Sunlit Shadow Dance

by Graham Wilson

  He wondered, as he saw her now, if on the day when she gave Mark to the crocodiles, whether in that act a part of the crocodile’s spirit occupied her soul and now this part consumed her spirit from its inside place.

  He must find a tribal medicine man from the place of crocodile spirits, and see if she could be healed that way. The crocodile stone was working as a medicine pill that kept the disease at bay, but it was no cure. The soul cancer was still there; when the link was broken the disease would return.

  But still it was something, a lifeline to buy time, time to find healing. He knew he must bring her back to the land of the crocodiles for this.

  Chapter 43– Last Will and Testament

  It was now mid-March, only than a month to go until Anne’s wedding and plans were well advanced. The days were much longer now and the grip of winter was easing, most of the snow was gone from the hillsides and the trees were all in bud and early leaves, with flushes of early flowers starting to poke up their heads in the meadows.

  Anne was flying in, arriving in two weeks. Once she came Susan would take the children and stay with her parents in Reading for a fortnight. That way she could share in all the final preparations with her friend, going to the church rehearsals and the hens’ night amongst many other things.

  David was flying in three nights before the wedding, on the Wednesday. Most of the other Australian contingent arrived that day or the day after. Vic would also go down that Wednesday, taking the following week off flying.

  There was a bucks’ night on Thursday, where Vic would join many of the other Australian contingent, along with Susan’s brother and a couple other locals to give David a proper Aussie send off. Friday was a quiet night before the wedding on Saturday in Greyfriars Church, a treasure of an old Francisan building in the heart of Reading.

  Susan and Anne had both been baptized and confirmed there so it was familiar from both their early lives. It was a place where Susan had taken Vic to sit quietly and meditate on their last visit to her parents, a month ago. That day, the old building with seven hundred years of history gave him a sense of calm and contentment as they sat amidst its lofty, soaring arches.

  One night Vic and Susan were undertaking their ritual of reading two pages of the diary together, an institution they still maintained, resisting temptation to skip ahead, determined to both know this man as fully as possible through the words he had written. They were taking turns reading sections; Vic’s concentration was a bit amiss tonight, thinking of the trips he was booked to make in the helicopter the next day.

  As he was reading his part, feeling dreamy, the book slid from his hands. He made a grab for it, grasping the edge of the back cover. It fell open in his hand in a place without writing. A single sheet of paper fluttered out, floating in an unseen air eddy before it fell. Susan reached out and grabbed it. She turned it face up so they could both read what it said.

  Vic’s eyes began reading, the tight small writing; he knew the hand which wrote it. Susan was looking at Vic not the paper, saying, “I didn’t know that was there. Perhaps I left a sheet of paper in it one day.”

  Vic shook his head; he had already read enough to know what it was. Part of him wished he could make it vanish unread; love letter from another.

  He knew the words belonged to Susan and they read:

  You probably wonder why I say this now when I could not say it to your pleading eyes just a short while ago. I cannot answer as I do not know. All I know is that I could not give you false hope for a future together in this life, to do that would have been a worse lie.

  There was a time yesterday, when I was angry with you. Then I thought maybe I could kill you as I killed those others. But I knew, in that instant when you tried to jump in front of that truck, that it was impossible. In a choice between me and you, you must live; my life is of less importance.

  I am sorry my actions have frightened you, I have seen fear of me in your eyes and I hate that. I understand why. I must hurt you no more. That leaves only one way.

  Now, with the first light of dawn, that time of choice has come and must be acted on.

  I have just looked at your beautiful face as you lie sleeping. It is peaceful and I hope your dreams are good. I hope you dream of happy times with me.

  There are so many memories of you in my mind now and their joy will never go away, it will be my last memory. I remember riding on the beach, sharing a helicopter dance, your eyes as I gave you the pendant and the ring. But most of all I remember loving you, holding your body in my arms, your hair in my face, loving you over and over and over again. While I have had you like this so many times, as I watch you sleep, I ache to feel you again this way, just one more last time.

  Before I write a final goodbye, I must tell you a few practical things. In my briefcase, combination 2153, you will find two things which I would like you to have. Do not give them to others, at least not until you have decided for yourself what you want to do with them.

  The first is a pouch of precious stones. They are mine, bought and paid for in full by me. They are all of high quality. I think their value is between one and two million dollars, perhaps more. They now belong to you.

  The second is my diary. It tells of what I have done over the last five years. I ask that you read it so you know the good and bad of me. After this you may give it to the police or pass information in it to the families of others whose death I am responsible for. I wish I could feel guilt over them but I do not, I did not set out with the purpose of harming any of them. However you must judge this and me with your own eyes and conscience.

  I have made a will. It is set between the back leaf and cover of my diary, inserted into this space which is glued closed. It has been witnessed by two friends I trust. It leaves all I possess to you, and gives the details of how to access what I own.

  Now all is said and I must say goodbye. I leave this where I hope you will find it, alongside your English passport which contains a picture of your smiling face. I have just touched and kissed this one last time. I would kiss the real face, but that may awake you too soon.

  Now I go to the water’s edge. My own crocodile totem will to talk to the crocodile spirits of this place until our spirits are as one. Then I will swim out to join the crocodiles and offer my body to them as a gift. I will wait until your eyes are open, before I go. I would rather not give you this pain, but you must see me go to know I have gone, so as to have freedom from me again.

  If any of me remains when it is done, I ask that you place the ashes of these parts in the place of the rainbow spirits, that place we looked at and loved together, when first we walked in the desert. There my spirit will walk in freedom, along with many other spirits of this land, holding forever an image of your love amongst the twilight colors.

  I wish you a good and happy life with someone else, who will love you, and who you will love in return, in the same way that we have loved. I am blessed to have had this time with you.

  All my love

  Mark

  They sat still and in silence for a long time after each read the letter. Susan seemed less moved than he was even though it was a letter to her.

  He sat there, tears oozing from his eyes, breaths feeling like sobs. He thought of the bravery of his friend, of what might have been. Mark had given Vic his blessing to take and love this woman.

  This paper was a message to him as much as to her, a message from a brother. Part of him wished this brother had lived to share this joy instead, to watch his children grow, to throw them in the air with his roguish grin.

  For Susan, Mark was but a name and a few disjunct images, not the life force he remembered. So it was left to him to grieve for what she had lost, it was for the loss of his friend and a life unlived. Now he felt he was back in the river, his friend pushing him on, God how he missed him.

  Susan was practical now. “He talks about a will, did you know of a will, were you one of the witnesses?”

  Vic was too distracted to talk
of this or look further. He told Susan to let it wait for another day. She nodded, cuddled into him and fell asleep. For a long time he sat and stared at that paper sheet.

  It was written for her but the words were balm to his soul. Sometimes in the dark days of the winter past he had felt rage and anger towards this man, blaming him for stealing away the soul of the woman he loved each night, and dimming the light in her eyes. Even if it was true, and he felt it was not, he could not begrudge this man a part of her. He was the inheritor of the sunlight, this man lived only in shadows.

  He felt a great sense of agency for his friend, he had witnessed the will, he would carefully ensure it was done. He would do all he could to fulfill the trust given to care for the woman they both loved. It was enough.

  Vic was roused early when daylight was but a gleam. It was Susan, saying, “You asked me to call you early to drive to work. Now you must go. I will leave the will for your return.”

  It was four days before he returned. Then their lives were full for the next two days. The diary got left aside, sitting on the dresser in the corner for that visit, and for the next and the next. They both thought of it but neither wanted to open it and take from it its hidden codicil. It had waited there for more than three years now, what was a little longer?

  Then Anne was arriving the next day and all the time went into packing and preparations for Susan and the children to go to Reading. Vic took them to the train, waved goodbye to them and drove back to the farm. Early next day he would return to Aberdeen for five days more flying before he joined the wedding party.

  So this night the house was quiet, just him and his aunt, no children’s play and laughter. He went to the bedroom and put a pillow to his face, feasting on the smell of her. He saw the diary in the corner. It was time.

  He saw the back cover bulged slightly. He found a penknife and lifted the glued sheet which bound the cover. There were several sheets of paper in that space in two lots. He extracted the first. It was familiar, titled.

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF VINCENT MARCO BASSINGHAM

  It was relatively straight forward. Other than pages referred to as Attachments 1 and 2, which sat behind the signed document, it said.

  I leave all those things I own and possess to Susan MacDonald, except for the bequests I make as detailed in Attachment 1.

  Attachment 2 provides a list of assets which comprise my estate and which I authorize the trustees of my estate to dispose of as they see fit.

  I name as executors of my estate, Vikram Campbell and Buck Mathews.

  I further ask that the executors contact and make arrangement for the ongoing support and protection of my African child, Nathaniel Mark Nockezume. I give them full discretion as to the manner in which they do so. He lives with his Grandmother in Mozambique at the address in Attachment 1

  Below this sat two signatures, he recognized these as Buck’s and his own along with that of Vincent Marco Bassingham, the man he only really knew as Mark B, but still the best friend whose instructions he would follow to a T.

  Chapter 44 – African Boy

  David’s ‘Buck’s Night’ was a night straight from his Australian home; most voices in the crowd had broad Aussie accents. Buck and Julie had come over as part of the gang and their trip for the wedding was to be followed by some European sightseeing. Alan and Sandy were here too, talking of plans for their own outback wedding in Darwin. The night started at the hotel they were staying at, with pre-drinks for the whole Aussie contingent, gradually added to by locals such as Anne and Susan’s joint friends from their English lives and a few well heeled legal eagles from the city firm Anne worked for.

  Once all the boys were assembled they took to a bus and moved on in the best Aussie style towards central London, doing the whole nine yards with a succession of pubs and increasingly raunchy venues, finished by a late night stripper, though David was, by then, in no state for any serious action.

  Sandy professed disappointment at being unable to come along with the boys, so she and Julie, along with Susan and Anne and Susan’s Australian cousins had their own impromptu girls’ night out together, though in a different part of the town, to ensure that paths did not cross.

  Next day was not so flash for the boys, hangover cures aplenty were touted. None really worked though, as the day wore on, the passage of time ensured that all gradually felt better.

  The Australians and others from out of town had taken over a large part of their hotel in downtown Reading. The smoking room was now a place of boys, with dark glasses to avoid the glare, nursing watered drinks and with their female partners showing a remarkable lack of sympathy ass they sipped on Gin and Tonics, consumed plates of fries and mocked their men folk for being piss-weak and having poor staying power.

  Vic was one of the better off though he had enjoyed the best night out since he left home, the ‘Ocker’ humor worked best for him, full of mocking asides and little put downs; David parodied by brothers and cousins alike.

  But that was last night. Now he needed to talk to Buck, his fellow executor about Mark’s will. He and Susan had only spent brief moments together since his arrival at her family’s house the night before last, she was busy with a church rehearsal when he arrived and by the end of a night of many meetings and greetings they both slumped into bed exhausted.

  So, yesterday morning, he had only mentioned the will to her and told her briefly of the contents. He really wanted to talk to Buck in the first instance; it was up to the two of them had to work out the details. She was the main beneficiary once all the dust settled, but their job came first, to interpret and follow the written instructions.

  The stones Susan had discovered were now stored in an Edinburgh bank vault with a conservative estimate placing their value at two to three million pounds plus. It was likely a big plus due to the quality of what was seen. But they were Susan’s private inheritance, as the letter from Mark made clear. So even though Susan said they should be considered as part of the estate, Vic did not agree and he was planned to forget about them for now.

  Still he had to give it to Mark; he knew his rocks and had collected the good ones. The two gem assessors had drooled over them, saying they might be worth as much as five million pounds or even more, perhaps as much as all the rest of his assets was sitting in that one little pouch. But that was the business of another day.

  It was the list of things in the will that he needed to discuss, a long list of properties, shares and many other assets. Vic’s own rough estimate was that this list easily translated into upwards of ten million Aussie dollars, or five million English pounds.

  The bequests to come out were pretty simple, an amount of $500,000 for him and the same for Buck, a few smaller amounts for others like Mark’s Uncle and some other bush mates, say another couple hundred thousand Australian dollars.

  The rest was all the property of Susan, which seemed doubly fitting as it would become Mark’s own children’s inheritance one day, though Mark had not known that when he gave it to her. So in due course he and Buck would talk to Susan together, in their joint role, about how to realize the value, what to sell and what to hold, all those mundane details.

  What he really wanted to discuss with Buck most was what to do about the African boy, Nathaniel. Mark clearly named him as his own child and had asked them to ensure his care and support as they saw fit. But apart from a name and address they knew nothing about where he lived and what his circumstances were, not even an age.

  So now they sat and talked. Vic had two copies of the will in his hand, one him and one for Buck. The original he had left with the family lawyer, locked in his office safe for safe keeping.

  He passed a copy to Buck saying, “I see your signature here alongside mine. I think you have seen this before. He sat silent as Buck read and digested, letting out a whistle.

  “I knew the old bastard was loaded; it was obvious despite his simple life. But all this! It somehow seems wrong to take from him after what he has done. Per
haps the money should go to the families of those he harmed. What about you, I see you are named like me as a beneficiary.”

  Vic said, “I have thought about it, the same as you. At first I thought I should not take it, Susan has plenty to meet her needs and I can make my own money. But then I thought: He was my friend; he wanted me to have it. So I will accept his wishes and take it with gratitude, as should you.

  “You have always talked buying your own place to run cattle back in Queensland, separate from your family’s farm. Mark would have wanted you to have that. He would rather that your farm be a continuance of what he once owned; good horses in a paddock and cattle growing fat rather than money or shares in a bank vault.

  “For me, I have a yen to return to the land of my birth and I think Susan would like it too. We have not properly talked about it, but since seeing her Aussie friends she has said it, she would like to live in bright sunlight and see her best friend, Anne, often. So perhaps I shall buy a new helicopter and return to the life I knew. I must talk it fully through with her first but, if she agrees, that is what I will do.

  “But the reason I wanted to talk today is to decide what to do about the one other person Mark names in his will, not as a beneficiary but as a child of his. I know nothing of Africa, other than Mark told me once he fought there as a mercenary, the bullet fragments in his arm tell of that too. It appears he did more than that; he sired a brat, a child with an African name.

  “All I know, as you can see too, is this boy of his lives in Mozambique somewhere. It must be a small village. I cannot find it on a map. Did Mark ever tell you of this?”