Here Come the Dogs

by Omar Musa

  The second match he examines, turning it, watching how the feminine flame drips upwards, ancient gold, so steadfastly committing to wood and oxygen. He looks at it from beneath and from above before it dies. ‘Hello, flame. Hello, little flame, my friend.’

  He lights ten more matches before he thinks he needs something to set aflame. Gathering dry leaves into a mound, he grins at how quickly they burst into flame, sending smoke into his face. As the flames grow, an emptiness fills momentarily. A question is answered. He stares and stares and the fire pushes outwards in a circle like the iris of a glowing eye.

  Jimmy strikes match after match and flicks them onto the dry leaves. Each match his own private explosion, his own handheld Hiroshima, a mini sun, consigning the leaves to the nothingness of things forgotten. Here in these new flames, the most ancient, an atavistic energy that absolves him of all sin, all recent memory, all he feels and is, all he knows and is never to know. Jimmy sees himself within them, trying his best to mirror the flames’ forgetfulness and, for a moment, succeeding. As the flames lower to a lambent murmur, he wonders how it might burn with petrol on it.

  He looks up, feeling the sensation that someone is watching him. Anger spikes within him that he has been robbed of this moment. It morphs to fear, realising that nobody is there. He stamps out the fire and goes upstairs. Everybody is still asleep. He tucks himself into bed and drifts into slumber, fingers still humming from where the matches burned them.

  5

  ‘Move with me to Perth, Solomon.’

  ‘And live with all those sandgropers?’ I try to smile.

  ‘I’m being serious. Make up your mind.’

  I don’t answer.

  I just stare at a cat-shaped

  water stain on Scarlett’s ceiling.

  ‘Kush and Corinthians’ by Kendrick Lamar coming from the speakers.

  ‘You want it to be easy, don’t you?’ she says at last.

  ‘I don’t know what I want.’

  ‘You do. You want it uncomplicated. But it doesn’t come like that – it

  only comes rough and broken and weird.’

  I’m lying on my side now,

  fingers in her messy hair.

  We’re face to face. ‘This place is all I know, Scarlett.’

  She is almost pleading. ‘You said it yourself. The Town is changing.

  There are Toby’s in Perth; there are basketball courts in Perth.’

  ‘But if I don’t come to terms with this, I won’t come to terms with anything, with the whole lot. Just give me some time, Scarlett. Stay.’ I muster the courage then add, ‘I checked out a space today. I’m thinking of renting it. Maybe turn Amosa’s All-Stars into a drop-in centre for kids.’

  She doesn’t reply,

  just nods,

  the look

  on her face

  unreadable.

  I can hear a lawnmower passing outside.

  This was not the Australia

  Scarlett had wanted to escape to.

  She had dreamed of an endless road,

  a ribbon through rainforest and desert.

  She had dreamed of the red heart,

  coral reefs and perfect beaches.

  The Town,

  to her,

  is small and mediocre.

  But it’s mine

  and fuck it,

  sometimes you don’t have to move outwards,

  you can burrow down and plant roots.

  She nods again as if she’s read my mind,

  then kisses me,

  on the corner of my mouth,

  so gently,

  and when she draws away,

  there’s a faint smile on her lips.

  Now I understand.

  To her I’m fading –

  a memory, a ghost already.

  6

  ‘Happy New Year, ya mad cunt.’

  ‘You too, bro.’ Aleks and Solomon clink glasses and drink down to the ice.

  ‘And welcome home,’ says Solomon in a lower voice.

  From Aleks’ balcony, they have a panoramic view of the whole Town. Rosettes of blue, white and orange pop and sizzle in the blackness, revealing a strange and blanched suburban geometry. Inside, behind a glass sliding door, a party is in full swing, the sound of laughter, cutlery, glasses and music. Frank Ocean’s ‘Pyramids’ is playing. They watch Jimmy swig straight from a Jim Beam bottle, wipe his lips and then drink again.

  ‘Remember that storm we saw from here?’ says Aleks.

  Solomon nods. A year ago the storm had rolled in, its body like an enormous shark rolling and thrashing across the sky, summoning other phantom monsters from the depths, revenant creatures playing between forks of pure light. As soon as the lightning grounded on the far hills, they saw thick columns of blue-grey smoke rising from the bushland.

  ‘Solomona. Why didn’t you come visit?’

  ‘Man . . . I didn’t have the time . . .’

  ‘Tell me the truth.’ Aleks’ eyes steady.

  Solomon looks into his glass as if more liquor will magically appear. He speaks tentatively. ‘I was scared, Atse. All that shit you were going through was like . . . poison. I didn’t want it to touch me. I’m sorry, uce.’

  Solomon puts his hand on Aleks’ shoulder. Aleks looks down and shakes his head. More fireworks explode, a long chain scribbling love heart shapes in the air. Aleks puts a hand in the air in front of him, palm outwards, as if pushing open a door. ‘Nah. You did the right thing. Everyone wants to change.’

  ‘I just needed a break from it all. Needed time to think, to handle shit on my own,’ says Solomon. Aleks looks back inside. Jana Janeski has arrived. She is dressed in a cream blouse and her hair is drawn back tightly. She seems poised and confident. Aleks finds it hard to reconcile his memories of her as a child with this woman. His stomach lurches and he is surprised to feel that even talking to her will require great courage. Solomon doesn’t notice and keeps speaking. ‘It wasn’t easy to do, cos we been through so much shit together. You can’t just leave all that behind. History, bloody history.’

  Aleks turns back to Solomon and clears his throat before speaking again. ‘You know, there’s a rock that looks like a runway, just below the Church of St Clement. You can see most of Lake Ohrid from there, brother, the most beautiful lake in Europe, the pearl of the Balkans. That church is where St Clement taught his disciples the Cyrillic script for the first time. Stand there on the rock and you can see all the way to Albania, wood smoke over the villages, mountains, fluro crosses, clouds like . . . purple angels. There’s three hundred and sixty-five churches around the lake, one for every day of the year, and crosses so you don’t ever forget God, understand? Look down from the rock and you can see right to the bottom. A million coloured rocks and light, so much light.

  ‘And everyone is loud and hysterical. All your mates egging you on and you’re shouting back I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do it! But fuck me dead, you’re scared as shit. You take a run up along the rock, sprint hard and jump out as far as you can – there’s only a bit of leeway cos there’s two rocks just under the water on either side. If you misjudge, you’ll crack your leg or your head. My mate Vladko saved a man’s life down there. The bloke knocked himself out on a rock – Vladko had to swim down till he nearly drowned himself and carry the bugger to the surface. You’ve got all that in your head and the noise and the beauty and then you jump. You fall for three seconds, joy and fear and oxygen and your heart going da doom.’ Aleks pounds his fist on his chest. ‘Then you hit the water, it slaps you right on your rib meat, and it’s cold, all bubbles, cold, the weight of water right on you, your heart about to burst. And you’ve never felt so good in your fucken life, swear to God, brother.

  ‘We’ve all been falling. And who knows where the fuck we’ll land.’ He drinks. ‘When I first got inside, I thought it was a test. Not just for me, to see if I could get through it, but to you, as a mate. And I lay awake every time you didn’t visit, thinking that you’d failed
the test.’ Solomon goes to protest, but Aleks holds up a hand. ‘But maybe it was what we needed, brother. Both. All.’

  The last of the fireworks fade, revealing the Town’s pulsing catch of lights, driven by more than electricity, by some raw and essential turbine, a galaxy within each window. Even from this far away they can see the smoke drift and hear faint cheers.

  * * *

  As soon as they go back into the room, the music hits them.

  ‘Bloody boiling in here!’ says Aleks, and busies himself hauling another fan into the room.

  The evening is edging towards the countdown. Aleks’ Pakistani neighbour, Amjad, is nibbling a chicken wing, admiring an icon of St Clement that Petar Janeski has finished. Sonya and Biljana bring in more and more food, every surface covered by pizzas, smoked fish, pickles, chicken. Aleks has never felt so blessed, so lucky. Jana is picking at a salad and Aleks walks up to her, but he doesn’t know what to say. All he can muster is, ‘You look beautiful.’ With tears in his eyes, he hugs her and feels her stiffen. When he pulls away, her eyes are bright but her mouth is still set and severe. It is then he realises that certain things loom larger than forgiveness and reconciliation: memory, for one, and history, bloody history.

  He is about to say so, when all of the room comes alive with cheering and the clinking of glasses. ‘To Aleks!’ they yell. Solomon is sitting on the lounge, eyes shining, laughing with Scarlett on his knee. ‘Aleks! Come here, come here, bro,’ he slurs. Aleks pinballs between people, accepting kisses and hugs and punches on the shoulder. There is a pop rap song on, the bass bleeding. He sits down next to Solomon and Scarlett. Sonya sets food in front of him. He tears a piece of skin from the chicken breast and chews it slowly, the grease shining on his lips. His daughter jumps on his lap and kisses him. She smells like berry cordial and she, too, has grease on her lips. ‘Hey, sweetheart.’ She smiles, staring, searching his face like a puzzle. He cannot bear her eyes. He looks away and sees Jimmy, alone in the corner, watching him. Jimmy nods slightly, his eyes full of some kind of longing.

  The hip hop beat changes and there is silence. Then, as if by magic or design, a gajda, the Macedonian bagpipe, wails an ancient note. A moment later, a heavy bass drum kicks in. The song is a traditional oro, somehow mournful and jubilant at the same time. The partygoers are in a trance. Aleks rises to his feet; all eyes are on him. He slowly shuffles side to side, raises his arms and begins to dance. His feet are clumsy at first but the music is moving like clouds beneath him, buffeting, carrying him. The note was birthed far, far away, in a resonant goatskin. The note expands and in it are mountains and crosses and boats full of countrymen, navigating their souls to places unknown. It holds the bones of soldiers and sailors, Ancient, heaped on the floor of Lake Ohrid and the Aegean. It contains their strange, small town, the bushland surrounding it, each and every one of them. His eyes close.

  As he dances, he thinks of lost dogs, who snarl and pant in alleyways; those that race and are put to death; of all the pretty birds that fly so fast but never fast enough; of dignity born from suffering, only to be translated into madness and bone; of endurance; of sad fires lost in space, flapping like tattered flags.

  The flutes kick in and then the tempo begins to speed up, insistent. For a man of his size, Aleks is nimble, he is moving, he is dancing, he is moving, a frenzy. He opens his eyes and sees that everyone has joined in, they too with closed or joyous eyes. He is with his family, blood and chosen, and he has made his choice. He will leave Australia.

  The countdown begins.

  7

  The day after Ulysses Amosa’s funeral, Jimmy walks to the river and sets fire to a patch of grass. The flames rush outwards, catching on every dried blade and burr. The sound of cicadas is soon smothered by the snicker of flames. It blows low towards the river where a stand of poplars rises, opposite the old graveyard. He kneels before the flames to watch them shear across the grass. They move out evenly, an expanding diadem of flames. Then he lies down, watching the flames rise like the points of a moving crown, fluid, completely consuming all thought and concern. The flames grow more mesmerising the larger they become, beating an awesome rhythm, the perfectly malleable and self-creating edge of flame. The sun bears silent witness, watching a distant relative washing its thousands of hands over and over and over. It is quite a fire.

  In the flame haze he can see his stepfather’s funeral, the Samoan community singing, their hymns binding into something utterly ethereal. He can see Grace crying, Petar weeping for the first time in anyone’s memory, Solomon expressionless, Aleks full of impotent fury. And maybe it is a trick of the light or his blurry eyes, but he thinks he can see his father standing in a suit, slightly removed, with a crooked smile, escaping the blinding heat under a tree. He can see his own skinny, shaking hands, aching to strike a match.

  As he lies on the ground and watches the flames, he begins to smile and he isn’t sure why. There are tears in his eyes, but there is some sort of release and connection between his tormented heart and the rippling flames. He is hauled up by his collar, so hard that his neck twists and his knee is wrenched. It is the man who lives in a ramshackle house near the river. He drags Jimmy away while his wife dumps buckets of water on the fire. They sit him in their lounge room. The woman calls the cops while the man drinks port wine and watches Jimmy until Grace and the cops come. Grace’s eyes make Jimmy cry; but in the years to follow, Jimmy will be locked up four times for graffiti and firestarting. Something unstoppable has come alive in him.

  8

  You, Jimmy Amosa,

  walk down the path,

  grass, twigs and stones,

  a million fibres scattered

  by flood,

  clay drought-cracked.

  There are wild oats,

  blonde and bending to your right,

  the ochre of barbed wire,

  and lower in the valley some green beneath the muted tones.

  The black of previous fires,

  the warp and arch of trees,

  ragged branches and strange shapes that hang like lanterns.

  The bluestone path abraded to reveal the dirt beneath,

  the jacaranda purple and brilliant.

  You splash petrol on the ground from a jerry can

  and lead it in a thin trail back up the track.

  Methodically you dry your hands, every crease in the knuckles

  where the petrol could hide, in between the fingers.

  You take a ciggie out of your pocket and light it,

  hesitant, scared the flame will catch on some hidden fuel.

  You smoke and you are very calm.

  You are a king who is about to set in motion

  a choreography of dancers and jesters.

  You toss the ciggie on a patch of leaves that shimmer with fuel.

  They take the ember

  and spit some flames into the air.

  You dance back,

  the flames spread their fingers through the grass.

  A shudder goes through you and you look around.

  You are completely alone.

  You climb for twenty minutes

  until you reach the ridge that overlooks the gorge.

  You turn around and can see

  the Town on the other side of the hill.

  On the ridge,

  you look down at the fire,

  amazed that it has grown so fast.

  The heat reaches you,

  even this high up.

  Sweat on your forehead,

  your fringe damp.

  You unzip and pull down your jeans.

  Your cock is harder than it’s ever been.

  You reach down and begin to stroke it,

  smudging it with fuel and grit.

  You can feel the heat of the fire –

  the heat, the summer, the smoke and, at last, the power.

  Soon you are masturbating ferociously,

  sweat drops running down your back, arse and legs.

 
; You stare at your creation below

  and when you come,

  a scribble of semen spurts

  onto the shale at your feet

  and sizzles.

  Are you awake or asleep?

  Are you laughing or crying?

  The bushfire,

  that frenzied heart,

  bursts.

  Alleycat flames dance,

  backs arching and teeth

  grinning, snarling, unravelling,

  gibbering waves that leap and cascade onto fresh tinder,

  swallowing gumnuts, dry twigs, timber rich with oil,

  grass, sacrificing shrubbery to their holy wrath.

  The wind lifts a single burning leaf

  and it alone

  holds the furious sorcery

  waiting to inscribe itself on the world.

  Trees explode.

  Like.

  That.

  Animals next,

  galloping and loping, barging and shouldering,

  that shiver, somehow, then shrivel,

  whirling, backflipping in anguish,

  screaming weeping pirouetting shuddering and finally falling.

  The bushfire is an ignorant brute,

  racing up hills

  with determined and muscular movement.

  Koalas are immolated in trees/

  spraycans explode/

  Horses scream against fences,