lena’s found an article mentioning he fell in love with a Gypsy.’
‘So I’m in good company then,’ said Craig, ‘if Lillibridge had a weakness for exotic women.’ He raised an eyebrow at Rosetta.
Rosetta pretended not to notice. ‘We don’t know if it’s just hearsay. Lena’s attempting to contact the article’s author, so we’ll ask her about it next fortnight.’
‘An eighteenth-century Gypsy,’ said Eadie. ‘I wonder if she had a caravan.’
‘A painted one, probably.’ Rosetta had already conjured, in her mind’s eye, romantic images of a flamboyant horse-drawn wagon and a circular stream of tarot cards on a tiny round table, a page fluttering beside them, a secret letter, perhaps, from the People of the Sea.
But who were these sea people? Ragged beach dwellers? Yarn-spinning sailors? And why had Lillibridge chosen to document their story?
<
br /> Chapter Three
The call of the whales had been in Rosetta’s ears only seconds when the mobile meeped. It was a luxury, this rare morning of solitude. The past week had been a frenetic flit between processing purchases at Crystal Consciousness and emptying office bins for Jack Barnaby’s firm. A day of freedom had finally arrived.
She wandered towards the phone, her thoughts drifting to the protein diet she continually pushed into the future. Why did listening to the whale song always remind her of the weight she wanted to lose? A few extra kilos didn’t really equal whale status. She tore away the iPod and reached for her mobile.
The mature voice that greeted her was sweet and high, like a bell. The caller had picked up one of Rosetta’s business cards at Crystal Consciousness Books & Gifts. Could she call in for a tarot reading?
This was perfect. Izzie was turning sixteen next week. Rosetta had wondered only yesterday how she could scrape up an extra fifty dollars. Whenever worry over her single-parent finances threatened to descend, she’d recall her Greek foster father reclining in the cane chair with the wobbly leg, a fedora pulled over his eyes, his caterpillar moustache undulating as he shrugged off concerns over their modest living standards. ‘Ah well,’ he would say, ‘money can’t buy happiness.’
Money spent on a teenager’s special day to add a necessary dose of sparkle was equal to buying happiness, though, wasn’t it? Or a portion of it, at least.
In answer to the appointment request, Rosetta said, ‘Of course you can call in for a tarot reading! What day were you thinking of?’
‘Today.’
‘Let’s see...there’s a cancellation here. How would three-pm suit?’ There. That made her sound in demand.
‘Three-pm won’t suit at all. Can’t it be this morning? Ten-thirty say?’
In half-an-hour! She’d never been this much in demand. Not ever. ‘Ten-thirty it is then. I have a cancellation there too.’
‘Eighty-nine Ashbury Avenue, Burwood? Marvellous! Cheerio, Odetta.’
‘The name’s actually—’
The call had already ended.
‘Right!’ Rosetta altered from drowsy to efficient. She flew to her wardrobe where a mish-mash of undersized garments lurked behind its doors. Half-an-hour! She snatched up two coat-hangers, one with a fitted blouse that tended to make her feel slimmer, the other with wide-leg pants that coordinated nicely colourwise. With clumsy determination, she flung them on in place of the pilled tracksuit she’d been pottering around in and reapplied her make-up before slipping on the dream weaver earrings she liked to wear for psychic work because of their cosmic design.
Izzie was on her mobile in the kitchen talking to Charlotte. ‘Who’s taking the oranges?’
Oranges? Ah. Netball. Rosetta collected the broom from the laundry. About to ask Izzie which parent’s turn it was to take her to the courts, she drew to a sudden stop. It was her turn! She rushed to the hallway, seized up the home phone and dialled Charlotte Wallace’s carefully groomed mother. Two Sundays free of having to ferry a bunch of gigglies. Hopefully this exchange would appeal to Diondra.
Diondra declined the apologetic proposal.
‘That’s fine, Diondra,’ Rosetta said. ‘If you’re caught up we’ll stick to the original plan.’ She would need to stick a Sorry – Back in 10 mins note on the door for her new tarot client.
A symphony of tuneless voices and the roar of a hair dryer. Another burst of murmurs, then Diondra was back on the line. ‘All right, just this once,’ she snapped. ‘But please don’t make a habit of it.’ The call ended in a savage click.
Rosetta delegated the dusting to Izzie, then rushed out to the verandah to shake out the hallway’s crimson-edged rugs, their intricate swirls of olive and royal blue shimmering silkily in the morning light. She set up her tarot cards on the battered copper table and added an ornamental crystal ball to conjure a mystical mood, along with a nineteenth-century Turkish coffee pot, inherited upon Mama’s passing.
Five minutes past the set appointment! Izzie was due to be collected in another twenty. Rosetta drifted back to the verandah and swept it, noticing the eaves could do with a clearing. ‘Hope you’ve had your shower, darl,’ she called, reminded of Diondra’s propensity for turning up early. She reached again for the broom.
‘Had it,’ was the muffled reply from inside. ‘Do you want those magazines near the fireplace? ’Cos if you don’t I could use them for my four-seasons collage.’
‘Fine with me.’ Lost in concentration, Rosetta swished her broom through the wisps of cobwebs collecting in one of the eaves. She plucked them from the bristles and released the ghost-like fragments to the breeze. They floated in zigzags down to the lawn.
A motor purred into the driveway. A car door clicked shut. Her tarot client had arrived! At the clip-clop of fashionably elevated heels crossing the driveway, Rosetta turned to see not her client but a thunder-faced Diondra.
‘Bummer.’ Rosetta put the broom aside and dragged a cobweb-sticky hand through her hair. Diondra was nothing like a tarot client. So much for the psychic abilities.
Diondra marched up the verandah steps.
‘Really sorry, Diondra, to have swapped shifts at such short notice,’ Rosetta said. ‘I’ll do the next two of yours instead. It’s just that I had a client call and—’
‘You’ve already told me that!’ Diondra’s voice was angry and thin. Angry and thin could have also described Diondra.
Diondra glowered at a fallen cobweb on the verandah floor like a cat confronted with a rain puddle. She edged disgustedly away. ‘Izzie ready?’
‘I think so.’ In an effort to buy Izzie more time, she moved to the screen door in a languorous amble. ‘You ready, honey? The Wallaces are here.’
‘I’ll be there in two ticks,’ called Izzie, which obviously meant she hadn’t yet brushed her teeth.
Two ticks, in Rosetta’s opinion, were two ticks too long to be spent small-talking with Diondra.
‘A bit inconvenient, Rosetta.’ An irate smile. ‘You phoned me when I was getting my hair done.’
‘And it looks great.’
‘Thank-yooo.’ The smile became more genuine. Diondra didn’t need reassurance. Her smart swing-bob, bordering on artificiality with its several variations of beige, was ever immaculate. Eyes narrowed with feline slyness, she drawled, ‘I see yours is natural.’
Rosetta tried not to laugh, although the appropriate action was probably to squirm. And who wouldn’t be a teensy bit afraid, with a recruit from the Hair-Colour Police on their doorstep? ‘Diondra, thanks! It takes a lot of work to get my hair looking natural.’
‘You’re due for a top-up, are you?’
‘Not at all. I usually shorten the development time to avoid a fake-looking result.’
‘Ah, so you dye it yourself. I didn’t think anyone still did that.’
Sprung! Too early to congratulate herself on sidestepping the first innuendo. Not that it mattered. The conversation had nowhere to go.
Something scampered across Rosetta’s scalp.
She screeched.
She threw her head forward. The ends of her hair brushed the knees of her wide-leg pants. With both hands she swiped at the crawliness.
This was all she needed: a client due any minute, a newly evicted spider about to wreak revenge, and a too-punctual fashion inspector smirking serenely down at her.
The screen door snapped open. ‘You all right, Mum?’
The spider dropped to the verandah floor and scuttled towards the safety of the wall.
‘I was cleaning cobwebs and...’
Slicing through the explanation, Diondra said, ‘So that’s what I saw in your hair.’
‘Over here, Izzie,’ Diondra’s daughter, Charlotte, was leaning out of the car window.
Izzie waved goodbye to Rosetta and ran to greet her netball buddy.
Diondra turned and clunked her way importantly down the verandah steps. ‘Poor you,’ she said. ‘I thought they were greys. I thought
you were due for another semi.’ Pausing on the path she added, ‘Enjoy your day,’ her frosty tone causing the goodwill gesture to sound eerily like a hex. She sailed across to her gold car, a gilded carriage wherein Izzie, Charlotte and another teen were chattering like starlings in the backseat, redonned her lipstick in the rear-view mirror and whirred out of the driveway.
‘I do happen to have the odd grey hair,’ Rosetta grumbled to no-one in particular. A couple of cobwebs were hardly a cause for pity. She was comfortable with those grey hairs, proud of what they signified. A departure from naivety. A journey towards the gaining of wisdom.
Sinking into a cane chair, she spotted a caterpillar on one of the steps. Its undulating dark brown bristles aptly resembled her foster father’s moustache. Reflecting on Diondra’s spiky remarks, she shrugged. ‘As Baba always said, money can’t buy happiness.’ She groaned and glared at the sky. ‘All I ask, though, is the chance to test that theory.’
Now where was that tarot client?
* * * *
‘What’s the hold up?’ Matthew glowered at the car in front. ‘Come on.’ All he wanted was a smooth run to the golf course, but a rugby game at the stadium up ahead had induced a thumb-drumming gridlock.
Dominic Wallace, his golfing partner for the day and husband of Bernadette’s closest friend, would undoubtedly be using the extra time to brush up on his swing, one eyebrow raised for luck.
It wasn’t just the time-wasting that made Matthew uncomfortable. Being alone in the Jag with his thoughts was not a favourite pastime, and yet whenever the surrounding vehicles puttered to a stop, he was forced into random mulling. Right now his conversation with a self-proclaimed elf insisted on overtaking. Throughout the week he’d had to continually remind himself that Peter ‘Piper’ wasn’t real. The bat had been real though. Matthew had been fully conscious when the bat mutated into a bird.
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