Flames

by Robbie Arnott

  I have known the ranger for many years. In the past he would come to the farm for dinner, or I would pop into his hut for a glass of whisky, whenever he had cause to be in Melaleuca. Ending a friendship like ours is usually a painful experience, yet I felt nothing as I told him to leave the farm and never return. I felt even less as I grabbed my shotgun and marched towards him, yelling words that I cannot recall. But that is a lie: I did feel something. I felt joy. I felt power. I felt the giddy swirl of freedom.

  He fled, as all cowards do, and I did not listen to the words he left hanging in the driveway air. The hands, too, had disappeared. And lucky for them that they did, for my shotgun had both barrels loaded, and I doubt that I would have hesitated to fire. At the sight of the empty farm—empty, that is, save for the remaining gaggle of insipid wombats and the black-and-white shapes of the cormorants—I exhaled, long and slow. A feeling of calmness settled over me. Control, finally, had been restored. I went back inside, ate a simple meal and returned to my bed, which was now covered in a layer of cormorant feathers so thick that I couldn’t see the blankets beneath them.

  Before I allowed myself to sink into my visions, I decided to go back to Old Quorn’s field as soon as I woke up. I would visit the leader of the cormorants, and then I would know how next to proceed. I knew this was the right course of action to take; I cannot explain how, but it was. He would show me the path.

  SEVEN

  Forgive me if I cannot finish this entry—I am in tremendous pain, and am struggling to grip my pen. Yet I regret nothing, except how long it has taken me to finally understand—to see the truth of what has been happening. To put it simply, something remarkable has happened. Something wonderful.

  When I woke from my sleep after the ranger visited I set out to see the glorious cormorant of Old Quorn’s field. I did not take my gun or net—as I strode it seemed absurd to me that I ever had—but I did slide my knife into my belt: an old farm habit. I also brought this journal with me, in case the cormorant communicated something to me that I needed to record. As I walked I passed the dwindling herd of wombats, not even letting my hatred of them put a kink in my spirits. Melaleuca had never looked so grand. The frost was carpeting the meadows and moorlands, dropping a crust of pure whiteness onto the green thumbs of grass, and the mountains all around were dusted with snow a sharper white than the gritty quartzite peaks they were covering. Bathurst Harbour stretched out to the northwest, its navy waters stained red-brown by the tannins leaking from the highland streams. I felt as if the world was open to me, and that my troubles were receding into the distance at a furious canter.

  When I reached the field I did not see the cormorant. This was odd—he was always there, roosting in the branches of the blackwood—but I did not fret. He was no doubt out fishing. I sat down at the base of the tree, leaning against its trunk, and waited patiently as minutes and then hours began to pass by. The sun rose and fell in its low winter arc as I shivered into my wool coat. Eventually I fell asleep, which was the key; I should have known it. As soon as my mind plummeted into unconsciousness he appeared. Behind my eyelids he swooped downwards, coming straight at me through a black sky, a missile of feathers and darkness and baleful eyes, and the joy I felt at his presence was the richest moment of happiness I have ever experienced. He flew closer, and although it was hard to judge the distance in this dream-vision I felt that he was about to waft his glorious feathers across my face. The anticipation was excruciating; in that moment I wanted nothing more than to be in his presence, to feel his touch. And just as it finally happened, just as his bill was about to plunge into my chest and soul, I awoke.

  But this awakening was not caused by him: I had been awoken by something else, a nudging feeling somewhere near my shins. I looked down to see a wombat staring up at me. It was a particularly ugly specimen, all ribs and snot and sick, patchy fur. Again it nosed at my shin, whimpering out a low note of sorrow, wanting I don’t know what, and my confusion was swiftly replaced with implacable fury. Before I knew what I was doing I had risen to my feet, kicked the creature onto its back, drawn the knife from my belt, and plunged it hard and deep into its mangy chest.

  As my knife entered its body, I knew. I knew so deeply and completely what had happened that I fell to my knees. The surging pulse of knowledge began in the wombat’s slowing heart and flew upwards, through the knife, through my arm, through my veins and lungs and flesh and up into my brain, triggering the memories—of all the times I’d done it before. I reeled backwards as the memories asserted themselves. I saw the first time, when I’d wandered in my sleep out into the fields, groggily dragging a beast from its burrow and stabbing it, zombie-like, before ripping out its eyes and leaving it to die on the cold grass. Then I remembered the next times, as my gait had become firmer and my arm stronger, going straight for the burrows and killing with firm purpose. Then more, as I grew in confidence, as I took unconscious pleasure in the killing, laughing to myself as I happily stabbed at fur and flesh and bone, as my mind was swamped by dark shadows of flying cormorants. All of it came to me, all clear and all at once, and once I knew it I could not forget it.

  A knocking. A scraping. A needling, pointing dig of a bill at my chest, not on the outside of it but from the inner walls, behind my skin and sternum. I stood up, grabbing at myself, trying to figure out what was happening even as the wombat-murdering memories blared through my mind. A high harsh cry sounded somewhere. I turned around, looking from fence to tree to tin mine, but there was no bird. No glorious cormorant. The needling and knocking continued, sharper and harder. My hand flew back to my chest. The cry pealed out again, only now I could tell that it was not assaulting my ears from the outside, but from between them. And then I knew—the dream had not been cut short. The glorious cormorant did reach me; it touched me; it joined with me. It had entered within the cage of my flesh. If I doubted it for one second I needed only to feel for the stabbing bill inside my chest or listen for the rasping cry between my ears. And I needed only to look to my right, which I did, for my eye was caught by a scene I shall not rhapsodise but merely describe: hundreds upon hundreds of cormorants, flying at great pace out of the mouth of the old tin mine, blackening the world around me with their furious wings. The clean sky turned white and black. Joy filled my shared heart. As they rose and swirled and called to me the needling bill pushed, and the cutting bird-scream told: we were not yet done with death.

  I strode through the field, clutching my knife, directed by the tapping of the bill on my breastbone. Night had dropped over Melaleuca. I could no longer make out the white caps of the mountains or the glinting frost of the grass. The blue-red-brown waters of Bathurst Harbour, too, were lost to me. But the glorious cormorant was not worried, and neither was I.

  Soon I made it to the burrows, where the wombats were stumbling in circles around the mouths of their dens. I went straight for the one closest to me, knife in hand. The glorious cormorant shrieked with delight as my free palm smacked into the creature’s neck fur. I flipped the beast over. Its stumpy legs wobbled in the air. I think ticks had burrowed into its face, because it showed no recognition of me, or of anything; it just barked in surprise and confusion. I realised with dismay that it wouldn’t even see its death coming, that I wouldn’t see fear in its eyes as my arm descended. But the cormorant didn’t care—it wanted only to see the wombat’s blood. Its bill was tapping harder than ever, a staccato fury of pecks. The knife was hot and eager in my grasp. I bent down, raised the blade, and was aiming at the wombat’s throat when I heard a human scream.

  Nicola. I straightened, shocked, and nearly dropped my knife. She was standing at the top of the field. In the gloom I could see her whole body shaking, horror and fear smeared across her face. She screamed again, this time using my name—Allen! She said other words, too, but I didn’t make them out, couldn’t understand, didn’t want to, because now I was walking towards her. The thrumming peck of the cormorant’s bill was leading me her way, and I was still holding the
knife in a high, overhand grip. Nicola began backing away, but I was moving fast—it felt like the glorious cormorant’s wings were fanning at the back of my knees, lending me unnatural speed.

  I didn’t think about what I was doing; there was no need to think. She would not be able to get away. But then another voice echoed across the meadow—a female voice, like Nicola’s, but mixed with more fury than fear. I looked in the direction of the farmhouse, where it had come from, and saw Charlotte springing towards me. Through the hazy light she ran, straight towards me, and the cormorant and I switched our focus: we would kill her first. The other cormorants, wheeling in the sky above us, agreed with our decision. Their cries fell down, urging us on.

  The glorious cormorant and I stalked forward, knife ready, as Charlotte sprinted downhill. She was a mess of angry angles, flailing wildly, and her rangy stride beckoned me forward. I began running, powered by the thirst of my other feathered half, and that was when I saw it. I still can’t believe I saw it; I can’t believe I am writing this down; yet it was what happened.

  Charlotte yelled, something violent and wordless. And as she yelled, a blue light began leaking from her eyes. Her ears, too—and her nostrils. Six trails of glowing ultra-blueness were running down her face, to be joined by two more that spurted out of the sides of her mouth, making eight lines of unnatural colour. These streams began falling to the ground, and I saw that ten more lines were also cascading out of her hands from beneath her fingertips. Blue, hyper-blue, and when all these too-blue trails hit the buttongrass it took only a few seconds for the acrid smell of smoke to reach me. I realised, too late: it was not liquid leaking from Charlotte McAllister; it was fire.

  Nicola ran forward. Charlotte’s flames were spreading around her feet, and it was only then that she realised what was happening. I think she was as surprised as I was. All four of us standing there—Charlotte, Nicola, myself and the glorious cormorant—were momentarily frozen by this incredible sight…but then the grass licked up in a sudden crackle of fire. Blue flames jumped, swayed, grew. The grass was wet, but Charlotte could not stop leaking. Her spurts increased, and as she panicked she shook her arms, spreading the fire further. She looked at me then, through her burning eyes, and I knew, even through the tapping of the cormorant’s bloodthirsty bill, that if I wanted to live I needed to run.

  I sprinted towards Old Quorn’s field. Sparks were flying through the air, hot and incandescent, and I felt them settle in my hair, on my coat, on my hands. My flesh began to cook, and a bright agony caught hold of me, but I kept running. I looked over my shoulder to see Charlotte chasing me. Fire was pouring down her chin and chest in a cascade of burning vomit. Rolling walls of cornflower flames were sprinting past her, nipping at my feet, and even with my wing-enhanced legs I could not outrun them. The fire caught me, and I burned hotter. The pain was enough to make me scream, and as I did so the glorious cormorant joined in. Our cries burst forth into the Melaleuca sky, but I did not stop running.

  When I reached the field I felt the cormorant calm at the sight of its blackwood tree, but I did not, for I know what fire does to trees, so I kept running, even though a quick glance showed me that Charlotte had stopped chasing. I ran to the last place I ever thought I’d go. Blue fire licked my skin, and I ran and ran and threw myself, headfirst, into the open sore of the old tin mine.

  EIGHT

  Before these events, I wasn’t much of a writer. Jotting down my thoughts had seemed unnecessary and self-indulgent. Yet, aside from my great friend the glorious cormorant, writing has been the only thing that has gotten me through this alarming period of my life. It is odd to think of what I would have done without it.

  It has now been a week since I plunged into the mine (or something like a week—time down here does not seem all that important). My injuries from the fire were severe, yet they have healed remarkably well, especially considering that I have been squatting in a dank pool of rusty water, surrounded by nothing but dirt, feathers and rotting wood. I owe this, I am sure, to my union with the glorious cormorant. He has been healing me from within, taking care of my unworthy body.

  This supercharged healing has not been without a few unexpected side effects, however. The day I plunged down here I fell into a great clump of feathers that lined the floor of the mine. As I lay there, nearly unconscious due to the pain, my burning skin fused with these feathers in some sort of flesh-to-quill welding process. A scattered layer of black plumage now sprouts from my arms and back, stuck fast by Charlotte’s fire, and for some reason the feathers do not die. If anything, they are growing larger and more lustrous.

  The only other part of my body that did not heal properly was my nose. It still functions as a nose, more or less, but its shape has changed. Where once it was wide, flat and fleshy it has morphed, from the heat, into a much straighter protuberance. It has become harder too, almost bonelike, and hairs no longer sprout from my nostrils. I cannot see it very well in the gloom, but when the sun shines onto the pools of water down here I can see that it also seems much darker—as black as the pits of the abandoned tunnels around me.

  But I cannot complain. The cormorants deliver fish every morning, keeping me well fed. I can even use their watery blood to write with. How lucky I am that this journal survived my journey through the flames, nestled in the breast pocket of my coat. It has not abandoned me, and neither, I am pleased to report, has my strength. My body is gaining a power it never had. And the glorious cormorant within me is content, which is more than enough to keep me happy. There are no fat marsupials for me to care for, no plotting women, no endless inanity of farm chores and duties. Here I have found the solitude that I have been searching for my whole life.

  Yet it will not last. The glorious cormorant is only calm because it knows we will one day leave. Once I am strong enough we will climb out of this pit—or perhaps we will fly? Who knows how strong these feathers will grow? And what we do then he hasn’t told me, but I can read the shadows of his thoughts, and I can decipher the code in the taps of his bill. His hunger persists. There will be more blood, more death, more warmth sucked up by the coldness of the night, and I will be with him, hand in feather, when it happens.

  CAKE

  Chapter 28 of CREAM, BUTTER AND SMALL-TOWN NUTTERS: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF AN AVOCA MATRIARCH, by Mavis Midcurrent.

  Now comes the point in my tale where I must pay homage to the wonderful people of Avoca, my home for so many years. Of course, there are too many to name, each and every one of them worthy of a paragraph or two in their own right. A town as special as Avoca is home to many special people. But I will limit myself to those who have had the greatest effect on my life; this is my story, after all.

  I will begin with Larry, the pump attendant at Gherkin’s Fuel & Food. Larry has been a vital friend to the community (and particularly me) for more than forty years, providing the friendliest, politest and most reliable refuelling service this side of the mountain. He’s there every time you pull up, rain, hail or shine, pumping away with his trademark enthusiasm, never letting you go home dry. Larry was my husband Phillip’s best man at our wedding, and was always there for our family, particularly when Phillip was working in the copper mines far away from home. I would’ve died of loneliness in those long, cold months if it weren’t for Larry; after his shifts finished he would come straight over, keeping me company and cheering me up, as full of beans as a teenager. Larry, if you’re reading this, thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Hopefully you and Phillip patch things up soon.

  Who else? Mayor Constance Tring, of course. What citizen of Avoca hasn’t had their life touched by this remarkable woman? From reforming by-laws to clearing willows from the South Esk, she has been a tireless source of progress for our town, despite all the persecution she faced, simply for pursuing a career in local representation while possessing a uterus. What an inspiration she is! On a personal note, I’d like to thank the good mayor for including me on the panel of ju
dges for the annual Avoca Beauty Pageant for the last eighteen years. The pageant, as many will know, is the only exclusively male beauty competition in the southern hemisphere, and it has been my honour and privilege to adjudicate the merits of so many of our handsome and talented young men. I would struggle immensely if I had to pick a favourite out of all the winners we judges have selected over the years, but eventually, I suppose, I would have to say that Garth Burbank stands slightly above the rest. Such poise, such cheekbones, such a dazzling smile! And that’s not even mentioning his expert skills in sheep shearing and embroidery. Garth, wherever you are, I hope you’ve done as well in the big wide world as we all believed you would. (And if you’re ever back in Avoca, do pay me a visit—I haven’t forgotten those special times you visited my cottage and convinced me of your champion qualities.)

  And how could I let the lovely ladies of the Avoca chapter of the Country Women’s Association go unmentioned? They’ve been my tribe, my sisters, through all the blessings and troubles of my life. When I was named Rural Businesswoman of the Year they were the first ones to knock on my salon door and demand fresh styles—imagine my joy at seeing such good friends celebrate my humble skill with scissors! And when Phillip and I endured that tough period during his sixth winter in the mines they were constantly by my side, sustaining me with teacake, scones and sisterly love. All of them, that is, except for Beryl Newtburg, who thought it appropriate to direct her concerns towards my estranged husband. As I have detailed in previous chapters Phillip always stayed true to me, even in the face of that so-called lady’s advances. I hope you choke on a chicken bone, Beryl.

  Yes, I have been wildly lucky in my Avoca friends and family. There was, however, the odd bod or two who wasn’t the friendliest of characters. Isn’t that always the way with small towns? I won’t list every Avoca local I’ve ever found uncharitable—I don’t want this book to spark controversy!—but I will make an exception in the case of Thurston Hough, a woodworking enthusiast who moved to the area a few years ago. (He was also an author, apparently, although no one in town had ever heard of his ‘best-selling’ book.) That man never had a kind word to say to or about anyone, and although he was rarely seen in town he still managed to be so unpleasant, so vile, that many people would run in the opposite direction if they ever saw him coming.