loved owls, they were always her favourite bird. She loved the intelligence, the cold and calculative stare they gave you.
I never understood that, myself, as owls seem so sinister and distracted.
Evil.
I have fallen asleep in the kitchen, the widest room in the house – the only room where you can see a slight shadow of the Seedbank appear behind the terrace. The storm has passed and the sky is clear and bright, the fields empty of ice, yet filled with ibises.
I pause.
Only two more days.
My stomach refuses breakfast so I clamber outside, into the cold, using a broom to try and shoo away the ibises that have decided that my field is the perfect spot for gathering. They are strange creatures, a silvery colour with a touch of lavender – the purple of the Aster flower.
“Go away!” I scream, hand clenched around the wooden broom.
They don’t move.
My eyes knit. “Leave, go on. You’re going to die if you stay here. Migrate south, or something along those lines.” I knock one to the floor and it screeches in pain.
I want them gone. They are disturbing the Seedbank.
It is as simple as that.
“Parasites,” I say slowly.
They raise their heads to my words, eyes bulging and skin evolving. Before my eyes they transform, bodies becoming long and slender, avian feathers disappearing into a thick husk. A shell. Beneath the ruffle of feathers a hundred dancing scolopendra’s shudder, protruding legs ferociously digging into the ground.
“Parasite,” a deep voice echoes my words, pulsing through my feet.
I stumble for words.
The centipedes disappear beneath the topsoil and I cover my ears.
The voices start, I hear them loud and clear, like the screaming of a bloodied and bruised child, flying past and singing cackled tones. I dare not breathe. I dare not move. I scream until the voices begin to cease.
I run.
Without thinking, my ears still covered, I sprint, screaming and shouting. The trail of earth behind me becomes quiet and eventually, I let go of my ears and listen to the seclusion of the emerald field. Running is difficult for me, my age hasn’t exactly improved my bodily condition and I am still convulsing with fear from the ibises and the centipedes and the all the voices.
I arrive at the Amphitheatre and curl into a foetal position, softly reciting Aster’s name.
The Amphitheatre is extraordinary, the most beautiful work of architecture known to man. Made of traditional white stone from the cliffs of the sea, it towers like a labyrinth, and despite the obvious decay it still retains its beauty.
Years ago, when Aster and I were young and wild and free, we used to perform here. Back before we claimed ownership of the area, we brought smiles to the faces of the people, who knew nothing but isolation. We brought music to this empty place. That is how we managed to get ownership of the land – the Amphitheatre, the Ark and the Seedbank. Because we brought music to this empty construction.
I hear a ruffle behind me and turn, meeting the owl whom has followed me across the field. His eyes aren’t directly focused on me, and for the first time ever he radiates comfort and hope.
I smile at him.
“Am I okay?”
He meets my eyes and flashes of colour dance throughout his pupils.
No reply.
“I’m okay.”
I stroke him gently, and together we watch the isolation of the perimeter shape and change, watch a mother polar bear teach her newborn to swim. My heart beat controls and I am comforted, strong and healthy. The polar bears wrestle and I know that they are going to die.
I am okay.
Liar.
-
Aster has a love for fishing.
She loves the sand beneath her feet, the arch of her back – the cool spray of the sea mist that dampens her skin when the water washes against her feet.
She also likes animals, she tells me. Birds in particular, for she envies their ability to fly and be free. Obviously she wishes to be unrestricted of her parent’s oppression. Her favourite bird is the owl, for it is not only free but intelligent, beautiful, with a cold and calculative stare.
“What is your favourite animal Natvig?” She spits.
I say I prefer plants over animals.
The first couple of days at the camp were horrid. Aster and I, along with a number of other troubled kids were forced to cooperate. Already one has been sent to hospital with a broken rib. The boy who did such damage, thankfully, has been evicted.
Aster and I have been okay. We have tried to get along, and we do, I guess, but we haven’t really had much of a chance to talk, or erupt into argument and physical abuse, that is. How do you talk to your nemesis of eternity? It isn’t until now that we have really had the opportunity to communicate.
Aster stands upon the silicone shore of the island, which is artificial, and rises out of the sea. I sit upon the side of the isle, my legs dangling a few metres above Aster’s head. Surrounding me are shallow rock pools, crevices filled with sea life. As the tide rises, more water somehow leaks onto the tall island.
It is so strange.
Yet it is my sanctuary.
“What do you want to do when you get out of school?” I ask Aster.
She considers this, her hand held tightly around the fishing rod. “I’m not sure. I would like to open up an Animal Rehabilitation Centre, but I’m not smart enough to get a veterinary degree. I might pursue something else, teaching or journalism. What about you?”
“Music.”
She nods. “As much as I hate it, you are very good.”
“Jealous, huh?” I laugh. “You’re quite good yourself. That song you performed in early Year 10 was beautiful – the melody and the words. You captivated everyone.”
A bite. She reels in slowly. “Why are you sucking up to me? Everyone knows you’re the one with the musical talent.”
I shake my head. “Can’t you handle a complement?”
She turns around enflamed. “You are really weird. One minute you’re hating on me because I ruined your chance with a girl, the next minute you are sexually excited by me, and then your being all complementary.”
I stop, shaking away thoughts of Aster and I being sexual, and of an old joke my father told me about complimentary peanuts. “I’m trying to be nice.”
She shakes her head, unravelling her hair from her shoulders. “You’re being vexatious.”
“Big word, vexatious?”
“Shut it Natvig, I’m losing my temper.”
The coals in her eyes spark like blue fire but I do not continue. Instead I take a deep breath and control my natural antagonism. Archibald’s tones reverberate through my mind. I hum the tune of one of my favourite songs by Susanne Sundfør.
“Is that Susanne Sundfør?” Aster suddenly asks after a few minutes of silence. Her eyes are focused on the sea but I can tell she is intrigued.
“Yeah, Lilith, from the Brothel.”
She nods. “I love that song. The Brothel is brilliant. I prefer her first album the best though. Acoustic songs outdo electronica.”
I snigger. “Hah, never. I love acoustic music but there is something about the industrial sound that is truly beautiful. I’d love to know how to work her electronica magic. My favourite album is her latest – the Silicone Veil.”
She nods. “I know.”
I’m about to continue speaking when there is a sudden splash. I quickly turn, eyes focused on the water. A large shadow swivels beneath the waves.
“I got something!” She yells, ferociously reeling the line.
I watch in awe as a large white fish, no a small shark, slowly becomes entangled in the sand and rocks. It is about to reach shore.
Amazement.
And then the line snaps.
Immediately the shark rotates and skyrockets through the liquid. Aster is soaked, laughing and coughing. She isn’t mad? I would have been furious if I had lost such a great catch.
Behind me I hear a noise and watch as the water begins to upsurge. The tide is rising quickly. Leaping down from the cliff, I skid to a halt next to Aster who is beaming.
“Look Natvig, I’m sorry. Say, when we get back home, maybe we should have a jam?”
I nod. “Definitely. Just don’t do anything sexual.”
“How did this even start?”
I shrug.
The next few moments become a blur, the rising tide engulfs us both and we are forced to swim to shore. The sharks in the water circle but do not attack and my foot gets caught beneath the kelp and the coral and it bleaches my skin. I start to falter for breath and I think I’m sinking and look up – expecting the cold and calculative stares of Archibald and the owl. But Aster just laughs and helps me through the waves.
Together we arrive at shore.
But something is wrong. That dire feeling returns and Aster switches her viewpoint, eyes invading the wire cage that is my heart. Blood leaks from her lips but she does transform. She merely screams. Crying out and calling my name.
“Monster.”
-
I quickly open my eyelids to the sound of a parking car.
At first I am disconcerted, caught between another horrifying, corrupted memory and the sound of another car and the sudden chill in the atmosphere. It is not a company car, for it is smaller and uglier, metallic grey paint peeling from its doors. Pacing along the blue gravel, it is not far away.
I quickly force myself upwards, sauntering towards the automobile, confused and curious. Why would anyway come to visit me today? What is there to talk about except death and loss and grief?
I walk forward.
A tall man exits the car, his blank face greeting the ground. Auburn hair pokes from beneath his beanie, and I notice his wide shoulders
In Isolation We Are All Parasites Page 3
