“No. You’ve made a terrible mistake,” I said. “You have the wrong person.”
There was loud crack, and the monstrous figure vanished. Goodness. That was effective.
***
Sandro was devastated. He could not accept that the train had not, would not, come. He had waited for years for this moment. How could it not happen? He experienced a sudden shocking impulse to collapse. This was closely followed by the sense that he was not alone. He was being watched. He took careful stock of his surroundings. The only flicker of movement was coming from a large drum from which smoke trailed. As Sandro watched, an odd flicker of flame showed above the rim.
He jumped, swinging around when a soft whistle sounded from close behind. Golden eyes looked straight into his. Vivid. Something about them was weird. This guy was staring at him, his flaming red hair waving a little when the air was completely still. Sandro’s attention was drawn to the stillness around him. There was absolutely no one else there except this strange character who was making a slight crackling sound.
Stuff this, he thought. I’m out of here. He grabbed hold of the bike immediately letting out a shriek of pain and dropping it like a hot frying pan.
“Too hot to handle, eh?” His companion grinned at him. It was not a friendly grin. “Too hot to handle!” The smile broadened into a leer. “She was a bit of hot stuff herself, wasn’t she? Left her on the ground with a broken foot. Not kind. Not clever. Doesn’t work.”
Enraged, Sandro turned on his tormenter only to experience an intense and shocking heat accompanied by wind almost knocking him over. His quick recovery pleased him preserving his dignity, but not for long. The grin on his assailant’s face enraged him further.
“Who are you?” His attempt at belligerence didn’t quite work, and the red head merely smiled.
“Flagran, the Caretaker.” He gave Sandro a sweeping bow adding, “I would like to say ‘at your service’ but you probably won’t see it that way.”
Sandro certainly agreed with that. “Don’t need any service,” he grumbled sulkily, feeling stupid.
“You don’t?” The words were quiet, but Sandro felt tormented and lost. He had no plan now. He was disgusted with the fear pulling at his gut, tensing his shoulders, threatening to make his voice quiver.
“Okay. Maybe I do.” The words came from somewhere else. They could not possibly have been his.
“Hot property needs to be returned,” Flagran said simply.
Eyeing the bike, Sandro imagined picking it up and cycling away as fast as he could out of this. What on earth was this? The image coming into his head was of being on the bike and racing along Collin’s street with the whole erupting into flames. He shifted his gaze back towards his tormenter who, somehow, had vanished from the scene.
***
Bridey
The journey home was exhausting. Firstly, I was in shock which is actually a medical condition following a terrible event. That’s exactly how it was. Terrible. You have no idea what it is like to have your world turned upside down unless it’s happened to you. There you are trotting off to work, in exactly the same way as you always do, feeling pissed off that you have to work and all caught up in whether the team leader is going to be in a good mood, or not. You are wondering about ordinary things, like how unfair it is she’s decided you’re after her boyfriend, who is a sleaze and someone you would not voluntarily go near, when an earthquake knocks you over, and you are never going to be the same again. How could you be? You realise all the things your mum insisted were untrue when you were three, were probably true after all.
It was a tossup whether to be relieved that the strange woman, who seemed to be trying to take me over, had suddenly vanished, or more terrified on finding myself with a half broken foot, a very odd pair of crutches, and a crowd of people who just appeared out of nowhere, all talking at the same time. It was eerie. And chaotic. Everyone talking over the top of each other.
“A huge sound, like wind, but deafening!”
“The earth was rattling, and I thought it was…”
“Cool. I’ve lived through an earthquake?”
“…like being on a surfboard!”
“The noise was shocking.” “I thought this was the end…”
“I hope my grandmother is alright…”
“If it’s like this here, what’s my house going to be like?”
Everyone excited. None of them seemed to notice they hadn’t been around for the past hour. Where had they been? The question, which is very obvious to me now, didn’t even occur. They all chattered on, then they went home, or wherever they were going. No one mentioned any strange women hanging around. They certainly were not speaking of thousands of arthropods putting it all back together again. They were disbelieving; about the earthquake though, and that was certainly not the strange bit. People were checking the time. How did they not notice time had gone missing?
In the end, I gathered myself up and set off not wanting anyone to give me any attention; just longing to be alone and have some time to think and desperately wanting to get away from Clifton Hill station before the strange woman came back. The crutches were awkward. My foot wouldn’t take any weight, and the trip seemed endless. It was usually eight minutes, but it seemed more like an hour.
Finally I reached my house. It’s dilapidated looking with its old blue paint job, sagging fence, and a veranda looking like it’s been stuck on the front by someone who can’t measure. (It’s very narrow. The idea seemed to be to get people to the front door, but it looks ashamed of itself.) The house is clearly a dump. Stuck between two beautifully renovated town houses, it stands too close to the footpath and acts like it knows it shouldn’t be there. This area is for rich people. Somehow, the house always fills me with a sense of home, and that’s the first time a house has done that.
Getting up the three steps and across the veranda was awkward to say the least. It was a very difficult juggling act to get to my keys. Fortunately the door, usually dodgy when it came to sticking, opened easily this one time; a fact which made me so extraordinarily grateful, I nearly cried. Everything dropped to the floor as soon as I stepped inside and shut the door. I stood there for a while like a garden gnome staring at nothing.
There’s a long hallway running down past the bedroom and the spare room and opening eventually into a large and untidy space which is where I hang out most of the time. (You can’t do that when you live in shared houses. You have to spend lots of time in your room.) The floor undulated like the deck of a ship. The crutches made the trip from one side of the room to the other a challenge. Exhaustion washed over me. My crazy last couple of hours had included a dance with an harassed mother of two toddlers (during which I only just managed to keep upright by putting one hand on top of a young kid’s head) and five teenagers in uniform, each with mobile in hand and deep in conversation with the others, forcing me to stand completely still while they moved around me in a blind stream.
Dropping one crutch on my way to the sink, I picked up the kettle, filled it with water and placed it on a gas jet without too much difficulty. The tiny kitchen was now a blessing. Desperate for the toilet, I held onto the back of a chair pushing it along and retrieved the crutch, but maneuvering around the tiny toilet wasn’t much fun either; someone put the door on the wrong side.
The best thing about the bathroom was the claw footed bath; the worst, the state of the tiling. It was impossible to clean. Mum kept giving me lots of advice about this, all of which I ignored as it involved rubber gloves and lots of bleach. Bi-carb soda and vinegar’s okay, but being not too keen on cleaning anyway and suspecting the vinegar needed to stay on permanently, what’s the point? Getting down on my knees with a toothbrush was a ‘one day’ plan.
A bath was a great idea. Soak off the grime and relax. While waiting for the bath to fill, keen to wash off the gritty dirt and settle into a quiet place where some sense might appear, I stripped off and clambered into my very warm onesie. This had seeme
d like a good plan as the heating in the house was bit iffy. This had been achieved before considering how much more difficult it was going to be to get the thing off again with crutches for support. I needed a chair for the bathroom. Turning into the bathroom after a successful but generally very tiring trip, this is what almost threw me to the floor. The bath was filled with dark brown water; steaming hot, but completely unusable.
My world had gone mad.
The first impulse was to rush to the kitchen and check the taps, and outside. There was no rushing anywhere. The kettle had been filled? That water was okay? No. Hadn’t looked at it. Just put the tap into the spout of the kettle and turned it on.
This was the point when I began to get angry, very angry. Covered in grime from the earthquake, my foot throbbing and standing leaning on a chair, I was tired, agitated, confused, and totally ready to kill. It was getting dark, and there was probably nothing to eat. It was cold, and suddenly my onesie wasn’t very warm. I pushed my way, completely defeated, back to the kitchen to check the kettle water hopefully, but it looked like the tea was already in there. Suddenly thirst overtook me.
A search of the kitchen for something to drink proved disappointing. If the shopping had been done recently, that would have been nice. There was no milk, juice, or soft drink, with the single exception of one very lonely litre of soda water which I hate and had always wondered what it was doing in my kitchen. From the cupboard, I pulled a hopeful packet of soup mix. Dry! At the very back, there was a tin of mushroom soup. This was dinner even if it meant adding soda water. Fortunately (for its own sake), it informed me it only needed to be heated.
I sat and, opening the bottle of soda water, poured a small glass and drank it, trying not to screw up my face as that made it difficult to prevent the water coming out the sides of my mouth. Washing my face was at war with the determination not to move from my seat. I reached for the tea towel and held it gingerly to my nose. It was a bit stale smelling, but not sour. Onto this, I poured a little soda water. Yes, I know that’s completely gross, but you try struggling with crutches after what I’d been through. I tried to smear it across my face so the tea towel germs wouldn’t have time to settle. The result was less than pleasant, but it helped.
From my position at the small wooden table, I lifted my foot to rest it on another chair. The Estate Agents had to be called. The clock on the wall warned me it was now ten past six. They should still be open, I told it threateningly. It’s Friday night! Where was my phone? With some nasty words and loud groans, the picture of dropping my bag on the floor near the front door brought tears. At exactly that moment, the memory of making my way to work at the Hotel returned.
A horrible, flushed feeling crept over me from my ankles right up my legs until my face became very hot. The shift had started an hour ago. My Team Leader was going to kill me. She’d been waiting for the opportunity. Simone had been less than friendly lately, ever since we’d all gone for drinks. It hadn’t been my fault. I didn’t even like him, but there was no way it was going to help trying to explain to your boss that her boyfriend is a sleaze and a creep. Every shift with her had turned sourer than my tea towel.
Phone calls! Phone calls! The dreaded crutches were leaning against the other side of the table. I struggled to my feet again. The crutches fitted perfectly under my arms. My handbag was tipped on its head making it a stretch to reach without toppling over. This stuff sucks, I thought, annoyed that the simplest things had become overwhelming. What was the task again? Ringing the landlord. No, the Estate Agent. Water! Suddenly I decided to overlook work altogether and deal with that tomorrow. Water was essential. Simone was not. And an earthquake is a good excuse.
Of course my phone was nearly flat, and the screen had cracked diagonally from one corner to the other. Must have been hit by something sharp right on the face to do that. It was only a week old. The crack made checking through my contacts for the Estate Agent’s number more difficult now because the phone refused to slide easily, and widening the screen was a challenge. But so what? Everything was a challenge today. The number, of course, rang and rang, finally delivering me to the answering machine. Stuff this, I said. I’m going to bed.
2
The Source
She slipped between two clouds floating softly towards the sunset. Her frail arms lifted their feathery coverings like dead leaves blowing in the breeze. Autumn wove her between the intense setting sun and the range of paper cut out mountains pasted against a water colour sky. As she dropped into the deeper blues of bush of the high snow country and the foreground of the painting, her mood shifted. Here in the early hills, her breath lifted the branches startling birds, and calling sightless trees to announce her presence. She wove herself between them while an early star appeared in a sky not yet dark enough to hold it. Leaves shifted restlessly, attempting to follow her home. As she wove her way amongst them, each was kissed by her breath; Elaris of the wind. Hidden deep within the vast bush sloping its way along the ranges, she approached her destination, playing as she went, stealing perfume from one shrub, wafting it toward another, mixing them in her passage through secret chambers of scrub filled with a life rarely seen by the outside.
He came on the waterfall which began high in the mountains and tumbled hard against rock, filling and overpowering the sounds of roosting birds, the chirrups of crickets and the faint squeaks of small animals scurrying home for evening. He was in the small rivulets threading their way into an open chamber of ancient boulders. His entrance was spectacular. A great wall of water, flowing over the land, vomited him out, and he sprang from its arms to join her in this enchanted place. Torrenclar of the water, tall and lithe, his silky grey hair fell to his shoulders rippling as it went.
Homarta greeted each small animal in turn as they popped out from tiny hidden places on her path. She moved across the earth scooping it into her large hands, warming with her breath, gathering flowers and herbs for their scent and putting them into a large satchel she always wore around her neck. It was hard for the human eye to spot her amongst the rock and earth, the deep piles of rotting leaves and the centuries’ smooth boulders. Her huge legs sat atop bare feet with toes like tree roots which dug deep into the soil as she walked. She was magnificent, deep and earthy.
They were ancient friends, these three. Lately dissension had come between them. The fourth was Flagran, on fire with excitement about their plans. His flame appeared in the flat centre of a boulder embedded in the river, water rushing around the rock on all sides, on its journey to important business, elsewhere. They were Caretakers. Over the centuries, these spirits had been given tasks: to watch, to bring spirit to place, to lift the hearts of the people who experienced their presence, to bring the elements together in a dance of great beauty.
Their dissension had grown. Homarta had done what she does and taken over my job. As the earth struggled to support the human inhabitants with all their needs and wants, Homarta became alarmed at my inactivity. It was time, she said, to waken them from their inertia. This was difficult to refute. The earth was indeed battling to retain its beauty and balance against their onslaught. Where we disagreed and indeed fell out with each other was over the timing and manner of the intervention. Progress of their discussions had wandered backwards and rarely forwards, while plans were formed and dropped. Elaris and Homarta had been determined to move the plans towards concrete activities. Flagran went along for the ride because he enjoyed the excitement. Only Torrenclar was at odds with them. He had remained in the group attempting to stem the flow of their enthusiasm. Now, I had called the four to account for their activities, their ideas about their own importance, and other objections which will become clearer as the tale develops.
They waited, stilled by the silence which grew around them. A great light appeared in the north illuminating shrubbery and trees, but unlike fog’s gentler path, its edges were sharp and clear. Each figure became floodlit. Dark shadows were cast in its wake. My voice was grim.
&nb
sp; “Greetings, my friends!” There was no reply. “You have been very busy.” The words fell like a laser beam; no apparent damage. “What have you done Homarta? Come out and face me.” She stepped forward. “That hour has now become a vacuum in time, a puzzle, a hole in creation; people suspended in antimatter having no idea what it means and no way of putting together the pieces you have separated. We also have two human beings who have witnessed this. They are a tad confused. I have been wondering what the plan is here. How do you intend to use them in your efforts to...What?”
Homarta wanted to justify her little tantrum, but she dared not. Stopping time was outside her portfolio. She had been well aware of that. Although, she thought, it had only been one hour, and that she had used to fix her mess. Flagran, so often rash, attempted an answer. “We decided to choose two activists.” This, to his usually jaunty mind, seemed clear enough and fairly safe.
“Ah! You did? And how did you make your choice?”
“Well,” Flagran felt he was, for the present, on safe ground. “We just chose two from the list who lived in Melbourne. Easier to concentrate our efforts.”
“And what list is that?” There was something in my voice urging Flagran to caution, but, ever the hero, he pushed on. “I can’t remember which list in particular.” He dismissed it with a wave of a hand which had become transparent. “You know how they’re always signing petitions.”
“So! Two activists who signed a petition?” The silence pressed in around them until I spoke again.
“And, just what was it you intended to ask of them?”
The four said nothing. This is where the plan had been a trifle thin. They had come up with some idea around setting Bridey and Sandro up as leaders of a new movement which would be controlled by them. The difficulty had been that, as they attempted to make their choice, each and every possible human had had some major glitch in their personality which would have been painful for them to control.
Reluctant Activists Page 2
