Saracen (Saturn's Child Series Book 1)

by R. L. Holmes

  I immediately think of Moley from the post office, with his big gossipy mouth and his sweaty forehead. If a million people lived in Fenton, he would’ve found some way to tell them all.

  But at this moment I felt scared. I have been humiliated many times by Luke Beasley and his mates, and since the killing of his cousin. It’s as if it has become his given right to abuse, criticise and control even more. The murder didn’t suppress or sadden him at all; it simply gave him more ammunition. And because this case is such a high profile mystery, the school staff have become rather lenient on him. And he knows it. He knows he can get away with.....murder.

  As the bus ambles on to Lowry Intermediate in the City, I sit still, feeling terribly apprehensive. They are unusually quiet and that disturbs me so. I am more comfortable with verbal abuse than with silence. Silence means to me that something awful is coming, rearing up from the deep. Something huge and incredibly humiliating is about to tap me on the shoulder and slap me in the face.

  My overactive, imaginative mind circles over and over with various scenarios of what might come my way, and how to get out of it. I imagine myself suddenly sprouting wings and flying up over them, or drawing a magical dagger out of my backpack, only for them to run and hide from my amazing powers. Then they would be in awe of me and have to bow down as I walk by.

  The bus pulls up at school. I immediately jump off and quickly make my way to our classroom hoping and praying that Mrs Windermere is there. She isn’t. Instead there is a new face. This is not good. Mrs Windermere has a history with us lot and knows the rascals from the conscientious workers. This face does not. This face is old and crabby.

  She takes one look at me and asks why I’m here so soon, as school has not yet started. I say, that I’m trying to get away from someone. She frowns and points to my seat. How does she know this is my seat?

  She says, ‘If I want to hide I should climb into the cupboard.’

  That’s a strange thing to say. I take to my seat and quietly her wrinkly fingers curl round a pen, writing.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Windermere?’ I ask, feeling my nerves rising and my mouth drying.

  ‘She’s not feeling well and it’s not really a student’s business to know what their teacher is doing,’ she answers. She is mean and unfeeling, but I think she may be the right person for the job of protector.

  Slowly my classmates drag themselves into the classroom. Luke Beasley this time sits right behind me. I can sense his rotting breath and feel his slit eyes drilling holes into the back of my head. I am scared; terrified of what he has in mind for me. I begin searching around the room, planning my escape.

  In my mind I make an invisible line weaving through the desks. I think it makes more sense to take the route behind Wayne and Warren the twins, as they don’t have much baggage on the floor that might trip me up. They are in fact, rather poor, and don’t have much of anything. The quickest route; is to slide past best friends Stacey and Keisha, but their pink backpacks hanging on the back of their chairs may be a bit of an obstacle.

  My plotting and scheming is interrupted when Luke begins tapping his pencil against his desk slowly, tap tap, tap tap, tap tap.

  His mates’ chuckle. I know instantly he is mimicking the music from the movie, Jaws. Tap tap, tap tap, getting faster and faster. I can visualise the large-toothed shark moving closer and closer to my desk. Chuckles and sniggers become louder, all waiting for the tapping to increase and the strike to take place.

  The new teacher looks up from her desk and frowns. Luke clears his throat and asks where Windy is. She scowls blackly at him. Her eyes squint as if she can see through us all, as if she has been here so many times before. That she can read each and every one of us. She knows in these few moments that Luke is the trouble maker, and the trouble maker is the one that tries to control the class. And she wants none of it.

  Without a word she stands up and points towards the door. To our amazement Luke gets up as if hypnotised, and sluggishly makes his way to the front of the class. Then, as he is about to place his hand on the door handle he turns, his stare planted on me and says, ‘Her old Gran killed my cousin. She’s a witch ya know, she should be burnt alive, like my cousin was.’

  After shutting the door behind him the teacher turns to face the class with a wry smile. ‘And from one witch to another,’ she says half chuckling.

  The class stiffens. No-one dare wiggle, giggle or rattle in their seats.

  The bell finally rings for morning tea recess. Phew! Whispers flood the playground of our teacher being a witch with a wand in her desk, who hypnotised Beasley. She looks very much like a classic witch, dressed in a black straight skirt hiding knobbly knees, covered in black pantyhose leading to black pointy shoes. On her top half she wears a black buttoned, long sleeve shirt, her blue-grey hair worn in a bun and her nose slightly hooked to house her glasses.

  Her name is Ms Seymour. ‘Not, see less, or sea side, but Seymour.’ Her voice croaky and crabby and frog-like.

  Class is bearable without Beasley in it. Ms Seymour is intolerant of whisperers, wrigglers in their seats and of day dreamers, namely me. I try to focus on what she’s teaching, but none of it is overly interesting.

  A flash of white catches my eye in the playground by the jungle gym. From this distance it looks like Mrs Rennie, my neighbour, just standing there next to the climbing rope, her stare fixed on this classroom; on me. What is she doing here? It can’t be her. No it can’t be Mrs Rennie, she doesn’t go anywhere except to the post office and co-op supermarket.

  Slap.

  Ms Seymour smacks my desk with her wand. I jolt out of my mystery and look back towards the board. A few moments pass and I sneak a quick look out the window again, the woman wearing white has vanished.

  ¥

  The 3’oclock alarm rings. Phew! It was tough work forcing myself not to gaze out the window or doodle on my exercise books. I make my way to the bus stop to see Beasley there surrounded by his mates talking about Ms Seymour. He begins making the Jaws music sound under his breath. He and his mates laugh. Stupid kids! I get on the bus and once again I’m a target for their spit shooters, having to pull bits of mucous-drenched paper out of my hair.

  Finally, the bus arrives at my stop and my mother is waiting, waving a little nervously. Beasley asks, ‘Who’s that lady?’

  I ignore him.

  One of his mates volunteers the answer, ‘She’s another witch and her old Gran probably made her in a cauldron, using dead animal parts.’

  That’s an interesting answer actually, and I genuinely wonder if it is possible.

  She hugs me when I step off the bus which embarrasses me in front of all the kids, so I pull away. Of course she understands, having two other children that she did raise.

  ‘How did your day go, Sara?’ she asks, her voice a quiver.

  ‘We had a fill-in teacher, Ms Seymour, not see less or sea side.’

  Mum laughs. ‘That sounds like a teacher I had when I was a little girl. She used to be a Catholic nun.’

  ‘I think she’s a witch, not a Catholic nun. With her hooked nose and black clothes.’

  She laughs again then chokes on a cough. ‘I’m surprised she’s still alive as she would be well into her 80’s, I reckon.’

  As we draw closer to the pretty yellow house, mum suddenly stops and squeezes my hand. ‘Your Gran isn’t happy today, Sara.’

  ‘Why? Does it have something to do with the policeman?’

  She nods and hums. This is a trait we three have. We hum to ourselves while we eat, shower and when there is an uncomfortable silence. Those moments when you are lost for words, trying to find something appropriate to say, we hum. She squeezes my hand again and coughs, patting her chest. ‘Those herbs of your Gran’s are really kicking in.’

  We reach the bottom of the path that leads to the front door of our yellow house, mum stops and stoops to be at my level. ‘Has someone been into the shed?’ she gently asks.

  I frown and try to r
emember who has been in there apart from myself and Gran. ‘No, not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that there is something missing from there.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You don’t need to know what.’ She rubs her belly wincing in pain and stands up straight to stretch her spine. ‘But if you remember anyone who has gone in there in the past three months you will tell me, won’t you.’

  I nod, and begin walking up the path lined with various blue and purple cottage flowers - pansies, cornflowers, and forget-me-nots. Gran deliberately chose blue and purple colours as she thought it created a nice contrast against the yellow walls of the house. On this warm spring day they are looking their best, and I wonder if Gran would be able to garden again with her arm being in so much pain.

  I open the front door and spot Gran sleeping in the armchair, her skin grey and the corner of her mouth curved downwards. This behaviour is so foreign to me. Gran was such a glowing active woman and now she’s a debilitated mess. It leaves me feeling continuously uneasy and I struggle to warm to my own mother enough to lean on her, yet. Besides she seems to have her own problems to deal with.

  ¥

  Only a few moments pass before there’s a knock at the door. Mum limps over and opens it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, the visitor says. ‘My name is Godfrey Leonard, I live across the road. This is Gypsy.’ He pats the smiling black Labrador on the head.

  I take a look at Mr Leonard, his complexion a greyish-yellow, his posture hunched over, his breath heavy.

  He apologises again and says, ‘If it’s not too much bother, can I get some more liver seeds?’

  Of course mum has no idea what he’s talking about and begins to close the door on him. I intervene and drag mum into Gran’s consultation room and point out the glass jar labelled Silybum marianum which contains Mr Leonard’s seeds. There isn’t many left, and he deliberately stayed away after Gran was stabbed to give her space. But he is failing. Weeks without these seeds have taken a toll on him and he has become very ill.

  ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ mum offers.

  ‘I’m afraid there is nothing doctors can do for me now,’ Mr Leonard says, becoming agitated. ‘I just need some of those seeds, if you have any.’

  I show her where the brown paper bags live and she pours all the seeds into a bag and folds the ends over. As she hands it to him, he is so grateful he breaks down into tears. When the door shuts behind them, Gran awakes. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Mr Leonard for some seeds,’ I answer.

  She nods, barely registering my words.

  ‘Will you someday be able to harvest some more for Mr Leonard, Gran? Cos he’s not looking well.’

  She sighs and scratches her hip with irritation. ‘I don’t know how easy it will be with this bloody thing.’ She holds up her arm, her bane, her curse.

  ‘Stupid Raven-Face is the bloody curse!’ I spit.

  ‘I can harvest them if you show me how,’ Mum offers.

  ‘I suppose,’ Gran says unenthusiastically, and drifts back to sleep.

  ‘How long has she been like this for?’ Mum whispers to me in the kitchen.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, no interest in life and so-so angry.’

  ‘Since she got stabbed by that Raven-face psycho.’

  ‘I should’ve come sooner. I haven’t been a good daughter to her and I’ve been a bad mum to you.’

  ‘We coped fine without you.’

  ‘Are you coping now?’ she asks, playing with my hair.

  I shake my head and hold back the tears.

  ‘This is a really unpleasant situation we’re in, but I know things will get better soon.’

  Not wanting her to see me cry, I step away from her nurturing hand and wander out the back door to find Seth.

  ¥

  I awake to the sounds of mum groaning and fussing in the bed next to me and Save Tonight by Eagle Eye Cherry is playing over and over in my mind. It is a black night tonight. The moon smothered by clouds and the air outside, unusually still.

  The abortion has started and she’s leeched blood all over the bed sheets and onto the mattress. She apologises for waking me up, gathers her bloodied sheets and clothing and locks herself in the toilet. I haven’t seen this amount of blood before, it smells putrid and scares me a little. She reassures me she is not dying as the thought had crossed my mind.

  The disturbance wakes Gran up and I race into her room and inform her of the blood bath in my bedroom. In much agony, Gran gets herself up to put the jug on. She sighs, holding her arm up, irritated at not being able to balance things properly. She then wanders out the back door and into the shed. I watch through the kitchen window as she carefully studies each hanging Nettle plant, she harvested before the stabbing. One plant she drags down and tosses into the corner, another she grabs a handful of foliage from and makes her way inside. Placing the dark green, salty smelling leaves on the kitchen bench, she then opens the cupboard for her torch. Back outside she stumbles to search for a small, erect weed with heart-shaped leaves and a strong, yeasty flavour called Shepherd’s Purse. She manages to find a few and harvests them carefully. Then she stuffs her big red teapot with both the Nettle and Shepherds Purse herbs and pours the hot boiled water over the top, submerging them. Spssssst. Pop. Spsssst. I can hear the dancing, the giggling, the fizzing of the herbs as they unleash their magic into the hot liquid.

  By now mum has evacuated the toilet and brought out all the bloodied bed wear into the wash house to soak.

  ‘Are you okay, Tanny?’ Gran asks, showing some warmth.

  Mum nods.

  ‘Did you get those old towels I put on your bed the other day?’

  Mum hums and sniffs.

  She had been crying and I didn’t blame her. Realising this, Gran reaches out and hugs her. Mum breaks down and weeps, triggering a chain reaction of crying from me to Gran. This is the first time I have seen Gran cry since she was stabbed, and I hadn’t been around my mother enough to know if she cried regularly. But this is an incredibly therapeutic moment and I hope we will become closer because of it.

  All the anger, frustration, grief and loneliness just drains away with our tears as three generations of women stand holding one another in the middle of the night, in the kitchen of the pretty, yellow house.

  As the black night draws to a close and the dawn raises its head, Mum is terribly pale and a little down. Gran has the red teapot continuously brewing this Nettle and Shepherd’s Purse mix, that my mum graciously, but not lovingly drinks. These herbs contain a nutritious blend of vitamins and minerals including iron and constituents that slow the bleeding down. Together they taste like a compost heap and look like one too. But they work well, as by the time I arrive home from school mum is up on her feet, making bread to go with last season’s Black Doris plum jam. Apparently my mum is a pretty good cook like Gran, but had always lacked the interest in medicine, until now.

  I don’t know what it was that changed her mind, maybe the effectiveness of the herbs promoting the abortion, or the equally effective herbs for cleaning up the mess. Or perhaps it was the local’s eagerness to use Gran’s formulas as they too had such positive results. But a light had been switched on within her, in those few hours I was away learning my sums, as if it had all been hidden deeply, only to rise to the surface when she was ready.

  She had been raised by a herbalist, but somewhere down the track she had lost her way, engrossed in raising children, and swanning around with her husband. Gran isn’t able to perform her duties like she used to, and it has been made obvious that she is needed in these parts. So the decision was made over these few hours that my mum is to work with Gran, to learn her skills and to master the art of the craft.

  ¥

  Early December 1998: Saracen

  ¥

  Christmas decorations of glistening reds and greens slung over buildings, Wham’s, Last Christmas and Stevie Nick’s version of Silent Night are belted out ov
er the radio, and sweet mince pies, honeyed ham and pretty ribbon bags of Russian fudge are stacked high in the supermarket in the City.

  Fenton though, carries a haze, as if her soul has been beaten, and a black thunder cloud hangs over us. There is still an unsolved double homicide. How can we ever forget that? We wear this every day. The way people silently scrutinise each other now, friends becoming suspicious of friends, ridiculous stories being told and gossiping gossips.

  The locals are not in a celebratory mood at all. Their spirits are low and I had a dream that there was more to come. I wasn’t able to accurately decipher who was involved and where, but I remember waking with a feeling of dread, and unfinished business.

  As we come to the end of a year we are always grateful for a new beginning, to forget the past and start over. 1999 is going to be an interesting year, I suspect. These thoughts circle in my mind as I decorate our tree with blue and silver tinsel and turquoise balls. Our household feels numb. Not many smiles, laughter a million miles away.

  Again, amongst the floating pine fragrance and warming summer temperature, my mother asks whether I can remember anyone going into the shed. I shrug, and watch the expression on her face turn from curiosity to suspicion.

  ‘Your last letter to me mentioned something about Seth. Who is he?’ she asks again, as she washes newly harvested potatoes from our garden.

  ‘You asked me that before.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  I shrug, trying to figure it out. ‘Maybe eighty.’

  ‘Eighty! What are you doing hanging out with an eighty year old? What would you have in common to talk about?’

  ‘We talk about lots of stuff. But he is sometimes hard to understand because he grumbles and speaks in symbols.’

  ‘What do you mean?’