Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1

by Josephine Pennicott

  I digested this information. Shit, he had known her much better than I ever had! That made me feel strangely sad. A taxi driver had known my aunt better than I had. The long-standing resentment that I always carried toward Jade, my mother, flared into being again. But why was the driver so afraid? Tentatively, I touched his mind, and then withdrew rapidly. Visions of my aunt’s mangled body flooded through me. He was carrying the thought pattern that the locals had been talking about for weeks.

  ‘She seemed like a nice lady,’ he said awkwardly. I put my sunglasses on, not wanting him to see the emotion in my eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoy your time here. All the towns in the mountains are friendly. There’s lots of arty types, too.’ He shot a glance at my all-black attire.

  I stood watching the taxi as it drove down the dark, tree-lined street that led to Johanna’s cottage. He tooted the horn, and waved out of the window. No doubt later in his local he would entertain the bar patrons with a description of Johanna’s weird, dark-haired, arty niece that he had picked up from the station.

  From behind me, the house seemed to emit a silver, whispery welcome. I blinked, suddenly afraid to turn and face my new home, resisting the temptation to call the driver back. His fear was contagious.

  The cottage I had inherited was nearly exactly as Helen, an old friend of Jade’s, had described it. Built in the Federation style, it was painted shell-pink and was both quaint and cosy. The huge brass dragon head on the door proclaimed that the inhabitants who occupied these premises had a flair for the unexpected, a sense of contrast between worlds.

  I surveyed the cottage’s interior with an increasing sense of wonder at my Aunt Johanna’s wild eclecticism. It appeared as if every culture on Earth was represented in the furnishings. There seemed to be no discernible logic or order to the interior design. Tiptoeing through the rooms, I had to suppress the feeling that I was trespassing, that the occupant of this delightful, cluttered cottage would suddenly burst in, screaming at me. Except it was now my home. My home. The thought suddenly hit me: I, Emma Develle, own my own home. Guilt washed through me at feeling joyful over my unexpected legacy.

  Jade would have a heart attack if she saw this.

  I suppressed a smile. Red velvet Turkish drapes set off an otherwise English-country-style kitchen, where strings of garlic and bunches of herbs emanated their timeless odours.

  The bathroom was like a scene from Pompeii with a red mythic frieze that Johanna had painted herself. Just like Aunt Johanna, I smiled to myself, always the artist. Mirrors hung everywhere throughout the house, giving the eerie sensation of continually confronting yourself. I jumped when I first caught sight of myself, which was a bit embarrassing. For a second I didn’t recognise the girl in the glass and thought I had seen a ghost. I had lost weight over the last couple of months with all the stress that came along with inheriting a house. I could do with a haircut, too. My dark hair was hanging nearly to my shoulders, split on the ends. My red lipstick looked like a slash of blood in the dusty mirror.

  Slowly, I raised a hand to my mirror image, touching myself on the cheek. I was in my mid-thirties, but usually felt about eighteen. Now I felt more like sixty. I remembered how the French filmmaker Jean Cocteau believed that mirrors were the entrance to the other worlds, and wondered if Johanna had shared the same belief.

  The tantalising odour of essential oils was vivid all throughout the house. Patchouli, orange and myrrh. Canvases were stacked neatly against every available wall space. In the small white lounge room, Johanna had started a mural on one of the walls. I shivered when I examined it; one of her typically spooky landscapes. It was only half-finished, and I found tears springing to my eyes again at the reminder of life and time wasted.

  The bedroom was the biggest surprise. It was like a child’s room — white, clean and innocent, with rows of china dolls staring sightlessly ahead. There was even a Beatrix Potter print on the wall. This was certainly not the room of the Johanna that I had remembered! But then again, the real Johanna, the woman who had lived here alone all the years of my adulthood, was little more than a stranger to me.

  I could scarcely keep from imagining the reactions of the detectives who had combed these rooms. What conclusions could they have drawn from the bizarre furnishings? It was obvious that Johanna had been involved in some form of occultism or witchcraft. In the studio library there were many books on mysticism, and on the office desk was a large Book of Shadows.

  Curiously, I opened it, remembering with a twist in my heart all the barbs that Jade had directed against her sister over the years for her interest in witchcraft. It looked as if Johanna had continued her craft after she had left Sydney, after we had lost contact with her.

  Inside the Book of Shadows were a few old maps and diagrams of a place labelled Eronth. Perhaps a book she was working on? But there were also many spells and charms written in my aunt’s distinctive, free-flowing handwriting. Many of them were protection spells. Did Johanna fear someone? I had the uneasy feeling that perhaps the detectives had overlooked this book, that the book itself decided who was to open its covers. I wondered whether there might be valuable evidence in the book, but decided against it. Better not to risk the embarrassment of being labelled a kook.

  But if the Book of Shadows wasn’t enough, there were also numerous pentacles placed around the house. Strategically positioned at doors and windows, they seemed to be there to welcome the good spirits and keep out — what?

  In the country-style kitchen there were miscellaneous jars filled with mysterious concoctions and pungent-smelling herbs. These I threw into the recycling bin. I scrutinised Johanna’s possessions carefully, attempting to capture the personality of my aunt. Her clothes revealed few definite clues, as they were an eclectic mix covering several decades of styles. I was relieved to find a small bar heater, which I set about cleaning the dust from. As the afternoon stretched out, the house was gradually dropping in temperature. At the rate it was falling I would be freezing by nightfall.

  Taking a break from my explorations, I attempted to work out the mystery behind the gas stove, and, failing miserably, comforted myself with an apple and a handful of Brazil nuts from the kitchen. The nuts were stale, and I reproached myself for not thinking to bring any food. There was no way I was going to attempt the 15-minute hike into town with dusk rapidly approaching. As sceptical as I could be about such things in daylight, as the rooms gradually filled with darkness I was conscious of my isolation and had to turn on the lights. After all, they had never caught whoever, or whatever, had murdered my aunt. Shit, Emma, keep thinking like that and you’ll end up being carried out of here. At least I knew that Johanna hadn’t died in the house. My flatmate, Effie, had dated a guy who had lived in a home where the previous tenant had shot himself. I knew that I couldn’t cope with that sort of energy around me.

  I was going to be starving by morning. I could almost hear Effie’s voice, her clipped English accent that men seemed to love, nagging me about being impractical. Oh well, at least I had thought to have the electricity put on, and the phone was working. If I wanted to call Effie, I could. If I wanted to call her.

  There were lots of photographs around the house, mainly of exotic-looking people that I didn’t know, taken in what looked like exotic locations. I could recognise Stonehenge and Avebury and the Rollright Stones. The photos reassured me. They recalled my childhood memories of visiting Johanna, back when she had lived in Sydney on the harbour. There had always been lots of photographs around her. She had loved the camera. I studied a small black-and-white photograph of a notorious Kings Cross witch, Rosaleen Norton, obviously taken in her later years. She was gazing into the camera, behind her a large drawing of a huge Stag Man. Across the photo was written: Great Pan is alive! So Johanna had been really into this stuff, I pondered, long before it became trendy through popular media, and before writers Margot Adler, Z. Budapest and Starhawk became such influential proponents of ‘wome
n’s mysteries’.

  I tried to remember if I had ever seen this woman at Johanna’s old Sydney residence, but it was a hopeless task — so many of Johanna’s friends had looked just like her. Jade must have felt out of place there, I thought. A small sadness twinged inside me at the thought of my mother feeling uncomfortable.

  On a small table in the lounge room there was a large framed photograph of Johanna. Obviously it was a studio portrait, perhaps an unused publicity still. I studied it, puzzled. The woman in the photograph was so much older than the memories of Johanna I had stored in my head. Unnaturally aged, Johanna would have been in her mid-fifties but could easily have passed for seventy in the photograph. Any resemblance to Jade was now long gone. My mother, I had to admit, had retained her good looks and could still get away with playing the helpless sex kitten. But Johanna’s face was dramatically lined, her hair untouched by artificial colour, her eyes deep-brown impregnable pools. The expression in the eyes gave me a feeling of déjà vu. Where had I seen that expression recently? Then I remembered the disturbing old lady I had glimpsed at the memorial service for Johanna in Sydney, and I gasped. Their eyes were so similar! Had the old lady been a relative I had never met?

  Memories of a very different Johanna came flooding back to me, images of a dark-haired beauty with pale, freckled skin, the hair she had refused to colour or tint, despite Jade’s nagging over the years. She had been a witch, a gypsy. Everything that Jade was not. Johanna was colour and passion. She had influenced my life in numerous ways, and she continued to do so. I was bewildered by her abrupt ageing. What could have accelerated such rapid deterioration? I continued to scan the photograph, searching for clues. Could Johanna have suffered some shock or grief? Or was it fear? Did the numerous pentacles around the house and the protection charms indicate Johanna had lived in fear of someone . . . or something?

  I glanced uneasily over my shoulder. What if Effie had been right and Johanna had become entangled with some weird occult group? They could target me next! Maybe even suck my blood dry and leave me on the mountains like a discarded doll . . .

  Stop it! I ordered myself firmly. There is no occult group. It was probably a random murder, a psycho on a day trip from Sydney.

  Yeah, right — a psycho who just happened to drain someone of their blood as easily as blowing an egg, my mind mocked in return.

  Above the fireplace in the lounge room was a small oil painting, one of Johanna’s many original works of art. The colours were in soft browns and reds, autumn colours. It was the face of a woman, but her head was the small head of an owl. Long, dark hair cascaded on either side of the knowing face, and miniature caramel-gold antlers curled up from the head. On the bottom of the painting was written: The Ancestor, A Self-Portrait. The more I looked at the face of the owl, the more it unsettled me.

  I crossed to the leadlight windows to gaze out at the end of the day, where a light drizzle was just beginning. This house seemed so isolated at times. If there was a psychopath in the area . . . I attempted to pull myself together.

  It’s the house, I realised.

  All these pentacles and spell books! I need to clean it all out, restore order and life and claim the space as my own.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds

  Kiss the perfumed garments; let us taste

  The morn and evening breath; scatter the pearls

  Upon our love-sick land that mourns for you.

  — ‘To Spring’, William Blake

  I sat on the back steps of Johanna’s home, sketchpad in hand. A mug of black coffee was at my side as I sat looking out at the overgrown wilderness my aunt had created.

  Rain had fallen overnight, which might explain the deep sleep I had enjoyed. I had expected to lie awake, jumping at every unexpected sound, but instead I had fallen deeply asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  I had woken early, just as the darkness outside the window was lightening. For a second I had felt totally disorientated. I had been dreaming. A fairytale creature with violet eyes. Trees that danced and walked with me.

  Cobwebs of dreams that had dissipated from my memory as soon as I had placed my shivering body into Johanna’s oversized antique tub. I would have to get used to being without a shower.

  The garden was a kaleidoscope of life forms. Weeds now flourished in this magical space. Pungent herbs caressed miniature roses, lavender bushes brushed against lemon trees. Goddess fertility statues stared out at me from among banksia bushes. There was no logic or order to this garden. It was a question of survival of the fittest for the plants crowded together in such crazy disarray. Yet all the plants flourished here.

  Far above the garden stretched the soft grey-blue of the sky. Winter’s chill still breathed through the air. Amid such enchantment it was difficult to remember the pollution and the chaotic, harsh energy of Sydney.

  I have made the right decision.

  I marvelled at the silence and the citrus tang to the air. I sat with arms clasped around my knees and observed a large crow which was greedily eating from Johanna’s bird feeder. The crow appeared surprised to see me in Johanna’s absence. Or perhaps I was just projecting my own feelings of being a stranger in her home. I was afraid that somehow my aunt would suddenly return, like one of the three bears, and be furious to find Goldilocks sleeping in her bed. It had only been a night since I had moved into the cottage, but already I found myself suffering from technology withdrawal syndrome. No internet, no television, no radio. Even for a person who avoided technology as much as I did, it was disturbing to have it all taken away overnight. Johanna had lived simply, with silence as her one, constant companion. I found the silence confronting, but also somewhat liberating. Now there were no excuses for not throwing myself into my creativity!

  I prepared a simple snack in the kitchen, using up the last of the meagre supplies I had brought with me. A forgotten museli bar in my handbag and an apple. This I downed with some more coffee. As I ate I relaxed and took the time to enjoy my new surroundings. Despite my shock and grief over Johanna’s death and the mystery of her murderer, it was bliss to have my own space. I had never dreamed I would own my own home, especially a Federation cottage with such an enchanting garden. It was difficult to believe bustling Sydney was only a couple of hours away by train.

  But what about bushfire season? I could hear Jade’s voice mocking me. You mightn’t love your mountains so much then!

  I ignored the voice and sat down to write a shopping list of supplies I would need from the local store. Admittedly, the thought of shopping in the village was a bit of an ordeal for me. The media might have finally laid the story of Johanna’s murder to rest, but it was still very much the topic of discussion up here. I was dreading the curious stares, the conversations that descended to whispers when I passed. Oh, for the anonymity of Sydney! How I loathed to draw attention to myself in any form! Yet draw attention I must. I needed to form contacts with the locals. Not having to pay rent any more was a bonus, and the mountains were so much cheaper regarding the everyday cost of living than Sydney, but my savings wouldn’t last forever and I was hoping to pick up some part-time work.

  I had a vague idea of finding a local store that might display my artwork. If I focused on landscapes and not the mythical subjects I liked to explore, I might be able to tap into the tourist market. This plan had seemed easily executed when I had devised it in Sydney, but now I found it a difficult enough task visualising simply purchasing groceries.

  I walked into the garden to throw my lunch scraps onto the compost heap, marvelling at the weeds that were already springing from the earth in the wake of the rain. A light drizzle began to fall onto my upturned face. It felt pure, cleansing. Nature was my solace; whatever trials life might bring me I knew the natural world would always be there to balance me. I had to resist a temptation to take off my clothes and dance naked. Only a nagging reminder that my isolated little garden refuge was clearly visible from the
laneway restrained me.

  My thoughts turned to Geoff and Effie, and I hoped they would visit me soon, despite the fact that my relationship with Effie had been awkward and tense of late. I missed her vivacious manner, her constant chatter about the life of celebrity and fashion, her magazines. Her normality. For the hundredth time, I debated phoning her, and then decided against it. Give her a little more space to calm down.

  Beyond the grey-blue horizon my former housemates battled inefficient train services, inflated prices and all the stresses that accompanied a city as big and dirty as Sydney. At least my departure hadn’t created any lasting problems. As soon as I had moved out Robert had promptly moved in.

  I replaced the cover on the compost heap to protect it from rats and mice, and sighed wistfully. If I only had a relationship half as committed as Geoff and Robert’s. That ought to satisfy anyone. They had only been together about six months, but already they seemed like an old married couple. Effie was the total opposite. There was an endless stream of men playing court to her, but none of them lasted. She often accused me of being old-fashioned, but it was always my opinion that she slept with them too quickly. ‘Men like the chase,’ I would tell her again and again. She would smile in that knowing way of hers, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, Emma, you’ve got to move into the 21st century, girl!’

  She was right. I often had glowing fantasies of another time period or even another world altogether. I refused to own a mobile phone, I loathed technology, and was much happier curling up with a good book than I was sitting in front of a television. Another wave of missing Effie hit me. Shit, I should phone her, life was too valuable to hang onto grudges like this. Even if your best friend was acting like the psycho bitch from hell. Later, I promised myself. I would think about it later.

  *

  The girl was ignorant of Sati’s presence. She watched her from the overhanging branch of the twisted pine tree. To observe this Bluite girl closely, Sati had transmuted to her bird form and, as always, had to fight to retain the memory of her true being. If she forgot and dissolved her essence into the rising longing to hunt for worms and to fly east she would be lost to the Dreamers. She gripped the tree tighter with her talons, scanning Emma’s mind with her flat bird eyes.