The Flower and the Serpent

by Madeleine D'Este

  He clamped his hands over his ears but it was pointless. Her words were etched into his skin; they travelled in his blood and lived in his bones.

  ‘I'm sorry, Josie,’ he whispered. ‘I never listen. I'm sorry.’

  ***

  VIOLET

  Violet’s head and chest pounded with every step she took along Beacon Hill Road. Ravenswood. Angelika. Holly and Jacinta. Lila. Jez. They could all go get stuffed: every single one of them.

  The mist turned into sideways rain, and the gutters into rivers. Tears and rain spilled down Violet’s cheeks.

  They could do their pathetic little play without her.

  The puddles quickly found the hole in her boot and her toes sloshed inside her soggy sock.

  She was never going back.

  Violet thrust out her hand as a bus appeared through the wet. She boarded through the side door and trudged up the aisle, which was slick with muddy footprints. The bus was empty, except for an old woman in a purple knitted hat and a boy with a wilted mohawk at the back. She slumped into a seat. Home was the only place left for her. She’d head straight to bed with the covers over her head. For ever.

  ‘High school girl,’ said a familiar voice from the driver’s seat. ‘Where are your friends today?’

  Violet jolted and glared down the aisle. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I am here now.’ The curly-headed bus driver looked up at her through into the rear vision mirror. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It doesn't matter now. You were wrong.’

  ‘Is that so?’ She chuckled. ‘You know everything, do you?’

  Violet narrowed her eyes. ‘I'm supposed to be the star but I didn't get the part. I knew you were full of crap.’

  ‘Did I say who was who? Or did you fill in the blanks yourself?’

  ‘But it was obvious—’ Violet's stomach lurched.

  ‘To whom?’

  Violet felt a sharp craggy lump in her throat. If she wasn't the star, which one was she? She slouched and pressed her hands against her cheekbones.

  ‘To you, they have shown some truth,’ the bus driver said in a theatrical voice.

  Violet squinted. ‘You know Macbeth?’

  The bus driver waved dismissively. Violet grabbed her bag and rushed into the seat directly behind her. She leaned into the aisle and strained to get a clear look at the woman's face.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘I am no one special. I’m only a person who pays attention to my surroundings.’ She shrugged. ‘I see and hear the things most people ignore. Sometimes I see the truth.’

  ‘Then you understand,’ Violet sighed. ‘Everything has gone wrong.’

  ‘And why is this happening?’

  ‘They're all against me.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘He started it. Ravenswood,’ Violet blurted. ‘The part was mine.’

  ‘Blame is not always a one-way street.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Violet groaned. ‘I should've known. You're just like the others.’

  ‘Sometimes steam covers a mirror.’

  ‘Steam? Streets? What are you talking about?’ She slammed her fist against her thigh. ‘This isn't the way it’s supposed to be!’

  ‘You haven't answered my question. According to whom?’

  Violet swallowed and dropped her head. The answer was ‘me’ but she couldn't say the word. Her heart thudded.

  Rain splattered against the windows and the wipers squealed against the glass, a hypnotic, squeak like a metronome.

  ‘Fate has a curious justice.’ The driver lowered her voice. ‘You must look closer. Have you not heard the warnings?’

  ‘What warnings?’ Violet said and rubbed her forehead. ‘I'm not hearing voices, if that's what you mean. I'm not crazy. How many times do I have to say it?’

  ‘Things are not always as they seem. We try to pretend it doesn't exist but evil is as real as you and I. But you already know this. You feel it.’

  Violet wiped her nose on her coat sleeve and gently bit her lip.

  ‘Darkness is all around us. It waits for an open window, a chance to slip inside and take root. Just like a parasite. Even the most innocent of us can accidentally let her in.’

  ‘You believe me?’ Violet whispered. ‘You know it wasn't me?’

  But the bus driver didn't reply. She pulled the bus over to the stop in front of the Scout Hall and a wet-haired woman struggled onboard with a pram and a screeching toddler.

  Violet stared at her own reflection in the clouded side window. After hours in front of the mirror, contorting and inspecting, she knew every millimetre of her face, but right now she was a stranger. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t.

  Her shoulders quivered as she tried to smother her sobs. Was she the one who’d invited darkness into her heart? Or was her heart dark to begin with? Bile rushed up the back of her throat as she remembered all the horrible things she’d said and done.

  ‘I’ve wrecked it all,’ she croaked. ‘There's nothing left.’

  ‘Isn't there?’ The bus driver said.

  Violet threaded her fingers through her hair. Her head was filled with the past few days: Lila's tear stained face, Holly's pleas, Jez lying lifeless, Rowan's frightened eyes, the blood-stained script. The images circled in her head. She crumpled into the seat. She was no better than the screwed-up soggy newspaper on the muddy floor. And it was all her own fault.

  Perhaps she would be the one to disappear forever. After the way she’d behaved, she’d be doing the world a favour. There was a perfect spot on the bluff.

  ‘You must be wary,’ the driver cautioned. ‘The darkness is strong and it delights in causing confusion. But you have courage. Listen to yourself.’

  Violet straightened and frowned. As the bus travelled down Beacon Hill Road, piece by piece, the strange words began to make sense. Violet lifted her chin. For the first time since seeing the cast list, the stone in her belly was gone. She gulped in greedy lungfuls of air and the mist in her head lifted.

  The bus pulled over.

  ‘Last stop,’ the bus driver said but Violet didn't move. ‘Isn't this your stop?’

  ‘It's okay,’ Violet replied. ‘I'm going back to school.’

  There was still time.

  ***

  JACINTA

  Last Night

  It began subtly.

  Jacinta rolled over with a grunt and tucked her toes back under the warmth of the doona. She drifted off and ignored the scraping sound. It was only the slap of branches against the window.

  Something tugged at her covers and she tore her eyes open. She lifted her head and scoured the room. A sliver of light poked through a gap in the ruffled curtains. Jacinta chewed her lip but nothing seemed out of place: her white painted bed, her white desk, the white bookshelf, her tan loafers on the floor, the poster of Luke Perry inside the wardrobe door.

  Except for one thing.

  There was a gap on the top shelf next to the floral-covered tissue box.

  She gasped. She slapped her own cheek to check she was really awake. Maybe Mum moved it, finally, after all her years of complaining. Or even better, she'd smashed it accidentally when dusting.

  ‘Jacinta,’ breathed a voice.

  Her heart stopped cold in her chest.

  She pulled the covers over her head. She must be dreaming. She must be.

  ‘Jacinta,’ said the voice again.

  Mocking. Playful.

  Jacinta stared at the dark inside of her doona. She shivered despite the warmth and clenched her fists against her chest as she glanced left and right.

  The voice seemed to be right next to her ear.

  She flinched as a weight too light to be Frankie dropped on top of her covers. It moved slowly, a lump crawling towards her head.

  ‘Jacinta,’ the singsong voice said, teasingly. It was a female voice, a voice she'd never heard before.

  It wasn't her mother. Mum thought practical jokes were puerile.r />
  The thing had appeared on her bedroom shelf one day after Mum had been to the Antiques Fair again.

  ‘I simply had to have her,’ Mum had said. ‘She goes perfectly with your room.’

  ‘I'm too old for dolls, Mum.’

  Her mother had patted her hand. ‘It's not for playing with, honey. I always wanted a doll like this. But Opa could never afford to waste money on toys.’

  Jacinta would have preferred a CD player but she bit her lip. She knew how to pick her battles. The baby doll had three faces; sleeping, crying and worst of all, laughing. The way its head swivelled and changed reminded Jacinta of horror films.

  ‘Isn't she lovely?’ Her mother smoothed down the lace dress. ‘Look at the craftsmanship. And it’s in such excellent condition, not a scratch on the porcelain. I've named her Nelly.’

  ‘Jacinta,’ the voice mocked

  This time, the words were followed by the familiar jerky “waah-waah” from the noise maker inside Nelly's chest.

  Jacinta gulped.

  The doll’s sleeping face was the only one Jacinta could cope with. Its innocent closed eyes were the least creepy. But last week, she'd come home from school and Nelly's crying face was facing forward. Jacinta had said nothing to her mother. There was probably some boring explanation: equal sunlight on each face or something. But Jacinta had immediately switched the face back to sleeping. She didn’t want to spend another moment in her bedroom alone with anything but the sleeping-faced Nelly.

  The thing scampered right over her head.

  ‘Waah-waah.’

  Little fingers grabbed the edges of the doona.

  ‘Waah-waah.’

  ‘No,’ Jacinta said and clamped her covers tight around her.

  ‘Jacinta,’ whispered the sing-song voice, so clear, it could have been coming from inside her own head. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘No.’ She curled into a ball and tensed her jaw hard.

  The doona flew out of her clenched hands and landed on the carpet. Jacinta struck out blindly with her fists and feet but there was nothing there.

  ‘Jacinta.’

  The voice came from above.

  Jacinta looked up and her throat clamped shut. Nelly was on the ceiling, her laughing face staring straight back down at her.

  ‘Jacinta,’ the doll’s manic face said.

  The baby doll crawled along the ceiling and down the wall behind her bedhead. Jacinta stared wide-eyed as she clutched her knees to her chest. All she could do was watch. Nelly slipped down onto the bedhead, crying out 'waah-waah' as she hit the pillows.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jacinta choked out.

  ‘Jacinta.’

  ‘Shut up.’ She covered her ears.

  The doll stopped right in front of her.

  Jacinta wheezed.

  Nelly's head spun around to the crying face, her red mouth was twisted and a glistening tear ran down her cheek.

  ‘I'm not the only one with more than one face,’ Nelly said.

  The doll crept forward.

  Jacinta woke to the sound of knocking on her door.

  ‘Yeah, Mum,’ Jacinta mumbled and writhed, sweaty under her pyjamas. She swallowed hard and glanced over to the shelf.

  Nelly was there in her usual place.

  But her head face was turned to the laughing face.

  ***

  Dear Journal

  Today when I walked along the corridors, the walls sang along with me, welcoming me. This will be the place for my grand entrance, a place with power and fear in the foundations, blood in the mortar. It has been waiting for my arrival. From its first settlement, this place was a beacon and now it is a beacon for my power. Our power. Oh, how ticklish and tasty it is.

  They tried to block off the source but they are weak.

  I’m laughing because they still treat me the same. Wrapped up in their own little dramas, they’re blind to the transformation unfolding under their noses.

  Now I know everything. I see everything.

  I can do whatever I please. I am in complete control. I can make them weep or cower or do anything I want. They will fear and follow me.

  I will show them all.

  But I'm not alone. There are others who understand.

  She is like me. She is one of us.

  Once I give her this treat, prove my loyalty, my love, she'll see the possibilities and join us. I know she will.

  Then we can be together forever. The way it should be.

  This is only the beginning.

  ***

  VIOLET

  Violet threw back her shoulders and flung open the theatrette door. Ravenswood, his paisley shirt undone at the neck, paced up and down the stage, his hands tugging at his shoulder-length curls.

  ‘What about this?’ Toby shouted down from the top of a ladder.

  ‘Still too orange. It needs to be depressing. Like a moor. Grey. Grey. Grey. Like outside.’

  Metal clanged against metal as Wayne and Jason lunged and parried down the centre aisle. ‘Cop that, MacDuff. Me lord.’

  ‘Anyone got a needle and thread?’ Jacinta rushed across the stage, clutching her costume, which was ripped from ankle to mid-thigh.

  ‘Why aren't you in costume?’ Ravenswood snapped at Violet. ‘Hurry up. We're starting in one minute.’

  Violet skulked away to the drama room. But the classroom, now communal dressing room, was just as bad. A shirtless Lionel darted out from behind the curtains. Wayne and Jason jostled for a spot in front of the mirrors.

  Holly sat smearing green face paint on her forehead, a straggly black wig perched on her head.

  ‘Looking good,’ Violet said with a smile.

  Holly glared back at her in the mirror.

  Violet swallowed and pulled at her collar. ‘At least there's no warts.’

  Holly stood up and left Violet to stare at her own reflection in the mirror. She slumped into the empty chair and picked up a clean square of sponge. She pressed her lips together as she coated her face in green. It would take time to heal the damage.

  Ravenswood fussed into the room. ‘On stage in one minute, players.’ He frowned as he looked about. ‘Where's Angelika? How does her costume look?’

  ‘I saw her before,’ said Holly, her voice helpful again. ‘I think she's in the loo. Nerves.’

  Ravenswood nodded. ‘Lionel?’

  Lionel smoothed his hair in the full-length mirror. ‘Ready to go, Mr Ravenswood.’ His voice was as calm as a pond.

  Violet ran through her lines in her head as she finished her make-up and carefully avoided the other cast members’ dirty looks. True talent could transcend any bit part. Despite everything she’d said, she would go on stage as First Witch and give the best possible performance. Alan Wolf was a professional, and infinitely more perceptive than Ravenswood. He'd be able to spot talent anywhere on the stage.

  But there was one thing Violet needed to do first.

  Apologise.

  She scoured the room for Lila, but she couldn't see her skinny friend anywhere. Maybe she was behind one of the curtains or in the toilets? If anyone would be sick with nerves, it would be Lila.

  ‘Come on, players,’ Ravenswood said through gritted teeth as he clapped his hands. He rushed out of the room again.

  With make-up done, Violet headed behind the change room curtain, unbuttoned her flannelette shirt and jeans, and stepped into her costume, which was basically a black sack. It was a far cry from Anthea's punk witch leather and studs, but at least she didn't have to hold in her stomach.

  Violet flinched when glimpsing her reflection in the full-length mirror. The green-faced classroom witch stared back, eyes simmering with ill intent. She squinted and chewed on her lip. She was forgetting something. It was on the tip of her tongue, like an invisible prickle in her foot she couldn't find.

  Violet shivered in the thin cotton sack dress. She wrapped the black scarf she’d found in her backpack around her neck and tugged on her tatty wig and checked herself in the mir
ror.

  ‘It's showtime,’ she said.

  ***

  THE DARK HAND

  Everything is in place.

  The curtain is up.

  The audience is quiet.

  Anticipation is swelling.

  I step out of the wings onto centre stage.

  Into the spotlight.

  For my soliloquy.

  It's time.

  Are you ready?

  Good.

  Let's get on with the show.

  Chapter 13

  ANGELIKA

  Angelika squinted as the strips of fluorescent lights overhead pulsed on and off. Shadows danced on both sides of the corridor. Footsteps and giggles drifted from around the corner as she walked up the stairs.

  The door slammed quickly behind her when she went into the girls' toilets. Her hand grabbed at her throat. But then she burst out laughing at herself. Nerves were natural. Logical.

  Angelika stopped by the mirrors. She was ready in her mask of make-up and ankle length dress. The script was engraved in her brain. Mostly. She was no longer Angelika Ostholz of Beacon Hill, she was Lady Macbeth.

  As Angelika smoothed her hair, she noticed a crack in the top right corner of the mirror. The black backing was like a tiny bruise on a piece of fruit. She sucked in a breath but the blood in her bathroom had been only a dream. In the daylight, the vanity and tiles were as spotless as usual, and the mirror perfectly intact.

  Didn't they say cheese before bed caused nightmares? Perhaps the play had wormed its way into her subconscious. All that superstitious nonsense rotting her brain. Blood will have blood. She didn't mention the dream to her mother. There was nothing worse than being psychoanalysed over cornflakes.

  Angelika inspected the broken corner of the mirror. There was nothing sinister behind the crack. All three cubicle doors were open but the hairs on the back of her neck still bristled. Angelika shook her head, she took the first cubicle and locked the door.