The Last Days of Kali Yuga

by Paul Haines

  'Hey, what about your cloak?' Henry called, opening the gate, but the old man and his sack of dead animals had already left.

  #

  On the way back to his room, Henry paused outside the window of the bar. Inside, Barnsey and a couple of other guys nursed shots as they chatted to the barmaid, a young thing with a patient mask of pleasantry worn into her face. In the soft couches near the fireplace, Steve and Anna lounged in each other's arms. Steve put down his glass and met Anna's lips with his own. They were no longer hiding it. And like the possums rotting in the river, Henry felt gutted.

  As they kissed, Anna opened her eyes, staring into Henry's through the window. Her eyes widened and she pulled herself away from Steve. Her arm pointed towards the window. Henry ducked back into the darkness and ran to his room. He didn't want to be seen by the rest of the company looking like something dragged from the river, damp and muddy, wearing a cloak of yellow feathers.

  But instead of hitting the shower, he collapsed onto his bed, wrapped warm in the cloak, careless of mud on the duvet, of the dirty straggles of wet hair soaking the pillowcase. Exhaustion swam over Henry, pushing him down into its depths. Just before his eyes snapped shut, he saw the fantails roosting above him on the headboard, their yellow breast feathers so soft and warm. They sang him lullabies.

  Henry slept.

  And dreamed ...

  #

  Henry stood naked in the bush. Above him, the moon poked luminous fingers through the leafy canopy, spotlighting where huhu grubs and wetas fought ants and maggots for possum corpses in the undergrowth. A fantail landed on Henry's head, its talons sinking comfortably into his scalp. It warbled softly and Henry understood everything.

  'Here?' said a man's voice.

  'Yes,' whispered a woman hoarsely.

  'What about that Maori warrior you think you saw out the window?' The man laughed. 'You not worried he's going to interrupt us?' Then his voice dropped a register. 'Babe, you're so wet.'

  'Just fuck me, golden boy, just, uh ... just ... that's it.' She moaned, low and guttural. 'That's it.'

  Nearby, Henry knew, nearby. All of them. He held out his arms and the leaves rustled with the beat of hundreds of wings. Fantails descended from the night, the birdsong rising to a screech, as they clawed at his body. Roots from ti-tree burrowed into his soles, while fern and ponga fronds curled around his legs, winding up into his groin, like black caterpillars burrowing into a flesh cocoon. The earth swallowed his feet, a womb of dirt and worm to feed him what was needed for his transformation.

  The river snaked around the hill and the retreat that sat upon it like a scab. Henry pulled the river tighter and it roared and thrashed. He clenched his fist. Branches whipped the night air. Possums hissed; pigs squealed. There could be no distance here; Henry was everywhere. The taniwha strode from the darkness and descended upon them as they lay entwined in each other's bodies. Henry thrust his beak into the pale back as branches tore the male from the female. With a flick of his head, Henry disembowelled the male, a cascade of steaming gut tumbling to the forest floor. Henry discarded the body and birds tore the flesh from its bones.

  The female lay on the bed of moss, her eyes bulging, her mouth locked in a silent scream. Sex poured from her breath. Her body white and naked in the moonlight, breasts with nipples taut from wet tongue and cold air, her legs still wide, ready, and open.

  Utu.

  Anna screamed long and sharp as Henry fell upon her ...

  #

  Henry woke, the scream still in his ears. He lay on his bed, still wet and dirty, the cloak firmly wrapped around him. Had he heard a scream? He heard nothing now. No, just a dream. It was almost dark, though dawn was making its approach. The clock wasn't on. Wondering how long he'd slept, Henry flicked on the light switch. Nothing. No power. He sat up, his body aching, itching. He pulled the cloak tighter and his skin stung. He tried the phone. Dead. Outside, a scream, weak and distant. Then someone yelling.

  Henry rose from the bed. The carpet was soaking wet and water pooled between his toes. He walked towards the door. Fine bones crunched beneath his feet. Bloodied feathers strewn over the floor. Panic bubbled like mudpools, threatening to close down his senses. His arms trembled as he tried to pull the cloak from his shoulders. This time his skin shrieked in pain. Lifting the cloak, he saw the quills had been woven into raw, proud flesh. Henry's mouth flooded with metal. His head throbbed. He picked up the glistening long knife from the table. With a steady hand he opened the door to receive the new dawn.

  Barnsey crawled on his flabby stomach through wet grass, his legs twisted unnaturally behind him, the back of his shirt a red, dripping rag. 'Help me.' A fantail dipped its beak into exposed flesh and tore out a crimson ribbon. Somewhere, out in the bush, a woman screamed.

  Henry ignored them. He made his way past smashed windows and splintered doors, cracked walls and sagging foundations, flowers torn from upturned garden beds, down to the flooded carpark. He found a rusty, two-pronged spear in the utility shed and used it to smash the window of a BMW four-wheel drive. He opened the boot, retrieved the petrol can and walked up to the vineyard.

  Down by the swollen river, the taniwha roared Henry's name.

  ***

  Afterword: Taniwha, Swim With Me

  I was considered to be an Australian writer according to Wikipedia, so I had to correct the entry. I was raised in New Zealand and am proudly a Kiwi, though any good, decent Kiwi would never come across as patriotic. That's for Americans, not Kiwis.

  All of my writing, however, had been produced in Australia, influenced by Australian culture around me, and often set in Australian domesticity. To a reader, the author was most definitely an Australian (with the written word, you can't hear my vowel pronunciation and guess the evil truth).

  I had not been published in New Zealand, either, and this was something I wanted to rectify.

  When back in New Zealand visiting my family, I took my wife and mother out to a day spa retreat nestled in the bush near a river. It was also a venue for business conferences, and the jarring juxtaposition between nature and corporate excess ruffled my senses. While the women were pampered, I went for a walk with my notebook in hand. On my return to Australia, I wrote this story, not of bunyips or yowies—the traditional Australian monsters of folklore—but of the trans-Tasman equivalent: the Taniwha, that wonderful Maori monster of my youth.

  Naturally, I sold the story to an Australian market.

  "Taniwha, Swim With Me" marked a departure in my usual development and completion of short story. It was the first one I did not submit to my writing group SuperNOVA for critique. I felt confident and assured enough of my writing to know what I was doing, and more importantly, what this story was doing, and yet ultimately, I never felt satisfied with this piece. It felt too easy to write, like doing Haines-by-numbers. Ellen Datlow gave it an Honourable Mention in her summary of horror for 2008, so by no means is it not an effective horror story. That feeling is probably more to do with the realisation that I had reached another turning point in my career as a short story writer. Where that is leading me, I still don't know.

  ***

  Father Father

  My phone rang during the boardroom presentation, earning me slanderous demoting glares from the stiff suits and sneering lipsticks seated around the table. The boss nodded understandingly and continued her speech—at least she knew what I'm going through. I excused myself and slipped silently from the room.

  'Hey, hon, what's up?' I asked.

  'Just wanted to make sure you remembered our appointment is at four-thirty this afternoon,' Elise said. 'You know how hard it is to find a park near the hospital at that time of day.'

  'I know. I'll leave at least an hour before to make sure I get there on time.'

  'The Boy's Room is booked for four-o-clock.' She laughed on the other end of the line. 'Do you need me to give you a hand?'

  'Actually, maybe I'll swing by home first. Bring it in from there.'


  'That's a bit out of your way from work. You nervous, baby?'

  'Nah, nah, well, maybe a little. Don't want to freeze up when I need to produce, eh?'

  'You'll be fine,' she said. 'You're not the one lying on your back with your legs spread.'

  'Sorry, hon, I know I've got the easy job. Are you okay?'

  'Sure, it'll be just like a pap smear, babe. See you this afternoon. Love you.'

  'Love you, too.'

  I slunk back into the boardroom, stared at my watch and ignored the business bullshit bouncing around the walls. Two hours before knock-off. I'd better check the road map for convenient routes to the hospital.

  #

  Abstention can be akin to withdrawal from an addiction. The samples were best between three to five days. More than that and they'd start to die and stagnate, less than that and there might not be enough workable solution. I'd abstained for three days. I felt like punching people; like arguing with the boss; like downloading porn on someone else's computer; like relieving myself in the women's toilets. I felt like fighting and fucking the world.

  I knocked on the boss's open door and popped my head through into her office.

  'Hey, Karen,' I said. 'Sorry about before.'

  She looked up from her monitor, the glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. 'That's okay. I take it that's it got something to do with, uh ...'

  'Yeah, it was my wife. The appointment is an hour earlier than I thought. I'm going to have to leave about three this afternoon. That okay?'

  Karen nodded. 'That's fine.' She gave me a smile that made me want to kiss her. 'Good luck.'

  'Thanks.'

  Abstinence was dangerous. It made me feel things I could otherwise keep under control.

  And locked away.

  #

  I browsed on-line road maps planning the safest route while I waited for the clock to reach three. If I took Warrigal Street, I'd pass Cruickshank Grammar by about quarter-past. There were a few quieter streets I could use I if I had to, though they'd take me a little off track as I eventually wanted to get onto High Street because that would take me past St Mary's Catholic. Probably by about three-forty, too. I could use any of the lanes leading around the park and still be in time for the appointment at four-thirty.

  In the hot glare of a summer afternoon, tinted windows were worth the extra dollar.

  #

  The roads are teeming at this time of the day. Frantic mothers and wary fathers clog the streets around Cruickshank Grammar, unwilling to grant their teenage children independence to use the nearby public transport. And there's always the menace of recreational drug use lurking around the station or perhaps inquisitive flirtatious trysts with the opposite sex. Still, some children managed to escape their parental bonds and walked in small clusters towards the shops.

  I turned up the air-con a notch, and adjusted the vents so cold air blew on my face. Yes, too much traffic on the main road; I might just have to turn down one of the side streets. I increased the volume on the CD player—this Britney track was great for cruising. I loved the way that seductive drum machine eased her slinky little voice over my skin and into my bones. I loved the music video, too—real sexy—I'd downloaded it and burnt it to DVD with a bunch of other clips.

  Cruickshank Grammar wasn't really doing it for me, though. I had a problem with co-ed schools. The boys, brimming with testosterone and virility, were already here amongst the pigeons. I always had problems focussing on the legs and that's where I had to start. The boys, with their hairy calves and scabbed knees, tended to get in the way when it came down to business.

  #

  St Mary's Catholic School for Girls was reputed to be the best in the city. It certainly cost the most to attend. Elise mentioned that if we had a girl perhaps we could enrol her here. The grounds were magnificent, with massive century-old buildings draped in ivy bordering the reserve on one side and the river on the other.

  Girls spilled out on the streets, some hand-in-hand, meandering, laughing, some with shirts untucked at the back, the hint of a bra strap uncomfortable on young frames, budding breasts, socks stretching up over taut calves or pushed down like panties to reveal smooth skin where even the hair regrowth is still soft with youth, the skirts worn dangerously high to flaunt school rules and mistresses and long slender legs with supple thighs yet untouched by fat or cellulite that lead up to delicate tender ...

  I quickly turned into Elm Avenue, a quiet tree-lined lane that provided shelter from the summer sun. Many girls cut through here, many stopping to steal a cigarette on their way home. I pulled the car over forty metres in front of three girls making their way through the park.

  I adjusted the rear view and wing mirrors, reached over and opened the glove box. They were laughing as they walked, supple muscles flexing in legs, skirt swishing around thighs, their gait making it hug the groin with each step. That soft mound ...

  One of the girls, a blonde, had undone the top two buttons of her shirt. Her breasts were young enough to be real and cupped in all that lace. I saw them bounce with each measured step. Lace! For one so young, so ...

  I grabbed the specimen jar next to the unopened cigarette packet from the glove box, and fumbled at my trousers. I scrabbled at the lid of the jar, tearing it off, my other hand gripping my penis, trying to direct the head towards the receptacle.

  They saw me looking at them in the mirror—one had blue eyes with heavy mascara, too inexperienced to know just how much to use yet to bring them out—and they laughed and pretended to turn away, but I knew they were looking in as they passed by. The sway of the skirt across those pubescent bums, heads turned back with small smiles curling at the edge of the lips, the small of the back of their knees, running a finger across, and up and down and up and down ...

  #

  I managed to find a car park just outside the hospital at a quarter-past-four, and to my surprise, found the parking meter paid up for another hour. God favours the brave!

  Elise was already inside, leafing through a home renovation magazine. I sat next to her and planted a gentle kiss on her lips.

  'That was cutting it close.' She indicated the clock on the wall. 'Have a little trouble, did we?'

  'None at all.' I tapped the bulge in my jacket pocket. 'All warm and safe and sound.'

  The doctor entered the waiting room. 'Elise?'

  We followed him into the insemination room, hand in hand.

  'God, I hope this works,' Elise said. 'I can't wait until we have children.'

  I squeezed her hand tight. 'Neither can I.'

  ***

  Afterword: Father Father

  This was the first story I wrote where I suddenly doubted myself and became worried as to what people would think of me for writing such work. My wife hated this story. Her reaction was so strong I feared she hated me, too. I knew she was concerned that I could actually be thinking about the subject matter that the story deals with. She didn't want me to publish it; she wanted it gone. It was too close to our real life as we were going through IVF at that stage. More importantly, I had used our names as those of the characters. My wife was struggling to reconcile the fictional world with our reality. I refused to bury the story, however. If I started such self-censorship now, what was the point in writing horror with regard to the monster that is man? Something that is more a thrill than something that truly disturbs and makes you think? Vampires and werewolves and zombies? No, not me, that stuff was for kids.

  In the end, we compromised by having me change the names of the characters and write it in third-person point-of-view to distant ourselves from the story even more. I presented that version of the story to SuperNOVA and the room divided itself. Many of the women thought I was glorifying paedophilia or enacting out a fantasy. The men jumped to my defence questioning whether they actually thought we got turned on by this. And the temperature in the room got hotter and hotter as the debate raged.

  Keith Stevenson, former editor of Aurealis Magazine and now head of
boutique publishing house Coeur De Lion, noted this all quite calmly, and offered to buy the story for the c0ck anthology he was co-editing, an anthology that interrogated masculinity in speculative fiction. He knew this story raised a passion in the reader, and the reviews when published were extremely positive.

  My only regret was that I had compromised and rewritten it in the third-person. I felt that it distanced the reader somewhat from the monstrous protagonist in the story. The version this collection offers is the original first-person point-of-view.

  "Father Father" takes its title from a Super Furry Animals song. Just so you know.

  ***

  The Sky is Turning Black

  People haven't got a fucken clue. They're walking round with their eyes closed. They can't see the big picture, can't see past themselves and their insignificant, inconsequential lives. Most people aren't important. It's the truth. No one gives a fuck unless it's happening to them.

  I know this. It's my job.

  I have to know what's going on, the big picture, but I still have to know what everyone else thinks, and the way they'll react. Especially the people who think they are part of the big picture when they're not. That's where the crazies come from. They're easy to spot most of the time, so they aren't the hard part of the job.

  Like this clown. What the hell is he doing setting up outside the hotel doors?