The Golding

by Sonya Deanna Terry

  ‘I’ll use the word discerning then,’ said Royston. ‘Discernment is a good thing.’

  She thought of Adam’s colleague, the married English guy, who had diplomatically kept her company while Adam zigzagged about the bar hobnobbing with workmates.

  It had been a lovely place, that bar, art deco design with huge arched French windows and exquisite lampshades glowing in autumn tones. A smoky jazz song had been cut short when the deejay ordered everyone to get excited about some party gettin’ started.

  The married guy, Matthew, had chatted with her in his easy way. She’d adored conversing with him, although she couldn’t determine why. Nothing remarkable had been said, although a man with a genuine interest in astrology was always refreshing to talk to.

  Guilty about the tear stain on Royston’s shirt, Rosetta said, ‘Matthew got me a drink. Adam didn’t.’

  ‘Who’s Matthew?’ Royston pulled Rosetta briefly away to look at her, his eyes aglow with question-marks.

  ‘Just a guy from Adam’s work. It was Matthew’s retirement send-off, and Adam went and talked to Dette Weissler, among others, the woman who interviewed me for a two-week nannying stint, which I didn’t end up getting. Matthew kept me company, and he was really kind and nice. Really nice. And he got me a honeydew daiquiri, the most expensive drink at the bar.’

  ‘That was good of him darlin’. Guys in their sixties are generally pleasant like that. They mellow.’

  ‘Definitely wasn’t in his sixties. Wouldn’t have been more than thirty-two.’

  ‘Ahem. Rich, then, if retiring at that age.’

  ‘Could have even been younger.’ She didn’t like to add still had hair. Royston was sensitive about losing his. ‘And he was heaps more fun than Adam was that night.’

  ‘Hmm? What did he look like?’

  ‘Well, he was...’ Rosetta recalled the man who was Matthew. ‘...He was much taller than Adam, and he wasn’t all bulging biceps. More like a swimmer. Narrower in the hips.’

  ‘A good body? Now that’s a start.’

  ‘Ooh, there isn’t any start...um...’

  ‘I didn’t say it at the time, but that Adam fella was rather steroidal looking. And something special happened between you and this Matthew?’

  ‘No!’ Royston had misunderstood completely! The guy was taken with a capital ‘t’ and she hadn’t viewed him as a prospect before she’d found that out—she’d only had eyes for her date. ‘No, it was nothing like that. He was just the sort of man who was...well, amazing really. One of these people who have all these appealing things about them. Someone who felt like a friend.’

  ‘Always good to make new friends.’

  ‘Adam’s strikingly attractive, but he’s a pretty boy.’ Overly groomed shallowness. It felt good to voice those reservations at last. ‘But Matthew...’ She recalled Matthew’s reluctant smile and the radiating lines that had formed around his eyes. Adam Harrow, rarely straight-faced, had a smile which, although daz­zling, appeared to be fixed on with superglue. His more refined workmate tended towards seriousness, even when being funny, although when Rosetta attempted the odd quip with Matthew, he'd broken into a slow grin and had instantly gone from quite good looking to downright gorgeous.

  ****

  ‘Yes?’ said Royston. ‘Do tell. I’m waiting.’

  ‘Tell what?’

  ‘Well, you just went like this.’ Mimicking Rosetta, Royston stared at the front door and said in a high-pitched semi-whisper, ‘But Matthew...’

  ‘Sorry, Royston. I’m still in shock. I don’t even know what I was about to say. I’ll let you get home to bed.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere till I know you’re feeling happier.’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine, Roystie. You get going.’

  Matthew...

  Adam had said in the car on the way back, after having made a ludicrous statement about the poor having ‘dug their own graves,’ that Matthew was retiring from a call centre supervisor’s role. Because she’d observed at the bar earlier that Matthew had an authority about him when he talked, as though used to addressing large numbers of people, she’d asked how many staff members he’d directed. Adam’s answer had been eight. Eight, Adam had said, and they all hated him.

  Rosetta hadn’t believed for a second that the man could be as disliked as Adam had implied. Twice during her conversation with him, men in suits had darted up, shaken his hand effusively and said things like, ‘Sorry to see you go, boss.’ Contrary to what Adam had said, Matthew’s staff members looked and acted more like accomplished executives than chirpy customer service operators. Now that the extent of Adam's deceit was so apparent, the conclusion that hit Rosetta was that most of his jabber would have been questionable.

  ‘Royston, I haven’t mentioned this to anyone, but on the odd occasion, I felt a teensy bit scared around Adam.’

  ‘Scared? In what way?’

  Remembering their last date, she drew in a slow breath. ‘It’s weird. I never gave this much thought. I guess because I was so rapt in him I kind of edited out a lot of his unusual behaviour and instead focused more on the sweet, charming stuff. But the last time we went out, he took me for a walk along a stormwater drain and—’

  ‘A stormwater drain? That’s more than scary. That’s horrifying. Not to mention severely unromantic.’

  Fighting off giggles, Rosetta said, ‘That actually wasn’t what scared me.’ She shivered. ‘Although the area did happen to be fairly remote. It was what he said when we went there. We were standing looking at the water. Adam had let go of my hand and he’d become distant and kind of fidgety.’ Rosetta gulped. ‘I was kind of trying to make conversation, attempting polite comments about the stormwater, which was difficult to do because it wasn’t unlike a bubbling sewer, then Adam spun round to me, so quickly it made me jump, and said, “What would you do if someone attacked you just now?” ’

  Royston’s eyes widened. He stepped back. ‘Don’t like the sound of that. What did you do?’

  ‘I kind of shrugged it off and said to him, “If I were attacked right now I’d warn the attacker of my brown-belt karate skills.” And it occurred to me when we were walking back that Adam hadn’t got the joke. I mean, it was a stupid joke. I wasn’t expecting him to laugh. What I didn’t expect was for him to stare at me seriously for a second then march back to the car.’

  ‘Why brown belt? Why not black?’

  ‘That was the question I’d expected Adam to ask. And I planned to tell him what I’m about to tell you. Everyone pretends they’re a black belt when they’re horsing around. Brown belt is one down from black belt, so it’s still very threatening and sounds like less of a lie.’

  ‘And Adam fell for it.’ Royston was watching her with concern. ‘You are definitely well rid of this guy, Rosetta. Now you’re sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘A thousand times yes. And a thousand times thank you!’ Rosetta drew in another deep breath. ‘Stunned at my gullibility though. Still processing what you told me.’

  Royston took his keys from his pocket and rattled them. ‘Well, why don’t you process something nicer? Process the idea of Matthew. Sounds like you really fancy him.’

  ‘I don’t fancy him at all,’ Rosetta said. ‘I've given you the wrong idea by mistake, but you already know I don’t go for married men.’

  ‘He’s married?’ Royston did his drama-queen thing of hands flying to his face.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you that?’ Rosetta suddenly felt embarrassed.

  ‘Nope. I got the impression he was single from the way you were talking.’

  ‘I was sure I told you. Must have slipped my mind.’ Biting her lip, Rosetta followed Royston out to his battered car, which tended to resemble an unhappy bumble bee.

  Royston told her then that with all the turmoil that had gone on, with Izzie going missing and his anguish at having to retell the ‘Adam incident,’ he’d been looking for an appropriate time to tell her about something inspiring that had happened to him. ‘
It’s probably not the ideal time to tell you,’ Royston said, ‘but then, this news of mine might serve to cheer you up.’

  ‘I’m cheered up already, Roystie! I’d love to hear something good that’s happened to you.’

  ‘It’s to do with the guy Craig’s known for however many years. Conan Dalesford, the man you invited to Crystal Consciousness. You did his Sydney book launch.’

  ‘Ah, the author of Thoughts on Tomorrow’s Tycoon War. Lovely guy.’ The white-haired man with astonishingly jewel-like eyes had discussed his ideas on the greed-lack cycle with her before she’d rushed home to make rosemary and lentil soup. Izzie had been preparing for Charlotte's birthday bash that night, the standard junk-food gobble, and Rosetta had insisted she fill up on broth first. ‘What news do you have on him?’

  ‘To begin with, I was inspired by Craig going to Conan for advice on his “secret project” although I couldn’t imagine journeying all the way up to the Northern Territory. Mortgage and renovations and rego have taken precedence these last few months and I don’t have family to stay with up there like Craig has.’

  ‘Craig didn’t stay with his family. He stayed in a luxury hotel.’

  ‘Did he now? Ah, well. Not all of us are pampered professional liars.’

  ‘Don’t you mean lawyers?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Liars.’

  ‘A professional as opposed to a fledgeling “liar” like me, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly. You’re a student liar.’

  ‘He’s spending a fair amount of time in the NT lately. Perhaps that’s where that “secret project” of his is based.’

  ‘Hey, anything’s possible. Anyway, Conan Dalesford agreed to a phone consultation with me. He’s quite renowned for his predictions, you know. He’s been amazingly accurate about world events.’

  ‘Extremely intuitive, yeah. I would love to have talked with him after the launch, but I did get to talk to him before it.’

  Conan had quoted passages over the phone from Our True Ancient History and Royston, delighted at this, had referred him to Rosetta’s Friday Fortnight website. ‘He said he has good reason to believe Lillibridge’s book is based on truth rather than some fairy story. Conan backs the unpopular theory that it’s an authentic glimpse of pre-history, the world prior to rebirth. Our little Sydney book group believes the same. We all knew it was never fiction.’

  ‘Knew it months ago.’

  ‘Felt it in fact. Can you imagine the average Joe believing that? They’d reckon we were crazy.’

  ‘Maybe we are. But we sensed the story was real. And four of us now have dreamt about that forest.’

  ‘Four and counting! What about the time you and I had the same dream about being in that forest? Just as I was about to tell you the trees were rich fuchsia and an exquisite shade of aquamarine, you said to me, “The trees in my dream were a greenish-blue and there were dark pink ones as well.” So anyway, what do you reckon my first question to Conan Dalesford was?’

  ‘Probably who Conan was in past incarnations.’

  ‘Close.’

  ‘Was it who you were in past incarnations?’

  ‘Getting closer.’

  ‘Ah! Got it. You asked him whether you’d been Reverend Edward Lillibridge.’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Hm. Something to do with your much-verbalised affinity with him I think.’

  ‘Affinity is an understatement. The book felt familiar from the moment I picked it up, and I’m crazy about anything to do with eighteenth-century Europe. Anyway, I asked Conan straight out whether I was Reverend Edward Lillibridge in one of my former lives, but he said I wasn’t.’

  Nudging him playfully, Rosetta said, ‘Ouch, Royston, that’s a shame. I would have felt privileged to know the reincarnated author of Our True Ancient History. Were you disappointed?’

  ‘Very.’ Royston unlocked his car, pulled a cardigan from the front seat and shrugged into it. ‘But I trust Conan. The good news is I could well have a connection to the book. Conan said he received a visitation on the morning of my appointment. A Dream Master appeared before him.’

  ‘Dream Master?’

  ‘It’s kind of like a guardian angel, just like Alcor in the book.’

  ‘He gets visited by his angelic guides? Unreal!’

  ‘And guess what the angel said? You won’t be able to believe this. He told Conan that many of the individuals documented in Lillibridge’s work are not only real, they’re real now.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They’ve reincarnated. They’re here now in flesh-and-blood, existing somewhere in the present. And they’re going to usher in The Silvering in 2022!’

  <><> XL <><>

  Zemelda shifted in her seat cagily. In an effort to avoid attention from the glowering pterodactyls, she nodded subtly towards the cushion as a way of indicating to Eidred that its pictures were altering.

  Eidred leaned forward and moved the cushion away from her minders’ sight.

  ‘I repeat. Your husband is to be Ehyptian.’

  To Eidred’s amazement, the scene that appeared on the cushion was an image from the future. Eidred held an urn of sacred water from the dragon font. Pieter, repulsed by the idea of ingesting animal blood, was refusing to consume it. Eidred took from her sewing chest a square of linen. She saturated the cloth with the liquid from the urn and proceeded to wield it like paint, pressing it in gentle daubs across her beloved’s face.

  The Eidred of the present shook her head in concern. Surely this would not change the colour of his skin!

  But then the cushion showed Eidred clapping her hands and dancing about the dressing-quarter. Pieter rose from where he’d been seated on the floor. He no longer looked like an elf! The tones of his face, neck and limbs were now lightened. Upon seeing how happy this had made Eidred, he clasped her in his arms and whirled her into a devic jig.

  The future was just as Eidred had hoped. She hadn’t thought, however, that Pieter would refuse to drink dragon blood. It had not occurred to her that painting his skin with the liquid would give the same effect. Silently, Eidred thanked her godmother for sending such an ingenious idea. Zemelda was proving to be an ally, but Eidred still had to be mindful of trickery.

  ‘I repeat,’ said Zemelda. ‘His name must begin with an “A”.’

  Upon the cushion appeared a moving image of Eidred outfitting Pieter in the costume she was, in the present, still hurrying to complete. ‘You look so very similar to Prince Adahmos,’ the future Eidred said. ‘I thought this when I first ever saw his likeness in my father’s gallery. You will have no difficulty passing yourself off as him. I have modelled your clothes on the ones in the portraits. Ehyptians dress so differently to us!’

  ‘Zemelda,’ Eidred whispered. ‘I have already begun sewing this.’

  With a detached nod, Zemelda continued. ‘His “return” to Ehypte need not be any earlier than necessary.’

  What had Zemelda meant by that? Upon the cushion appeared a scene in which Eidred was pointing to the sculpted calendar that graced one of her chamber walls. The date indicated it was two suns before the arrival of the true Adahmos. ‘On the morrow we must flee the palace,’ she told Pieter and Fripso. Pieter nodded gravely, plainly aware of the burden that was soon to be theirs.

  The scene dissolved then, into shards of jagged light. An image of the Solen replaced it. He was pacing his quarters, screaming to several advisors who stood anxiously in the doorway. ‘The traitor has not arrived! There is no word of his delay. Either he is killed or shunning my authority. If it be the latter, I’ll declare war on the Dorweldian realm.’

  Eidred’s cushion took on the colour of night. Concerned the pictures had ceased to play out, she set it aside in frustration.

  ‘Look!’ Zemelda pointed to the quartz on the table. Eidred saw nothing within the crystal sphere and discerned Zemelda's order to mean ‘Look once more at the cushion.’

  Taking form upon the cushion were the words:
<
br />   The promised one will not arrive

  The promised one is not alive

  The promised one exists no more

  Exist did he, though, e’en before?

  He was no longer living! Ehypte’s prince must have met his death during his journey to Norwegia. A deep sense of guilt overcame Eidred. Stricken by the idea of Adahmos having been shipwrecked, made victim of a deadly disease or hunted and devoured by wild beasts, Eidred wept. As well as having a similar handsomeness to Pieter, the prince also shared Pieter's look of compassion. Tearily she whispered, ‘Zemelda, it is all my fault. My hope of replacing—’

  ‘Say no more!’ Zemelda’s stern voice was now inside her head. Just like Storlem’s faerie, the soothsayer was speaking to her without a voice. ‘Highness, be careful of your words,’ she warned. ‘The Grudellans are awake now, remember. Tell me with your thoughts.’

  Without uttering anything at all, Eidred confided in Zemelda that she feared she had brought black luck upon Adahmos in wishing to replace him with an imposter.

  Aloud Zemelda said, ‘It is fate.’

  She turned to Eidred’s minders and addressed them with a command. ‘When Prince Adahmos of Ehypte arrives in seven suns,’ she said, ‘he must visit me at once!’ To Eidred she projected a silent thought. ‘Here I refer to Pieter.’ She turned back to the pterodactyls. ‘Tell the Solen there is huge wealth to be amassed, and that the path to this fortune can only be perceived by a sorceress of my calibre.’

  ‘We shall deliver this message to the Solen. We do not promise an agreement to your answer,’ shrieked the four nastily.

  To Eidred she said with a wry smile, ‘Blessings for your impending marriage, my child.’

  ‘May I ask my questions now, Zemelda?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I would like to know about the precious gems my family has hidden in a faraway land. Where is this treasure buried?’