Crow's Breath

by John Kinsella

He wasn’t sounding like the Vin we knew. There was an edge. Come on, ya buggers, and I’ll teach you to box. He dragged us up to our feet on the shonky wooden boards of the jetty, then showed us how to hold our fists, how to jab and block.

  After a minute or two he started connecting with us and the punches got harder. He was really pissed.

  Know what it’s like being an Irishman in this country? he snarled. Having an accent among all those British accents? Queensberry fucking rules, me mates. Queensberry fucking rules. I am what you call a southpaw, he said in a mockplummy accent. I lead with my …

  Vin slugged my brother in the head and then me in the gut. I was winded, struggling for breath. My brother was bucketing tears. We fell against each other, crying.

  Pathetic, said Vin, pathetic. Up-yourself little pricks. Go on, go home and whinge about it to Aunt and Uncle.

  And with that, Vin stormed off, fiery and shaking his big white fists at Australia, bringing damnation down on all the white cunts of the world. We never saw him again.

  The golden sun fell behind the islands. We picked ourselves up, shoved each other for being wusses, and agreed that we should walk back to the house via the Port Hotel.

  Geraldton

  We were grounded for a week for fighting (though we didn’t say it was Vin!), but the day before we left Carnarvon for Geraldton, we managed to get taken to the cemetery. I wrote a school essay about that cemetery, and about some of the names I collected from gravestones, and about David Harris and the stuff that went on in Carnarvon. I changed his name and the details of course, so it was kind of fiction as well.

  The essay was originally called ‘Golden Gloves’ but I changed it to ‘The Fighting Spirit’ in order to protect identities, and concluded by saying I was going to move to another country, any other country, as soon as I was old enough. Hopefully somewhere less troubled, less confused.

  THE NEW MACHINERY SHED / THE NEW PASTORAL

  I built it myself. No help. Invented a series of pulleys and gantries to lift and winch the frame into place. Took me months. Big enough to take the combine harvester, my two Steiger tractors, the small John Deere, and the Kenworth with a trailer alongside it. It’s bloody massive. More metal in that structure than in the house and all my other sheds and bins put together. Admittedly, the entire leeward side is open – you can’t see that from here – but it’s still a hell of a lot of metal.

  Truth is, none of the machinery, none of the plant, has ever been stored in the shed, and I doubt that it will be. The truck is still in the old shed up top; the tractors are out at different points of the property. It’s big here, real big. Twenty thousand acres.

  A white elephant? You’d have reason to think so, but no, not at all. In fact, it’s proving very useful, even essential. What’s in there? Well, it’s a UFO. Found it crashed out on the salt scalds. Used the same pulleys and gantries I built the shed with to load it on the truck and haul it into the shed. Had to buy a massive grain tarp to cover it. But it’s down there. I tinker on weekends and between times, trying to put it back together. Amazing piece of engineering.

  Aliens? You mean the pilots? Yes, there were three of them. Sadly, two of them died in the wreck, which need not have happened, given their anti-impact technology. Want to fit that to the truck – doesn’t just warn you of an impending collision, but entirely prevents it. No risk of having an accident, even if someone drives at me head-on. Cushions – forms a layer of … well, what amounts to a kind of invisible bubble wrap. The survivor told me they’d deactivated it because one of the dead copilots was working on improvements. Kind of thing I’d have done. Goes to show that though light years separate our worlds, we’re all much the same when it comes down to it.

  No, he didn’t speak English. Your sarcasm won’t wash with me, I’m impervious. He signed – you know, using his hands. And given my ex-wife was deaf, it took me no time at all to get the gist. Remarkable entity. No, neither man nor woman, it doesn’t work like that, but basically humanoid in form. Yeah, had four fingers and a thumb on each hand! Quite beautiful creatures. Looked like the sun was eternally rising in his eyes. They are a very spiritual … people. They worship space. And in the age of dark matter, we all know how busy and full space is. There’s no such thing as emptiness, which leaves me a little forlorn because the idea of nothingness, of true emptiness, has always been strangely comforting. A vacuum, for example, is a loaded environment full of the impending, full of immanence.

  I am not going to tell you where he is now. But I will tell you, he’s not hiding out. True, he hasn’t cleared customs and quarantine, but his people eradicated sickness and disease a long time ago. Only physical injury is a threat to them. And they don’t carry pathogens or viruses or germs. It’s not a biological or technological matter, but a psychological one. I’d asked – signed – if it was spiritual, and he signed that such a conclusion would be … what we’d call hubristic. He was emphatic. It’s all about how we think about ourselves and others. They seem monadic and dyadic at once.

  As a people, they have no conclusive evidence one way or another verifying the existence of God. No, we haven’t seen God, he insists. He asks if I – we – have.

  One nifty tip I got from my friend was how to improve my harvest without more chemicals, without genetic modification, without sucking the life out of the land. The trick is …

  Sorry? No, I won’t disclose his whereabouts. A national security issue? I don’t think so – they’re pacifists. No violence where they come from. Never heard of such a thing. No knowledge of inflicting harm on their neighbours in any way. And they’re vegetarians. And even plants are regarded with awe and respect.

  Come with you? I don’t think so! What, you’ve already been down to the shed? That’s pretty damned rude. You should have spoken to me first. You don’t have the right. I don’t care if you’re from whatever corporation or government agency or the army or ASIO. That’s all irrelevant to me. It’s all unnecessary. It’s no way to live, there are better ways. I know what you want to do, take the technology and keep it for yourselves, make profit out of it, use it in ‘defence’, by which you mean getting the advantage over your neighbours and hoping they’ll make war, or just making war anyway so you can show them what’s what. I know what you’re about. Yes, I have shared some of the knowledge he has shared with me; shared the bounty with my neighbours, and why shouldn’t I? It’s dry here and they’ve got ways of making water from the thin air itself: water taken from the air! All of us around here are replanting bush, and we’ll seed less land but end up with more grain at harvest. Animals aren’t being killed, they’re adding to the richness and sharing in it. A family of living flesh. It’s more than you’d ever understand. You can’t pluck what you want out of the wreck and not take on the philosophy that led to such technology. It simply won’t work for you. It won’t be used for bad purposes. It doesn’t allow such selfish and destructive application. You’ll find out. A hack farm mechanic like me will get more out of it than your best scientists. It’s not science, it’s anti-science insofar as you think you understand what science is and can be.

  No, I won’t show you where the bodies of the dead Eidolons are. Yes, I call them Eidolons. They hadn’t meant to crash here, but their slip drive shut down when the Hadron Collider was up to its foolish tricks. That and the anti-impact equipment being offline. They got caught in the wake and it warped their parallelisms. An unfortunate concatenation of events. But they are a curious and friendly people, and even with the death of his companions, the Eidolon – my friend! – perceives himself as a representative of perfection. This carries no self-serving sense of personal worth or superiority, just hundreds of generations of working towards self and communal improvement. They feel good about themselves. They are confident in their achievements. And they value guest-host relationships, and he has eaten at my table and warmed himself at my hearth. There are obligations on my part. I owe him my loyalty.

  You’ll have to remove me by force. You c
an question all you want. Won’t change the cold dry of winter and the fact that everywhere else the ankle-high crops are dying off. Won’t change the fact that I had a shed – built with my own hands – big enough to take their ship. And metal, that’s another thing. Metal without mining. Whatever you do, I’ve had my cake and eaten it too. Even the Eidolon admired my new machinery shed. I don’t mean to brag – I am not a perfect being but I am for perfection. He signed his amazement at my achievement, at the triumph of my new machinery shed – now that’s a piece of engineering, there’s nothing like it in the galaxy, and no one can take that away from you, he insisted. I am on the upward path, I know I am bettering myself, and none of your functionaries will stop me!

  FORMAL ATTIRE, OR BENIGHTED

  Formal attire in late afternoon, on a roadside between paddocks, walking somewhere far away because nothing is nearby. Two men in black tuxes, and a woman in a long black dress and gloves, holding high heels. All look a little tattered, a little worse for wear. Driving past, you guess something is going on, something’s amiss. You want to know, want to know them, but not become part of an imbroglio. You could just pull over and say, What’s up, is everything alright? Yet since they haven’t shown any sign of wanting help, but are focused on each step as they walk steadily ahead, proud and determined, making such a move will implicate you, you will bite off more than you can chew. Better to drive on and just slow a little, watching them in your mirror, muse over what’s up, then gradually accelerate, concentrating on what’s ahead. Forget about it, at least for the time being. Then, maybe at home over dinner, mention it to the wife and work through it, I saw something really weird today … took me by surprise. You think you know a place, and then it grabs you round the throat. And you think you know people, then they come right out and shock you with something totally unexpected!

  *

  She felt her face flush as the first car slowed down, then accelerated away. Her feet were killing her. She felt absurd. She regretted tossing the keys into the scrub; she was just so pissed off. She regretted breaking off the search for those keys after such a short time. Quicker to bloody walk, she’d said. Her husband and his best friend – her lover – had bonded in their contempt for her. But she took a little joy in her lover’s wound: he’d torn his ankle, and blood was leaking through his sock, over his shoe, leaving small, dark patches every few metres.

  Won’t stop bleeding, he said.

  It’s not blood, she said.

  Don’t be daft. Is she like this with you, Serge? She’s always rambling on when she’s with me. When she’s with me and you think she’s at work or shopping or something.

  Yes, she’s always like this. Fucking annoying.

  It’s not blood, it’s ichor.

  What?

  Ichor: blood of the gods. Your godliness is flowing out of you. Soon you’ll have lost your god powers and your god status.

  God almighty!

  Yes, that’s what I mean. No more god, no more power, just nothing.

  How far do you reckon it is from here?

  A couple more k’s.

  *

  But I felt guilty and did a U-turn and drove back. Can’t leave people in fancy duds on the side of the road. Out here. And one of them looked injured. Not badly injured, just not quite right.

  *

  She can think you into self-destruction. Into illness. She never lets up.

  Will you stop carping, Serge?

  What do you expect? I mean, it’s not been a great day, has it? I mean, my wife and my best friend.

  Why are you taking it out on me and not him?

  Let’s face it, we’re all wankers. Why on earth are we going to this? You know how it is with effete middle-class wankers like us.

  They’ll be wearing the same sort of clobber, tippling from champagne flutes, and talking about …

  … their new headers, four-by-fours, kids’ private schools and the social skills of their local conservative sitting member …

  We should fit right in. Labor-voting academics, same sort of private schools, four-by-fours, boozing, and winery holidays …

  You do go on. I think you might be right about her, mate.

  Pricks.

  *

  I had to pick them up. You can’t leave people dressed to the nines on the side of the road. Every farm boy round here would want to take a pop at them. Seriously, red rag to a bull. Who would have thought they’d behave like that? They looked so respectable! So I almost got home, then turned the car around and drove back to see if I could help.

  *

  Two k’s? I’ll be fucked if it’s two k’s. We’ve walked that at least, and no sign of the place. Next car that comes along I’m flagging down.

  That car passed ten minutes ago. It’s slowing down.

  Bit odd to come back like that.

  *

  Broken down? I asked from the opposite side of the road, facing the opposite direction from where they were heading, window half-up. I didn’t see any car when I went past earlier. Oh, down a side road? You mean Hikers’ Road? Gravel road that crosses the railway line? Well, where are you heading? Need a lift? Sure, I’ll take you. Your phones not working out here? Not surprising – lousy coverage and a lot of dead zones. Some of us are pushing for more towers but there are a few of those, shall we say, less practical people, you know, greenies and dreamers, who oppose it. Worried about killer waves, apparently. Anyway, jump in.

  *

  Which place?

  Anderson’s.

  Anderson’s? Never heard of any Andersons around here. I’ve been here all my life and know pretty well every property for twenty k’s, but I don’t know no Andersons.

  Strange, they’ve been up here for five years now. Breed stud bulls. Large house with a pool and tennis courts.

  Not a lot of water here. Guess they’ve got good bores. Or maybe they’re so well-off they just cart it in. But Anderson’s sure doesn’t ring a bell. A few k’s down this road and off to the left? Follow the signs? Gee, you’ve got me stumped, but we’ll just drive down and find it, I guess.

  They’re not there all the time. Only weekends.

  Not every weekend, Serge.

  Some weekends.

  They live mostly in the city?

  Yes, they’re academics.

  Ah, right. Maybe that’s it. Do they have someone looking after the property during the week? I might know the caretakers.

  No idea, to tell the truth – but maybe. They said there’d be rich cockies there but didn’t mention caretakers.

  That’s enough, Serge.

  *

  I think this is it.

  Yes, I’m sure it is.

  Turn left onto the gravel?

  Yes, that’s it.

  Okay.

  And now left into this place. See, it’s marked with a red ribbon. They said to watch out for a red ribbon.

  Gee, I’ll be damned. Never been down here before.

  And they said just over the hill, through a clump of trees.

  Wow! Look at that place. How on earth did it get there without my hearing about it? How the hell. It’s massive. Gee, a lot of expensive machinery lined up. Mercs and Lexuses and … is that a Bentley? No wonder you folks are dressed like that!

  *

  Wonder why he’s hanging around. Maybe we should have given him a few bucks for getting us here.

  That’d be insulting. He was just doing a good turn.

  He’s creeping me out watching us like that. I’m sicking of waving and mouthing thankyous. Can we go in now?

  *

  I had a hunch. Something just said to me, Hang around, you might be needed. After all, they didn’t have a vehicle. They reckoned they’d ring the RAC in a few hours and one of them – that big bloke had said he’d do it when the woman hissed at him under her breath – would get a lift back to the car, in time for the RAC. Now, that’s never going to work out. And I didn’t like the way the big bloke was looking at the woman. The small bloke wa
s oily and suave, but I didn’t see him as much of a problem – just a fool, a selfish fool. He’d hurt his leg. He apologised for bleeding on my car floor. What could I say? Get down and clean it up? Not very Good Samaritan. Though I thought it. She was, well, highly strung and hot and bothered, and kept trying to flatten imaginary creases in her dress. Then the little bloke insisted they return to Perth with some guy they knew, he’d surely drive them home, sleep on it, pick up the spare set of keys and they could drive back tomorrow and pick up the car. I piped in then with, Gee, that seems like a lot of fuss. I didn’t say any more. Wasn’t a lot of time, though I drove dead slow. It all seemed wrong and out of kilter. I had a hunch.

  *

  It had been dark for hours when she appeared. And it was a terrible darkness. Not even a sliver of a moon, and though a clear night and the stars out, their brightness was locked into the sky and wouldn’t touch the earth. The coal sack seemed to be swallowing light. Above the noise of the party – can you believe it, there was a live band there playing wedding-like rock and roll? – I could still hear owls gossiping about what was to come.

  I suppose I should confess. I have no wife to talk it over with. No family. Even if I could get a signal, there’d be no one at home to ring. I had a wife and family, but she being an evil bitch upped sticks one night when I was playing competition pool in town – she took the kids and went to her sister’s. It came as a shock and the accusations stuck to me for a year or two, but people soon forgot about them, and my wife and kids were soon forgotten too. They are fairly nondescript people. I have been here my entire life. My wife came from Melbourne. She was always an ‘other-sider’; she was always from thousands of kilometres away.

  I’d sussed there was something weird about the big bloke. And I didn’t much like the slimy little fella. The woman, well, she was a looker. You could tell she was fiery, and probably not much good, but she was a looker. Anyway, I had a hunch she’d come out for a walk in the dark, to shake off the unpleasantness of the party and those fellas. I could tell immediately from her silhouette, her black dress and dark skin blending with night. I drew hard on the cigarette so the glow of the tip might catch her eye. It did.