How old was he? His height suggested he might be perhaps five-and-ten season-cycles as Eidred was, or younger, perhaps, there being too much innocence in those eyes for the boy to have lived through fifteen world-weary years.
<><> XV <><>
If time were measured in elf terms, Pieter’s normal appearance was that of a twelve-year-old. Alcor had made him step into his ‘later self’, a more mature vehicle that better matched the age of the person he was required to help.
He observed a young lady by the lake. ‘My godmother Orahney,’ Pieter whispered to himself. ‘The Dream Sphere dweller who prophesied my arrival upon the Earth.’ Was it truly Orahney though? Pieter took in the flame-toned hues that swirled about her. These certainly were the autumn faerie’s auric-field signature, the reason he recognised her in the first place. Orahney in a younger form, no more than five-and-ten season-cycles. Orahney wingless, and with fair skin and hair. Why would she take on the form of a gold-skin?
Although he wanted to greet her heartily, the elf proceeded with care. According to Alcor, the individual behind the Dream Sphere door would be disoriented. Just how far removed from reality the faerie would be was not yet known. It was Pieter’s assignment, he supposed, to determine this.
‘Hiyo,’ he said cheerily but without any amount of familiarity.
‘Oh! And who are you?’ said Orahney with a sigh.
Pieter’s heart sank. He hadn’t realised how much he’d hoped Orahney would still remember him, a rather proud expectation for someone as insignificant as he. Pieter had only ever met his faerie godmother twice before, and only in the Dream Sphere. Orahney had been disanchored from her former life on Earth well before Pieter’s time.
‘I am Pieter.’ The elf smiled and took Orahney’s hand in his.
‘I am Eidred,’ said the faerie shyly. ‘Princess of Grudella. My father is Solen of the Grudellan Palace.’
‘Oh.’ Pieter blinked and released the maiden’s hand. More than appearing as such, Orahney believed she was a body-king daughter. Orahney coy and lacking her usual stateliness! Stranger things had happened.
Her presence reminded Pieter of waking to the whirling intonations of star language the night before his journey to the Grudellan Palace. Maleika’s utterances had been thin and wavering, like the clinking of sylvan bells. Kloory’s interpretation of the words had been an announcement Orahney made to Maleika and other sprites during their slumbering visit to her Dream Sphere home. Sprites were concerned body kings would make the devic race extinct. Orahney had assured them that all those of devic heritage would continue on in the future but in another genetic form. ‘And Maleika,’ she’d said. ‘Tell my godson he must never fear any creature bearing bovine horns.’ Why he should be afraid of the bulls and cows on the hillside, Pieter could not fathom. Those whose souls had originated in the Taurus constellation were dependably mild-mannered.
The faerie who now called herself Eidred turned to gaze at the lake mirroring stars amid a sparkle of moons and suns, and she appeared to marvel at the glassy reflections that smoothed its dark blue glimmer. ‘The name Orahney,’ she said. ‘I have heard it before.’ Her eyelids fluttered drowsily. ‘Goodness! I’m beginning to tire. I must return to the Grudellan Palace. Can you help me, please, sir? My legs are weakening.’
Shocked, Pieter stared at the faerie, whose small frame was folding unsteadily, fluttering downward like a withering leaf.
‘Orahney,’ he cried. ‘We are in our Dream Sphere bodies! Spirit-selves never grow weak! And you mustn’t believe yourself to be a gold-skin. If you enter that palace you’re sure to lose your heart.’
Unbelieving as the boy was of Orahney’s collapse, he rushed to her aid, steadying her with his arm while she grasped at his elbow, just as a more solid being would do.
‘You mustn’t believe it, Orahney!’
The colour of the faerie’s gown and the fiery lights around her head were dimming, dying like the twilight dies when darkness creeps into the sky.
‘I see the image of a golden chamber shimmering beneath me,’ Orahney said quietly. ‘Ah, the chamber is mine! I am soon to wake.’
‘Please stay,’ said Pieter. ‘Stay in the Dream Sphere a little while longer. It appears you are bewildered. If you remain here some more, I can enlighten you on who you truly are.’
Orahney nodded. ‘If you so wish.’
Pieter clasped Orahney’s hands, calling to Alcor to usher them from this dawn-gilded lakeside world of Orahney’s choosing and into the safety of the Devic Great Hall. The power in the spell had neither enough energy nor compliance to work. The faerie was masked in something dark, a force not representative of good, and she was unwillingly deserting the Dream Sphere, much to her dismay.
It was too late to free Orahney. She was now enveloped in a cold grey bubble. A bright sickly light beamed upon her and lit up the sphere of grey in a flash of lightning. All Pieter could see was Orahney’s gentle eyes clouded with fright.
Only when Orahney vanished did the door to the Devic Great Hall appear.
Pieter glared at it in frustration and shed a rueful tear.
<><> <><><> <><>
Cruising through the outskirts of Alice Springs in his rented sports car, Matthew turned up the volume—a liberty Bernadette rarely allowed him—and punched the air with his fist. ‘I’m free,’ he said with a laugh.
An elderly man clutching a brown-papered bottle stepped onto the road. Matthew pulled up to let him pass. The man fell into a lethargic shuffle, then rose on tiptoe and waltzed to an inaudible rhythm, his aim of reaching the other side lost in a sea of forgetfulness.
A couple of weeks ago I would have been fuming at that, Matthew thought as the guy halted on a third-beat and wobbled to the kerb.
But something had changed since that talk in the bar with Dalesford. For some bizarre reason, aggression no longer motivated him.
The wonky pedestrian farewelled him from the roadside with a ceremonious salute. Any pangs of sympathy he might have felt for the poor pathetic stranger were promptly superseded by sparks of anticipation. Waving in return, Matthew hit the accelerator and flew towards the Stuart Highway.
Travelling to the Northern Territory might put an end to the sleepless nights he’d endured over the past month. Ever since the bat/eagle had asked him whether he planned to waste the remainder of his life, he’d been assailed by insecurities. Nothing felt right anymore: Bernadette’s monotonous fashion babble, his spirit-sapping career. Days and nights had been blanched of colour. All that seemed to matter was the eagle’s unanswered question.
He was looking forward to speaking with the Alice Springs author again. Not that Dalesford could solve this relentless uneasiness about the expected changes at work. Charlie had been hinting at retirement since the beginning of the year. He’d be recommending Matthew to the board of course. Providing Adam Harrow hadn’t found a way to weasel his way in, Matthew could be smoothly settled in the role of trading director before the end of 2008.
He’d already promised Davo and others that he’d never let Harrow reign smugly over their team. What bugged him was his passion for the promotion had waned. Discussing the author’s insights in Chapter Nine—‘Success in the Modern World’—might reignite that compulsion to go for gold.
Bernadette had been angered by the notion of a weekend without him. He wished he could have told her the truth. Rather than gritting his teeth through a tumult of accusations, he’d resorted to renaming his trip ‘a golf weekend’.
You’re cheating on me! Bernadette’s famous catch-cry. I know you are! The words wouldn’t have been so infuriating if they’d held a skerrick of truth.
Bernadette. Dette. Mostly Matthew avoided the shortened version her friends used. Its pronunciation, no different to that of a word he despised, conjured up a superstition he’d never been able to shake. Debt must be avoided. Regardless of his robust financial situation, Matthew feared debt more than he feared death.
Since selling up all but two of h
is properties—and sinking much of the profit into blue-chip shares that proved excellent in their returns—the dread of being in the red had thankfully stayed under its rock. The only ownership left was the over-indulged pseudo-Georgian he lived in, probably the most frequently redecorated home in Sydney, and a Lower North Shore penthouse that made him extremely popular at the close of each calendar.
New Year’s Eve: when fireworks spectators crammed sardine-style around the Harbour Bridge. His seventeenth-floor balcony with its rooftop garden was the envy of many, including his guests, most of whom had been invited by Bernadette’s acquaintances. They’d gush over how ‘gorgeous’ the penthouse’s gilded Egyptian bathroom was while raiding Matthew’s bar.
To avoid all that, he’d take the family to Manhattan next time. A Crosby-esque Christmas would be novel for the kids—they’d never experienced a wintry festive season—and nothing beat the glamour of an N.Y.C. N.Y.E.
Quebec in the autumn. Paris in the spring. Dette was never happier than when they were touring Paris. More partial to the City of Light than she would ever be to the City of Angels. In Los Angeles she’d been too busy with beautification to venture from their hotel. The spa’s slim-wrap had taken precedence on the day of their Disneyland trip. ‘Don’t forget that I’m on holiday too,’ she’d said in a gentle voice when the girls had protested. She’d then smiled winningly and patted Matthew’s back. ‘You’ve still got Matthew going with you. Matthew isn’t bored by that sort of thing.’
Venice, though, had been spectacular; quite nearly one hundred per cent. Bernadette had loved holidaying in such a romantic location for her birthday, right up until their final night. She’d refused to speak to Matthew at the ritzy restaurant they’d decided on for their final meal, owing to the fact that the famous Italian boot maker she’d arranged to see had cancelled his appointment with her.
Once dessert was over, and they were onto the espresso and mints, her gas-flame-blue eyes had snapped up to his. ‘Why would a Venetian shoe designer get a cold?’ She’d then hurled a teaspoon of sugar into her cup. The brown granules that hadn’t made it into Bernadette’s coffee were scattered across the white linen of the tablecloth, sparkling in the glow of candlelight like specks of forgotten stardust. ‘Doesn’t garlic cure colds? There’s enough bloody garlic in this city to sink a gondolier.’
‘I think you might mean gondola.’
‘Gondola, gondolier. Same diff. I wish I’d known you before you swallowed that encyclopaedia.’
Harmony. At this stage of the marriage it felt like a faraway fantasy world that insisted on eluding him, but he’d sort things out eventually. No partner was perfect. Relationships had to be worked at, after all.
The wind flickered warmly through his hair. He was rocketing along an open road now, yelling along to an ’80s song and soaking up the transient freedom.
A Saturday afternoon spent zooming through The Red Centre’s azure and burnt-umber vibrancy minus all complicated trimmings. He was his own man today, free to do as he pleased and answerable to no-one.
* * * *
‘Lucetta, don’t do that, sweetheart, Matthew’s married,’ Dalesford said.
Ignoring the white-haired man before her, Lucetta fluttered her eyelashes. She took a tentative step forward, then rested her head on Matthew’s shoulder.
Not knowing what else to do, Matthew laughed. The gorgeous creature had been at his side from the time he’d arrived, her large dark eyes following his every move. Although chuffed at being the recipient of such blatant adoration, he couldn’t help feeling that chewing someone’s hair was a little over the top.
‘Do your alpacas yield much wool?’ Matthew asked as they trudged towards a weatherboard house beside a grove of palm trees.
‘I just have them as pets,’ Dalesford said. ‘But their wool is prized. They’re much better adapted to the Aussie environment than sheep are. And they don’t pull the grass from the roots. Living, breathing lawn-mowers.’
‘Not to mention affectionate.’
‘Cuddliest grass-cutters you’ll ever find.’ Dalesford gestured towards his house at the other side of the paddock where a lanky red-haired kid stood. ‘Here’s another one of the tween-agers.’
‘Granddad!’ the boy called from the porch steps, ‘Jannali phoned just then.’
‘Is she on her way home?’
Matthew felt something ticklish on the back of his neck. Lucetta again! He turned around and shooed the docile animal back towards her herd. She skittered across to another alpaca with dark brown fleece.
The grandson called back, ‘Said she’s leaving now.’
‘Good one!’ Dalesford punched the air. ‘Get everyone together then, and set up the guitar for Matt.’
Matthew blinked and turned to Conan Dalesford.
‘You’d be musical wouldn’t you, Matthew?’ The eyes that briefly met Matthew’s were direct and honest.
Matthew nodded. ‘How’d you know that?’
‘Just a lucky guess.’ Dalesford adjusted the brim of his Akubra. ‘You’d be auditory dominant, wouldn’t you?’
‘Auditory dominant?’
‘A reliance on the hearing sense, when taking in the environment, slightly more than on the tactile or visual senses. People whose auditory sense dominates are generally smooth in speech. And very aware of the sounds around them. You speak in the modulated tones of a singer. There’s no flatness in your voice. I’m willing to bet you pestered your parents for a guitar when you were young.’
Matthew grinned, shaking his head. ‘Much loved fifteenth birthday present.’
‘And I’ll bet it didn’t take you long to get a backyard band together.’
‘We were convinced we’d be famous by the time we were twenty-one.’
‘Weren’t we all.’ Dalesford led him up the porch steps. ‘Ah well, better luck next time. At being famous, that is. You’ll certainly be in front of crowds in the future, Matthew, but not as a rock star.’
The man was respected by many for his uncannily accurate psychic predictions. A number of questions regarding when, in future years, Matthew might trade in his current career and return to law, and whether that whim of entering politics when he reached his forties would grow into a blazing ambition, were waiting patiently in his BlackBerry. Could Dalesford’s casual mention of renown be a nod in the direction of political leadership?
He thought over Dalesford’s theory about the senses. ‘So you’re saying anyone who enjoys singing is auditory dominant.’
‘Not at all.’ Dalesford opened the front door, and they stepped into a foyer with ceilings of pale turquoise. Out on the porch, wind chimes jangled. ‘Some singers take in their environment more through their visual senses. And then there are the tactile ones, singers who tend to have a rich texture to their tone. Tactile singers’ speaking voices are generally low or husky. And they look down a lot when they converse, rather than upwards or side-to-side. When we look down we become more aware of emotions. Tactile people need to feel what’s being said.’
‘Interesting theory,’ Matthew said. ‘Don’t know whether I go along with it though.’
‘And I don’t know whether I suggested you go along with it. Anyway, it’s not my own theory. It’s been around for years. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it. But that’s only a fraction of the story. Our senses are compartmentalised these days. Becoming enlightened has a lot to do with returning to full use of them. But then, you already know my take on that. I discussed the fuller senses in my “Epiphany” chapter.’
‘Chapter Twelve I think it was. Page 197.’
‘Ha! Now, someone who deals with words rather than numbers finds info like that hard to remember. Probably the reason I don’t work in finance.’ Dalesford went to close the door, looked out of it and said, ‘Where’s Lucetta now? Ah, back at Edward’s side. Soulmates for sure. On the subject of books...’ He strolled to a cabinet at one side of the foyer, opened one of its glass doors and produced something antiquated. The bo
ok he held had a faded cover, red and plain. ‘I named Edward after the author of this tale. Do you know of it?’
The gilded title, typical of novels published a hundred years ago, read: Our True Ancient History. The author’s name sounded terribly British: Reverend Edward Lillibridge. ‘Nope,’ said Matthew. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘Funny that.’ Dalesford squinted at Matthew as though he didn’t quite believe him. ‘Ah well. It’s been pretty obscure throughout the twentieth century. And now that we’re nearly a decade into the new millennium...but never mind, you’ll connect with it when you need to.’
Why would he need to connect with a novel published before the advent of racy spy thrillers? Matthew was rarely interested in fiction. Least of all old fiction.
Dalesford did not expand on this. ‘Anyway, come through to the living room and we’ll get this party started. I actually forgot to tell Jannali you’re staying.’ He’d pronounced the name Jan-nal-ee. ‘I’ve always been a bit vague, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll book into a hotel. Don’t want to just land on the two of you.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Jannali loves having guests, especially surprise guests.’
Within minutes Matthew found himself hooked to an amplifier and strumming a Gibson Slash—the Rolls Royce of electric guitars—along with four of his host’s grandkids, and rehearsing a Torres Strait Islander birthday song while Dalesford went ballistic on bongos.
Dalesford’s wife, Jannali, whose birthday it was, would be home any second. The windowed doors at the side of Dalesford’s makeshift studio opened out to a courtyard shaded by mango trees. Beyond rolled a rambling panorama in varied tones of green, a refreshing contrast to the slick, greyed-out orderliness of Martin Place. Getting nudged and nuzzled by an undersized llama, and belting out the words to the homeland ceremonial song of someone he’d never met, hadn’t been on Matthew’s agenda. Additional questions about Thoughts on Tomorrow’s Tycoon War were listed in his BlackBerry alongside those personal queries about where his life was heading. Their conversation, however, had only surrounded the farm and the grandkids, and the only mention of any book had been that casual reference to the unexceptional relic on Dalesford’s shelf. Not that Matthew was complaining. There were few things he loved more than jamming.
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