Elegy

by Jane Abbott

  About the Book

  In a small Australian town, the most epic love story in history is unfolding … again.

  Everybody knows everyone in Kincasey, and nothing ever happens. That’s what Jenny thinks when she moves there – until she meets the mysterious Michael Webster.

  But when Michael gets into a fight with the town bully, long-held resentments simmer to the surface, loyalties are tested, and Jenny finds herself the centre of attention. Her situation isn’t helped by a deepening friendship with Michael’s stepbrother, Gabe, or her jealousy of Gabe’s beautiful but aloof sister, Caitlin.

  Caitlin is the only one who knows the terrible truth: this isn’t the first life she and Michael have lived. They have a destiny to fulfil – and it’s time for Michael’s powers to awaken. But what use is power if it can’t give you what you most desire?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Road toll climbs

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Epilogue

  Again

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  For Brontë

  What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.

  ECCLESIASTES 1:9

  I recognised Michael immediately. I always do.

  Six and sullen, he stood in the kitchen, facing the three of us, Barb behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He wore a stained T-shirt, shorts and odd socks, his runners shabby; a shoelace trailed the floor. Jim leaned against the doorjamb, already sizing him up, looking for faults. Barb nudged Michael forwards.

  ‘Caitlin, Gabe, this is Mike.’ She looked at me. ‘You two are almost the same age.’

  I stared at him for a long time, Gabe beside me, relaxed and already smiling. He was always like that.

  ‘Not Mike. Michael,’ I said, breathing the word like a sigh. And when I spoke his name, he cocked his head a little and I saw anew the one I’d known: Titan, king, warrior, slave, flashes of triumph and misery jumbled together. Then he was a boy again, still to be tried.

  We’ve danced like this before, he and I, starting slow with small steps, not always in time. Sometimes there is no music. Sometimes others cut in. Sometimes the dance floor is empty and I am the wallflower, sometimes it’s crowded and we never meet. And sometimes, just a few times, as one leads and the other follows, a rhythm builds, underscoring and overwhelming everything else. But the time between dances can be long and it’s hard to be patient.

  ‘Come on,’ Gabe said, breaking the silence. ‘I’ll show you around.’

  Michael glanced up at his mother before shrugging thin shoulders and, as I watched him follow my brother out into the hall, through what would soon become his new home, I willed him to look back, to acknowledge me in some way. But he never turned his head.

  Michael didn’t know me. He never does.

  * * *

  Road toll climbs

  FOUR PEOPLE HAVE REPORTEDLY DIED IN a road accident in north central Victoria overnight. The collision, involving a truck and two cars, one of which caught fire, blocked access between Kincasey and Wittledon as emergency services worked through the night to free bodies from the wreckage.

  Police are yet to release the names of the victims but say that preliminary investigations have ruled out excessive speed as the cause. They are urging all drivers to take care as wet weather continues to create hazardous conditions.

  This is the fourth fatal accident on Victorian roads since the start of the school holidays, bringing the state’s annual road toll to 83, five more than at the same time last year.

  * * *

  What are men? Mortal gods.

  What are gods? Immortal men.

  HERACLITUS

  I

  This is how it begins, Michael, how it always begins. With a word.

  Later, it would be this that he’d remember: dark words burnished silver by a sad smile. The words, her smile and then her touch, light, to soothe.

  But that January afternoon was the same as any other, giving no warning of what was to come, and Michael wasn’t thinking of anything much at all. Too hot, the dry air evaporated thoughts as quickly as they formed and he and Gabe stretched like lizards above the waterhole, pressing themselves to the baked earth. Faded land rolled out beneath a faded sky; eucalyptus hazed the air, sticky and pungent; the old windmill that pumped water from the spring to the upper dam had ceased its creaking. Even the flies were lazy, content to settle on their bodies, the boys too listless to care. Except for the odd splash from the waterhole, where Old George, the lone carp, snatched unwary dragonflies, there was no other sound.

  Gabe lay on his back, his hat propped over his face; Michael rested prone, his forearms numbing on the ground. Every now and then he’d flick a grasshopper to land on Gabe’s chest and watch him start and brush at it before it vanished.

  ‘Quit doing that,’ Gabe mumbled under his hat. ‘There’ll be hell to pay if she sees you.’

  ‘She’s not here,’ Michael said, watching the beetle he’d conjured climb the contours of his hand. He could feel its tiny claws grip his skin, and see the sheen of its shell, rounded and almost real. A gentle puff and it rose to drift across and hang in the air before dropping like a stone onto Gabe’s stomach.

  ‘Jesus!’ He lurched up and glared, swatting at Michael with his hat; the beetle rolled to the ground and melted away. ‘Why don’t you try doing something useful? Get a breeze blowing or something.’

  ‘I wish,’ Michael replied, and rolled over; sharp stones needled his back.

  Gabe grumbled and stood. ‘I’m going in again. You coming?’

  Raising himself on his elbows, his eyes slit against the glare of sunlight on water, Michael stared at the pool. ‘Nah.’

  He watched Gabe swim for a bit then turn onto his back to float, arms and legs outstretched, a bright cross on a deep-green backdrop. His light hair, darkened by the water, haloed his head, and his hands turned gently to keep his body suspended.

  Strangers would never take them for brothers and in a way they’d be right. But blood wasn’t everything and there weren’t too many strangers where they were. Small towns make for big reputations, and for almost eleven years the two of them had been known simply as the Webster boys, brothers in every sense, not wild, but no angels either, despite their names.

  Kincasey wasn’t huge – a little over five thousand residents – but big enough for a supermarket, a couple of schools and a small hospital. It had prospered over the last few years, thanks to tourist dollars and the tree changers who’d driven up house prices and kickstarted boutique businesses, but to those in the know it would always be Short Town.

  Gabe waded out of the water and climbed the slope, shaking his hair, scattering droplets. For a moment his body blotted out the western sun and Michael sat in his long shadow. Both the boys were tall, but Gabe was fuller, more defined. Stronger.

  They had different gifts, though Gabe had stopped wondering about Michael’s. At first he’d asked how, but Michael couldn’t tell him because he didn’t know himself. And then it was why, but Michael didn’t know the answer to that either. Now, at eighteen, Gabe’s intere
sts lay elsewhere and the questions had died away. But Michael didn’t share his easy acceptance. He could conjure things, invoke them from behind the veil, reveal them to the world and then banish them as though they’d never been. He could bring forth light, summon shadows and make people see things they’d never imagined. But there was one thing he could never seem to do: he couldn’t make Cait smile. That was Gabe’s gift and Michael envied it.

  His brother stooped to grab his shirt and hat, and the sun beamed again, blinding Michael.

  ‘We’d better head back,’ said Gabe.

  She was in the garden when they arrived, their bikes kicking up the dust that coated the last of the grass. One of the dogs was sprawled at her feet and she was taking care not to disturb it as she picked the strawberries, every now and then popping one into her mouth instead of the bowl. She’d have heard the bikes long before they arrived but was content with her task and didn’t look up until Gabe called out, ‘Save some for the rest of us!’

  Cait turned and smiled at him, almost swelling with pleasure. Then her eyes shifted to Michael and she grew small again. That was how it was: her watching him, expectant and unreasonable, as though waiting for him to apologise. Irritated, Michael headed across to the house. As the screen door banged shut behind him, he heard her laugh.

  The house was modest, though it’d been added to over the years; a lean-to provided a laundry, and the roof space had been cleared long ago for Gabe and Michael to call their own. The kitchen was cramped and the passages dark. The best feature was the wrap-around verandah, wide and screened from insects, lined with old chairs and tables and a few potted plants Barb struggled to keep alive. An overburdened boot rack hung off the wall near the back door, next to the tin half-tank they stacked daily with firewood in the winter months. Off one corner of the house, where Cait and Gabe now sat together, a vegetable garden had been fenced in, its pickets rising unevenly to deter foragers.

  Jim was in the kitchen, pulling on a beer while watching Barb prepare dinner. He nodded at Michael. ‘You boys fix that fence like I asked?’

  Jim never acknowledged their names. It was always ‘you boys’ or ‘you three’. In return, he and Barb were never called ‘Dad’ or ‘Mum’. It was straight logic for a mixed family, but it kept things even and none of them minded.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Michael.

  ‘You move those cows?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jim nodded again and went back to watching Barb. Not a word wasted. He wasn’t a big man but he was tough, knotted and solid as an old red gum. Despite the years, gossip still ran thick: that he’d once been handsome, keen and hopeful as young men are, until he’d lost his first wife to some executive from the local small-goods factory who’d taken a promotion in the city and Jim’s wife along with him. She might’ve stolen Jim’s joy, everyone agreed, but at least she’d left him Gabe. And the other one. Caitlin.

  When Barb had moved to the town a few years later, dragging Michael with her, they reckoned it was the best thing that could’ve happened to poor Jim. And maybe the best thing for Barb too. Though Michael had never seen much passion between them, he was pretty sure there was love. That opposites attract was true enough too; where Jim was terse, Barb was expansive, loving all three children equally, and Michael knew Gabe had never felt deprived. He couldn’t speak for Cait. Jim worked them like labourers; Barb nourished them like kings. It was fairly balanced and there weren’t many complaints.

  Now, glancing at Michael and away from the huge roasting pan where a slab of beef jutted from a sea of potatoes and carrots, Barb’s crimson face creased into a smile. It had to be close to forty outside but it was Saturday and, on a Saturday, dinner was always a roast. And because they ran cattle, it was nearly always beef. That was the way Jim liked it and to hell with the rest of them.

  ‘One hour, Michael. Tell the others,’ Barb said, and turned back to her basting, the steam from the food fogging her glasses and curling her greying hair. She didn’t need to say the rest; the list of chores was well rehearsed.

  Timing it to the second, because Jim didn’t like to be kept waiting, they grouped in the dining room, Jim in his usual place at the head of the table. There was no particular order for the rest of them but, as usual, Michael and Cait managed to avoid sitting together – no small feat, considering there were only four other chairs. Barb wouldn’t ever win any cooking competitions but the food was tasty enough and always plentiful, and while Cait never ate much, Jim and the boys made up for her lack of appetite. They worked hard, weekdays and holidays, and refuelled every night.

  Barb dished out the roast and everyone tucked in, none of them talking much until after the first helping. Seconds were tackled more slowly.

  ‘You two behave tonight, won’t you?’ Barb said. ‘And look out for Cait.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Cait. Gabe and Michael weren’t surprised, but Barb looked disappointed.

  ‘You should. It’ll be good to see your friends before school starts. Don’t you think so, Jim?’ She turned to her husband for support; he grunted and kept shovelling food.

  Cait shrugged and nibbled her dinner. As far as the boys knew, she had no friends. If girls approached her it was to get to Gabe, but Cait rebuffed them easily and Gabe had never needed any help in that department. She wouldn’t be missed at the party either, except maybe by Pete – he’d always had a thing for her – and Casey, of course, but no one gave a shit about him, least of all Cait. Michael heard what people said about her, the names they called her, and sometimes it was hard not to agree. But she seemed to care less and less what others thought. The older they got – and the more Michael and Gabe ventured out – the more she retreated.

  She didn’t stay at the table to share the berries she’d picked, and the boys were left to clear up while Jim watched the news.

  ‘I’m worried about her,’ Barb confessed, as they stacked the ancient dishwasher. Her voice lowered. ‘Do you think she might be on drugs?’

  Gabe laughed. ‘Nah. I reckon it’s a boy. She’s probably hormonal.’

  ‘Really?’ Even Barb was sceptical. ‘Which boy?’

  But they left her to ponder that one alone.

  ii

  Had anyone bothered to ask, Todd Casey might have described his short life as a series of disappointments – a long list of setbacks brought on by things outside his control, by the fickleness of fortune and the firm hand of fate. It never occurred to him to question his own actions or his attitude. ‘You’re a Casey and don’t you ever forget it,’ his father would say, his slurred words buoying in Todd a sense of entitlement that went with his name. Hadn’t his family founded this town? Hadn’t they once owned every acre from here to as far as the eye could see? Hadn’t his great-great-grandfather petitioned for the railway and wasn’t it his name on the foundation stone of the old stationhouse? ‘It’s not called Kincasey for nothin’,’ his father would conclude bitterly.

  But hadn’t generations of Caseys built almost every establishment in town and run them into the ground? Hadn’t they speculated on shaky investments and been forced to sell livestock and all those acres just to stay afloat? Hadn’t they been hit by the Depression and every subsequent recession, by drought and tax hikes and land restrictions, like everyone else, and hadn’t they pissed away every last cent? So, no. No one bothered to ask Todd because the truth was, no one cared. Except Todd.

  After all that work and all that ownership and all that entitlement, all the Caseys had left to show for it were the wrecker’s yard at the far end of town and a once-grand house, smack in the centre, that had fallen into disrepair. An eyesore, people called it. A blot on the town. Every now and then a worried official from the council would come knocking to remind Todd’s father of his obligation to uphold the historical value of the property, or greedy estate agents would pester with promises of a quick sale, but, otherwise, the Caseys were given a wide berth. History is rarely kind and people have long memories; the family hadn’t been po
pular when they’d been something and they were even less so now they were nothing.

  Nevertheless, Todd grew up believing the world owed him plenty, and what it wouldn’t give he’d simply have to take. But of all the things he coveted, the most elusive, and therefore the one he most craved, was Caitlin Webster. From the first time he’d seen her at school, sitting alone in a corner of the library, reading a book while others grouped around knee-high desks and crayoned their understandings of the world, he’d wanted her as a boy might want a puppy to leash and call his very own. She was the most beautiful thing Todd had ever seen – perfect, with her white skin and her white hair and her solemn gaze – and his child’s head was instantly filled with dreams of their future. Like finds like, and Todd had known instinctively that she was also an outcast, shunned and misunderstood. It was something they shared, he’d thought. What he’d never realised was that, unlike him, Caitlin had chosen her state.

  For the briefest time his yearnings had been satisfied. He dogged her at every opportunity, sat with her to eat his lunch, talked while she listened. She never smiled and rarely spoke, but she didn’t spurn him either. That she tolerated his presence was enough, and Todd was convinced that, over time, her disposition would grow into deep friendship and, eventually, love. How could it not? He brought her little gifts: lollies and chocolate, a rose from the bramble that grew wild in the garden, simple letters professing adoration, badly penned poems extolling her beauty, confessions of a lonely eight-, nine-, ten-year-old heart. And she accepted everything with a detachment that was cool but never quite cold, spurring him to greater daring.