The Crone's Stone

by S E Holmes

background, looking petrified.

  “Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.” Aramaic. The ancient language from the time of Jesus. I wasn’t aware I understood it. “It means, ‘You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting’.”

  “Indeed,” said Fortescue.

  “Non placet. ‘It is unpleasing.’ Latin,” I added.

  My butler nodded. Okay. I was speaking in previously unknown tongues, an unlikely diagnostic marker for a brain tumour. Or epilepsy. A spiritual awakening? Psychedelic chemicals in our tap water? Visitations from aliens?

  “What’s happening to me?”

  The self-pity was impossible to hide. I could not bring myself to raise my head. I knew what I would see. A semicircle of kindly faces, committed to feeding me crumbs of information, when they knew! Yes, I was sure Bea or Fortescue or even supposedly mute Mrs Paget could eliminate my ignorance and explain the whole thing in a way that made perfect sense. They were conspirators in the plot to drive me mad. I would never have believed it of them. I picked myself up off the floor and made sure to keep my gaze lowered, cultivating a view of the floorboards.

  “I’m going for a walk. And under no circumstances is Hugo to tag along.”

  The irritating mobile phone was thrust into my hand. But still I did not look up. No one spoke a word as I made my leave. Plodding down the stairs, Mrs Paget’s panicked voice drifted behind.

  “Bea, Seth is no longer shackled to Finesse. He is loose and able to act of his own free will!”

  “Yes, and he is grieving for Raphaela. Heaven knows how he will choose to wreak vengeance. We must guarantee he does not remain at liberty for long.”

  Whatever! Even the combined attempts of the cats failed to improve my dismal frame of mind, as they trailed me through the collection. To lighten the burden all I had to do was recall the harmony of Enoch. This I refused. Remembering any aspect of my latest delusion only reinforced my fear of insanity.

  For hours I trudged the streets of Sydney, immune to the sparkling harbour with its coat-hanger bridge and zipping white-flag yachts. The vibrancy of the Rocks Markets on a Saturday afternoon, the majesty of the curvaceous Opera House, the free jazz at sunshine-drenched Darling Harbour held no fascination. Nor did I admire the centuries-old sandstone architecture, which mixed agreeably with modern buildings of glass and steel.

  Teasingly exotic food aromas wafted by, neglected. Likewise Bea’s increasingly frantic voicemails. The journey took me bodily from the strange events of that morning – of the last few days – yet thinking forced the actions of my guardians under the microscope. They were the security I’d clung to across the crazy, nomadic years of my childhood. If I’d flown with a commercial airline and earned frequent flyer miles, I could travel to Neptune by now. So what if I was alone? Bea often said “While we’re alive, we belong to each other, no matter the distance between us.”

  While we’re alive. I’d always thought it an odd way to begin a saying. I guess it encouraged an appreciation of every next breath. She’d been on the planet long enough to track its entire surface, so I thought she knew best. The three of them were always with me to buffer the worst of the outside world, though they’d never exactly been unreserved in their affection.

  Aunt Bea showed her devotion in more proactive, less fuzzy ways. She took paralysing vengeance on any who slighted me. If I couldn’t handle a persecutor and finally fessed-up, her wrath froze the sun. She made certain those involved were transferred to Afghanistan, or at least that’s what I believed when they were never heard from again. And unlike Tiffany’s father, who intervened on his daughter’s behalf at her every whim, most of the people Bea punished deserved it. Their exile spared other victims as well.

  But even this had ceased in the last year and I’d fended for myself. Since we’d settled in Sydney, I’d believed the erratic, roaming phase was over. But my minders kept more secrets than imaginable and I got no closer to finding out why.

  The city I loved began to feel strangely hostile, spurred by an irrational sensation that I was watched. There was nothing to inflame the suspicion, yet all around me the impenetrable shadows appeared to breed monsters in the dying light. I began to hear things.

  A surge of skittering legs and thrumming wings seemed to pursue me, as if thousands of crawlies amassed just beyond my range of vision. I spun several times to catch sight of them, and was relieved to find nothing there. But every time my vigilance wavered, the sinister vibrations gained volume, close enough to swallow me. By the time I reached my neighbourhood, the atmosphere of palpable menace goaded me to sprint towards home.

  Once, I thought I glimpsed a streaking black shadow with glowing eyes pacing alongside me and the dread eased. But it returned when the fake Vovo disappeared. As dusk fell, I pelted down the alleyway concealing the entrance to the warehouse, panting hysterically. Nothing could lift the depression. And smothering fear. Or so I thought.

  Twelve

  Smithy sprawled on the warehouse doorstep, wearing a wide smile. He looked utterly at home, like it was the most natural circumstance to wait outside on someone’s porch for their return. My heart unexpectedly soared. Speech deserted me as I plopped down next to him.

  My palms were sweaty from more than the sprint, and I was nervous around him in a way I’d never been previously. I pondered why he was not off chasing Tiffany for the weekend. With a lasso and an electric cattle prod.

  Vegas took a fortifying breath. “I bring offerings for angry grizzlies. One returned Kasabian CD. You left it in the pool room. Good choice, by the way. ‘Underdog’ is my favourite. And your party dress, dry-cleaned and caviar free.”

  My hand trembled as I took the CD case. He noticed, eyes narrowing with concern.

  “Are you alright, Winnie? You look kind of hassled.”

  “Been running … Out of shape … Defibrillation required,” I convincingly gasped.

  “Hmm.” He raised eyebrows, familiar with my exercise rituals and well practised at spotting my fibs. “Say the word and I’m ready to resuscitate you.”

  “Yes, I think you’ve tried to show me that trick.”

  “No tricks, I promise.” From behind his back, Smithy offered a small bouquet of palest pink wild roses tied with a ribbon. I could smell their fragrance from where I sat. “Failing the medical intervention … will these help?” He wore a puppy-dog expression. “They match the clip you had in your hair last night. Forgiven for this morning’s, er … whatever it was?”

  “Thank you.” I received the flowers, burying my nose in them for a brief, heady sniff. “They’re beautiful. And it wasn’t your fault I was dressed like a pole dancer. I’m sorry I blamed you for it.” My clothes draped a large duffel bag on the step beside him. “Going somewhere?” I hoped not.

  “Um, I’ve got a bit of a domestic situation. Can’t really go home, so I’m bunking at my sculpture studio for the time being.”

  “Rubbish! You can stay with us.”

  “Ah, yes the porch. Very inviting.” He patted the tile.

  I couldn’t really blame him for the sarcasm. He’d never been allowed inside before and had given up asking years ago, after months of nagging me had failed. Domestic situation?

  “All of a sudden, I’m permitted play-friends.”

  “A breakthrough! Of course, most people manage that from about six years old.”

  “Clearly, we’re not most people.” He was about to discover just how different our lifestyle was and I prayed a close-up would not prove too eccentric. “Grab your stuff. It shouldn’t be painful. Just a little screening test, and then you’ll be in.” I rose and began the security procedure, staring up into the video camera.

  “Screening?” he said dubiously, eyeing the equipment. “Winnie, wait. Before you initiate Code Orange and access the Pentagon, I want to ask you something.”

  He closed the gap between us to stand in front of me, bathing me in his warmth, the chiselled shape of him tantalising beneath his t-shirt. He smiled uncertainly. My stomach
did flip-flops.

  “Come to dinner with me tonight?”

  I’d been out to eat with him a million times – usually without the need for all the handholding formality. I shrugged. “Sure.”

  His discomfort mounted. “I’m not certain you get what I mean. I would like you to come to dinner with me on a …” he seemed to struggle for a suitable phrase. “On a proper date. You know. Impressive clothes, tiny portions of edible colour arranged on large white plates. Shoes.” He trailed off with a pained expression, staring down at his bare feet. Smithy wore shoes as regularly as a solar eclipse.

  “Ohh.” Yes! Excellent. Most definitely. “Sure.” My flushing cheeks probably buried my attempt at coolness. I turned away and used the diversion of electronics to hide the evidence of my excitement. “But what about Tiffany?”

  “Tiffany?”

  I peeked at his face over my shoulder. He seemed genuinely puzzled. The way his nose crinkled was very attractive. I felt idiotic, like some jealous battleaxe asking a husband to justify his whereabouts the night before.

  “I ran into her as she left your building this morning. She was wearing the same clothes as last night. She said you’d had a … very nice time.”

  “Conniving cow! The last time of any description we had was about a year ago, and it was anything but nice. She probably fell asleep on my bed waiting for me to show up,” he said angrily. “But I’m off the