Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 3, Issue 4

by Melina Marchetta

  ‘Lady Celie,’ he advised, ‘please use fewer words to get to your point.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry, Mr Banyon. Busiest man in Belegonia because he has nothing else in his life.’

  She saw his mouth thin out in an angry line. If he was going to be rude to her, she’d be rude in return.

  ‘Continue,’ he requested.

  ‘The south of Sendecane is completely made up of red dirt according to my Queen. And Argus Laraunt has red dirt caked into the heel of his boot,’ she said. She lifted Borealis Luby’s boot. Banyon held the flame closer. It was a poor light, but he could see what was true.

  ‘And how did you get to see the bottom of both their buskins?’ he asked, intrigued.

  ‘Well, firstly, Borealis Luby shared the boat with me from the Main to the isle and he placed his feet on my seat as he slept. It truly irritated me. Very rude. And the other day, Mr Argus stepped into your hound’s shit, and lifted up his boots to inspect the damage. And revealed the red earth.’

  He stared at her, and then he gave a laugh. It was short and she wasn’t quite sure what he was laughing at, but it made her smile to hear it.

  ‘Strange, really,’ she continued. ‘Especially when the Duchess believed that he spent the winter on the snow-capped mountains of Yutlind Nord. He, of course, claimed to have never seen snow in his life.’

  ‘You’re very observant, Lady Celie. A good trait for… a spy.’

  They heard the sound of giggles and leapt to their feet, but it was too late for anything except to step inside the small space with Borealis Luby’s belongings. Banyon pulled across the curtain.

  It was much too narrow a space and Banyon was forced to place his hands on the wall above Celie’s head. They stood brow against brow, her mouth almost against his. She heard every swallow in his throat.

  And she heard what took place in the cook’s chamber. It involved the Cook and the King’s Man. She discovered his name was Alby. Celie knew this because Alby’s name was whispered. Spoken. Wailed. Keened. Long bursts. Short bursts.

  Alby. Albeeeeee. Aaaaaalbeeeee. Alby. Alby. Alby.

  Celie shifted.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Banyon whispered, and his voice was hoarse, but Celie had moved and understood clearly why he had issued his command. Because her thigh was pressing into his and she didn’t need the flicker of a flame to imagine the desire in his eyes because it was all there to be felt. She placed her hand against his chest and heard the intake of his breath and there they stood as the grunts and rants and cries rang between the Cook and Alby. Celie was disappointed that it was all over too soon between the lovers, but even though the Cook and Alby departed, Celie and Banyon stayed a while.

  This is the man you’ll take as a lover, Celie, she promised herself. Valentien Banyon. Who was she to defy her Queen’s orders?

  They reached her chamber and she wanted him to kiss her. She lifted her face to his, almost defying him to look away.

  ‘What goes on in your head, Banyon?’ she asked quietly when he didn’t so much as touch her.

  ‘I don’t allow people inside my head, Lady Celie. The moment I do, it will be a weakness and I don’t have time for those in my life.’

  ‘And what do you have time for?’ she asked with bitterness.

  ‘Protecting this kingdom. This castle. From anyone.’

  * * *

  She spent the next day watching Argus Laraunt from her window. Argus Laraunt watched the sea from the battlement. Banyon watched Celie from the gatehouse tower. When she noticed Argus Laraunt crossing the drawbridge she was soon at his side. He had a small pack on his back and she was desperate to know what was inside.

  ‘Can I come along, Argus? The tedium is driving me to despair.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m off to a see an old friend on the shore,’ he said, agitated. ‘A fisherman. Perhaps we’ll speak at supper, Lady Celie.’

  Celie couldn’t imagine Argus Laraunt having any friend on the isle. He had murdered the isle’s favourite daughter. But she waved him off politely and returned to the Chamber of Chronicles. She was back to searching for the manuscript on behalf of her Priestking. There was a moment in the chamber the day before with Banyon when she thought she had found it, written in the foreign tongue of Yutlind. Regardless of the excitement she felt at the idea of coming so close, she couldn’t stop thinking of Valentien Banyon and how she was going to get a chronicle past him. But she pushed aside the chronicle, thinking of the conversations between Laraunt and Luby. About Tolliver. It had been a strangely familiar name. Curious about this town in Yutlind Nord where Laraunt had made a nuisance of himself, Celie began searching for it in a manuscript citing every city of the entire land. But there was no Tolliver.

  Her sleep that night was troubled. Sleeping and waking. Wondering what Argus Laraunt and Borealis Luby had been up to in Sendecane. And then thinking of Valentien Banyon. Saying his name. Tien. Valentien. Banyon. She dreamt of the Priestking. Heard him beg her to find the Yut Chronicle. And then Celie dreamt a memory of her time with the Queen’s Consort, Finnikin.

  Our lives are paths of collision, Celie. Every single one of us. Not just Lumaterans, but the Sarnaks and Belegonians and Osterians and Charynites and Sorellians and Yuts and Sendecanese. We’re not eight kingdoms, but an entire land with one heartbeat. It’s why people like you and I need to record our people’s stories so we can find those moments when our paths cross, and only then will we know true peace.

  And then the Queen was there beside her Consort.

  ‘Let me tell you about Tolliver.’

  * * *

  Celie woke with a start. It was all there in her own journal. When Lumatere had begun to settle three years past and the Queen was ready to talk, she asked Celie to keep her records. Some stories were painful to recall. The Queen as a young girl bore witness to the slaughter of their people in exile but found peace six years past in a kingdom at lands' end. The rest of Sendecane was wasteland, except for the cloister of Lagrami. The High Priestess had provided a haven for those who needed protection regardless of what kingdom they hailed from and what god or goddess they worshipped. Pilgrims could travel there to offer thanks at its gates, but the cloister was only open to women. Those who did not want to be found.

  And there in her own journal, she saw the word.

  Tolliver.

  * * *

  The sun was beginning to appear and Celie hurried down her tower steps to the next landing where Argus Laraunt slept. But his chamber was bare. His possessions gone. Without so much as a cloak or shoes, Celie tore down the rest of the steps and into the courtyard where she could see the portcullis raised for the day. Not even stopping to tell Banyon, she flew across the drawbridge, her bare feet at the mercy of splintered grass and acorns and half-concealed rocks that cut into her flesh, her chemise no protection from the wind that tore through the fabric. But she needed to find Argus Laraunt. He had murdered a man to keep a secret. He had almost had another man tried as a demon to keep his secret. There seemed no one more desperate than Argus Laraunt and Celie understood why.

  By the time she reached the shore, her heart was battering. But she saw him there, dragging a small boat out into an unforgiving sea.

  ‘Argus!’ she cried. ‘Stop!’

  He stared up at the sound of his name, but stayed true to his task.

  ‘Argus,’ she called out again and when she reached him she fell onto the sand on her knees in exhaustion.

  ‘I know the truth,’ she said.

  ‘Lady Celie, don’t let me have to hurt you. Please.’

  ‘You won’t hurt me, Argus,’ she said, getting to her feet and wading out to him.

  A wave crashed against her and she fell into the water, stumbling to her feet.

  ‘Tell them whatever you want, Lady Celie,’ he said with bitterness. ‘She’ll laugh in your face. Do you honestly think the Duchess doesn’t know what I did? She ordered it herself. She knows the truth.’

  ‘But a different truth to what
Borealis Luby knew. Perhaps a worst truth for some, but a better one for most, Argus. A better one for me.’

  She gripped at his coat and tried to pull him back on shore.

  ‘Don’t cross this sea, Sir. You’ll get yourself killed,’ she said. ‘Stay, and I promise, the Duchess will never know from me.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That you killed Borealis Luby. To hide a great truth. Not that you killed your wife, Argus. But that you allowed her to live. Because you loved her.’

  She saw the despair in his expression at her words.

  ‘You were frightened he was going to tell the Duchess the truth,‘ Celie continued. ‘That he followed you to Sendecane.’

  Argus Laraunt leapt onto the boat in an attempt to catch the next wave, but each time it brought him back to land.

  ‘I can help you,’ she said. ‘I can speak to my Queen.’

  ‘About what?’ he shouted. ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘You were in love with your wife so you came up with the plan. You knew she’d be next. The Duchess was finding out the truth about her husband’s bastards. The Duke’s own ward, Tildie, was one of them. The Duke loved a woman from this isle and upon her death, he gave their daughter a place in his home.’

  Argus Laraunt seemed a mad man, pushing the boat out to sea, despite the tide returning him to the shore.

  ‘You hid her in Sendecane. In the cloisters. You see, it was all there in my own work. My Queen lived there from when she was fifteen until her Consort came to find her two years later.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘Well I do. It’s not as if my Queen remembers every girl who came and went. But she would remember one that came in her sixteenth year. She’d remember her, not because the girl was beautiful or Belegonian, but because she brought into the Cloister something that had never been allowed there before. A male. You see, my journals are sacred. What my Queen allows me to record is private only to her and myself. And the women of the cloisters were overjoyed and frightened by the birth of a little boy five years past. It’s why Borealis Luby threatened you that day as we crossed this sea. Tolliver wasn’t the name of a town in Yutlind Nord. It’s the name of your son. Toli for short.’

  A flash of pain crossed the man’s expression.

  ‘It’s where you go every winter. To spend time with your wife and your child and for some reason, Borealis Luby suspected something and followed you to Sendecane.’

  Argus Laraunt stepped towards her and gripped her by the arm. ‘You are a very foolish girl, Lady Celie. Why would I possibly allow you to live knowing you’re a threat to my wife and child?’

  They heard the hounds and Celie saw the panic in his eyes. He spun around staring at the boat and the sea.

  ‘Stay, and I will do all I can to provide sanctuary for your family, Sir,‘ Celie said. ‘I pledge it with all my heart.’

  He shook his head with despair and she saw the tears of fury.

  ‘Lady Celie, if my King was to die now with only three daughters and no son, then Tolliver, as the grandson of his Uncle is the heir to the Belegonian throne. Do you honestly think my son will be allowed to live if that knowledge was to get out? Or do you honestly believe I’d want him in the hands of another kingdom as a bargaining tool?’

  ‘Celie! Celie!’

  They heard the shouts and Argus Laraunt stumbled into the water alongside the boat, trying again to push it out to sea.

  ‘It’s not safe, Sir,’ she cried.

  But he was a man possessed.

  ‘Argus,’ she cried. ‘You’ll get yourself killed. Come back.’

  ‘Celie! Celie!’

  It was Banyon’s voice and it spoke of fear. His fear for her. And then Argus Laraunt was gone, disappearing amongst waves so fierce in their size, and Banyon and the King’s Man and the villagers were there on the shore running towards her. Celie stared at the tiny boat as it became smaller and smaller.

  Later when they found the boat crushed against the rocks in splinters and Argus Laraunt’s belongings washed up on the shore, Celie sat huddled waiting for the sea to reveal its power and give up its dead. But it was greedy and kept Argus Laraunt all to itself. Someone placed a blanket over her shoulder, but she refused to move. She couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe from the sorrow and fear she felt for a man and the young family he would have done anything to protect. It was the sort of love Celie had craved for and all she could imagine was Tildie of the isle and her son waiting for Argus Laraunt next winter, fearing the worst when he failed to return.

  Six

  * * *

  The King arrived with his entourage three days later and there was much talk of the deaths and events and the floods and roads. Celie heard talk that the Duchess was desperate to return to the Main after the horror of her stay and preparations were being made for her to leave at week’s end.

  ‘We’re going to have to shower Aunt Awful with gifts before she goes,’ Orna, the eldest Princess said.

  ‘Not that she even looks at them,’ Sareena, the second Princess said.

  ‘Until she gets home, of course,’ Lehandra, the youngest, piped up. ‘There she sits in her chamber all day long, greedily opening all her treasures. Sharing them with none.’

  She did an impersonation and the girls laughed.

  ‘Enough of that,’ their mother said.

  Celie realised then that she would leave the island with the Duchess.

  ‘If you please, your Grace, may I accompany the Duchess?’ Celie said. ‘I think I’d be the poorest of company if I stayed with the girls. Perhaps if we send a message to my home and have a carriage wait for me on the Main.’

  The Princesses were disappointed but understood, having heard all the stories about what had taken place at Ferragost.

  One by one the next day the Princesses went to visit the Duchess and Celie followed.

  ‘For my rudeness, your Highness,’ Celie said, handing her a gift.

  The Duchess merely pointed to the mountain of boxes in the corner of the room and Celie placed hers with the others.

  * * *

  When she heard a tap at her door the next morning as she packed, Celie found herself facing Banyon. For the first time in days, she wanted to weep. Because Celie had learned to read many of his expressions, and despite a flash of longing in his eyes, this one frightened her most.

  ‘Tien,’ she said softly.

  Banyon stepped aside. Behind him stood a guard, the King’s Man, and the King’s first Minister, Lord Usborne, a contrite look on his face. She knew the Minister well, having grown up with his children during exile.

  ‘It’s best that we check your belongings, Lady Celie,’ Lord Usborne said, his voice gentle.

  Celie watched as they searched the chest. As they flicked through her journal. As they crumpled the fine silk dress given to her by the Queen of Belegonia. It was the King’s Man who came across the box.

  ‘May I?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I have the authority to answer that question, Alby. Perhaps you should ask the Castellan,’ she said, her voice cold.

  The King’s Man stared up at her, surprised. ‘It’s Albeton,’ he corrected with great curiosity in his voice.

  Albeton looked at Banyon for permission to open the box. Banyon nodded. When the lid was lifted, they all stared inside and then at Celie.

  ‘A dead rat?’ Lord Usborne asked.

  ‘Is that not allowed?’ she asked. ‘Is the removal of a dead rat from the castle punishable?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘It’s for my brother,’ she said with a sigh. She turned to Lord Usborne. ‘You remember Ren, don’t you? When we lived in the capital, my brother had an obsession with finding the largest rats there were to find.’

  Lord Usborne chuckled. ‘I do remember indeed.’

  ‘There’s nothing larger than a Ferragost rat,’ Celie said, staring at Banyon when she spoke the words. ‘If you don’t mind I’ll
step outside while you finish your task.’

  She passed Banyon. ‘Coward,’ she whispered.

  * * *

  She wept most of the way across the inland sea whilst the Duchess instructed her to stop making such an awful noise. They reached the shore where two carriages awaited them. One for Celie from Lumatere, and the other for the Duchess whose poor groom stared at the mountain of gifts to be carried.

  ‘Let me help with that,’ Celie said, instructing her guard to join in. ‘We don’t want your Highness’s belongings confused with mine.’

  * * *

  When Celie and her guard were settled in the carriage, she began her weeping once more. And if she hadn’t exchanged the box of a dead rat for the package she had given the wretched Duchess, containing a stolen chronicle for the Priestking of Lumatere, Celie would have cried a whole lot more.

  * * *

  On the isle, when all was still and in order, the Castellan of Ferragost Castle blew out the last torch and returned to his solar in the gatehouse. And if it weren’t for the scent of Celina, May of the Lumateran Flatlands on the blanket he had placed around her shoulders the night of Argus Laraunt’s disappearance, Valentien Banyon would have slept fitfully.

  But there it was.

  And so he didn’t.

  Molasses

  Kirsty Eagar

  to my beautiful friends Kelly H. and Trish E.

  * * *

  ‘Have you ever liked someone because you had a dream about them?’

  Amelia frowned at the question. Megan was leaning her head on the window, her blue eyes glazed, looking completely unlike herself. Normally, she was cold and controlled. She reminded Amelia of a Viking. It was her eyes, and her impossibly blonde hair. She seemed foreign, although of course she’d lived in Jarmoya all her life, just like the rest of them.