by Ky Lehman
“Ari’s wealth bought us a boat and for those manning the coastline to look the other way. The five of us and your unborn child made it across the Mediterranean Sea and settled in a foreign but friendly land under the protection of Ari’s friends. For a while, we lived in peace, until we received word from our homeland that the Masters were still trying to find you; to find all of us. So, our small group separated, and travelled the world helping the lost.”
He pauses, inhales deeply and continues, “Over the years that followed, most of our loved ones were hunted down and tortured, but they all stayed silent, keeping you safe. When the Masters realised that they might never find you, they decided that the only way to end you once and for all was to drag your name through the mud-”
Aunt Romey’s history lesson has already taught me the next bit. “And turned my truth into a dirty lie,” I seethe.
“That’s right. As well as the truth of all those who came after you,” he adds.
After a long contemplative pause, I ask him, “How many Roses have there been?”
“There is a birth every generation. And, every Rose is born with memories of where evidence of truth can be found,” he says and stops, no doubt waiting for something to spark.
It doesn’t. Both my brain and my mouth fall slack.
His patient smile reassures me that it’s alright, but we still sit quietly for a bit longer before he throws me another bone. “What remains of Shoshanna, Joshua and your descendants can only be found through the collective memories of three living Roses,” he says.
“Bones,” I thoughtfully mumble.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Remains?” I clarify louder.
He answers me with a slow nod.
He can see the cogs are turning, so he leaves me be. I smile, fully understanding why he gives me a titbit to help lead me into remembering the rest. Hearing about what went on is one thing, but seeing it, feeling it, experiencing it...that is something else entirely.
Then, as clearly as if I saw them just yesterday, my mind’s eye hones in on rows upon rows of dusty, sand-coloured stone boxes kept in a dark place, made visible by fire light. “Oh, my God….the Avalon ossuaries,” I gasp as it all starts to click into place.
He beams at me like a proud father. “Yes. Joshua’s, Shoshanna’s, and your son, Benjamin’s, are all safely hidden away with the bones of generations of your descendants. Undeniable, hard core proof of the truth.”
“Oh my God…that’s right,” I say, breathless.
Eager to keep the momentum, he goes on to explain, “That’s why the Masters established the Bloodstones shortly after you left pregnant with Joshua’s child. Any existing proof of how, of why, you both lived could destroy their power, which over the centuries has grown into a global force.
“As we speak, descendants of the original Masters are being raised to believe in and protect the lie, training to find and kill the Three Roses just as their predecessors have done for the past two thousand years. And, until they find the Avalon bones and destroy them, every Rose will continue to have a target on their back.”
Mercifully, he pauses. My head may be still sore, but it’s emptier than I’d like it to be, so after a half-a-minute or so of silence, I nod giving him the go-ahead.
I don’t have to ask him twice. “It’s a good thing the Bloodstones don’t kill on a whim the way they used to. Back in the day, the tiniest sign that you may have been associated with a Rose was enough to get you killed. These days, they at least make sure of who you are before they take you out, and that, Ren, gives us time,” he says, his voice a little lighter.
“What about Josh? Do they know where he is?” I ask.
“Yes. Yes, they do,” is his no nonsense answer.
“Is he protected?” I start to pant as an all too familiar fear starts to thicken the air.
“Yes.” He hesitates, seemingly choking on the rest of his answer. “But not from the Bloodstones,” he finally says.
“What do you mean? Why not?” I ask loudly.
He goes to speak, but stops himself. His blank face says that he is thinking, hard. I am already recoiling from the bad news I can see coming.
He decides to put me out of my misery. “Because Josh is protected by Bloodstones,” he says.
“WHAT?!”
Mike wisely keeps quiet. Experience has taught him that my rant is nowhere near done. “But, that makes absolutely no sense! The Masters thought Joshua and I were as bad as each other. They killed him because he was just as much of a threat to their power as I was!”
His eyes grow big and he’s gaping at me. “Haven’t you put it together yet?” he asks.
“Obviously not!”
“Ren, when the Masters fully realised the impact of Joshua and Shoshanna’s teachings, they disgraced her name, but saw the benefit in posthumously elevating his. Joshua has been the Bloodstone’s icon for centuries. And, somehow, they have figured out that he is back,” he states.
I still have no idea what he is getting at and he is looking at me like I am slow-witted. “You’ve seen back two thousand years ago. You know what Joshua looks like, so you’ve got to know who he is now,” he says with an edge of…what is that? Scorn?
“No, I don’t know,” I snap. “Well, I’ve got a vague idea of who he was, but I haven’t gotten a clear picture of what he looked like then, so how the hell am I supposed to know what he looks like now?”
And it hasn’t been from a lack of trying. The only memory I have of my ancient husband is so blurred by the pain of losing him that when I try to focus on his features, they get lost under endless trickles of blood.
“Seriously?” Mike asks as he cranes his neck to look me straight in the eye.
“YES!”
“Interesting,” he thoughtfully murmurs.
“Is it?” I sneer. No carrots, Mike. Don’t you dare start this shit now…
“Yeah. It is. With his face splattered across every magazine cover, talk show, and music site on the planet…not to mention your bedroom wall,” he says, rolling his eyes, “I thought he would have been one of the first people you remembered.”
Chapter 7
When I was sixteen, Mum dragged me to a fete in the neighbouring town of Cloversleigh. It was the usual affair: stalls upon stalls of handmade goodies, face painting, carnival games and amusement rides, with the afternoon’s entertainment being provided by local acts that could’ve ranged from a fourth-grade orchestra to a barbershop quartet of old-timers.
After tasting every sugary treat on offer, having a go on every ride, failing at every game and convincing Mum that I was too old to have a butterfly painted all over my face, I was exhausted and ready to go home.
“But the concert hasn’t started yet. Can’t we stay a bit longer? Please…” Mum whined, mimicking what I would usually say.
“Fine. But just for a couple of songs,” I mock-frowned back.
She found us a spot on the grass right in front of the stage and laid out our picnic blanket. Weary with a full belly, I lay down on my back and threw my arm over my face to shade my eyes from the bright afternoon sun.
“Don’t you want to see the acts?” she asked.
I peeked up at her. “They’re playing music, right?”
“Um, yeah,” she drawled, taking the mickey out of me again.
“Well, I just need to listen then, don’t I?” I scoffed, throwing my arm back over my face.
After a short wait, the first act came on. It was a man with a deep voice who introduced himself as “Codge.” After he hacked, coughed and cleared this throat several times, he proudly announced to the sparse crowd that he was going to yodel for us.
Bloody fantastic, I thought.
Thankfully, he only sung one song: one loud, lingering chant I was sure called to every sheep, cow and goat within a fifty kilometre radius. His performance did impress me though; how he could gurgle that forcefully for that long meant he had either sung through an uncomfortable ca
se of reflux or he had one freakishly strong set of pipes.
One song down. One to go, I thought.
Then the next act took to the stage. Even before the music started, I could hear it was a band because of the multiple footsteps stomping around above me. To keep my boredom at bay, I decided to make a game of it. With my arm still covering my eyes, I used what I could hear to guess how many there were and what each of them looked like, to then take a peek when their song finished to see how close my assumptions were to being right.
The squeal of a microphone being moved. The warm up strum of an acoustic guitar. Heavy plods that sounded like Frankenstein’s boots. Someone knocked a cymbal as they moved around at the back of the stage where the drum kit was already set up. I smirked as my imagination comically put it all together.
I figured it was either a group of shaggy haired, self-proclaimed rock gods going through their midlife crisis and scratchy rendition of an Eagle’s classic was coming our way, or it was the band of older kids from my high school who call themselves, ‘Sans Envy,’ with their dyed black hair, black clothes and black eye makeup who were going to play us all into a deep state of depression.
This concert is about to go from bad to worse, I thought.
“One more song, Mum. You promised,” I sternly reminded her. If I wasn’t feeling so lazy, I would have left her there to struggle through the next act on her own.
“Yes, yes. I know. Ooooh, they’re starting!” she chirped as she bounced up and down.
I scoffed and grinned. When she gets excited like this, trying not to smile along with her is damn near impossible.
They started without telling us the name of their band, so I couldn’t confirm if we were in for some seventies swag or a long woe-is-me nag.
Their introduction was the steady beat of a drum. Then, a soothing bass meandered in, building and filling up all of the space in-between. Both beats steadily rose and then fell away as the tinkling of a piano mirroring light, hurried footsteps picked up where they left off. This chiming hopscotch then welcomed the hum of an acoustic guitar, smooth and flowing like warm, soft fingers drawing across my back and my neck, soothing me into a trans-state of contentment and tingles. And, just as the piano and the guitar found their middle ground, all four instruments came together: lively, pounding repetition blended with deep, elongated sounds that interchanged with dulcet beats as strong and as natural as a resting pulse, all lightened by pealing tings and drawling twangs and the fluttering finesse of an effortless strum.
The diverse mix of sound lulled me into thinking about nothing else but listening, until I was annoyingly distracted by the whooping and cheering of the growing crowd filling the small space. Then, a smooth, embracing voice crooned his first word: his honeyed tone rising above the din, instantly bonding their repertoire and consuming all else.
I had to see them. I had to see him. I sat bolt upright with my eyes wide, willing my pupils to hurry up and adjust to sunlight infiltrating my view. Mum was already on her feet, softly smiling and swaying until I tugged on her jeans to help me up. She offered me her hand, raising her eyebrows and nodding as if to say, they’re great, right? As I stood on the tips of my toes, manoeuvring my stare between the heads in front of me, I got my first glimpse of the music makers whose harmony compelled me to open my eyes.
They looked nothing like how I imagined them. From what I could gather, they were all in their late-teens to twenty-something. All four of them were dressed casually, wearing jeans with what looked to be their own favourite t-shirts. The dark haired, scowling bass player had on chunky black boots which explained the heavy Frankenstein steps. The drummer was throwing his head around so much it was hard to get a good look at his face, but you couldn’t miss his flying copper curls and his long goatee. The keyboardist had short, black hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a small face, but it was her ample chest bursting out from under her tight charcoal grey t-shirt that confirmed she was the only woman in their band. I immediately wondered which one she was going out with. I prayed it wasn’t the front man whose tall, lean, athletic build, layered dark-blonde hair, sparkling blue gaze and fitted white shirt had me, and I’m sure every straight girl and gay guy there, fantasising that he was singing his heartfelt words to only one of us.
“They say our love can come back to life,
So I stay close by,
Waiting for you,
Even though I’m not sure why.
They say what was then,
Could be now,
And maybe,
If we show each other how,
We can choose to make it our always...”
That was the first time I became a die-hard fan of any band. And “They say” is still my all-time favourite rock ballad.
Syzygy continued to play at local festivals, even after they graduated onto the pub and club circuit complete with the parents of the underage band members in tow. Thankfully, they said they wanted to keep playing at day gigs for their fans who were too young to get into the nightspots to see them perform. And, with their fast growing fan base, even the most conservative of fete organisers were more than happy to have them.
Then, twelve months ago, Syzygy exploded into the mainstream music world. Once the public caught wind of their personal experiences told through timeless riffs and Josh’s silky-smooth voice they couldn’t get enough. Their assortment of rock songs struck a chord with the young, the old and the older: their songs pumping out of radio stations, CD players and MP3 players around the globe. Their first album, “Within Earshot” has been at number one forty seven weeks and counting.
Mainly thanks to Edlee’s awesome birthday gift: the one and only authorised book about Syzygy, I know nearly everything there is to know about all of the band members: their full names, nicknames, star signs, favourite foods, pet hates, practically everything there is to know without getting creepy.
The drummer’s name is Levi Galante, a.k.a. Big Ted or Teddy, a nineteen-year-old gentle giant who reached his burly size shortly after his sixteenth birthday. He is a loveable Leo whose favourite food is spaghetti and meatballs, and who says he doesn’t gel well with drama queens and girls who only order salad.
The bass player is Zach d’Argent, a.k.a. Little Z: a nickname he can’t stand. He is a twenty-year-old steak and chips loving Scorpio who hates that his band mates accuse him of having little man syndrome. He has eleven piercings, and not all of them are in his ears, lips and eyebrows.
Mercy Mae Cannon, a.k.a. Mercy or M&M - also for her love of M&M’s mashed into vanilla ice-cream, and to represent her other half, Mani - is the band’s nineteen-year-old keyboardist: a sweet and pretty Virgo who loves copious amounts of smoked salmon and cream cheese on sour dough, chocolate in any way, shape or form, and sleep, thanks to her ongoing issues with Mani’s snoring. She has a rose vine tattoo wrapped around her left wrist like a bracelet that is delicate and feminine just like her.
The lead guitarist is Mani Singh, also known as Mercy’s smiley boyfriend. Born under the sign of Virgo a little over twenty one years ago, he says his new addiction is New York baked cheesecake, and that, after his time away, he has learned that he is severely allergic to strawberries and hypocritical bullshit. Last year, when Mani fell off the grid for a while, the rumour mill went bat shit crazy: the band is breaking up, Mercy is having an affair with Josh and Mani found out, blah, blah, blah, but it turns out he spent some time in rehab for alcohol dependence. He says that while he was there, he discovered a new appreciation for food and that his new enabler is the baked-goods god/chef of the facility. He was recently proud to report that he has added five kilos to his lanky frame, and that it has been fifteen months since his last drink.
Sammy Farran became the newest member of the band when he filled in for Mani and Mercy during Mani’s stint in rehab. Not only can he play the keyboard and the electric guitar exceptionally well, he can play the saxophone and the oboe even better. He joined Syzygy shortly before his seventeenth birthday, and
even though Mani and Mercy have been welcomed back, he is still with them. All of the band members and their fans couldn’t help but fall in love with the impulsive, outgoing Gemini with his different sides and his different sounds, and his “shiny pipes,” as Teddy calls them, adds another element to their already eclectic musings.
And then there is Syzygy’s front man and lead vocalist, Joshua Feneri, a.k.a. Josh, who earlier in the year turned eighteen. He is a laid back, sparsely tattooed Pisces who ironically loves seafood, and who can’t get his head around how the tabloids can sometimes get it so wrong.
For years, I have gazed at Josh Feneri’s two dimensional images, fantasising about being with him in ways I knew I never could be. And now, as I grapple with the knowledge that in his only life before this one, he was my husband, the father of my child, and one of the most influential teachers who has ever lived, I learn that his next junket will be to the kooky little island where they say my mother is waiting for me.
Chapter 8
PRESENT DAY
“Let’s just deal with one thing at a time, Ren,” Mike proposes as he hugs me, holding my sunken frame upright. “We’ll go and see Georgie Pa, and then we’ll talk to Romey about what’s happening with your mum and Josh, OK?”
Resignedly, I nod, turn out of the warmth of his light filled embrace, and head towards the only other form of immediate respite that severely lulls in comparison which is to hide away under a long, hot shower and wash away the remnants of this sticky, murky mess.
I sit on the hard floor and let the pounding stream of water billow over me like a cloak. In the privacy of my watery cocoon, I try and focus my energy on how to get over the next hurdle which is broaching all of this with Georgie Pa.
The water eventually runs cold and I am still sitting on the slate tile, rocking in a gurgling puddle of tepid shower water with no absolutely no idea of what I’m going to say to my already unstable grandfather.
As always, every time I think of Georgie Pa, Nanna soon joins him, but now not only do I see Rosanna Mae Avalon, my loving, spirited grandmother, I see all of her soul’s other beautiful faces as well. During most of my lifetimes, that remarkable woman has proudly held the torch leading the way not only as our matriarch, but also as my priestess, my governess, my abbess, my godmother, and my nanna; regardless of her station, always taken away too soon.
