by Patty Jansen
Replies done, she takes her mother's phone. Connects it to the computer. Many of the pictures she took earlier in the yard are poor, blurry, with only the bunnies' red eyes showing. But there are a few she can use.
She moves those pictures in her 'bunny directory'. Secret. Uncle laughs at it, but doesn't know what it's for.
She opens the file. Every pixel has a colour. Every colour has a number. Eight bits to a byte, little rows of ones and zeroes. You add them up, and they give you a number – the number of the soul that rides in the animal. Oh, it's hard, and it's never accurate at the first try, but she cherishes those numbers she's been able to get to work: Mrs Blackwell's and poor Sarah's--only seventeen when she was killed in a car crash. Maria watched funeral from her bedroom window. Rows of weeping girls in the rain. Her soul now rides in a white bunny, a released pet barely confident enough to dig a burrow. But it dug under the gravestone, and that's how the soul possessed the bunny.
Ilya is somewhere out there.
Maria has three new pictures. Two are still not very good, but the third one is perfect. It's the bunny that digs. She scans and sits there late into the night to calculate the number.
When she's done and leans on the windowsill; the bunnies are feasting on the grass below. Maria punches the new number. It fails. She tries numbers on either side. They fail, too, but a number two digits up does not bounce with a number unknown message.
Maria clasps her hands. Long ago, her parents took her to church where old women in headscarves burned candles and where a priest in a golden robe dunked Ilya in a bowl of water. He cried. She remembers that. She knows that pray is something you do to God. No one ever told her how to pray, but she mumbles, 'I pray I find Ilya. I will look after him very well. I pray father will be let out of jail.' Only fair--it was Uncle, not her father, who locked the poor girl up in the cellar and let her die.
'I pray that I can go to school, like normal girls.' Uncle said girls like her didn't go to school in Russia either, so why should she need to go here?
'Please, God, I want to go to school.'
The phone beeps and Maria almost bumps it off the windowsill.
A long number, starting with eight.
wozzup?
wots ur name?
Andrew. The big bunny. She had watched his funeral, too. A carpenter, killed on his way to work.
u no Ilya?
lil boy?
Yes. Maria's heart thuds with hope.
lives nr da gate. The cemetery gate?
tk me pls?
ur 2 big. To fit under the fence, sure.
can u dig?
u crzy? Diggin is me
* * *
Maria sneaks down the stairs holding the phone. The light is still on in the living room. The sound of voices drifts under the door, mingled with the smell of smoke. Uncle doesn't smoke, and neither does her mother, so that means there's a visitor.
'Maria!' Uncle bellows.
Maria freezes. Did he know she was outside the living room door? No, he can't have. She runs halfway up the stairs, back down, opens the living room window. Blinks against the light.
Her uncle is there, and her mother, swigging from the bottle. On the couch sit a man she has never seen. He is thin, with a narrow face and a long nose. Long greying hair. A goatee.
He smiles.
Maria doesn't like his gold teeth, or his greasy skin, or the gold chain around his neck. Gold jewellery on men means they have the money to buy it; it means trouble.
'This is the girl?' His voice is thin and reedy.
Uncle nods.
The man gets up from the couch, slow, like a tiger, and walks around her. Squeezes her arm. His grey gaze penetrates the frilly corset.
'Not much meat on her, is there?'
'You take her?' Uncle sounds bored, and when he sounds like that, it means he's acting.
The man shrugs. Acting, too. A hungry look hovers in his eyes. 'Virgin?'
'What do you think?' Her uncle sounds almost outraged.
The man smiles, a smile Maria likes even less. He strokes his goatee. 'OK. I take her. My girls can teach her.'
Uncle flaps his hand at Maria. 'Get your things, girl.'
Maria leaves the room, trembling. What to do? She's lived in the house for the past six years, has not set a foot outside. No one knows her except the bunnies.
But Andrew is digging.
* * *
It has started raining.
Over at the fence Andrew's bunny digs and digs. Soft sand piles up. Maria falls down to her knees and digs with him. Sand and sticks get under her nails. Her hands get dirty. It is wet and cold, and her fingers hurt, but she digs.
Please, if there is a God, let him help me.
The light goes on in the kitchen. The back door opens.
Maria throws herself flat on the ground and squeezes out the hole. The corset catches, but pulls. It makes a cracking noise. She pushes more. Squeezes under the fence. Free. She runs across the scrub, climbs over another fence. Barbed wire snags on the frilly corset. Something rips.
A glow of yellow floods the scrub: uncle has turned on the light in her bedroom.
'Maria!' he yells.
Maria runs and runs, along the grassy lane, past the headstones, following Andrew. Little shadows flit away. There are so many bunnies.
Ilya!
He's out there, on the path between the marble mausoleums. He's little and black, and doesn't run away.
She scoops him up in her arms. Fur brushes her cheeks, wet but soft.
'Ilya, Ilya.'
'Maria!' Her uncle again, now outside the fence.
Maria runs, but doesn't know where. Andrew is gone. Large marble mausoleums. Statues. Big sandstone gates. A road. A lone street lamp casts a weak pool of light on the asphalt. She remembers. The road winds down to the shops--father used to take her there. They used to buy chips and eat them on the beach. The shops are still there, dark and closed for the night. There is also a building with a bright blue and white neon sign. Maria doesn't know what it says; she doesn't read English, but a light is on in the building. Light means people.
She runs, clutching Ilya to her chest. Down the road, past the white car with the blue chequered band, up the steps.
A man sits at a desk, alone. He says something, but she doesn't understand. He wears a blue shirt; a blue cap is on the desk.
He looks up and Maria stops in the doorway. Hesitates. A uniform. Uniforms are bad says Uncle. Police wear uniforms. Police came to take her father away.
But Maria knows what strange men want. Men can be bought. Especially men who smile, like this one. Uncle has taught her. She sticks her chin in the air, dumps Ilya on the desk. She sits on the corner, flings her wet hair over her shoulder, pouts and slowly undoes the hooks to the corset.
The man just watches, his mouth open.
About this story:
On a beautiful sunny Saturday, I sat on the veranda with coffee and read this story in the newspaper about a local cemetery where they had problems with rabbits digging under gravestones. The idea of the possessed bunny was born. The cemetery in question was Rookwood, but for some reason the setting that came into my mind is the old cemetery at La Perouse, tightly-packed with Italian-style marble mausoleums, overlooking Botany Bay.
The Ten Days of Madness
Originally published in Antipodean SF
On the first day of madness, our humble abode morphed into mission control. The Zurgs were planning an attack, so the Gargs and the Blobs spent most of the day building up their intergalactic strike forces.
On the second day of madness, I was pushed into the role of Intergalactic Peacekeeper, preventing Zurg forces from invading Blob territory.
On the third day of madness, I was accused of obliterating half the Garg strike force. I waved our agreement that all space ships had to vacate mission control by dinner time. Most of the Garg forces were retrieved from the recycling depot.
On the fourth day of madness,
an intergalactic storm broke loose and Zurg, Garg and Blob were forced to spend the entire day cooped up inside mission control. You can imagine the sort of day we had.
On the fifth day of madness, mission control was turned inside out. Apparently, the Garg had misplaced their main ship. The Zurg were accused of stealing it, but it turned up in Blob territory. Following that, the Blob retreated and refused to negotiate with anyone for the rest of the day. It was a job beyond the Intergalactic Peacekeeper. When the Mission Commander finally turned up, all he had to do was to offer the opposing alien forces their favourite food and they followed his orders meekly. Sigh.
On the sixth day of madness, the Garg and Blob forces combined their exercises. The Zurg felt both armies were ganging up against them. They appealed to the Intergalactic Peacekeeper--that was me--but I had lost interest in the thankless job of keeping apart three opposing alien forces that obviously wanted nothing better than a good fight.
On the seventh day of madness, the Garg discovered a new weapon: Intergalactic noise. This time, the Zurg and the Blobs spent most of their time knocking on my door. But I had fled mission control and wanted nothing more to do with the imminent war.
On the eighth day of madness, mission control faced invasion by another opposing force: the Gats. However, the Gats were fewer in number and more poorly trained than the Zurgs, Gargs and Blobs, so they made a hasty retreat to their part of the galaxy.
On the ninth day of madness, everyone was at everyone else's throats. The Intergalactic Peacekeeper thought very hard about resigning, but when the Mission Commander came late in the day, as he was wont to, he took them out to see Space Rangers at the Intergalactic cinema, which seemed to calm their senses.
On the tenth day of madness, war broke out. The Zurg obliterated the Blob airforce. The Garg spent the rest of the morning fighting the Zurg. And that was just before mid-morning. The Blob put up an emergency strike force and spent all afternoon pelting the rest of us with intergalactic missiles. I definitely blew my last ever chance to succeed at peacekeeping and banished all three forces to their respective corners of the galaxy.
On the eleventh day of madness . . .
I woke up when the sun had barely risen. On the bedside next to me stood a small figure, hair sticking out at odd angles. I reached out to check if I was having a nightmare. Were those alien forces now disturbing me in my sleep as well?
The little warm hand was real. 'Hmm--what is it?' I mumbled.
A little voice answered, 'Mum, did you wash any school uniforms?'
About this story:
Which mother, when faced with primary school kids at home during the school holidays, hasn't wondered if the house had become an intergalactic war zone?
From the Parrot's Mouth
Originally published in Beyond Centuari June 2009
Mr Cook whirls away from the blackboard, grey hair poking at right angles from his head. His popping eyes meet mine.
'What did I say? Tanya?'
The black Labrador at his feet growls.
I stare back. He picks on me. He always does. Doesn't like girls, especially ones that giggle.
'I was only asking Annelise for a pencil.'
Annelise's face is red and the hand she clamps over her mouth lets through snorting noises.
I elbow her in the side, hard, mouthing shut up.
She hisses, 'Ow!' and goes on snorting. Her two budgies, Mo and Bo, flutter to the edge of her desk and sit there, chattering.
Mr Cook ignores the budgies and keeps his eyes firmly on me. I'm really in for it now.
'That is three times I've had to remind you to pay attention in class.'
One of the budgies flies between us, but of course he can't see it. As far as I know, I am the only one who can.
'Come and sit here.'
He lunges for my desk, picks up my book, strides to the front of the classroom and slams it onto the desk directly facing his; his dog starts with the sudden noise.
I cringe.
Sit there? Next to the new girl?
Mr Cook's expression is hard. No more arguments young lady.
His dog stands by the door, its leash in its mouth. Then again, Mr Cook can't see the dog either.
I sigh, pick up my bag and slouch across the classroom, and drop into the seat he has indicated. The girl doesn't even flinch. Her face is turned to the blackboard and stays that way, even when I deliberately bump the table. Sheesh.
She has mousey brown hair, limp and straight, held back with a hair band. Her jumper is not from the uniform shop, but a washed-out black number, with a v-neck. Daggy. Must have a mother telling her to wear sensible clothes.
I drag my work book across. Lolita jumps onto my desk, her tail held high. She purrs, pushing her head into my shoulder. I gently shove her aside, attempting to open my book. Not now, dear puss. I'm in enough trouble already.
The new girl just sits there, her chin in the air. Thin, wispy. Anorexic? I think, but that's disgusting. They feed us so much stuff about eating disorders, we see anorexics in every girl. But she is very thin, and her face is kinda sad, with big blue eyes that are way too keen not to meet mine. There are no animals with her and instantly, I feel sorry. Has she never loved a pet?
I heard yesterday that her name is Lucy.
Mr Cook drones on. The Tudors. Names of Kings and Queens, who married who and why. Bo-ho-ring. I doodle in my workbook. Circles and squares. Lolita paws the moving end of my pen. Mr Cook asks questions.
Lucy scribbles busily and rips a corner out of a page. I frown at her and she scrunches it up under her hands. Pretends to look out the window. I return to my doodling and watch from the corner of my eyes. She sneaks out the paper and flicks it onto Mr Cook's desk. He picks it up, reads, nods. 'Very good.'
Great. She doesn't need a pet; she is a pet, a teacher's pet.
There is a whoosh of air, and a flapping of wings.
A cockatoo has come in through the open window. It lands on our desk and puts up its yellow crest.
Lolita jerks up her head, looking at it wide-eyed, as if she wants to say, The audacity! Her tail goes bushy.
Uh-oh, Lolita, not now.
The cockatoo ambles over the desk in its clumsy parrot gait, mumbling something that sounds like speech, but I don't catch the words. It hops onto my pencil case, looks at me with one eye and says clearly, 'I didn't do it.'
While I stare at the cockatoo, wanting to ask it, didn't do what?, Mr Cook is talking.
'Tanya, are you paying attention? Would you want to come back after school and finish this page?'
It is not a question.
* * *
The bell goes. The boys at the back of the class rise with lots of clanging and snorts of just-breaking voices. They are always first at the door. I turn to Lucy. 'Do you have Geography next as well?'
She says nothing.
I swing my bag on my shoulder. Don't tell me I didn't try.
To get to the Geography, I have to walk through the English corridor, where a whole group of guys are bunched up. No one can get through and a couple of year twelves are shouting for people to keep moving. I can hear Josh yelling something, but you know, all these lanky guys are like trees and you can't see between them. Could have guessed, though. Wherever there is trouble, Josh is rarely far away.
Lolita is bushing up her tail again. She doesn't like Josh's Rottweiler and I don't like it either, or rather, I don't like the people who allowed the dog get so fat. Fed to death? Is that how she died?
I spot Samantha and Annelise in the crowd.
'What's going on here?' I ask them.
'Somebody stole fifty dollars from Josh's bag at recess,' Samantha says. 'He says that he left his bag in the canteen and the money wasn't there when he came back.'
'He's probably just lost it.' Lolita or the dogs would let me know if anything strange was going on.
'You always say that,' Samantha says. 'You just hate Josh.'
No, I don't hate him, but I k
now things about him others don't know. The things aren't pretty, but Josh is a popular boy, and apart from animal ghosts no one can see, I have no evidence for what I know.
'Boys, girls, what is going on here?'
The voice makes us all start. Holy guacamole, the principal.
Josh explains. The principal spouts his usual spiel about responsibility and the care for our school community and all that stuff.
I slink away from the group. There is a horse in the corridor, a pretty dappled palomino. It swishes its white tail and swings its ears forward. I scratch it between its ears as I usually do when I meet him grazing in the patch of grass between the science and the English block. He snorts. I don't know his name, but he's a healthy horse, well cared-for, groomed and fed.
'Oh, the principal is such a pompous jerk,' Annelise says behind me. Her poodle prances around her feet, the ridiculous ribbon on her head bobbing. Sorry, but who dresses up a dog like that?
I shrug, my heart still thudding from having her sneak up on me. Did she wonder what I was doing, holding up my hand in mid-air, stroking a horse she can't see?
Well, maybe not. I glance back at the principal, looking for a diversion.
Pompous he may be, but a jerk the principal is not. Mr Devlin loved his horse when he was a boy. He has a good nature. People lie, but animals don't.
Annalise walks with me to class.
'You know what I think?' Annelise says after an uncomfortable silence. 'I think that new girl is stealing.'
Her statement makes me feel cold. 'That's jumping to conclusions a bit, isn't it?'
'Josh thinks so, too.'
'Since when are you listening to Josh?'
'Tanya--Lucy is the only one in our class who knows that we have to pay for the history excursion, and who would have known that Josh had fifty dollars in his bag and the only one who wasn't with us at recess.'
She is right, but still . . . I think about Lucy, her mousey face . . . and the way she doesn't want to speak to us. I shrug. 'I still think he's simply lost the money.'
