Saracen (Saturn's Child Series Book 1)

by R. L. Holmes

  ‘Who was that?’ I call out.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Gran says. ‘Just go back to bed.’

  I did as I’m told and fall instantly into a deep slumber. This time I awake in darkness and the house, quiet. Mum is fast asleep in the bed next to me with Brambles our black cat perched on top. I begin to think about what Seth said to me, ‘Aphids on roses,’ and wonder what he means. I feel bad that I screamed at him, but it can be infuriating trying to decipher what he’s saying at times. I decide that tomorrow I will make him a small gift as an apology. He has been a good friend to me for months and I wouldn’t want to lose him now.

  I drift back to sleep and instantly fall into a black nightmare of Geoff killing himself. Sometimes he shoots himself at the market sometimes in our lounge and sometimes in my classroom. Each time he does it, people either laugh hysterically and point their accusing fingers, or they completely ignore him as if he’s not there, as if he’s invisible. I’m the only one that can see him, the only one who cares. His blood and brain scatter across the room colouring them red. Patterns develop on the walls and ceilings from the drips and splatters. But they do not feel it. They cannot see him. So his message, his cry for help is truly lost.

  ¥

  I wake in a sweat. My skin feels dirty as if covered in his blood and tissue. I hastily check my arms and legs expecting them to be smeared in red, but they’re clean. It’s nothing but a dream.

  I lie in bed for a few moments and wonder if it was Geoff who killed Daniel. It doesn’t make any sense for him to do that as Daniel was the only person I ever saw Geoff with, he seemed to be his only friend. I close my eyes again and try to drag up the image of the person squatting in the shade of Daniel’s ute. Is it Geoff? It isn’t clear. But whoever it is they’re staring intensely into the direction of the frolicking couple. Is this a pervert? I continue to observe in my mind.

  This time something strange happens. The watcher stretches his neck as if looking over the top of Daniel and Maria, to the willows on the other side of the river. What is he looking at? Still with eyes closed I gaze over to the line of weeping willows.

  Someone is there.

  The watcher in the shadows of Daniel’s truck nods and raises a finger. He’s signalling to someone on the other side. The watcher then stands up, the sun’s rays revealing him, that big head and skinny neck of Geoff. He then quickly races off in the opposite direction, galloping through the wild grasses towards the farmhouse. I look back towards the willows. I see nothing but a flash of white fabric. I open my eyes. Geoff, who were you looking at?

  I get up and shower. Gran and mum are making a brew of coffee. It smells wonderful, as if it triggers a happy gland in my brain. I’m never allowed to drink coffee, so I stick my nose in the grounded coffee bean container and inhale it instead. The usual buzz I get from coffee sniffing is doused by my circling thoughts of the mystery person within the willows. I feel I have to ponder on this information first before I say anything to anyone. Besides they may not believe me anyway, as it was merely a day dream an imagined vision.

  Gran, with mum’s help had made some muesli last night, mixing whole oats, diced dried apricots, raisins, sunflower and pumpkin seeds and almonds. She put three servings into a pot and covered it with water and squeezed lemon juice over the top so the oats can break down and ferment making them easier to digest. The following morning, she cooks it up in the pot and serves them with unsweetened yoghurt and our stewed Black Doris plums. This is a wholesome delicious treat that we only have when there was enough money. Otherwise we had toast or Weetbix.

  After finishing my flavoursome breakfast I wander into my room to look for something to make for Seth. I have an idea that since he loves stones and dirt, I will paint a rock in nice colours then he can place it anywhere in the garden he pleases. I found a nice rock in the front garden yesterday and drag out my paints from under the bed. Seth wears olive green overalls, so I assume that green must be his favourite colour. I mix up some paints making a forest green colour and began painting the rock. I think I might paint a happy face on it, since he is rarely that. After the first stroke, mum calls out to me to brush my teeth.

  I murmur an answer back.

  ¥

  February 1999: Saracen

  ¥

  This is the futuristic year 1999 - a year of advanced technology, talking robots, eating little tablets instead of real food and wearing the weight of a sudden crash occurring when computers flick over to 2000. That’s what they all predict.

  I am turning unlucky 13 in September and I’ve just started a dreaded, boring year in Form Two. Form Two, the year before high school and a year after primary school. My new teacher is an athletic, bronzed specimen called Mr Humphrey. He’s quite dreamy, to start off with, with his untamed sun-bleached hair and charming smile showing perfect teeth. But after several days of outdoor lessons involving running around the field reciting paragraphs from books we studied and squats, sit-ups and push-ups while learning our maths calculations - I quickly learnt to hate him with fervour.

  Luckily I’m not the only one to spit fire balls behind his back and plot to put a hex on his skinny jeans and wild mane. I’m making friends easily in form two, so far. Not because I’m a friendly, likable person, but because an alliance has been made. The class is split into two. The fit, active kids gravitate to the left of the classroom near Mr Humphrey’s desk. The less-fit; never do anything more than a walk in case we drop down dead from exhaustion; keep to the back, away from his sight and away from his annoying exuberance that I despise violently. I’ve become friends with those who feel equally unenthused about the excess exercise and are reminded every day of their inadequacies.

  My eyes wander over those who share my table to the far right of the room; the zitty, spectacle wearing nerd, the delicate violin player, the shy secretive kid, the kid with chronic eczema and asthma, and the chubby teddy bear with body odour problems. These are the ones who live in their minds; read comics and sci fi; the bookworms, the fantasists. I realise I have found my second family, my blood brothers, my kin. The six of us mostly keep together. We made an unspoken pact a few days into the new school year. It’s them versus us - brains and imagination versus fitness and popularity.

  Our fertile minds create colourful stories about the coming year, the year 2000. This will be the end, maybe. Aliens are sure to land. Computers are sure to explode or turn into robots that control our minds. Superheros are needed. Superpowers must be sought. Only those who know the secrets of the universe will survive. Only those who are prepared for the worse, armed and ready for battle will overthrow the invasion.

  ¥

  After a dreary day at school I decide to take another walk with mum to the post office to help her with the many Three Generation parcels she has to get couriered to various supermarkets and food stores. I ask her again who it was knocking at the door last night. She brushes it aside and tells me that I have experienced enough in the past few months, I don’t need any more drama in my life.

  I ignore her caring, protective comment and ask, ‘What was she here for?’

  Mum ignores the question and asks why I was painting a rock. I answer that it’s a present for someone.

  ‘Oh yes, who?’

  I have to think quickly as I don’t want to mention Seth. ‘Um the garden.’

  ‘The garden?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say with conviction, ‘A present for the garden, for all that it gives us.’

  ‘Oh what a fantastic idea, maybe I will paint one myself.’

  ‘Okay you can use my paints. But you will have to find your own rock.’ I feel excited about this, my mother and I working on a project together, just her and I.

  ‘What colour are you going to paint yours?’ I ask.

  ‘Um, maybe pink,’ she answers after a short pause.

  ‘Pink?’ I hiss, trying to imagine Seth liking a pink rock in his garden.

  ‘Yes I think it would look lovely amongst the blue and purple cornf
lowers.’

  As we pass the dairy, we notice that it’s closed with a For Sale sign out on the front. Mum had piled several parcels in the wheel barrow and is using that to transport them. I find this a little embarrassing and hope like hell nobody from Lowry Intermediate will see me.

  ‘I wonder how Rachel handled having two boyfriends’ dead.’ I suddenly say drifting behind mum, so it doesn’t look like we’re together.

  ‘Two boyfriends?’

  ‘Yeah, Daniel and Geoff.’

  ‘Geoff?’

  ‘Yeah, they were going out too.’

  My mother drifts away for a few moments, her mind busy with all sorts of analytical debates of why things happen the way they do, why life can be so cruel and unfair and why she keeps breaking out in pimples when her diet is so clean. It’s only a 20 minute walk to the post office. Ol’ Moley is on, snotty faced as ever as he studies us over his spectacles propped up on his nose.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says addressing my mother and ignoring me. We both answer unenthused, suspicious of his overzealous manner. As we approach his counter he swings his head around and mumbles something to Ms Anderson. He turns back to us. ‘How are you two this fine morning?’ his voice high and excitable.

  Ms Anderson peers over at him wearing a frown. We’re slightly confused by his behaviour. He’s always pretty flamboyant, like he should be on stage, like the post office is his stage. But the way he’s acting today is rather forced as if he’s trying really hard to enjoy serving us.

  With his pinky finger raised into the air, he quickly weighs and stamps our parcels. The cost of sending all of these is quite expensive, but we have made a lot of money at the market, before Geoff killed himself, so there’s plenty of cash sitting around.

  Moley peers down at me pursing his lips. His expressions are always of disgust as if I repel him somewhat. When we finally finish and the parcels are all totalled and taken away to be delivered, mum kindly thanks ol’ Moley and as we head for the door, I overhear Ms Anderson ask him about his roses.

  I stop dead. A knot forms in my stomach and my chest tightens, making it difficult for me to breathe. ‘Aphids on roses,’ I whisper.

  ‘What?’ mum asks. ‘Are you alright?’

  Seth had told me many months ago, that for Moley to dispel the aphids off his prize roses, he should let the insects have three plants and they will leave the rest alone. When I gave Moley this important information he wasn’t particularly open to the idea and called me weird, behind my back. What was Seth trying to tell me? Aphids on roses could only mean, Moley. But what was Moley’s connection to Seth?

  I’m dying to ask Seth for more information, but it seems to take forever before we arrive home and Gran’s in the middle of making some cream cleanser with great difficulty as her arm is still causing her a lot of bother. I can see the pure frustration in her eyes. She has so many ideas and is so incredibly creative, but her physical ability to make these ideas a reality fall short, due to having only the use of one arm. She still isn’t the warm, caring, giggling person she used to be, not since Raven-Face struck her down. Oh how I hate that woman.

  I find Seth fussing over the old apricot tree. He’s patting it on the trunk and muttering something that almost resembles a chant. I tiptoe up behind him and sit down on a garden chair placed beneath the flowering cherry. When he senses me there he turns his back to me. I wonder if I had hurt his feelings as looking back I was rather abrupt. ‘Seth,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m sorry that I screamed at you.’

  The funny little hairy man ignores me and continues muttering and chanting and fussing.

  ‘Seth,’ I continue. ‘What did you mean by “aphids on roses?”’

  ‘Aphids on roses, aphids on roses, aphids on roses,’ he repeats over and over.

  ‘Yes Seth, but what does it mean?’

  It’s no use. He isn’t even in the same mental arena as me, those words just kept repeating over and over. I give up after a few minutes and head inside to watch mum help Gran with the cream cleanser. We had harvested the herbs and Gran had made them into tinctures. They macerated for six weeks in an ethanol and water solution, from the new moon to the following full moon, steeping and swirling in power and magic.

  Being a product that needs to froth and foam, Gran chooses herbs and oils that are high in constituents called saponins and mucilage. Saponins: meaning soap. Coconut oil is a great choice mixed with almond and avocado oils and the herbs are the tenacious ribwort, a herb most gardeners hate and kumerahou leaves, we had to travel to get those, to a small native forest near the City. Kumerhou is a slow growing, sweet smelling, yellow flowered tree, that is high is the soapy substance. Lastly chickweed, that crisp little weed that pops up anywhere, probably because the birds poo the seeds out, and has a tiny white flower. This herb is also high in saponins, so when the cream cleanser is mixed with water, it bubbles up nicely.

  ¥

  Our Three Generations cream cleanser is becoming more and more popular. We have people contact us often for refills, so Gran has to make batches every week. The batches are small, making only ten pots at a time, but this way we can get rid of them faster. The labels are designed by Potts next door. We decided that when we started to make more money, we would get them professionally designed so they look commercial, but for now Potts’ labels are sufficient.

  The oils plus the emulsifier are put into one double burner, while the water and there is substantial water in creams and moisturizers, is heated in the other. The containers and equipment used are always sterilised first with Gran’s ethanol and the thermometers, saucepans and stirring spoons are never swapped, as they could carry bacteria. When the water and oil phases have heated to 70degrees they are taken off the heat and gently poured in a glass container to carefully beat. Orange and grapefruit aromatherapy oils are added for fragrance and as a secondary stabiliser, then the mixture is poured in amber, glass containers to let cool. Three of these 10 pots of thick, luscious citrus smelling delights are already pre-sold to an elderly lady, Mrs Derby.

  ¥

  Mrs Derby is very old, 96 she said. She’s living out the rest of her life in a retirement village across the road from the farmer’s market, and is as sharp as the Garden Witch’s thorns. One time I accidently gave her too little change and she was down on me like a tonne of bricks. She said that her generation had to always watch their pennies because times were tough, not like they are now.

  I wonder what she thinks about Geoff, killing himself. Times were tough enough for him to end it all in a public place. Luckily Mrs Derby had been and gone by the time he shot himself, taking with her; one jar of feijoa chutney, one jar of blackberry and apple jam, a cream cleanser and a rich moisturising cream. That old lady is great for our business as she bought things for her friends at the retirement home, and shares what she bought for herself, forever turning up at 6.15am with a walking stick in one hand and a cane basket in the other. She would pull out this tiny blue purse that contains wads of twenty dollar bills. One time she dropped a whole bunch on the stack of Raspberry jam. I reckon she had hundreds but I quickly helped her to gather the notes together, as she winked and croakily whispered, ‘Plenty more where they came from.’

  This of course contradicted her previous comment of short changing her, but I guess this is the typical behaviour of her generation. Back when things were much harder and you had to hide twenty dollar bills under you mattress, because banks were open only small hours and you didn’t trust them anyway.

  ¥

  March 1999: Saracen

  ¥

  I find Seth rummaging around the vegetable garden, placing little clear stones next to each carrot plant and each lettuce and muttering in chants again. It’s late summer, the garden colours are bleached and a cool breeze from the south sails past prickling me with shivers.

  I still have not got to the bottom of this “aphids on roses”, business, or the mystery person within the willows in my day dream. I really want to know what “aphids
on roses” means, as it seems important and urgent to Seth. After knowing this strange little man for several months, I notice that as I mature he fades. He’s growing more and more insular, and more and more strange, almost shamanic. He’s delving into a world that frightens me slightly, a world where he chants and hangs necklaces off branches and draws symbols into the earth. He rarely speaks English now, instead preferring some sort of ancient language, that sometimes I understand but most of the time I don’t.

  I painted the rock a forest green colour and drew big orange interlinking circles over the top. It took me a while to get the colours right and to fill in each little crack and crevice. But I’m pleased with the end result. I just hope Seth likes it. As I approach him, he peers very oddly at my feet in their pink jandels and scratches his head. He seems confused and disoriented as if he can’t see things properly and is unsure where he is.

  ‘Seth,’ I say, almost a whisper. The sound of my voice frightens him.

  He startles and steps back a couple feet. I step forward and hold out the green rock. He stares at it with a look of horror, like it’s on fire. I can’t understand this. He’s usually so bright, if somewhat grumpy and anti-social. He lifts his head slowly and his eyes met mine. His eyes are a glistering emerald, cold and vacant. His head bobs back and forth in a dozy, sleepy state.