The Stone Flowers

by Nora O'Keeffe

  Maggie accelerated, wincing at the rumble of the Ute’s engine. Her gaze kept jumping from the cottage to the structure behind it. The shearing shed was bigger than the cottage but half hidden by its location. It had the same scorched look as the front building. Maggie’s plan rested on the Acheri occupying the outer building and Prapti the cottage. She wasn’t sure why she had planned it this way, but her gut told her the demon wouldn’t be living in a house. A creature like the one Harness described would want something more crude and earthy, making the old shearing shed the perfect setting. So much of her plan rested on gut instinct, she hoped hers was right.

  Maggie proceeded up the hill towards the cottage where the dirt road abruptly ended. Whether by luck or planning, Prapti had chosen a location that would make it impossible for anyone to approach without being seen. Recognising the pointlessness of trying to surprise the woman with a silent approach, Maggie floored the accelerator and drove straight at the house. At the last minute she spun the steering wheel and brought the Ute around and to a stop next to the van, sending up a cloud of dust and gravel.

  She hoped that it looked like an angry move, one that disguised choosing a strategic parking spot. By parking on the far side of the van, Prapti might not see Doug and Jackson unloading the gear. If everything went to plan, the men might be able to get from the Ute to the shed without being seen.

  That’s a big if, Maggie thought as she turned the engine off and grabbed the spanner from under the passenger’s seat. She shoved the heavy tool down the back of her jeans and pulled her T-shirt over it. The metal felt icy cold against the skin on her lower back. Cold, but... reassuring.

  She stepped out of the car, leaving her bag on the seat. If Prapti was watching, she wanted her to see that her hands were empty and believe she was unarmed and vulnerable. Maggie walked around the van and up to the house, noticing a large group of crows in the weeping peppermint trees, their beady eyes watching as she walked. A light breeze ruffled the leaves and started the birds squawking.

  A murder of crows, Maggie thought grimly, half expecting the creatures to swoop down on her and begin pecking her eyes out.

  The birds gave no sign of attack, but continued their watchful vigil as she climbed the steps and stood on the sagging porch. The breeze was doing more than unsettling the birds; it carried a strange odour that Maggie couldn’t quite identify. The smell reminded her of unwashed potatoes, but mixed with something metallic and unpleasant. Maggie grimaced and tried to breathe through her mouth.

  The now visible windows were blackened using either dirt or paint, it was hard to tell, but it looked deliberate. The cottage was incredibly isolated, making the blackened windows unnecessary for privacy. It occurred to her that she’d seen Prapti twice; once at night when she was introduced to her at Agnes’s party and the other time in the late afternoon in the unlit café. Maybe Prapti doesn’t like the light? If she could get Prapti out into the sunlight or get some light into the cottage, it could work in Maggie’s favour.

  The front door was made of a solid wooden panel, splintered and slightly warped. Maggie tried the knob... unlocked. She hesitated. Her hands were shaking again–this time she had no doubt about what was causing it. Once she stepped into the cottage, there’d be no turning back. I might be making things worse. Worse for Harness and worse for everyone in Thorn Tree.

  Maggie let go of the doorknob and balled her hands into fists, opening and closing them a few times and taking deep breaths. Adrenalin was coursing through her body like wildfire, making it difficult to keep her mind focused. If she didn’t act now, Doug and Jackson would come over the rise and the whole plan would be ruined. She reached out and turned the knob.

  The door opened a few centimetres with a crunch of grit and dust, then stuck. She put her free hand flat on the wood and pushed. When it didn’t budge, Maggie wedged her shoulder against the door and, bending her knees, shoved.

  The door popped open and swung inwards, taking Maggie with it. She stumbled into what she guessed was the main room. The smell was stronger inside and now mixed with the thick stench of human waste. Maggie gagged and covered her nose. An old fireplace and wide wooden mantle dominated the room, near it an archway that probably led to the kitchen. Along the left side of the room were two doors both standing half open, probably leading to the bedrooms.

  Maggie stayed in the entrance. Even with the front door standing open and a few rays leaking through the blackened windows, gloom cloaked the area. Amongst the other odours, she detected wood smoke, telling her someone definitely lived in the hellish cottage. A few steps into the room, she noticed a battered saucepan in the remains of a wood fire. On the mantle above, something glinted, capturing a beam of light.

  She glanced at the bedroom doorways, the archway to the kitchen, and then back out the front door, listening intently as she crept forward.

  The object came into focus and her stomach lurched. The thick stench in the air and the horror before her almost knocked her off balance. She’d prepared herself for a physical attack, not the twisted nature of what was laid out on the wooden mantle.

  A little tin whistle, its dark blue paint faded and aged. The instrument could have come from anywhere, but Maggie knew it was Meena’s, the little girl Manjula left behind in India. She knew with every cell in her body that it was the same whistle she’d seen in the photograph. She swallowed back the sour taste filling her mouth and let her eyes scan the trophies littering the shelf. A red and white yo-yo with a bit of frayed string clinging to the centre, a baby’s bottle encrusted with grime. There was a gap in the collection, an empty spot waiting to be filled.

  A spot for Annabel. Maggie couldn’t explain how she knew these things, but the knowing was undeniable. The mantle was littered with a collection of not so random items. Unable to drag herself away, Maggie looked over the keepsakes. A morbid collection gathered from countless dead children. Children Prapti and the demon had killed over what looked like decades, maybe longer. Some of the things looked very old and fragile. A single lace bootie, yellow and brittle with age, lay next to a tin soldier. Maggie picked up the toy; it had the look of an antique probably dating back to the First World War. She put the little soldier in the palm of her hand, feeling its weight. Most of the green paint had peeled off, the tiny helmet dented almost beyond recognition.

  The toy felt cold against her skin. As her fingers traced the soldier’s face, she thought she heard an echo – singing. A childish voice grew clearer as if singing in her ear. I found a trail of the mountain mist, the mountain mist, the mountain mist. Without realising it, Maggie’s lips were moving, whispering the lyrics as they played in her mind. Tears welled in her eyes. Some poor little boy had played with this toy over a hundred years ago and now it sat in this desolate place as a macabre reminder of his life and death. There probably wasn’t a living soul left to remember him.

  Maggie’s eyes drooped. The lullaby pulled at her soul with its tragic sweetness. It would be so much easier to just surrender to the song and rest, anything else would be pointless. Her legs unlocked at the knees, as if gravity pulled her downwards. Would it be so bad if the mist took away all the pain and struggling?

  “Maggie, I didn’t hear you knock.”

  The woman’s voice snapped her back to the moment. Maggie’s eyes opened and the toy dropped into the hearth. The singing ceased, vanishing like the mist in the lullaby, leaving her off balance and slightly dazed. She turned, stumbling, and knocked a small stool over, sending it rolling across the gritty floor.

  Prapti stood in the bedroom doorway, hands at her sides, head cocked slightly, her pose mirroring that of the crows gathered outside the cottage. She remained still, making no move to approach. For a moment neither woman spoke.

  “It’s all right, Maggie.” Her sonorous voice was affable, as if they were old friends. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again. I’m glad you’re finally here.”

  On the drive into the hills, when Doug and Jackson were lost
in thought, Maggie played this moment over and over in her mind, trying to decide what she’d say to the woman responsible for so much death and sorrow. She’d thought about the moves she’d make, how the confrontation would end. But now, standing in front of Prapti, her resolve slipped and all the condemnations flew from her mind. All that remained was fear – and hate.

  “I know why you’re here and what you think you’re going to do.” Her oversized mouth drew into a grin, exposing large teeth and turning her expression into something resembling a wolf preparing to pounce.

  When Maggie found her voice, it came out as a feeble croak. “I know you’re a killer.”

  Prapti took a step forward–just one, silent and threatening. Maggie’s eyes moved to the woman’s feet. They were bare and covered in grime as though she’d been walking through dirt.

  “You try to label us, but know nothing of our nature. We are creatures of the darkness, but our purpose is divine. The Devi seeks only to uphold the equilibrium, to...keep the balance. There’s darkness and light in this world… We cannot allow the light to overtake the darkness, balance must be sustained.” As she spoke, her eyes shone with religious fervour.

  “So you keep the balance by killing children that are special or gifted?”

  Prapti took another step and nodded. “Your understanding is crude, but correct.”

  “So what about the other children? What about the elderly and the sick? They can’t all be a threat to...to your...balance? Why are they dead?” Maggie’s voice rose. She had to keep Prapti talking, but the woman was closing in, cornering her in the shadows of the filthy room.

  “Do you think you’re the first to challenge us?” The friendly tone was gone now. “There have been many like you. Simple-minded savages desperate to protect their simpering offspring, or worse, their lovers.” She huffed out a joyless laugh. “Yes.” She drew out the S like a hiss and tilted her chin upwards. “I can smell him on you. He’ll be dead by morning and then they will throw his body in the truck with all the other carcases.” She closed her mouth, oversized teeth clanging together like scissoring blades.

  The poisonous words dripped out of the woman’s mouth like dark syrup, goading and cruel. The taunting prediction and mocking smile pushed and stabbed at Maggie until anger broke through the fear and slammed everything into focus. Prapti’s black pupil-less eyes, her grime-stained neck and dirty black dress all emerged out of the fear. It was then that Maggie realised Prapti held something in her right hand, half concealed by the folds of her dress.

  A meat cleaver, large and blindingly shiny amidst the filth. Maggie’s brain was sluggish, slow to comprehend what it saw, as if whatever spell the toy soldier spun still clouded her mind. It’s the cleanest thing in the house. The thought was fleeting, a moment’s distraction before her instincts surfaced. The woman was closing on her, and if Maggie didn’t act, she’d die here. Her blood would cover the grimy floor. Any chance at real happiness would be hacked to pieces. Blood rushing in her ears, she reached around to the back of her jeans and touched the spanner.

  Prapti swung her hand back and forth, bringing the cleaver in and out of view.

  “I did warn you to stay out of this, Maggie, but you didn’t listen. I won’t lie, I’m glad you ignored my warning. I’ve been looking forward to this moment.” As she spoke, the cleaver whisked back and forth faster and faster, rustling the stiff black fabric. “I’m just sorry I won’t be able to spend as long with you as I would’ve liked. You see, we’re leaving tonight with one last stop on our way out of Thorn Tree.” Her smile widened until the entire lower part of her face seemed only teeth. “There’s a very special little girl we’re anxious to meet.” Maggie’s fingers closed around the spanner.

  ****

  “The door’s open.” Jackson crouched low as they approached the Ute.

  Doug followed, noting the half-open door. His knees throbbed from the uphill walk over the rise and the muscles in the base of his spine spasmed, sending jolts of pain up his back. They hadn’t talked much since Maggie left, but he knew Jackson was worried. Doug saw the way the kid looked at her. Even with his back howling like a banshee, he could see Jackson was head over heels for her.

  “She’s counting on us to do our part,” Doug said quietly, and began unloading the paint. If Jackson panicked and ran into the house before they completed their part of the plan, then the Acheri might escape and they’d miss the only chance they were going to get.

  As much as Doug wanted to protect Maggie, he was here for one thing: the monster that killed his wife…Since Maggie and Jackson had shown up on his doorstep, all he could think about was destroying the evil creature that took Maureen away from him. Maureen.

  His vision blurred and his chest constricted. It shouldn’t have been like this, not for Maureen. Not for those little ones. He hated the creature as much as he hated the cancer that sucked the life out of her, only now he had something tangible, something he could fight. He’d stop it if he had to tear it apart with his bare hands. Doug screwed his eyes shut, forcing down the emotions. He watched the kid unloading paint tins from the back of the truck. If he had to, Doug would put himself between Jackson and the monster. The idea of being with Maureen before the day was out appealed to him a hell of a lot more than returning to their empty house.

  They unloaded the rest of the gear as silently as possible, dividing up the two cans of paint, shovel, pitchfork, two screwdrivers and the black backpack. Doug took the lead, heading for the back of the house. His eyes and ears weren’t as good as they used to be, but there was nothing wrong with his nose. Something rotten was festering in the shed. The stench wafted on the breeze like a poisonous cloud.

  At the rear of the cottage, Doug put everything on the ground and pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket. He paused and waited while Jackson did the same. In spite of the cool breeze, the kid’s hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he showed no other signs of fear.

  “Ready?” Doug asked.

  “I’m ready.”

  When both ten-litre tins were open, Doug stood back. Jackson grabbed the first can and hurried towards the back of the cottage. Without hesitating he pitched the red paint over the back door. Colour exploded with a dull splat, running down the charred panels in shocking red streaks. The door looked like the backdrop for a firing squad.

  Without pausing to admire his handiwork, Jackson went to the shearing shed, carefully tilting the tin to leave a trail of red between the cottage and the entrance of the outbuilding. Doug grabbed his tin and followed, making a red trail that ran parallel to Jackson’s, a stark thick line staining the dead weeds and dirt between the cottage and the shed. When they reached the shed door, Doug looked back and surveyed their work.

  They’d created a path from the shed to the house about two metres wide, bordered by red paint. Doug was about to work on the shed when he noticed Jackson had stopped and was gazing at the back of the cottage.

  “Did you hear that?” Jackson held the paint in one hand, frowning at the house.

  Doug shrugged. He wouldn’t admit it, but he knew his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. He had no idea what Jackson was talking about.

  “It’s coming from inside the cottage.” Jackson ran his fingers over his chin, leaving a smudge of red on his jaw line. “Sounds like plates smashing.” He looked from the shearing shed to the house.

  Doug could see the kid was about to abandon the plan and go running for the cottage. “That’s a good sign.” Jackson looked at him, confused. Doug kept talking. “She’s struggling with the woman, keeping her from coming out here. Now we need to do our bit to help her.”

  Jackson stared at Doug for a second, his dark eyes searching the man’s face. He could see the kid was torn, wanting to help Maggie but hesitant to let her down. “She’s counting on us.” Doug kept his tone even, ignoring the voice of guilt whispering in his mind. You’ll have to live with this. No matter how much whisky you pour down your throat, the kid’s face will s
till be there. Jackson nodded and hefted the can, splashing paint along the walls of the shearing shed. Doug glanced at the cottage. Whatever was happening in there couldn’t be helped. If Maggie didn’t make it, there would be one more burden to add to his soul.

  They moved quickly, each splash thumping the timber walls like a bloody slap. Within minutes the outside of the shearing shed glistened with fresh red paint. The scene reminded Doug of a movie from the seventies where a girl got doused with pig’s blood. He could almost hear Maureen’s voice, no more horror movies, I can’t stand all that blood. What, he wondered, would she make of all this?

  When they came together at the back of the building, the two men splattered the remnants on the rear doors, draining both tins. The only part of the shed not stained were the double doors facing the cottage.

  Without speaking, they returned to the front of the structure and collected the pitchfork and the rest of the gear, leaving the half-empty backpack near the cottage. Jackson pulled up clumps of the long, dry grass and piled them at the back of the shed while Doug collected sticks and any other dry debris he could find in the ramble of dead bushes and scrubby grass. The sweet, rotten smell still hung in the air, now mixed with the sharp scent of paint to create a swell of cloying air. When the pile was big enough, Doug squirted lighter fluid over it and the back doors. The breeze grew stronger but blew in their favour, towards the shed.

  “I think it would be easier if we just went in and dragged it outside,” Jackson said.

  “Do you really want to grapple around in the dark with that thing? We still have no idea what it’s capable of.”

  Jackson thought for a moment. “What if Maggie doesn’t come out?”

  “Then we do it ourselves.” Doug pulled the lighter out of his pants pocket, picked up a handful of dry grass and lit the pile.