Saracen (Saturn's Child Series Book 1)

by R. L. Holmes

  As Lucy disappears to have a look at the shops in her jam smeared tee shirt, I’m able to catch up with mum. She seems so much happier, so much healthier with an excitement in her eyes. She’s very serious about our business, Three Generations, and has many ideas for expansion. She thinks that when we are able too, we should buy more land to expand our orchard. Our backyard is much larger than our parallel neighbours as it stretches out to a small piece of land where their fences stop. This is where our fruit trees and vines grow and where Seth used to hang out.

  I decide not to mention the letter under the rose or Mrs Rennie, but I did say that our tree had taken a battering from the winter winds and we may be behind in our potential produce. She smiles proudly and pats me warmly on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re so much like mum you are. I could’ve sworn you were her child.’

  Everyone says that.

  When we finally arrive home after tearing Lucy away from the shops; a little white sports car, one I have not seen before, is parked in front of our house. Lucy moaned all the way home stating that the shops in the City are “crap” and who would want to live in Fenton amongst farmers and chicken feed workers. I’m sick of the sound of her dreary, lazy voice and just want to hide away in my room. I still dare not tell her about her jam smeared top. That is too funny to mention, as the joke would be ruined and my entertainment down the drain.

  I’m curious to see who this little white sports car belongs too. Mum is curious as well. She nudges me slightly asking if we’re expecting visitors. I shake my head and urge her to hurry up and unlock the front door and when she finally finds her keys in her huge handbag, she flings the door open with a thud.

  Ms Anderson.

  ¥

  I’m no fool, even for my age. The station has been changed back to the oldies and What’s New Pussycat is playing quietly in the background. The air is thick and their eyes, they try to hide them, but I catch a glimpse; small slits red, raw from tears. Whether they are tears of anger or sadness, I’m not sure.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask genuinely concerned.

  Ms Anderson looks terribly uncomfortable and evacuates our house quickly, like we’re a lion and she’s a lamb. As she brushes pass me I hear a voice chanting in whispers. It disappears as she does. And I find myself staring at The Hypocrite, the woman’s face appearing again amongst the swirls of blues and purples.

  Gran sighs heavily. She’s tired, the lines under her eyes deepened just over the last couple of hours and mum sits down next to her with a look of bewilderment.

  ‘I have finally discovered the truth,’ Gran says as tears well up again in her eyes. ‘Remember the rose Tanny? Remember we spent a good hour looking up my Encyclopaedia of Roses for a name, a hint, a memory?’

  Mum nods.

  ‘Well, she is right here in front of our faces.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Spanish Lover, the Garden Witch. It was her all along. Her, who works down there at the post office.’

  ‘Mum, what are you talking about?’

  She gazes up again at The Hypocrite and squints. ‘I always hated that painting. I tell everyone I love it, because it’s all I had left of Laurie. But you know, I really hate it; hate the vulgarity of it, hate those awful swirls and colours.’

  She hands Mum the tin box and she opens it. She pauses for a moment. ‘I know this box.’ She unfolds the yellow faded paper and reads the contents while fiddling with the blue plastic elephant. The room is deadly silent. Even my City sister in her jam smeared tee shirt is saying nothing, not even changing the station on the stereo. Mum’s mouth drops open. She scratches her face expecting to find another pimple to play with.

  ‘Do you remember me saying to you that your father took a lover?’

  Mum slowly nods, her mouth still wide open.

  ‘Well, that’s her.’

  ‘Who?’

  Mary nods towards the door.

  ¥

  September 1999: Stranger

  ¥

  I told you, she suspects something. So it was no surprise when she walked in to the Fenton Post Office first thing Saturday morning, wearing a forced smile, inviting me around for a coffee after work. I said I would love too.

  I finished work around 1pm, so it gave me little time to prepare. I had a spare room in my flat that I brought a pretty duvet cover and writing equipment and books for Sara. We are only going to stay one night and then we will head up north and then back to Australia. New Zealand is too small for me now. I have spent twenty years here and to be honest, I have exhausted this place and their generosity. Besides, due to the small population - they are sure to find me eventually.

  I arrive at Mary’s with a bottle of New Zealand wine and a packet of liquorice logs with the chocolate in the middle, Saracen’s favourite. The small puncture in the packet is barely noticeable, where I inserted sedative from a needle. It may taste peculiar but I’m sure she’d still eat them.

  Mary is rather chilly, I must say. I know she wants to ask me questions about one thing or another. She seems distant. I take my jacket off and she notices my black cat tattoo. She asks how long I had it for? I lie and say only 5 or 6 years. I sit down at their homely table and ask where Sara is.

  ‘Out,’ she snaps.

  Damn.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Wow Mary, you’re sure assertive today. ‘Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You’re the cat, he talked about.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That idiot husband of mine. You’re the black cat who crossed his path.’

  The sickly sweet fragrances of roses fill the air; my throat begins to close up. Damn you, Pope. ‘Where are you getting this information from?’ She dumps a small tin box on the table. Well, well, well, what do we have here?

  ‘Open it.’

  Inside a letter from Laurie, the words scribbled like a child, his use of language strange and seemingly symbolic. Cats, rabbits, elephants, horses. What the hell is all this?

  ‘What makes you think this is me?’

  ‘Call it a hunch.’

  I shrug, playing innocent. I was always good at that.

  ‘You told Sara that you lived in Spain.’

  ‘Yeah so?’ Oh Boy, here we go!

  ‘I just need to know, was it you?’

  My throat’s closing up, I begin to cough and wheeze. That sickly, overpowering smell invades my blood and tortures my mind. I can’t think straight, I can barely breathe. ‘Get out Pope.’

  ‘What? Who’s Pope? Are you okay?’ Mary asks.

  I clutch my throat and plead for help.

  Mary stares me down calmly. ‘I will help you, but you have to tell me the truth. Was the black cat you?’

  ‘YES! Alright! Help me!’ Damn her.

  She gets up and wanders casually into the front room where rows of brown glass bottles stand perfectly in rows. She grabs a bottle with some sort of botanical name on it and pours a little into a glass of water.

  ‘Drink.’

  Drink? So says the bottle in Alice and Wonderland. Drink Me. And looked what happened to her. But I have no choice. I’m desperate for air, desperate for breath and so with a suspicious mind I drink the bitter tasting brown liquid. Almost instantly I begin to breathe. Magic. Could it be? I feel exhausted and collapse my head onto the table. She sits there calmly, staring at me, staring into me, waiting for me to recover.

  ‘Now,’ she says rubbing her hands together. ‘Where were we?’

  I am not beaten, Mary. I am an expert at this, you fool. I fall silent for a moment wandering which direction to go in. Tell her the truth? Or lie, lie, lie. Of course lying is so much more fun. I take a deep breath and clear my sore, raspy throat. And the first word that drops out of my mouth is - ‘no.’

  Immediately, my mouth fills with the woody taste of the yellow powder, flung at me that night when I was half asleep. Was that real? I begin to choke again. I raise my hand up and surrender. ‘Alright.’
<
br />   Mary seems slightly confused by my behaviour, my talking to those I sense around me. She doesn’t know. She can’t see them. It mustn’t be her that sent the spice witch to me. Then who?

  ‘I want you to start from the beginning.’

  So I do. With my life being threatened, I have no choice. But I have a plan. I always do.

  ¥

  ‘The winter of 1975 brought me back to him. I was cold and weary and had been running for years. I believed he had killed the Gardener, Mr Pope, but had no proof. The authorities merely said that he was assaulted and pointed the finger at a group of youths who scaled the walls of the Sydney Botanical Gardens at night to binge drink wine cooler and sniff glue.’ Cough, cough, cough!

  ‘Mr Pope was an unusually small man, standing no higher than 4 feet, but talented beyond belief. He could make anything grow, anywhere - tropical plants grow in cooler climates, pond plants grow in the dry dirt and daisies from the Arctic grow in summer. He had his ways to manipulate the plants, muttering chants, performing ceremonies and gifting the plants and the earth gems and chocolate.

  The locals noticed the wonders he performed, becoming a curiosity and in demand from various garden societies to speak to groups, educate the amateur gardener and judge competitions. But he was not interested. He was not a social man, a man of few words. He loathed the thought of sharing his secrets, his magic. But as his garden’s popularity grew, more questions were being asked - How did your grow that here? How did you propagate that? What insecticide do you use? People travelled wide and far to see the rare, the unusual, and the unique growing abundantly under a cloud of mystery.

  But still he remained an enigma, brushing people aside to prune the roses, hurling slugs and dirt at curious passersby as he turned the earth. Nobody could get close to him.

  One thing that he could not control though was the fact that he was getting older - his knees becoming stiff and sore, his strength failing and his fingers swelling with arthritis. He knew it was time to take on an apprentice.

  On a fine spring’s morning Mr Pope was dealing to the aphids on his favourite rose Spanish Lover with a secret potion of herbs, oils and spells when he discovered a woman’s body lying bloodied and bruised under the rose’s canopy. He peered at the still body curiously - her skin pale, golden hair matted and clothes torn, and in a panic realised she was still breathing.

  Carefully he nudged her awake and cleaned her wounds with warm water and lavender oils. Still in a daze she sat up and he directed her back to his small cottage in a private area, situated behind a line of silver birch on the Botanical Garden’s grounds. She stayed, too afraid to leave and he nursed her and fed her until she felt confident enough to tell him all about her escape from her violent boyfriend.

  You’ve probably guessed by now - that this was me.

  I found this little man to be quite a curiosity with his mutterings, slurring of words and symbolism. When I told him about my boyfriends manipulating ways, how he savaged my cat and took to me in a rage with a butcher’s knife. Mr Pope just shrugged and mumbled something about aphids on roses and prickles in grass and spreading gorse.

  Over time I began to understand Mr Pope’s funny sayings and over time he enjoyed my company. So we made a pact that I will learn his ways and become his apprentice as long as I don’t share any of his secrets and dabble in his magic. Agreed.

  So I mysteriously disappeared and my boyfriend announced me missing 3 days after he beat me to a pulp, my clothes still intact in my wardrobe, bank account untouched and I blended in with the surroundings of the Botanical Gardens, coming out only at night to learn Mr Pope’s ways.

  Unfortunately, this did not last long. It was perhaps only five months before someone recognised me. An old workmate caught a glimpse of what she thought looked like Josie Anderson digging the earth on a wet February day. Being a good citizen she contacted the grieving boyfriend and he turned up banging on the cottage door in a rage.

  Security deposed of him, but I knew I had to leave, break free and start again. I knew he would be back and I tried to explain to the saddened Mr Pope what I had to do.

  The following morning I found, my dear friend and saviour Mr Pope lying next to the Spanish Lover, his skull shattered and his small old body lying listless. Taking all the money I had in my bank account I bought a one way ticket to Auckland, New Zealand with the goal to change my name and change my life.

  I was born in New Zealand but travelled wide and far, taking a liking for Sydney for its lovely beaches, tall buildings and sophisticated fashion. But this journey called for me to return home after many years away to find stability and safety a place to rest and regain strength.

  But where? My only family was my aging mother, riddled with dementia and probably wouldn’t recognise me. I thought for a moment as I sat in Auckland airport waiting for my luggage - Laurie Rolston. I wonder if he still lives here.

  After many years apart Josie Anderson, namely me, finds Laurie in a small town called Fenton. Where he lives with his family of four, in a pretty yellow house, on a quiet street.’ Sarcasm.

  ‘He was of course easier than I thought to find. He was a local hero in the world of arts - having won awards for his contribution to the arts as well as being notorious for selling high priced paintings. At one point, a Laurie Rolston Abstract was a sort after item, selling to the highest bidder from overseas, for thousands of dollars. It was unheard of at the time for New Zealand art to be so popular and he held honour for the highest selling piece of art in New Zealand ever. I wasn’t surprised about this. He was always ambitious and clever.’

  I catch Mary rolling her eyes. I can almost read her thoughts. What would you know? She’d be thinking. You don’t know my husband. I pretend I don’t notice and continue.

  ‘So it was easy for me to find him. I was though, surprised that he had a family and had settled down. My memories of him were one of a travelling hobo with sketch book in hand, free from the restraints of responsibility and commitment. But that was several years ago and things change, people change.

  I was just calling by for an impulsive visit - two friends catching up after many years apart. What harm could it do?’

  My throat is dry and itchy, so I take a sip of water. Her fingers tap away on the table. She’s impatient. She wants more. Okay, you asked for it.

  ¥

  ‘I was greeted by a soulful howl, wailing from in the shed at the end of the drive. Treading carefully I sauntered up the drive excited and nervous to see him again, to see the man I loved so dearly, my first love, my kindred spirit. As I drew closer to the shed, I see a familiar figure, his head low, his shoulders rounded from the weight of burdens. He seems distort, confused, angry. Is this a bad idea? The curtains next door flickered and moved. A silhouette of someone I think in the shadows of their home. Am I being watched?’

  Her nostrils are flaring. I see her glancing over at the bottle of wine. I know what you’re thinking Mary. You desperately want to smash me over the head with it, don’t you Mary. You can’t wipe out the truth that easily. It will still linger in these walls, in that painting. God that painting is strange.

  ‘He sensed me drawing closer and lifted his head. His eyes do not connect.’ He doesn’t recognise me. ‘He is the same as I remember. Wild, sparkling eyes, careless but now constrained. I smiled and his mouth dropped open.’ There, he remembers me. ‘His eyes glow with excitement as he laughs and claps his hands.

  “Look what the wind blew in!” he bellowed.

  He lunged towards me and picked me up hurling me through the air as if I was weightless. He kissed me smack on the lips - the memories flood in, the joys the laughter the freedom. His eyes look me over; he notices the scar on my face above my eye.

  “Long story”, I said.

  We spent an hour catching up on the old times. I told him about Mr Pope and my violent boyfriend and he told me about his family and frustrations of the art world - the mental blocks, time restraints from commissions. He said
he taught art for a while in secondary school, but hated it. I said I learnt about the magic and mystery of gardening and he said I should trade secrets with his wife, Mary. We fell silent as the disappointments of the present emitted.

  “It’s not easy for me this life,” he suddenly said after a long pause. “I have this urge to travel, to explore, but I cannot. I feel..........I feel I have become quite ordinary.”

  We talked some more and I left, knowing we will see each other again, soon I hoped. I got a job in the City centre, working in a bar called Soskies. It paid okay, was slightly classier than your usual pub, and was able to get myself a little two bedroom flat. Laurie visited me often and it became just like old times, except when he had to leave to be with his family and I was left feeling lonely.’

  I detect a slight smirk. She likes me saying I was lonely. She likes me being jealous of her. But Mary I have not yet finished. There is still more to come to clean the smirk off your tired, common face. You’ve annoyed me now. I clear my throat and continue.

  ¥

  ‘Over time his frustrations mounted - the life of the everyday bloke, running around after children and arguing with his wife. His escape was me and the more miserable he became with that life, the happier he became with this one. We talked about running away together, fantasising about catching a train to Auckland and escaping to Paris or Spain or Italy. But he would then lower his head; his eyes sadden as the faces of his children enter his mind.

  “We weren’t going to have anymore after Tanny was born. But she insisted,” I remembered him saying.

  You were his captive, his prisoner. And I could see how life had worn away at him - the grey hairs, the lines under his eyes, his slouch and pot stomach - the look of an ordinary man with ordinary responsibilities. Well, that’s in his words, not mine.’

  Mary smiles, her warmth, trying to cover the intense rage I know she’s feeling inside. I can tell, I’m no fool, I’ve seen this look many times before.