Jeanette had stuck the flyer on the fridge and reminded them every day of the concert, which was after school on a Thursday. They'd both agreed to leave work early.
Her stomach danced with excitement on the afternoon of the concert. She couldn't wait to step on stage in her sparkly costume and in grown-up make-up. She knew she was good, everyone said so. She couldn't wait to make her parents proud. She pictured them with big smiles, videoing her. Then they'd go to Pizza Hut afterwards and she'd get a sundae with all the toppings she liked and her mum wouldn't say anything about getting fat.
The lights had been bright as she stepped onto the stage, so bright she could only see the silhouettes of the people in the audience. But she knew her mum and dad were there, cheering her on. She had felt so different when she said her lines. She wasn't plump and ugly. She was the Fairy Godmother, beautiful and graceful and she could grant wishes. She really did have magic running through her body.
The play went well and as she came out to bow, the house lights were turned up. The audience was clapping. Jeanette and the rest of the cast giggled as they held hands and bowed. She craned her neck and searched the seats for her mum and dad. She'd made them proud. She knew she had.
But she didn't see them.
Maybe they were late? She squinted right up to the back of the room, where a few parents were standing by the door. They weren't there either. Jeanette double-checked and triple-checked but they were nowhere to be seen.
She wanted to vomit. It felt like that time Jamie Mooney punched her in the stomach in the playground. She wanted to run off stage and hide, but she couldn't. When it was her turn to go to the front of the stage, it took all her strength to bite down on her tears.
When Violet went backstage, and everyone else was hyper but she just wanted to go hide in her room. They wouldn't let her down like this. Maybe they'd been in a car accident.
The other kids rushed out to see their parents. One or two parents even came backstage. Jeanette packed her bag and wiped off the thick make-up, taking her time. She supposed she'd have to walk home. She loitered a little until it was only her and Mrs Jaager left behind.
‘You were wonderful, Jeanette.’ Mrs Jaager laid a hand on her shoulder.
‘Thanks,’ she had said but the compliments ran off her like rain off an umbrella. ‘Do you need any help packing up?’
‘Don't you want to go see your family?’ Mrs Jaager asked. ‘I'm sure, they're very proud.’
‘Something came up. They couldn't make it.’
Mrs Jaager frowned. ‘That's a shame. Is someone picking you up?’
Jeanette puffed out her chest. ‘I can walk.’
Mrs Jaager shook her head. ‘I'll drive you. Give me a moment.’
She followed Mrs Jaager into the car park, which was empty except for two cars. One car was very familiar. There were two people sitting inside. Jeanette’s heart stopped. Her gasp must have been loud.
‘What is it?’ Mrs Jaager said.
‘I don't need a lift,’ she said with a stutter.
Mrs Jaager nodded and Jeanette walked up to her parent's car. Her mum’s face was tear-stained face and, her dad's neck was all red like when Hawthorn were losing. They were both staring out their own side windows. Jeanette opened the door to the back seat and they both jumped. Her mum forced a smile as Jeanette slipped in.
The inside of the car was hot.
‘Your mum and I had things to talk about,’ her dad said. ‘You understand?’
‘It's okay,’ she muttered, and they drove off in silence.
They didn't go to Pizza Hut. A few days later, her dad filled his car and left. She never expected anything from them after that day. Or anyone else.
She was all alone in the universe and it was her against the world.
***
Dear Journal
The shadows are with me now. I let the shadows in to hold my hand and wrap their cold arms around me.
The world is suddenly in sharp focus. The words of the shadows ring true. Everyone else has abandoned me, laughed at me, ignored me. But I'm so sick of being scared, fed up with battling the rest of the world alone.
The shadows understand me.
I tried to stay in the light but my affirmations did nothing. Only stupid words on my lips. My stains can't be washed out so easily, I'm soiled right through. But the shadows don't care, they welcome me exactly as I am.
I've seen true power, I felt it running through my veins. The tingle was so delicious, so frightening and I can still feel its traces on my fingertips.
And I want more.
I am with the shadows now.
Everything looks so different when you are no longer afraid of the dark.
***
VIOLET
Last Night
Tangled in her bedding, Violet sweated and thrashed. She was running down a bush path. Branches whipped at her arms and the rain pelted against her cheeks and bare shoulders. She hunched, shielding her face with her hands.
In the swirling storm, a magpie cawed. The black and white bird watched Violet with her beady eyes and burst into a cackle of avian laughter.
As the bird laughed, its squawking transformed into people laughing. Like ventriloquist dummies, an invisible crowd laughed through its beak, jeering and snickering as Violet struggled through the storm.
‘Leave me alone,’ she screamed.
But the crowd kept laughing.
Violet clamped her hands over her ears. She tripped on a tree root and tumbled to the ground, skidding on hands and knees. She scrambled up and saw blood trickling down her shins. Sharp specks of gravel were embedded in her palms.
She kept running.
The dirt path and the bush disappeared and suddenly she was in her old primary school playground, with its brick walls painted with murals of smiling children, suns and rainbows. Coloured lines were painted on the asphalt for hopscotch and hand ball. The playground was loud with memories but there was no one playing today in the half-light of dusk.
The storm was gone but the magpie had followed her. It swooped and her hair gusted up in the slip stream of its wings. She ducked and flung her arms.
The magpie circled back and swooped again.
‘Get away!’ Violet screeched and waved her arms.
The magpie swooped a third time.
This time her sharp beak connected. She pecked at Violet’s fingers and gouged her scalp. Violet wailed and cowered, covering her head. Trails of blood dribbled between the webs of her fingers and down her forearms. The blood from the wounds pooled in her eyebrows and streamed down her face.
Violet wiped the blood from her eyes and ran towards the school building. The classroom windows were decorated with drawings of amber leaves, black bats and cauldrons.
The magpie swooped once more but missed. Violet sprinted for the classroom. Hopefully Mrs Brown was there, with her soft voice and her cardigan pocket full of green lolly frogs and her elephant stamps.
Violet reached the double entrance doors but the bird was close behind. She pushed inside and slammed the door behind her. The bird collided with the window and the glass cracked like a spider's web. Violet raced to the classroom door and looked through its rectangular pane of glass inside, searching for Mrs Brown. The classroom was empty, except for a grass-green shop mannequin in a black pointy hat and long dark robes in the corner.
The witch mannequin swivelled her body around towards the door and sneered, her eyes gleaming.
Violet gasped, but it wasn't just from fear. There was a familiarity about the face which made her heart lurch.
The witch cackled. Her piercing guttural laughter seeped under the door and echoed down the corridor. The shrieking laughter scratched across her skin, every hair on her body was alert and her skin rippled with gooseflesh. As the sound grew louder and louder, coils of black smoke escaped from the witch’s open mouth.
Violet covered her ears and screamed. Raw and feral, her cry came from the depths of her belly. S
he was overwhelmed by a fear so cold, a dark power so icy, it smothered her.
Violet woke up to the sound of her own screams.
Her bedroom door burst open and Violet flinched. She grabbed at her quilt and burrowed underneath for protection.
Her mum raced inside, her hair sticking up like a toilet brush. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Just a bad dream, Mum,’ Violet croaked.
’I thought someone was murdering you,’ her mum sighed. ‘I told you about eating that cheese. You sure you're alright?’
Violet mumbled and nodded and her mum went back to bed. But Violet couldn't get back to sleep, even when her heartbeat slowed to normal.
She knew that witch's name.
***
THE DARK HAND
You were alone in your bedroom when you finally said the right words.
You were such a beautiful sight.
You glowed with red-hot resentment, heavy disappointment and cold loneliness.
I recognised the signs.
You were ready.
The time had come.
‘Come to me,’ you said.
I always enjoy this part.
‘I can only come if you invite me with your whole being.’
‘I'm scared,’ you said and backed off a little. This always happens. They call it buyer's remorse.
‘Aren't you sick of being scared?’
‘I wish I was different, I wish I was like you.’
‘Together we can be whatever you desire.’
You nodded. ‘I finally understand. I need you.’
‘This pleases me,’ I replied.
‘Is there anything I need to do? Or say?’ you asked.
‘Words are meaningless. I know your heart is true. But there is one thing I need from you. Your loyalty. You can tell no one.’
‘I'm used to keeping secrets,’ you said. ‘When can we begin?’
‘Right away.’
You lay back on your bed and your heart fluttered like a little bird. I came out of the shadows in all my dark glory and emerged from the place where I always live, where I waited for the right moment.
The moment had arrived.
We became one.
Your eyes stretched wide and your cheeks shone as you hugged yourself, relishing the warmth of my power as it infected your blood.
You began to laugh, and I laughed, too. We laughed together. We were one.
Now the real fun could begin.
Chapter 11
Thursday 21st June 1992
RAVENSWOOD
‘It’ll be alright on the night. Alright on the night. This happens every time,’ Ravenswood muttered as he locked his dented car and marched across the empty car park. ‘It'll be alright.’
Today was dress rehearsal and their first day in the theatrette. It was going to be a long day but tomorrow would be free until the evening performance to give the kids time to rest. Perhaps he should use some of that time for more rehearsals, but the kids weren't the only ones who needed a break.
A few straggly sunbeams peered over the roof of the grey boxy school but Ravenswood fixed his gritty eyes on the path ahead of him in order to avoid the shadows. He yawned. It was another night filled with dreams of thumps and missing girls, and he woke, his mind tossed with tales about the compound on Beacon Hill.
In the Kindred school room, the older children had whispered stories to the young ones when the teacher's back was turned. Damien, a bully with pink cheeks like raw pork, told the worst tale of all about Bread-knife Peter.
‘This was the olden days when Beacon Hill was first settled. Peter was once a pious and well-respected community man until one day, both his wife and boy suddenly fell sick and died. People started to talk. Why was only his family affected? And why was he still alive? Everyone wondered if he'd done a deal with the King of Hell to save his life.’
Ravenswood always flinched at the mention of his name.
‘The gossip drove Peter mad. He stripped naked during Service, ran down the aisle to the altar and grabbed the pastor by the throat. He yelled and sweared into the pastor’s face.’
The children would titter and cover their mouths. As a boy, Ravenswood always wished something exciting like that would happen in Service.
‘The Elders banished Peter, throwing him out into the bush without food or water.’ Damien would then lean back as though his story was over.
But every time, one kid would ask, and always with a little shake in their voice, ‘Why did they call him ‘Bread knife’?’
Piggy Damien would lean in with a sneer.
‘Peter left quietly. No one heard from him for a whole month. They thought maybe the Aboriginals or the devils got him. But one day, in the middle of the night, he returned and took his revenge. He crept into each Elders' hut and sawed their heads from their necks with a rusty blunt bread knife. There was so much blood, the community women couldn't clean it all away and the men had to cut out the floorboards of the huts. They never caught him. But sometimes on a quiet night, you can still hear the Elders pleading for their lives.’
Damien had grinned while Ravenswood and the other six-year-olds paled, their lips trembling.
Ravenswood raked his hand through his hair as he walked up the school steps. Fifteen years later, and he could still remember Damien’s every word. But he needed to focus on more important things, like whipping these kids into shape and wowing Alan Wolf.
Ravenswood swallowed. A strange bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat, even though he'd brushed his teeth three times. And it wasn't the stale remnants of last night's Cabernet Shiraz.
‘This happens every time,’ he repeated as he continued through the door and along the corridor. ‘It’s the well-worn path of theatre. You must plunge the dark depths before you see the sun again.’
On the drive to the school, he'd practised a speech designed to put a rocket under these kids. Yesterday’s terrible performance was understandable, considering how everyone was worried about Rowan, but today there could be no distractions.
Failure was not an option.
No one would ruin this chance.
He rolled his shoulders back. He would first deliver his rousing motivational speech. The kids would respond with a triumphant rehearsal and then everyone would head home, all prepared for an excellent performance on Friday night.
Easy.
All he needed was for Rowan to reappear and everything would be perfect. He'd call Alan Wolf again to confirm his attendance. Then check with Bruce and the maintenance men to confirm everything would be working fine for the performance. And talk to Toby about the orange gels; he’d had a brilliant new idea in the shower.
‘Mr Ravenswood?’
He jumped. One of the witches, Holly, the one with the square jaw, stood half-hidden in a dark doorway. ‘Sorry to scare you.’
‘I was deep in thought,’ he said and waved his hand dismissively.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said as she twirled her dark brown hair around her finger.
‘Of course, but be quick. There's so much to do before tomorrow.’
‘Is there any news about Rowan?’
He shook his head. ‘I spoke with Sergeant O'Hare and Mrs Petrakis last night. They suspect she ran off with the boyfriend, but they can't locate him, either. Her mother is still very worried.’
‘I hope she's alright.’
‘We all do.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is that all?’
Holly gulped. ‘I wanted to....’
Ravenswood folded his arms tightly around his body. Where was that damned heating? Yet another reason to call those idiotic maintenance men. Surely, they couldn't expect an important guest like Alan Wolf to sit there shivering in his coat.
‘It's about Violet.’
He suppressed a sigh and nodded instead. He'd hoped this school-girl silliness would have faded overnight.
‘I think there's something really wrong with her. Mentally.’
Ravenswood pinche
d the bridge of his nose. ‘If this is about yesterday—’
‘It wasn't just yesterday. She’s made threats, said things. Terrible things about Angelika. I'm worried, Mr Ravenswood.’
He exhaled smoothly and spoke slowly. ‘You saw for yourself Angelika was fine. And you and Jacinta were the only ones accusing Violet. Did you and Violet have a fight?’
Holly frowned. ‘She said she wanted to kill Angelika. And she's been asking around. Looking for different methods.’
Ravenswood chuckled. If only Holly brought this much imagination to the stage. ‘I doubt she meant it. She's angry she missed out on the part but...’
‘Please take this seriously, Mr Ravenswood. I went to see a psychiatrist yesterday. She told me the symptoms to look out for.’
‘You're seeing a doctor?’ Ravenswood raised an eyebrow. If Holly was in counselling herself and already on edge, all this melodrama suddenly made more sense. He tried not to look at his watch again but he had no time for this pettiness.
‘I'm perfectly fine.’ Holly narrowed her eyes. ‘I went to get advice about Violet. From a professional.’
‘Are you sure? You seem a little agitated.’
‘You're not listening, Mr Ravenswood. She's dabbling in dangerous things.’
‘I am listening. I'm just worried about you. You seem quite fixated on Violet.’ Ravenswood wondered whether he should call Holly's mother but he couldn't afford to lose another cast member.
‘Because she’s going to hurt someone!’ Holly's cheeks flushed red. ‘If she hasn't already.’
‘You're winding yourself up over nothing. Go get some fresh air before we start...’
Holly threw her hands in the air and turned away.
Ravenswood shrugged and headed for his office, but as he stepped away, he heard Holly mumble.
He stopped, his fists clenched. His body flushed with heat. No one said that word to him, especially not some hysterical child.
The Flower and the Serpent Page 16