PART TWO
FULL MOON
I had floated for what seemed to be forever along the River Styx, lined with rows of black poplars. All was silent, the air around us still except for the sound of the miser Charon’s oars dipping into water. I lay mourning the loss of my family. As the boat moved, from the banks I could hear screams and curses of penniless ghosts unable to pay Charon to ferry them to the Underworld. I had become accustomed to the vision of my new onion eyes. I dared to glance around me for a second and was rewarded with a glimpse of the three-headed dog Cerberus, growling and snarling at the end of the river, ready to rip into pieces any living intruder who dared to try to enter the world of the dead.
The small wooden boat passed the Asphodel Fields where hordes of souls, some great heroes, waited patiently for the living to pour libations of blood to them. It was common knowledge in Eronth that libations to the dead had become less fashionable in all the known worlds, forcing the deceased heroes into eternal hope for the blood that made them young again. Such is the patience of the dead they are content to wait for eternity resting among their hopes and dreams. Around the souls of the heroes I could clearly see the less distinguished souls, hanging like etheric bats chattering away to each other in shrill voices. I did not care to linger in the Asphodel Fields; I was no eminent hero but a simple Faian farmer, who had loved and cared for his family, and made his living by his red-chapped hands. I had performed no distinguished services in the field of battle or in the halls of state. My own small claim to greatness was I had raised a daughter, who had been selected by the Dreamers with the burning shell in her forehead to be apprenticed to a Crone. No, I did not belong in the Asphodel Fields, and it was with relief I heard the slap of the miser’s oars on the river as we continued our voyage.
I gathered my courage to peek upwards at the miser to find he was exactly as the poets and layscops had described in Faia, tall with a mane of wild hair. His eyes were blazing, terrible, as they surveyed the banks of the river where screaming souls with outstretched hands cried pitifully for him to take them into the Underworld. His clothes were ragged and frayed, hanging from his painfully thin frame.
Inwardly I blessed my family for not neglecting to force the coin under my tongue when I was prepared. I had no doubt that without the fare I would have become one of the wretched souls that were begging Charon to ferry them. This silent, surly ferryman of souls between the veils had little mercy in his glowing eyes. He was, I reflected, well chosen for his grisly job.
We continued along the river and I felt a long sigh inside me. If I stared upwards from the boat, I could see a watery, weak grey sky but there were no moons or sun I could see from this angle. If I turned my head slightly to the left there were images from the side of the river. Crones, watching us pass in silence, wearing robes of black with writhing snakes in their hair. Ghosts, sometimes packs of them, kneeling and drinking from the river. A shocking image of Erinnyes flying love to the river, the sight of the ancient matchers, with their coal-black bodies and bat’s wings, filling me with terror.
We passed white cypress glades and the Pool of Memory. Sections of the river were filled with frightful forms. I could recognise disease, hunger, war, madness. These figures were covered in large jet beetles and clumps of dark hair, and their blood-streaked hair was filled with snakes. Shining sable masks covered their faces. To look upon them overlong was to invite madness or worse into your being.
Charon continued to row, and a strange peace came upon me. Already the life I had left was beginning to recede. I could clearly remember the faces of my loved ones, but I could now view them without emotion. It felt as if I had been in this boat with Charon for many Turns of the Wheel, and the sound of his oars slapping against the River Styx was both soothing and mesmerising. I even began to feel a faint excitement at the new developments ahead. I had not realised how much I had fallen into a routine in my life in Faia. The responsibilities of being the sole bread earner had taken its toll. But now I could lie like a child while the miser did all the work. There was a freedom in that feeling, a freedom I had not expected to find in death.
Time passed as I continued to enjoy my death. Then the sound of the oars ceased and the boat stopped. Charon was seated with his back to me. Curious, I raised my head to examine the scene in front of us. Immediately ahead was a shimmering bridge of crystal, arched with gold. Hanging from the bridge was a single strand of dark hair. Nearby stood a grim-looking skeleton, and with disbelief I recognised it to be Modgud, the tollkeeper of the bridge, who I knew would demand a toll of blood before I could pass. Waiting near the bridge was a black wagon led by two raven horses, streaked with sweat and blood.
‘Well, go on then!’ the miser said impatiently, making me jump. ‘What are you waiting for? I haven’t got all day!’ He held out his hand, shaking it in front of my nose until I comprehended he wanted the toll money under my tongue. Awkwardly, I spat it into his eager hand, watching him as he bit into the side of the coin.
‘You kept it nice and warm,’ he said approvingly. He stretched and peered at the bridge in front of us. ‘Hurry up!’ he barked. ‘I’ve got passengers waiting.’ I felt a strange sense of loss to be leaving the security of the boat. A silent terror filled me and I longed to hold onto the ragged clothes of the ferryman and remain with him.
He looked at me only once with his fierce, ancient eyes as he pushed away from the shore. ‘A lovely day,’ he said. With this final statement, he pushed his boat away and glided back into shadows. I watched Charon depart with a heavy heart and then walked slowly towards the bridge of crystal and the waiting skeleton.
Modgud’s grinning skull made no sound, but his upraised bony hand held a small blade. He reached for my hand and sliced through the palm, causing a line of blood to appear. Shaking the blood onto the ground the tollkeeper nodded approval, indicating I could approach the carriage. My feet did not seem to touch the ground as I drifted towards it. The horses neighed a welcome, their eyes huge and black, great twin holes of hell. The inside of the coach was immaculate, the padded cushions were the finest red satin I had seen, as brilliantly red as my blood that had just dripped onto the ground. I settled back with a sigh and the coach began to move over the crystal bridge.
As with Charon, there was no judging how long the journey took. I may have slept, indeed I think I did and when I did sleep, I dreamt of my loved ones in that faraway place I knew of as Faia. In the dream they were crying, upset, and I felt surprised at the fuss they were making. Did they not realise their father was alive and in the Underworld having one adventure after another? I found it difficult to understand the emotional upset they were putting themselves through. After all, I was so comfortable in the coach, my eyes so heavy. I slept on.
I awoke when the horses stopped and the door to the carriage opened. I scrambled out, feeling lost and disorientated. The sky around me was now so different, it seemed stretched somehow, thin, pale grey, yet all thoughts of my immediate surroundings evaporated when I saw the figure that stood silently waiting for me. Hel — goddess of the Kingdom of the Dead, sister to serpent and wolf. There was no mistaking her face, split into both black and white. Many goddesses and gods could have received me in this kingdom. Over time the known worlds with their myths, their faiths and their songs had materialised a vast cornucopia of beings. But here in this kingdom of ghosts and lost souls, Hel waited to receive me. I moved towards her, pulled like a needle and thread. Whatever name she went by, she was one of them. The keepers of the Underworld. I was home. May the Dreamers forgive me, but I swear that a tear of joy escaped my onion eyes. The great Queen of the Dead watched me silently. Her eyes were empty sockets, yet they conveyed all emotion. Her clothing was a simple black shapeless garment. I stood in front of her filled with a thousand emotions, tears trickling down my face like a foolish Faian maid.
‘You are a god now.’ Her voice was low and filled with storms and oceans. ‘Do not pause to hanker after the world you have just lef
t. You are now in the world of dreams and the gods where your ancestors, both past and future, abide. Do not look back. Do not look back.’
With this warning, I was thus welcomed to the Underworld.
CHAPTER TEN
First our pleasures die —
and then our hopes, and then our fears —
and when these are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust: and we die too
— PERCY SHELLEY, ‘DEATH’
‘She’s not answering.’ Phillip hung up the phone. Shit. Why the fuck did Dea have to make it so difficult? The others looked to him expectantly, waiting for orders as they had always done. Phillip was fully aware of how easy it was for people to fall back into their old familiar patterns. The past was a seductive liar and could easily overpower people with its false charms and soothing voice. Before leaving France he had done his best to reproduce as much of the past as he could to trigger a sense of security in his coven. Even down to wearing bygone sweaters, caps and jewellery. They had poured over old photographs, and talked about former times. He knew he needed their trust it they were going to pull off the ritual. Not only did he have to worry about what could come through the portal as they attempted to close it, but also what was already through the portal in the house and area. He studied the coven for a moment as he collected his thoughts. They looked exhausted. Jet lag was catching up with them all.
The hotel he had booked for them — except for Lucius and Faline — in Kings Cross was basic, but it served his purposes in that it was near to both Dea Dreamer and a world familiar to the coven. Superficially, little had changed over the years in the Cross. There were still the same gawking tourists, strip clubs and street kids, but he could sense something darker now lurking beneath the rib cage of this gaudy inner-city suburb. A few days before the coven had arrived, an Irish backpacker had been hacked to death in the street by a schoolboy with a machete who claimed the Lord had told him he had to cut the Devil out of this passing stranger.
Phillip knew it made some members of his coven uncomfortable to be back in King Cross. Nearly all of them had been runaways working the streets. There were painful memories in this Sydney suburb for them. They had spent a lifetime constructing masks to disguise the sensitive memories they carried, and now Phillip was lifting the corner of their masks, exposing them. He surveyed the three members of the coven who were lounging on the bed and sofa, channel surfing and talking about how Sydney had changed. He had not been happy at Lucius’s insistence for Faline and him to stay at Faline’s sister’s home. It was Lucius’s way of maintaining control, Phillip knew, and it could prove destructive to his plan. There was no arguing with the couple, however, they had made up their minds. Years ago, the moment Phillip had first handed Lucius a cup of soup from the food van he had once operated in the Cross, he had recognised in the handsome dark features of Lucius an unmistakable resentment at having to accept charity.
Thinking of them, he frowned. Where were they? Surely they couldn’t have chosen to go shopping or have some family reunion? Didn’t they realise how important their task was? Angry at Lucius’s childishness he crossed to the phone, dialling the number Faline had left with him. First Dea Dreamer, now this. Don’t challenge me, Lucius, he thought, punching the numbers in. Not this time, forget the past. This is far too important for you to keep your jealousy of me alive. Take the soap damn you, before you die from hunger. The phone rang, and rang.
‘That will be Phillip,’ Faline said, when the phone rang. She was sitting with Lucius at the kitchen bench in the house she had grown up in. Both her parents were dead, but little had changed in the family kitchen. Faline’s younger sister and her family lived there now, but the decor remained remarkably unchanged. It hurt Faline to be surrounded by these childhood mementos. Her mother had died puffing defiantly on a cigarette despite the fact she had both her legs amputated. Her father, a non-smoker all his life, had died before her mother, also of cancer.
Lucius held up a warning hand. ‘Ignore it,’ he said. ‘Keep him waiting.’
The phone continued its demanding sound, seven rings, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Silence. Faline sighed. She had hoped Lucius would become more cooperative when he had finally decided to accept Phillip’s offer and return to the Blue Mountains. Instead, he had become increasingly withdrawn and surly every time he was forced to interact with him. Faline could understand his antagonism, Lucius had never forgiven the intense affair she had once had with Phillip. Intuitively, he could no doubt sense the attraction that still simmered in Faline. Even so, his attitude was beginning to get on her nerves.
‘He’ll phone again,’ she said getting up to make herself a coffee, to help fight off the wave of melancholy from being inside her mother’s house.
Guilt still lurked within her that she had not been more help to her mother when she had been dying. She had flown from England where they had been staying with friends, but her mother had been in the last stages of her cancer. They hadn’t always had a harmonious relationship, Faline and her mother. They had disagreed on many things over the years. Her mother had been a devout Catholic and had objected strongly to Faline’s pagan views and her friendship with their next-door neighbour, Johanna Develle.
‘She doesn’t know what sort of forces she’s calling up,’ her mother had said repeatedly over the years, ‘She’ll come to a sticky end that one. Mark my words, Patricia.’
Patricia had been Faline’s name. She had changed it after Phillip had initiated her into the coven. Her mother had always had an annoying habit of saying ‘mark my words’. When she said it she would put her head on one side and jab her cigarette for emphasis. Faline would have given anything at the moment to see her mother lecturing her again.
‘God! It’s getting cold out there!’ Her sister Gael had entered the kitchen from the garden. ‘Did I hear the phone? Who was it?’
‘Phillip probably.’ Lucius sounded as bored as he felt. ‘We decided not to answer it.’
‘Oh? Too bad if it was Ross calling,’ Gael said. She dumped a washing basket on the floor, giving Lucius an exasperated look.
‘We’re about to leave to meet up with them at the hotel,’ Faline said quickly. The last thing she wanted was for Lucius and Gael to start fighting again. The pair of them were a constant irritant to each other. Her pragmatic sister had little patience with Lucius, finding him strange and affected. She could also sense his unspoken criticism of her for her contentment in being a stay-home housewife. In Lucius’s eyes she was a spiritual philistine who lacked any degree of sensitivity.
‘What time will you be home, Patricia?’ Gael asked. ‘It’s just that dinner is at six.’
‘Don’t worry about us,’ Faline said, downing her coffee. ‘Don’t put any on for us. We’ll eat out.’ She began looking for her scarf.
‘Her name is Faline,’ Lucius said closing a women’s magazine that had been on the kitchen bench. ‘How many times do we have to say it?’
Gael flushed red as she dug some tomatoes out of the fridge and began slicing them. ‘She will always be Patricia to me,’ she said. ‘Like it or lump it.’
Faline shot Lucius a furious look. The last thing she needed at the moment was the antagonism of her younger sister, when she was discovering emotion she hadn’t realised she was still carrying over her mother’s death.
‘It’s a bloody stupid name anyway,’ Gael said as she always did when this subject came up. ‘Faline! Sounds like a cat. Do you think it makes you sound more witchy or something?’ She began to butter slices of bread.
‘Let’s not fight,’ Faline said, feeling close to tears.
‘I’m not fighting,’ Gael said. ‘It’s him.’ She pointed the knife at Lucius who ignored her as he shrugged his way into his overcoat. Feline could almost hear her mother’s voice: Mark my words. He’ll be the death of you yet.
She could barely wait until the front door was closed before she turned her emotion onto Lucius.
‘What the hell did y
ou have to start on her for? For God’s sake! Could you hear yourself in there? Her name is Faline,’ she mimicked. ‘Why do you have to treat my family like shit every time we stay with them? No wonder they hate you! I feel as if I hate you.’
Lucius said nothing. He gave her one of his cool, enigmatic stares that only served to inflame Faline more. He held up his hands as if to protect himself from her wrath.
‘What did I tell you?’ he said. ‘It was a mistake to listen to Phillip and come back here. He’s wasted all our time and the prick isn’t even grateful. Do you seriously think he is going to be able to get Dea Dreamer to agree to his lunacy?’
‘You didn’t have to come!’ Faline said. She suddenly felt old and exhausted, achingly bone weary from arguing over Phillip as they had done endlessly down the years. ‘You could have said no. Walked away from it all. But as always you follow him bleating, while you stick knives in his back.’
‘You know why I came,’ Lucius said quietly. He stood in front of Faline on the pathway. ‘How could I trust him? What Phillip wants, he always gets. He didn’t care about Johanna and Cael’s safety, and he wouldn’t care about yours. I need to be here to watch his every move.’
What Phillip wants, he always gets. The words were reverberating through her body and to her disgust she felt a flicker of desire.
Dea had been praying for hours with little release from the terror she had felt at the sight of Johanna. Prayer was like that, occasionally there was merciful relief from the anguish she carried. Like the heroin had released her in the past. The sharp prick of the needle, the drug creeping through her bloodstream, bringing its gift of white oblivion. But at other times she could pray all night and it still felt as if no one was listening. Finally, exhausted from her conversation with Jesus, she had left her church and made her way warily home. There was no sign of Johanna as she walked back through the streets, but something was different. A flicker, a warning in the air that hadn’t been there before. Around her, the activities of the people seemed strained, artificial. The air was purple, heavy, and there was a strange ache in her breast.
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 15