Saracen (Saturn's Child Series Book 1)

by R. L. Holmes

  Gran immediately jumps into action by gathering five liquid herbs from her clinic room, and measuring each one out carefully in a clear glass cylinder. As she pours, I hear her explain to Sergei what each herb is for and why she is giving it to him.

  ‘Thyme and Elecampane to heal the lungs and bronchioles and clear up the infection; Eyebright to soothe the intestinal mucosa and an expectorant; Echinacea to enhance the immune system. And St Johns wort for you, because you’re sad,’ her words chime as if it were poetry.

  Another talent my gran has is; knowing exactly what to say at the exact right time, and this is one of those moments. Sergei covers his eyes with his large hands and sobs. By using two simple words, “you’re sad,” she summed up how Sergei feels and by that, she shows that she understands and is doing something about it. She is a trigger or facilitator for people to express their emotions, no matter how heavy and dark. And because of this talent, this house has a constant traffic of so-called friends, neighbours, clients and sometimes relatives. Some pay for her services, others land on our doorstep begging for help because they too are sad or sick, or just need to talk.

  A lovely floral alcohol scent drifts out of the clinic room as Sergei collapses into a heap on the cane couch. He has come to the end of the line and is done. He is exhausted, depressed and frustrated. But finally there is a potential buyer for their farm, a glowing light of hope, so they can move on into the City and start a new life. They had already put an offer on a nice home in the suburbs, but need the sale from the farm to complete it. So this is their saving grace.

  Sergei is genuinely grateful and hugs my gran and pays her, always giving her ten dollars extra. He says, ‘That’s for the ones who use her services and don’t pay’.

  If he wants to foot the bill for those vagabonds and leeches, he should be paying Gran a thousand dollars. It’s funny to me how these hopeless people knock on our door and say to my gran, “Sorry, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” and when Gran replies with, “Actually, we’re just about to start dinner,” they reply in a manner that frustrates me so: “That’s okay, I won’t keep you long.” That’s okay, I won’t keep you long?! Then they’d launch into an update of how they’re feeling and the latest drama in their lives.

  ‘That’s okay,’ is such an annoyingly pretentious reply, as if the visitor is saying that they had given their permission for her to eat, but listen to their incessant ramblings first, as they are more important.

  Sergei is not like those other people, though. He is a good, honest, hard working man who relies heavily on the herbal medicine my gran makes up for him.

  His wife, an Australian, is on some of Gran’s herbs for knee problems. She’s a very large woman, almost as wide as she is high. But she still manages to perform her farm duties without complaint, apart from her clicky knees. The real problem is that she’s too fat for her own knees, but Gran has great difficulty in telling her this. So she lies to her instead. She makes up a herbal formula that contains herbs to help her lose weight, but saying that it contained pain killers and anti-inflammatories.

  Sergei’s wife with much delight lost a bit of weight while she’s been on this herbal formula, and came to the conclusion herself that the reason her knees hurt was because she’s carrying “a bit too much weight.” This justified Gran’s betrayal, as she was trying after all to treat the underlying cause. Both Sergei and his wife are frequent buyers of Gran’s medicines and even when they move to the City, they intend to ring an order through and have it posted out.

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  Another of Gran’s better clients is Godfrey Leonard, a toothless old English man who lives across the road with his black Labrador, Gypsy. He was diagnosed with hepatitis C several years ago due to a blood transfusion from an infected needle.

  He used to live in the Middle East which is where he said he got infected. Gran treats him very carefully. Due to an inflamed liver, he cannot have alcohol of any kind, so she medicates him on herbal teas only. He is religious about taking his herbs, as he had a miraculous change just on the first cup, and has been a lot better since.

  So every Thursday at 9.30am, Mr Leonard hobbles across the road to buy his bag of dried seeds, with special instructions attached.

  Mr Leonard’s herb has to be harvested wildly on the Richardson’s farm, and it’s a vicious weed too. Variegated thistle is a huge thorny brute that pops up everywhere, and is considered a noxious weed. The seeds have to be collected not too long after the seed heads opened so she has to be on guard. Gran treats these seeds like they’re gold. Not just because Mr Leonard relies so heavily on them, but because they’re a particularly special herb that no other drug or herb can compare too. These precious little seeds can heal the most severe of liver conditions, providing of course, that you take heed of the instructions given.

  One tablespoon of seeds per 250ml cup of boiling water and infuse, covered for 30 minutes. Strain and drink.

  Mr Leonard has to do this twice a day. He also, under Gran’s instructions, had to stop eating red meat, saturated fats and sugar. He has ups and downs with this disease. Some days he feels normal and is able to take the dog for a good long walk. Other days he’s a mess with headaches and fatigue, and would lie for hours on the couch with Gypsy at his side. Every week when he wanders over for his refill of herbs, he updates Gran on how he’s feeling. And Gran in return, encourages him with kind words of support, like she does with everyone.

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  Late September 1998: Stranger

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  Everyone is mourning over Daniel. If they knew what he was really like, they wouldn’t bother. He told me his deep dark secrets, you know. He told me everything. To put it bluntly, I would describe him as being a bit of a social leach. Oh well, at least this boring little town has something to talk about, thanks to me.

  I heard Mary received a visit from the police. What a shame. It was me who rang them of course, anonymously. I thought it my duty to inform them of the flammable substances sitting in her shed. They wouldn’t have dreamed of considering her without my help. And now she may be a suspect. Oh, this excites me so. I love to play with the dim minds of the stupid police, they will believe anything.

  Twice before, I have tricked them. Twice before, I have fled, without even a flicker of suspicion from their direction.

  You’re probably wandering why I have it in for Mary. Why I feel so much contempt for her. Let’s just say, I have unfinished business. The past that will not rest, I will not let it. But she doesn’t know. She suspects nothing. I am an old pro at this. I can outplay, outwit her a million times over.

  Damn, Pope is back. I know he is ashamed of my behaviour. He keeps trying to stop me, pleading in his funny way. Damn him! But I cannot stop until I have completed my task to the bitter end. Oh, how exhilarating this is. I feel like the puppet master, pulling their strings, making them dance, making them cry.

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  Late September 1998: Saracen

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  A new client of Gran’s, by the name of Sasha Ferrant turns up at 4.15pm, fifteen minutes early. Semisonic’s, Closing Time is humming quietly on the stereo. Gran isn’t ready for her, so she politely asks her to wait in the lounge.

  Sasha is creepy. She’s on loads of anti-psychotic drugs for various mental issues and barely acknowledged my gran’s words. I’m in the kitchen slicing cheese for poppy seed crackers when she came in, and instantly I took a disliking to her.

  She is a slightly built woman in her late forties, never married, no children she says, and lives with her partner of several years. She has spent many years in and out of mental institutions which was where she met her boyfriend, and hasn’t worked a job since her twenties.

  She is what some deem unemployable or unproductive. But my gran always saw the good in everyone and no matter what inflictions or personal hang-ups they may have, they in her opinion, can contribute in some way to making the world a better place.

  Her stare is like a raven’s, black and suspicious.
Gran prompts me to offer some food, but her eyes run all over the crackers like they’re covered in arsenic. Without a word, she shakes her head and continues to stand by the front door watching every move I make.

  I hate her being here. I hate her knowing where we live and I especially hate Gran being alone with her in the clinic room. The situation makes me nervous and I feel helpless not knowing what to do. I grab Gran just before she’s about to go in the room with her. But she just winks and smiles warmly as if she can see my child-like mind churning. I can tell Gran feels uncomfortable in the company of Sasha, but she tries to rise above it, showing no fear or prejudges towards the client. Gran turns no one away.

  As the door to the clinic room closes behind them, I race out to the backyard to find Seth. He’s rummaging around in the compost heap, throwing little clear stones on top. Talking over his usual mutterings, I ask him if Gran is going to be okay shut in the room with that lady. He stops in his tracks and gazes up into the sky as if he’s tuning in to something. Then, after a long pause he claps his hands and says,

  ‘The rains are comin’,’ and continues rummaging and muttering.

  Immediately I feel rage burn through me. Seth always speaks in cryptic language. Sometimes I understand it straight away, sometimes I don’t. When he told me about Mrs Rennie’s melanoma it took me an age to figure out what he was saying as the message was submerged in garden chatter and symbolism. He showed me fruit leaves with blight and explained the importance of keeping the roots strong with feed and water. He showed me buds that were so decayed with disease they didn’t open, and he showed me rotting branches on our apricot tree.

  He refers to our neighbours Potts and Mrs Rennie as, ‘Nettles and Petals’, which I think is hilarious. Somehow, somehow amongst all of this I get the gist of his language and understand some of what this funny little man is saying.

  But this day is different. This time it’s personal. “The rains are coming,” can only be a bad omen to me. But to Seth the rain feeds the land and encourages growth. Nothing is bad in Seth’s world. If a plant dies a slow death from some disease, it falls to the ground and nurtures the other plants. Nothing is truly lost in the plant kingdom, according to Seth.

  ‘Is that good or bad?!’ I bellow, as images enter my mind of a bloody stabbing and Gran falling to her knees begging for mercy. Seth covers his ears as he always does when I raise my voice or when Gran cranks the lawn mower up. He brushes me away and trots over to the cluster of purple and blue cornflowers swaying gently in the breeze along the fence. He says that when the rains come, some of these will be flattened and rot into the earth, and some will pop back up again.

  ‘Which one is my gran?’ I bellow again, completely frustrated by his story-telling. He covers his ears and scowls, waving me away again. A black cloud moves in front of the sun dulling the day. It begins to shower lightly, and I race inside and press my ear up against the clinic door. There is laughter inside. I do not recognise it to be my gran’s. Is she lying there still, covered in blood as that raven-faced woman stands over her with dagger in hand? I can hear Gran’s voice now. Phew! It’s warm and reassuring. There’s more laughter, this time both together. I’m amazed. I’m in awe. My gran made that psychotic, black eyed woman laugh. She’s a miracle worker, a magician.

  The consultation is finally over and that strange woman Sasha leaves. Gran breathes a big sigh of relief. She looks weary. Raven-Face sucked the life-blood out of her, I can tell.

  ‘Some people..........’ Gran says as she wanders out into the kitchen to fix herself something to eat. ‘Some people are just simply hard work.’

  I can imagine. If people actually say what’s circulating in their minds all the time, we would be either running around scared or dying from boredom.

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  Early October 1998: Saracen

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  It is mid spring, the winds are blowing, the temperature warming, and Sasha Ferrant arrives for her follow-up appointment.

  Natalie Imbruglia’s, Torn is playing softly in the background and Raven-Face’s mind is a shadow, like the expression on her face. I shudder.

  She’s chatty this time, probably because she gained trust in Gran, but her voice is shrilly and sharp. She says she has suspicions over her new neighbour, who she believes her partner is showing an interest in.

  Their new neighbour is an attractive female in her twenties, who lives with her boyfriend and their nine month old baby. She believes this neighbour fancies her boyfriend and is eager to have an affair with him. Sasha witnessed an exchange of smiles between them and believes that this is a sign that she wants him to come over. Nutcase!

  Gran tries to reason with her. ‘You must be mistaken. There’s probably nothing going on at all,’ she says.

  But I can tell that it’s futile. The more attempts to calm her down, the more suspicious of my gran Raven-Face becomes. ‘You probably went over there, and the three of you had fun together laughing about me behind my back!’ the psychotic woman screeches, her voice like cold, hard steel shuddering through me.

  The woman rants on, accusing Gran of all sorts of obscenities and repeating the name Maria. Gran tells me to go to my room. I instead run outside to Seth to ask for help.

  ‘Nettles and Petals! Nettles and Petals!’ His tone somewhat urgent, the sweet scent of roses all around.

  I hear my gran scream. Fear races through me. Potts pops her head over the fence and yells out in her typical uncouth manner, ‘What the fuck is that?’

  In much distress I run over to her and scream, ‘There’s a mad woman in the house trying to hurt my gran!’

  With surprising athletic ability, Potts jumps over the fence while yelling out to Mrs Rennie to call the police. She races into our house, and like a rugby professional tackles Raven-Face, slamming her to the ground. A bloodied knife flies out of her hand and skims across the floor hitting the leg of Granddad’s chair. Gran is nailed up against the kitchen bench looking pale and dejected. Her left arm is punctured and bleeding. Tears are in her eyes and she seems for the first time, weak and distressed.

  Mrs Rennie rushes over, her leg bandaged up from the melanoma removal, and hugs my gran tightly. Gran breaks down into a heaving sob and falls to the floor, still with Mrs Rennie’s arms around her. My gran had been broken and I don’t know how to fix her. Instead I stand there in shock, my emotions a million miles away, as if I’m watching a movie, as if I’m watching a late-night horror.

  The local police arrive to find, Potts sitting heavily on the wriggling, foul-mouthed Raven-Face, Gran curled up in the corner of the kitchen with Mrs Rennie glued to her and me standing, frozen in time by the back door.

  I can’t move. I don’t know what to do and I’m terrified. Everything around me is falling away, like Black Doris blossoms when the spring winds hit. My ideals of a safe, nurturing stable home have been torn down and there before me is pain, fear and darkness.

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  Early October 1998: Stranger

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  I caught wind that that awful Sasha Ferrant stabbed Mary. What a screwed up nutter! Yes, I admit it was me who pushed her into Mary’s direction in the first place. She said she was having many problems with horrible, dark thoughts invading her mind. I simply said that a woman in the pretty little yellow cottage in Fenton, not far up from the dairy is very good at giving medicine for these sorts of things. She, being a suspicious creature, immediately asked what type of medicine this was. I told her the truth, herbal. She liked the idea of that. As in her mind, medicine in the form of hard little tablets or capsules probably contains something different to what they say it is. Paranoid!

  She came to me after the session with Mary and said she liked her very much, and is taking liquid herbs that taste awful, but she can at least tell that nothing is hidden in them. It annoyed me slightly that she said she liked her. Sasha doesn’t like anyone. He messed her up, you know. Poor girl. Who knows what she would be like if their paths didn’t cross. He seems to mess everyo
ne up.

  I thought it might be a good idea to play on Sasha’s paranoia and ask about her attractive neighbour. She mentioned her once, said she has a nine month old baby with her live-in boyfriend. All it took was some prompting and inserting of thoughts, the odd comment here, the odd gesture there. Next thing I know, she’s terribly upset and pacing back and forth hysterically, over the affair her neighbour is having with her partner.

  Yeah right, as if that nice, young girl would go anywhere near that revolting parasite.

  To be honest, I just wanted Sasha to scare Mary, just a little.

  So I knew if I played on her suspicions, by the time she went back for her follow-up appointment, she would be completely frenzied and irrational. Worked like a charm. Except, I didn’t think she was capable of stabbing anyone, and I was surprised she accused Mary of being part of this sordid, fictional drama. I was concerned for Saracen. I didn’t want her hurt, anyone but her. My apprentice has to be healthy and strong before I steal her away.

  Mary’s arm was severely damaged. I hear she’s withdrawing from her work and probably sitting around feeling sorry for herself. I feel like taking Saracen now. I have debated it. I can give her so much more than that sorry woman. But I have decided against it as there is far too much attention focused on them at the moment. Even the hermit, nosey neighbour, is getting out of the house to visit. Besides, I must not get sidetracked. I have unfinished business and must complete that first. Then I will steal the child.

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  Late October 1998: Saracen

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  Many things have changed from that incident. Potts comes over frequently, as if she had taken it upon herself to look after us. I began to warm to her, although I’m still curious to know what her relationship to Mrs Rennie is. She has become our friend, and I at times feel comfortable opening up to her. Beneath all that sloth, cigarettes and crassness is a good caring heart. She needs a friend as much as she needs to be needed.