by Carl Purcell
“So I told him that I had already found a way to make myself immune to his disease. Desperate to scare him, I told him I had learned a way to take magic away from sorcerers forever. He said if I did that, he'd die from all the diseases he was carrying. But he didn't say it like he was afraid. It was almost a threat. But I made him swear not to kill ever again or I would.”
“I guess he didn't stick to his promise,” Caia said.
“No. I knew he was lying. We both said whatever would get us out of there alive. It was almost a whole day after that before it hit me. The sudden weakness, the unbearable pain. Lloyd's death – the disease he created – is still inside me. It grows and spreads and infects more of me every day. Every night I use my own magic to slow it down and push it back just a little.”
“And how long until he figured that you lied?”
“Three weeks, I think. I spent most of that time with other sorcerers, helping to keep the real reason for all those murders a secret. The police interviewed me once about the fire. But the truth about Lloyd, about our world and why the murders happened remained a secret. Our master didn't have any family and, to my surprise, the insurance on the house and everything my master had left was left to me in his will. It wasn't much after the fire, mostly money. There was nothing to say why he chose me. Maybe he just wanted to make sure it went somewhere.
“I don't know where Lloyd went but, three weeks after the day we fought, I heard he was coming back. I think everybody was waiting for it to happen but nobody thought it would be so soon. The first thing the others did was ask me to leave town.”
“Why you?”
“I guess they thought Lloyd would just want me and so, if I wasn't there, he'd keep looking for me somewhere else. So I left and stayed with my parents for a while and waited.”
“Waited for what?”
“For it to get quiet. Lloyd quickly got a reputation and I followed the rumours about him. Pretty soon all the other sorcerers moved away from the area. But Lloyd kept looking for me, leaving sickness and death everywhere he went. Whenever I heard rumours that sounded like Lloyd was close, I packed up and moved somewhere else. I was with Geoffrey when I decided to head for Salem.”
“So why does he still want to kill you?”
“There's no reason for anything Lloyd does, any more. He's sick - his body, his mind and his soul are all sick. Too much hate and disease. There's no understanding it.” There was a brief quiet in the car before Caia spoke, as if plucking the thoughts out of Griffith's mind.
“Roland is infected too, isn't he?”
“Lloyd touched him. Did his magic on him. Now Roland carries the disease. I managed to delay it spreading a little before he pushed me away. But that won't save him. Without a powerful sorcerer, nothing will.”
“Your pilgrimage was never just about finding a master, was it?”
Griffith hesitated before answering. “No. Geoffrey even offered to take me as his apprentice. But he wasn't strong enough to protect me from Lloyd. My only hope is in Salem.”
“Then why are you walking? Why not choose something faster?”
“Because the pilgrimage is still real. I still have to prove myself. If I can't, then I've got no chance against Lloyd.”
Silence followed the conversation. Not long after Griffith stopped talking, Caia fell asleep. Griffith went on driving in silence. As they passed a sign pointing to the town of Warialda, the engine died. The headlights went out with the engine. Griffith sighed and turned the wheel, directing the car to the side of the road. The car coasted to a stop half on and half off the road. Ahead he could see the street lights of Warialda piercing the darkness and promising the warm beds and hot food of civilisation. He took a look at Caia, then closed his eyes. He was warm where he was and he was sure that, if Caia was awake, she'd tell him that this was fate's way of saying it was time to get some sleep. He was okay with that. He flicked the hazard lights on and hoped they'd keep flashing until morning.
Chapter 15
Roland awoke early the next morning to the feeling of damp clothes, a dry mouth and insects crawling over his skin. He pushed himself up and nearly fell straight back down on his other side. The sudden movement frightened the tiny bugs and sent them scattering. Roland itched all over. A quick scratch revealed more little lumps than on the cylinder in a music box. But all of this felt like a minor inconvenience compared to the constant, painful throbbing in his head.
The sun was only just coming up and the morning air was cold. His clothes were stuck to his skin by a mixture of heavy sweating and dew. He considered dying a less painful alternative to the morning. Then he remembered the feeling when Lloyd had tried to kill him and he knew he was wrong. Nothing could be worse than that. Roland was accustomed to hangovers and morning-after shame, but the fear of another man was new. At least he was still alive to be afraid.
The memory of Lloyd set his mind to work remembering everything else that happened the night before. None of the memory came clearly but what was clear was that he was now alone. The feeling of regret and self-loathing that followed was comfortably familiar. Roland let himself flop back to the ground and he closed his eyes. In the absence of a good hang-over cure, sleep would do. He lay there quietly long enough for the insects to star to return. But sleep never came.
After some time, the sound of an engine interrupted his efforts to sleep. For a moment, Roland considered that it might be Caia and Griffith. He didn't need to look to know that was stupid. He hated himself for hoping it was them. The sound of the engine came closer until it was right beside him and then it stopped. Roland kept his eyes closed. He wouldn't open them, he wouldn't see who it was, he wouldn't let that dim, stupid hope that they'd come back win. He assured himself that it wasn't them. Even if it was, he didn't need them and he definitely wasn't going to re-join them, even if they had come back. Which they hadn't.
“Are you all right?” said an unfamiliar voice.
“I'm fine,” he spat in response.
“You don't look fine. What are you doing by the side of the road?”
“I was trying to sleep.”
“On an ant's nest?”
Roland sighed.
“Can I help you?”
“No.” Of course he couldn't. Nobody could help him. Roland opened his eyes and sat up. It took a moment to adjust to the light again but the stranger started to come into focus. He was wearing an old grey suit with white sneakers; a white button-up shirt with the top three buttons undone. Silver hair topped his head and lined his chin with stubble. He had an unlit cigarette hanging limp from his mouth and he looked at Roland so intently that his eyes were almost popping out of his head. His slack jaw and tilted head said he was confused but his eyes said he wanted to pick Roland up, give him a pat on the back and do something – anything – in his power to help. Roland stared back at the stranger, matching his confusion. He didn't think anybody had ever looked at him that way – not his wife, not Griffith, not his family. It made Roland want to trust him. Roland shifted uncomfortably and looked away.
“Can I at least give you a lift somewhere?” The stranger gestured to his car. The engine still rumbled and the driver's door hung open on the faded purple sedan. Roland considered every hitch-hiker horror cliché he'd ever heard, but no matter how he sliced it, it was better than walking.
“Sure.” Roland started to rise. He moved slowly, his joints cracked every step of the way up.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home.”
“Where's that?”
“It's...” Roland paused to think. “I don't know.”
“You have had a rough night.”
“My night has been rough and long. About four years long.”
“Well, even a long night has to end eventually.”
“If you say so.”
The stranger nodded and opened the door. “Trust me, it gets better.”
Roland wanted to argue but there was something about the way the stranger tal
ked that made him re-think it. The stranger sounded as if he was speaking from experience – as if he had seen all the unthinkable horrors of mankind and not only lived to tell the tale but still found the silver lining.
“Come on, I'm staying at a place not far from here. You can shower and I'll make you breakfast. Maybe when you're feeling better, you'll remember where home is.”
“Sure.” Roland took a step forward. “Just so you know, I'm not, you know... I'm not like that. I mean, I like women.”
The stranger laughed.
“Nothing weird?”
“Nothing weird.”
“Okay.” Roland got in. He flicked the air conditioning switch and turned the temperature as low as he could. The stranger got in and gave the air conditioner a confused glance. Then the stranger closed the door and started driving. Roland got the sense that it must be even colder than he thought but he was hot all over and the artificial wind from the air conditioner felt like heaven on his skin.
The movement of the car, however, turned Roland's stomach in circles. He swallowed hard to keep everything down where it belonged.
The stranger chuckled. “We'll go slowly.”
“Thanks. I'm Roland, by the way.”
“Malcolm. Or Mal, if you prefer.”
“Thanks for the ride, Mal.”
“My pleasure.”
Malcolm drove slowly. They passed a sign that marked the road as the Gwydir Highway and then another that pointed them towards the town of Inverell. Before they reached Inverell, Malcolm turned the car down a road labelled Long Plain Lane. None of the names meant anything to Roland. He had no idea where they were or where they were going. Armidale and his comfortable motel bed might as well have been in another country for all he could do to get back there. Was Inverell and Long Plain Lane on the way to Salem? Did it matter? He wouldn't be seeing Salem in this lifetime. That was probably better. There was no more there for him than there was anywhere else.
They were only on Long Plain Lane a few seconds before they turned into a driveway. A single house stood at the end of that driveway and it was there that Malcolm parked. Malcolm got out first and started towards the house. Roland stepped out. He paused, hanging to the car for support. The silence overwhelmed him. As far as he could see, the land was empty. There were no other houses and no people that could disturb the serenity. He struggled to think of a time he'd ever known it to be this quiet.
“Are you coming?” Mal called from the door.
“Sure.” Roland followed him inside. The house was warm and inviting, with all the amenities expected of a comfortable holiday home, covered in a thin layer of dust that suggested it hadn't been used for some time.
“Come through here to the kitchen and sit down.” The front door opened into a lounge room with the biggest TV Roland had seen in his life. The kitchen was adjacent to the lounge room, separated by a bar. Roland sat on a stool at the bar as he had done a thousand times in a hundred places. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair and ran a hand over his dry lips.
“It's been a long time since I was in your position but I remember eggs always helped me. Actually, anything greasy and high in protein works.” Malcolm shouted back to Roland while he ransacked the fridge. “But it doesn't seem like there are any eggs. How about a drink? There's some orange juice. Actually, never mind. I don't know how long that's been there. It looks like it's fermented.” Malcolm closed the fridge and started on the freezer next. “Ah, here we go. Bread and sausages. Better than nothing, I suppose.” He sat the food on a bench and started going through the kitchen turning on all the appliances and lights until he came back around to the bar.
“I'm not sure I can eat anything.”
“Trust me, it will make you feel better. How about something to drink.”
“Sure. What is there?” It was the first promising offer he'd heard all morning.
“Water. I think I saw some instant coffee and tea bags in the cupboard.”
“Oh.”
“Let's start with water and go from there.” If Malcolm had caught Roland's disappointed tone, he wasn't acknowledging it. Instead he found the biggest glass in the kitchen, filled it with water and set it in front of Roland. “I'll get started on the sausages.”
“Is this your place?” Roland spun the glass around in front of him.
“I wish. A friend of mine owns it. He lets me use it when I'm passing through the area for work.”
“Do you come through often?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do?”
“Whatever needs doing. I guess you could say I'm a specialist.”
“In what?”
“Let's call it education.” Malcolm put the sausages on the bench and returned to the bar.
“What about you?”
“Unemployed. Six months and going strong.”
“I guess it's a good gig if you can get it. What do you do for fun?”
Roland's first thought was drinking. He didn't answer.
“Understood. You like to keep private. Mind if I ask why?” Malcolm crossed the kitchen again and put the frozen sausages in the microwave. The microwave clock flashed 00:00 before Malcolm started the timer. Roland tried but couldn't remember what the clock in the car had said.
“Yes.”
“There must be something you do.” Malcolm returned to the counter to continue the conversation.
“Watch TV, I guess.”
“What do you watch?”
“The news, mostly.” Roland tried to think of something specific but the truth was he hadn't turned a TV on in months.
“That's good. It's important to keep up to date on what's going on. Did you see that news story last night about the earth quake?”
“No. I've been on the road and haven't had a chance to catch up.”
“Somewhere in South America – I forget where. It wasn't too bad, but some Australian tourists are there and nobody has heard from them.”
Roland grunted. He sipped at the water. It was ice-cold straight from the tap.
“So what else do you do for fun?” Mal asked.
“Fight. I like to get into fights.” Roland didn't like the questions. Nobody was this interested in other people and this helpful unless they wanted something. Malcolm obviously wanted something. Why?
“Are you a boxer?”
“Back in university I was. These days I just like to get into fights.” Roland hoped Malcolm would stop asking questions after that. Hit them with something shocking and they'll back off. That was the idea, anyway.
“Are you any good?” Malcolm didn't seem concerned.
“I've beaten up some big guys.” He was disappointed he couldn't tell him just how big they were. He never could. Who would believe he'd taken a rhino-man head on and won?
“Bigger than me?” An odd question. Malcolm wasn't any bigger than average. If anything, he was on the short side.
“Much.”
“Bigger than you?”
“Yep.” Roland suddenly realised he was smiling. He put the glass to his mouth and drank deep. It was refreshing. He could already feel his headache subsiding.
“I'm impressed.” The microwave beeped. Malcolm took the sausages out and started frying them on the stove. “If you're that good and you like it, maybe you should go back to boxing. Professionally, I mean.”
“They wouldn't take me. I don't think I could play by the rules.”
“Oh well.” Malcolm shrugged. He stirred the sausages around in the pan and didn't look back to Roland while he spoke. “It's good to enjoy what you do, even if you don't make it your job.”
“Sure,” Roland agreed, mostly because he had nothing else to say. He'd never thought about fighting being a job or even why he did it. That and drinking were just what he did. He'd always done them – or at least it felt like he'd always done them. He'd been doing them long enough.
“Is that why you were on the road? Fighting, I mean.”
“No, that was...” He
had been enjoying not thinking about it. Malcolm ruined that. “Yeah. It was fighting.”
“I guess that one was a loss, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Were they bigger or smaller?”
“Smaller. Much smaller but I guess size isn't everything.”
“I guess not. Still, no shame in losing.”
“So you say.”
“Trust me, I know a thing or two about failure.” Mal looked over his shoulder at Roland, still smiling. Roland turned his head down.
“You wear suits, you drive a nice car, you have rich friends with holiday houses and a mysterious job that takes you across the country. Just what do you know about failure?”
“Well, for starters...” Malcolm left the stove cooking and started opening cupboards in search of something. “I know failure is more a frame of mind than an actual thing.”
Roland rolled his eyes. He braced himself for the feel-good, self-help bullshit.
“I know that even when you think you fail, there's usually another opportunity to try again. I know that as long as you're trying, you haven't failed; it's just a work in progress. It's all about perspective. I won't go into details because it's not important – but I have failed. I've failed and people have died because of my failure. Sometimes that's the world I live in. It hurts; sometimes it hurts worse than anything. What keeps me going in the face of that is the knowledge that, if I just gave up and walked away from the world, all my failures and the deaths I caused would have been for nothing. My self-pity would be an insult to them.”
Mal found a bottle of tomato sauce and sat it down on the counter top. A burning smell started to permeate the kitchen and Mal rushed back to the stove. Cursing under his breath, he started turning the sausages. When he had everything under control again, he went on: