Dark Confluence

by Rosemary Fryth

  Jen lifted an eyebrow, and chuckled wryly, “I think there is a bit more to it than that.”

  He shrugged and grinned, “Agreed! Anyway, this is not getting that generator fixed. Good day, Miss, remember if the glue doesn’t hold, you’ll need to replace the timber entirely and I know of a good handyman.” He laughed and pointed to himself.

  “I’ll remember,” Jen replied with a smile, and then with a wave, she left the store.

  Outside, the fog seemed unchanged, despite the growing heat of the midday sun. Jen tossed her purchase in the back seat and relocked the car. Standing by the driver’s door, she wondered if she should pick up more supplies, and then decided she’d buy some fresh bread and get some lunch in town. Leaving the car parked near the hardware store Jen ploughed into the mist and up the slight hill to the small bakery and cafe on the other side of the main street. With all the digging in process, the footpath was a mess and barriers were everywhere instructing pedestrians where to walk, where to cross, and where there were holes.

  Suddenly, Jen stumbled and fell forward, catching herself before falling fully onto her knees. She looked around, and right in the middle of the footpath, she saw growing a small sapling. Jen stared at it in consternation, the tree had cracked the concrete by the force of its growing and she wondered why the council had been so lax in not removing it. Gazing about, Jen noticed that the tree was not alone. More seedlings were evident elsewhere, not only on the footpath, but also visible in nearby yards and driveways. The roads of the town seemed oddly unaffected, and Jen wondered if there was something in the black bitumen that prevented these saplings from taking hold there.

  Jen felt a deep unease grip her. It almost seemed that the forest itself was beginning to reclaim Emerald Hills. She had been this way only yesterday and she was certain that the seedlings and saplings had not been present – somehow, they had sprouted overnight. Jen knelt down to examine the plant, and as she knelt, her silver bell swung close, softly ringing. To her astonished eyes, the plant seemed to diminish and contract at the sound, disappearing back into the broken concrete of the footpath.

  Jen stood; her mind racing. Fairies she could deal with, but this was unexpected and unwelcome. Surely, people would be noticing, commenting, yet she saw people walking around and even through the emerging seedlings, stumbling, yet oblivious to any change other than the mist, which despite the midday sun, continued to shroud the town. It seemed certain that the mist was responsible for the new seedlings, and it seemed equally certain that the mist too was veiling the trees from the minds of the townsfolk. Perhaps, thought Jen, it was only because she was Sighted that was she able to see them.

  Disturbed, Jen walked swiftly to the bakery, dodging not only earthworks and diggings, but also still more of the saplings. At the bakery, she bought two litres of milk and a couple of loaves of bread, plus a turkey and avocado roll to take home for lunch. All around her people were discussing the oddness of the fog, yet she heard no one commenting on the tiny seedlings sprouting all throughout town. Jen, her face blanching with terror, hurried back to the car. All Jen wanted to do was get home and check to see if the forest was intruding itself on her property too.

  Jen got in the car and switched on the radio. If anything, the fog was thicker than before and she tuned into the local broadcasting station to see what the news broadcasts were saying about the strange goings-on in town.

  The first half of the news was about state and federal issues. About the level of debt the country had accrued under the present administration, and about recent polling. Finally, the newsreader came to local issues and of course the subject of the still missing children was prominent, as well as the recent deaths. There was official talk of an expanded police presence in the region, and the siting of a major police hub on the Hinterland. The newsreader also stated that a good quarter of Emerald Hills was now drawing its power from the underground cables, and that the council expected the whole project to be finished ahead of time by the end of April. The news also reported that the power company would be advising residents when to expect more of the underground cables to come online. Finally, the weather report came on, and the dour-sounding weather reporter gave brief mention to the fog. He spoke about unusually still conditions, and high humidity and other factors, and stated that the weather service expected the fog to lift with the expected easterly breeze due to start up overnight. Turning on the ignition and pulling out of the parking bay, Jen wasn’t that confident in what the weather reporter had said. She suspected that the fog wasn’t natural, at least, not natural in the way science understood nature and that the weather service had no clue as to what was actually going on.

  Carefully, she drove through town and out into the country roads. Experimenting she drove a little way towards Cromhart and noticed that ten kilometres beyond Emerald Hills the mist had almost completely lifted or dissipated completely. Therefore, Jen reasoned it was just local to town, and to the area immediately near Emerald Hills. Ten minutes later, she drove into Cromhart. The sister town to Emerald Hills was a hive of activity that morning. Cars lined the streets and shoppers filled the footsteps. It seemed that Cromhart was benefitting greatly from Emerald Hills’ troubles. There was no sign of the mist, or of the seedlings. The place seemed utterly normal and natural, a typical Australian country town. Jen parked the car and got out. The sense of horror that seemed to envelop her in Emerald Hills was gone. Jen was certain that the Fae had no interest in this town, and no presence here.

  ‘So what made Emerald Hills different?’ she asked herself, watching the people going about their everyday lives. Why were the Fae interested in her town, and not this one? What was it that she was missing? Jen shook her head frustrated. She was missing something fundamental, some key that would open the puzzle. She was annoyed at herself for not seeing and not understanding, yet still the answer eluded her. Jen got back in the car and pulled out into the traffic. The only thing she could do was more research, and that meant going back home, going back into the mist. Jen turned the car on the roundabout and with determination, drove back towards Emerald Hills.

  Jen was relieved to finally turn into her driveway and be off the roads. The trip back had been a nightmare. People seemed not to understand about altering their behaviour in the changed driving conditions and there had been several near misses as some drivers wandered out of their lane, or drove at speed. Jen’s accident was only a few weeks old, and since then she often drove with white knuckles, relaxing only when she was out of the car.

  Back inside the house, she put the milk in the refrigerator and took her roll from the bakery to her office where she turned on the laptop. She ate distractedly whilst the machine powered up and connected to the internet. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, something she had heard or read recently that might be the key – but what was it? She wished her memory were better. As she ate she remembered the drive back along the misty roads, it was amazing how such a simple thing as fog could alter one’s perception of the landscape and turn what was real and ordinary, into the surreal...

  Jen paused, mid-chew and stared at the screen. Roads, now that was it, something about the roads. Where had she heard about fairies and roads?

  Then it came to her. Of course, it was Tom; he had explained to her that his wife had thought a Fairy road ran through Emerald Hills. Was that the difference between Cromhart and Emerald Hills? Was the Fairy road the reason why there was no fairy presence in one town, yet the other seemed to be plagued by them? Was the Fairy highway the key to the entire puzzle? Jen took another bite from her roll and called up a search engine on the laptop. Carefully, she typed in the words, Fairy roads, and then hit the search button.

  *

  Chapter 14

  The Brisbane news team drove into Emerald Hills marvelling at the heavy fog that shrouded the town. They had an uneventful drive, right up until they started to see the road signs pointing to the town. It was then that the mist began to be evident, curling
across the road like the heavy mist from dry ice. From then on, the fog had thickened into a real pea souper, cutting visibility down to only a few metres in front of them. Finally, they drove into the town itself, and pulled their van into one of the parking bays next to ‘The Royal’ and got out, stretching and moving overnight bags from the vehicle onto the footpath.

  Bill Anders, award winning journalist and commentator looked up at the pub, nodding to himself. He consulted a sheaf of papers. “Seems to be the right place, Samantha booked us into three rooms.”

  “Sure looks like a likely place” observed Trent, the soundman. “I hope the meals are decent.” He grinned across at blond haired Deven, who was the fresh-out-of-university cameraman, eager to cut his teeth on his first real story. “This is the place where the publican was murdered!” he told Deven.

  Bill stroked his well-trimmed beard and moustache and gestured to the others, “Well let’s go in.”

  The others nodded and followed Bill inside.

  The pub was strangely silent and stank of stale alcohol, and something else that they could not identify. Bill walked up to a counter and pressed a buzzer. Distantly, he heard it echo. He waited a couple more minutes and then pressed it again. Finally, he heard the heavy tread of footsteps and around the far end of the bar a middle-aged man with grey thinning hair appeared. Bill suddenly shivered, and noticed the others pull their jackets and clothes closer about them. Bill heard Trent make a disparaging comment about the air-conditioning set too high, and then the older man was facing them.

  “Well, gents, what can I do for you?” the man asked.

  “We have rooms booked for the Brisbane Channel Eight Network,” explained Bill, now shivering hard, his breath frosting in the suddenly frigid air.

  “Ahh,” said the man. “I’ll need to check records. Back shortly.” Then he was off again, his shoes echoing in the stillness.

  Deven nudged Bill, “Did you check him out. Missing half an ear, it must have been some pub fight.”

  Trent chuckled and headed over to the bar. “Wonder when they start serving around here?”

  Bill looked around him whilst he waited. He had been a journalist close on thirty years and something felt wrong here. He checked his watch, frowned and shook it, it had stopped at twenty past four. Surely the bar should be packed by now, and what was that smell? The older man had completely vanished. Annoyed, Bill leant on the buzzer, listening as it echoed.

  Eventually, he heard footsteps, different ones this time, lighter and faster. Around the corner where the older man had vanished, appeared a sour-faced policeman, dressed in a paper coverall over his uniform.

  “What are you doing here?” he said abruptly, “Don’t you know this is a crime scene?”

  Bill was confused, “We’re media, with the Brisbane Channel Eight Network. We’ve been booked into stay here, my personal assistant had it all organised.”

  “Well, you need to replace your assistant,” snapped the officer. “Hotel has been closed for days. In fact, we’re still doing forensic investigations here.”

  Bill opened his mouth, “We just spoke with one of the hotel staff. He said he was going to check records, an older bloke, thinning grey hair, piece missing from one of his ears.”

  The policeman’s face grew severe at hearing that, “This is not a joking matter mate.”

  “I’m not joking,” Bill said, his own face growing red with annoyance.

  “Well, someone must be pulling your leg, because we have a corpse on ice, out back in the cold room. The publican was murdered a couple of days ago and your description exactly matches the corpse.”

  At that news, the blood drained from Bill’s face, rendering his complexion grey.

  “But...but...he was just here,” Bill stammered.

  The policeman was not amused, “I don’t have the time to put up with stupid media stunts. I don’t care where you three go. However this place is closed...until further notice!” With that last and final statement, he walked away, annoyance written into every line of his stiffly held body.

  Bill gestured to the other two, “Let’s get out of here. I dunno what just happened, but I know when we’re not wanted. We can do further investigations later...after I’ve given Samantha a serve on the mobile.”

  “So no go here?” asked Trent, scratching his dark hair.

  “No go,” Bill growled. “However this is not the end of the matter. I have contacts within police headquarters. I plan to get to the bottom of this!”

  *

  The sleek grey car drifted into town as if it were part of the mist itself. It sat for a moment idling at the red traffic light, then as the light changed it eased off again, the expensive European engine purring gently. Slowly, it drove through town until it stopped outside the office of one of the three real estate agents in the town. Silently, four adults got out of the car, the fog muffling the sounds of doors closing. The men were dressed in expensive designer suits, the type that if you needed to ask the price, then you couldn’t afford it. The women were dressed simply in silk blouses and linen slacks. Their immaculately coiffed hair showed scarcely a tendril out of place, and they wore dark sunglasses, even though it was late in the day and the mist still hung heavy about the town. They stood there for a moment, furtively glancing about, and then after a low conversation, walked into the real estate office. One of the men carried a slim leather briefcase and he wore an expensive Swiss watch upon his wrist.

  The receptionist at the Real Estate office looked up as the group came inside. She greeted them with her usual blinding smile, perfected over many years of use. Yet her smile faded away as the group stared back at her with unsmiling, impassive, pale faces.

  “Good afternoon,” she persevered, effortlessly reworking her smile back to its usual brilliance.

  “We are here to collect the rental key,” the man with the briefcase said curtly, softly. “It is all arranged, we have money.”

  The receptionist nodded, noting the unusual Eastern European accent and imprecise English. “I will need the letter that was sent to you, and some form of ID,” she said.

  The group looked at each other briefly, and then silently the man with the briefcase nodded.

  “Very well,” he placed his briefcase up on the counter, opened it and took out a folded piece of paper, plus a passport. He handed both over to the woman, and as he passed her the papers, she noticed a strange tattoo on the back of his wrist. She perused the letter, nodded and then taking his passport glanced at it and him.

  “You are a long way from home, Mr Dalca. Are you and your friends here on holidays?”

  “Working holiday,” he replied briefly.

  The receptionist handed back the passport and then consulted the computer, “Ah, I see Neil Jenkins has processed the deposit on your rental. You have the bond?”

  Mr Dalca nodded imperceptibly, “Here, two thousand dollars.” He handed over a wad of cash.

  The receptionist balked, and then nodded as she again consulted the letter. “Cash only? Very well, and Neil has noted that you are additionally paying for three months rental in advance.”

  “Correct,” the man said, and then handed her another even larger wad of cash. Patiently, the group waited as she counted the notes, and then placed them into a lockable drawer.

  Going to a board on the back wall, the receptionist selected a key from a number that were hanging there and gave it to the mysterious Mr Dalca, along with an A4 sized envelope.

  “Here is the key, along with a map of the town and surrounding area, and some information about the town, its facilities, and the house you are renting.” She pushed a sheaf of papers to him. “This is your rental agreement. I have tagged the places where you are to sign.”

  The man nodded, and taking out a gold fountain pen from his inside jacket pocket, quickly and efficiently signed the document.

  The receptionist nodded and handed back his passport, “That is all Mr Dalca. I hope you and your friends enjoy your stay at Eme
rald Hills. The house is just three streets away, almost in the centre of town.”

  “Good,” he took the passport, papers and key. All vanished into the slim leather briefcase. The group glanced at him and he nodded briefly. As one, they left the office.

  “Will she be a problem, Vaslav?” asked one of the women in her native Romanian.

  Mr Dalca shook his head, and replied in the same language, “No, by morning the paper trail to us will vanish into dust. However, we now have the key. I have ensured that our presence in the town will be overlooked, except for those who know why we are here, and are sympathetic to us. We have important work to do here, and we need to settle in and then get started.”

  The four got back in the car and with a low purr of its engine, turned around and was soon lost to sight in the mist.

  *

  Jen leaned back into her old leather seat until it creaked and with her fingers, massaged the strain out of her temples. Jen was beginning to understand what was going on, or at least she supposed she had some comprehension of the puzzle.