The Shaman of Kupa Piti

by A. Nybo

  “Something wrong?” he asked. Maybe they didn’t like the way he’d just left them standing at the counter while he went and sat down.

  Rodney looked to the sergeant, who drew a breath as if about to speak but then changed his mind.

  “What makes you think it was a murder and not an accident?” the sergeant asked finally.

  “Intestines on the light string, and the arms and legs have been boned.”

  “Jolly!” the sergeant yelled towards the offices at the back of the station. “Bring the camera. George, bring some battery operated spotlights.”

  “The murderer might still be there,” said Sergei. “I didn’t check the rest of the mine.”

  “Rodney will take your details and statement. Until notified, you are not to leave the area.”

  “What are the boundaries of the area?” asked Sergei.

  The sergeant breathed a sigh of exasperation. “Coober Pedy.”

  “Can I go to my claim? It’s the one next to Miro’s.”

  “We’ll let you know when we’ve examined the site. Give Rodney your phone number.”

  “I don’t carry a phone, but I’ll be at Soda Bob’s until late tonight.” He planned to drown the images of Miro he’d collected today. See if he couldn’t wash them from his mind permanently.

  “We’ll let you know.”

  Another cop, presumably Jolly, emerged from the back rooms with a camera bag. He took a second look at Sergei, his eyes widening before he snapped his gaze away.

  “Come through,” Rodney told Sergei.

  As they passed each other going through the half door that separated the front from the business section of the station, Jolly stared at Sergei. Sensing the Doris’s eyes still on him when he was well past the man, Sergei turned to look at him. Jolly snapped his mouth shut, and the sergeant prodded him in the back to get him moving.

  Sergei could have sworn he heard the sergeant mumble, “He’ll be all right.” Maybe Jolly was worried Sergei was going to attack Rodney. Granted, he was dirty from the mine and hadn’t shaved or cut his hair in a while, but did he look that threatening?

  In the interview room, Rodney’s reactions to him caused Sergei to wonder if the young policeman was actually sensing something that was disturbing him, rather than just lacking confidence.

  The next time he spoke, Sergei schooled his voice to incorporate one of the throaty tones he used when yoiking, the traditional Sámi chanting, to touch the threads that linked the worlds. Rodney leapt to his feet and made some excuse about getting water and left the room. At the very least, the boy was strong-blooded and could sense the otherworlds.

  RODNEY’S FAMILIARITY with the English alphabet improved somewhat during the interview, but it still seemed to take five years for Sergei to complete the statement. He was astonished it was still daylight when he exited the police station. It wasn’t even happy hour yet—and what a sad happy hour it would be this afternoon.

  He drove his ute down the street and parked behind Soda Bob’s. Since he planned to leave it at the pub overnight, it was safer out of immediate sight of potential joyriders.

  “Line them up,” Sergei told Soda Bob when he reached the bar.

  “No find today?” Soda asked.

  “Oh, there was a find today,” said Sergei. “But it was in no way good.”

  The moment a beer hit the bar in front of him, Sergei throttled half the stubby in several uninterrupted gulps.

  Soda immediately set him up with another. “Did you have a collapse?” It wasn’t all that uncommon for the roof of a drive to cave in.

  “No. Miro’s dead.”

  With a third stubby partway to the counter, Soda Bob froze and stood staring at him. Sergei finished his first beer in another uninterrupted bout of gulping, then raised his second and took a few sedate sips.

  As if in slow motion, Soda lowered the third stubby the rest of the way. “How?”

  “Murdered. Someone took his insides out.” Sergei didn’t want to go into detail. He’d already done that with Rodney more times than he’d like to remember, but that was the best summary he could offer.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yes,” agreed Sergei.

  “You found him?”

  Sergei nodded but said nothing more.

  Soda Bob took the empty stubby from the counter, patted Sergei’s forearm, and moved a little way down the bar, close enough to speak if Sergei wanted to, but far enough away for him not to feel pressured into talking. He appreciated Soda’s tact and took advantage of the silence.

  Then Sergei noticed how quiet it was.

  He swivelled on his stool and looked around. There were only two other customers, and they sat at a table near the door. Soda busied himself wiping down the bar, but his swipes seemed contemplative rather than purposeful.

  Taking his open beer and the other one Soda had lined up for him, Sergei moved to a table near the back and settled in to fill himself with pale ale. As ugly as the scene had been, the thing that disturbed Sergei the most, the image that kept pushing into his mind, was the strip of hide with its bones, feathers, and… hand flesh?

  He drank to forget the strip of gruesome trinkets.

  There was something…. Something hovered at the edge of his thoughts, but every time he tried to catch it, it would flit lazily away, like a butterfly in the sunshine. Then it was back, dancing around. He tilted his head to the side, a physical representation of his effort to tip the thought into the centre of his mind where he could capture it, but it floated away again.

  He drank in an attempt to fill the tank and weigh the thought down.

  Memories of his father’s death and the mantle he’d been expected to carry pushed away the thoughts that taunted him.

  He drank to forget the loss and the crushing responsibility.

  Recollections assailed him of the flight of his remaining family—his mother, two brothers, and his sister—from Murmansk into Finland.

  He drank to forget the bitter cold, the hunger, and the ostracism.

  People began arriving at Soda Bob’s in dribs and drabs. Then more arrived.

  He drank for happy hour.

  People came and sat with him, talked with him, but moments later he couldn’t recall any of it. The bar was once again crowded, and Soda Bob had spread the news of Miro’s death. Sergei was relieved when Soda never revealed that it was he who had discovered Miro. He didn’t want it known he had firsthand knowledge of the event, to be the centre of attention, be asked to remember details.

  A cheer went up, and the drunken crowd chanted, “Doris, Doris, Doris,” as Rodney walked from the door to the bar like a star bewildered by his own celebrity. Rodney’s timidity roused jibes and jokes.

  Sergei momentarily considered saving the young policeman from the heckling crowd, but recalling his painful afternoon recounting the event time and again, he decided the cop could learn the ways of Coober Pedy the way most people did—trial by fire.

  By the time Rodney made it to the bar, his irritation was openly warring with his embarrassment. He ignored attempts to get his attention and shrugged off friendly touches. Rodney spoke briefly to Soda Bob, who pointed directly at Sergei. Sergei offered a beaming smile in acknowledgement that he was aware they were talking about him. The crowd had apparently forgotten Rodney’s presence, as he made it to Sergei’s table unmolested any further.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Sergei invited. Lifting his stubby, he made to drink but realised it was empty. He reached for the unopened one at his elbow. Just how long had the drinks been magically appearing in front of him? Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall getting up for a long time, but Lucy had spoken to him several times.

  “Well, are you going to sit down, or are you going to stand there like a baby bird waiting for its mother to feed it?”

  Rodney shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian.”

  Sergei’s eyebrow’s shot up. How long had he been speaking in Russian? “Why not?” he as
ked, deadpan—and in English.

  “Er… because, um, it’s not a required language here.”

  Sergei thought about Rodney’s difficulty writing in his own language. “Just as well,” said Sergei. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “The sergeant doesn’t want you to go to your claim until further notice.”

  “What? Why?”

  “There’s an AFP agent meant to be coming, hopefully on Monday. Sarge wants everything left as is so he can see the site for himself.”

  Using his thumb and index finger, Sergei parted his moustache and swept around the corners of his mouth down to his chin, where he grasped his beard. “AFP?”

  “Australian Federal Police.”

  He let go of his beard. “Ohhh,” he emphasised, as though he’d just had an epiphany. “A national Doris.”

  Rodney tsked in frustration. “I hate the way you guys call us that.”

  “And that,” said Sergei, using his stubby to point at him, “is exactly why we do it. To have you sound like a baby bird. Now why can’t I work my claim? The problem is at Miro’s mine, not mine. Mine mine. My mine,” he corrected. English was a difficult business tonight.

  “Um, apparently there was some evidence there.”

  Sergei reared his head back and sat up straight. “What evidence?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Things had just taken a turn into downright scary. The murderer must have still been present when Sergei left—so he hadn’t imagined those sensations.

  Having just lost his appetite for drinking, he pushed his beer to one side. Lucy arrived at the table bearing another beer, but he waved it away. He rose to unsteady feet and shuffled out from behind the table. When he toppled to one side, another patron caught him and set him right.

  The counter was miles away. He staggered to it, pulled his wallet from his pocket, and steadied himself with both hands on the bar while he waited for Soda. His eyes kept going wonky, and he had to concentrate to keep them focused.

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked when Soda Bob finally came to a stop in front of him.

  “In English, Sergei,” said Soda.

  Fuck! Russian? Again? It just kept slipping out. “How much do I owe you?” His mouth didn’t like English tonight, and each word was a struggle to pronounce.

  “Nothing. We’re good. Are you finishing up for the night?”

  “Yes. But I must owe something.” He’d drunk nothing short of a pond full of beer.

  “Where are the keys to your ute?”

  He dug in his pocket for them and smacked them onto the counter. “In my—” He looked at them, no longer in his pocket. “—bar.”

  Soda chuckled. “So I see.” He picked up the keys. “Lucy! Can you take Sergei home?”

  “I can walk,” Sergei assured him. “I’m not that drunk.”

  “If you plan on walking home the same way you walked over here from the table, I reckon if you’re ever found, it’ll be at the bottom of a mineshaft.”

  Lucy took his keys from Soda Bob. “C’mon, Sergei, let’s go.”

  Sergei tried hard to focus on Bob. “Since when has Lucy been a taxi service?” he argued.

  Soda leaned in towards him and lowered his voice. “Since you found Miro and got yourself turpsed up.”

  He straightened and then backed away from Soda, a move of imbalance rather than intention. “Ahh.” He nodded, reaching for the stability of the bar. “Okay.”

  Lucy had made her way around from behind the counter. “C’mon.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Home.”

  Lucy laughed at him most of the way. He didn’t know why she was laughing, but he enjoyed listening to the sharp crack of every new peal.

  Once they arrived, she slipped under his arm and, guided by the sensor light, steadied him as they traversed the stairs down onto the landing at the door.

  “Which key is it?” Lucy held up the key ring.

  “The blue one,” he said.

  She laughed again. “Point at it.” He did. “That was bloody helpful. At least we know it’s on the key ring.”

  He put his mouth by her ear to tell her which key it was, but the soft scent of Lucy’s shampoo filled his nostrils. He took a deep breath. “Lucy, you smell wonderful.”

  “Which key?”

  He drew back and pegged her with a stunned look. It was unlike Lucy not to blush at a compliment. Not only hadn’t she blushed, but she’d completely ignored it. Was she angry with him? But she was smiling.

  When she moved forwards, he overbalanced, and she quickly took his weight.

  “I apologise,” he said. “I think I have a beer imbalance.”

  “Fuck, Sergei.” She counteracted his wavering. “As pleasant as listening to you speak Russian is, if you want to get inside tonight, you need to tell me which key—in English!”

  If he’d been speaking Russian on the way home, the nonsensical conversation they’d had in the car suddenly made some sense. No wonder she’d been laughing. She’d been teasing him.

  She rubbed the side of her head on his arm. “And keep your beard out of my ear. It tickles.”

  With great care, he formed the English words in his mind before he spoke. “Blue key.”

  “Finally!”

  Lucy opened the door and helped Sergei inside and down the stairs. “Go and take a shower,” she said. “You can’t go to bed like that or your sheets will be filthy in the morning.” She left him leaning against the counter. “I’ll put some coffee on.”

  “You don’t need to stay. I’ll pick the ute up tomorrow.”

  “You can barely stand. With today’s luck, you could fall over, hit your head, and end up drowning in the shower.” She filled the kettle and returned to put it on its mount. “Go on. Go!” She fluttered her hand. “Go, go, go.”

  Doing as he was told, Sergei struggled into the shower and with bowed head watched the orange-tinged water sluicing down the drain. The hot water on his skin was so pleasurable he was still standing there enjoying it running through his hair when Lucy knocked on the door.

  “Are you still standing?”

  “Da.”

  Lucy burst into the bathroom.

  He lifted his head to look at her through the shower door.

  “What did you say ‘nah’ for?” The black-and-purple spikes in her hair highlighted the burning rosiness of her peaches-and-cream complexion. She averted her gaze.

  It was no wonder she stood out at Soda’s. Although the miners—men and women alike—spent a good deal of time below ground, it didn’t take long above ground for the sun to affect their skin.

  He couldn’t keep from grinning. She was so beautifully innocent at times. “Sorry. I said da. Russian for yes. Yes, Lucy, I am still standing.”

  “Hurry up. Your coffee is ready.” The way she flounced from the bathroom caused Sergei to chuckle. Even her irritation was attractive—a rare thing indeed.

  He quickly lathered his hair and beard, ran the soap over his body, rinsed off, and searched for something suitable to cover his nakedness. He wouldn’t have otherwise bothered with anything more than trunks, but Lucy had been so kind to him, he didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.

  Lucy had made herself at home in one of the armchairs. She picked at a sandwich. There were two cups on the coffee table, one in front of her and one next to a sandwich for him in front of the sofa.

  “Thank you, Lucy,” he said as he lowered himself to the couch. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Soda made me do it.”

  “Did Soda also order you to make me coffee, something to eat, and ensure my safety in the shower?”

  She smirked. “Yes. You don’t think I’d do it by choice, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t dare think that.”

  “Is it really okay if I take the ute back? It’s not far. I can walk, but….”

  “Nyet, take the ute. I wouldn’t have you walk back. Like I said, I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

  A comfort
able silence fell between them while they sipped at their coffees. When Lucy spoke, her voice carried a hint of fear. “Sergei, do you think there will be more murders?”

  He leaned back into the couch and consciously formed his sentence in English before he spoke. “Yes, the murders seem purposeful. They will continue until the purpose is complete.”

  It wasn’t unusual for him to revert to his native language when he was drunk, but there was something different about the way he was doing it tonight. It was a real effort to speak English.

  “What makes you think that?” asked Lucy.

  “To go to Miro’s claim and down in the mine—that is not a crime of opportunity.” He refrained from saying anything more. She was frightened already.

  “No,” she quietly agreed.

  Chapter 3

  LEON’S SHIRT stuck to his back, and sweat trickled down between his pecs. He was glad he’d opted for an AFP uniform instead of plain clothes—no one would notice a shirt change throughout the day if he needed one, and with this heat, it was a foregone conclusion. Days were barely hitting ten degrees Celsius in Canberra, but it had to be hitting the high twenties, low thirties here in Coober Pedy.

  From the sky, the airport had looked like a tin shed out in the middle of nowhere—albeit a nice tin shed that had cooling. Between the airport exit and the police car that had come to pick him up, he’d managed to put on at least a kilo of flies. By the time he’d completed a wave to shoo the flies from his eyes, mouth, and nose, a new family had moved in to take their place, like it was highly sought after real estate. With a last wave, he slid into the police car and closed the door.

  His first inhale inside the car was so hot and dry he was sure the hairs in his nose would catch fire. He expected the horrible smell of singeing hair and was mildly surprised when it wasn’t there. At least he was able to breathe through his mouth now without fear the flies would try to take up residence in his lungs. He’d already swallowed one, and the coughing had almost made him dry retch—a great way to make an impression upon arrival anywhere.