I was not happy. “This is what you will do,” my voice carried across the space between them and was heard by every creature witnessing the event for many kilometres. “The two humans who are now puzzled, frightened they are going mad, already struggling with their lives, will have your assistance until such time as they no longer need it.” This sounded doable to them. They had a great deal of freedom in the usual course of events and often held themselves aloft forming opinions and making judgements on what was taking place. At times, they were asked to directly relate to humans. On the whole, they found it enjoyable.
The atmosphere in the clearing had lightened. How hard could it be to assist the humans, they thought; some magic here, a minor intervention there? What could be difficult in that?
“You, Homarta,” I pierced her with my gaze, “because you have interfered in a way you well know is unacceptable, will be reduced to tending the plot of ground in Bridey’s backyard. It is one of the most barren and poisoned pieces of land in the city. There you will restrict your activities to making compost. All your efforts will be needed to reclaim that land.” Homarta was unsure how this might work. “You may reveal yourself to Bridey and assist her with whatever wisdom remains to you.”
“Torrenclar. You will be needed. Make yourself available to assist Bridey. You will not be restricted at this stage.” My gaze was distant, and he winced at the cool note.
“Elaris. You will not leave the city.” She gasped as my words hung in the air above them. Only Flagran remained. Saving the best to last, he was thinking hopefully.
“You, Flagran, must bring joy and vigour into Sandro’s life and world without using magic unless you check with me first. If you find you are unequal to the task, please let me know.” It could not be that simple. There must be more to these orders. Each of them felt a degree of unrest as they considered their immediate future.
“Go now!” There was a loud click and the clearing was empty.
***
A tiny light, no bigger than a cigarette tip, burned at the entrance of a path leading to the town house of Alessandro Minke. It was a fancy place in the middle of Fitzroy, five minutes’ walk from the Museum and ten from Brunswick Street. This superb piece of Real Estate was Sandro’s pride and joy. He owned it. Not bad for thirty-two, he often told himself. Tonight, he was miserable and not in the mood for celebrating achievements. He had been at this point so many times now, but this was the worst. So close! So close to finally making progress and all stymied by a stupid girl on a bicycle he didn’t even want. What was he going to do with it?
All women were frustrating. There was no doing anything with them. The worst of it was he had no idea how to reestablish contact. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since early morning when he’d grabbed a muffin with his coffee. The wolves were growling now and would no longer be ignored. He pocketed his keys and slipped on a jacket with the intention of heading down to a nearby pub. There was a momentary sense of presence as he passed down the steps of the town house and out onto the street, but he ignored it. It was something of a principal to ignore everything which failed to relate to the important things in life.
The brisk walk did nothing to clear his head, but the thought of a beer cheered him momentarily. He found a table in a quiet corner from which he hoped people would stay away. Leaving his jacket over a chair, he went to the bar and ordered. On returning to his seat, he found the table occupied. He glared at the man sitting there.
“I’m sorry. This table is taken.” He glanced around pointedly at the empty tables all through the pub. It was still early for Fitzroy. He also put his hand on his jacket and placed his beer on the table.
His intruder seemed to have something wrong with him. Taking no notice of anything Sandro had said, he simply fixed him with a stare. There was something about the eyes, Sandro thought. His blood quickened with excitement. Perhaps, this man had been sent to make contact. Pulling out his chair, he sat down, belatedly thinking to offer his strange guest a drink. There was no answer. He appeared to be struggling to breathe; bad asthma or something. Sandro hoped he didn’t have some nasty disease. For a minute or two they sat staring at each other.
It was Sandro who made a start. “So, what do you have for me?”
That fixed stare continued. His companion drew in a few rasping breaths and appeared to be thinking. “Sorry mate,” he said pushing the words out. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.” He took a brief rest, and then introduced himself. “My name is Flagran.” This effort appeared to tire him greatly. Sandro looked on in frustration watching him breathing. Another moron, he was saying to himself. But there was something familiar about this bloke. He had seen him somewhere before, quite recently. Very odd name, he thought. Reminds me of something.
“Do I know you?” He saw a flicker of life come and vanish in an instant. His companion gave him a tiny grin and again the familiarity struck him.
“We met this afternoon” the man said, “near Southern Cross”. He had begun to speak more easily. “Well not exactly met. I didn’t introduce myself properly, and then I had to rush off.” Again the hint of a grin flashed across the face. He sat waiting while Sandro added up the pieces. As the light went on, his host leapt to his feet.
“Wait a bit”, Flagran said quickly. “We have stuff to discuss.”
Sandro sat down again wishing hope would stop snagging him. He picked up his beer and took several long pulls at it trying to settle the adrenaline.
“I’m supposed to help you,” Flagran stated. “But I’m afraid I have no idea how to do that.”
Sandro watched him for a while wrestling with the two pictures in his head: this pale looking figure with the washed out look and the fiery clown at Southern Cross. What kept coming to him was the picture of a crazy man with bright red hair. He remembered it standing up in the air waving when there’d been no breeze. He recalled the sick humour, his own frustrated helplessness. How could this be the same person?
Flagran remained completely focussed on Sandro’s face.
“Were you supposed to be on the train?” Sandro asked him, hopeful this would turn to his advantage, but his companion shook his head, puzzled.
“What were you doing there?” he demanded sharply.
“Just hanging out for a bit,” Flagran replied.
Sandro pulled at his chair, turning it sideways so he could stretch out his legs, the clear lines of his face highlighted by the shadows of the pub behind him. This was not going in the desired direction. The man opposite was strange, and Sandro, who was perfectly normal, did not like strange. Many of those with whom his search had brought him into contact were very strange indeed. First there had been the on-line responses. One of those had seemed so promising only to turn out to be a character who clearly found his meaning in trawling the internet responding to requests for help by pretending he had something to offer. Another, more genuine, had been revealed as a useless misunderstanding. These had been followed by countless fruitless attempts to find a lead which might take him somewhere. But, this was outside the limits.
His reverie was interrupted by a choking gasp from his companion who, when Sandro glanced back towards him, appeared to be turning blue. Quickly, he scanned his knowledge of first aid deciding he had nothing useful to offer. Instead, he went around to the back of the other’s chair and beat him briskly on the back. This resulted in Flagran leaping to his feet, a little life returning, and glaring at him.
“What did you do that for?” He sounded furious. “I am only trying to help you, you idiot. You nearly killed me. I wasn’t choking. I just struggle for breath sometimes.”
During this outraged speech, Flagran appeared to have recovered some energy, and his hair was standing on end. Sandro recognised the look and drew back in horror. He remembered fear and a burning sensation. He could make no sense of it. He had a feeling there was going to be no sense to be made of anything today. His first impulse was to go home without his meal, but he remembered his
desperate hunger just as his number was called. He looked down at the number in his fisted hand.
“I have to get my meal now. You’ll be alright. I’ll catch you later,” he said and took off to the counter to collect it. While he was gone, Flagran grinned a little recognising this as a dance he could manage. He sat himself firmly back into his chair and awaited Sandro’s return.
Sandro groaned as he put the steaming Parmigiana with chips and salad down on the table between them, but knew he was outdistanced by this man in some way. Unwilling to risk a struggle between them, he recalled the manners carefully instilled by his mother and apologised for eating in front of Flagran who merely grinned wider and said, “No worries, mate. We don’t eat. Takes away a lot of the pleasure in life, but we make it up in other ways.” He waited to see what Sandro had to say and, when nothing came, he unexpectedly changed tack.
“Look mate. We may as well get this straight. I don’t really want to be here. There are so many other things I would rather be doing, but I’m stuck with you, and you are also stuck with me. The quicker we resolve your difficulties the better for both of us.”
Sandro choked over his Parma spitting some of it through clenched teeth. “What the fuck does that mean? Who the hell are you?”
Flagran’s grin widened. He was regaining life by the second as he enjoyed this experience immensely. He was jousting with someone who was of his kin. Had the same sense of what was important and moved at a reasonable pace. They would get on like a house on fire just as soon as they had established some sort of working relationship.
“Well?”
It didn’t appear that Sandro was giving up. Flagran had discovered humans tire easily, and he could see Sandro was ignoring the fact he was flagging. He watched him struggle with himself and continue the battle. “Who are you, and who are you working for?” he demanded.
“I am a Caretaker.”
“I’m not at all interested in what you do for a living,” Sandro dismissed him. “What I want to know is why you are interfering in my life. Either explain yourself, or disappear!”
Flagran experienced a small stab of self-pity. “Can’t.”
“What do you mean, can’t?”
“Disappear,” Flagran replied. Low spirits never lasted long. If he had been human, he would never have been able to understand depression. He was perpetually high by nature. “I used to be able to, but that function has been momentarily lost to me.”
He sat comfortably watching Sandro’s confusion. This was a whole lot of fun. Hopefully, he thought with a sudden stab of fear, he was not enjoying himself too much. “Come on,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go home.”
“Home?” Sandro was horrified. “What home?”
“Yours, of course” Flagran said cheerfully. “I don’t have a home.”
“Well, if you don’t have a home, you’re sure as hell not sharing mine.” Sandro appeared to be furious. Perhaps it was because he felt out of control. Flagran, who felt completely in charge of the situation, grinned wider. “Sure I am. I don’t take up much space, and I don’t eat, or use the bathroom. I’ll be the perfect house guest.”
His prospective host bared his teeth. “We are not going anywhere until you explain who and what you are.”
“I’ve already told you,” was the response. “I’m Flagran, and I’m a Caretaker.” He felt his glee dip as cold fingers touched his spine. Not a good idea to play this too much, he decided. “I’m a spirit; one of the Caretakers of the earth. I have been temporarily divested of some of my powers and have had to stick with a human shape for the time being. So, I’m going to need some sort of residence.” He felt anxious as he contemplated for a moment how long indeed that might be. Better behave. Don’t push your luck, he told himself.
He became aware of the expression on the face in front of him and began to focus on his strategy. “I’ve been sent to help you with your quest.” He felt that to be a good start. Sandro was likely to admit him if he believed there was something on offer.
“What do you know about it?” Sandro asked. “Where is my father?” His anguish caught Flagran unawares, and he stopped playing, abruptly shifting gears.
“I don’t know Alessandro,” he answered softly. “I haven’t been told.”
***
The Source
She looked at me then, puzzled. Pursing her lips, she laughed, briefly allowing the lighter mood to reach her eyes. “No, Love,” she said. “What is it you expect from me? It is you who have put this ban on me. Now, what is it you wish to achieve from this?”
My eyes pierced hers fixing her with my question. Time passed. She thought to leave but decided against risking it. Then she gave in and changed tacks. “You know I want only what you want.” The silky voice was sweet as overripe fruit. At my glare, she drew back.
“Don’t play with me Elaris. You cannot win if you decide to take me on, now can you?”
The sullen look returned. “It is you who are playing games with me.”
“How so?”
“You know I am angry with you for restricting me to Melbourne, yet you come to tantalise me with questions which lead nowhere.”
“You are right, Elaris. My apologies.”
She softened, and something of her beauty returned to her face. “Explain it to me, Love. Tell me what I have done wrong.”
I sighed. But she had the right to hear it spelt out. “You have been plotting with Homarta and Flagran to challenge the way in which I run the earth, and the way this impacts on those who live here.” “That is true, Love. But you haven’t tried to reason with us, have you?” She was correct.
“You shut me out of the discussions.”
“How?”
“By the very fact of not inviting me into them.”
“You are here, and I did not invite this conversation.” This again was true. I joined their company, or spoke with them alone, whenever it pleased me to do so.
“All four of you are well aware of how I operate. If you have questions, you know I will answer them or at the very least work with you on them. But in this case, you have all studiously avoided my company. It was clearly rebellion. You decided to work it out on your own. In most cases that is welcome. In this one, as you must know, it was not.”
“Why?” she asked bitterly. “Why not this time?”
“Because you know my timing is my timing, and this was a deliberate attempt to alter that without my consent.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do, Elaris. You have always understood that. You have also attempted to take over before. This is not news to you.”
“I realise I’ve been on the wrong track, and we have…well Homarta has made a mess of it. I am sorry, Love, for not bringing this to you sooner.” It seemed like a real effort to make amends. It was not.
“Thank you Elaris. I appreciate the apology. The restriction stands.”
“Why?” she wailed. “You cannot keep me in. This is unfair.”
“That’s as may be. But, nevertheless I can, and I intend to follow through with it.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“What does that mean?” She was outraged. Her whole demeanour was clenched with fury, and she bent towards me to hiss in my face.
“It will stand until you recognise your place here, Elaris. Lately you have been keen to promote your own position, and I am unhappy with that. When you have come to see how out of step you are, then we can discuss it again. In the meantime, I would ask for your assistance of the others.” Both of us knew it was a stand-off. She left in a flurry of wind and flying debris, and I let her go.
3
The Source
In a bleak and barren backyard at the edge of the great city of Melbourne, Homarta began to stir from her place on the rusty discarded piece of fencing. Dew had fallen overnight gathering on her face and, drop by tiny drop, she had taken it in to a mouth which, whilst always enjoying the sensation, had never be
fore experienced the need. She winced at the slight taint of dusted exhaust with some chemical mix not immediately recognisable; yet another of the humans’ products. It was distressing. Everything was unpalatable: her current predicament; her forced isolation; but, most distressing of all was her restriction within earthly time. This was her first experience of the dragging time suffered by the chronic insomniac as she was forced to wait out the night hoping light would bring relief. For many, the morning does not do so, but in Homarta’s case she had never experienced the bleak horror of hopelessness. She was disinclined to give herself up to it.
A gentle breeze passed overhead and, looking up, Homarta watched as her friend of the centuries glanced down briefly and passed by. She will be back, Homarta reassured herself. She will not abandon me; her heart is too soft. But time passed and Homarta was left alone for another distressing period broken only by the comfort of the still quiet light rising in the eastern sky. A light had also come on in the house.
Torrenclar arrived to visit and sat with her. While the company was welcome, their exchange was uncomfortable. He seemed distant; kind in an awkward way. Homarta found herself caught between not wanting to let him go and wishing the visit over soon after it had begun.
He had many a time attempted to call her to order when she wanted to take on the troubles of the world in a violent and destructive manner foreign to both their ways. Their task was to bridge the distance between humans and the spirit world. He often found it imperative to step between the forces of nature and the needs of humans, turning aside many a cyclone from its path of destruction across a heavily populated area, and those effective in wiping out entire regions had caused him great distress. But it was his way to accept the inevitability of the strong forces of nature without taking it upon himself to change what must be left alone. Never had he whipped up a storm out of rage. Not punitive by nature, he often struggled to understand Homarta’s viewpoint when it came to using their power to shake up the world, rather than leaving events to take a natural course.
Reluctant Activists Page 3
