by Paul Haines
Something flashes behind my eyes, a quick, sharp bolt of light, and a shudder crawls over my skin. The colour of the sand shifts from dull white-yellow into a brighter spectrum where the sunbathers fade into the background. I turn slowly—or is it the world spinning around me? An Aboriginal man emerges from the water like a silent hunter from a jungle river stalking his prey. He clutches a tall, jagged spear in one hand. His face is smeared with ochre, and white dots encircle his armpits and genitals, linked by undulating red-dotted lines to the centre of this chest. His eyes are black holes, his thick lips pressed tight and heat coruscates from skin resembling ebony, skin that is hard and unforgiving. The stench of wet, bloated flesh envelopes me as he steps closer. I can't see anything but his face—his emotionless, ochre-cracked face. The beach is gone, dead and buried in another time. Raw meat seethes between those cracks, oozing pain and hate like heat shimmers from the baked skin of the desert. How can this be? He should be wet, I think, trying to back away, but my legs won't move. The sand has crept around my ankles, drifting up my shins, clutching me tight in its embrace. Tiny, animal teeth line the ridges underneath his dead eyes, bright white and sharp. His mouth opens wide and a terrible heat pours from his maw, burning the breath in my lungs.
'Open your eyes. Look at my past.' He thrusts the spear into my stomach and twists, the pain ripping through the veil, and I collapse onto the beach falling on something warm and soft, something that yells in surprise.
'What are you doing?' A woman, a sunbather, something real. 'Get the hell off me! Hey, are you ...'
And the pain twists again and sweeps me away ...
A giant heart pulses one last time and serpents spill from its hardening flesh. They weave through the desert sands towards the north and the south, eastwards and westwards, radiating from the dead heart, over desert and mountain to the distant coasts. Their trails fill with moisture, the moisture grows to a trickle, and as the trickle gains momentum, the rivers fill with life and spill into the sea.
The pain twists again ...
'Take my hand.' My voice. Not my voice. A voice. 'It's not safe here.'
Her skin is soft with youth, nine years of innocence. She holds her younger sister's hand, who in turn takes their even younger brother's. They'll be more than enough.
The nation celebrates. The turning of the land. The taming of the beast. Birth anew.
It's Australia Day, 1966.
And it twists again ...
The serpent heading south, fat from consuming the land, struggles as it burrows through the last mountain range barring it from the sea. A thin trail of blood lines its passage. Something deep within the serpent has ruptured, and the poison slowly seeps throughout its body. It eats everything in its path, hoping to devour the pain burning from the inside. And by the time the serpent slides dying into the sea, its wake has swollen with blood and rot. And something dark and twisted crawls from the serpent's corpse and secretes itself into the riverbed.
And again ...
The house screams of excessive late '70s architectural lauding. Sharp, angular roofs point inwards, the walls bending to the whims of the designer. It could be the house for the curator of Sydney's Opera House, if there were such a thing, where the sails are pointed not curved. Sun shines on large windows, reflecting back at the bluestone neighbourhood that surrounds it. The doors slide open and an evil heat emanates from within, drawing me closer, no ... not me ... someone else.
... the pain twists once more—a bright flare of panic and primal fear, the brain in the stomach screaming to run and run and run, to go back where it was safe—and then darkness.
#
Byron Bay—Before
I don't know what I was expecting. I guess it was this.
Johnston Street leads north to the bay, where the surf rolls easily onto Main Beach. Backpacker hostels line the street, cafes proclaim vegetarian and vegan meals, independent fast-food joints spit out kebabs and fish and burgers. Bars, nightclubs, surf shops, and then what we're all here for—healthy living, spiritual living. In touch with nature and oneself. The rediscovery, the kindling, of the godhead that lives within us all. The counter-culture embracing the alternative lifestyle. Learn yogic dance, take a massage, a submersion tank, some naturopathic therapy, open your chakras, have your stars read while you immerse yourself in reiki or shiatsu. Ferals firedance on the beaches at dusk; marijuana drifts on the evening breeze; the sound of music and tribal drums; laughter; warmth; beautiful happy people; cultures within cultures; a hundred different tongues spoken and united by the one tongue of the body and mind.
St Kilda has nothing on this place. Dave the Drinker and his nexus. His hints of dark magic and occultism nothing more than a thin excuse for free sex. No real connection at all. But here! A land of light and positive energy, revitalising the potency within the lacklustre blood of all newcomers. Fuelling them, providing nurture, a place they can call their own, a place to find themselves, a home.
Except I sit alone at a table eating a dry lentil burger. The satay sauce is strong but can't moisturise the meal. It lodges in my throat. At the table next to me, two couples with their pre-school children finish off their salads, chickpeas, lentils and unleavened breads. One of the women must be in her late twenties. A tie-died sash binds her dreadlocked hair behind her head. The dreadlocks fall to the small of her back where a tribal tattoo creeps down to the top of her hips before disappearing behind the waistline of her skirt. Her nose is pierced; leather thongs and beads adorn her wrist. A Polynesian bone carving hangs from her neck. Her partner, dressed in loose Indian cottons, produces a small colourful bag and begins to roll a cigarette. He rolls thin and tight, one cigarette for each of the adults and passes them round. He lights a match, then lights each of the cigarettes in turn, leaving his own till last. They smoke and lean back, a relaxed enjoyment clear on the turn of their lips, the angle of their eyes. The nicotine unravels their brows and calms their nerves.
The smoke wafts over my table and across the tables of other diners. No one minds, or if they do, nothing is said. I want to get up and shout at them, scream their hypocrisies in their lifestyle-faces. But I guess you choose what you want to believe. Tobacco is part of nature. The leather thong is not really from an animal. The Polynesians never settled Australia. So I finish my burger in silence, as they cast smug looks at me sensing I'm new here, just another tourist. One of the backpackers here to get stoned and laid and show their friends and families back in Europe photos of how they lived this other life for a brief instance. Of how they belonged.
Maybe I'm out of touch.
#
A water fountain trickles soothingly. Chillout music plays softly from hidden speakers. Incense burns—Tibetan sandalwood, so I'm told, but I can't tell the difference. I lie naked, facedown on a massage table, a towel draped over my arse.
'You need to think about what you wish to invite to this session,' Astra had said before she left the room.
I just wanted an hour-and-a-half massage for forty dollars. She'd been gone for half an hour and boredom was turning into frustration. There's probably mosquitoes breeding in that fountain.
'How'd you go?' Astra smiles as she walks back into the room. She looks early thirties, wears minimal make-up, clean, shiny hair, good breasts—though I shouldn't be noticing, after all this is about spiritual development—and is a little too friendly. Not in a sex way, rather an insincere way.
I shrug.
'I think you're very lucky,' Astra continues. 'You have lots of support. I can see the angels all around you. You've not had a healing massage before, have you?'
'No.'
'Like I said before, the more you invite to this session, the more you'll get out of it.' She rubs oil into my back and begins to gently massage, moving her fingers through the muscle. 'You're very tense.' She pushes a little harder, kneading the knots out with her fingertips. Her bare stomach touches briefly against my elbow. And a little flicker stirs below.
'You always l
ived here?' I ask.
'I don't think that's relevant for this session, do you?'
'I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't.'
She works her way down to the small of my back, her fingers against the side of my waist as her thumbs work against my spine. I try to detach from the hardness she's shifting from muscle to gland. I'm not attracted to her. I don't know why it does what it does.
'I came here ten years ago for New Year's,' she says. 'When I got here, I had this instant connection, you know what I mean? I loved the place and it just called out to me. Sounds a little hippy-trippy, but it's true. I feel like I belong here though. It's where I should be. You know, there's a huge, positive energy flowing through this place. You can feel it, can't you?'
'Yeah, sort of,' I lie. My erection deflates.
I've been here two weeks and I'm not connecting to anything.
She massages my neck, her stomach again coming into contact, this time against my waist. There's no flicker this time.
I don't belong here.
#
Now
The river Torrens slides beneath King William Road and if I were to follow the road south to where it becomes King William Street, I'd see the city shut down quickly and silently after 5pm. Shops close, shutters pull down, roller-doors declining an invitation to hurled bottles through windows. People hurry home, bus stops fill and empty and the streetlights come on early. It won't be dark for another three or so hours, and yet the city curls up tight into a ball, ready for the night, waiting to unfold again for the light of a new day.
And what promise does it bring?
There was a time when it brought relief to the hearts of parents, to find their son or daughter at the breakfast table. Alive and well. Where the words 'Be careful' spoken from father to daughter or mother to son when the children left the house for the evening were pregnant with things unsaid. Where those things unsaid invariably wound up in the headlines of the news the following day. Where parents finally slept after hearing the door close quietly shortly after midnight as their children returned safely.
I wander into Chinatown, where there appears to be more life than in the other parts of town. Fat, red lobsters swim in the windows of the restaurants, paper lanterns glow, delicious smells of spice waft from open doors. Perhaps the Chinese are oblivious to the unspoken evil lingering beneath the skin of this city. Perhaps their gods are so long gone and forgotten, or maybe so remote from those that inhabit the churches holding this carcass of a city together, that it does not affect them.
A group of Chinese on the other side of the road push past a drunk Aborigine with his hand out for money. They don't even glance at him, and he curses after them. Then he fixes his eyes upon me. I can see right into him, though I know it's impossible; he's too far away. And suddenly I'm back on the beach, a medic with salts under my nose. The medic says nice words—sunstroke, dehydration—explainable words. But how do they explain what's been happening to me since?
The Aborigine across the road stares at me, his eyes widening, his mouth falling open into a small round 'o'. I'm moving across the road. The squeal of brakes. Honking of horns and angry voices. He backs away from me, hard up against the bluestone wall.
'I know you.' His eyes are so wide, the pupils have eaten away most of the white. He trembles slightly. 'You come back.'
'I've never been here before.'
He squirms against the wall, trying to slide away. 'You always come back. Always hungry.'
I reach out
(don't do it)
and touch him ...
From the sky, the river runs like a blue vein through a land of dried blood. Small, black blossoms bloom along the green fringe between the blue and red. As some wither, more again bloom, a cyclical flow of flowers, a nomadic journey along the river's edge. Soon a milky fungus sprouts where the vein hits the sea, spreading inwards, and like a weed, strangles the black flowers by their very roots.
And as the sky falls or the river rushes upwards, I'm lying amongst hundreds of black bodies. I can't move, I can't breathe. My tongue has swollen and shut my throat. Blood runs from bullet wounds, slicking the grass red, a stream of human water pouring into the river not yet called the Torrens. Flies swarm as the dry wind sends out its call to the carrion that here lies a feast.
A white man stands nearby, reloading a rifle. 'Burn them.'
Flames roar into the sky and the river opens wide its mouth to devour what it can.
... and I'm standing alone on Grote St, a puddle of urine at my feet. It's not mine, it must have been the Aborigine. I'm trembling and nauseous, but in that moment I also find a strange pleasure in this. And it is this pleasure that disturbs me most. What is happening to me?
#
Next to a roundabout near a park, perhaps ten minutes walk north towards South Terrace stands the house of my dreams. There's a 'For Lease' sign on the high fence. The afternoon sun reflects from large windows onto the sandstone building neighbouring it. The house looks snug here, its angular roof and walls a statement of modern comfort, nestled in the antiquity of an older, more traditional Adelaide. Some might say it looks out of place here, another might say something else entirely.
The real-estate agent pulls up in a navy BMW, leaps from the car, smoothing his suit and hiding a mobile in one fluid movement. Shark grin and pumped handshake and he leads me through the gate towards the door.
(an evil heat emanates from within)
And we step inside, the room full of light, comforting and warm. The real-estate agent looks around nervously, as if expecting something.
'Lovely,' I say. 'If you don't mind me asking, why is the rent so low?'
'It's been empty for a while. The, uh, family think that at this price they'll get the right tenant.' His smile falters, there's no hard sell from this man today. 'You're not from round here, are you?'
'Brisbane, originally.' I know he's not telling me something.
'Oh,' he nods. 'Then you wouldn't ...' His conversation falters with the smile.
'No,' I smile. 'I wouldn't.'
We walk into
(welcome home)
the empty bedroom; a huge, spacious, lofty room. A man stands motionless, blending into the corner, clothed in a grey suit. It matches the colour of his skin. We step towards each other and the walls swirl, washing away the brittle words the real-estate agent had begun to say. There is nothing. There is only us. The man in the suit has black holes for eyes and small hooks and razor blades dangle from his cheeks. The suit smoulders on his skin as we walk towards each other, and the reassuring aroma of cooked flesh consoles me. His mouth opens and the heat rushes out to embrace me.
'Children are our future. Their energy burns so much brighter,' he hisses until the words come from my mouth. We are as one and the world shifts ...
A young man, barely twenty, in his late teens if we're lucky, lies drugged and naked on the king-sized bed. I look towards the mirror on the ceiling but it's not me looking back. An older man, naked and erect, a scalpel in one hand. There's blood on the sheets, though red satin hides the stains. Other naked men stand in the room, more wait in the lounge drinking whiskey and laughing. Everyone's eyes are black and empty.
And we shift again ...
The river Torrens glides by, the water hungry, even here from the safety of the car. The man in the passenger seat next to me opens the bottle and soaks the cloth in his hand with its contents. He wear gloves and is careful not to spill any on his suit. A strong chemical smell permeates the car so I wind down the window.
'Go and get him,' the passenger says.
I step out into the early evening and walk towards a man sitting on a bench overlooking the river. He turns expectantly as I approach. This is a popular haunt.
'You looking for company?' I say, though it's not me talking. It's someone else.
'Sure,' he says. His hair is long and soft. His face yet unlined, maybe late twenties.
The Torrens slaps louder and louder against th
e riverbank, in time with the blood pumping in my ears.
I nod towards the car. 'Follow me.'
And we shift again ...
The Adelaide Oval erupts as the crowd roars approval for the goal kicked. Two young girls push through the crowd towards the toilets for the second time that day. The youngest is four years old and her energy is almost blinding. I step forwards, not me, someone else, and take them by the hand. The twisted darkness in the river howls nearby.
And we shift, again and again, back through the years and the decades and the tribes ...
...'Are you okay?' The real-estate agent shakes my shoulder.
I blink. The room is empty; the man in the suit has gone. The real-estate agent has small beads of sweat shining on his forehead. My skin crawls with invisible lice, tearing at my skin with burning maws. Rot swirls inside my stomach. I need to be sick but I can't move. Instead I smile—or at least something dwelling within moves my lips for me—but the real-estate agent doesn't smile back.
'Tell the Family they've found the right tenant,' says the creature with my voice.
#
I hadn't expected to see him again and that's got me thinking. Maybe the nexuses are all connected and they have brought him to me. The nexus to a nexus.
