“Dirty.” Another voice added.
“We are all clean here.”
“You must do as he would have.”
Allie reached out and plucked at the slimy mess with thin, cold fingers. She felt something slide from out of her grip like a thick worm. She chased it, squeezing to get a better hold and pulled. The stench intensified. Allie’s eyes watered but she kept tugging and she was rewarded with a sudden release in tension that sent her spilling backwards with an armful of gore. Heavy wetness sloshed against her chin, covered her upper body and dribbled down her naked thighs.
She sobbed and held onto a scream.
“Take it away!” A distant voice whined.
“Bury it away from us.”
“Give it to the gnawing worms.”
I’m not here.
Allie plunged back into the security of her memories, but the miasma found her even there. The stench rose.
Mum had told them to not to swim close to the outflow pipes on the other side of the beach.
Allie regained her feet, her arms still cradling what she had drawn forth.
Wet sand for the castle.
She deposited the heavy mass in the watchman’s long coat.
She took it all for burial, leaving the watchman hollow, his ribs protruding. She washed herself in water from the spring on the hillside by the first rays of the sun. When she came back for her clothes no one spoke. Sunlight made them nervous, but she knew she would have to come again.
* * *
A month has gone; another moon has died.
* * *
Allie came back with a knife. Her offerings were also better prepared this time. Twisted wire bound a mannequin made from old chicken bones, a token of her intent. Coloured ribbon from three lost kites, a wedding ring thrown from a window, and a bottle containing a note that would now never be read.
She reached the door without feeling any menace this time. The memories of the dead are too focused on things that happened long ago for any short term grudges. Besides they knew how much she had already done for them.
Allie reached into her pocket and drew forth the small blade, the one that she used to skin cats and cut the heads from birds. She would finish things tonight, she swore to herself as she stepped into the gloom. The bones provided their own light again.
Time had done a lot to make her work easier. The flesh was soft and slipped easily from bone. Allie couldn’t help but notice there were also large bites take from the corpse. She glanced at the skulls but they were quiet tonight, silenced by guilt. She could read their expressions though.
You brought him here you left us alone with him… what did you expect? It’s been so long since we chewed.
Allie shook her head and got to work.
She tugged and cut at the corruption that covered the watchman, making him clean and pure with practiced strokes. Maggots spilled and squirmed from the putrid stuff. Allie ignored them and continued to scrape with her knife. Before she knew it the last of the meat was cut away.
She tore away the scraps of flesh with her fingers; rasping away the last stubborn strands with her nails. Polishing until the bones were as fit as any offering she had ever made. The bones now gleamed with their own light.
“Good.”
“Rest now.”
“Lie with us.”
“Accept your place.”
Allie piled the bones just as the others were piled, they were still a little raw but only the keenest eye would notice that they were fresher than the others or pick out the nicks left by the pocket knife.
Allie lay down beside the new pile, her hand caressing the smooth ball of a knee joint. Finally she would be welcome in her true love’s house. He would come to her, given time, she knew it. Maybe he already watched her through hollow eyes, one more faceless suitor in the smiling rows around her. It was hard to know where he might be, yet she felt him all around and hungered for his touch. She would not mistake his touch for any other. She rubbed the silken tip of the bone.
Time meant little here. It was enough to know her groom was waiting.
She slept deeply and woke at dawn’s first light. It felt so good to have been accepted, to have a proper home again at last. It was a feeling that stayed with her through the next day. The living world seemed like a translucent dream. The awkwardness and the fear that she had while dealing with the world beyond the cemetery evaporated. There was no more need for concern, no more waiting.
The watchman had been an accident, a bad one. It still made her shiver to think what she had done, how close she had come to losing everything. The memories were almost enough to dim her euphoria—almost. However upsetting the means had been, Allie had no doubt that she had pleased everyone waiting for her in the ossuary. She belonged with them now.
Allie was so confident that she had done all that was needed that she went back to the cemetery the next night, she didn’t wait on the moon or try to find offerings. That was all in the past. They would accept her now—they had to after all she had done. The watchman owed her most of all.
Whatever she had taken from him when she pushed him, she had also given him a home. He would have to return the favour. She came back to the graveyard with all the eagerness of a bride, slipping through the graves, past the wretched angels and over the carcass of the fallen tree. Careless of wraith and thorn, she skipped up to the door.
She could feel them summoning her and she was overjoyed that her work had been well received and that she would once more know the cool calm of the ossuary, an end to the loneliness she felt among the living. She flashed a smile at the saint and the demons he played with.
She pushed. The heavy wood didn’t budge.
She pushed again, as hard as she could.
“More to do.” She heard them whisper from the dark.
“There is a tree on our path.”
“And dead flowers on the graves.”
“You must attend these things.”
“That’s not fair.” She shouted but they gave no response and the door remained locked.
She hammered and pleaded. How could they be so cruel? How could they deny her when she’d made such an offering—done so much?
They want more.
Allie’s foot hit something in the dark. She bent down to retrieve it and found herself holding the watchman’s torch. It didn’t have to mean anything, but then birds could fly at random, tea could settle and mean nothing, cards and coins might flip to chance. Allie clicked the torch on and off. Was this all they’d offered her?
She pounded as hard as she could, left fresh blood on the rusted iron of the door.
“Let me in, you can’t make me do this.”
Nothing.
Were they even there?
Had they ever been?
Surely they could see what they were doing to her. The terrible cycle they were asking her to be a part of.
“Open up or I’ll never come back,” she threatened, but of course it was a lie. Where would she go if not here?
She would do anything, anything they asked and they knew it. Allie had never been able to deny her love, no matter what it cost her. Other people might not understand, but they did. Allie knew they could be ruthless and she knew that when they were, she would accept it.
How could anyone in love do any different?
Allie didn’t like to think about the other reason she would come back despite their cruelty—she had nowhere else to go.
She would clear the tree and clean the graves; she already knew how to pacify the angels. With the watchman gone, she was the only one who could, and she’d keep doing it until they unlocked the door for the last time. Her sacrifice was still not enough—she would give more, they knew that, trusted her. She could not fail them without failing herself. She had made herself the final offering—as much part of them now as the watchman’s polished bones.
No going back.
Anyone with a soul would have understood how desperate she was, how much she needed an end to
her pain. Anyone who could feel would never have asked her to walk the lanes of graves at night alone. Anyone with a heart would have relented, swung the door wide and held her close—but there was only silence. The silence of the long sleep until the moon was dark again and a new supplicant made fresh offerings. She was a fool to think he would give himself so easily, that enough had been given and their courtship was done. His love was yawning, infinite and insatiable.
Allie understood now, the one she loved and the ones she cared for did not have heart or soul or feel another’s pain—they were, after all, made of bone.
Shades of Memory
S.G. Larner
Patrick reined Constance to a halt to study the bent metal sign. It should have said ‘Miriam Vale’, but some unknown vandal had gouged at the paint, so that it now proclaimed: M an Vale. Beside the sign, an upside-down, blackened ute rusted by the crumbling highway. Black sand drifted against the useless vehicle, carried on scorching winds from the endlessly burning coal seam gas fields to the west.
The tightness in his chest might have been from anxiety or exhaustion. This was the first town he’d seen in the past three days of horseback travel under a blazing Queensland sun. Razed homesteads littered the verges of the highway, remnants of the Upheaval. Patrick licked cracked lips, his throat dry, and longed for decent food and a bed.
Patrick gave Constance a gentle kick and her hooves thud-clopped on the disintegrating road.
They passed a rotting old Queenslander, its roof missing, lantana strangling the walls. Parched dust and spiky weeds filled the space once occupied by lawn.
Down the road a mangy yellow dog barked and then disappeared behind a large black object. Patrick squinted through the orange haze of sunset, but couldn’t make it out. As he approached it resolved into a giant fibreglass crab, charred and twisted and riddled with bullet holes. It blocked the doors of what had once been a petrol station, but was now a burnt husk. The bowsers had melted into blackened lumps from the heat of the conflagration.
A tiny smear of yellow caught his eye. He nudged Constance closer, although she snorted and trembled. A scraggly dandelion flower lay between the crab’s claws.
His belly curdled. “Strange place,” Patrick said, ignoring his gut. He patted Constance on her sweaty neck. “I suppose it’s to be expected, out here near the gas fields.”
Empty buildings stretched the length of the highway that cut through the town. A skinny boy of about eight burst out from behind the crab, chasing the yellow dog. The dirty child ran in front of Constance’s legs, glanced at Patrick with wide eyes and dashed away. Constance reared, her ears flattened. Patrick soothed the skittish horse and turned her head in the direction the boy had gone. The street sign said ‘DOUGALL ST’, and as he rounded the corner a stranger crossed the road and entered a large building ahead.
MIRIAM VALE HOTEL. The paint was faded but the building was sound. He was surprised by a large solar panel perched on the roof above a tattered awning, but smiled in anticipation of a hot shower. The smell of roasting meat drifted from the open windows and his stomach rumbled. He dismounted and wrapped Constance’s reins around a pillar. She flicked her ears and whinnied as he opened the ochre door.
An old-style jukebox stood against a wall, lights flashing. Nearby a grandfather clock ticked. Three scraggly men sat at the bar. Two were Aboriginal, with black curly hair and dark skin, and one was bald with blond whiskers. All three had hunched shoulders and worn spirits. They turned as one and glared at him. The publican, a stout man with an angry burn scar across one side of his face, raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t see many of your kind ‘round here,” he said.
Patrick touched his dog collar. “Am I able to get a drink? Lemonade, I mean.” He flushed, emasculated under their combined stares. Lemonade. Not a real man. “I’ve travelled far.”
The publican shrugged and poured the cloudy beverage then slammed it onto the bar. “It’s your business what you drink, God-man.”
Patrick perched on a stool and sipped the lukewarm lemonade. It wasn’t sweet enough. “Has there been illness?”
Mutters. The blond-whiskered fellow frowned. “No illness.”
Patrick blinked. “Oh. I just thought, with how empty it seems…”
Blond-whiskers shifted on his stool. “It’ll fill up soon enough.” Laughter from the others that quickly died as they lapsed back into brooding and gulped their beers. The publican glanced at them then back at the priest
“Are you wanting a room?”
Patrick nodded. “I’m heading to Calliope tomorrow, but I’d appreciate a bed for the night. Is there anywhere to stable my horse?”
The publican poked his head in the kitchen and yelled something. After a moment the child from earlier scurried out, glanced sidelong at Patrick and disappeared out the front door.
“Charlie will deal with your horse. What’s your name, lad? Is this your first posting?”
“Patrick. Yes. O’Malley.” His cheeks warmed again. “I’ve travelled from Bundaberg. From the seminary. The priest in Calliope died. They sent word asking for a new one. The Bishop thought it would build my character.” Patrick remembered the Bishop’s face as he’d said that. The others had sniggered; Davvy had said it was a good way to get rid of dead wood.
“It’s rough out there,” the publican said and reached across the bar. “The name’s Bailey.”
Patrick shook his hand. “Thanks for your kindness, Bailey. God smiles on you.”
Blond whiskers grunted at that. Patrick ordered food and slunk off to a table in a shadowy corner.
* * *
The grandfather clock struck midnight. Patrick woke with a start, a puddle of cold drool under his cheek. The pub was full of tense men. Each careworn face stared toward the entrance, and as the last dong faded an expectant hush descended.
The door opened and a middle-aged woman with a round figure in a blue dress strode in. She was followed by a teenaged girl with blonde hair and a beaming smile, and then a little girl who was a younger version of Charlie. Still more women entered.
Patrick waited for the scolding to begin. Instead, smiles and hugs were exchanged, and Patrick’s breath misted in the suddenly frosty air.
Music blared from the jukebox. Townsfolk danced to songs Patrick hadn’t heard since he was a child. He sidled along the wall to the bar.
“Shouldn’t those children be in bed?” he asked Bailey as he scratched his head, unable to figure out what made him so uneasy about the scene. The publican stood with his hand resting on the bar, a slack expression on his face. He shook himself at Patrick’s words.
“You should take yourself to bed,” he said with a frown.
“But…” Patrick leaned forward and studied the women. “Where were all these people before?”
Bailey tensed. “The God-man needs his rest,” he said, raising his voice above the din. The revellers paused in their merrymaking and regarded him with suspicion. His skin prickling, he took his room key and retreated upstairs.
* * *
Sleep eluded him. The sounds filtered up through the carpeted floor until the first pale light of pre-dawn smudged the room with charcoal shadows. When quiet finally reigned he drifted into a fitful slumber.
He woke, his heart pounding. Hot air blanketed him, his skin coated with sweat.
Patrick sat up and kicked the damp sheets off his legs as the significance of the dandelion lying on the dirt in front of the burnt, pocked crab hit him. A child’s offering in remembrance. Could the women be ghosts? “Stupid fanciful dreams,” he muttered, but the disquiet lingered. The Good Book mentioned spirits, of course, but he’d never thought they could be real.
A snippet of history from the seminary seeped into his consciousness, something he’d tried to forget.
He’d joined the Church to make a difference in the post-Peak Oil world. As society collapsed during the Upheaval people had turned to organised religions to piece together some semblance of community. In Queen
sland the Church of Reclamation became the biggest institution, co-ordinating food deliveries and redistribution of resources. Big business had funded the formation of a rogue Church whose primary function was to hamper the unifying efforts of the Reclamation, all in the name of bottom line. The rogue group had called itself the Brothers of Mercy and targeted small communities.
While the communities had suffered at the hands of the Brothers, the Church of Reclamation, lacking the ability to apprehend them, did nothing. Eventually the Brothers disappeared as their benefactors fell victim to the realities of post-Oil life, though not until after they’d destroyed many smaller towns in rural Queensland. Women were often prime targets, persecuted as the source of society’s ills, tortured and killed while the Brothers cited Eve as their justification.
The Bishop said spending too much time near the gas fields, breathing the tainted air, had driven the Brothers crazy.
If the townswomen had been murdered by the Brothers, their souls may have been too shocked to cross over. And if their men refused to let them go…
Patrick pushed himself up and dressed before he slunk downstairs. Bailey called out to him.
“It’s best you leave today.”
“That was the plan,” Patrick replied, not meeting Bailey’s eyes. “I thought I would leave closer to dusk and travel at night—the heat is unbearable so close to the gas fields.”
“Our version of Hell on earth.” Bailey pursed his lips and studied Patrick. “Best you keep to your plan.”
Patrick’s gaze flickered to the jukebox. He cleared his throat. “I need to check on my horse. Where is she stabled?”
Bailey hollered for Charlie. The boy scurried from the kitchen and grunted at Patrick. Outside he could smell the bitumen baking in the sun. A dog barked but nothing else moved on the street. Everyone must be holed up in their houses, as was sensible in such heat. Charlie led the priest to a house with broken windows and peeling paint.
The boy unbarred the door and pointed inside. Patrick shuddered as goosebumps rose on his skin. He peered in.
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