by Lily de Cuir
Numbers
Lily de Cuir
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Cover illustration by Jack, age Four, 2002
Cover design by ebookcovers4u.wordpress.com
Kismet X Numbers
The Wax Match Stick
11pm, 4 April 2048
‘Do you believe in fate?’ she asked. After some moments, he replied, ‘I do and I don’t’. She was surprised because he was a scientist. Scientists don’t believe in fate, she thought.
From her 54th floor apartment, Grace and Barry looked out over the harbour. In the distance, they looked down upon the vista of flickering lights. The city they stood before in all its splendour had seen lifetimes change irrevocably. It had seen the most ancient race on earth ravaged, their land and culture almost destroyed. It witnessed terrorism on a scale unprecedented in the world. It survived, and here it was spread before them, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Sydney.
Her piano composition recorded earlier that week gently chimed in the background, haunting, rhythmic… reverent. The scent of her Grandmother’s and his Mother’s oil hovered lovingly. With her hand cocooned inside his, Grace recalled the words she’d read earlier and had already committed to memory. She whispered, “In a short time, a city will rise up in this new world equal to anything out of Europe, and probably superior to any other, which was ever created in the same space and time.” Those words were written in 1826. 222 years ago.
The flame shivered slightly and shone on his hair, like burnished copper. He was a very striking man she thought. She loved the freckles peppered in tiny dots over the bridge of his nose. They smiled knowingly at each other then turned their eyes outwards across the harbour again. In silence they stood for several minutes, but the magnetism of the flame and what it signified couldn’t be resisted. Their eyes were drawn down again. They were yet to discover what further significance the flame held. Barry noted later that the candle had burned for exactly 11 hours.
3pm the Same Day
Bored, she clicked on and tried to focus on the meaning of the words…
‘Truth is stranger than fiction. Things can happen that appear so inconceivable as to warrant scepticism. This story is a mandala of pattern, rhythm and composition - poetic in its geometry yet ordered in its randomness. I challenge you to judge whether it is truth or tale’.
Grace read the first paragraph and at last thought defiantly, “I don’t want to be challenged by anything or anyone”. Latin will have to wait! She was a feisty young thing. Grace had to get her essay in by Friday but as usual left it to the last minute. She paused for all of three seconds then muttered, “bugger it,” under her breath. It was a decision that was to change her life.
Snatching up her laser remote she walked stridently to the nearest dome, aimed, clicked, stepped inside and punched in the number 1.618. Seconds later she was at her door. Stepping outside she heard the ‘blip’ of the doors close behind her and off it whizzed to its next call of duty.
Grace had been itching to get home and open the box. Her father Jack, with whom she shared the same birthday, presented her the chest last night at her 21st birthday party. It contained family memorabilia and since she and Baz had been researching their respective family trees, it felt like she at least, had won the lottery! All day she’d relived the memory of the night before because as well as the excitement of her 21st, Baz had proposed to her. She always knew he was her soul mate. There was something that clicked between them, an understanding they felt to have its ancestry in a time past. With him she felt like a split cell. With Barry’s proposal and the celebration of two birthdays, she hadn’t had time to pore over her treasure chest. But she did manage a quick peek. Lots of books and an enormous jade Buddha. No wonder the box was so heavy!
With the research Grace had gathered on the Barclays so far, she had a hunch the chest would help her fill in the big picture. Connect the dots as it were. The memory filtered back of Jack, her father. She remembered he had a kind of funny look on his face when he gave it to her. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t. Maybe she imagined it... but then again he was always good at keeping a secret. He was a Psychiatrist you see.
Grace sat down cross-legged in front of the box and inhaled its scent. Her Father told her it was made of Australian cedar and that his parents had given it to him, on his 21st. He said it was time to continue the tradition, and hoped that she would do likewise with her new fiancée and their first-born. A tear delicately stung at the memory of his words. ‘Children, how exciting’, she thought. Running her hand over the ornate clasp she caught her finger and drew a spot of blood. Simultaneously she felt a tingle of excitement and savouring the moment felt it rise up from her belly. She lifted the lid. The scent of old paper and pungent smells wafted under her nostrils. Time stood exquisitely still.
Feeling high from her senses she sank into the visual feast. Surrounding the Buddha like Christmas presents around a tree, were rolled up newspapers, stones, folded up notes, boxes with purple ribbons, books with gold ribbon, books, more books, thin ones, thick ones. A tiny, brown bottle. She picked it up. On the label it read ‘Patchouli Oil’.
Opening the top she recoiled from its aroma. “Erk” she whispered and then smelt it again. ‘Mmm, not that bad but what an obscure smell’ she thought, and quickly returned it to its rightful place. Not knowing where to start she closed her eyes and allowed her hand to intuitively select an item at random. From the centre of the box she extracted a tiny little folded up note, in the shape of a triangle. She opened it and read it, was this supposed to be cryptic? she thought. Re-folding it, she laid it at her feet, closed her eyes and tried again.
This time she opened her eyes to reveal a thin book encased in bold colour. On it was a painting, all swirls and dots. Peering closer she noticed 2 brown leaves. It was bound in shiny silver ribbon and tinkled like a sonata as she undid the bow. Turning the cover, she caught her breath as she read, ‘Cover Artwork by Jack Barclay, aged 4, 2002’. With intrigue she turned the page. It was filled with precise copperplate handwriting. She started to read …
A Gentleman’s Tutors’
3 April 2002
To my dearest son Jack,
Today on your 4th birthday I’m going to write you a story about a man who was a magnificent failure. This man was your Great, Great, Great, Great Grandfather, Barrington Barclay. It is a story that must not be lost to memory which is my reason for writing this little book for you. I hope you in turn will pass it on to your children, for them to hand down to their children, and so on. I plan to give it to you on your 21st birthday. If I can wait that long!
Barrington Barclay was born in Essex, England, in 1782 and died in 1866 at age 84. This was a very ripe old age for his time. He was an agronomist, violinist, flautist, and author. He almost died a broken man.
Tall and proud in his bearing according to his daughter, she wrote in 1902, that he looked very much like the Duke of Wellington. I have 2 pictures of him. As a young man, his eyes are oval and kind, his nose slightly hooked and he wore fashionable sideburns of the day. He had quite large yet, elegant hands. I’ve always thought that people with large or elegant hands are meant to do something important with them. He had both.
Barrington Barclay enjoyed a privileged upbringing. He moved in aristocratic circles and had many influential friends, among them
Lord Asquith and an old school friend, John McKenzie, the well known or is that… infamous, sheep baron. It was McKenzie who appointed Barclay as the first chief agent of the South Pacific Agricultural Company in 1824. Barclay went to France and Spain to select a special breed of sheep. I can’t remember what they were. He arrived in Australia from England on 1.1.1826. He left his wife and 3 children in England. He planned to bring them out later, when the company grant was established.
Barclay married twice. His first marriage was to Anne Taylor in 1803. They had a son, Robert, and two daughters, Grace and Maria. Sadly his eldest daughter Grace, who he believed was blessed with extraordinary musical talent, died at the tender age of 15, in England. He wrote that she ‘played the piano, like an angel’. Her death coincided with the shocking news of his suspension by McKenzie from the SPA Company - now that is a story in itself but I’ll get back to that later.
After his eventual dismissal from the Company he began the long sea voyage home to England, his reputation besmirched and his soul wounded almost beyond repair. He arrived home to more tragedy. His wife Anne died following their daughter’s death. She had died during his voyage, from the same mysterious illness as their daughter. There was no way of
