Black Light

by Bedford, K. A.

  “Ruth?” Gordon was looking at me, worried.

  I apologised. “Lot on my mind. Beg your pardon.”

  At length, Gordon persuaded me that sneaking onto the Hawkins property first would be the wisest course. I could certainly see the merit in getting the worst part over quickly. I had always found it wise, when volunteers are called for in any situation, to be the first to leap forward. Volunteers are never called for when something enjoyable is in prospect, and the only thing worse than going through the dire experience itself is the worry about how bad it will be, which only worsens for those whose turn comes later.

  “What are we going to do for light?” I asked.

  “I have taken the liberty of purchasing a pair of lamps, which should do nicely.”

  “What? No magical mystical light on a stick?” I smiled at him.

  “Sadly, no. I’ll need my strength in the event we find the circle.”

  This cleaned the smile right off my face. “Why would that be?”

  “If we need to destroy the circle, it can take a certain amount of effort to overwhelm the power of the summoner. The universe has adapted itself to the circle’s presence and what it’s doing. That creates a good deal of resistance or inertia, you see … ”

  “The universe? The whole universe?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, without elaborating further.

  It was just after midnight when we set out. Our breath steamed around our faces. So far the expected rain had not arrived; the sky was a misery of low-hanging cloud, obscuring stars and moon. Around us, as I drove us out of town, along Old Hitchinbury Road, heading south, the bush felt more still than usual. I kept thinking of Rutherford, loyally sitting there in his heavy-weather gear, sipping soup, awaiting the arrival of anything out of the ordinary. I considered giving Rutherford an increase in his salary.

  Gordon spotted the Hawkins Road turnoff and pointed.

  Tension was knotting me up inside. I made the turn.

  Two miles to go.

  “It’ll be all right, Ruth.”

  “I shall be very cross if you’re wrong, Gordon Duncombe.”

  “Me, too,” he said.

  We soon found the Hawkins property. Their letterbox was constructed out of second-hand bricks and lengths of wood that might have been left over from a destroyed house, perhaps by fire. It was customary out in the countryside, I knew, for people to build their own letterboxes out of whatever items came to hand.

  From the main gate, shaded by tall gum trees, we could see the sprawl of the homestead, its outhouse, and an impressive corrugated iron water-tank perched on the flank of the hill. Nearby stood a barn, a large shearing shed, a rickety garage sort of arrangement that looked temporary at best, and some other more modest structures. Two motorcars, both past their prime, and one in pieces, stood near the garage. Not far away was a heap of old machinery, and another great heap, bristling with the twisted and burned roots of torn-up old trees; the Hawkins clan had been clearing some new land, by the looks. We also saw sheep clustered here and there across several paddocks.

  “Leave the Tulip up here?” I asked Gordon, not meaning to whisper.

  “Might be an idea,” he said, also whispering. “If only the thing wasn’t so recognisable … ”

  It was the only French roadster in town; one of only a few in all Australia, I thought. Up until now, that had always been a good thing. Now it was like an electric sign advertising my presence to all passersby. “Is there anything you can do, Gordon?”

  He looked at me, “It’s a bit big, Ruth. I’d have to sacrifice something pretty significant to complete the deal.” He looked very reluctant. We settled for pushing the car off the road more and into a thick stand of trees and bushes, and set about trying to conceal it. No matter what we did, it looked like a car, and it looked like something rather more exotic than the plain and box-like motorcars seen elsewhere in town. Even standing some distance away, I could still see the brasswork around the headlamps gleaming. I muttered unladylike things and decided simply to press on with our mission.

  Gordon, meanwhile, had unchained the freshly painted main gate and was waving at me to go through. Once properly on Hawkins land, my nerves intensified. I expected at any moment to hear large dogs barking in protest and hurtling at me, all white teeth and rippling sinews. Gordon said, “Here, time to add a little glamour.” I wish I could describe what he did next, but it was over before I could even see him clearly. All at once, I felt warmer, and there was a little more light, as if the moon were visible. It was a confounding sensation, right on the edge of perception; faint, but so constant that one could not ignore it. It was a little like a mild toothache, without the pain, but with the urge to keep poking one’s tongue at it, so to speak. As I tried to adjust myself to this new, mystical state of being, Gordon quickly went through the motions for himself, and then murmured, “The deal is done.” He shook his head, looking distressed for a long moment. I suspected he was thinking about what he would have to sacrifice to the universe, and that it was something costly to lose. I hated to think what that might be, and didn’t ask, as I should have done.

  We ventured down the driveway, keeping to the grass next to the gravel.

  23

  Nothing disturbed us; and we appeared to disturb nothing in return. I trod as softly as I could, thinking about the almost-weightless steps of a kitten, as if that might help. Gordon, however, simply strolled along towards the house as if he were ambling by the side of the road on a perfect autumn day. For his part, he looked at me as if amused at my great efforts at stealth.

  In the too-quiet stillness, I saw, nearby, an owl dive for the grass, and then flap effortlessly away towards the trees, something small and helpless struggling in its lethal claws. If I had not been looking that way, I realised, I would never have seen it. It reminded me that, despite appearances, the world was neither asleep, nor friendly.

  The Hawkins house was a large, flat homestead, with broad verandahs all the way around. A few chairs and tables stood here and there in places where one might catch what was left of the afternoon sea breeze. The yard was well maintained: as well as an extensive vegetable garden they had a modest garden of flowers featuring some well-pruned roses, all of them asleep for the night.

  Two impressive German shepherds slept on a patched old chaise longue on one verandah. Around their necks were substantial leather collars connected to long, heavy chains fixed to a bracket on the wall nearby. One of the dogs was dreaming, feet and tail twitching; the other dog lay on her back, forelegs stuck straight up in the air.

  “Now what?” I whispered to Gordon.

  “How do you mean?” he said, in a much louder stage whisper that I thought would alert both dogs at once.

  “Well, look! What about these dogs?”

  “Beautiful animals, I must say. Excellent condition.”

  “When will they realise we’re here?”

  “Depends.”

  “Depends on what exactly?”

  “How much noise we make!”

  He took some delicate steps forward. Nothing happened. The dog with her feet up rolled on to her flank, legs still stuck out. Gordon lifted his right foot, preparing to try the first of the wooden steps. I stood with my hands over my face; I could hardly watch, and I did not want any accidental sounds I might make in my anxiety to give us away. My knees felt weak. Gordon tried the step. It held his foot’s weight. He nodded to himself. He leaned in, and still the step remained silent. He shifted himself up and soon stood on the lowest step. “Come on,” he said.

  I approached. I could hear the dreaming dog snoring. It was surprisingly loud.

  Behind me, I was aware of a light wind soughing through the treetops.

  Gordon was up on the verandah.

  I shivered. I made my way up the steps. I could feel the wood flex a little, but it did not creak. Soon I was up on the verandah with Gordon. The sleeping dogs were perhaps four feet to my right. They had rather more than four feet of chai
n — that I could see — and probably more.

  Gordon pointed at a door to his left. “Kitchen door,” he said.

  So far we had had no need of our lanterns. The silvery glimmer of the shadow glamour provided just enough illumination.

  Gordon strolled over to the kitchen door. Unable to believe his casual air, I stepped as if my life depended on it.

  A board under my right boot emitted a mild squeak.

  I stopped, heart hammering in my throat. I watched the dogs. The dreaming dog opened his eyes a little and glanced about, ears twitching, but he soon subsided, making loud snuffling and grumbling noises.

  Gordon looked at me and smiled.

  I could hardly move.

  Gordon took my gloved hand and drew me to the door. There was a flywire panel in the upper half of the outer, light wooden door. Gordon pulled this aside; it made a small squeaking sound that disturbed neither dog. Behind the flyscreen door, the heavy main door stood locked against us. Gordon produced a set of iron lockpicks, and soon we heard a clunk! and he turned the brass knob of the door, which opened without a sound. He put away his tools; I heard them clink in his pocket.

  “Have you done this sort of thing before, Gordon?”

  “I am a man of many talents,” he said, without further clarification.

  From the kitchen I smelled recent cooking: fried meat, boiled potatoes, peas and beans, something that was probably pumpkin.

  It was a large kitchen, with workbenches all around, and cabinets above and below. The black iron range quietly roared and hissed in its alcove. Glass jars held banksia heads. Everything was clean and tidy.

  Gordon glanced about the room, edging around the great, scarred wooden chopping block that dominated the centre of the kitchen. He was looking at doors, trying to figure out which one led down to the cellar. I could hear two adults snoring not far away. Less clear, but somehow more piercing and immediate, was the sound of a small child crying softly, probably in its sleep. As Gordon tried the three other doors, all I could hear was this crying. At the moment it was not loud, not hacking sobs and wailing, but it was loud enough.

  “Here,” Gordon said, pointing at an opened door with black nothingness beyond.

  The child’s crying gave way to calling its mother. “Muuuuuuuuum … ? Muuuu-uuuuum … ?”

  I went to the cellar door as quickly as I dared.

  Gordon showed me a rickety-looking flight of narrow steps leading down.

  The Hawkins mother called out, “Hang on, love, hang on … ”

  Gordon went first and I needed no encouragement to follow quickly; I eased the cellar door shut behind me. The mother did not pass through the kitchen, but I heard her padding along a hallway, saying something, and I heard her child say something in halting tones. I was thinking, We should not be doing this! At any moment we would be discovered, I was sure of it.

  Gordon lit his shuttered lamp. This took longer than I would have liked. I heard someone, probably the mother, come into the kitchen. It sounded like she was filling the iron kettle with water and I heard it go clank on the range. Gordon’s lamp lit; he closed the open shutter. I was sure the mother, even half-asleep, would notice a strange glow from under the cellar door. She was moving around, and I heard her open the icebox, rummaging for something.

  Gordon started down the steps.

  The second step emitted a loud squeak.

  From the kitchen, I heard no change in the mother’s activity. I assumed she was making her child something to eat.

  Gordon had stopped cold on the steps, looking back at the door. Ahead of him, the dim glow from around the lamp’s shutters revealed a stone wall. It was impossible to see what lay below.

  “Do you feel that?” he whispered, this time with no trace of his previous confidence.

  “Pardon?”

  “It feels colder than it should.”

  “We’re underground.”

  When we could no longer hear noise from the kitchen, Gordon risked the next step. It groaned faintly. I wondered if I could somehow avoid the loud step. As Gordon ventured further down the steps, I followed, trying to keep to the edge nearest the wall, where they squeaked least.

  Gordon reached the floor. “Flagstones,” he said. As he held the lamp out, one shutter slightly open, and looked around, we saw that the cellar was full of big wooden tea chests, each one smelling of its original contents. Now they seemed full of odd bits and pieces. Gordon looked distracted as he examined a few to see what interesting items the Hawkinses might be storing. I was pleased, as I reached the floor, to have avoided spiderwebs so far. Gordon aimed the light at the gritty floor; two large cockroaches scuttled out of the faint glow.

  I managed to suppress the disgusted squeal that I felt, and resolved to crush any such creatures I found. I have never been able quite to believe the cockroaches in this country. The first time I saw one after arriving here, I had been so horrified that I had very nearly turned around and sought the first boat home. Such creatures were unnatural, I was sure. Now I had to suppress my revulsion as I thought I felt them crawling over my boots. When I got home, I would need a long, very hot bath.

  Gordon was peering around in the small cellar, studying the floor, sometimes touching it with the palm of his hand. He was deep in frowning thought.

  When I could break my mind away from its fevered imaginings, I asked him, “Any luck?”

  “Not so far, I must say,” he said, sounding not as annoyed as I thought he would be. “There’s nothing down here … ”

  “Are you sure? Is it possible the summoner could conceal it from you?”

  “Not a circle of power. It would fairly hum with its energy, particularly if it was employed in manifesting an entity like … well … ”

  “So it’s not as if he’s just shifted a tea chest over it.”

  “The tea chest would have extensive charring all over it, and might even have caught fire.”

  He was examining the stone walls, as best he could with the tea chests stacked around here and there. I saw him rapping on the exposed stonework with his knuckles, and he was listening, perhaps for a hollow sound. At length he shook his head and looked disappointed. “Just a cellar,” he said.

  “In that case, we can …?”

  “We can go, yes.”

  I did not need telling twice. We worked our way up the steps, keeping to the edges of the ones that creaked. At the top, standing at the kitchen door, we listened. I could no longer hear the child crying. The mother seemed to have gone back to bed.

  Gordon doused the lamp; it reeked of oil and a little smoke.

  He eased open the door, peered about, and stepped up into the kitchen. “Come on,” he said.

  I joined him. The silvery light was a welcome change after the cold blackness of the cellar. We edged towards the door by which we entered. Close by the sink, I heard one of the snores abruptly stop, followed by a vague muttering, and then footsteps. The other snoring, which I assumed was the mother, stopped then, too, and she murmured something. He murmured something back. Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall, heading for the kitchen.

  We were about five feet from the verandah door. Gordon was still moving. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at the door.

  Frank Hawkins, his beergut preceding him, lumbered into the kitchen, crossed the room, did not stop at the icebox, and kept going, heading for the door that would lead outside, to the outhouse. In the strange light, it was difficult to tell, but it looked as if he was almost asleep, even as he plodded about the house. Certainly he spotted neither of us. As he pushed open the back door, which led out onto the verandah on that side of the house, Gordon dragged me out onto the verandah on this side.

  The two dogs were awake and barking, pleased to see their master, even if he was only on his way to the privy.

  “Run for it?” I asked Gordon.

  “As soon as he shuts the privy door … Right. Now!”

  We ran. The plan was to cover as much ground as we could, and
with a bit of luck get beyond the reach of the dogs’ generous chains. My lungs burned; I was not used to this kind of exertion. Gordon, though he was always tinkering and fiddling with machines, was equally unused to such efforts. By the time we reached the property’s main gate, we were both wheezing and coughing, slumped against the fence, perspiring freely. And, as we pushed the Tulip down the road away from the Hawkins property, it was all we could do to keep from giggling like naughty schoolchildren.

  We found the circle in the cellar of the abandoned Cahill house.

  It took us a long time simply getting to the cellar on that property. Our efforts were not helped by the house’s dilapidation. Where the Hawkins house had been clean and tidy, and where the cellar featured nothing worse than cockroaches scuttling across the floor and over my feet, the Cahill house was a flimsy death-trap wreathed in the webs of very large spiders and full of rotted floorboards. Even wading through the long grass up to the house was fraught with peril; with every step I worried I would disturb a sleeping snake. Gordon, by contrast, pushed through the weeds without any apparent caution.

  It was only when we stepped inside the ruined house that our problems began.