‘You okay?’ Minette was beside him, rubbing his back. He had to control himself to stop himself from pushing her away. Her touch hurt him — his back felt so sensitive, so exposed. It disturbed him to think of his new wings folded neatly under his skin, ready to burst out when he least expected it.
‘Yeah, fine. Just tired. Think I’ll go and lie down.’
‘Want some company?’ She looked at him meaningfully. ‘I know how to take your mind off everything.’ He was weak. He considered her offer for a moment, remembering how she would kneel before him for what seemed like hours, his cock in her mouth, doing all the tricks she had never bothered with her husband throughout their long marriage. Then he caught a glimpse of Theresa in the kitchen, leaning against the doorway, watching them.
‘No, it’s okay thanks. I need to be alone.’ Minette followed his gaze and pursed her lips.
‘Sure. Change your mind, just sing out.’ Her pale skin had reddened. He could smell her anger, and the faint aroma of something rotting under her skin. White cheeks flushed with red. He watched her as she walked out of the room and he left for his bedroom before he gave in to his own weakness and called her back. For what? For a cheap way of strengthening his ego, making him feel less powerless? He realised he was beginning to feel afraid of Minette, Sophie and the others. Afraid of what they were capable of, himself included. So much seemed to have happened so quickly, and he was no longer sure of what was truth and what was the whispers of madness.
‘There are no gods,’ he said aloud as he lay on his bed, feeling the familiar ache and itching in his back. ‘We make the gods in our own images, imperfect beings who sleep with our deaths.’
He could feel himself sinking into the bed, the sheets feeling wonderfully cool against his burning back. Near the window he could hear the sound of a bee buzzing, a soporific sound that caused him to sink even further into the soft pillow. No gods. We are the creator of the gods, jerking our gods like puppets on strings. No peace. No rest. His back itched again but the song of the bee was mesmerising. He realised he was sinking into sleep. So tired. His mouth dribbled spit onto the pillow as he slid into the void.
The bee. He was following the sound of the bee. Then he was the bee. Small, fearless, his legs and body covered in bristles. He moved quickly through a cloud of mist. He danced upwards into a brilliant blue sky where below him stretched plains of a glittering white city of ice. He hurtled towards the ground at speed and he realised he was no longer in the body of a bee, but was now flying effortlessly with his wings outspread. This seemed as natural to him as walking. He approached the great city of ice and his excitement mounted as he drew near. He knew below him were great friends, a loved one, and relatives who would welcome him. Winged beings such as himself. Joy shot through his body like arrows.
The air became cooler as he gradually descended. He could see the beings who would be waiting for him in the courtyard of one of the large glacial homes. His mother, tall and striking. A snake headdress around her hair and her eyes of blue fire. His bride, young and graceful, with wings as soft as a swan’s and lips of the palest pink rose. How many nights had she cried to the stars, longing for his return? He was near, so close that he could almost touch them, half sobbing to himself with relief that the long terrible banishment was over, when the force-field jerked him back. The pain of the field pierced his brain, and his hands went to his ears as he screamed. His inner thigh felt as if it were on fire. There a small mark lay that once Ishran had told him was a brand.
Leave now. A voice entered his mind. You are the fallen. The branded one. There is no entry for your kind.
He screamed again, his agony at being banned from his heritage, from his loved ones, filling him with despair. He was back in the bedroom at Light Vision. But something was wrong. Something watched him from the corner. He froze. For a shocking moment he saw the image of a dead child slumped on the floor. Her face was grey with death, her small body half-rotted. Her clothes were pulled up roughly around her waist. Oh God. He tried to wake up, he didn’t want to keep dreaming, but the bundle in the corner lay there, and the feeling of something wrong persisted. He could feel the touch of a child’s hand upon his forehead.
‘Rachel longs to sleep like you, to sleep like the dead. To lie next to a heart that is strong. The night must end, the day must come, but Rachel’s flesh is always cold. To be your little girl would make me warm and bring a dead frozen heart back to life again.’
He felt the pressure of a small body sit on the bed next to him. Oh Christ, he must wake up now. He felt himself sinking further into unconsciousness, the sensation of a small cold body lying next to him.
Night had fallen and the mountains had become indistinct blobs of deep purple, brown and black. Darkness crept slowly across the land, odours became more perceptible. The night sang to the bush, and the bush responded with a concordance of whistles and chirruping. Night language — timeless, ancient and pure. Nocturnal animals began to shake off the lethargy of day to begin their waking routine: possums, rats, feral cats, kangaroos, reptiles, wombats. It was the time to hunt. Bats swooped through the sky, joining family groups in trees. Owls hooted to each other and began their nightly killing. Orchestrated routines, undertaken instinctively. But in the deeper shadows lurched darker beings that were not part of the earthly routine of the bush. Ravenous Solumbi, stalking mammals to satisfy their hunger. Wild dogs, also starving, sniffed the air, prepared to kill whatever was unlucky enough to cross their path. But something else . . . something much darker also haunted the night, making its way steadily through the bush, dancing, twirling and spiralling. Before its path animals scattered wildly, and even the wild dogs and Solumbi sensed it and sought cover.
The being laughed softly when he felt the fear that his presence had brought to the night. He loved these mountains, he had crossed main worlds tonight to dance in the bush. He began, kicking up dried leaves, feeling the earthy embrace of the bush as slowly it began to dance with him. Many ghosts frequented the bush of a night, and curious, they drew near to watch his wild movements. Some were dressed in the convict rags they had worn when they had died in the bush, some in the red uniforms of long dead soldiers, some were Aboriginal. Many were children in varying fashions of dress, from long cotton dresses to jeans. The ghosts crept slowly, cautiously, sensing that the being whirling licentiously in the moonlight was dangerous even to the dead. They peered through branches of trees and from shadows to watch with empty eyes and to marvel and fear at the scene before them.
The dark being never paused in his frenzy. The wind elementals became caught up in his revelry and began to join his movements. Then the audience of ghosts listened as, striking wild poses to the wind, he took out his panpipes and began to play.
Theresa went to the back door and peered into the night. The Light Vision house always disturbed her after dark. City bred, and hypersensitive, she found the sheer blackness of night in the mountains disquieting. The weird noises that came from the bush never failed to send her peering anxiously into the dark, attempting to decipher the sound. At Light Vision there were no streetlights, no roaring traffic. The night throbbed around her, a living malevolent presence.
This evening seemed to be darker than normal and she stood listening, ignoring the mosquitoes. She hugged her black shawl tighter around her body. An owl hooted; she looked for it but could see nothing, only shapes in the garden. She sat down on the step, absently checking her pockets for a cigarette and then realised she had left them in the kitchen. Damn. Minette had probably found them and thrown them in the bin by now. Tonight she felt heavy and depressed. She had fucked up her whole life. There had been so many chances when she could have chosen a different path, so many times she could have done something, been someone. Like Debra, she thought mournfully, thinking of her perfect sister, who no doubt was relaxing right now in her perfect Sandy Bay home in Tasmania with her perfect husband. Yet there was guilt in envying Debra, because her elder sister was as beautiful in
her nature as her face. Theresa could imagine her parents’ outrage if they saw the way she was living now, sharing a home with such misfits. They would think she was in a cult. She grinned. Yet in a lot of ways, it was a cult.
Theresa watched the moon overhead and reflected how everything distorted in the house. Days no longer seemed in chronological order. She had a terrible nagging feeling something was wrong, but she was no longer sure of what. Something to do with pain, death and a secret. Something terrible lurked at the borders of her mind. In the distance she imagined she could hear the sound of panpipes, and she relaxed. What sort of animal sounded like panpipes? The owl hooted again. She thought of Lazariel lying on his bed, his incredible blue eyes closed, looking vulnerable and peaceful, and a profound longing swept through her. How she would love to lie next to him, watching him as he dreamt. Sleep entwined with his body, feeling safe and protected. She would give five years of her life if it meant he would look at her with love in his face. Her body felt as if it was dying from lack of love. The scary dark thing she kept hidden in her memory moved again. Black claws swiping the air, the smell . . . she ran her hands through her hair, trying not to think. She had even stopped the love spell she had been doing with Aphrodite in a pathetic attempt to win him over. What was the point? If he couldn’t see her for who she was and love her, win force him? If it was destined to be, surely it would just have happened? I’m such a loser. No wonder he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I can’t hold down a job. I have no money. I look a wreck. Living here with this bunch of no-hopers. Jesus, can I go much lower?
The sound of the panpipes came again, bringing a temporary serenity to her mind. The feeling that things would be all right, they would work out somehow. There would be a future for her, where love waited. She found herself longing to follow that sound into the night, to lose herself in the waiting blackness.
‘Theresa.’ A soft voice from the darkness. Startled, Theresa looked out into the garden and could see nothing. She stood up to move inside.
‘Theresa.’ For a moment Theresa saw her clearly, a young woman standing in the front garden, she was slender, with dark short hair. The two stared at each other.
‘Go inside,’ the girl said. ‘Don’t listen to the music. You must leave this house before he destroys you all. They’re on their way, but may not be in time. The gates are open and they’re coming through. Some are already here. There is little time left.’
‘Who are you?’ Theresa asked. ‘Who are they? Where did you come from?’
The girl glanced around the garden nervously. ‘I used to live here once. My name was Emma.’
‘How do you know me?’ Theresa asked.
An owl suddenly swooped down from the sky and flew at the girl. Theresa’s dazed mind could not take in what seemed to happen next. The owl screaming, or was it the girl? A mass of silver white feathers flying in the air and the impression of claws reaching for eyes. Then all was silent and deserted again in the garden. Oh Christ. Theresa closed her eyes and began to pray to St Therese, the saint of her childhood. As she prayed she began to cry hysterically, believing she had lost her mind.
St Therese, little flower, please give me your grace. Whether you exist or not, please send me some help here. I think I’m going crazy. Help me to find someone who can help me, or send someone to help me. I’m imagining things all the time. Sometimes evil things. I see demons and monsters and now ghosts. Protect me St Therese, I don’t know if I believe in you or not, but I need help from somewhere. Help me to believe and protect me from evil. Amen.
The prayer made her feel foolish, but also slightly comforted. Shaking, she went inside, carefully closing and locking the door behind her. Yet even in the solitude of her bedroom she fancied she could still hear the invitation of the panpipes. Doubts remained about whether she had seen a real ghost, or whether her mind was cracking. Hating herself for her weakness in praying to childhood gods, she began to pray again.
When the occupants of the house were asleep, Ishran sat in the lounge room on the sofa, gazing at the mural painted on one of the white walls. He sat hugging his knees, his dark hair falling down his back. In the darkness, his face was remarkably birdlike. A soft rain, unheard by those sleeping in the bedrooms, fell on the roof. He had heard the panpipes as he sat talking with Sophie and Alan, but unlike Theresa he knew the meaning of that sweet, wanton sound. The explanation was simple: Pan had crossed and was even now weaving his dark magic in the mountains outside. The goat man could smell the blood freshly spilt on this land and was eager for his share of the spoils. He was no threat to Ishran, but there were others, darker beings that might follow him here. That was the trouble — the portal did not discriminate between dark and light, and too many had been crossing recently.
A faint noise alerted him. Was that a bee buzzing near the mural? Impossible. A trick of the light. Nevertheless, he stood up to examine the mural, and his shadow against the wall revealed a grotesque being with outstretched wings and a misshapen head. He caught his breath, lost in the mystery of the artwork. There, half-sketched, was Eronth. But were small flames surrounding it? He studied it, puzzled. There were ilkamas grazing, an owl in the corner. Dangerous little owl. Ishran knew the power of the woman Johanna, who had painted this mural. His eyes went to her portrait that still hung over the fireplace, despite Minette’s constant nagging to have it removed. Ishran knew that disturbing the mural or the portrait would have severe repercussions for any being attempting to cross from the hidden worlds. He just wished he had more control over who slipped through the cracks between dimensions.
‘They’re on their way now.’ The voice made him jump. Feeling foolish, he snarled when he saw Charmonzhla seated on top of the sofa. The angoli looked grotesque in the everyday surroundings of the house. A deformed housecat, with wings.
‘Let them come,’ Ishran said, trying to inject a bored note into his voice. ‘I can slip away like a dream. A forgotten myth.’
‘You are content to be a memory?’ The angoli’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘You will run from them as you run from everything? They are coming now. Listen!’ He held a small black hand to his ear. Ishran found himself listening, but all he could hear was the faint buzzing of the bee.
‘They will come with their holy water, their crucifixes, their banishing spells. They will come to destroy the portal. They do not like their own kind being killed. They are squeamish about blood.’
‘I have been chased out before by holy water, by incarnations. I do not fear banishing spells,’ Ishran boasted. ‘How can they banish me when I am part of them? Would they banish themselves?’
Charmonzhla laughed. He sat back on his heels and thrust out his portly stomach. Ishran frowned at his mirth.
‘That is your weakness,’ the angoli wheezed. ‘You underestimate everybody. Your appetites control you. Listen to one who knows, pretty Ghormho. The forces of good are gathering around this house. They will banish you. They are the creators of this portal. They can close it, and then you will become the nightmare that slowly vanishes. A poem half remembered. A book discarded. You will become like the beings here, half existing, half forgotten, half dreaming. Even your own sheep are turning against you, pastor! I smell goodness in this house, a purity that is weakening you. Oh, by the way, your Hosthatch Seleza is dead. I thought you might be interested to know.’ He placed his hands out, palms upwards, an expression of innocence on his face.
Ishran froze, relief blinding him as the angoli’s words sank into his consciousness. Seleza dead? It didn’t seem possible. He had been convinced his formidable Azephim mother would live forever, nagging him until he dissolved into dust. Suddenly it occurred to him what the news meant.
Charmonzhla clapped, noticing the implications sinking in. ‘You will be King!’ he screeched. ‘King of the Web-Kondoell. May you all live happily ever after.’ He did a backwards somersault and then settled himself once again on the couch, grinning happily at Ishran.
‘Rashka?’ Ishr
an asked.
‘Your Glazrmhom? When I last checked, your loving sibling was on her way to kill you. Best be prepared, pretty Ghormho. You know how tetchy little Rashka can be.’
His joy at his Hosthatch’s death had already evaporated. Ishran began to pace the floor, nervously glancing out the window.
‘What should I do?’ he appealed to the angoli, but Charmonzhla had already disappeared, leaving the fading sound of his giggling.
Deeply disturbed, Ishran headed to Lazariel’s bedroom. Lazariel had been aloof since the night they had performed the ritual, but Ishran felt as if he needed his calming presence. When he entered his darkened bedroom he was furious to find Lazariel cuddled up to a rotten pile of bones and hair. The corpse shifted slightly and he saw it was Rachel, one of the Looz Diem children who followed Charmonzhla about.
‘Get out!’ he hissed to her. ‘By the claws of Alecom, leave this house! I have not invited you here!’
The child opened her dead eyes. They glowed yellow at Ishran, and she growled, revealing sharp teeth.
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 9