Dark Confluence

by Rosemary Fryth

  “What has returned Amelia? You’re not making any sense.”

  “Them...the creatures,” Amelia took an unsteady breath. “Fifty years ago...remember what happened.”

  “Fifty...oh my heavens!” the voice on the other end of the phone faded away in shock.

  “We need to ring the others. Supplies need to be bought and distributed...salt, horseshoes, herb bags...do you remember what the CLS did last time to protect our families.”

  “Not really, it’s been such a long time,” Lynn fretted.

  “Check the minutes of the meetings,” Amelia said, “We’ve got record books going back decades.”

  “I’ll go fetch them,” Lynn stated.

  “Not yet, we have to keep this quiet and close,” Amelia advised in a whisper. “Only members should know, otherwise we’ll be laughed out of town, not to mention what the State Committee would say!”

  “What about the newcomers, the outsiders?” Lynn asked. “There are many new families that have come into the area.”

  “I don’t know” Amelia said. “Perhaps once we have sorted out our own, we can get in touch with neighbours, but our own families are our primary responsibility now. We need to get moving, there is no knowing how long this will last.”

  *

  Senior Sergeant Maxwell was baffled, three mysterious deaths in as many weeks and two unsolved child abductions. He drew his hand through his close-cropped, dark hair in some frustration. Fellow police divers had finally located the body of their colleague who had gone missing two weeks before in the local dam. They had dredged the waters and brought up all manner of flood debris. However, the diver’s body had not been located until much later. It was odd, all his dive gear had gone missing and he was discovered naked, his body wedged in the branches of a submerged tree.

  Then police Senior Sergeant shuddered; it was not as if he was unused to death. He was originally from Melbourne and had dealt with numerous dead bodies over the course of his policing career. He had seen bodies as the end-result of accidents, of misadventure, of murder, of suicide, or simply the body giving up due to extreme old age. He had dealt with complete bodies, body parts and bodies so old that they were bloated, rotten or simply bones. He did not enjoy dealing with death, but it was all part of the job.

  However, the last three bodies he had dealt with were making him seriously reconsider his career. It was not so much the manner of death – drowning was always nasty, especially when the bodies started to bloat with gas. What had seriously put the wind up him was the look on the faces of the dead. In all the years of policing, he had never seen such grimaces of horror and fear. It seemed as if all three bodies had died in such terror that the marks of their torment were forever incised upon their features.

  The coroner too had commented on it; his normally serene complexion blanching. He was a strange, dry sort of chap, the sort of man who would never blink twice around a dead body. He had a macabre sense of humour too, perhaps cultivated in order to be able to do his job properly, and then go home, and sleep well afterwards. Senior Sergeant Maxwell had worked with the coroner a couple of times in the past after bodies had been discovered in the Emerald Hills region. There had been nothing particularly out of the ordinary about those deaths, just two dead bikers from one of the criminal gangs operating drug rings on the coast. Investigations had uncovered that the murders were due to a payback from a rival gang, and arrests were made. Gunshot wounds were messy, but at least you could rationally explain them. The coroner had thought nothing of it. Yet these latest ones seemed to affect him, his eyes looked haunted for a long time afterwards.

  To make it worse, over the last forty-eight hours, the Senior Sergeant had been fielding phone calls from the press since the news about the publican had broken. Just as soon as morning staff had arrived for work at ‘The Royal’ the mess of alcohol was found, and then shortly afterwards they discovered the body of the publican in the cellar. The coroner had determined that he had died from a fractured skull from falling onto the concrete stairs, although the small bites on his legs and the piece bitten from his ear could not easily be explained. The coroner had immediately considered rats, although the evidence seemed to point to the fact that the bites had happened prior to death.

  The Senior Sergeant had known the publican well. In fact, most townsfolk were on speaking terms with him and his death had hit the town hard. The coroner had assured him that a DNA profile was in process on whatever had bitten the publican, but the Senior Sergeant was not mollified. The publican’s death rankled and he would be glad to know the results of the investigations.

  That afternoon, the second corpse had been discovered. Hikers had discovered a backpack and clothing by a local waterfall, and investigating further, had noticed the bloated body of the man partly visible in the pool. Police divers were again called, and the body and evidence removed. The coroner, who had set up a temporary office in Emerald Hills, had advised that the body had been in the water for a couple of days. At least the cause of death was clear this time, drowning due to being under the influence of a prohibited substance, even if the look of horror on his face could not be explained away – perhaps the hippy had experienced a bad trip. The mushrooms had been impounded as evidence, and a search of the area had located a few more growing, some obviously interfered with. Senior Sergeant Maxwell had been tempted to remove those as well. However, he was not sure if the local national parks ranger would have approved. He marked the location on a map and reminded himself to ring the ranger office as soon as possible.

  The phone rang again, interrupting his thoughts. He picked it up and almost groaned aloud, yet another reporter sniffing out a story. The press had scented blood.

  *

  Chapter 11

  Jen sat down to lunch and perused the local paper. She immediately noticed that the death of the publican had been relegated to page three. A photo of the local waterfall dominated the front page of the local rag, followed by a picture of a group of police carrying out of the rainforest a stretcher on which lay a covered figure. Alarmed, she read on. The newspaper report was sketchy, only that an interstate man had been found drowned in the pool, along with a supply of prohibited drugs.

  Jen subtly relaxed. Surely, this death could not be attributed to the actions of the Fae. It was just another needless, pointless death brought about by the actions of a man chasing a drug-induced high. The publican was another matter, she had been to town to shop and everyone was speaking of the condition of his body and the unexplained dumping and wastage of very expensive alcohol. After finishing lunch, Jen had immediately started more research, and discovered a member of the fairy race who might be responsible. The clurican seemed in legend to have both a benign and malign nature. Jen wondered what the publican had done earn to warrant his death.

  Not for the first time, she cast back to what Fionn had told her over a week ago. That she had to stop what ‘was being done’. What did he mean? She wished she had the presence of mind to quiz him back then. However, back then she was beyond rational thought. She had been caught by her emotions, thought only of the moment, captured by the immediacy of his desires. She knew that the only way to understand what he meant was to call him again, but she knew she could not. She knew that she would succumb and submit. His true name hovered upon her lips, yet Jen still refused to call him. She would figure this puzzle out, there had to be another way. Yet she still thought of him, remembered the taste of his lips upon her own, the feel of his hands upon her skin. Jen wondered if she was under some kind of enchantment, but the way Fionn made her feel...she shook her head in disgust at herself.

  It had been over twenty years since she had attended chapel. She had in her new life grown away from the church that she had so diligently attended back home in Scotland. Vaguely, she wondered if she should return, to make her peace with God, to see if the pastor could aid her. Jen turned off the laptop, closing its lid and sat back trying to work out what she should do and if anything could resolv
e the problem. What did Fionn mean? She had no idea what he had meant by his enigmatic statement. It was almost as if he was challenging her to call him again in order to receive more of the puzzle. Instinctively Jen knew that the church could not help. These creatures seemed to be neither angels nor demons, and Jen wondered if they were even subject to God’s laws. Oral legends stated that in olden days the church used to provide comfort or protection for those afflicted, even perform exorcisms. She shook her head again. No, that was then, and this was now, and now was twenty-first century Australia. Jen could not conceive of a country or society so far removed from European pagan fairy-faith, that it seemed impossible to reconcile that fairies could exist here, let alone battled by the Church or contained by its Laws.

  She left her office and walked out her front door to get some fresh air and some perspective. Over two weeks had passed since the fury of the storm, and slowly the garden was getting back to normal. A local contractor had removed or trimmed the storm-damaged trees and everything was green and lush. Summer’s bite was waning now and soon Jen would need to order in some stacks of firewood for autumn and winter.

  Over the last week, Jen had done a lot of research into the fairy folk and she felt that she was better prepared to deal with them. Her own home had quieted back to normalcy, and with her small armoury of protective charms, the dreams and voices that had disturbed her days before, no longer troubled her. Jen had put salt across her windowsills and doorways, and she had hung horseshoes bought from a local farrier. The salt had been troublesome, as it seemed to make its way into every corner of the house, but Jen considered it a necessary nuisance. Today she planned to visit the New Age shop and purchase some herb bags and bells, since the old stories stated that both were useful in dissuading the attention of the fairy folk.

  Yesterday, Jen had rung Tom and told him of her discoveries, and he had assured her that he was making similar preparations. Jen had also mentioned the child vanishings and Tom agreed with her that, perhaps the fairy folk had been responsible. However, what could be done about it bemused him as much as it did her. They had rung off with a promise to keep in touch and to keep over each other up to date with what was going on. Jen thought about their conversation, and wondered why she had kept her meeting with Fionn, secret from Tom. He would be able to suggest some advice, yet Jen felt that Fionn was her secret, not to be shared, even if she deliberately denied herself his presence.

  Jen closed her eyes, remembered again his lips on hers, his taste, his scent, and sighed. She knew she was acting like a lovelorn teenager, but after decades of being alone, it felt nice to be wanted, even if the wanting brought heartbreak. Time could heal heartbreak, but not feeling could be no longer. For too long. she had lived a life cocooned from others, sheltered and secluded, but since Fionn had touched her, kissed her, part of herself had woken from dormancy and cried for succour. She did not care that she might be under enchantment; it was just wonderful to feel something, anything again.

  *

  Chapter 12

  Carma had long since finished her lunch break and she drove leisurely back through town to reopen her shop. As she turned into the main street, she looked at all the footpaths and roads that had had been dug up and smiled. The underground power action had developed a life of its own and both council and the power company had been insistent that this should be their primary concern.

  Carma chuckled, she knew she should feel bad about the storm-damaged coastal communities, but for some reason she didn’t give a damn. Sure, their concerns had been relegated down the list of priority; however, if they couldn’t shift for themselves, then they’d have to wait. Carma had worked day and night to push this action into priority and no one was going to stand in her way now.

  Already the local progressive party had taken an interest in her action and had murmured supportive words such as mentoring, and a possible political future, which Carma had enthusiastically agreed to. In a matter of weeks, the majority of the town’s power would be underground and Carma hoped that Moira would honour her promise about granting her more power. Already her minor dabbling in the secret arts seemed to be blossoming, and she hoped that her political influence could soon grow to extend one day to state and federal levels.

  She sighed happily, pulling into park behind her shop. She could achieve great things with power and influence and all soon lay within her grasp. Getting out of the car, she was surprised to see there a small queue of people waiting to go inside her shop, so she turned the ‘Closed’ sign to ‘Open’ and unlocked the doors. Waiting at the front counter Carma observed her customers. Most seemed to be older women in their sixties and seventies, and all seemed to be making a beeline to her bags of herbs. Her eyebrows raised, she wondered what the old dears were up to and made a mental note to increase the prices on all her stock. One by one, she rang up the items. She was dying of curiosity as to what had inspired the rush today, but said nothing. Twenty minutes later her shop was empty of customers and her shelves empty of herbs. Restocking would take days and Carma hoped that there would not be another rush.

  The door jangled and Carma turned to see another female customer. This one however seemed younger than the others did, having a pale complexion, as if she spent much of her time inside. The woman was so slight that it looked as if a stiff wind would blow her away. Carma judged her to be in her early-fifties and dressed plainly in jeans, tailored shirt and closed in, sensible shoes. Her hair was long, dark and streaked with grey and hung down her back in a knotted plait. The woman’s face was not beautiful, although something was compelling about the shadowed hazel eyes glimpsed behind the glasses. The woman possessed eyes that hinted at something, a mystery. She seemed to possess power of some kind. Carma wondered if she was a fellow practitioner of the arts.

  “Can I help you?” Carma asked, her curiosity piqued by this stranger.

  “No, I’m fine. I’m just looking,” the woman replied softly, with ever so gentle a hint of a Scottish lilt in her voice.

  “Very well, I’ll be here if you need assistance.”

  Carma watched the woman move about the stock. She seemed almost embarrassed to be there, constantly touching her face and neck for reassurance and a blush suffusing the pale cheeks. She went to the herb shelves, and stood there, as if surprised to find it empty. Then shaking her head, moved on and finally picked out a packet of small silver bells. Eventually, she finished her shopping and came back to the counter.

  “Are you all done then?” Carma asked archly.

  The older woman looked across to her and nodded, not meeting her eyes.

  “You seem to be out of herbs,” she said, pointing back to the empty shelves.

  “Sadly yes,” Carma replied. “I had a run on them before. My apologies, I should have new stock in about ten days.” She took the packet of bells and scanned it, “Thirty dollars please.”

  The slight woman handed over her debit card.

  “EFTPOS?” Carma asked. When the woman nodded, Carma added, “Signature or pin number?”

  “Signature.”

  Carma handed over a pen and watched the woman scribe a name with a neat and compact hand. She handed the slip back along with the pen and Carma quickly read the name Jennifer McDonald, before putting it away into the cash register. For a couple of moments, the woman stood quietly, and then she looked up, and for the first time stared directly at her. The force of the woman’s hazel gaze was disturbing, and Carma ended up glancing away, unable to bear the scrutiny. Then the woman opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but then obviously changing her mind, collected her purchase and left the shop.

  Jennifer McDonald, she mused, as she collected her wits, staring at the place where the woman had been. Now where had she heard that name before? Carma racked her brains for a few minutes, but then eventually gave up. The memory seemed lost.

  *

  Jen walked away from the New Age shop with the bells jingling in the plastic bag and a troubled heart. She di
d not know what it was, but the place felt bad. Jen also sensed something about the storeowner that just felt wrong. It was hard to put into words, but she vowed to herself that she would not go there again. Shivering, she increased the pace of her walking. She still had bills to pay, and she wanted to put distance between herself and that place. Hurrying she headed to the post office.

  The original post office had been located in an old federation-style building in the centre of Emerald Hills. However years later, developers had converted the building into an upmarket restaurant and the post office relocated to one of the shop fronts in the new supermarket complex. Although Jen preferred the eccentric little old individual shops with their overhanging eves and wide verandahs, the new complex did have the benefit of parking and easy accessibility.

  Clutching the bills in her hand, Jen walked into the building and shivered again, wondering why they set their air conditioner so low. Even at the lateness of the hour, the post office was still crowded, so Jen patiently waited in the queue, directly behind a young mother with a small toddler. She checked the time on her watch and saw that the electronic hands read quarter past four. Jen frowned and tapped the dial, because she was sure it was later than that. The last time she had checked her watch it was four o’clock and that was before she had gone into the New Age shop. Jen looked ahead, the queue was not moving and the young toddler was bored and started to pull items off the lower shelves. Jen sighed in resignation and watched the young mother haul her child away, speaking to her in a low, yet sharp voice. Then the toddler started screaming with frustration. Flushing with embarrassment, the young mother bent down to hush the child and at that moment, all the lights in the supermarket flickered strangely and went off, plunging the entire complex into complete and utter darkness. As she stood in the darkness, Jen felt a cold, clammy breeze waft around her, and she smelt a strange odour. She stiffened as she heard a couple of sudden screams, and a few audibly drawn-in breaths. Then a second or two later, the lights came on again, bathing everything and everyone in sudden brilliance.