by Brooke Dark
The woman has sandy blonde hair. Tied in an elegant bun. She wears an apricot coloured bikini. Her skin is fair and white. A bracelet adorns her right wrist. She wades across the pool. Reaches the steps. Climbs out.
A luscious figure. Shapely legs. Firm belly. Breasts, while not large, look firm and pert. She takes a towel from a sun bed. Dries off. Sits. Sips a cocktail. Lies down. Picks up a book. Begins to read.
Back in her room, Amber changes out of her dress. Dons her swimming shorts and bikini top. Wanders back to the pool and lays her bag on one of the sunbeds. There are plenty of guests in the pool today. She blends in. She orders a mango juice.
She takes to the water. She swims the length. Then rests at the one end. Her elbows suspended on the edge. She gazes back at the woman. Who still reads. There is a spare sun bed beside her. With a ruffled towel. Also a newspaper. Her partner’s? Amber wonders. So far, he or she remains unseen. Perhaps back in their room. Or organising a tour.
Amber does not have to wait long.
First, the sandy haired woman returns to the pool. Men watch her. Amber watches her. She enters the water. Pulls her hair free, looping her hair band around her wrist. Long locks unfurl over her shoulders. She dunks her head backwards, wetting her hair. It comes out glistening, like strands of silk. She drags it over one shoulder. She swims a length. Yet no nearer Amber. Amber’s on the southern edge. This woman has swum to the eastern edge. There she stands, idly watching the other guests.
It is here their eyes meet for the first time. Hers and Amber’s. Amber does not avert her gaze. Perhaps because of this, the woman watches Amber longer than maybe she intended. Then she breaks the connection. As if she might be accused of staring. As if the connection were growing uncomfortable.
Amber swims to her.
From her periphery, the woman watches. Amber stops nearby.
‘Hi,’ she says.
The woman looks at her. Smiles. Self-consciously. ‘Oh, hi.’ She looks away.
‘I hope you don’t me saying, but you are stunningly beautiful.’
The girl looks about. As if wondering who Amber might be talking to. Their eyes connect again.
‘Oh. Really?’ The girl laughs. Again, self-consciously. ‘Oh… ah, thank you.’
Amber detects the accent in the woman’s voice now. Not French. Not German. Something else. Scandinavian possibly. ‘Are you here on your own?’
The girl shakes her head. Though she seems quite fascinated with Amber. More than once her eyes linger on Amber. Perhaps merely fascinated by this stranger who has chosen to swim up and chat to her. Though Amber feels the woman actually finds her compelling. ‘No. I am here with my husband.’ She frowns at Amber. ‘Do I know you? I feel I have seen you before.’
It is a response Amber hears often. There have been occasions when she has been drawn to a woman. For no reason. Sensed her presence in the world, her proximity to Amber, before she has even seen her. As if she were being guided. Often Amber has been told that these girls have dreamt of her before she has come into their lives.
Amber does not mention this. No words are said. The girl looks as if she might be about to swim away but Amber asks her, ‘Would you like a drink?’
The girl smiles. Unsure. ‘Ah, okay, maybe.’
They sit at the pool bar. There’s a grey house gecko on the ceiling of the hut.
‘My name is Amber,’ she tells the girl.
‘Veronika,’ the girl replies.
A pretty name, Amber thinks. She holds out her hand, their wet fingers touching for the first time. They shake.
They chat for a while. Often the girl says, ‘It’s so weird… I believe I know you.’
Soon Amber notices a male wading toward them. His torso is above the water line. A deliberate action, Amber feels. He has returned from wherever he was, he has seen his love chatting with another woman. He is intrigued. Amber felt his presence even before he materialised. Now that he has seen her, she can hear his thoughts.
He has barely looked at his fiancé since his return. He has Amber in his sights. Thus he puts his torso on show. His firm, rippled belly. Her muscular physique. Not a big man. Not a gorilla. Still, well proportioned. Athletic. Attractive.
Though he knows it.
He puts himself in the seat beside Veronika. He smiles cordially, waiting for Veronika to introduce him. He has all the air of a complete gentleman. A gorgeous smile to go with it. Dark hair. Tanned skin. A smell of coconut sun lotion wafts about him.
‘Hi Sam, did you find it?’
Whatever “it” is, he doesn’t mention it. ‘Yes. So you have made a friend?’
‘Oh yes,’ Veronika says. ‘Forgive me. Sam, this is Amber. Amber, this is Sam. My husband.’
Sam reaches his hand across. He and Amber shake. Amber smiling.
Yes, all the air of a gentleman, she feels… except Amber can view his thoughts.
In his mind, he’s screwing Amber from behind. Veronika is watching, masturbating.
Sam orders a beer. Smiling at his daydreams.
‘Amber is from England.’
‘Oxfordshire,’ Amber says. ‘And Veronika tells me you guys are from Finland.’
‘Helsinki,’ Sam says.
‘And recently married,’ Amber says.
‘Yes,’ Sam says proudly. ‘Six months ago.’ Veronika shows Amber her wedding ring once more. Her bracelet glistening in the sun.
Sam watches Amber when Amber isn’t looking. She can see him all the same. Through the eyes of the gecko clung to the side of the outdoor shack under which they sit. Through the eyes of the swallows that dart to and fro. He watches the swell of her tits. The curve of her groin.
Amber delves into his mind. Into thoughts he does not care to bury too deep. Exploits he seems proud of…
They chat some more. Sam smiling the whole time. Checking out some of the other women in the pool. Checks out the men, to see who his competition might be. None can match him, he feels. None. So he grins, and sips Bintang. Continues to gaze at Amber every now and then, thinking of undressing her, touching her, making her squat down so that she might suck his cock, so that he might fill her mouth with his load, before pushing her onto the bed and pushing into her from behind.
After a while he grows bored and says, ‘Okay, I shall let you girls chit chat.’ He returns to his sun lounge where he lies against the back rest, sipping another beer. Lying there, watching Veronika and Amber.
An hour later, Amber says she must leave. ‘I’m still suffering jet lag,’ she explains apologetically. ‘I must get some rest. Maybe we could catch up for a drink later.’
‘Yes,’ Veronika says. ‘We shall be here. Room one-eight.’
As they depart, Amber gently touches Veronika’s hand beneath the water’s surface. The instant she touches her, Veronika trembles. Lusciously. The Finnish girl blinks at Amber, as if Amber has just touched her intimately, as if no-one has ever made her feel like that. It puzzles Veronika. Veronika has never looked at a woman the way she looks at Amber right now. With a lustful, longing in her eyes.
♥
~ CHAPTER SIX ~
DEADNIGHT
Amber sleeps for two hours. She awakes at six. The heat is going out of the day. A gecko clack-clack-clacks in the dying light. She dons her lycra tights. Her New Balance jogging shoes. Her sports bra and tank top. She jogs along the beach path. Eleven kilometres all up. Or thereabouts. Passing the food stalls and kids with kites. Mangy dogs. Cats on the rooves of food carts. Hot coals in ceramic braziers. Grills sizzling with marinated chicken skewers. The wafting aroma delicious. Beneath whispering casuarina trees. Coconut palms strung out along old corrugated iron fences. Passing beach hotels far more expansive than her own. Filled with far more tourists. Lazing about pools. Or on sun beds on the sand, facing the waters of the Badung Strait. With hazy views of the ever present mountains on the distant islands of Nusa Penida and Lombongan.
At dusk she meditates at one of the gazebos on the breakwater. The heaven
s have turned red. Dust and smoke from the surrounding villages plays with the sun’s dying light. Kites continue to fly above Sanur. Small bats flit about. The wailing bamboo rods jabbed into the beach sound like ghosts. No-one else is about. Just her and the sounds of the surf crashing against the reef. Along the beach, the hotel restaurants and bars are lit. Around the bay, sparkling lights from distant settlements can be seen. A soft, barmy breeze plays through her hair.
Late. Dark. Stars twinkle. Many hotel guests are in bed across Sanur. Asleep. The witching hour draws near. Sanur’s streets are hardly vacant though. They rumble still with scooters and taxis and mini vans. Late night bars are filled with patrons and music. People sing. People chat. Local Balinese men crouch in the street, smoking, chatting, laughing, asking tourists who stroll by if they “want taxi”. Some of the restaurants remain open, patrons catching up on a late night supper.
Amber slinks by, she goes by almost without being noticed. Some are aware that a shadow has passed them. Yet they spare her no other thought.
She makes her way to the abandoned house on Jalan Danau Tamblingan.
She moves into the wild overgrown garden. She stops and looks about. It feels unnaturally quiet here this time of night. As if the sounds from the street aren’t permitted here. As if she has walked into a church that has been damned and cursed. She turns and faces the quiet house. The windows look dark, ominous.
She approaches one of the darkened windows. No glass panes separate her from the inside. She could lean right through if she wanted. Although, for now, she stands still, trying to get a sense of the presence she felt that afternoon.
She frowns. She senses nothing. As if the presence has moved on.
She feels disappointed.
Amber moves into the house. Broken tiles, chipped concrete, newspaper, dried animal droppings beneath her feet. It is too dark in here. She sees nothing. Alone in the dark she meditates, her eyes shut. Her skin turns grey. The mystical runes tattooed on her skin glow faintly like moonlight. When her eyes open, her pupils have gone. Her eyes are pure white.
She sees the interior of the house now like an old sepia photograph. Dull and pale, hazy in parts. Slowly she goes from room to room, hoping to discover some den, some place where an entity might be living. She finds nothing but a pile of tatty clothes. Soft drink cans. Graffiti scrawled across the walls. An old doll with half its face burnt black.
It confuses her. The presence she felt that afternoon… she was certain this was its dwelling… that she was trespassing.
After searching each room she stands there in what would be the lounge room. No chairs here. Nothing to suggest the place was ever inhabited. Nothing but dusty, gritty cement floors, with refuse strewn about.
She returns outside. The muggy night air somehow cool against her skin. She moves around the side of the house, passing the great knotted mass of bougainvillea. Returning to the sight where the girl’s body had been discovered.
She stops in her tracks, intrigued by what she sees. Creatures of the dark supping at the death essence left behind by the girl’s corpse. Like animals around a waterhole. Hovering in the darkness of the overgrown shrubs are white figures. Ghostly spirits who watch her.
Yet that isn’t all. Something stands across from her. A pale white form. Ghostly. Spectral. Watching her with large, sad, innocent eyes.
Amber watches it. She believes it to be the girl. This was not the presence she sensed earlier today. That felt angry, hateful. This entity gives off only feelings of great sadness.
Amber beckons her.
It approaches. Uncertain, as Amber has known other new spirits to be.
The girl’s spirit remains wide eyed. As if terrified. As if she believes she still lives and Amber would be the ghost.
Amber kneels. Hoping to portray the idea that she is no threat. She holds out her arm, beckoning the girl closer. The spirit of the girl moves toward her. There is a gash across her belly. Blood down her legs, streaming from beneath a tattered skirt.
‘It’s okay,’ Amber whispers to her. ‘It’s okay.’
The girl stops suddenly. Standing there wide eyed. So wide eyed, it puzzles Amber.
Amber sees the darkness too late. A swift moving shadow off to her left. Rushing at her. At the last second she turns to ward it off.
It slams into her. Knocking her into the wall of the house. It dashes off and comes at her again from another angle. Stabs her with talons. Blood gushes from Amber’s ribs. She snatches at the entity. Grabs a handful of scales that cut her hand and clatter to the floor. The dark figure squeals, it spins, lashes out at her. Catching the side of her head. Knocking the senses from her. She drops to the ground. Stars are on her vision. Her hearing has dulled.
She looks up and sees the innocent spirit of the girl standing there watching her.
The dark thing comes again. Amber has time to dive through one of the open windows and into the house. Yet the thing flies in at her, slamming her into another wall.
Dazed, she struggles to her feet. It flies at her, hissing. This time she snaps up her arm, raising her hand and a pure white light emits from her palm. It fills the house like a sun flare for but a moment. It is enough to terrify the darkness, to scare it off. It flees, flying out the window and away into the night.
Amber slumps to the floor, catching her breath. Through the open gap of the rear door, she watches the girl’s spirit slowly, quietly, move away.
Amber takes her time, kneeling there on broken tiles, in the darkness, alone. Catching her breath. She sways. Dizzy. She gazes about the darkened interior. She needs to know that she is out of danger. That her arcane light has seen off any and all dark entities.
She reverts to her human form. The process takes longer than usual. She kneels, shuts her eyes, holds her palms together. She whispers the words of an ancient incantation.
‘Shee o’thara. Shee o’thara s’uvuensa.’
From between her fingers there wafts a glowing white wispy substance. She directs this over her wounds. It binds the lesions, stemming the flow of blood. She breathes it into her lungs. It grants her some strength. Yet she fears a dark poison has entered her. Has weakened her. Physically. Spiritually. Full strength will not return, not until…
She smudges off as much blood as she can. There are old rags lying about. Old bits of newspaper. With great effort she leaves the property. Slinks back to her hotel. She sits solemnly in the shower. Dried blood washes from her. Swirling down the drain hole.
She towels off. Checks her wounds in the mirror. Her healing spell has meant she requires no stitches. Though her wounds are unsightly. Horrific.
She pulls on her nighty. Drops into bed and sleeps.
♥
~ CHAPTER SEVEN ~
LOVERS
She wakes late. The sound of gardeners sweeping outside with their cane brooms. Through the window she watches a female hotel staff member carry a tray to one of the Hindu altars in the garden, shaded by a frangipani tree. The tray holds sweet smoking incense sticks and several small baskets woven from banana leaf. What did Brata call them? Canang? They are filled with sliced banana, small plastic wrapped sweets, frangipani flowers. These are placed at the altar. So too the incense. Water is splashed against it. The woman dips her head, offers a short prayer, before taking her tray and moving to the next altar.
Amber rises. She feels heavy. She showers. Her movements are sluggish. She eyes herself in the mirror. She looks haggard. There’s a scar from last night’s duel. A darkened purple slash across the side of her ribs.
She dresses. She takes her bag and her iPad and her Garleyian Crypt, an ancient manuscript. A manual. She asks at reception if there is a restaurant nearby with air-conditioning. She cannot withstand the tropical heat this morning. She needs cool air to think.
They recommend a café called The Porch.
The small establishment is situated on Jalan Danau Tamblingan. There are tables out in the morning sun. A dog lazes beneath one. The outdoor kitc
hen steams and smokes. The women cooking there chat and laugh. They bid Amber ‘Good morning.’ Amber asks if they have a table indoors. ‘Of course,’ is the answer.
The air-conditioning is like heaven upon her skin. She seats herself at one of the booths. She orders tea. English breakfast. With milk. She peruses the breakfast menu. Orders smoked marlin with poached eggs and rocket. Drizzled with hollandaise sauce.
She carries the scales with her. Ones she took last night from the creature. She consults her Garleyian Crypt. Net-surfs Balinese folk lore, Balinese monsters. She finds it difficult to concentrate. She manages to chance upon intriguing information about supernatural entities that Balinese people believe inhabit their island. Demons called leyaks. She believes Brata mentioned these entities.
And a witch that eats children.
Rangda.
She sips her tea. She stares at the wall. The wall covering is a mishmash of old Australian newspaper prints. Though her eyes gaze idly at it, her thoughts are on the evening before. Wondering if that is what she’s facing. Rangda.
Or some version of it.
Outside, through the windows she watches backpacker travellers traipsing down the side alley to the guesthouse out the back. She stares at the wall that lines the alley. It is dotted with birds nest ferns that cling to the stone work. Her thoughts are distant, she barely acknowledges the person standing by her table.
When she looks up and focuses on the face looking down at her, she recognises it… though for a second she cannot recall from where.
‘Amber. Hi.’
Amber’s face softens. ‘Oh, Veronika. Sorry, I did not see you there. Good morning.’ She looks about. Expecting to see Sam. ‘Are you here alone?’
Veronika shrugs. ‘Yeah. You mind if I join you?’
Amber nods. Trying to clear her mind. ‘Please do.’
Veronika orders coffee.