My mother was living in London with some wealthy ex-pop star of the sixties. They had met on safari in Africa. Hearing of Maya’s existence only further ensured I would hear less and less from her. The prospect of becoming a grandmother clearly appalled her and it was obvious she preferred to pretend she had no family in Australia than face that fact. In a way it was a good thing. I probably already looked much older than her; it would have been depressing for me and horrifying for her for us to get together. I had no desire for my daughter to meet my mother, either; to my mind they were not even related.
However, becoming a mother myself had changed my feelings toward my own mother. Although I had no desire to physically see her, I had formed some small place of acceptance in my heart for her. Jade had made mistakes, but she had also given a lot. Perhaps Johanna was correct, and that in her own selfish way Jade had loved me, and she had just feared our differences. The old hunger for her love that once gnawed at me had now gone.
In the place of my mother it had been Geoff and Robert who had been a source of strength for me when I first arrived back on Earth. They had been totally non-judgmental. They accepted my shame-faced explanation of a one-night stand in Byron Bay without question or censure. My absence had had little impact on the few people who even noticed. Everybody’s lives were so busy and so hectic that if I had chosen to drop out for a few months it had left hardly even an impression.
It had been Geoff and Robert who had elected voluntarily to be present for me at Maya’s birth. They had provided the music, the aromatherapy oils and the support I had desperately needed as I underwent that ancient Demeter tradition. The pain of the birth had previously meant nothing to me; my mind had been far too terrified of what I could have been about to deliver. I saw the headlines: Freak born in Mountains hospital. The human stag baby!
The pain of giving birth had threatened to split me in two. I had felt as if I was giving birth to myself. Throughout it I had cried out to my own absent mother, to Persephone, to Khartyn, and to Johanna. I could feel their energy around me, and as Johanna had promised, I could sense her soft touch on my stomach, and between my legs, guiding the child out. Also, as she had promised, she took the pain.
I did not think of the Stag Man. It was too painful. I did not feel him at the birth.
Thankfully, my little angel looked nothing like my fears, and when the midwife placed her lovingly into my arms I realised for the first time how overwhelming love could be between mother and child. She smelt like roses. Her hand curling around mine shattered my heart for all time.
Then I had plummeted into severe postnatal depression, which lasted for around a month, during which time I found it difficult to care for the child, or even to get out of bed for the day. Once again Geoff and Robert helped out and stayed a few weekends with me until my hormones had settled. I could tell that they were both extremely concerned about the state of my health. I looked a wreck. The birth had taken its toll on me, leaving me drained and frail.
I had chosen to breastfeed Maya, and to my alarm what appeared to be a small third breast had begun to develop between my other two. Too terrified and ashamed to seek medical advice, I chose to ignore it. Despite my best attempts at breastfeeding, the postnatal depression, the fatigue, the worry about the unknown growth, all these things took their toll and to my great shame I abandoned it for the bottle and formulas. Thankfully Maya appeared to flourish anyway. With the cessation of breastfeeding I appeared to have slightly more energy. Geoff and Robert even discussed at one stage if I should seek counselling. Alarmed as they were by my inexplicable physical ageing, I think they managed to explain it away as heartbreak over Maya’s father. Perhaps they were right.
Over the years their visits had become less frequent as their busy lives in the city overtook them, and finally Robert won a residency in New York at the School of Art. They moved to the States and I was alone again, but a reclusive life didn’t really bother me. I had Maya. I needed no-one. Except, perhaps, for the one who refused to answer my call, if indeed he had ever existed.
All that I had now were memories, blossoming rose memories with sharp, delicate thorns that continued to scratch my mind to pieces when I attempted to relive them. Often I told myself that my experiences with the otherworld had been madness and illusion, but Maya was the living evidence that gave the lie to all my efforts at self-delusion.
It was just that there were some nights when I looked at Maya and I wanted to scream. At times there was a jagged energy between us. There was a faint odour that came from her that I couldn’t explain. To tell the truth, I found it repulsive.
The memory-rose threatened to destroy me with its addictive perfume. On the surface all was normal. I slept, ate, shopped, discussed the weather in local stores (a topic that always made me feel uncomfortable), cleaned the house, watched television, groomed the dog and played with Maya. But inside, my bowels always felt twisted with fear. For from the moment that Maya had been born, from the pain that had been a destroyer of innocence, I had gazed at her face with terror that the Azephim were aware of her existence. I grew sick with fear that they would come to steal my child like the evil Faeries in Sleeping Beauty. The gnawing fear added to my mood swings and my depression. There were many hours when I stared into space, seeking refuge in fading memories of my own childhood, a fantasy world where adults took charge of everything and the world was safe and easily understood.
My depression was intensified by the lack of contact from the Stag Man. It had always been my hope that once Maya was born he would cross and make contact with me again. After all, he was her father, but even in my dreams he did not materialise. It was as if he existed only in my mind.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Autumn lingered late in the mountains the year that Maya turned three. Each time I visited the village for supplies there were comments on the whereabouts of winter. Talk like that always created the familiar tension and irritation in the back of my neck. Some people thought the seasons were out of order because of global warming.
‘You know what it is, Ruth?’ I longed to confide to the gossipy blonde who owned the grocery store. ‘It’s not global warming at all. A fool could see it’s more likely that Persephone is unwilling to return to the underground. And hell, who can blame her? I mean, I’ve been there myself and it’s no bowl of cherries. By the way, Ruth, have there been any Solumbi or Azephim angels asking after me? Big, scary creatures with black wings — you’d remember them, I’m sure. Yep, you’ve guessed it, I’m crazier than a march hare, Ruth!’
Instead I would have to endure the humiliation of my shining reporting Ruth’s mind commenting about me as I shopped in silence. ‘What a shame, she really looks the dog’s dinner. It can’t be easy bringing up a child on your own, but she looks about sixty years old! Christ, the poor thing, she didn’t look too bad when she first came to the mountain, but some man let her down, so they say.’
Some man let her down.
I reflected on that as I walked home with Maya skipping happily beside me. A light shower of mountain rain was beginning to fall. If only it had been that simple, I mourned, how I envied everyone who had been heartbroken in love, who had been hurt and deceived by a comfortably human man. It felt to me as if I was cracking with pain. I was the victim, a human Phooka sucking up all the collective pain of suffering on the Blue Planet.
*
The mountain hid many secrets that autumn. Many whispers contained within its chalk walls and its leafy sanctuaries and I heard every whisper clearly. It was my madness: a gift, a blessing.
The local priest who longed for intimacy in a religion that condemned human touch.
The young girl, raped continually by her father. I will kill him, I will leave here forever.
The artist who had taken blood years before. It was war, it wasn’t murder — but I can’t forget his eyes.
The wife having an affair with the local police chief. I’m not unattractive, I’m not old. It’s not too late for life.
The married schoolteacher who lusted after the boys that he taught. One day I will punish him. Over the desk, I’ll show him who’s in control. He’s old enough.
Whispers. Screams. They spoke to me frantically that season, pushing me gently into near insanity. Throughout it all Maya was my saviour, my strength. Her impregnable brown eyes shared my pain, and my memories of a different world. A kinder world, with more colour, more magic. Without these reminders, I was doomed.
Whispers of poisoned waters, minds and soil. Whispers, shameful secrets.
The Dreamers are stirring in their Shell, they are restless. If the cracks in the worlds kept appearing, then the Dreamers could awake. As I was kept awake at nights, staring into the dark. I received all the transmissions. All illusion, I told myself. But I wept tears of blood with my pain.
A dream. In the bedroom a being came from a spider’s web, eyes like green chips of glass, red curling hair and silver lips. Looking down on me as I slept, bending over me, her breath soft and scented with moonlight. Long purple nails stroking my cheek. I turned over, escaped into further sleep.
I had painted every day when I first crossed back to Earth. The Muses helped me to adjust. I worked on hundreds of paintings, leaving most of them unfinished. I hastily recorded fleeting impressions of the colours of Eronth, the Faiaite people and the Azephim. The pus poured out of me but the abscess refused to heal and I filled twenty-seven sketchbooks with drawings and writings on Eronth. One day I decided, I will write a book; for now my impressions sat with my Aunt’s sketchbooks. I wrote copiously about my experiences in Eronth. I now found it difficult to examine too closely the artwork that Johanna had executed from all her crossings. I resented Johanna. She should have warned me somehow, I often thought. She must have had some knowledge that I was going to be used as a vessel to carry this child, that I would be shown a paradise such as Eronth and then not be allowed to return. Effie had died, for Christ’s sake! My friend had been killed, by beings from a nightmare, because my aunt had decided to build a portal between worlds.
It is dangerous to whisper their black names, to bring them more into being. I have to take responsibility.
Not only had Johanna got herself killed, she had killed my best friend, and put me at risk. I felt cheated by her. I had believed that she had left me her house because she shared some bond with me, that she had recognised the gift that we shared.
Let her sing me into dust. Into space. I am afraid for the child.
But that child was never me. Not me. Johanna had never really cared about me. It was always Maya.
The mural on the lounge room wall remained the same. The same blurred figures, the ilkamas, fading over time. The crystal that I had used to open the portal was no longer in the house. I left the mural exactly as it was, afraid that if I changed anything, then I would alter events for the beings that existed in the unseen world behind my wall.
The studio, the work and Maya helped to keep me sane. I had no need of friends, no need or desire for touch or sexual contact. All I craved and hungered for was balance. I recognised that I could easily slip into insanity.
The world was my reflection and I hated the distorted reflection that I saw, where cobwebs of madness hung everywhere. The smell of humankind felt doomed. A terrible scent of death and despair was one of my overriding impressions when I had first returned to Earth. I became afraid to even tread upon the earth, afraid of the consequences of the smallest act. Perhaps angels walked near me, perhaps not. Yet now I knew there could be no light without shadow.
How I feared the nights! I am so old, although I am young, I am wise and yet know nothing. I live but I am dead. They have given me grace, and they have exacted a fearful toll for the privilege. No man or woman can gaze upon the mysteries and remain unscathed. Like Persephone, I too live in the underground. I am doomed to the darkness and to suffer the secrets that must never be told. I worked in the garden, I planted new life, I meditated for many hours attempting to calm the snakes of tension that writhed continually within me. I read. I wrote. I breathed. I waited.
I knew they would come. And they did.
CHAPTER SIXTY
One of my last precious memories of Maya concerns a children’s party we attended. Of course I had to force myself to go. God, how I loathed social occasions and small talk! But it was to be a Faery party and I knew that Maya wanted to go. She longed for me to be like other mothers. The little girls at the party were all friends with one another; they all attended the same daytime kindergarten. The mums were also known to each other, the majority of them had grown up on the mountain, sharing the same schools, the same social clubs, the same gym. I alone was the outsider.
They acted warm and friendly to me, but mind-reading is a curse and I cringed inwardly at the frank and unflattering thoughts the shock of my appearance prompted. My premature ageing was a neverending source of horror to them.
However, it was a small task to endure them when I was feeling so much joy just watching my beautiful daughter dressed in a pink Faery outfit, dancing and laughing in the autumn sunlight with the other children.
Oh, Maya! I was so foolish then! I let myself believe! I let optimism and hope steal into my heart that it might be different for us, that the Dreamers had given us grace and we could live a normal life on Earth. When I close my eyes I can still see you, laughing and twirling with the other children. My laughing, chubby, all-too-human Faery.
Then the dreams began . . .
*
I am walking down stone steps, slightly bored. A blue cow passes me as I enter a room. Inside the room Rosedark is seated. She stares at me blankly.
‘You’ve served your function, Emma,’ she says.
A feeling of betrayal comes over me and I begin to cry. She is so detached, so cold. Bob Dylan is seated at the table and he bursts out laughing.
‘Why did you think it would be any different?’ he sneers, picking up a harmonica and blowing a few notes. Then I am in a small cave. I feel terrified of rats. There is a large bite on my left leg. The cave is illuminated by torchlight. On the walls of the cave are drawn large symbols, similar to pentacles but at the same time quite different. There is a crib in the cave. I am terrified. The sound of a loud breathing fills the cave. The sound of an amplified heartbeat.
‘Look, Bluite!’ a voice commands.
I stare into the crib. Lying inside, covered in a pink baby’s blanket, is a grotesque hybrid, half-stag, half-human. I let out a small scream.
‘She is here, waiting for her sister,’ the voice continues.
I look up and realise where the breathing and voice are coming from. It is the Eom, its huge, black, shiny surface filling the cave. It fills me with urgency.
It is waiting to be charged.
*
I wake sweating, my heart pounding. Still half-asleep, I stagger down the corridor to Maya’s bedroom. I expect to find the bed empty, but to my overwhelming relief she is there. I check her hurriedly. Terrified of what they might have done to her. But she is perfect. Whole. Except for that odd scent that wafts over her. I drop lavender oil onto the sheet to disguise the smell.
I gaze at her in silence for a moment. Checking that she is human. That two tiny antler horns are not growing from her head. I have become Jade, checking me for signs of the shining.
I do not sleep that night. I stay awake and guard my daughter, watching every shadow, hearing every leaf fall, challenging every sound.
*
Now I ignore my Muses and there are whole days when I forget to eat. Maya is my only concern. She has sensed the change in me, she smells the cancerous fear. She is no longer the animated, bossy, opinionated Maya I once knew. She becomes concerned, soft. She is tiptoeing around me. We sleep together, entwined, sharing breath. But Maya does not share my nightmares. I fight sleep, for in the arms of Hypnos I am defenceless, but Hypnos always overtakes me and the nightmares begin.
*
I am back in Eronth. The air is so alive,
so pure! The colours of the land are entrancing. I had forgotten how beautiful it was! A snake has shed its skin. I pick it up, wondering, Marvelling at the gold snake-dust that falls on my hands. I come to a field. The earth is shimmering, rippling. Persephone is rising!
It’s not time, I think in terror! It’s the wrong season! A hand shoots through the earth. Blood fills the paddock. It is Sati! She rises with a scream of triumph as I wake, screaming. It is Maya who calms me down, holds me.
‘It’s all right, Mum. They can’t hurt you.’
So this is the way they will destroy me. Slowly.
*
It is odd, but the last few days I have been sensing Khartyn. Her presence fills the house. I sit staring into space for hours at a time, lost in my memories of the Crone. There are times I feel her breath on my neck. Other times I feel her exasperation as she attempts to convey a message and I cannot hear her words. She has abandoned me. But the ghost of her presence remains.
*
I am in the ocean: vast, green, briny. Fear fills me with wandering, restless fingers as I consider what could lie beneath the cold, impregnable waves. I am convinced I spot a shark fin idly circling me and I can hear the harsh, jeering laughter of the mocking Sea Hags, so often mistaken for seagulls. Terrified, I try to swim to shore, convinced I will be killed before I reach the safety of the harbour. Thankfully, I am mistaken and my feet joyfully embrace the peach sand of the island I have strayed upon. There is little life on this island. Tears stream down my cheeks. A sense of hopelessness overwhelms me. I have returned home — too late. There is nothing left of my people. Indentations in the hot sand indicate where the Great Temple and the Eom once stood. A smell of blood hangs in the air. All the lush vegetation that once flourished so abundantly has vanished. Yet, something remains . . . small animal-like tracks leading to a private sea cave, easy to miss and thickly overgrown with vines.
Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 Page 41
