Several children had died in the house before Rachel. A young bride had set fire to her children as they slept in their cribs. Another had smothered hers with a pillow, her eyes glowing yellow for a second as she had stolen that brief life. Many people who had died over the years had been buried in the grounds of the original homestead, but their graves had long been bulldozed over and plants and shrubs planted over them. But their screams and spirits still haunted the new house, as Rachel now haunted the members of Light Vision. The New Agers fascinated her, their warm blood and hot mouths, the fear and imbalance dripping around them. Lost shadows believing that they stood in light.
Two particularly interested Rachel: the Heztarra angel Lazariel, and the woman with frightened hazel eyes and light brown hair, the one they called Theresa. Night after night, Rachel found herself mysteriously drawn to this pair. She had asked Charmonzhla about the inexplicable attraction, but he just smiled and tapped his nose with a superior expression. She had asked many of the spirits she could see roaming freely around the house, but most refused to even look at her. They were fragile, thin, barely manifest.
Some nights when everyone was sleeping, Rachel would enter through the door, floating above the wooden floorboards, and through the walls to where Theresa slept. Even in sleep, Theresa would look afraid. Rachel would study her silently with glacial, yellow eyes. ‘Poor little Rachel is cold,’ she would hiss through grey lips. ‘She is afraid of the night, of the earth that moves. She rots in the earth but she flies through the sky. She longs for sleep and for a hand to stroke her hair.’
The figure in the bed would not move, did not acknowledge her whisper. Rachel would crouch by the side of the bed and breathlessly watch Theresa’s hand. The fingers, so filled with blood, the palms with their faint lines and the big chunky rings she wore. The veins where blood flowed. She would watch an oblivious Theresa, imagining the hand stroking her hair, the faint lullaby of a long-dead mother aching inside her, threatening to split her into flame. Once she turned around to see Charmonzhla perched on top of the bedhead watching, eyes, glowing with amusement. ‘Go away!’ she said. ‘Leave me in peace to look, not touch. I like to watch them dream.’
The angoli smirked. ‘You are lost.’ His voice seemed to boom through the house, she imagined the house falling into dust, collapsing into ruin around her. ‘Are you missing your mother?’ he said, his voice filled with kindness, with black velvet lies. She looked away from him, ashamed.
‘The living have no time for the dead,’ he said. Then he sang a lullaby to her.
Poor little Rachel. Fair of face,
Filled with grace. Golden hair.
Maggots once made a nest there.
‘Sssshhh!’ she scolded him, as Theresa shifted in her sleep.
‘I am your father now,’ the angoli said. ‘Am I not superior to a flesh-and-blood father with appetites of flesh and blood?’
There was the sound of a dog howling outside, and suddenly Rachel’s memory flooded with images. Her father, from her previous earth life, pulling back the bedclothes slowly with the smell of alcohol on his breath. Her mother, shouting at him, her hair loose and falling about her face, one eye a round brown mark, the purple fading to dull yellow. Rachel was screaming, pushing against her mother’s legs. The Aboriginal servants looking on with eyes that simmered hate, powerless to do anything. Men with blue uniforms, and foreign accents whose loud knocking had woken the household one night. Rachel had crept to the stairs and she could hear words that made no sense to her: ‘Child missing, search house. Claimed seen in your company.’ She had crept back to bed before she was discovered. The wind and rain were so heavy that night Rachel could not remember them leaving. All she was grateful for was not hearing the sound of her door opening as her father crept inside.
The next morning she had awoken to a nightmare. The smell made her gag as she came slowly downstairs wondering why nobody had woken her. She recognised it before she had even entered that terrible room. The smell of blood. She could hardly take in the sight in the dining room. The servants slumped on the floor, their throats cut, their eyes wide and staring. Blood seemed to be everywhere in that space her mother had once taken so much joy in decorating. ‘A lady should be able to make a home in whatever uncomfortable conditions she finds herself,’ she was fond of saying. ‘Even in a place as isolated as Australia.’ When she said things like that her father would mock her and tell her she was putting on airs and graces, that she was only a damned whore convict and no true lady would have been caught pilfering.
Then her mother would go upstairs claiming a migraine was coming, and Rachel knew if she entered the darkened bedroom she would find her mother lying on the bed crying, with a lavender compress pressed to her forehead. Her mother had lived another life once in a large house with many servants in England, a country far away, too far to walk, which was very green with many castles and fresh delicious food. She had been married to another man who was not Rachel’s father. He had been handsome with a large moustache and soft white hands which he bleached in lemon. ‘You would have loved him very much and he you, for he loved pretty little girls,’ her mother had told her as she had brushed her hair. Rachel doubted in her heart that this would be true, especially if the England father had done the things to her that her real father did here in the new colony. Her father said her mother’s stories were fabrications. She was one of fourteen children from London. They had lived like fleas on top of each other, sharing only one backyard privy with three other households. Rachel never knew who to believe. Although her mother did have a refined speaking voice, and so Rachel liked to believe her mother’s version of events.
‘Don’t be afraid to feel,’ Charmonzhla said, bringing her back to the present, rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘You are drawn to the warm bloods because they feel, dream, sorrow. You crave the light that flickers within them. Don’t hold the memories of the night of blood, my little slave to time. Float instead to my arms. With me there is no pain, no sacrifice.’
Rachel put her hand in his. They were no longer in the bedroom in the Blue Mountains. Surrounding them was a great plain covered in snow, and in every direction Rachel saw ice and beauty. ‘The bloodstains hold your mouth together and the lies you tell build a web that holds you captive. Events are changing. The Dreamers are beginning to stir, the Wild Hunt is on the move. Walk with me into freedom. Watching them dream will no longer be enough.’
The girl considered his words. Above her, the sky was pale grey with light so soft it reflected onto snow. A white tiger appeared from behind a snow-capped rock, and when it saw Charmonzhla it dropped onto its back for its stomach to be rubbed. As Charmonzhla squatted over the tiger Rachel noticed tiny flecks of snow falling onto his dark wings, forming an intricate pattern.
‘I love all things of beauty,’ the angoli said. He looked up at Rachel, anger flashing from his mouth, and words of ice fell. ‘You return to the scar, to the land where you once lay, your blood seeping into the earth. Parasitical little Rachel, too afraid to die fully, too lost to light to live. Come, press your flesh against mine and feel the cold of a heart that does not beat, and we will taste together from the feast of the lost and fallen. I beg you, don’t hunger for life, for all the restrictions and limitations of flesh. Kiss me gently, be a good little girl and we can tour Movie World together and laugh and cry and scream at the cinema.’
The child was silent at his words. She turned her face away from him and a lone tear trickled from the corner of her eye. Charmonzhla studied it intently. ‘A sacred mystery,’ he said. ‘Even a demon can cry. I offer you the known worlds, and you weep for a hollow man’s shadow.’ He stooped down, and with small dark fingers shaped a snowball. He threw it into the air and it became an iridescent white bird. They watched as it took flight into the grey sky. ‘Life forms from nothing!’ he yelled. ‘It’s all so simple. Such a perfect, pure joke! Life forms from words, from dust, from death. Why hunger for life when you can have death?’ She didn�
��t reply, just dipped her head slyly as if to protect her secrets, and then tentatively slipped her cold little hand into his.
There had been little talk of anything else in the mountain towns for weeks. The wild dogs, normally found only in more isolated areas such as the Kosciuszko National Park and the Gippsland coast had been seen closer to Katoomba and Leura than ever before. Most recently, a Scottish couple on a mountain walk near Blackheath had spent a terrifying ten minutes being circled by two large snarling animals they had described as looking like hyenas. It was only the intervention of other walkers coming noisily along the track that had caused the dogs to retreat.
A meeting had been held in the town hall at Katoomba, and the media had rushed from Sydney to cover the story. The town was suddenly crawling with news crews and female reporters doing their pieces to camera. With identical sleek bobs and shoulder-padded jackets, they looked like underweight clones of each other. The story was a good one. The dogs, crossbred in the wild from dingoes and feral domestic species, were now roaming over expanding areas of the outback in ever-increasing numbers. They hunted in packs, killing and maiming thousands of sheep, lambs and calves. The dogs were more like wolves than the dingoes they had supplanted, yet more aggressive. Gradually the reports of humans being menaced had increased. Over the last few weeks, many Katoomba locals had reported hearing them howling, even in the daylight hours. Mothers across the Blue Mountains were united in their concerns that children would be attacked by the brazen dogs, who were much bigger and bolder than domestic breeds.
It was this aspect of the story, the human interest angle, that Veronica Stewart for Australia Tonight had been sent to cover. Desperate for a break in her career, Veronica was soon disillusioned by what had transpired since she arrived in the Blue Mountains with her two-man crew. What had sounded like a potentially exciting story in the production meetings was increasingly becoming headshots of hysterical housewives whining about a pack of dogs that had yet to be captured on film. Not a single damn tourist had even been bitten. Once again, she had been given the short end of the stick. It was common knowledge at Australia Tonight that Lisa Wallace was screwing the producer and therefore got the top jobs, leaving Veronica to cover the dregs.
Fuck you, Lisa. Girl Wonder had been sent to cover the latest cricket bookmaking scandal while she was thrown the crumbs, of a pack of mothers frantic about a few wild dogs. There’s nothing here, she thought as she lit a cigarette. She allowed herself five a day and was already up to her third. Leaning against a large rock, enjoying the nicotine hit, she studied the cameramen as they filmed some mountain overlay. A crowd of locals had gathered to watch. Schoolchildren wagging lessons, tourists taking photographs, nothing too unusual there. Her eyes widened at a small group of people watching her. Jesus. For one second she had thought they had wings, but it was a trick of the light. They looked like a bunch of freaks from Katoomba. A tall man with long dark hair stood in the middle of the group, dressed for a Sydney nightclub rather than a walking track in the Blue Mountains. Black leather pants, a white shirt, a large jewelled crucifix hung from around his neck. He was beautiful, Veronica acknowledged, idly hoping Anthony had included him in his shots. Sensual full mouth, glistening large eyes, shiny white teeth. She was aware her mind had drifted off and she forced it back, diverting her eyes from the stranger’s knowing smile. Jesus, he had caught me perving on him! Just great Veronica, you are one class act.
The thought came to her, what would it be like to walk over to him, take him by the hand — that strong white hand that rested against his black pants — and lead him away from his friends into the bush? What would it be like to remove his clothing, explore his white skin, and never say a word? His friends moved around him, like leaves scattering, and Veronica felt her groin flame. Another man stepped forward and stood near the beautiful dark one. If anything, he was even more beautiful than the dark-haired man. How was it she had not noticed him earlier? Tall, long white silver hair tied back in a ponytail, electric blue eyes. Veronica felt tears pricking her eyes just looking at his face. You are losing it for sure. Veronica. This is what happens when you go without sex for so long. Here you are wetting yourself over two faggots.
Her eyes quickly scanned the other members of the group. Women, watching her with blank expressions. A brunette girl stood to the side of them. She was very thin. Anorexic? Veronica wondered. A young pretty blonde girl who glared at Veronica; an older woman who was wearing a scarf around her head and expensive gold earrings stared at her coldly; another young girl who threw her head back and had the same contempt in her face as her friends; and a couple of men who came nowhere near the beauty of the other two. Veronica fought a feeling of panic. Why are they staring at me like that? It was unmistakable, their eyes seemed to be fixed directly on her. She looked towards Anthony and Matt for support, and when she looked back at the freaks there was only a flock of crows sitting in a tree, and she had to fight down the irrational fear they had transformed into birds.
‘Did you get that bunch of freaks on tape?’ She crossed over to Anthony and Matt who were now packing up their gear, casting anxious glances at their watches. They had to be back in Sydney before five. The editors were waiting for them; the story went to air that night.
‘What freaks?’ They barely glanced at her as they packed up the camera.
‘That weird group. The guys with long hair. You couldn’t have missed them! They were right over there.’
Anthony looked puzzled. ‘I filmed the crowd but there was nobody who looked like that. Are you sure you haven’t had a bit too much mountain air?’
‘Maybe she saw a ghost,’ Matt offered.
‘They were there! They weren’t no fucking ghosts! Right there! You’re pulling my leg, right? You did film them, didn’t you?’
The two men glanced at each other with smirks and a she’s really gone crazy now expression. The crows in the tree rose into the air cawing. Veronica watched them, feeling a sense of loss and betrayal.
‘Fine, have it your own way,’ she snapped. Around her the bush seemed to draw breath, and she suddenly longed for Sydney.
‘I told you it was a bad idea!’ Lazariel spat at Ishran as they walked home to Light Vision’s headquarters in the mountains. ‘It attracted attention to us! That reporter saw us! She was looking at us!’
Ishran was silent. He grasped Sophie’s and Minette’s hands and began skipping with them along the path. The girls giggled, loving the attention.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Lazariel called. ‘Do you think you are above all laws? They’re not stupid! You could get us all sent to gaol!’ The girls laughed at this, except for Theresa, who seemed to be paying no attention to the conversation.
‘Leave it, Lazariel,’ Alan said. ‘Don’t mistrust Ishran. He knows what he’s doing. Everything he does is for us. For our benefit.’
‘That’s right,’ Ishran said, whirling Minette around. ‘Lazariel has to learn to trust us more. His wings have grown and now he wants to fly,’ he sang.
They reached the house and Lazariel walked away. Not for the first time he considered leaving Light Vision. Ishran was right, since that horrible evening when he had cowered in the corner screaming in pain as his shoulders burst into flame, he had felt the unthinkable occur to his back — the bones had seemed to melt through his skin as his wings had grown. Ever since the iridescent wings had burst through his flesh, leaving him screaming in a world that was orange, he had never felt quite the same way about Ishran.
Why had the group relinquished so much control to the charismatic stranger who had walked silently into their lives in Sydney? There were too many unanswered questions surrounding him and Lazariel was bewildered by the changes Light Vision’s relocation to the Blue Mountains had wrought in the group. Sophie had lost her kittenish good looks, looking easily twenty years older. She was thin and haggard, and the only activity that seemed to interest her these days was screwing Ishran. Minette had no interest in the children and husba
nd she had abandoned. She no longer commuted to the city to work, preferring to lounge around the house, her once carefully styled hair greasy, her manicured fingers bitten to the quick as she followed Ishran’s every move and jealously fought for his attention. Alan and Daniel had also aged. They had financial problems, Lazariel knew, for he often saw them worrying over bills and accounts as they sat, arms entwined around each other, existing only for a smile from Ishran or a summons to his bedroom.
Theresa, however, was blossoming in the house. She was thin and nervy, Lazariel had observed how she took every chance she could to avoid Ishran. Out of the household she had always been the one who had seemed to dislike him from their first introduction. Why is she different? Lazariel had often wondered. As much as he had come to resent Ishran and the darkness he had brought into their lives, and the seductive, poisonous spell he had cast upon them, he still found himself attracted to him. Attracted and repelled.
Oh Ishran, who knew such vile, erotic, beautiful secrets. Ishran, who held the flower of the night in his mouth, and who could waken his body to such heights of pain and pleasure in the empty belly of the night. Yet, since that night, when those things had entered the room, Lazariel could feel his stomach clench at the memory of their beady eyes, and the smell of them. Sweet Jesus, they had touched Theresa! Touched her in the most intimate of ways with their stinking long black claws, their tongues flicking out in an endless stream of wet ribbon. How she had survived that night, Lazariel had never been able to tell. He would not have believed the old Theresa capable of retaining her sanity after such a thing. Where was the old Theresa? Who was this self-possessed stranger whose company he had begun to crave? She seemed to possess some power he was painfully aware he lacked.
Alice was now an infrequent visitor to Light Vision. She had begun to shoot up smack and made endless excuses about why she had to remain in the city rather than travel to the mountains. Yet even her drug taking had increased after Ishran had entered their lives, as if escape to some chemically ravaged white wilderness of her brain was easier than the trip that the entire group of Light Vision was taking together. Roger had disappeared. A member of the Black Goat biker gang, he might have easily gone back inside prison for a while, or perhaps had to disappear on some shady business. Or did he run from us? Lazariel wondered. Did the black briar stems that Ishran weaves so effortlessly around us somehow fail to ensnare Roger? For a second he imagined Roger, free in the world, sitting in cafes, drinking in bars, going to see bands, and he envied him. What would it be like to be one of the people that he used to despise so much? Work all day, travel home by the same route every night, watch television as you eat your dinner? In bed by eleven. For a second the alternative life sounded better to him than it ever had done and he inhaled the fantasy.
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 8