Where the hell did all that bunch come from? Crikey, it’s hot. Jo would have hated this service!
And Geoff’s thoughts.
Hope Emma’s okay. Damn Effie for not coming! I hope we’re on the news tonight, that’ll piss her off!
Then I realised that I couldn’t pick up a single thought from the congregation of strangers! Bewildered, I glanced at the dream child. She too was looking about herself, sneering. The congregation all seemed normal enough. Some had their heads bowed in prayer. Some stared blankly straight ahead. But there were no thoughts!
My eyes alighted on an elderly lady seated next to an exquisitely beautiful young girl. For a split second a wave of familiarity swept over me and then receded. The girl was straight from the pages of a Hans Christian Andersen tale. Her long, corn-coloured hair was woven into plaits, and her eyes were a peculiar shade of mauve. They had to be coloured contacts.
The girl seemed to notice my gaze, then she shocked me by looking up, directly at me, with a warm, almost welcoming smile. It was practically a smile of recognition. Embarrassed and confused, and certain I was still dreaming, I returned the smile awkwardly. Then the old woman beside her raised her head and stared coldly at me. I felt myself gasp as words came slicing through my mind, causing my spine to jerk rapidly.
Oh, very good! But you’re nowhere near clear enough. The energies are too scattered here. The Solumbi are restless. You must get out of that house.
My eyes frantically scanned the pews. Where was the voice coming from? Surely not from that frail old lady? Was the demon dream being playing games with me? A small schoolboy dressed in his school uniform looked with derision at me. His ears appeared overlarge for his small head. They protruded from under his cap. He was the schoolboy I had spotted in the street of Katoomba. Then, with disbelief, I saw a long, forked tongue flick out of his mouth quickly. Sweating, I tried to break free of my astral escort, and return to my sleeping body. It’s stress, I told myself. Or suppressed grief. I could be having a nervous breakdown. Below me, I saw Helen pat my hand.
The poor girl, she thought, so nervy and pale. Poor little scrap. She didn’t get Jade’s looks or temperament, thank God! She needs some good meals.
Her thoughts helped me to anchor myself, to steady my breathing. Down below, I leant against Helen’s motherly bulk thankfully. I needed to ground myself, to nestle against her in my dream state as well. But the demon’s grip held me tightly to her. I stared at the abstract stained-glass windows of an androgynous Jesus on the cross. His glass blue mouth was fixed in an endless silent scream.
‘Watch!’ the child said. Her tongue was black, her eyes innocent, blue and lost, and they flashed to yellow and gold.
*
Seated behind the Bluites the Crossas commenced their mourning keen. Their Queen was dead. The energy that emanated from the goddesses to give support to the mourners was permeating the small wooden chapel. Hecate hovered anxiously by the coffin, waiting for the soul to emerge. The keen, unintelligible to the ears of the humans, resembled the sound of thousands of insect legs rubbing together. The Crossas glanced anxiously at each other as they keened. Johanna had not responded to the summoning. The crossing had not been an easy journey for many of them; were their efforts in vain? The young schoolboy Crossa flicked his tongue repeatedly as he attempted to follow the keen. He was inexperienced and had not yet perfected the art of Glamour.
Johanna’s coffin was pushed into the flames and Hecate walked into the furnace to retrieve the soul, sensing the time was near. Through what had been human flesh she pulled the tendril of the encoded soulseed out. The keening rose in its intensity. Hecate felt herself transmuting to sacred ash, still holding the seed. Flutterings of life still emanated from the soulseed, the birth, heartbreaks, dreams and the death of the Earth woman that had been. A small bird emerged from the soulseed and flew from the flames into the chapel. The keening abruptly subsided. So mote it be! the Crossas chanted as one.
I watched myself from above as I shifted uneasily on the pew. A small sparrow had flown into the interior of the chapel, and had released the tears from Helen’s eyes. Geoff and Robert were sniffing as well, carried away with the emotion around them, mourning a woman they had never known.
However, I was too filled with fear to respond to the burial bird. I was struck by the irrational thought that if I turned around to face the crowded congregation once more, I would be face to face with the creatures that inhabited my aunt’s paintings. The creations had arrived to honour their creator. Terrified, I closed my eyes and began to pray.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I listened with disbelief to the familiar bubbly voice at the end of the telephone line. Effie’s call had come just as I had woken in bed from the disturbing dream. Rain was pelting heavily against the windows. As I talked to her, trying to wake up, to get my thoughts together, I stroked the wooden shell box which was near the phone.
Effie was filled with excitement over a contract her agency had landed her with one of the local soap operas.
‘It’s only an eight-week contract, but it’s my big break, Emmy! The show’s seen in four other countries. My luck has turned! This is just the beginning!’
I was only half-listening as I stroked the shell emblem on the box. What if Skye had been genuine? I could be destroying her family heirloom!
‘So what do you think, Em? Will it be all right to come?’
I jerked myself back to the present, a warning bell sounding in my head. ‘Come where?’
‘To the mountains to visit you! Haven’t you been listening? I can come this afternoon. I can catch the country train up and we can spend the weekend together.’
I paused. Normally I would have jumped at the chance to see Effie and catch up with all the gossip. It would be good to renew our friendship after the disastrous way we had parted. But now even the thought of Effie coming to stay was prompting another wave of nausea.
‘Well, I guess it would be okay.’
‘You don’t sound very sure. I’m not putting you out am I?’ I could hear the hurt tone in her voice. Jade again.
‘No, of course not. I’m sorry, it’s just that I haven’t been sleeping well. God, I was just having the freakiest nightmare.’ A wave of nausea swept over me.
‘I’m sorry, Effie,’ I managed to gasp out. ‘I’m not feeling well. I’ll have to hang up. Bye now!’
I put down the phone, cutting off her objections, and raced to the bathroom, barely in time for the next bout of vomiting. The phone rang again, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick it up. I didn’t understand my reaction. Effie was my best friend. I looked into the bathroom mirror, pushing my fringe back from my face. Christ, I looked a mess. My thoughts flew back to the disquieting scene I had had with Effie when I had told her my plans to move out.
‘Well, that’s it, then,’ I had concluded as Effie stared at me in shock. ‘I’ll give you a fortnight’s notice, but I’ve decided to move to the mountains and live in Johanna’s house. I hope you understand. It’s something I have to do. I feel, well, compelled in a funny kind of way.’
Effie pushed the remains of her herb omelette with a fork. ‘I think you’re mad. I really do. Completely, absolutely fucking mad.’
I had recoiled at the contempt in her voice. Then she had exploded.
‘Christ, Emma! You don’t even know what this house looks like! You’re so off with the pixies you haven’t even bothered to go and look at it like any normal person would! You don’t know if you’ll find work in the mountains! You’re chucking away a good place here with your friends to go and be even more of a hermit and paint those pathetic paintings!’
‘I’ve spoken to Helen about the house,’ I had said in feeble defence of myself. ‘She’s reassured me. It’s been recently renovated, and she swears it’s in livable condition. I’ve got my savings to live off until I do find work.’
I was shaking inside. How I hated confrontation! It was useless to try to reason with Effie when she was
in this state. Emotion rose in me to match her anger. When I saw she was about to respond I cut her off with a tirade of fury.
‘And don’t call my paintings pathetic, you fucking bitch! At least I’m trying to create something. I’m not just pursuing some pathetic pipedream for my own narcissistic needs. You and Geoff are never home anyway! All you’re concerned about is all you’re ever concerned about — yourself!’
Effie’s fork had gone flying, narrowly missing my head.
‘Go, then!’ she screeched. ‘Get the fuck out! Just don’t come crawling back to me and Geoff when you can’t take it and it doesn’t work out!’
I had relived that scene repeatedly. It was totally uncharacteristic behaviour of Effie. In the two years we had been living together, we had rubbed each other up the wrong way sometimes, but Effie had never been a violent person. The only explanation I could surmise was that she was more upset over me leaving than I had foreseen. Hopefully that explained the fork incident.
I had conveniently chosen to ignore other aspects of Effie’s recent behaviour that was slightly ‘off’ at times. Her surliness, the dark shadows under her eyes that Estee Lauder couldn’t conceal. Then there was her renewed determination to break into television. The last few weeks of my life had been traumatic enough, and now Effie had to choose this time to have a personality transplant. Nevertheless I told myself firmly that Effie was fine. She was just a drama queen who was going to miss me. She’d get used to it, and then the old Effie would return.
I replayed the same old scenarios in my mind — Johanna’s unsolved murder, the hallucination that the mural must surely be, my constant fears that Jade would be on my doorstep, eager for her share of the house. My nightmare, and how real it had seemed. I was now confused over what were my genuine memories of the funeral of Johanna, and what was the dream. And then there was the trouble with my shining not working effectively, not to mention the strained atmosphere in the town toward me.
The phone rang again and I ignored it. I walked back into the corridor where I had left the wooden box sitting near the phone. Taking the box in my hands, I held it up to my ear and shook it as I had done many times before. Yes, I thought, there’s definitely something inside it.
All that is darkness is mine.
She’s not a patch on her aunt, is she? Now there’s talent!
And the child is no longer safe. Even from the wind.
Then I reread a letter that I had found tucked into Johanna’s Book of Shadows:
*
Greetings and Salutations from Villefranche-sur-Mer!
You have been so often in our thoughts lately, especially as three of us have now stationed ourselves in France. What a wrecked old shell of our original group we are! Leonora arrived last week from Ireland. Cael of course is dead. I sense that you know this before I have even told you. I think also that you know what has happened. We know that they have crossed, and the feeling of the group is that you don’t understand the full power of what you are dealing with.
I’m not blaming ourselves. What we did can’t be undone. We were acting in ignorance for most of the time. How were we to know what would come through when we opened the doorway? Now one of us is dead. The demon child has returned to Leonora’s dreams, and is promising to send a friend to Cael. Leonora, I have to add, is close to collapse — the visions she has are shattering her nervous system. None of us will be able to return to Australia while you insist on leaving the gateway open.
Let me be frank, old friend. We were all affected by the Glamour, by the power. But now they are here, and by keeping the portal open you are playing into their hands. This way they can cross easily. And sooner or later, they will call to her, and she will answer.
I beg of you to consider the repercussions. We are waiting. Holding our breaths waiting for you, might I add. Come quickly, before it is too late. Please,
Blessed Be.
Phillip
*
I frowned, my eyes travelling the words, looking for clues. The portal that Johanna had supposedly opened I could dismiss as the ravings of a mind distorted by acid and hashish. But what really sent small tingles racing along the back of my neck was the unmistakable note of terror in the letter. The envelope was not with the letter and there was no return address. I could not contact him to let him know that Johanna had been killed. What on earth had Johanna been involved with? Some magical ritual that had gone terribly wrong? I giggled aloud nervously, as I found myself seriously contemplating contacting a priest to do some sort of blessing on the house. I put the letter down to look for Phillip’s address. Somehow it seemed urgent that I respond to his letter, to let him know what had happened to his friend.
That afternoon instead of the address I found the key to Skye’s box in a kitchen drawer. I had already looked there several times. I pondered my dilemma over three cups of coffee and a huge serving of potato wedges. Was it ethical to break into a box that Skye claimed was hers, simply because I had an outrageously eccentric notion about the box containing some clue to Johanna’s murder? What if Skye herself was the murderer? Shouldn’t I just take the box to that Inspector Owens?
I quickly dismissed the idea, dreading the embarrassment should the box prove empty or inconsequential. The truth was, I was frightened. Frightened to open the box, and terrified not to. So many extraordinary events were occurring around me that I feared my nervous system was going to blow. I even had irrational fears that the box was like Pandora’s and my meddling would release a host of vile beings to be a plague upon humanity.
Finally I pulled myself together and collected the box. Nervously, I went into the lounge room, glancing with trepidation at the mural; for once, it appeared unchanged.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I leant forward and placed the key into the lock. I had the fleeting impression the box was somehow pleased to receive the key. There was a distinct odour of cedarwood and frankincense. Then I noticed the contents.
My initial feeling was an overwhelming sense of anti-climax. No plague of locusts, no grisly human remains. All it contained was a small, dull-coloured piece of crystal. I picked it up and examined it curiously. Was this what Skye had been so eager to claim? The crystal had on its side a minute symbol. It was shaped like a tiny lizard, and there was a crescent moon above it. I was turning it over in my hand, examining it, when something made me look up. The mural. It appeared to be glowing with light. I gasped, and instinctively I held out my hands as if to protect myself from the light. In doing so, I held out the crystal toward it.
Then I screamed. The wall was sucking me into it! I was flying into the wall!
Years before, when Jade was driving me to school, we had a minor car accident. Despite the damage to the two cars involved, the only injury that any of us had sustained was a fracture to my thumb. There had been a sense of unreality about the event in the infinite second when I realised the two cars were going to collide. Time lost all its meaning, and my mind felt suspended, detached, trance-like. As I felt my body lift and move into the wall, that same feeling returned. There was no sense of impact. It was as if the wall was melting around me.
I was moving, walking quickly down a long, white, sterile corridor. It was cool and peaceful, but I was filled with an urge to walk as fast as possible. After five minutes I began to feel panicky. Where on earth was I? The corridor was rippling slightly, breathing. Directly ahead there was an elderly man seated at a desk. His hair was silvery-white and pulled back into a long ponytail. He wore a dark business suit and was talking on a mobile phone. Relieved to see another human being in the corridor, I hastened my pace.
‘She’s approaching now,’ I heard him say into the phone. He turned to me and smiled. His eyes were smoky-grey.
‘Ah! Good morning! Emma, is it?’
Stunned, I could only nod assent. His hands moved onto the computer keyboard in front of him. He peered into the monitor.
‘You’re allowed access, Emma. You can continue your journey.’
<
br /> I stared at him, not comprehending.
‘Hurry!’ he barked, indicating a small side corridor to the left of the desk. ‘Access will be denied if you linger.’
Obediently I darted into the side passage. I walked down the narrow twisting corridor, not knowing if I was dreaming or if I had lost my mind. At the entrance to the corridor were pinned a few old posters of pop stars from the 1970s. I recognised them from my teenage years. ABBA posters hung next to Marc Bolan, and next to him were the Bay City Rollers. All were carelessly attached to the wall with large strips of sticky tape. I was examining them curiously when at the end of the corridor a small child appeared, bouncing a red ball. He stared at me defiantly. I had the feeling that I was expected to know him.
‘Excuse me!’ I called out.
The child stared at me with a look of anger on his face. Clutching his ball tightly, he disappeared into the walls. I began to move more quickly along the corridor. I grew terrified I would never wake up from this lucid dream. A woman came running toward me in slow motion. I stared at her in amazement. She was wearing a rococo-style dress. Her hair was elaborately coiffured and powdered, her face pale. She ran straight at me, and I had to flatten myself against the wall of the corridor to avoid her knocking me over. Her eyes were wide with terror. I gagged at the stench of blood that accompanied her. Shaking, I continued to quicken my pace along the corridor’s twisting entrails. Two young Egyptian girls materialised in front of me. They wore crowns of lapis lazuli, and huge pendants of lapis covered their third eye area.
‘Hurry!’ they cried, in an ancient tongue that I understood perfectly.
Our Father who art in heaven.
Prayer suddenly began emanating from the walls of the tunnel.
Hail, Mary, mother of God.
It rose to a crescendo. I had to cover my ears. An elderly nun crouched ahead of me. My shocked mind barely had time to register that she had no hands. She indicated, with her twisted stumps, a doorway, the location of which was concealed in the white walls. Gesturing awkwardly, she let me know I should step inside. Grateful to escape the ghostly corridor, I opened the door and stepped through it. Grace Kelly stood behind it near another door. My mouth fell open, then I realised that it wasn’t the actress, but somebody who resembled her. Except for the fact that she had silver eyes and appeared to be glowing. She was dressed in a dark-blue suit with a bright orange scarf tied around her neck. Her white-blonde hair was pulled back off her face in a perfect chignon.
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