The Crone's Stone

by S E Holmes

sherbet now, and without excessive alcohol, it’ll never happen again. I’ve been avoiding my bedroom. If I had found her there, I would have booted her out.”

  His tone was such a mixture of fury and earnestness, there was no doubt he meant what he said. Perfect! Now, if I could simply refrain from dumb hallucinations or other abnormal behaviour for one precious evening. I was about to ask what was wrong with his room, when Vegas bent down and whispered in my ear.

  “So, you still want to come out with me?”

  I gulped and abandoned any desire to seem sophisticated. “Absolutely!”

  “And the initial topic of conversation will be why you were dressed like a pole dancer. It’s a look I’m quite partial to.”

  I turned to trigger the eye scanner. The bolts anchoring the door slid open and for the first time since arriving in Sydney all those years ago, I ushered my best friend into my unique home. Not for the first time, its beauty entranced me. Our living quarters took the upper floor of the two levels above the street.

  Three other floors descended into the earth, used for storage and restoration; the lowest a murky basement I’d never been game enough to explore. Claustrophobia was another of my fears. When I left my room, I could look down from the balcony’s edge to the ground floor devoted to Bea’s extensive permanent collection, the large entrance hall dotted with glassed display cases of varying sizes, sealed and environmentally controlled to protect the fragile, archaic contents. Embedded lights responded to the weight of passing feet, illuminating the specimens within.

  We had a full T.rex skull and the fossilised snout of a Spinosaurus. There was a jade cauldron from the Shang Dynasty, around 1000BC, used to hold the hearts of their enemies. Nearby was a painted cartouche from Nefertiti’s tomb and a parchment fragment of ‘Alf Layla wa Layla’ – The Arabian Nights – from the tenth century, amongst many other treasures.

  Cherish and Vovo slunk towards us like sinuous black shadows through the hall. Cherish emitted a deep rumbling growl and Vovo hissed loudly, baring her teeth. Evidently, she had not been out policing for Bea and I’d been dreaming on my feet, yet again.

  “I was under the impression keeping panthers in suburbia was illegal. I trust Bea has a permit?” Smithy’s features showed amusement, but having known him so long, I detected an undercurrent of anxiety. He would happily scale a ten-storey building or outrun a bus. Cats on the other hand, were not his forte. “I’m allergic.”

  This was an overreaction; he was fitter than a triathlete. “Relax. Probably best if you do not move. They’re Bea’s hunting cats.”

  “What do they hunt? Bull elephants!”

  I grabbed his hand. “You are being a sook. They’re just checking to see if you’re okay to be here.”

  “And if they don’t approve?” The cats circled us. Smith stood at attention.

  “You might make it to the door with your spine intact if you run very fast.”

  “You can forget a career as a social worker!”

  It was over before it really began. After their initial wariness, both cats padded up and casually sniffed at him. Cherish dropped to the floor and rolled over for a belly rub and Vovo pushed her head under his hand for an ear scratch, her throat humming.

  “See! They like you.”

  I knelt to scruff their glossy fir, while watching Smithy’s reaction to our house. Freed from the feline scrutiny, his eyes roved across the collection, widening when his focus came to rest on Mike. He scanned slowly upwards, awestruck.

  “You live in a museum!”

  “Better! Bea and Fortescue had to find punishments every time I got kicked out of school. So they would put me to work here, cataloguing or preparing artefacts. I know just about everything there is to know about this stuff.”

  I could never have guessed the thrill of finally sharing my secret existence with anyone. Let alone with someone I cared for as much as Smithy. And he was a keen listener. I led him down the stairs and into the collection proper, providing commentary like a tour guide as we went.

  “That’s a fragment from a rare manuscript of the Koran, written in Cufic script, from about the eighth century.” Smith nodded avidly and pointed to another display case.

  “That’s a gold and jade unguent box from Tutankhamen’s reign, around mid-1300BC. He was the son-in-law of Queen Nefertiti, only nineteen when he died, many thought murdered. But recent scientific tests suggest he died of an infection from a broken leg, gained during a chariot race.” On I babbled, until we halted at Mike’s ossified feet.

  “Can those be human bones? And real diamonds?”

  “Yes and ditto. In the Middle Ages when mortality rates were high they ran out of room to bury all the corpses, especially during the Black Plague. They had to get a little creative with the remains and so bone sculptures to celebrate the dead evolved, known as memento mori. Mike here is a fairly spectacular example. And he is decorated with about fifteen million dollars’ worth of diamonds.”

  “This place is truly amazing, Bear.”

  I was happy Smithy enjoyed the sights, yet I was antsy now. We were about to pass into the more sinister section. It was impossible to access the upper level living areas without daring what I called ‘the gauntlet of horror’. Smithy’s visit was going so well, I really didn’t want to freak him out. I’d learned to ignore this stuff early in the piece. The cats twined around our legs, pleased by the doubled affection.

  “I don’t suppose there is any way you would let me bring you through this section blindfolded?”

  “Now I’m way too intrigued not to look.”

  “I’m positive you’ve been told, but it bears repeating. You are a smartar—”

  “Uh-ah.” He wagged a disapproving finger, laughter lighting his face. “Bea would have your tongue! And anyone who calls me smart knows it has nothing to do with my arse.”

  “Why are you the only one allowed to say ‘arse’?”

  “Because it’s mine and I don’t want people taking liberties. Lead on.”

  From what I’d observed of Smithy’s behind, not taking liberties would indeed prove a challenge. I was about to extinguish the playfulness. Best do it quickly.

  “Etzel’s war hatchet.” I gestured as though on a ghoulish game show.

  “Attila the Hun?” He grimaced. “You have the axe of a barbarian who murdered his own brother?”

  Nothing escaped him; he was obviously a student of history. I gave a mechanical nod. “An Apache scalping blade. The Pear of Anguish. The Maiden of Nuremburg …”

  It was an upright, person-sized structure in the shape of a stylised woman – a bloated round body with a half-sphere on top to fit a head. It resembled an Egyptian sarcophagus, which split down the side and opened on hinges, wrought in thick metal so the screams from within would not reach the world outside. Lethal spines protruded into its cavity.

  “An iron maiden? An implement of torture.”

  The spikes were designed to pierce non-vital body parts when shut, keeping the sufferer alive inside for as long as possible. The misnamed maiden was not all we had. I continued, pulling him with me on a course via the least offensive objects.

  “The garrotte, otherwise know as the Spanish chair. It was used in that country up until 1975 for capital punishment.” It was a vertical pole with a borehole positioned at the rear of the person’s head to affix them to the attached seat. “This one is extremely old. A wet noose went around the victim’s throat, strangling them as it shrank. Or the executioner would jab a spike through the opening in the back, puncturing the accused’s brain stem. It was supposed to be a more accurate and humane way of despatching criminals. Of course, aiming was often imprecise.”

  “Of course.” A fault line appeared in Smithy’s upbeat mood.

  I found myself wondering again how many people had died on the chair and for what crimes. But we had so many gruesome artefacts, such speculation lead to bodies piled higher than a crematorium, a hideous record of atrocity and intolerance. It was why I s
leepwalked through this section most days. With a look of relief that he’d finally found a seemingly harmless object, Smith gestured at a plain, tan leather book. I hated to ruin his optimism.

  “That’s an original copy of Malleus Maleficorum. In English it’s called The Hammer of Witches and was used to guide trials during the Roman Catholic Inquisition. This text is second only to Hitler’s Mein Kampf in regards to the number of innocent people who were executed on the basis of its warped message.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask. What in Hades is that?”

  I so wished we could have avoided this whole spectacle. “A heretic’s fork,” I mumbled unhappily. Two sharpened double-pronged forks were looped, one up, one down through a leather collar. “The Inquisitor would use it to extract a confession. One fork sat under the chin, the other rested on the chest to painfully extend the neck.”

  “Why on earth does Bea collect these types of things?”

  I considered letting the question hang. But Smith waited with a look that said he wouldn’t allow such an easy dodge. “It’s Bea’s philosophy that if humans are reminded of their hatred and prejudice across history, we’ll work harder to rise above and strive to become the enlightened species she thinks we can be.”

  He frowned his doubt. “I’m feeling more nauseated than enlightened.”

  I couldn’t blame him. Fortunately, Mrs Paget appeared at the bottom of the stairs as we approached. She beckoned to Smithy impatiently with a