Em and I walk back out into the day. It’s still raining. The thunder had first cracked after recess and the flashing wind and deluging rain has not let up since. We run for cover and join a procession of students on the way to the bus stop where a fleet of buses wait in line to head off on the tired and trusted routes, some going north to Bowral and others, like ours, heading south.
Ben Digby sidles over to us and gives me a goofy smile.
‘Hey, Paise,’ he says. ‘Em. What’s happening?’
Ben has been sitting with Brent on the bus recently. We’ve still chatted and caught up in the playground a few times and sat together in English, smiling stupidly at one another, but there’s been no real action, kissing or making out, for example, since that fateful debacle in his room when his mother ripped into us. That’s over a week ago, now. I’m really hoping it wasn’t a one-off night that he’s moved on from. I’m hyper-vigilant for signs, reading every conversation as proof he’s still interested and every missed opportunity as an indication he’s cooling off.
When he sits behind Em and me on the bus and scratches at my hair like I’m a puppy or a cat, I smile and turn toward him. He’s distractingly gorgeous, like the classic rom-com teen hero from some awful Hollywood studio. Looking at him makes me giddy. His smile is a cat’s smile, somehow devilish, and he has mischievous eyes with long dark lashes.
‘If you were an animal, what would you be?’ He laughs, leaning forward so close I can feel the delicious warmth of him.
‘Weird question,’ I retort, and then think about it. ‘Maybe a lynx.’
‘Random.’ He grins.
‘I’d be a unicorn.’ Emily turns and pushes her face into the conversation.
I look at her butter-coloured plaits and smile. She would be a unicorn. Emily would so be a unicorn.
‘I’d be an eagle.’ Ben nods seriously.
‘A bird is not technically an animal,’ I tell him.
‘Sorry, Paisley,’ he laughs, ‘but, yes, a bird is an animal. You are wrong.’
‘Snap.’ Emily laughs.
‘If you insist.’ I shrug.
Ignoring me, he fires out another question. ‘If you were a plant, what would you be?’
‘Oh, I’d be a rose bush,’ Emily jumps in enthusiastically. ‘Beautifully perfumed and delicate but with thorns – so watch out!’
‘I’d be an apple tree.’ I smile. ‘Yeah. I love apples, the smell, the taste, and apple trees are solid and pretty and awesome.’
‘Well, you are all those things.’ Ben smiles like a god and I melt a little inside. ‘I’d be a mango tree.’
We joke all the way to Bundy. But at the bus stop we get serious. There is an emergency vehicle and a fire-engine parked outside the bakery and people; when I say ‘people’ I mean a bunch of very familiar locals, all dressed in their orange and black overalls, huddling in small groups, some with styrofoam cups of coffee steaming in their hands.
‘What’s going on?’ Ben mutters as we run across the road to shelter from the patter of rain under the eaves of the string of shops.
‘Oh,’ Emily says in a rush, ‘maybe it’s about Isaiah Hooper because it was in the news. Maybe they’re searching for him. With the blood thing, I guess there’s the possibility that he’s wandering around in the bush somewhere all injured or something.’
This is probably true because Bundanoon is pretty much hemmed in on all sides with thick scrub and sheer cliff faces sliding down into the gorge.
‘What blood?’ Ben asks, and we fill him in.
‘That’s real heavy.’ He sighs.
‘See you tomorrow,’ I say to him as Em and I head home.
Ben leans forward and gives me a hug and a kiss on the forehead and I feel like sinking to the ground, lying on the pavement in the rain and just shouting for joy. A kiss, a hug, in public. It is really a thing. I am completely bloated on pure infatuation. I am fast becoming that elusive thing – the girlfriend. Every budding romance I have had has begun with a crush and ended the same way. I’ve never met a boy, a boy I liked, and been able to get lift-off. I don’t know if I’m too picky or boys are just generally lazy or I’m just too much of a geek, but I’ve never had what could be termed a ‘boyfriend’ and I am seriously looking forward to it. Dates. Movies. Kissing in cars. Talking about things that matter, like the meaning of life.
‘My God,’ Em whispers as we walk away. ‘It’s on. He is digging you big time.’
‘I am in love.’ I giggle. ‘In love with love and Ben is just perfect.’
I feel the stares from the uniformed people as we pass and ignore them. Things seem a little easier to deal with right now. I’m strong and I can take on the world. Funny how a positive ego stroke like a kiss from Ben can transform my day, my whole outlook, like the clouds just cleared after a storm.
At home I am surprised to find my father’s sports car parked on the street near the back gate.
‘Looks like you get to meet my elusive dad,’ I tell Em, and she looks a bit excited by that prospect. Too weird.
On the kitchen table is a bouquet of yellow roses, just beginning to open. My father and mother sit at the table, their hands folded, prayer-like, resting on the wood in front of them.
‘Hi there,’ I say curiously. ‘What’s happening? Oh, and Dad, this is Emily.’
‘Hi mister, um mister ...’ she mumbles, not sure which one of my double-barrelled surnames belongs to him.
‘Paul,’ he smiles with a warmth that cracks through the thin layer of ice he usually covers himself in.
‘Dad’s staying for dinner,’ my mother says brightly and stands up breathily. ‘Isn’t that nice?’
Uncomfortable. Awkward. But yes, also nice.
‘You’re welcome to stay as well, Emily,’ she adds.
I change into some comfy clothes and giggle a bit more over Ben. Em rings her Mum to tell her she is staying and then we talk about Ben Digby and wonder if it’s true love. She tells me she thinks he is the biggest spunk at school.
‘And your dad’s a spunk, too,’ she adds.
‘Gross, Em.’ I cringe. ‘How would you feel if I told you your dad was hot?’
‘Ew!’ She laughs. ‘With that furrow on his forehead that’s as big as cleavage and the wispy nose hair hanging out? I don’t think so!’
Mum has gone to extreme lengths for dinner. She has clearly spent the day preparing. With the shop still shut, she’s certainly got plenty of time on her hands. Mum and Dad open a bottle of red wine and Em and I drink coconut water on ice.
‘So what have you heard about the disappearance of Isaiah Hooper?’ my father asks.
Em and I shoot each other a look but I decide to just go for it.
‘Well, predictably, the superstitious, hysterical, witch-hunting lunatic locals have begun to think Mum is behind it, whether she physically did something to him or … you know … hexed him to disappear.’
Mum looks across from the stovetop where she is stirring something aromatic. ‘If I could hex someone out of existence, surely I would have made this whole drama disappear,’ she calls across to us.
No one says anything for a moment; the only sound is the sizzle of sauce on the hotplate and the rice water bubbling.
Finally, my father speaks. ‘I see,’ he simply says.
‘Oh my,’ Mum says, dropping the wooden spoon onto the bench in a pool of orange sauce. ‘They aren’t going to seriously question me about this boy’s disappearance now, are they? Paul?’
My father removes his tie and unbuttons the top of his shirt. ‘I came up today because the police wanted to ask your mum if she knew where the boy was or if he’d had any sort of contact. Did they come to the school asking the kids questions?’
I look at Emily and raise an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so.’ I frown. ‘If they did, I didn’t see them. Ben Digby told us that the
cops had been around early this morning asking the local boys if they’d seen or heard from Isaiah and nobody had. He’s a real loner. I don’t know who, if anyone, he hangs out with.’
‘Sad,’ my mother coos. ‘That poor boy.’
‘He’s been pushed into this,’ I say. ‘He’s probably always hearing his mother go on about you and the Winter Solstice Festival and he no doubt copped an earful when they found out he’d been to see you and he just had enough and shut down.’
‘I felt like shutting down after the last exam paper was put in front of me,’ Em says. ‘I can understand how you might use that turtle-like strategy when attacked. And there was this other time when … never mind.’
I look at her. She’s blinking her big eyes and trying to be helpful but it kind of falls flat and she knows it.
‘I’ll ring Constable Amy,’ my dad says. ‘She really should know that there’s already gossip going around. Irrational nonsense I might add. I think she’ll get her answers from Isaiah’s parents. They would be my first suspects.’
‘I doubt the Hoopers have killed their son,’ Emily says. ‘It’s more likely that he’s just snapped and had a gutful of the attention and has nicked off to get some headspace. Or worse, to …’
Images of the cliffs that surround Bundanoon come to mind and I try to push them aside. That possibility is not something I want to think about.
‘The thing is that the boy has no one to talk to,’ Mum says, serving up the rice and chickpea curry into our best bowls. ‘I feel terrible because I think maybe now, knowing this, I can see that he really did come to see me of his own accord to ask for help, to reach out and find a way of knowing how to deal with his overbearing parents.’
‘So what made him snap? What made him retreat into his shell and go silent except for the rather incriminating chanting of Mum’s name every time he’s asked a question?’ I wonder aloud. ‘What’s that about?’
‘I don’t know …’ Mum’s voice trails off.
We eat and drink in silence for a while until my father reaches over and puts his hand on my mother’s.
‘This is good, Kirsten,’ my father says. ‘It’s nice to be eating as a family. It’s the first time, really.’
He’s right. My mother walked out on him when she was still pregnant with me so we’ve never been a proper family, not really.
After the early dinner my father goes into the next room to call Constable Amy while Em and I help Mum with the dishes. We don’t have a dishwasher because Mum doesn’t believe in them, just like we don’t have a microwave because of the negative ions or radiation or something. We are primitive compared to Emily’s family, who live in a high-tech space-age house with all the modern gadgets.
I hear a sudden banging at the front door of the shop, echoing through from the other room. That’s strange. Why would someone be banging on that door? Everyone who knows us and visits comes around the back.
‘I’ll go see who that is,’ I say and fling my tea towel at Emily who catches it with a fast overarm movement.
In the shop it is dark. I fumble for a light, find a lamp, turn it on and bathe the shop in a pale pink glow. It smells so lovely, a blend and swirl of various incense sticks and dishes of scented oils, candles and soaps. I unlock the deadlock and open the door.
Annabel Hooper is standing there, glaring.
‘Where is my son?’ she growls at me, and before I can register my surprise, she pushes me aside and storms past, overturning a table of crystals with a crash.
She is like a cyclone and calling loudly for my mother as she steps up into the back room. I slam the front door shut and follow her, stepping carefully over the jumble of fallen rocks and gems. I come into the kitchen just behind her. She is screaming like a crazy woman.
‘What have you done with my son? This is all your fault! If he’s hurt I will hold you responsible!’
My mother is standing there with suds up to her elbows, her face frozen in shock, her eyes blinking behind her little blue specs. Dad is in the doorway, still on the phone, and is speaking fast. Emily shrinks back against a wall as Mrs Hooper takes a swing at my mother, landing a mighty cracking slap against her cheek, knocking her glasses off her face. I spring into action and grab at the woman’s arms. She is struggling beneath me but then manages to slip out from my grasp.
She turns on us all, like a caged beast, staring as my mother collects her glasses from the floor and puts them back in place, holding a hand to her reddened cheek.
‘The police are on the way,’ my father says. ‘They’ll be wanting to talk to you, Mrs Hooper. Firstly about trespassing and, secondly, assault.’
I feel like high-fiving my father but I am panting with adrenalin. I go to Mum, hold her hand and put an arm around her waist.
‘I’m okay,’ she says quietly, but I hear the shock and terror in her voice.
‘Good,’ Mrs Hooper says defiantly. ‘Good. I’m glad the police are coming because then this evil witch can explain how it is that my son is not at my dinner table tonight! Have you made him just disappear? Into thin air?’
I’m not sure but I think I can smell alcohol on the deranged woman and her eyes are glassy.
‘I do believe you are mistaking my wife for a fairytale myth, Mrs Hooper,’ my father says stiffly. ‘She is not an evil witch but an alternative healer.’
I gasp. He just called my mother his wife. That sounds very, very strange. But also kind of nice.
VERONICA
BAMBERG, FRANCONIA, 1629
My lips were sewn with invisible threads of silence. I did not tell them my name. I told them nothing at all and fell mute. I had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of hearing my name. The prisoners in the cart spoke and chattered nervously, trying to forge a common bond of solidarity. I remained still and quiet within myself.
The Hexenhaus was a monument to pure evil, built for the purpose of churning innocent people through its murky corridors under the accusation of witchcraft, to be tortured and forced to name more poor souls guilty of the same charge. These supposed witches were systematically taken out and destroyed before a new batch arrived, fresh from the witch-finder’s cages, to begin the waterwheel again. It was an eternal cycle of pain and death, lies and devilment. No one received any legal counsel and the Hexenbischof confiscated everything: personal items, houses, land and livestock. Witch-hunting was a greedy business and all that was left to me had already been taken. Under the guise of the witch-hunts, I reckoned that he owned more than half of Bamberg. The devil had taken root in my home city. And the devil behind all of this, of course, was the Hexenbischof.
The three-storey building was built on his order and it was said that he had a hand not only in designing the ornate building but also of concocting some of the uniquely cruel tortures that took place within his house of horrors. Horrors that I was yet to be introduced to.
We were all pushed and prodded out of the cage with what looked like a shepherding hook. Then we were processed in the front hall after entering the building, passing under the Latin quotation by Virgil that warned me to learn justice and not despise the gods. I can say with some certainty that God was not present in that indescribably terrible place. The men working inside this building were driven by a cruel bloodlust, viewing their wards as animals to be tormented. It was sport, and the glint in their eyes as they assessed each poor soul showed that they were relishing the very idea of breaking them.
Once inside the building they looked us over like men might when purchasing livestock. I stayed silent. A detailed inventory of our possessions was taken and then all but the barest of clothing was confiscated. My good woollen burgundy cloak and hood were snatched, along with my hessian bag. I was given back the small chunk of bread and cheese still left from my midday meal and told to eat it as there would be no other food for me unless my kin showed up to pay for it. I was told, ‘We do not p
ay from our own purse to feed witches.’
My boots were also taken and I was issued a filthy, moth-eaten scrap of blanket.
‘Your name?’ A slightly stooped and wiry man with snowy hair and bucked teeth asked the question, looking up from the ink-stained book in his hands.
I set my jaw, bit down on my tongue and glared at him as he asked me again and then gave a sigh and rolled his eyes.
‘She calls herself Rosa of Bamberg,’ the uniformed man shouted from across the room, where he was drinking from a flagon, the contents of which dribbled over his chin. ‘Thought she would try to pass herself off as a resident of Ebrach but the house she claims to be from is vacant, the whereabouts of the widow and her young boy who live there not known. She must have hexed them. The witch might shed some light on their fate when we put her through the games. Just put her down as Rosa the Pretty.’
The new arrivals were then herded, all as silent and shocked as myself, to the upper floor of the dim hostel, where we were pushed into two long cellblocks; the females through one wooden door on the south side of the corridor and the males, the other, to the north. The smallest children, who had been caught up in this hunt, were crying and being shushed by their mothers.
The cell was a narrow, dark and damp space with a low timber roof. The last of the day’s light filtered down from the one small window on high. Gnarled bodies huddled into the shadows. Some women had children clinging to them, eyes wide with a look that said they had been to Hell and come back, like the tiny frightened monkeys I had seen clinging to their mothers at the travelling circus. Having been deprived of sunlight, for I could not say how long, some of these bedraggled creatures resembled night mammals with oversized eyes and shrivelled wan features.
I took an open corner where the floor’s wooden boards seemed smooth and vaguely clean. A woman lay sleeping beside me, bruised and caked with blood. She whimpered as the heavy door was slammed shut on us, confining us to the dark space. The woman, not so young, had been badly beaten. One eye was swollen shut. The blood seemed to have come from her nose and there were fist-sized bruises on her bare legs and arms, purple and green, frowning up from her pale, dirt-streaked skin. She was rake-thin and her bones jutted out at the joints like lambs’ knuckles. There were cuts and abrasions on her feet and hands and what looked like insect bites all over her, peppering her skin with dots of scabs, and the tell-tale streaks of fingernails dragged down her skin, causing welts. Her hair looked like it had been burned from her head. Raw gaping ulcerated sores sat among the singed chunks of bloodied hair still attached to her head.
Hexenhaus Page 15
