‘Do you plan to...?’ He clamped his mouth closed. A waking dream. ‘...Plan to waste the remainder of your life?’ A hallucination from lack of sleep. No significance whatsoever. And he of all people, Matthew P Weissler, contender for Charlie’s glittering director’s role, could not be accused of frittering away his future.
When he’d returned home after the bat/eagle/Peter Piper incident, he’d climbed the staircase of his neoclassical-style monstrosity and found Dalesford’s book in the same place he’d thrown it, beneath the drapes of his study. A corner of one page had twisted from its laminated cover, and so he’d rescued it from the floor and pressed the cover flat with a paperweight. It wasn’t the first time the book had preyed on his sympathies. He’d already saved it from a bin some weeks earlier.
The car behind him descended into a series of petulant beeps. He groaned and flicked on the radio.
Dalesford. Conan Dalesford, author of Thoughts on Tomorrow’s Tycoon War, had loads of theories that were as challenging as they were intriguing.
The car in front had a twee sticker on its dusty rear window, weather-bleached to palest blue. Its faded words assured ‘magic’ did indeed ‘happen’. What was the motorist like? No doubt a star-gazing fan of fairy tales, a bleary-eyed believer in seed diets and soul-travel, or ‘OOBEs’ as Dalesford referred to them.
To give Dalesford credit, the OOBE theory might well hold some clout. The suggestion that Out-Of-Body-Experiences actually occurred intrigued Matthew. Not enough to make him grow his hair long, chow down tofu, or pose lotus-style by the fountain in Hyde Park, but the idea that danced through Chapter Six was so logically explained it ultimately won his respect. According to Dalesford, an interdimensional soul-self was exactly like the physical self but separate and capable of travelling outside of it. Joined to the body by a silver cord, apparently, which detached in the event of death.
Pulsating from his speakers was a squeaky Top Ten single that contained about as much variation as a dentist’s drill. On the next station, Doctor Cyanide was belting out a chaotic assortment of rabid chants.
The car in front rolled forward.
‘Eureka!’ Matthew pressed ahead.
‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!’ Doctor Cyanide’s vicious demands were clawing tunelessly at his eardrums. ‘More!’ This had been uttered in a desperate snarl. ‘More. More. Moooo-wah! Moomoomoomoo-moomomomoomoo...’ Matthew flipped through the channels and landed within the tame harmonies of a Golden Oldies hour, a croony salvation from Cyanide’s self-indulgent 1970s non-lyrics.
He knew Dalesford’s chapter on OOBEs shouldn’t really have appealed to him. Apart from mild interest in his sister-in-law’s astrology obsession, mind-body-spirit topics had failed to impress. He did have to admit that her astro-predictions were rather apt. And a few months back he’d been amazed to learn that a couple of guys at work believed astrological trends affected the market. One had even hired an astrologer to advise on the best times to buy and sell. So if guys at work were into that stuff, his inquiry into OOBE theories hardly made him a New Age fruit-loop.
It was Dalesford’s description of ‘sprite visitations’ that had captivated his interest most. Did that explain the Peter Piper puzzle? Or could it have been an Out-Of-Body Experience?
He veered through the gates of the Royal Sydney Golf Club and parked near the outdoor bar where Dominic Wallace was sipping a whiskey and goggling at the short-skirted attendants.
Once Matthew had signed in at the clubhouse, Dominic caught up with him on the conifer-shaded steps. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to disappear for half-an-hour after the first round, Matt. Diondra wants me to collect Charlotte and her mates from netball.’
‘Not a problem. And thanks for standing in for Davo.’ Matthew would have preferred a stronger teammate today. Charlie Sanders was playing opposite them this morning, along with his eldest son, a trophy-magnet from way back, and Dominic Wallace’s down-swing epitomised what that famous American golfing great, Lee Trevino, described as ‘a caveman killing his lunch’. Everyone had to start somewhere, of course, but Dominic's evolution towards greatness seemed to have stalled indefinitely.
<><> VII <><>
Returning from the Dream Sphere was vexing for Maleika. She would not be recalling what she had done while in dream-self form. She had rationed her own consumption of the crystal-imbued Wondalobs water so that each member of her clan, comprising her two elfin sons Pieter and Kloory, her diminutive elfin nephew Croydee, and the two water sprite orphans, were not deprived of it.
Sipping her berry cider, Maleika tried not to feel sorry for the state that had befallen them, of Pieter not yet returned to the Brumlynd campfire. She did not wish to dwell on the fact that the boy had recently celebrated the twelfth anniversary of his birth, nor did she seek a reminder of Orahney’s unsettling prophecy fifteen season-cycles earlier, about gold-skins sending him to a previous century.
Pieter’s younger brother was eager to make sense of his fragmented recollections. ‘Ah!’ Kloory said, having sipped Remembrance Essence. ‘I now know where I went in my slumber. We were whirling through an azure sky in a hawkish vehicle. It was made of a similar substance to the gold those creatures pull from the earth, only it took on the colour of a thundercloud.’
‘Silver?’ suggested Maleika.
‘Almost,’ said Kloory, ‘yet duller. The driver-sprite of this thundery chariot wore a solid head-bubble. He referred to it as his “helmet”.’
‘And so you took the form of one of these bubble fellows?’
‘Indeed. I sat beside the driver.’
‘Are you certain the both of you were sprites? Perhaps you were of gold heritage.’
‘It’s possible we were gold-skins.’
Maleika nodded approvingly at the term. The evening before, she insisted her clan refer to the Elysium invaders in a more honourable way than ‘body kings’. The sprites’ invented name, ‘body king’ emphasised an obsession with one’s own physicality. The other term indicated appearance only and was discovered two evenings earlier by her nephew when he overheard two courtiers refer to themselves as ‘We of Gold Skin’.
‘We must use the name to which these people are accustomed,’ Maleika had told her little clan. ‘The leaders at the Clan Consolidation have deemed the other name offensive.’
Kloory continued with the description of his dream. ‘Another hawkish vehicle hovered ahead of us. Spherical lightning bolts spewed from its base.’
Croydee trundled across to the berry cider flagon and poured himself a cup. Maleika observed her orphaned nephew with affection; marvelled at his dimples and dark curling hair; and noticed, not for the first time, how very much he resembled a fallen chestnut, for he outfitted his tiny plump body in furry seed husks. Having not been in solidity for long, Croydee was still linked to his most recent incarnation in the Dream Sphere. He was the least attached of all to this earthly world where fingers of darkness painted illusions of restriction. ‘You’ve travelled far ahead to the future I think, Cousin Kloory. Would these fiery spheres have been miniature suns?’
‘No, Croydee. These weren’t golden. They met the ground in a blast of fury. Sprites were fleeing blazing cottages.’ Kloory hid his face in his hands.
‘Seems to be a continuation of body kings,’ said Croydee.
‘Of gold-skins,’ corrected Maleika.
‘Of gold-skins, I mean. For certain!’
‘Who else would wear solid head bubbles and seek to harm other life-forms?’ said Kloory.
‘And so they will continue to live here on Earth,’ said Maleika with a despondent shrug.
A grave stillness settled upon the clan.
‘All we can do is keep working,’ said Kloory. ‘The more we can set an example of peaceable respect for them, the better chance this world has for the future. We might as well do it now while we’re still permitted to exist here.’
They lifted their mugs in a quiet toast.
Reassuring herself that Pieter had been dist
racted on one of his rambles through forests beyond the Grudellan Palace and that he would more than likely reappear before dawn, Maleika pondered the life she was surveying in the Dream Sphere. She had come to learn the life was many aeons ahead of her own. She had taken an interest in this timeframe. The sonic signatures of the future sprites she’d observed were resonating with those of the Brumlynds, and the sprite she’d been asked to assist, the one whose name suggested roses, had a genetic code that appeared to be tribal. Confusion enveloped this woman. The woman wanted to create beauty yet was limited by resources, and her hopes were eclipsed by the blandest brand of amusement, a swirl of dispiriting dealings and events.
The rose sprite was not engaged enough. Something had to happen to ground her in her material realm. It would not do to have her destroying her mission out of sheer forgetfulness, nor that of her fire-haired daughter. And what a mission it was!
Maleika leaned back and laughed at the irony of the situation. Putting up with deprivation and lovelessness and obscurity when...but all in good time. The plan would have to work. If the sprite were not reminded of the roles she and others like her were to play, all those of her timeframe would be known as ‘the Insignificant Ones’. Maleika would do her best to allow this soul a right to her own significance. In doing so, the rays of elation would ripple through more than just the earthly world. All worlds would benefit from the freeing.
‘Come along, then, Croydee,’ she said, rising from the campfire. ‘Tonight we’re to visit those gnome friends of yours who dwell near the Grudellan Palace. They might have seen our Pieter.’
<><> <><><> <><>
Rosetta stood on the footpath scanning Ashbury Avenue for signs of the tarot client. She returned to the verandah’s cushioned cane chair with the local newspaper she’d collected from the letterbox and opened it to the employment section. A notice caught her eye. A bad speller in a neighbouring suburb was advertising for a nanny.
Will someone phone me urjently, i need someone to mind my kids ASAP in my home large inside moddern estate Cabarita Heights while im on holliday for 2 weeks.
Email Bernadette Weissler at the address below.
A flicker of lilac skimmed the verandah floorboards. Rosetta blinked, and flashes of pale yellow darted in all directions. She blinked again. Her vision was inundated with silver-edged star-shaped sparks. Not the first time this had happened. Time to book a check-up with the optometrist.
She opened the newspaper out again. The stars had gone now...hadn’t they? No, still there, but bouncing above the job ad.
She read the advertisement again, this time minus any prejudice against its poorly worded presentation, and her vision cleared. Nannying wasn’t the type of third job she sought. The last time she’d minded other people’s children professionally was some twenty-five years ago, but maturity and being a mother might count for something.
Resolving to phone the advertiser on Monday, she settled back into the chair and slowed her breathing. Still optimistic that the woman who phoned earlier was late and not a no-show, she closed her eyes and cautioned herself against falling asleep.
The peace of the verandah soothed its way through her thoughts. Sleep beckoned. Surrender. Slumber. Drifting within a dream.
‘Where am I?’ she murmured and opened her eyes. Foliage in various shapes and forms splashed against her field of vision.
And then she saw it. Turrets of gold spiralled into a violet and crimson sky. A mint-scented mist floated about intricately patterned gates. Grand archways, which peaked at their apex in arabesque fashion, glittered darkly, as though beckoning from one angle and repelling from the other.
Whimsical. Mysterious. Displaying traces of modern and medieval design, although something about its impressiveness made Rosetta uneasy. The forest behind her emanated a blissful serenity, and yet this dazzling, golden enigma seemed to be wrapped in chills.
How did you describe a place so divorced from your own reality, so unlike anything you’d ever seen that it was a wonder you could see it at all? This would all be forgotten on her return to that other consciousness. Why couldn’t her waking existence be as tranquil as the forest?
‘Oh, there you are, Molly Carr,’ a babyish voice from behind her said.
Rosetta spun round. ‘The name’s not...not...’ She hesitated. ‘What I mean to say,’ she added without knowing why, ‘Is, the gnomes know naught of Pieter’s passing here. Let us go now, Croydee, to our sleeping wagons.’
Her senses numbed a little and she found herself wondering who she was.
She was Molly Carr, wasn’t she? Who was she?
She was...
<><> VIII <><>
...Maleika. That was it. ‘Thank goodness, I remembered my identity,’ the elf woman whispered. For a moment she’d thought she had melded with another's existence. The sun had risen when they returned to their camp. Maleika looked forward to her journey to the Dream Sphere. Once there, she would choose to visit the tribal sprite who had lost her way. The poor woman had been spinning out a life-stream where the struggle for survival had clouded her mission. Even though the introduction of gold exchange was still in its infancy in Elysium, Maleika had immediately recognised its future effects.
Having fallen into slumber, Maleika, now in dream-self form, left her sleeping self behind and floated to the Dream Sphere. Upon her arrival she consulted Alcor. She asked whether she was to travel into the future.
‘Yes, you must continue with this one’s life-stream,’ commanded Alcor. ‘But in solid form. You need to remind her of who she is.’ Alcor gestured to one of the Dream Sphere’s doors.
Maleika stepped forward.
‘Maleika...’
Maleika turned.
Alcor waved his hands in the air, and a scroll appeared, one that glowed of deep dark pink. ‘You will need this.’
‘And what is it, brother?’
‘A personality,’ he said. ‘As well as a physical appearance. And an elementary knowledge of the ways of those in the future.’
<><> <><><> <><>
A lingering feeling of returning from somewhere enchanted drifted around Rosetta when she woke. Twisting towers, dancing diamond foliage, a sublime sense of peace...all too elusive to grasp.
‘No,’ she decided with a yawn. ‘Can’t remember what the dream was about.’
So where was the woman who had made the urgent appointment? ‘Might have something to eat,’ she mumbled.
Rising to her feet, she stretched, then stumbled across the verandah to open the screen door. The cold steel handle of the door behind it did not give way. She groaned. Locked. Izzie had neglected to snib it when she left, leaving it to slam shut with the wind when Rosetta dozed.
What would she do for the remaining two hours while Izzie—who kept a key in her sports bag—darted blithely around the netball court? Rosetta had no phone handy, no money, just the clothes on her back and a mood that had switched from peaceful to peeved.
Wishing she could have left a note on the door for her tardy client, she made her way down the steps and crossed the front lawn. In under an hour she could track down Izzie’s bag, retrieve the key and arrive back home. A compulsory walk instead of a calorie assault was a slimming consolation. ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Izzie had said when Rosetta joked about her own weight. ‘You’re a meso-endomorph, so there’s no point in aiming for the slenderness of a spindle-limbed ectomorph. It’s all to do with frame and hereditary muscle mass. Just do more walking if you want to feel trimmer.’
Rosetta looked back at her home with its low-walled verandah, painted gables and stained-glass windows, and found herself smiling. The gracious California-style bungalow that enclosed its residents in nurturing warmth seemed almost to smile back. ‘We’ve got two years of security ahead of us,’ she whispered. She set out for the netball courts, a rapid march past autumn-tinged gardens and landscaped lawns. ‘Two beautiful years!’ The rental, a bargain for its size and location because it was marked for a 2010 demolition, felt fa
r more like home than the ground floor flat they’d had prior: the inconvenient hub-jumble with mildew-infested walls. Here there was no barking blue heeler intent on shattering a good night’s sleep; no neighbours dumping their rubbish in each other’s bins to the point of overflow; no scraping up spilled debris from the road on garbage collection morning, courtesy of the sneaky neighbours and scavenging blue heeler.
More importantly, where they now lived was free of prowlers.
The images were starting. She tried to scram them away, but this time they persisted. The event that had haunted her played out in her memory like a Tropfest movie.
She was back in Punchbowl, collecting clothes from the communal outdoor laundry. Bringing them in after nightfall was never her favourite task. Not long after daylight-saving had ended, she’d underestimated how dark it would be once her wash-load had dried. Snatching up a torch, she rushed out into the chilly night air.
Grant, also known as Constable Belfield, was outside his garage with a carton of beer propped on one shoulder. He grinned, threw her a wink, then ascended the outdoor staircase to his second-floor flat. Thinking how pleasant it was to have a supportive friend for a neighbour who also happened to be attractive—in a sandy, freckly sort of way—and divorced, Rosetta smiled to herself and stepped into the laundry.
The sight within made her catch her breath.
Someone was crouched beside the washing machine.
Matted, serpentine hair flowed over a long dark coat that fell in folds across the concrete floor. Obscured by the coat’s heavy sleeves were large pale hands. The fingernails—pointed, black, hideous—were curled into haggish claws.
Standing rigidly in the doorway, Rosetta struggled to recall any mention of a new tenant.
Which flat was this woman from?
The stranger turned to the right. Not a woman. The profile, half swallowed by shadow, was unarguably masculine. His thick red lips were twisted into a smirk. He was staring at the dryer, at the kaleidoscope of delicates swirling behind its door, nightwear belonging to Rosetta.
The Golding Page 7