by Lee Murray
Mark heads into the bedroom to grab his beanie. I follow him. I don’t try to touch him here, not in front of her. I trail him out of the apartment, down the passage, into the lift and out the entrance gate. It’s twilight but there’s a sense that it’s gradually darkening. His gait is long and I pump my legs to keep up.
Autumnal leaves crunch and crackle beneath his feet, doing nothing under mine. He’s panting slightly, his breath coming out in dragon-puffs. The park with two lakes is where Mark is headed. The one where we used to feed the maned ducks and clownish swamp hens. I am not short of breath in this world – in fact, I don’t see my breath at all.
We reach the park with its Moreton Bay fig trees, their spanning branches ancient and resplendent. Down the decline, his sneakers leave ghostly imprints of the past on the damp grass. He does a lap of one lake, the one where we used to try and spot tortoises near the edge, and then he sits on a park bench. The usually chatty birds are dormant, fluffing their plumage out for the night’s sleep.
I sit beside him, balancing really. How I’ve missed this place. Enjoy the little things, people always tell you – savour them is more sage advice. I want more, to really be here. Crossing over isn’t quite the same; the world appears fleshed out but somehow I am not.
I reach out for his hands, arms that once pulled me closer, that ignited me, jolted me, shocked me. In comparison, Nicholas’ embraces are buttery pastries. Although they lack Mark’s zing, if truth be told, they’re more comforting and loving.
My hands pass through Mark’s, the sensation is hotter than usual. He shudders. I stand up, facing him, the spirit leaning out and over the man at the park bench. We are the clichéd illustration.
Once again, my hands stretch out. They pause on his cheeks. Contact! His skin is searing hot. I draw my fingers back in pain. He sees me. He stares straight at me. He doesn’t leap up or scream – he’s not movie scared, he’s terrified, the kind of fear you have in a demonic nightmare. The petrification is real. Through the fear, though, I sense recognition. But is it recognition of our past or is it a fear of me stealing his present?
‘Mark,’ I say, voiceless. He sees me mouth his name.
His mien abruptly changes. His eyes grow fierce; his lips thin, almost snarling. His body tenses, ready to pounce, wolf-like. ‘Mark,’ I repeat, desperate to calm him, desperate for some sense of more. He leaps. Hands snatch my wrists. His grip is hot iron, branding me, tattooing the skin. I cannot move. I mouth his name, again and again to no avail. The pain drives me to my knees. I am weak – a limp doll.
Is it Arpana? Did she fare better than me? Is he cruel? Is it just as Al’s been saying all along: that the living can’t handle Adevillians? I’m diminishing, the light darkens despite the heat, my skin burns, the stench infiltrates my nostrils. Perhaps Mark understands what he’s doing, destroying the dead, wiping me away? Maybe he’s forcing me out for both of us? But why that sneer on his face? My wrists burn. The smoke and the reek of it all. I forget about a final connection, closure, openings, whatever it is I sought, and I try to scream, desperately attempting to pull away, but his hands are lava-like chains.
As I’m fading, in the din of evaporating sounds, I hear familiar voices – an old Australian accent and a Chicago-Italian.
And I am away. In the hall perhaps? My world is shadow, my wrists scorched. Giddy, I retch.
Hands lift me as the light slowly returns. Nicholas and Al stand either side, bearing my weight.
‘You’re comin’ to the sick bay, gal.’
‘Think she’ll be all right?’
‘Thanks to you, Nick. Wrists will take some healin’. Got to her jus‘n’time.’
The voices wane.
*
Nicholas still goes to the milk bar once a week, his own pilgrimage of remembrance. Occasionally, I go with him.
We’re taking our time. After all, it’s not a commodity we’re short of.
Nicholas, no sign of trembling, sits opposite me now on leather cushioned wooden chairs as we both sip our café au lait on marble tables, while a dozen or so customers at other tables do the same.
‘It was a mad search,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if it was our years together, or a need for resolution. Or should I say post-death resolution? Lust perhaps?’
‘For me it was holding on to the past.’
‘I think – clichéd as it sounds – underlying it all, was a search for meaning. You get me. What did it all mean with Mark? Why can we cross over?’
‘Just the nature of it all, I s’pose.’
‘And in the end, there weren’t any answers.’
‘Maybe that’s it. Maybe life’s just a series of unresolved questions.’
Smells of buttery French pastries and coffee waft around the room. Here in Adeville, Nick is moving towards my future and I’m moving towards his past, both of us crossing into something new, something unknown.
12-36
EG Wilson
She was cold. It was dark. She was hungry.
Where was she?
The time before now stretched eternal, black and empty as the farthest reaches of space.
She didn’t know.
Thin walls held her close on three sides: elbow, elbow, back, and there, in front of her nose, the fourth wall – a slanted grillwork that spilled golden light into her eyes. She lifted her head, felt the muscles in her neck contract and extend. She couldn’t see the ceiling. She lowered her head, felt the muscles in her neck extend and contract.
Where was she?
Engines thrummed beneath her bare feet, vibrations travelling through cool metal plating to tickle her toes. It made her giggle.
There was a crash from the other side of the grill. She jumped at the noise, the tickle of the engines shifting from her toes to the soles of her feet, and giggled again.
‘H-hello?’ There was a voice outside. ‘Is someone there?’
The tickling faded. She was silent, staring into the light.
‘Hello?’ The voice came again.
Maybe she should say something.
‘Is there someone on my boat?’ the voice demanded. ‘Listen, I don’t know who you are or how you came to be here—’
She didn’t know either.
‘—but if you’re there, you’d better come out right now, mister, and keep your hands where I can see ’em.’
She didn’t move.
A shadow passed in front of the grill, blocking the light. ‘Almighty-righty then. I’m opening the door, and I have a gun, so don’t try anything funny.’
The grill swung open. She blinked at the looming shadow, and it resolved into a form: a slim woman of maybe nineteen turns. Messy red curls fell to her shoulders, and she had a gun the length of her forearm levelled at … at … What was her name? Did she have one?
She didn’t know.
The woman’s face creased in confusion. ‘Hello there.’
She said nothing.
‘Who are you, then?’
She shook her head. She didn’t know.
The woman stepped back, letting light flood the tiny room, and lowered the gun. ‘Can you talk, little one?’
‘Yes,’ she said. She knew that much.
The woman nodded. ‘That’s something, at least. Are you going to hurt me?’
‘No.’
‘Then you can come out of that locker.’
She stepped out of the … locker … and into the space beyond. One look showed her everything, the knowledge appearing between one blink and the next: the sole-command cockpit to one side, the narrow bunks in front, the hygiene pod on her right. She turned, saw the narrow locker and the small square of cluttered table top, and looked at the woman.
‘I’m Tsione,’ the woman said.
The words echoed. It was odd, the things she knew now that she hadn’t known a moment before.
The woman glanced around the ship – a boat, she’d called it – before looking back at her and mustering a smile. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘No.’
The smile slipped from Tsione’s face. She sighed. ‘Can’t you say anything but yes and no?’
‘Yes,’ she said. The engines tickled her feet again, and she giggled.
‘Great,’ Tsione sighed. ‘So you’re a nameless kid who can only giggle and say yes and no. Where did you sneak on? Port Pratchett? Look at you, you’re brown as a nut. Okay, you snuck on at Port Pratchett and somehow I haven’t found you until now, when we’re out on the edge of absolute nowhere on the way to slightly less nowhere. Fantastic. I could’ve sworn I threw a jacket in that locker just last night.’
‘I didn’t sneak on at Port Pratchett. And you did.’
The jacket lay crumpled in the far corner of the locker.
Moving slowly, Tsione closed the door and latched it.
‘I wasn’t in there last night,’ she added. ‘If it’s any consolation.’
Tsione sat on the unmade lower bunk and put the gun down for long enough to pull her hair back in a messy knot with a bit of rubber flexiseal. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were you there long?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, and shivered.
‘Are you cold?’
‘Yes.’
Tsione pulled a thick jersey from the pile of blankets on the bunk and handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’ She shrugged it on. It was warm, and fell nearly to her knees.
‘So you don’t have a name?’
‘Yes.’ The reply was automatic. She blinked. She hadn’t had a name a minute ago.
Tsione tilted her head.
‘I have a name,’ she said carefully. ‘But I don’t know what it is.’
‘That’s helpful,’ Tsione muttered, rolling her eyes. ‘I have to call you somethin’. Can’t just say “hey, you” for the duration.’
An answer seemed to be expected. ‘Okay.’
‘Can I call you Eleutheria?’
‘No.’
‘Marybeth Anna Louise?’
‘No.’
‘Min Jung?’
‘No.’
‘Ashanti?’
‘No.’
Tsione frowned. ‘What can I call you?’
She thought and the answer came. ‘Rerenga.’
‘Rerenga?’
‘Yes.’
‘Funny name. Alright. Rerenga it is. Are you hungry, Rerenga?’
‘Yes,’ said Rerenga.
Tsione stood, rummaged in the cupboard over the table, and retrieved a covered bowl. ‘Here. It’s self-heating; just rip the top off and eat.’
Rerenga slid the chair from under the table and sat on it. She tore the lid off the bowl. A cloud of steam wafted up, smelling of spices, and she sneezed. The bowl rapidly grew too hot to hold; she placed it on a stack of papers and waited for the steam to dissipate, then peered inside.
It was very … square. There were cubes of brownish meat, and cubes of grey potato, and cubes of other green and yellow and orange things. She assumed they were vegetables.
She hesitated.
‘It’s okay,’ Tsione said, perching on the lower bunk again. ‘You can eat.’
Rerenga closed her eyes and said the first thing that came into her head, a string of words she only understood after she’d said them.
‘That wasn’t Ventional,’ said Tsione.
Rerenga looked at her. ‘Sorry?’ she offered.
‘No, no, it’s fine. I didn’t know you spoke Reo, is all. Hardly anyone does anymore.’
Rerenga gave her a noncommittal smile and turned back to her food. She lifted a hand, plucked a cube of meat from the steaming bowl and popped it in her mouth.
It was hot. She opened her mouth to let it cool down, and then chewed – and chewed – and finally swallowed. Mm. Interesting.
‘Oh, no, honey—’
Tsione was on her feet. Had she done something wrong?
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s okay, you, uh, you can’t have, um…’ Tsione trailed off, grabbed a fork from a cup of cutlery on the table, and handed it to her. ‘Here. Use this.’
After some fumbling she got it turned the right way, and then it was a matter of stab and eat, stab and eat. Much easier than burning her fingers on the hot cubes. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Tsione nodded. ‘And, um, try not to talk with your mouth full, okay?’
So many rules. ‘Okay.’
The engines growled beneath her feet. Tsione frowned and crossed to the control panels to check the instruments. Rerenga ate in silence, watching as the woman shrugged and turned back to tidy her bunk, slinging clothes into storage lockers under the bed and straightening the blankets.
‘You can have the top bunk,’ Tsione said, and then stopped. ‘Oh! I forgot.’ She stepped to the desk and pulled a red folder out from under the far pile of paperwork. Flipping through it, she ran a finger down the page. ‘Here. In case of unforeseen visitors. Ahem. Welcome to my spacecraft – that’s the Starstriker. I am your captain – also pilot, co-pilot, mechanic, security guard, medic, and general deckhand. My name is Tsione. I hope you enjoy your flight.’ She nodded and closed the folder.
‘Starstriker?’ Rerenga asked. The word tasted wrong in her mouth.
The engines growled again.
Tsione dropped her empty bowl into a chute beside the table. There was a flash of red and a strong smell of burning, and then it was gone. ‘It’s the name of my boat.’ She dropped into the pilot’s seat and bent over the control panel again.
‘What does it mean?’
‘It’s derived from “star-struck”, meaning impressed or dazzled. You know, by the glorious galaxy.’
Without looking up, she waved a hand in the general direction of the viewport. Outside, pinpricks of light lit the velvet darkness. A few sparkled like gems, shimmering redbluegreen without pause. Rerenga supposed it was an impressive sight.
She yawned.
‘You can go to bed, kid,’ Tsione said, still frowning at the instrument panel. ‘If you want. Bunk’s one step in front of you, h-pod’s two steps to your right. Make yourself at home.’
Vibrations tickled her feet, and Rerenga smiled. ‘I will. Thank you.’
She made use of the h-pod and then clambered onto the top bunk and burrowed under the blankets. Tsione glanced up, saw her, and waved the golden cabin lights off, leaving only the glow of the instrument panels for illumination.
She was roused later by a hand on her shoulder.
‘Och, dree your weird,’ she muttered, and then woke up properly. ‘What is it?’
‘Engines are out,’ Tsione said. ‘They were playing up earlier, and now they’ve gone dead. I’m working on figurin’ out what’s wrong, but it could take a while. I’m just warning you: it was already set to be a long time until we made planetfall, and now it’ll be even longer. But it’s probably nothing to worry about.’ She flashed a strained smile in the half-light.
‘Okay.’
‘We’re dead in the water and all you can say is “okay”?’
Was it not the right thing to say? ‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, forget it. Go back to sleep.’
Tsione dropped to the floor. Rerenga rolled over and went back to sleep.
She woke hours later, well-rested. It was nice to nestle into the blankets and stare at the metal plate ceiling; but nature called.
She dr
opped from the top bunk and walked the two paces to the h-pod. A few minutes later she walked back out. Tsione was fast asleep on the bottom bunk, her mop of red curls all that could be seen past the pile of blankets. The ship lay quiet and cold, almost alien without the steady thrum of engines. The time stamp on the wall above the table read…
Huh?
It hadn’t changed since she’d been woken by Tsione in the middle of the night. That was odd.
Tsione woke twenty minutes later and almost tripped over Rerenga on her way to the h-pod. She waved the lights up, mumbled something inarticulate, and stepped over Rerenga’s outstretched legs, vanishing into the cubicle.
The first thing she said when she emerged, hair loose and damp, was: ‘Why are you sitting on the floor?’
‘I’m watching the clock.’
Tsione glanced at the wall. ‘It stopped last night.’
‘It stopped at twelve thirty-six.’
‘It shouldn’t have stopped at all,’ Tsione said, buttoning her overshirt. ‘That’s a kinetic battery, every movement drives the next one; it can’t stop. It’s not even been in here nine months.’
She crossed to the table and stared at the unmoving time stamp. She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing I can do. It was built right into the wall, I can’t get at the wiring to have a look.’
‘It stopped at twelve thirty-six,’ Rerenga said again.
Tsione threw her a single-serve packet of cereal. ‘Is it a problem?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was a dull sense of foreboding in the pit of her stomach, but nothing more.
Tsione slid into the pilot’s seat with a groan.
Rerenga went back to watching the clock.
The cabin lights went out a while later. Backlit by the blue glow of the control panel, Tsione looked ceilingward and muttered a curse, adding hastily, ‘Sorry, kid. Don’t mind me.’
‘We’ve still got instrument lights,’ Rerenga said.
‘Instrument lights, yes. Instruments themselves…’ She flipped a couple of switches, shook her head, and returned them to their resting places. ‘Not so much.’ She slapped a hand on the edge of the console. ‘No engines, no lights, and now no instruments. What in the name of the seven systems did you bring with you onto my boat?’
