by S E Holmes
The Mini was now trapped in a small empty box. I began to wonder at the purpose of sitting here in a pall of fumes, when the fake panelling in front of the bonnet slid apart. We inched forward onto a lift that dropped us below for several storeys, which slowed to a halt beneath Chinatown. This place must be Bea’s basement storage for retail antiquities. Her public offices were located on the top floor of the swish apartment complex I’d glimpsed.
“No, something worse. I finally know who they are … That poor, poor little girl.”
The words came out barely audible, the pain of acknowledgement hurting my heart. This latest had been a nocturnal descent more special than the usual pointless slaughter, giving full meaning to Enoch’s appeal for pity. The bitterness, spite, outward disregard for the lives of others, all of it made sense. Insufferable loss blighted everything he did, even after the great expanse of years. I dreaded the discovery of how it had happened, but was certain.
“Seth. The witch destroyed Seth’s family. Isadore, the first Keeper, was his murdered wife’s sister.”
Smithy nodded sadly, showing no surprise. “Man, that’s a heavy sentence. Even for that bastard.”
I didn’t bother to point out that his family’s demise was probably the reason Seth was a bastard. Smithy was just too biased against him. And he hadn’t witnessed Seth’s joyful, smitten face on greeting his wife, his laughter or a parent’s affection and patience that revealed the man he’d been before Finesse decimated his existence like a ravenous flesh-eating tumour. He’d had another name. Daniel.
The elevator doors glided wide, the warehouse beyond blasting fluorescence. I blinked to regain focus. Mrs Paget waited in greeting, leaning her thin frame on a newly acquired walking stick. She still wore a wide smile, regardless of floral pants and a white shirt swimming on her in a testament to relentless weight loss. And there wasn’t a lot of her to start with.
“Oh, no.”
“It’s bad, huh? They’re aging faster than Enoch predicted. It’s the wasting influence of the unclaimed Stone.” Raphaela’s desertion had foisted this disaster upon us, but I carried the blame. Smith’s expression changed from sorrow to one of clear confusion, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “I don’t want to seem insensitive, but how do you know what happened to … Seth?” He uttered the name grudgingly. “Should you be dreaming about the enemy?”
Although tinged with accusation – as if I exercised the barest control over my psychic forays – I understood the crux of what Smith meant. Up to this point, all of my visions had been instructive or related to the Keeper’s path. Yet Seth’s story was now at the forefront of my mind.
“Are we sure he’s an enemy?” It was out of my mouth before good sense could prevail.
Smith gifted me with a furious glare. “Damn. Straight. Are you under his spell?”
“His enchantment isn’t supposed to have an enduring effect on me.”
“So you’ve got no excuse then.”
I had thin evidence, but Seth just didn’t feel like an enemy. Still, a question niggled: how could he ever have given up fighting the monster who ripped his wife and child from him?
Five
Keys rattled in the ignition, Smithy switching the engine off and alighting before I had a chance to defend myself. Suddenly, he was at my open door, holding out his hand. He gazed at me and smiled sheepishly, just like old times when one of us had to face the trial over an act of disobedience.
Scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Smithy said, “This sucks and I’m handling it badly. I’m sorry.” He leaned in and whispered in my ear, the tickle of his breath against my neck provoking a flutter in my chest. “I’m always on your side, Winnie. Even when your side equals stupid.”
I smiled up at him and accepted his hand. “Makes for a nice change. It’s usually your side.”
“Hmm, it’s lucky you’re cute or that mouth might get you in more trouble.”
“Cute?” I objected, heaving from my seat.
“Don’t push it. Are you ready?”
“No, but what difference does that make?”
“Excellent point.”
I paused. “How did you know to come here?”
He rifled the front pocket of his shorts and dragged out a crumpled piece of paper, thrusting it at me. I took it and smoothed the page out. It read:
Dearest Winsome and Vegas,
Please meet me at the Chinatown warehouse (address below).
There is an urgent task you must complete.
Love, B.
A hand-drawn map accompanied the note.
“So,” I said, aiming for casual. “You and Hugo are the only ones who know about my little trek this morning?” He raised an eyebrow and gave me a ‘get real’ look. I glanced out at Mrs Paget, who wore the same wry expression. Smithy was correct: I was stupid. “Right. Well let’s get this over with, then.”
He led me into the warehouse proper, where I stooped to give Mrs Paget a tender one-armed hug, horrified anew by her fragility. She reached up and placed her finger over my lips to stop the torrent of self-blame and distress ready to spill forth.
“I am ready,” was all she said.
Her eyes were kind and she had never expected an apology. It was all I could do not to burst into tears at the thought of her parting, made worse by her acceptance. I got myself together for Mrs Paget’s sake, releasing the frail lady to take a good look around. Smithy hadn’t let go of my hand for a second and his unwavering presence helped, as did the absence of Aunt Bea. I knew the peace wouldn’t last for long. Apparently, there was a chore needing attention, among other unpleasant tasks.
In front of me, opposite the weird spectre of a brick wall housing a car that crouched in the middle like a cat in readiness to pounce from its cage, boxes, trunks and packing crates were stacked high. They formed a grid of streets overhung by saucer-shaped industrial lights. The cavernous warehouse was large enough to warrant its own postcode. My guess at the vast monetary worth of this massive collection was limited by the fact I couldn’t count numbers with that many noughts. Smithy’s eyes slid to mine and we exchanged a silent wow!
The three of us waited in a cleared area of polished concrete flooring. Over my left shoulder, kitchen cupboards and a sink occupied one corner next to a round table and six chairs. Behind on my right, the adjacent nook with several computers and rowed banks of monitors displayed views of the bustling suburb above. The place reeked of ‘old’ – leather-bound books and furniture polish and ancient carpets and the acid tang of preservative chemicals.
Bea appeared from one of the lanes exiting onto the central aisle. Hugging a clipboard to her chest, her face neutral, she strode towards us looking elegant in a beige tailored dress cinched at the waist by a slim belt, and a cream silk cardigan. The heels of her sensible court shoes clicked across the diminishing space between us like a metronome of doom. Pulled up in a French roll, her auburn hair hid all but a smattering of grey strands creeping from her temples. Mrs Paget beckoned for me and Smithy to take a seat at the table.
As my aunt neared, her declining state of health became painfully obvious. Like Mrs Paget, she was gaunt and exhausted by the struggle against the Stone’s accelerating power, her eyes red-rimmed with purple smears beneath, and cheeks gouged by the assault.
“Well, Winsome,” she said, slipping into a chair with obvious gratitude. She plonked the clipboard and its thick wad of invoices onto the table. I caught a familiar wave of lavender. Pinching the bridge of her nose, her knuckles prominent and the back of her hand liver-spotted, she raked me with a stare. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“Can I make you both tea, at least?” I asked. The offer reflected my worry, but just seemed grovelling.
“That would be lovely, thank you. Of course, it only delays the inevitable.”
I rose and began to search the overhead cupboards for cups and tea bags, flicking the jug on and trying not to think about the ‘inevitable’.
“Three
of my close friends can see Bear’s tattoos.” Smithy attempted a diversion and I kept a surreptitious eye on their reactions. “What do you think it means, Aunt Bea? Has that ever happened before?”
Mrs Paget whipped around to stare at him and Bea pierced him with narrow-eyed shock. “Grace?” Mrs Paget shook her head. “Not that we are aware of, Vegas. What it means is … unknown.”
“Can Enoch tell us?” Smithy persisted.
“Enoch is a creature who obeys his own fickle calling. We can try and communicate, but reaching out to him will take time and yield an uncertain outcome. And I fear our time is waning.”
I jiggled lemon and ginger tea bags in four mismatched mugs. The stuff was foul, but I was desperate for consolation and felt it only fair that Smithy and I united in beverage misery, as in all other types. I set the cups on the table and repositioned between Smithy and Mrs Paget, squirming to get comfortable on the hard-backed chair.
“It seems important to know before we go to Louisiana.”
“We?” Aunt Bea said. “Whoever said anything about ‘we’?”
“Ah, um,” I stammered, taken completely off guard.
“You have proven yourself incapable of following the simplest directive, Winsome. You expect to accompany Jerome, Grace and myself into a situation fraught with peril, so near to where the witch was temporarily waylaid?” Bea actually snorted. “I think not. You shall remain safely here, in this very warehouse, under lock and key, cataloguing Raphaela’s bequest to you. While you are at it, searching for any lost Keeper’s articles seems wise. It certainly can’t hurt. At this point, we need all the help we can get.”
Great, trapped down a mine shaft. Damn Raphaela to the blackest pit! My guardians confronting such a dangerous situation in their degraded states was madness. Bea took a deep soothing breath and then a draught of tea. Mrs Paget blinked guiltily over the rim of her cup.
I had witnessed Raphaela’s demise and learned nothing about how she’d achieved such a miraculous victory over the Crone. And shouldn’t the last ever Keeper have a say in plans, rather than spending the battle, or whatever ensued, grounded? Sorry Finesse, I can’t come out and vanquish you today, I’m on detention. Seeking the missing Key or laundry peg or whatsamajig seemed a flimsy reason for such an arduous and risky undertaking, given no one even really knew the purpose of the Keeper’s original sextet of objects.
My anger started to burn. It was wasteful to discount me as ‘help’, trainee or otherwise. But before I had the chance to get myself in worse trouble via smartarsery, as was my usual approach, Smithy dropped my jaw with a suggestion farthest from his own wishes.
“Winsome could ask Seth what it means. Others seeing her Deltas …” He clasped his cup hard, seemingly fascinated by a knot in the wood grain of the table.
And I loved him all the more for it, despite how reluctant I was to put his idea into practice. I swore to myself not to let his trust be in vain. Bea considered this, a series of mute flickers passing between her and Mrs Paget, until both gave a slight nod.
“That option appears most expeditious. We shall try the quick method, without the imposition of traffic. Align your Deltas and call for the Keeper’s diary, Winsome.”
Mrs Paget reached across and moved my teacup out of the way, giving me a staunch look of support. She believed I could do this, even if I didn’t believe it of myself.
I pressed my forearms together, concentrating on the diary hovering in stasis at the Keeper’s ceremonial temple under my home. Fighting the certainty that I was a fraud, an imposter pretending skills I didn’t possess, the image shimmered in my mind and I grabbed too early, so that the unformed diary vanished.
“Calm yourself, Winnie. Pause until the scene gains substance,” Bea instructed. “Use all of your senses to project your astral self. Try again.”
This time I closed my eyes and shut out awareness of anything but the mental target. Insubstantiation was a process of perceptual withdrawal in stages, and the most difficult of the Keeper’s skills to maintain. Sight was the simplest to physically exclude, then sound, which despite the effortful quietness of Bea, Mrs Paget and Smithy, exaggerated the suck and blow of their respiration, the chorus of creaks and groans inhabiting this old building, and even the rain far above, until it seemed as loud as a stampede of hooves on concrete.
But I knew the tricks of my brain that boosted an individual sense once others blinked out, and had practised ignoring the tumult. Sort of. I delved inwards, muffling the noise. Soon, a cocoon of profound silence enveloped me. Swimming in the blackest reaches of my subconscious, the pressure of my elbows on the tabletop lost substance and I was no longer cognisant of temperature or the swirling miasma of dust tickling my skin like the quiver of a moth’s wings or the tantalising scent of Smithy’s ocean breeze soap. And then, nothing.
Gradually, I reversed the process to fill my mind with a tangible reconstruction of the Trinity temple: the honeyed scent of lantern oil, the sun’s warmth on my flesh through the domed oculus, the smooth cool of obsidian beneath my bare feet. I raised my head and opened my eyes to the sparkle of its crystalline walls, spying a fully realised diary floating on beams of light.
With utmost care, I poured awareness into this rearrangement of molecules on the other side of Sydney and became corporeal, vacating my shell at the table in Chinatown just like the abandoned chrysalis of a cicada in summer. It was dangerous and I remained attached to the true me by a filament of psychic energy, as easy to sever as if with the slash of a razor. While under, it was Smithy’s job to ensure my body was safe until I returned. At least I didn’t need to worry about that right now.
I summoned the experience of leg muscles extending and contracting and took a ginger step. And another, making my way across the temple from the portal with the jerky gait of a child learning to walk. Focusing my attention to a pinpoint, I raised my hand and warily beckoned for the diary, bringing it down and hugging it to my chest. The demons etching the cover writhed beneath my fingers and I wanted rid of the horrid book as soon as possible. I undid what I’d done and after an eternity, returned to my actual self and a circle of expectant faces. Exhaling relief, I placed the diary in the middle of the table.
“Oh, bravo!” Aunt Bea said. Mrs Paget clapped eagerly next to Smithy.
He squeezed my knee under the table and I wished to steal a moment alone. But that was selfish and after this morning’s disaster I’d sworn not to indulge my own needs at the expense of anyone else. I placed my hand over his and resolved to be satisfied, no matter how inadequate this small touch was. I’d give anything for a second of normalcy and felt no joy over my achievement. It was all too much like magic, too slippery and unreal.
“What now?” I asked.
“The diary is more than a record of Trinity knowledge. All of the familiar Trinity artefacts are a conduit to other dimensions, accessible only by the current Keeper. You must learn to travel these realms and manipulate these pockets in the space-time continuum.”
My shoulders slumped. “No biggie. I’m not the official Keeper yet. Will it work?”
“Seth is only imprisoned at a single remove, if you will.”
I so wanted to interject, “What if I won’t?” But the Keeper’s destiny was upon me, will it or no, and there was no avoiding these lessons if we wanted to move forward, hopefully to come out the other side, if not unscathed, then at least alive, whatever the destination.
Aunt Bea continued, probably conscious of my equivocation, but neither of us had resources left for a motivational session. Or extensive psychotherapy. “Accessing Seth should be easier than that accomplished example of Insubstantiation. Winsome, no Keeper since Isadore has drawn on their capabilities prior to the Claiming Ritual. I do not think you understand how remarkable the act. Jerome was on standby to bring the diary, if necessary. I have highest hopes for you.”
“Thanks. Can we get on with it?”
Seth’s ugly fate and the mysterious part his sister-in-law played on
that most terrible of days stomped on my manners. I was immediately sorry for being so rude to my aunt, who was trying her best to help me, but needed to save my energy for the next ordeal. Hurt briefly furrowed her brow, yet like the trooper she was, we got down to business without further discussion. Smithy threw me a glare, ordinarily earning a poked-out tongue.
“Grace, if anything should go … awry, send for the cats.” She hauled upright, hardly suppressing a bone-weary groan. “Vegas, please remain with Grace. You have no resistance against that beast and could incur lasting damage in his presence.”
Mrs Paget’s hand darted over the table to grip him by the wrist and pin him in place. Judging by the twitch of his jaw, Smith barely complied. After all, with one leisurely yank he could snap her sparrow-like frame. Tension knifed the air and I thought it prudent not to leap to Seth’s defence again.
“Winsome, follow me. Bring the diary.”
I reached to collect the diary. Smith’s arm shot out in imitation of Mrs Paget’s and he clenched my hand. His stare lingered, heavy with meaning: You know what he can do to you, don’t let it happen.
“Trust me,” I promised.
Smithy’s contact left a tingled blanch of fingermarks as I pursued Aunt Bea. Water splashed into a mug at my back. If the boy was voluntarily drinking more lemon and ginger tea, circumstances were truly dire. Who could blame his reaction after my shameful performance on Seth’s boat?
Still, I could not settle the erratic cadence of my Judas pulse and hated the thrill that coursed my flesh at the prospect of confronting Seth. He had defiled me, humiliated me and caused me harm. He was altogether dangerous, wounded and unpredictable. I prayed the feelings were a manifestation of anxiety, of residual fear, of his compelling hypnotism that exerted an irresistible influence over all who beheld his startling visage.
I prayed to the depths of my betraying heart, this fire within that burned with the intensity of a magnesium flare had nothing to do with the memory of Seth’s caressing touch.