The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  The waitress showed her to a dark private booth with rich, polished-wood panelling. Gwennie waited till she had left before she read the story.

  The lord mayor, Peter Granger, yesterday denied that a coven of witches was operating in the Blue Mountains, saying the sudden appearance of hundreds of dead parrots was ‘unfortunate but not supernatural’.

  He blamed the deaths on recent bushfires in the area, which had wiped out thousands of hectares of the birds’ natural habitat.

  According to Mr Granger, rumours of sorcery and witchcraft rituals being performed at Mount Boyce Lookout, using native birds as sacrifices, were just ‘the fanciful imaginings of idle minds’.

  But angry residents are demanding a police investigation.

  Margaret Langdon, of Leura, said she had proof that witches were operating in the area but claimed no-one would take her seriously. She cited the number of crises that have hit the Blue Mountains in the past six months as evidence that witches were responsible.

  ‘We have never had it this bad,’ claimed Mrs Langdon. ‘This year we have had an unprecedented wave of bushfires, sickness, epidemics and birds dropping dead all over the place. What will it take before the police take this seriously?’

  Linda Smith of Leura Animal Haven confirmed that it was most unusual to find so many dead birds in the area.

  ‘I’ve worked in this region for 23 years and have never seen anything like it. I have also been in touch with my counterparts across the country but no-one has been able to shed any light on what may be causing their deaths.

  ‘We have been getting reports of up to a hundred a day being found in people’s gardens. We recommend that if you have pet birds you keep them indoors in their cages and out of contact with the wild birds.’

  It was cold in the darkened booth and Gwennie was dressed for a warm day. She shivered. Suddenly the café seemed oppressive and musty and she wanted to get out of there, immediately. The waitress looked surprised as she bolted past, nearly knocking over two elderly ladies.

  Outside was fabulously normal, full of tourists and locals going about their business in an unhurried kind of way. Gwennie felt herself relax again. She was way too jumpy, she told herself. Her mind was full of fanciful imaginings that were sending her emotions haywire. She had to get a grip on herself.

  She walked down the street, not heading anywhere in particular, just following the general downhill direction most people seemed to be going. It was a pleasant day and as a group of Japanese tourists alighted from their bus, she trailed behind. It was somehow comforting to feel part of a large group and yet, because she couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying, still be quite autonomous. No-one bothered her.

  The Japanese group followed the signs to Echo Point lookout and she tagged along, moving away when they reached their destination. The air was crisp and the sky a cloudless blue that seemed to go on forever in all directions. Laid out before her was Blue Mountains National Park with the Three Sisters on her left: They were large, imposing pinnacles of rock. The Japanese tourists took it in turns to be photographed in front of them.

  It was a tranquil spot and Gwennie decided to sit on the bench for a moment, breathing in the view and the atmosphere. She felt herself expand and loosen. The Japanese tourists moved on and a man sat down at the other end of the bench. He nodded to her, the way country people do. A tilt of the head and a mumbled g’day.

  ‘Just admiring the view, are you?’

  Gwennie nodded. She wasn’t interested in talking to this old bloke. She wanted to enjoy her solitude. She looked quickly away.

  But it was not the way of the locals. Clearly he was in for a chat. ‘That tree over there would be over a hundred years old. What do you think of that?’ The man must have been about fifty but he had the mannerisms and way of speaking of a man much older. ‘We are pretty lucky living here in the country, don’t you think? Couldn’t imagine living in a concrete block. That’s why city people are all mad.’

  Gwennie saw her chance. ‘I’m from the city,’ she said with a tight smile. There, that should shut him up, silly old codger.

  The man’s tone and manner changed abruptly. ‘Are you one of them?’ he hissed.

  Gwennie frowned at him.

  ‘Are … you … one … of … them?’ he repeated, enunciating each word as if she were deaf or stupid.

  ‘I’m sorry, one of what?’

  ‘Those city witches coming up here with your black magic and your pagan rituals trying to spread your evil.’

  Gwennie almost smiled at the absurdity of it. But the look on the man’s face scared her. She was suddenly aware how far away they were from the busy street. She thought of running but decided she should try to placate the man. If it looked like he was getting angry or moved an inch closer to her she would scream and run. She was a lot younger than he was and she had a big bunch of keys in her handbag. Thinking of them she slid the bag surreptitiously onto her lap and closed her right hand around them. Feeling partly secure, she gave a little smile and tried to follow what he was saying.

  The man was becoming increasingly disturbed, glaring at her. If she had understood correctly he seemed to think she belonged to a coven of witches out to do him personal harm. ‘First it was the bushfires. Burning up our homes and our families. The worst bushfires in a hundred years. A freak of nature? Not likely. That was the work of you women. You witches. Then having taken our homes you go after the men. Just the fit ones. The healthy ones, under fifty. Give them pneumonia. You’re evil.’

  Gwennie felt the sting of his anger and madness. She wanted to flee but some of his mad ravings were uncomfortably close. Healthy men falling sick? Under fifty? Pneumonia? ‘No, no, no. I’m not part of anything. I just lost my husband. He was young and fit and healthy and I want to find out why.’

  The man continued to eye her suspiciously. ‘Are you sure you aren’t one of them?’

  Gwennie shook her head.

  He seemed to believe her and his demeanour relaxed. ‘You lost your husband you say?’

  Gwennie nodded.

  ‘Pneumonia?’

  Gwennie nodded again.

  ‘Aaaah,’ said the man, looking at her now like a co-conspirator.

  ‘And you got the calling card?’

  ‘Calling card?’

  ‘The bird.’

  ‘The bird?’

  ‘A dead bird.’

  Gwennie shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s how you know it’s them. The witches. They leave a dead bird. The spirit of the bird passes out of its body and enters the man. The human spirit can’t share the human body with another spirit and they fight it out, from inside. If the man’s spirit is strong and he fights off the bird, he recovers. If the bird wins, the man’s spirit goes and what is left is a vegetable. But if neither wins, the body dies.’

  Gwennie had the irrational urge to laugh. This was surreal.

  The man started to slide along the seat towards her, warming to his theme. ‘If the man’s spirit …’

  But Gwennie had heard enough. She leapt off the seat, catching the man by surprise. ‘Sorry. Got to go,’ she called over her shoulder as she sprinted back up the track and onto the main street. She felt safe once she was in her car with the door closed and locked.

  By the time she arrived at the next town, Medlow Bath, it was late afternoon and she felt the stresses of the day in her tired bones. She could turn around and drive home or find somewhere to stay the night. Signs proclaimed the world-famous Hydro Majestic Hotel just ahead. On an impulse, Gwennie followed the signs.

  Being midweek and following all the publicity about damage from the bushfires, the hotel had only a handful of guests. The young man seated behind the reception desk said he had plenty of rooms available and rattled off the different types. View of the gardens or of the Megalong Valley. With spa or without. Edwardian or art deco furnishings. Gwennie wanted to flee. She felt conspicuous enough checking in on her own. The r
eceptionist didn’t seem concerned about her lack of luggage, or interested in her in any way at all. He barely looked up at her as he checked her in. Gwennie had no idea what she had agreed to when finally the receptionist handed her a key to room 209, a map of how to find it and, with a dismissive smile, picked up the telephone. Gwennie was on her own.

  It was a long and bewildering walk along a carpeted gallery, down a hall and past a restaurant that was closed into a huge lounge with armchairs, a fireplace, a pool table and a bar. Gwennie still felt shaken so, before wandering any further, she sat down and ordered a glass of scotch. She was happy sitting on her own in the comfortable leather armchair, watching the world go by. She had grown up in the convivial atmosphere of a country pub and there was a smell and mood here that reminded her of home.

  The waitress, wearing a black dinner suit vest and a name tag that said Jane, was young and chatty, with a bubbly voice. She wore her long blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail that bounced as she talked. As she placed the heavy-based glass on the low table in front of Gwennie, she beamed, revealing perfect white teeth. She reappeared as soon as Gwennie finished the first drink, ready to offer another. Gwennie nodded and she returned almost instantly with a fresh glass, whisking away the old one and chatting about how quiet business was.

  On a whim Gwennie mentioned the man from Echo Point Lookout. Perhaps he was the local nutter, well-known to everyone. ‘He came up to me at the lookout and babbled on about witches killing men with birds. Do you know what he was talking about or who he is?’

  ‘What did he look like?’ asked the waitress.

  Gwennie described him. About fifty, but his face was lined and he seemed a bit manic. It sounded vague and she realised she was probably describing half the local population.

  ‘Sorry. It doesn’t ring any bells,’ said Jane. ‘What did he say about witches?’

  Gwennie was feeling more and more foolish. She kept her tone light and sceptical. ‘Oh, a whole lot of stuff about them coming from the city to the Blue Mountains to kill off all the local men, the young fit ones. They somehow kill them with birds and …’ she trailed off. The more she talked the more silly she felt.

  But Jane was listening to every word, her eyes wide with interest. Gwennie suspected that she wasn’t the sceptical type.

  ‘Wow. Witches, huh? You hear a lot about that sort of thing up here. There’s Wicca, which is an organisation for white witches, and there’s all sorts of pagan rituals. They happen somewhere up near Blackheath. Probably at Mount Boyce Lookout. That’s a spooky spot. But I must say I haven’t heard about them killing you with birds. Ooh, makes you shiver doesn’t it?’

  Feeling warm and relaxed by the alcohol, that struck Gwennie as suddenly, irrationally, funny and she started to laugh.

  The barmaid joined in, pleased to see the young woman lose the sad pinched look she had when she arrived. ‘Are you here on your own?’ she asked.

  Gwennie stopped laughing and nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you order room service and have it down here then? There are only two other couples staying and they will most likely be in the grand dining room. You might find it more pleasant here with the fire.’

  It sounded like a good idea. Gwennie hadn’t been looking forward to dining alone in a restaurant but having food on a tray alone in her room conjured up such a forlorn image. She ordered dinner and went to find her room and wash up.

  Room 209 had a beautiful view over Megalong Valley and she watched the last of the light fade. Below she could see the line of the bushfires and where they had wound their way through the valley, destroying some areas completely, while barely touching others.

  She ate her dinner sitting at the bar and Jane talked of the night just a few months earlier when the historic hotel had nearly gone up in flames. She had been working and after every guest was evacuated, the firefighters and fire chiefs had moved in. Throughout the night they had stood on the roof with their powerful water hoses dousing the sparks as they landed. More and more firefighters arrived, exhausted from battling fires all around the area. Jane had kept the drinks coming till four o’clock in the morning. The fire had consumed the trees surrounding the property, the flames licking at the very edge of the stone terrace, then jumping over the building and continuing to burn on the other side of the road. It was the scariest night of Jane’s young life.

  Gwennie found herself unwinding. It was partly the wine and partly Jane’s easy, chatty manner. Gwennie knew she would never see her again so she allowed her usual reserve to slip, just a little. She took another sip of wine and whispered, ‘My husband just died.’

  It was the first time she had uttered the detested word and it sounded harsh and foreign. It left a stinging pain in her throat. So she kept talking, memories pouring forth as the waitress sat quietly, nodding and listening. Gwennie described how Pete’s eyes appeared always to be smiling even when his lips were pressed together in annoyance; the way he sounded when he answered the telephone to her – excited, as if it was the most delightful surprise to hear from her. It happened even when she knew he was really busy at work or when she rang from the supermarket just to check whether they needed more grapefruit juice.

  She knew, every minute of their life together, that he loved her. It enveloped her.

  If she had to put it down to something, he was attentive, but not in a fussy formal kind of way. He was considerate of her. He thanked her for every meal. He took the time to let her know every day that he appreciated her. They had an easiness together, a mutual affability, as they sat together in their study, quietly working away on their different projects, not speaking sometimes for hours. Then one or other would wander off and bring back a pot of tea. There would be a smile, a touch and they would resume their concentration, happily ensconced in their private world of two.

  Jane clicked her tongue sympathetically. ‘You were very lucky to find such a wonderful man. He sounds like one of the good ones.’

  Gwennie stared ahead. ‘Lucky. Was I?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know. Or was it all an illusion? A happiness I created in my own head. How do I know he did love me …?’

  Jane frowned.

  ‘Well, of course he loved you. Why on earth would you start doubting that? From everything you have just told me you were both very happy. I think you know when a man is happy.’

  Gwennie shook her head but said nothing.

  ‘How did your husband die?’ asked Jane.

  Gwennie gave a brief matter-of-fact description of the sudden onset of pneumonia. Then she told her about the researcher and her findings about deaths in the Blue Mountains.

  ‘Do you know anything about these men dying?’ asked Gwennie.

  Jane shook her head. ‘But I have an idea of someone who might be able to help you,’ she said. ‘There is a Bhutanese shaman who lives in Leura. You should go and see her. She’s amazing. She just sort of knows things.’

  ‘She’s a what?’

  Jane took a deep breath. She read a lot about such things and was happy to explain. ‘A shaman is a mystic who sees things, you know, supernatural things. They see into the future and talk to the dead and all that kind of spooky stuff.’

  Gwennie nodded. The phrase ‘talk to the dead’ was the only thing that registered. ‘She could talk to Pete?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she could. And she’d love to. She’s really nice.’

  ‘Where is she from?’

  ‘We-ell. Have you ever heard of Bhutan?’ She drew out the word. Boo-tarn. She obviously liked the way it sounded. ‘Boo-tarn,’ she said again.

  Gwennie shook her head.

  Jane was even more pleased. ‘It’s a secret little kingdom in the Himalayas. It’s been closed to the rest of the world forever and they have only just started letting foreigners in. Her grandson is studying here and she is visiting him. She came because she knew he was going to get sick.’

  Gwennie raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I know what you are thinking. My boyfriend Greg is like that
and I say to him that you have to keep an open mind. It’s true. She lives with her family in a little village in Bhutan and she announced to them one day that her grandson was going to get sick and she had to go to Australia to nurse him or he would die.’

  ‘How old is she?’ asked Gwennie.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. But old, very old.’

  Gwennie tried to imagine an old woman from some village in the Himalayas travelling all the way to Australia. She wondered if someone had been having a bit of fun at the expense of kindly Jane.

  ‘The family were pretty shocked,’ continued Jane.

  Gwennie nodded. ‘I’m sure they were.’

  ‘Oh yeah, amazing to think of, isn’t it? Their beloved granny wanting to go to Australia. She may as well have said she wanted to fly to the moon. Anyway, she wouldn’t be deterred. So they sent her grand-daughter with her to look after her on the journey.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gwennie. ‘Sensible.’

  ‘Here’s where it gets really spooky. Four days after she arrived, Tashi, that’s her grandson, got sick, I mean really sick. He couldn’t breathe, he lay in bed with a fever and no energy. Just all of a sudden. He very nearly died. His grandmother wouldn’t let him go to the doctor. Instead she walked all around the mountains picking out weeds and wild herbs to treat him.

  ‘It took about two weeks before he recovered. But he did. Greg, that’s my boyfriend, reckons he had pneumonia. He had all the same signs as Joe, that’s Greg’s brother. Joe had pneumonia and very nearly died. But he’s back at the shop now. Joe’s the local butcher.’

  Jane stopped and thought for a moment.

  ‘Actually, come to think of it, they both had pneumonia. They got better though. I don’t know if that helps your researcher?’

  Gwennie was tuning out. She couldn’t follow the names of all the different people Jane was talking about. But she had to admit she was intrigued by the sound of the shaman. There might be someone who could talk to Pete. ‘How do I make an appointment?’