Archive for the ‘Angela Slatter’ Category
Lantern
Friday, May 8th, 2009
I hear a ship’s bell at night, no matter how I block my ears. It’s loud as a crying soul. I hear the rush of the sea, too, though this house is landlocked but for the pond and the well. It’s all connected, I guess, the water of the world.
We used to live on the coast, once, my family and I, in a cottage by the sea. Simple and sweet until Daffyd came and asked me to walk out with him.
I’d slip into the night, holding the lantern he’d given me. Upon reaching the meeting place I’d slide the cover across the flame three times, no more, no less, so he knew to come from his cottage on the cliffs. I did not know I was sending signals to men and ships alike.
I thought it courting, and I suppose it was, but he was an efficient man, wanting to achieve as many things as possible. Courting me and doing business at the same time appealed to him.
I did not notice for the longest time, while I was infatuated. I did not question his gifts: expensive jewellery and silk dresses sometimes still damp, smelling of salt. While I had his warmth beside me, his face between my hands, and his lips sweet against mine, I did not look out to the wine-dark sea and see ships drawn onto the rocks.
But one night the wind dropped and I heard the bell and turned my head. I saw the ship go aground, watched while smugglers waded into the water. He laboured above me, sweated and swore he loved me while I saw people clubbed like seals.
I pushed him away. He smiled and laughed as he dressed. ‘You can’t tell anyone, sweet accomplice. None will believe you did not know.’
I sat up, feeling cold beneath my skin. I felt around for my dress but found instead the lantern. He stood at the edge of the cliff, back to me, assured of my compliance. The lantern flew surprisingly lightly.
And then there was just the great candle of him, tall and screaming, running off the edge of the cliff. He plummeted like a falling star until the waters embraced him and took him down to meet those he’d sent before.
His voice is lost to the years, but the bell’s will not leave me alone.
Brisneyland by Night – Part Three
Thursday, May 7th, 2009
Ziggi dropped me home. I handed him a wad of the notes Bela had given me. Somehow it didn’t feel like my money. ‘Same time tonight.’
He nodded; drove off. I limped up the path. The jasmine was thick on the front fence, overpoweringly sweet.
‘Verity? Can you get my ball?’ Between the fence palings a small hand appeared.
I picked up the ball. ‘Birthday present?’
‘Uh-huh. But I like yours best.’ I’d given her a book of fairytales – the proper ones, where little children are eaten by wolves with no hope of rescue. Her mother had frowned, but Lizzie ate the stories up.
I dropped the ball over the fence.
‘Thanks, Verity. Can I come over?’
‘Not today, my friend. Maybe on the weekend.’
‘Mmmmm-huh.’
Inside, the hot air almost smothered me, so I quickly opened all the windows. The breeze did its thing and soon the place was bearable. I sat in one of the faded green chairs on the back deck and waited.
I stretched my leg out and rested it on the top of the table. I looked at the jacaranda tree in the backyard and nodded to the extremely fat kookaburra perched on one of its limbs. A movement caught at the edge of my vision.
‘It’s rude not to knock. It’s also rude to keep my house key since we broke up.’
Bela sat. ‘Someone might need to help you.’
‘Your kind of help, I can do without.’
‘And a big hello to you, too.’ He nodded at my leg. ‘Sore? I can fix it, you know.’
I touched his face. ‘Your price is too high.’
‘So, answers?’
‘Plenty of ideas. No answers.’
‘Why am I paying you?’
‘No idea.’ I told him about last night’s tour.
He sighed. ‘There hasn’t been activity like this since your father.’
I closed my eyes.
There’s a market for everything.
My mother was Normal and gone before I knew her. My father was Weyrd. For a long time I didn’t know there was a difference. The everyday things were salt in corners to soak up curses; bake blood into the bread to keep ghosts away; sweep towards your front door, chanting for wealth.
My father. Twenty years ago he was jailed as a kidnapper and killer, but that didn’t even begin to touch the skin of what he was.
Kinderfresser. Child-eater. Butcher to the Weyrd.