by Jane Abbott
‘Not even then.’ She was wistful, remembering past lives, past disappointments.
He’d kissed her and held her close. ‘How do you bear it?’ he whispered. ‘All the time knowing? All the years and all the lives? How do you bear it, Cait?’
‘Because I must, Michael. That is my punishment.’
He’d grown angry then, because her explanations always ended the same way – with their punishment. She was too accepting, he told her. Time had worn her down and she no longer fought to escape. And she’d borne his wrath, letting him rid himself of it the best way she knew how, and after, when he’d rolled away and cried, it was she who held him close.
It was always about the punishment. For deeds done so long ago, when the world was in its infancy, now misunderstood and all but forgotten. Deeds intended to help, not harm. Deeds whose penalty had far outstripped their crime.
‘And us?’ he’d asked once, stilling inside her, feeling her close tight around him and thinking that if he had to go he wanted it to be when they were joined. He’d rocked against her gently. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘Always,’ she replied, a little breathless.
‘But not at first, right? We weren’t like this in the beginning, were we?’ he said, thinking on all that he’d read and learned, and everything she’d told him.
‘No, not then. Perhaps this, too, is our punishment.’
So he’d pushed again, harder, and smiled when she gasped. ‘Hardly a punishment.’
‘No,’ she whispered, kissing him, urging him on. ‘Hardly that.’
She told him stories, not just of who they’d been but of those inspired by their example, their lives – those whose own desires had defied prejudice and lived on in memory.
‘Love doesn’t discriminate, Michael. Only people do that.’ She’d spoken of the ruler who became a slave to his slave, and the passion of the cut sleeve; of a President’s wife, and of Sappho of Lesbos. And Michael had listened, trying to remember. Always trying.
Sometimes, when she spoke of what had been, he’d glimpse a face, recall an expression or feel a rush of emotion, but those moments were rare. Because that was his punishment.
‘How will it happen, Cait?’ he asked her. ‘How long do we have?’
She’d looked away then and her reply was slow. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes it’s nothing more than an accident. Sometimes we’re betrayed by petty hatreds, fear, misunderstanding. It’s always too easy to scare the weak-minded, Michael, so please, please take care – out there and here. Because sometimes our end has come at the hands of those we’ve trusted most, and I have no desire to search again for all the pieces of your body, like I had to once before.’
She reminded him then of that time, long before their story had been etched on stone within the great pyramids and they’d been worshipped as gods; of a brother’s jealous betrayal and cruel butchery and of the one piece she’d never found. There were times when Michael was thankful he couldn’t recall such events, but he’d laughed at that one and moved on top of her, saying, ‘Then you’d better make use of it now, while I still have it.’ And she’d obliged, happily.
Because, with Cait, there was always joy within the sorrow, laughter followed any tears, and peace rewarded every argument. And always, always, there was passion.
One morning, after she’d booted him out, Michael walked the few kilometres to the waterhole and, standing on the ledge above it, recalled the lazy summer Sundays with Jenny and the others. The threat of winter had driven Old George to the bottom of the pool; the water was still and black, and though he heard Gabe’s deep voice and Pete’s higher one, the splashing of water as they’d swum and Jenny’s sweet laughter, there was nothing of Cait. She’d never joined them, and Michael ached with guilt for her lonely fear, the doubt and despair she’d endured while they’d played.
After all the hate and tension between them, he couldn’t imagine not being with her. When they were together there was burning heat and soft, bright light – a hint of his chained immortality. And they were strong.
He climbed the hill and sat at the top to watch the sun rise behind Short Town. This was his time, this brief moment between darkness and light, to inhabit both worlds: the old and the new. His realm, had he ever wished to claim it. Were he ever given the chance.
A low mist hung in the valley between the two hills, blanketing the old railway line and the river in wet grey wool. Michael smiled, thinking of the fight with Cait at the hayshed. He hadn’t revisited the place since that day but now his memories lured him down the hill and into the fog. Not bothering with gates, he simply parted fences, rejoining them again behind him. There was no danger of being seen, no urgency while the world still slept and the sun was slow to wake. As he entered the shed, where everything had turned, he paused and summoned a light to better see what hung from one of the beams.
The blanket he’d left there the day of the argument had been torn into strips, the pieces tied to make a rope. A straw figure swung from it, badly shaped though recognisable, bound with string from the bales. On its head, someone had tied the bike helmet Jenny had used when she’d ridden with him; it was held in place with the rope, which wrapped it in a crude noose. A long knife handle stuck out of the chest, and Michael felt a sudden chill as his fear rose and the light that he’d made flickered and died.
How long do we have?
I don’t know.
That night he didn’t make love to Cait. Instead he held her tight, wrapping his body around hers and listening to her quiet breaths, counting every exhalation, marking time.
ii
Gabe’s week didn’t start well.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he told Jenny, when she opened the door to him the day after the party. ‘I got held up fixing the tractor and then the bloody ute wouldn’t start. Been a bitch of a day.’
‘You could’ve rung,’ she said. No hello, no that’s-okay. He should’ve known then.
‘I was busy,’ he said, ‘and my phone’s out of credit. But I’m here now.’
Except she didn’t seem to be overjoyed about that. Her mother came to the door and invited him in, but Gabe held up grease-stained hands and made his excuses. It was already after two, and as far as he was concerned time spent in Jen’s house was time wasted.
She was so cold he half thought she’d call the whole thing off, but she got her bag and climbed into the ute, not thanking him when he held open the door, not looking at him when he got in and started the engine. The day was wet, the rain drizzling in a fine mist that seeped and made everything miserable. Gabe’s mood, which had lightened as he neared her house, started to sour again.
‘You look lovely,’ he told her. He knew it sounded lame, and when she didn’t reply he searched for something else to say because anything was better than silence. What he really wanted to do was pull over and hold her and kiss her and taste her, letting her excitement build as it had the night before. But he didn’t dare. The truth was, he was floundering, feeling a nervousness he wasn’t used to, and her mood made him more uncertain. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the twist in his gut and the ache in his chest. When his next attempt to talk yielded nothing but a glare, he shut up.
At the farm, he left her in the kitchen with Barb while he washed and changed. He’d rushed to Jen’s straight from the shed and hadn’t had time to clean up, but it seemed even that wasn’t good enough for her.
‘What are your plans this afternoon?’ Barb asked them.
Jenny stilled and avoided Gabe’s gaze. Any ideas he might’ve had he’d already discarded.
‘Probably just hang out,’ he replied, with zero enthusiasm. He was beginning to wish he’d turned around and taken her home. She might’ve been happier then, and so might he.
‘All right for some,’ Barb said. ‘But I’d better get this casserole in the oven.’ As they trailed out, she called, ‘I hope that room of yours isn’t too much of a mess, Gabe.’
It wasn’t, because he’d spent an hour cleaning it that
morning. Closing the door behind them, he leaned against it and watched Jenny wander around the room, touching a book, bending to look at a photo, but if she noticed the tidy state of the place she didn’t comment. In fact, she said nothing at all.
‘What the hell’s wrong?’ he asked, unable to stand it any longer.
‘Where’s Jim?’
‘In the shed, still working on the tractor. Maybe I should go back out there,’ he said, daring her to agree.
‘And Michael and Caitlin? Where are they?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gabe snapped. ‘How about I round everyone up and get them to join us? Is that what you want?’ She scowled, but Gabe was past caring. She’d been spoiling for a fight since he’d picked her up and he was ready to go a few rounds. ‘Is this because I was late? I can’t help that I’m busy, Jen. You know that.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, but didn’t explain any further, as though he was supposed to read her mind, work out what was going on in there.
‘Then what?’ he asked. ‘And for chrissakes, sit down. You’re wearing out a track in the bloody carpet.’
Another glare. ‘I’m worried, okay?’ she blurted. ‘You said you’d call and then you didn’t. I texted you and I waited and you didn’t –’
‘I told you. I’m out of credit.’
‘There are other phones, Gabe.’
‘Not where I was.’
‘How convenient. And now we’re up here in your room and it’s pretty obvious why. But what if I don’t want to? What then?’
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What makes you think I brought you up here for that?’
‘“We’ll pick up where we left off.” That’s what you said, wasn’t it? Well, I’m not doing it here – not now, not with Barb downstairs. So you can just forget it!’
‘Don’t worry, I already have. Funny, you didn’t have a problem last night when half the town was watching.’ He saw her anger flare and moved closer, but when she circled, wary, he barked a short, sharp laugh. Her rejection had stung and he felt a need to hurt her too. ‘Should’ve bloody known. Still, you got what you wanted, right? Glad I could do you the favour.’
‘Don’t you – that’s not fair!’ Jenny cried.
‘No, it’s not, is it? But, hey, you’re a big girl now,’ he sneered. ‘You can deal with it.’
It was too much, and with a moan she ran for the door, tugging it open.
Suddenly terrified, Gabe covered the distance in two strides, slammed the door shut again and pressed her to it. ‘Don’t. Don’t go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that – didn’t mean any of it. Please,’ he whispered against her hair. She didn’t struggle or fight him off. ‘It’s just … you scared me. I’m sorry. Just … just don’t leave.’
He felt her shoulders shaking and pressed his mouth to her head, muttering his apologies, until she finally turned and kissed him back.
They didn’t even make it to the bed. She forgot about Barb and forgot to be worried; the next time was measured and gentle and just as good. After, they curled together, slick-skinned and drained.
‘Pretty good for a mortal man,’ she teased, and laughed when he nipped her shoulder.
‘Last night you said I was like God,’ he reminded her, caressing the length of her leg. Her skin was like hot honey, all silken-soft, and she nestled into him, finding just the right spot.
‘That’s the problem with the world, Gabe. There are too many gods.’
‘Yeah, but only some of us deserve any praise.’ His hand swept over her hip and across her belly before slipping down.
‘Praise be to Gabe,’ she whispered, and he smiled.
The week improved after that, each day revealing more about her. He learned what she liked and what she didn’t, what pleased her and what annoyed her. And she learned to tolerate his schedule, to amuse herself when he was called away, knowing he’d make it up to her later.
Meanwhile, Gabe forgot about Casey. He forgot to worry about Michael and Cait. He neglected schoolwork and study. Everything else seemed an age away while he was in the present, with Jen. And when he wasn’t with her, he was thinking about her, about her laugh and her quick wit and her lovely face and her soft hair, about her scent and her grace and her warmth, about her temper and her joy. But mostly he thought of her arms and legs wrapped around him, of her body against his and him inside her.
And he was happy.
iii
When Michael told Cait what he’d found at the shed, she sensed the shadows begin to draw close, as she had so often before.
‘It’s Casey,’ said Michael. ‘I know it is.’ He was angry, but she felt his uncertainty too, and tried to calm him.
‘If it is, then he must have done it weeks ago,’ she said, and told him what Gabe had said about Casey being in the hospital.
‘But he’d be out now. It can only be him, Cait. No one else hates me that much.’
She shook her head. ‘There’ll always be people who hate you, who are afraid of you and envy you. That’s the way it is.’
He scowled at that; no one liked hearing such things, and as long as he remained clothed in flesh, Michael was as human as anyone else.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about him before?’ he asked. ‘You and Gabe should’ve told me.’
‘Because I knew you’d react this way, and it’s dangerous.’
‘More dangerous than letting him get away with it?’ he said. The room heated then cooled, heated then cooled, as he struggled with his anger.
Cait took his hands and kissed them. ‘What will you do, Michael? Hurt Casey again? Kill him? And if you do, will you spend your days in prison, away from me? Must I wait twenty years again for your return, like before? Or will you fight that too, as you have so many times, and bring a far worse punishment upon us both? And if you’re wrong, and it isn’t him, then what?’
‘But if I do nothing –’
‘If you do nothing, then no more should come of it.’ She sighed. ‘If you block a river, the water will still find a way to flow because it must. Better to contain it within its banks than have it flood.’
He nodded, accepting her wisdom with his usual reluctance. But she didn’t tell him the rest: that the river had already been dammed; that the water was spreading, seeking new avenues; that it had been ever since the night at the party, when Michael’s power had first arisen and he’d broken not just Casey’s arm but Casey’s mind.
Cait knew well that the chains binding Michael to the world could never be broken. But sometimes, just a few times, they might be loosened, giving him room to breathe. He’d once asked her why they’d been remade to live on the farm, remote and secluded, and she’d replied that the place was unimportant. But she’d been wrong. They weren’t in Short Town for no reason. They were there because the girl was there – the girl who’d so moved Michael, the same one who now loved Gabe.
She was reading a magazine in the living room, waiting for Gabe to get back from the saleyards. When Cait sat beside her, she looked up in surprise, cautious and unsure of what to expect. Although she’d spent so much time at the farm, the two girls had barely spoken. There’d been no need on Cait’s part and no desire on Jenny’s.
‘Do you love Gabe?’ Cait asked, and the other girl bristled. When she didn’t answer, Cait asked again: ‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’ Jenny’s tone was belligerent, as though she felt Cait had already judged and found her wanting.
‘That’s good, because he’ll need you. We all will,’ said Cait, but she could see the girl didn’t understand. How could she? ‘Will you let me show you something?’
Jenny gave a single curt nod.
Cait put a hand to the girl’s head, fingers pressed lightly to her temple; the skin was warm and she felt the pulse quicken. ‘Close your eyes,’ she said, and waited patiently before leaning in to kiss her forehead. And as she did, she knew the girl completely, every strength and weakness, her misery as well as her happiness; she felt her swelling love for
Gabe, which would sustain her, and which had, for now at least, brought her some peace. But she also felt her first love, because no one ever forgets that.
In that moment Cait gave to her also, and though the girl never spoke of what she glimpsed – not even later – Cait knew she’d seen her as Michael did, as she had been: goddess, queen, conqueror, maiden, the despised mother of men. When she finally pulled away, it took Jenny a few minutes to open her eyes.
‘Why?’ she whispered, and Cait smiled gently.
‘To help you. And because I was once your namesake.’
iv
Jim backed the truck to the loading chute and Gabe pulled the tailgate across, stopping the gaps with filler boards. The nine steers pushed their way down the ramp, through the race and into the small pen, ready for the next day’s sale. Another had been dropped off at Joe’s place; next week they’d pick up the dressed meat and restock the big chest freezer. Other pens were filling slowly with assorted livestock. Gabe checked the trough and dumped a few biscuits of hay into the middle of the pen; it’d be enough to see them through the day, and the yard staff would feed them again that night. Jim went in to register, leaving Gabe to move the truck out of the way of bigger vehicles; even this early, the day before a sale was always crazy busy.
Since he’d turned eighteen, Gabe had received ten per cent of every sale, and apart from topping up his phone credit, buying a few T-shirts once in a while, a new pair of jeans or parts for his bike, he’d pretty much saved the rest. Michael would be given the same privilege when his birthday rolled around, and Cait too if she wanted, though, as with most things, money had never seemed to interest her. Unlike the boys, she’d never wanted a phone and rarely shopped for new clothes, content with whatever Barb picked up for her at one of the department stores in Bendigo. But Gabe had plans, and though he knew he’d have to start over when Michael and Cait were gone, he figured it was a small price to pay.
When they were done, Jim took the wheel. Gabe sent a quick text to Jen, letting her know he was on his way back.
‘… and make sure you get in early. Our lot are third up – you listenin’ to me, boy?’ Jim barked.
