A STORYTELLING OF RAVENS

by R. H. Dixon

  They bowed their heads against the driving wind and dashed across the veranda together, the wooden boards slippery underfoot. Callie’s face stung and the woollen throw whipped about above her like a phantom scarecrow. She kept two of its corners bunched in her fists, not altogether sure why she continued to hold on because soon, she knew, it would be a sodden, cold mass weighted down and clinging to her back. Her feet pounded on the veranda steps, each board shuddering beneath her weight and urgency, then she rushed onto the waterlogged lawn where mud squelched between her toes. It was a cold unpleasantness that she imagined might include fleshy earthworms flooded from their burrows below. She kept on moving though, her feet slapping and churning more mud. More worms.

  Looking ahead, the lake beyond the garden was a profound dark stretch under a heavyweight sky concealing a complacent moon. Not a single streetlight, headlight or house light could be seen nearby or in the far-off distance, which emphasised the cabin’s absolute remoteness and made Callie imagine a whole pressing void of blackness above them. A black dreadnought universe that bore meagre snatches of light, none of which shone here, right now, in this place. She felt unusually small in her surroundings, as well as unimportant. Mislaid. The only source of light was the undying pink of the lightning that strobed the clouds. The entire sky looked like a contracting womb, gripped with electric spasms and heavily pregnant with rain. Each lightning flash showed the lawn, ghastly grey, and the Bentley, a gleaming behemoth, before them. And the body, the body was still there. An unmoving dark mound, face-down on the grass, not five metres away.

  Callie turned to check that Smiler was still following. He was. His hair and clothes were pasted to his skin and he looked rigid with cold. Or fright.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ she said, her voice a hoarse cry that competed with the wind. It was a redundant statement, but she’d needed to say something to expel some of the tension that had her innards wound tight. She stopped and waited for Smiler to catch up and cast a look back to the cabin, which was sitting in unmoving darkness. ‘And where’s Pollyanna? Why isn’t she watching?’ Callie had no idea what she was accusing the girl of, but the fact Pollyanna’s white face wasn’t at the lounge window troubled her. Greatly.

  Smiler shrugged and opened his mouth to say something, but lightning flashed, making the whole sky sizzle with a blinding electric burst. At the same time the body on the lawn moved. They saw it was a man. A large man. Whatever words Smiler had previously thought to say were lost to a consequent clatter of thunder loud enough to make him and Callie cower, arms raised, as if the sky might break apart and fall on their heads.

  ‘Oosh,’ Callie said.

  The man on the floor lifted his head and looked in their direction. His eyes lacked cognisance and his face was swollen and bloodied. He slid his hands over grass and mud, stretching his arms to either side as though to gain leverage to push himself up. But he didn’t. He became still again and just lay there, seeming to lack the strength and coordination to crawl let alone stand.

  Callie let go of the throw and grabbed Smiler by the arm. ‘Shit, shit, shit! He’s alive!’

  Smiler looked at her in wide-eyed bemusement. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe we should reserve judgement. I mean, look at him! He’s pretty fucking big.’

  ‘He’s pretty fucking beat up too!’

  ‘Okay,’ Callie said, making a decision based far too much on empathy for her liking. She hunkered down beside the man and buried both of her hands deep into his right armpit. ‘Let’s get him inside.’ Smiler was quick to secure his other side, then together they heaved. The man tried to help by drawing himself up onto his knees, but it felt to Callie as though his body had absorbed half of the sky; he was leaden. Helping him to the cabin would be an enormous task. She looked across at Smiler, whose own expression was grave, and braced herself. They waited a few moments, allowing the man to catch his breath, then heaved him to his feet. He staggered backwards at first, but they managed to hold firm till he was steady. Then Callie threw an arm around his waist for better support. Smiler did the same.

  As they shuffled forward, the man limped and rested heavily on Callie, his arm draped across her shoulders weighing against her neck and pushing her head forward so she was forced to look at the ground. The smell of his aftershave was faint above the sharpness of the rain-infused air and it reminded her of someone or something, but she couldn’t think who or what. Some nostalgia, she imagined, lost to her in the freakishness of the moment. Or maybe it was nothing more significant than the smell of a past co-worker or the waft of a stranger in some shopping mall or departure lounge. The man stood a good half a foot taller than she and Smiler, and she imagined in good health he would be quite intimidating. His shirt clung to him like a second skin and she could feel that beneath it his body was taut and muscular. Each time he took a ragged breath his ribs swelled hard against her and he shivered uncontrollably. She gripped him tighter in a gesture of encouragement, but he gave no outward sign that he was at all encouraged.

  The dark, skulking shape of the cabin wasn’t far away, yet at that moment it could have been as distant as the mountains beyond the lake. They struggled on, trudging and wading through the mud, exhausted and freezing. Thunder roared above them with bone-stiffening loudness and rain continued to wash down in biblical torrents. Callie and Smiler eventually got the man to the edge of the lawn then push-heaved him up the steps onto the veranda. After a manic grapple with the wind and the door, all three of them clambered inside the cabin and shuffled awkwardly down the hall in a sideways chain, each of them grunting and panting and making pools of water on the parquet. In the lounge Callie and Smiler guided the man to the couch where they flopped him down, both proclaiming their relief with pained groans.

  ‘That’s my exercise for the year,’ Callie said, out of breath, while scrunching her fists and flexing her arms. Water dripped from her fingers and when she wiped her hands down her sides, her dress felt like dolphin skin. Already a chilblain sensation was sweeping over her entire body as her skin reacted to the warmth of the room. Weak with exertion, she felt she might collapse to the floor and not get up for a week.

  Smiler was looking at her while tugging on his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger. ‘What do you reckon?’

  But before Callie had time to answer the overhead light snapped on.

  Pollyanna was by the stairs, her hand lingering on the light switch. ‘Reckon to what?’ she said, her eyes baby deer wide and hair a wilder tangle of copper than before.

  ‘How’d you get the light to work?’ Callie asked, bemused.

  Pollyanna made a face as if to say are you really that stupid? ‘The usual way.’

  ‘Power’s back up,’ Smiler said. He looked as relieved as Callie should feel. Yet she felt only suspicion.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Pollyanna asked. She was looking at the back of the couch, unable to see the latest arrival from where she was sitting.

  Callie looked at the man and choked on her own breath. He was sprawled on the couch and in the new light, she could see him properly. Despite the bruising and swelling to his face, which otherwise might have spoilt the instant familiarity, his eyes were recognisable beyond any shade of doubt. They were the kind of blue that made you look twice. The kind of blue that would get you in trouble. The kind of blue she most definitely knew. ‘Thurston! What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Whoa.’ Smiler turned to her, pale-faced. ‘You actually know who he is?’

  ‘Of course! It’s Torbin Thurston. Look!’ She jabbed her finger in the man’s direction as if Smiler mightn’t have already taken a look.

  But Smiler was no more enlightened. ‘Torbin who?’

  ‘My God, you’ve never heard of Torbin Thurston? He’s only a famous bloody film producer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really!’ Callie found herself smiling despite the bad shape Thurston appeared to be in, rel
ieved to have an ally at last. Someone she knew. Someone she could trust. Between them, she thought, they could sort this mess out.

  His eyes locked on hers, but they were glazed with a vacant unknowingness, like he had no idea who she was. ‘Where am I?’ he said. His throat sounded scratchy, like the words had barbed hooks.

  ‘Hey, it’s me.’ Callie perched on the arm of the couch and put her hand on his shoulder. She gave it a gentle rub, then squeezed. ‘It’s me. Callie. Callie Crossley.’

  At first he didn’t seem sure, but then a sudden recognition made his entire body sag with what she took to be relief. ‘Cal? Where am I?’

  ‘Listen, Thurston,’ she said, taking his hand in hers. ‘Do you know what happened? Do you know how you got here?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head and looked down at their hands, entwined. Hers were an ugly shade of purpled white; blotchy from the cold. His were similar, only his knuckles were raw and bloodied. ‘I can’t remember. I was…’

  ‘Uncle Dean?’ Pollyanna had moved to the front of the couch and was regarding Thurston with a look of abject horror.

  ‘Who the hell’s Uncle Dean?’ Callie asked.

  ‘He is!’

  Thurston tried to ease himself up but the effort proved too much and he ended up half sitting, half slouched. He massaged his forehead and sucked air in through his teeth in response to some wave of pain that ripped through him. ‘Sorry, kid,’ he said, ‘you must be mistaking me for someone else. I’m Thurston. Nobody’s uncle.’

  But Pollyanna didn’t appear to hear. ‘Why did you leave me here? On my own.’

  Thurston closed his eyes and sighed. He rested his head against the couch’s cushion. ‘I don’t know who you are, man. I didn’t leave you anywhere. I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

  ‘Liar. This is your cabin and you brought me here in your car with Aunt Roxanne and Sarah Jane.’

  ‘What?’ Callie was stunned. ‘Since when the hell did you know who owns this place?’

  ‘Since the first time I came.’

  ‘But I already asked you. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’

  Pollyanna shrugged. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘What’s it to me?’ Callie jumped to her feet, rage twitching inside her; a red seedling about to sprout. ‘Yesterday I was tied up and bundled into the boot of a car then brought here by God knows who, so actually it has every-fucking-thing to do with me, you difficult little shit!’ Her face had flushed and she imagined blood was bubbling beneath the surface of her cheeks. She scrunched her fists tight by her sides and counted to five.

  ‘She’s right, Poll,’ Smiler said. He’d moved close to the wood burner and was standing on the hearth as though the ashes at the bottom of the grate would generate enough heat to dry the back of his jeans. ‘You should have told her when she asked. You should have told me when I asked! Why have you never told me that before?’ He looked hurt.

  Pollyanna didn’t answer, but looked on the verge of apology; her head lowered and eyes awash with something like guilt.

  Callie sifted through her memory bank, trying to find a Dean; a colleague, an ex-boyfriend, a childhood friend, a family friend, an old neighbour, a bar tender, a super fan, anyone. But none was readily available. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, holding her hands up to gain everyone’s attention. ‘So, what you’re saying is that your uncle owns this place?’

  Pollyanna glared at Thurston. ‘He’s not really my uncle, that’s just what we called him. He was having an affair with my aunt.’

  ‘That’s what we called him?’

  ‘Me and my cousin. Sarah Jane.’

  ‘Roxanne’s daughter?’

  ‘Yeah, I used to stay at their house a lot. That’s how I ended up coming here. Aunt Roxanne brought us with her because Uncle Stevie had gone away for the weekend and she’d arranged to meet up with him.’ Something about the way she was eyeing Thurston chilled Callie. There was an indisputable truth simmering in the awfulness of her black eyes. Even if it was a mistaken truth, Callie could see that the girl truly believed Thurston was the person she’d known as Uncle Dean.

  Thurston sighed; a forced, impatient sound. ‘Hey, I don’t know what your problem is, kid, but I’m telling you I’m not Dean. I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Liar,’ Pollyanna said, without blinking, without breaking eye contact. ‘You told me and Sarah Jane about Whispering Woods. About how the trees talk and how there’d been a murder here…’

  ‘What?’ Callie’s veins felt like her heart was pumping ice thaw through them. She recalled her dream. Listen to the trees, Callie Crossley. Hear them in your head and you’ll have the answers. You’ll know why you’re here. You’ll know why I’m here. ‘Trees, talking? A murder? What? Just what?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Pollyanna shrugged. ‘He never finished telling us the story. Aunt Roxanne made him stop.’

  Everyone was looking at Thurston now.

  ‘Are you serious?’ He covered his eyes as though the light hurt them. ‘Is talking trees a euphemism or something?’

  ‘You would know,’ Pollyanna said. ‘Can’t you hear them?’

  ‘All I can hear is you.’

  ‘What happened to your aunt and cousin?’ Callie wanted to know, more confused now than when she’d first arrived at the cabin. ‘How come you were left here alone?’

  ‘How should I know? Ask him.’ Pollyanna spun her chair round and wheeled it over to the window where she picked up a packet of cigarettes off the sill.

  Thurston held a hand up, like don’t even bother.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Callie said to Pollyanna. ‘Tell me what you do know.’

  Pollyanna shook a cigarette free and Smiler was already on hand to light it with a blue Zippo. She took a long draw and shrugged. ‘That first night me and Sarah Jane went to bed and argued. We often did.’

  ‘About what?’

  Again she shrugged. ‘All sorts of things. She was a difficult person to get along with.’

  ‘What did you argue about on that particular night?’

  Pollyanna, now swathed in smoke, gestured to Thurston with a tip of her head. ‘Him.’

  Thurston opened his eyes and regarded her with a hard stare.

  ‘What about him?’ Callie urged. ‘Why did you argue about him?’

  ‘Sarah Jane fancied him. But she wouldn’t admit it.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It must have.’

  Pollyanna huffed. ‘After arguing we fell asleep. I woke up a bit later and it was thundering, like it is now, like it always is, and Sarah Jane wasn’t in her bed. I didn’t bother going to look for her because it was the middle of the night and I thought she must have gone to the toilet, so I just went back to sleep. Next time I woke it was morning and I was on my own. They’d all left me. Aunt Roxanne. Sarah Jane. And him.’

  Pink light sparked at the window and thunder rumbled not long after, shaking the floor and furniture as though it was crashing about above them in the tower room. The light flickered and Callie looked up. The room was then plunged into darkness. A deep black which was the true face of the cabin, Callie thought. Everything they could see when the lights were on was nothing more than a guise to mask something insidiously worse. She felt as though the cabin in this darkness was breathing and almost had a voice. The blackout only lasted a couple of seconds then the light came back on. When it did, Callie saw that Thurston was glaring at Pollyanna and his eyes, she noticed, were every bit as cold as the night. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

  11

  The man who was allegedly called Torbin Thurston slept on the couch and didn’t wake till sunlight was streaming through the large window. As he stirred his brow creased and he was quick to shield his eyes with his hand. Callie was sitting opposite him in the worn leather armchair. An empty mug rested in her lap and shadows caused by a sleepless, uncertain night rested beneath
her eyes. She became tense as Thurston gained consciousness, feeling discomfited by the appeal in his familiar blue eyes.

  Who are you?

  Did she really know? Because suddenly he seemed as unknown to her as the cabin’s tower room, which lurked above them like speculated cancer, its malignancy unknown, as yet unchallenged. When he swung his leather-shoed feet to the floor and sat up, groaning as he did, nobody rushed to his aid, or thought to say anything. Pollyanna was watching from her favourite spot by the window and hadn’t moved in hours. She was like some sun-starved reptile conserving energy. Callie wasn’t even sure she’d blinked. Smiler had remained sitting on the dusty, ashy hearth and was onto his ninth cigarette of the day. Hours ago he’d stripped to his underpants before lighting the wood burner. He’d sat close to the intense heat for so long his hair looked too dry. Frazzled to yellow straw. Callie had taken her dress off and was wrapped in a white bath sheet, which was secured above her chest and gaping open mid-thigh. Her black designer dress was slung over the back of the couch as though it was little more than a charity shop cast-off.

  ‘Cal, what’s going on?’ Thurston reached up to apply pressure to both sides of his head, above the temple. His eyes, tourmaline-blue, stayed with her as though she was the only other person in the room.

  For Callie the initial relief of having him there had faded to unsettled obscurity; Pollyanna had caused that to happen with talk of Uncle Dean. She remained seated in the armchair, allowing paranoia to build. ‘If this is a little project of yours, Thurston, I won’t be happy. At all.’