The Crone's Stone

by S E Holmes

balancing sombreros large enough to shield a soccer team and stadium of fans. A foray into the Australian sunshine was generally regarded the same as exposure to plutonium. If I dared peek from the shade tent an alert sounded and lockdown occurred.

  We didn’t venture far, only to Bondi. Everest perched pole-rigid behind me as I lay on the sand, blocking the rays and glowering at anyone who breached the ten-metre perimeter. I really put effort into enjoying the glorious day, Children Collide blasting though headphones, while I read Divergence. But I looked like some VIP with a security detail, and the attention I drew from other beachgoers had me self-conscious and cranky. Hugo actually pursued me to the edge of the surf when I went for a swim, waves lapping at his boot-clad ankles.

  “You could at least have taken off your boots. They’re all wet.” I stomped back to my towel, the man-mountain in close pursuit. Having a bodyguard was even more tiresome than I’d envisaged.

  “I lived in the Kalahari for a year, where scorpions are as common as cockroaches and sandstorms blister the flesh from your bones.”

  “How scenic! I thought I detected an African accent.”

  My sarcasm deepened his scowl. Fortescue too, would not be pleased by this return to the lowest denominator. Hugo absolutely refused to rub sunscreen on the places I couldn’t reach. We arrived home two hours later, me wretchedly grouchy and sulking for the interim in my room. I was too furious to read or listen to music, lying on my bed, throwing daggers at the ceiling. He let me complete this task in peace, probably lingering outside the slammed door. I began to pine for Shabby and the Academy’s sub-zero temperatures, before thankfully nodding off.

  Raphaela compulsively smoothed damp strands of hair that clung to her brow, the rest straight and glossy down her back. Her rapidly rising and falling chest revealed someone battling anxiety. Or fear. She paused at the open doorway of a single-engine Cessna powering up on a weed-strewn runway that was hardly an improvement on a dirt track, the concrete surface crumbling and pock-marked.

  The airstrip cut a valley through dense tropical palms, its length short enough to reveal a drop-off into a shallow lagoon that shone an impossible, brilliant turquoise in the bright glare. The sun had barely crept from the horizon, lighting tiny scattered islands at various distances out to sea.

  In a simple cream A-line dress and gold sandals, she variously fidgeted with the strap of her matching satchel and adjusted large dark sunglasses in the style of Jacki O. Unencumbered as she was by additional hand-luggage, this trip would be short. Despite the early hour, perspiration moistened her tanned skin, which shone golden in post-dawn light. The delay evidently bought her time to change her mind and cancel a flight she seemed reluctant to take.

  Clutching the wing strut, she gazed into the jungle for so long it appeared she’d never move. Raphaela startled when the pilot leaned to yell above the whine of the motor through the open door.

  “Welcome to New Caledonia, Mary!” His accent was French, a treacle complexion sheened with sweat in dark contrast to his white uniform and pilot’s cap. “We make Lifou in under half hour … After you get in!” A good natured smile dimpled his chubby cheeks.

  “Of course, sorry!” She boarded the plane. Taking the chair next to his, Raphaela buckled the seatbelt across her chest. Theirs were the only seats, the remainder of the cabin laden with mail bags, boxes of tinned food, dry goods and other cargo dedicated to daily living.

  “I am Jacques.” He winked flirtatiously and busied himself getting the plane underway, alternating between speaking over his headset and conversing with Raphaela. They bounced the length of the landing field, gathering speed. Jacques glanced over at her, not bothering to watch where he steered. “Have you journeyed long?”

  Raphaela stared ahead at the looming ocean, bolstering herself with arms outstretched on the dashboard. “Too long and too far.”

  After that, she refused to speak another word in response to his rapid-fire, non-stop chatter in jumbled French and English. Jacques didn’t need encouragement or give the impression he was offended by her silence.

  He set them down ten minutes later on another small, dazzlingly beautiful island, its airstrip even worse than the one they’d taken off from. A faded red, rust-bucket of a Jeep awaited its driver by a margin of tall grassland that abutted more jungle. The car lacked a roof and the doors were missing. Raphaela disembarked the instant the plane skidded to a halt.

  “Hey! Look me up if you want some fun.” Jacques eyed her retreating back from his open cabin window, as she strode to the car.

  “I am not here for fun.” She leapt behind the wheel and twisted the key waiting in the ignition. The Jeep chugged several times and finally roared to life with a puff of grey smoke. “And you’ll forget me before the dust clears from my trail.”

  Now that she’d arrived, Raphaela’s determination to complete the task was obvious. She sped along a rutted road skirting the island’s shoreline, tan dirt billowing in her wake. Twenty minutes later, long after the trail had been eaten by sand, she reached a rickety wooden jetty. The land curved to form a small, well-protected bay. Not a soul had crossed her path since leaving the plane, the sorry state of the road a likely deterrent. Nor had she encountered any signs of habitation in the rainforest opposite the coastline rimmed by postcard perfect beaches.

  A silver tinny was tethered to the crumbling pier, its metallic reflection a blinding array of sparkles on the water. She clambered in and motored quietly out towards a huge yacht riding the gentle swell several hundred metres away. Clumps of coral were visible on the blazing white sands beneath crystal-clear azure water.

  Switching off the outboard engine before she reached her target, Raphaela allowed the boat to glide its way to a soft bump against the stern of the vessel, next to an inflatable orange dinghy. The main craft was unnamed and unmarked with the usual nautical identifiers, and it was of a large sleek ocean-going design. She tied on and took a deep jittery breath, reaching for the salt-crusted rail to haul onto a platform leading up to the rear deck.

  The compact square area, lined either side by stained white leather bench seats, was open to the elements, and vacant of people. Yet, signs of dissolute occupancy were strewn about: empty bottles of overproof rum rolling idly on the floor with the motion of lapped waves, a hash pipe discarded on a sideboard along with drug bags of powder and rotting food scraps, fetid in the stinging heat. The mixing odours of putrid rubbish and stale alcohol crinkled her nose. There was also a large amount of fresh blood, garish against white moulding.

  “No!” Raphaela gasped, dropping to one knee to inspect the crimson splatter.

  She frowned and squinted into the interior. Removing her sunglasses, she secreted them in her bag and crept further inside, nudging bottles with her sandalled foot. Poised on the threshold of the plush, covered salon, she cocked her head and listened carefully, while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Raphaela eventually braved several cautious steps within.

  “It was you?” A man’s hoarse voice sneered in disbelief. “Setting those run now declarations all over town?”

  Raphaela faltered, swallowing hard. “I hoped you’d understand.”

  Seth sprawled on a high-backed leather chair, swivelling around to face her fully. The armrests were smeared with his own blood that had trickled down his fingers to form two spreading puddles on a zebra-hide rug. Jagged gashes travelled the length of his inner forearms, but the wounds had already begun to scab. A large bowie knife dangled from between two fingers, the blade gleaming wetly. He wore only grubby blue-checked boxers, his bronzed torso rippling with muscles.

  “The Keeper, I presume.” He barked laughter, slurring to himself, “To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show, that passion is the paradise below. Satan, at last take pity on our pain. You must be truly desperate to dare come here.”

  “You are the great Seth?” Raphaela took three stilted steps towards him. “Usurper of Lucifer’s contract, earthbound lover of Finesse, the man who wrested the Stone from
the Crone’s grip?”

  “Technically, all I did was to try and destroy the ring, once she’d neglected to put it back on. Someone else stole the damn Stone.” One hand casually twirled the knifepoint down in the palm of his other. “The term ‘lover,’” he said, digging savagely at this hand, “implies affection. I have none for the demon-witch. She can rot in the deepest chasm of hell for all I care. Any vile deed I am responsible for was coerced.”

  “Excuses and self-pity? Clearly, I am on the wrong boat.”

  “You forgot self-loathing. And now we find ourselves together in this delightful, never-ending, fucked-up mess. What do you want, Keeper?” he snarled.

  Raphaela strode forward, knocking the knife from his grasp. It clattered across the floor. “I did not deceive the Watcher and shirk my duty passed down across millennia to rehabilitate a drug-abusing, suicidal alcoholic! We have no time for your piteous regrets if we wish to bring the Crone down, once and for all.”

  “We?” he drawled, eyes panning up her lithe body with a predatory hunger.

  Fragile, easily broken bones were visible beneath Raphaela’s exotic honey complexion. Standing close to him, the slight woman didn’t quail under his crude stare. She reached for one of Seth’s injured arms. He shied from her touch and