Reluctant Activists

by Helena Phillips

  ***

  Elaris arrived while Bridey was eating. She came in a great storm of wind shaking and rattling everything in her path, displaying such a temper Homarta would have cringed had she the capacity to do so. Elaris in a rage was not to be taken lightly. Infrequent though her lapses into ill humour were, when she lost it, she could continue for hours blowing dirt and leaves into the faces of those who had forgone her favour, knocking down anything not securely attached, driving children who had been torturing small animals inside in a hurry, lifting washing from the lines of those who had only with great reluctance hung it out and trailing it all around the yard. Homarta waited, helpless. The tin on which she had been half lying was ripped from under her. Her head was thrown back onto the concrete hard ground almost detaching. It is often the gentle, quiet souls who wreak the most havoc when they explode.

  Fortunately brief, the windstorm dropped to a cold, penetrating, unpleasantly sharp breeze.

  The fact that Homarta was unable to speak didn’t feature because Elaris had no intention of making casual conversation. Apart from the noise of the breeze in every loose object of the yard, there was complete silence between them. A lecture was looming. Homarta, inured to these, was normally in a position to hold her ground flinging clever arguments in her own defense. She thought perhaps this was the worst of her unravelling; being unable to defend herself in any way against the fury of her friends. Several long minutes passed.

  When she spoke, Elaris had her temper under control again. “I find it impossible to fathom Homarta, how you could be as stupid as to attempt to flee.” The statement hung in the air like wet sheets in a seven day bout of bad weather. As Homarta couldn’t fathom it herself, she would have had nothing to say in response even if it had been possible for her to speak, which, since she had been thrown back from trying to climb the fence, she could not for the present manage. “Surely you must want to earn back your power as quickly as you can.”

  Her listener was again in complete agreement and had nothing to add. How could she explain about the torture of her position, the long night, the complete inability to do anything about her condition? All she could do was turn desperate eyes towards her friend who read there distress she’d never believed possible in the powerful and confident Caretaker. Silence wore on between them, neither able to express what needed to be said. As she sat waiting, Elaris began to feel a change inside. Where she had been frustrated and enraged, she now began to experience sympathy. The Source had requested her to give assistance when needed, yet she felt disinclined to offer this. She believed Homarta had been very stupid breaking the ban on adjusting time. This idiocy had been followed with an attempt to test her fate further. How dense could one Caretaker be?

  “We are reduced to enlisting humans to help us,” she said. “This is your doing Homarta. You have been very wilful.” She softened a little. “But, I can see that you are suffering a great deal. You need help if you are ever to make something of this barren plot.” She glanced around her at the sheets of tin now scattered over the backyard, her own doing, and dug her heel into the soil, or at least attempted to dent it. “You must rest and be biddable. That much is clear. Have you seen Torrenclar?”

  Homarta would have liked to respond and to tell her about Flagran’s visit and its impact on her acceptance. She was forced to lay there and think about it all in silence. She longed to ask Elaris to stay. It was not in her nature to ask for assistance, unless a project required a specific skill which formed part of the nature of one of the others. But, she did not ask for a friend when she was lonely.

  Elaris rose. Thinking she was about to leave again Homarta steeled herself, but instead, the spirit began to blow softly under the sheets of tin and soon had them leaning against each other forming a rough shelter. This had no roof, was open to the sun (absent at present) and to the rain and wind, as she knew Homarta would prefer. At night, the stars would be cheering if they ventured out from behind the thick grey cloud. Before leaving, she lifted the injured Caretaker, and with some tenderness, placed her behind the tin blocking her from the view at the kitchen window. “Rest now,” she said. “Get your spirit in tune with what you must achieve, and you will recover more quickly.” Elaris looked down on Homarta with more compassion for her than she had yet experienced.

  Homarta felt the light touch of a breeze and was comforted for a moment. She lay in her shelter staring up as the dark clouds loomed and thought about the prospect of transforming the yard into a fertile garden. She began to plan musing on how it could be done and how few resources she could call on in her present predicament. Her spirit groaned under the weight of her helplessness.

  ***

  Bridey

  The shopping was stowed, and my attention turned towards the problems of cleaning my hair and body. More events were taking place in the garden, but it seemed better not to investigate. Perhaps it was a hostage situation, held in my own house in the face of unearthly intruders. If I could clean myself, it might just be possible to survive this.

  Carefully considered, the six litre container of water provided by Mum, which had seemed enormous when she’d first placed it on the counter, was not likely to last long. Ditching the dirty water from the jug, I swished out the residue and refilled it with clean water. The level of the contents had dropped alarmingly. That was more than one sixth of my total supply of water. Still parched, I desperately needed to wash my hair. My hands came out covered in grime after running them through my filthy hair.

  When the call to work from Mum’s phone had been made in considerable trepidation, it had turned out my luck was in, and the manager on duty was someone inclined to be sympathetic. Although my foot was gradually improving, it was a relief to have negotiated to have the remainder of the week off. It still seemed necessary. It would have been difficult to get there without the bike. Now that had been returned, maybe I could have worked, but it had been such a big relief to not bother. There were odd regrets. A shower at the Hotel would have been lovely. Mum wouldn’t have tolerated anything but turning me into a naturally clean person. Never had my hair been so disgusting. It just had to be washed. Without a functional shower, this seemed impossible. How much water is required for a shower? Several moments were spent switching between the container of water and the jug. How much energy everything took when you couldn’t walk without considerable pain. Once the kettle boiled, I sorted out some clean clothes and a jug. The idea was to step into the shower, pour water over my head, lather it and my body, and then rinse it all off in one go. That should work. It is a problem for today. Tomorrow will be better. My foot will improve, and I could get some more water. It was only on returning to the kitchen that the major mistake hit. Boiling hot water was not going to do the trick. There was no way my precious water could be used to cool it down, even when that would make the shower last longer. No, I had to wait. Perhaps there wouldn’t be enough to wash my hair. In the end, another half a litre mixed in with the hot still meant waiting for it all to cool down. I would have stamped my feet, but even that was impossible.

  After a very brief wash, life felt more manageable. In fact, I was virtuous managing under extreme conditions. Mum eventually turned up, delivered another lecture, made up the bed and disappeared for her evening out. I lay in the clean sheets pondering for hours partly to avoid looking outside. One brief glance presented me with a hut like erection out there. I couldn’t face it. Earlier, workmen had arrived at the end of the road and begun digging up the water pipes to examine the damage, so Mum had informed me. Their plan was to write up a job quote and lodge it before the end of the day. Damage was extensive requiring the patching of half a kilometre of water main in a number of places. It would take several crews of workers who were all out patching other sections over that weekend. Mum had pulled up to interrogate them on her way home. To this point, I had retained my faith in “them” fixing it. Having no idea who “them” was seemed irrelevant, but it was their job, wasn’t it? The machinery rumbled a
way, the sound bringing with it, hope.

  4

  A fire on the terrace was not Sandro’s first preference. It would leave black marks. But Flagran was intractable. Once he had an idea, it quickly became an absolute imperative. Sandro managed to contain this long enough to pull across a large earthenware pot, tip out its deceased contents and drag it over the large red pavers. One thing about his companion was he never shirked effort, which was fortunate as the pot Flagran preferred was the heaviest one in the pretense of a garden. Finding fuel for the fire had been the most challenging task. It was late in the day when they returned with armloads of wood from a mate’s block out in Eltham. Flagran had insisted kindling would be unnecessary, but this had turned out to be false. The Caretaker could no longer play dragon. They were forced to scout around the neighbourhood for another hour hunting out bits and pieces of debris that would burn. Flagran flatly refused to purchase firelighters, or to allow Sandro to do so.

  “I’ve wasted my whole day,” Sandro complained. Having wasted most of it already, it seemed only right to make the best of the remainder. Together, they sat stoking their camp fire way into the night. At one point, Sandro broke off to fetch himself some Take Away from nearby Brunswick St returning with fresh, local, lightly battered fish, the chunkiest, cleanest chips imaginable, and a large salad full of sprouts, seeds, quinoa, goat’s cheese, beetroot and other indistinguishable vegetables, all making up a satisfying meal. Not being able to share it with Flagran was the only drawback.

  The two sat discussing life. Flagran was keen to share some of his adventures, and Sandro listened with interest to tales spanning centuries. He found it difficult to picture the world as Flagran had seen it. The Caretakers were normally free to roam the earth at will, but what kept them close to their origins was a deep and intense love of Australia. Flagran was recounting tales of the indigenous inhabitants of the land as they roamed about the area in which the two were seated. This wasn’t news to Sandro. It had often been brought to his attention that the first people of the land around Melbourne were the Kulin nation, but he had little understanding of the individual groups which constituted it. The Wurungeri people were one of these. There were references to this at most opening addresses, and Sandro had largely turned off during the “Welcome to country” introductions, not because he thought it unimportant, but because it had never come alive for him in the way Flagran told it. He had been there.

  As the night wore on, Flagran’s tales of fire, together with the flame before them, became woven into a dreamlike arena. Here humans used fire to clear the undergrowth making it safe for them to live in the hot, dry, changeable climate. He told tales of infighting and backbiting all of which had the familiar feel of families and so-called friends working their way through the shit of life. What stood out for Sandro were the principles supporting the lifestyle, ones where everything belonged to everyone. He could see some good in it, but knew he’d not been meant to live way back in those days. He never would have survived without owning things. Sandro owned a great deal for a man of thirty two years, and he saw himself as a success.

  Towards the early morning Flagran began to speak of his current predicament. The recent bushfires sweeping across the state had been none of his doing. He was quietly clear about this. But, the situation was a little more complex. It was his role to contain fire, and wherever possible, to turn it to good. Humans made this task extremely difficult for a spirit of Flagran’s temperament. Where there should be fire, humans prevented it. Where fire was the worst possible event in any situation, humans either started it, or they fuelled it, or they failed to recognise the danger. “If human beings would just get out of my way, I would have this all sorted,” he told Sandro.

  He went on to describe how he had turned his back when his job was to do everything in his power to contain the danger. The Source had been less than impressed.

  Sandro reflected on this. “So the Source, as you call it, is punishing you by taking away your powers?” Sandro thought it a bit rich. “How is it your fault what humans choose to mess up?”

  “Nah,” Flagran shook his head slowly. “It’s not like that. It’s more about me going off and doing my own thing and making everything worse. Not the punishment bit. More a small reminder of how stuff fits together.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “No, you can’t get it because for you there is no Source and no task.”

  There had to be something, Sandro thought. He’d always thought that. But he wasn’t taking on the punishment thing. Imagine what would happen inside him if, despite all the times he told himself he was a complete and utter prick, there was a force outside who agreed with him and got the whip out. Life would be even more of a nightmare. He ducked every time he heard the word Karma.

  “What do you reckon about Karma, Flagran? Do you reckon we all get back what we give out?”

  “Well, I’ve heard it said, of course. But that hasn’t been my experience. I’ve watched humans choose to be morons, and the Source just gives them some more help.”

  “Yeah, but here you are trying to help. And you get shot in the foot.”

  “It only happened because we let our frustration get the better of us. There’s only one thing the Source expects of us spirits, and that’s to keep in touch.”

  “Doesn’t seem too difficult,” Sandro mused.

  “You’ve got no idea.” Flagran stared at him. “Working with humans to guard and tend the planet requires great wisdom. Sometimes I’m just over it and I think, okay, do what you like.”

  “That makes sense to me,” Sandro said.

  “Yes, but not to the Source.”

  They pondered on the ways of the world and all things spiritual for another hour or so, at which point Flagran decided to go out on the town and visit some friends, and Sandro made his way to bed. Before parting, Sandro asked, “Hey Flagran, when you try to stop humans doing something like staying too long to fight a fire, or lighting one in the bush, or you want to steer them away from danger, how do you go about it?”

  Flagran grinned. “I just say ‘get out of my way, you dickhead!’”

  “What happens then,” Sandro asked, puzzled.

  “Nothing! They can’t hear me.”

  ***

  Bridey

  When noise penetrated my sleep, where it was coming from and what was supposed to be done about it was confusing. The truck was running over my foot. I kept asking it to get off, telling it there was a better way to deliver the water than pouring it all over my veranda, and none of it was going in my mouth. We were in a big pit or something, and the sides were being excavated by enormous caterpillars. The veranda turned out to be a couple of sheets tied together, flapping from a tree. There were shadowy figures everywhere, and it seemed they were going to get me, but the truck wouldn’t get off my foot, so escape was impossible. I woke up sweating, feeling clammy and disoriented.

  The half-light coming through the makeshift curtains over my bedroom window created a semi-conscious arena for the pieces of my life to play out. A dark, handsome stranger had… What? Jumping out of bed was impossible. My sore foot was tangled in the bedding and stayed behind. I fell forward onto my hands in excruciating pain, swinging my back around to pull all the bedclothes onto the floor in order to free my foot. Have you ever tried to pull bedclothes off a bed which was made by an obsessive-compulsive, clean freak?

  The day stretched out ahead filled with pain, dirt, hunger and thirst. There was no way to get to the shops with this foot. The food Mum had bought had mostly disappeared around lunchtime, and at dinner time the rest of the bread, slathered with butter and some jam, had followed. The only food remaining was pasta. Pasta required water of which there were two litres remaining. Boiled in as little fluid as would work without having it all stick together, and covered in tomato sauce, it was disgusting. For breakfast! The day threatened to be one long, grey journey.

  Terrified of dying of thirst before help came, I stole the smallest po
rtion of water to attempt a wash then dressed in clean clothes to trick myself into thinking I was the same as them, and rang Mum. She was sympathetic but busy. No good asking Dad. Sundays were his exercise days and nothing interrupted them. Mum accused me of wasting the water, and I told her where to go. Not really, but you have no idea how often the words come into my head.

  Some of my day passed in standing at the kitchen window looking out to where Homarta and others of her kind were pushing and pulling things around my backyard. There was the guy who had been here with the bike, yesterday. He must be part of this whole craziness going on in my life without consultation with me. No wonder he’d wanted to come in yesterday. They were taking over my life. Mixed and queer thoughts about this went round in my head. On the one hand, it was cheering to watch them working away out there. If the whole spirit thing was actually turning out to be true, maybe this could be a good thing. Maybe their interference meant I was important enough to be chosen. That sounded wrong. Maybe it was just luck from signing that petition. Whatever it was, a resolution began to form about venturing out to investigate how all this fitted into my life.

  It took some courage. There were three of them and only one of me. Admittedly, one of them was a bit helpless, but I’d seen how strong the smaller of the two males was and wasn’t keen to have him put his hand around my arm. It was enough of a problem having an extremely painful foot. The other man/male didn’t look to be too scary. He was smiling. From the back veranda, their conversation was audible, but they hadn’t seen me. The large pile of rubbish and building materials, the latter a complete mystery as there could not have been any sort of building going on in this place for the past eighty years, had been sorted. Homarta was sitting propped up on some timber which had been arranged so she could participate in whatever was going on without having to move.