'Where?'
'Someplace where they've got a desert?'
Her smile had been shot through with a sense of amber and gold—the way she coloured their lovemaking. ‘Aren't you getting a bit frisky for a guy your age?'
'Is that a complaint?'
'You wish.'
In a while the time curves would bounce back and diffuse, and he'd return to her. Once, decades ago, he'd felt he should leave her. He'd never quite made up his mind though, so he hadn't left. He'd never left.
The notion was luminous, undreamed of and elating, and he let it ride on a bubble of joy he couldn't contain any longer. His laughter sounded overly loud in the mists of time, but he didn't give a damn right now. Nothing mattered, apart from going home. In a while the—
Keen enough to melt the haze, the scream throttled his euphoria. It was high-pitched and miserable, a child's wail. He spun around, nearly tripped over his corpse. Less than ten yards away hovered the Scarecrow, yanking a violin bow from a small body. He'd run through the five-year-old fiddler. No more F sharp fluffed.
'What in God's name are you doing?'
That fucking violin!
He had no recollection of ever playing the violin.
That's where it all started to—
Even as the Scarecrow was speaking, a cherry hole ripped open his forehead. A split-second later the report roared in, appeared to knock him off his feet. The shooter was a pre-decision version, long hair tousled, hazel fury in his eyes.
I warned you, didn't I? I told you not to mess with those coils!
'What coils?'
You shouldn't have started fixing things. It's what we've been waiting for. Now we all fix—
Shrouded in haze, a version of three hours earlier scrambled for cover. He fired, missed, and hobbled after him in an awkward lope. Another shot rang out, a third and fourth. He stared at the body by his feet, knowing he'd killed him, unable to determine why. All around the carnage continued. Newborns, dripping amniotic fluid, pimply prodigies, lovers, losers, wizened old men—all stabbed and shot and bludgeoned to death. He was the cause. He'd set the ball rolling. That much he did understand.
A phantasm of peridot set in amber and gold tugged at his mind, crying out to be preserved. If they died, it'd vanish, and he couldn't allow that to happen. They had to live.
'Don't, please ... You mustn't...'
He'd meant to shout. Racked with sobs, all he produced was a reedy hiccup. They couldn't hear him. Then his toes curled with a prickle that sped up his legs and enveloped his body.
'No ... No! Not yet!'
* * * *
'Now, where did we find that?'
The woman was middle-aged, well-endowed, and wore a starched white uniform. She also wore fuchsia lipstick that bled into sharp little lines radiating from her mouth. Her hands, broad and callused, easily wrested the gleaming length of silver from his grasp.
'We won't be needing that now.’ She probably was right.
He had no recollection of ever playing the flute.
The instrument was placed on a Formica table where it caught the green and pink and purple flickers of fairy lights dancing around a Christmas tree. He liked colours. They warmed the emptiness within. He was feeling cold, inside and out.
As though she'd heard that thought, she crouched and lifted his feet to pull the carpet slippers back up to his ankles. Left foot. Right foot. When she was done, she let go of his feet. They limply dropped back to the ground. Left foot. Right foot. The soles of the slippers raised two not-quite-squeaky whimpers on linoleum.
He watched the flickers dance up and down the flute. A green flicker seemed to linger. It meant something. Whether to him or to somebody else he couldn't say.
'I don't know who I am,’ he murmured.
'That's nice.'
* * *
THE PROCESSOR
JC Jones
'Okay, is everyone ready?’ the Professor asked as he looked around at the faces of his eager students. They all nodded. ‘All right then,’ he said. He powered up the ground-penetrating radar. ‘Let's see what's down there.'
He'd been trying to organize this field trip for years, and now, they'd finally be able to see what had lain buried for centuries beneath the enigmatic stone circle. The radar came online.
'Whoa, what's that?’ one of the students gasped.
The Professor made his way through the crowd gathered around the monitoring equipment. ‘What is it? Can you make anything out? Let me through,’ he said as he pushed his way to the front.
'Um, you'd better take a look at this,’ someone gestured toward the laptop.
The Professor caught sight of the screen. ‘What the—?’ he said, dumbstruck. The laptop monitor displayed impossibly intricate machinery, wiring and circuitry. ‘That can't be right ... There has to be some kind of mistake.'
He ran his eyes over the connections, tracing them back to the radar device inside the standing stone circle. Everything looked okay. Deep in thought, the professor scratched his beard, checking off the hardware he'd connected. The ground began to vibrate. It built up and up, until the air was thick with a throbbing, electrical hum. The students backed away from the circle. The static electricity in the air was palpable.
A voice spoke out to reassure them. No, the Professor realized, it wasn't a voice, it was unspoken—a thought—calm and smooth. It urged them not to panic. The Professor felt a sense of well being radiate through him.
'***Welcome***’ the voice seemed to purr.
The air swirled and thickened around them. It sparkled with bright, dancing energy. The Professor looked at the sea of faces around him. They began to swirl in the energy cloud. The vibrating, humming ground beneath his feet oozed away to nothingness. He felt his weight drift away, floating like a dust mote in the light. His weight returned as the effervescent fog dulled and fell like dry ice down a metal grate beneath his feet. It was obvious they weren't where they had been a few seconds ago.
'Where are we Professor?’ one of his students asked.
'Um, I'm not sure,’ he said as he looked around. ‘I, um,’ he mumbled, gawping. They were in a huge building—pipes and conduits ran every which way, hidden in dim shadows. ‘I think it looks like some kind of factory,’ he said, still disoriented. The air was cool, but it was thick and sickly sweet with an odour he couldn't quite place.
The metal grate clanked and jolted into life. It moved the group along on some kind of travelator. The voice swam in the Professor's head again, urging calm. As they moved along, he noticed gaps in the piping. Other conveyers moved in all directions.
'Look, Professor!’ A student pointed through a gap, ‘Over there!'
A bald, leathery head stared back at them from the shadows. Its two huge disk eyes were gone in an instant, as the conveyer moved on.
The voice changed from calm reassurance to one of joy. ‘***Excellent***’ it whispered.
Another head watched from a gap in the conduits. ‘***252 is back in operation***'
What? That doesn't make any sense, the Professor thought, as the conveyer came to a jolting stop.
Another voice floated, feather-like across his consciousness. ‘***The Supervisor will be most pleased. Begin processing ... ***'
The conveyer started forward again, as the boning knives emerged from the walls.
Species 252 was back on the menu. The Processor was back in action.
* * *
SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN
Cory Daniells
The children run wild. There's eight of them and their mother's no better than you'd expect. As for their father, he only comes back long enough to pick a fight. Not many people want to live this far out of town. It's a good twenty minute walk, though I can't get around like I used to. Still, you can't choose your neighbours so when they moved in two years ago I tried to welcome them, but they were too proud to accept Christian charity.
The radio's crackling, breaking up the rubbish they call songs nowadays. E
nd of a decade, end of an era, the Deejay says. World's been going downhill since they assassinated the US president. Camelot, they called it, death of a dream, but I can't forget that poor little boy, saluting at his father's grave.
I'll be glad to put this decade behind me. Free Love? Nothing's free in this world. People from my generation had it tough. Two wars and the depression. Evan and me, we had to carve a home out of the bush and fight every day to stop the bush reclaiming what we'd made. Seems all my life's been a battle and now, when I want a bit of peace, I'm plagued with these kids from down the road.
I squint into the setting sun. The youngest girl is wandering up the street stark naked again. Even though she's not two yet I caught her in my kitchen yesterday trying to pinch a biscuit hot out of the oven. Of course I didn't give her any. Feed them once and you'll never get rid of them.
Something the same shade as the dusty dirt road is slinking along behind her. My heart does an uneasy flip flop. It's one of those goannas. Seems since Evan died seems the lizards have been getting bigger. From nose to tail-tip they're as long as a tall man and bold—you wouldn't believe the number of times I've chased them off!
Scavengers have a nasty bite, and she's so small....
Levering myself out of the rocking chair, I hurry down the front steps, my swollen feet aching, joints protesting. I grab a rake, waving it over my head. ‘Be off with you!'
The goanna scurries into the long grass on the road's verge. The girl gives a start and looks up at me.
'As for you, get along home. And put some clothes on.'
She regards me with the unselfconscious stare of the very young. These children have no shame. I caught three of the boys with a kitten on Christmas Day. Poor thing's probably dead by now. Between them and the goannas it's a wonder my hens still lay. I need those eggs. The Australia Day Show's coming up, and my sponge cake has won thirty-two times.
Our prize ribbons were Evan's pride and joy. I'm keeping an eye on the melon patch. There's a beauty that looks about ready to ripen by the end of the month. After Evan died I entered his melon in last year's show. It didn't win, but I reckon this melon could.
As I leave the rake beside the steps I glance under the house. I no longer go in there, not since I found that huge carpet snake. Under the house was Evan's territory, that and the car. I sold it when he died.
On the veranda I get the breeze from the valley but it's still fearful hot. Air's thick enough to cut. The heat rises off the roof of the house opposite, making the bush behind it shimmer. Their frangipani tree's dropping blossoms. I'll have a word with them when they come back from holidays.
Everyone's gone off and left me here with that family. Last night the mother sent her eldest girl for mosquito coils. They'd burnt the last one and the mossies were awful bad, coming up from the creek, she claimed.
I told the girl that her mother should darn their mosquito nets. The Lord helps those who help themselves. People shouldn't have children if they can't take care of them.
It's a struggle for me, too. I should sell the house but how can I walk away from forty years of memories? It would grieve Evan to see the place like this. The railings are coming off the veranda and the stumps are sagging. We built our place on the burnt-out remains of an old farmhouse, nothing but a blackened chimney. It saddened me to see someone's dead dreams reclaimed by the bush. From that day to this we've fought to hold back the rain forest. Its creatures are always invading my vegetable garden. I never know when I'm going to come across a big bluetongue lizard, or a frill-neck that'll rear up and hiss at me. They seem bolder since Evan went.
The day he died he was sitting on the veranda enjoying the view, when he suddenly cried out for me to come and see something. But by the time I got there he was dead and whatever he'd seen was gone. Doctor said his heart just gave out.
Of course I miss him. He would have taken a broom to the possums last night when they raided my mango tree, grunting and fighting up and down the verandas, leaving their messes. No better than him and her, when he's been out drinking.
I can see two of their kids now, creeping back from the bush with tins. They've been fishing for eels in the creek. My dinner's on the cooling rack; a meat pie. The pastry's thick and crusty just the way Evan liked it. Don't expect the kids'll get hot food tonight.
I turn away. From the front veranda I can see across the valley where blue-black clouds are gathering. Lightning flickers like a petulant child. Storm should bring cooler weather. With this scorcher of a summer the water tank's been getting low.
Nearly time for dinner.
I make my painful way down the hall, past the faded photos of Evan on the police cricket team. No photos of children fill the gaps. The lord chose not to bless us. Though why he would give her all those children and leave Evan and me childless....
Sunlight glints through the leadlight glass in the kitchen door. As my hand closes on the knob I hear excited childish voices. Righteous indignation fills me. I throw the door open catching four boys and the middle girl, wilder than any boy, in my kitchen.
I grab the broom and go for them. They shriek and caper about the table taunting me, the little devils. My second-best china teapot hits the floor, smashing to smithereens. When the pie lands face down on the lino they run for it.
I slam the door behind them, head spinning. Sinking into the chair by the kitchen table I fan myself with the tea towel. I am so angry I could wring their scrawny necks. God forgive me.
Evan didn't talk about his work much, but he did say more murders were committed during high summer in the tropics because the heat drove people mad. Going troppo, they call it. I'm not surprised.
My perfect pie lies at my feet, spoiled by those little heathens. I kneel down to scrape it up but I won't throw it in the bin where they might find it. For now, I leave the ruined pie on the draining board and get rid of the broken china.
I need a good cup of tea, no, something stronger. I keep a bottle of brandy for plum puddings. I don't hold with drinking, but tonight when I pour half a glass my hands tremble. The brandy sears all the way down, bringing tears to my eyes. Lord, why do you let them plague a poor old woman like this?
As if to mock me, their laughter echoes from the veggie patch. Grabbing the broom I throw open the back door. Soon as they see me, they're off. I hobble down the steps, sick with dread. I know what I'll find before I get there.
White light blinds me. I blink and discover Evan's prize watermelon, hacked to pieces. Green skin split open, bright pink pulp smashed!
The heavens open with a crack of thunder so profound I fall to my knees in the rich black dirt. Down comes the rain, buckets of it, soaking my hair, running down my neck. The cool is welcome until I start to shiver. With an effort I get up and stagger through the mud to the back steps. The gutters are overflowing and water pours off the veranda roof.
I close the back door and stand there, dripping on the lino. After a moment I flick on the kitchen light. The flypaper strip hangs from the ceiling, dead flies dotting its sticky length. Its shadow sways on the wall. The rain roars on the corrugated iron roof. I feel besieged, overwhelmed.
A hot bath will stop these shivers.
The single bulb flickers and dies. I could just sit down and cry—but I don't. One of the last things Evan and I did before he died was buy a new gas stove. Thank God we didn't buy electric. I can still heat a bath. No fear of running out of water now.
By the time I've cleaned up and had my bath I feel ready to confront that woman about her children. I dress for visiting. Still no electricity but the storm has passed and the air is steaming, dripping. It is light enough to walk down to her place.
I keep to the road to avoid the long grass. Never know what it could hide. Snakes like the hot weather.
Their father's rusty ute sits in the driveway. I go past it to the kitchen where she'll be getting tea. The rich smell of roasting meat greets me, making me wonder how she makes ends meet.
Door's open. I c
limb the steps and calling hello. I startle her standing at the kitchen table, slicing the roast by the light of a candle while the smallest children wait for their share.
'The Lord knows I'm a reasonable woman,’ I tell her. ‘But this can't go on. Today your children deliberately destroyed my prize watermelon. The one I was going to enter in the show!'
She frowns and calls the older children. They shuffle in, gnawing at bones, curious eyes glinting in the candle's flickering light. Before I can tell her who's to blame the father stalks in, plate in one hand, beer in the other.
'What's this all about?’ he demands. Suddenly he curses, eyes wide with horror. ‘Bloody Hell! You didn't feed me that?'
I don't understand. The roast lies there on its back, legs extended, tail.... Tail?
'It's a bloody g ... goanna!’ He gags, shoves his beer and plate onto the table and runs from the room.
The children chortle, fighting over his meat. Their mother looks across at me and I see her clearly for the first time. Cruel laughter lights her eyes. Suddenly I realise she isn't the victim. She's manipulating him; her and her brood are driving the poor man to drink and worse. There's a wrongness about her that suddenly brings back a memory.
When I was no more than three I opened the door to the outhouse and found a snake coiled on the floor. The snake lifted its head and regarded me. Primitive terror closed around my heart, squeezing the breath from my chest. I dared not move. My fear had been instinctive and it had saved my life, Dad said.
This is what I feel now, and I freeze. Then she shakes her head, and she looks just like a mother worn down to nothing by poverty and ignorance. I no longer have the will to carry this confrontation through.
Without a word I turn and flee the kitchen. I don't even feel the pain in my hips as I rush down the back steps. I hurry at a shuffling run up the road.
I'm half way home when his ute roars past me, heading for the pub, no doubt. With this normalcy returns and I feel silly. So she cooked up a goanna. My mum fed us rabbit if the boys could catch one.
Journeys of the Mind Page 10