Gifts of the Peramangk

by Dean Mayes

  “That sounds awful. Why was he alone?” she asked with alarm.

  “Because,” Khalili sighed. “He had little choice. He was forced to stay in that room along with many others who were held there against their will. They were prisoners you see.”

  Ruby studied him with a puzzled frown.

  “I thought you said he was all alone.”

  A wan smiled passed over Khalili and he cocked his head to one side.

  “He was all alone…in his heart and his mind…” he corrected subtly. “As were all of those who were with him. But, he discovered a way to conquer the loneliness. He used his imagination and lessons he’d received in music. And this…” he paused, leaning forward to tap the sheet music in front of Ruby. “…was what his imagination produced.”

  Ruby began to hear the music in her mind. She saw within the notes on the page, a stark underlying emotion—a darkness that unnerved her and intrigued her simultaneously.

  “Let me play this,” she said confidently.

  Khalili’s eyes narrowed and he set his leather bag down on the stage floor.

  “I-I don’t know…”

  Ruby ignored him.

  Setting the sheet music on the stand in front of her, she settled back in her seat, lifted her violin. Her uncanny ability switched on like a light bulb and she closed her eyes. She breathed softly.

  Khalili’s hesitation gave way to curiosity then. He entwined his fingers together and rested them on his knees in wait.

  Ruby positioned herself as Khalili had shown her just a few minutes before and she raised the violin to her chin.

  She drew her bow across the strings, eliciting a long and plaintive note with just enough quiver on it to give it a satisfying vibrato. She knew she had attained the note perfectly. A familiar feeling, akin to a buzz, rippled in her temples and slowly she opened her eyes.

  In her mind’s eye, the darkness and the dank cold of a cramped bunk house coalesced, filled with the sad faces of people. They were huddled together for warmth around a pair of candles that were seated in the middle of the room. A large and heavy steel door at one end of the building was fastened shut. In the flickering light that played upon their anguished features, Ruby could see them clearly—their sunken eyes, their prominent cheek bones, their lips—chapped and cracked from the cold, faces pocked with sores. Men, women and children coughed and spluttered under the weight of chronic illness. They wore tattered clothing over emaciated frames. Ruby played their circumstance upon her violin.

  Tendrils of fear weaved their way through the group as they sat on the earthen floor, each of them afraid to move or speak. Outside the brick walls of the bunk house, guttural sounds, inhuman sounds swirled all around, taunting them. The sounds of machinery, belching smoke and fire melded with anguished voices that cried out in pain. Ruby’s violin traversed the huddle of people, translating these sounds with a chaotic progression of notes, a chilling representation of dread. That dread germinated in the pit of her stomach as she played which, in turn fed through her fingers onto the strings. The piece returned to those poor souls trapped in the bunk house and Ruby descended into ominous plucking of low notes. Something was happening that changed the dynamic of the piece. Ruby was heralding the arrival of a foreboding presence somewhere nearby—a presence that was coming.

  Several in the group began crying, weeping; their tear-filled eyes held a long suffering fear—as though they had been crying for all of their lives. Ruby played long, lingering high notes; suggestive of their grief, suggestive of their wearied panic before she plunged back down into the lower registers again as the unseen presence outside grew closer and more threatening. It amplified their fear, causing many of them to scramble backward across the floor to the corner of the room that was farthest from the direction of presence.

  The room was suddenly rocked by a powerful explosion which seemed to strike just outside the bunk house. Like an earthquake, the explosion caused the entire bunk house to shake. The flickering light from the candle flame threatened to burn out. The panic that surged through everyone was all-consuming. They were paralysed where they sat or stood.

  A second explosion, even louder than the first struck with a deafening boom, causing the brick wall at one end of the bunk house to visibly shake. Mortar dust collapsed from the spaces between. The prisoners huddled closer. Ruby translated their terror with rapid, punctuated strokes of her bow.

  And then, from the centre of the huddle, a lone figure stands. A child, a boy, wearing a moth eaten woollen pullover and tattered shorts steps forth and peers through the darkness toward the precarious brickwork. His companions gasp in horror and desperately try to coax him back, but he ignores them. Something has piqued his curiosity. He shuffles cautiously across the earthen floor on shoeless feet that are hardened and calloused.

  A third explosion rocks the bunk house with such force that the brick wall and part of the roof crumble and collapse with a cacophony of noise and dust and iron. A gaping hole is revealed through which the boy gazes up into a night sky ablaze with fire.

  A monstrous shadow falls across the gaping maw of the ruined building. Its form is suggestive of a beast-like figure with huge hands and a powerful jaw, but there is no physical accompaniment to it. It exists—wraith-like in the darkness. Two great limbs plant themselves upon the ragged edges of the hole and the presence glares down into the bunk house. The boy stands solitary, returning the glare of the presence with an innocent curiosity. He has no fear, despite the violence that rages all around.

  And with that innocence, the boy reaches up with an outstretched hand toward the presence and he smiles warmly.

  There is surprise. There is confusion. There is hesitation.

  The presence reaches down into the ruined building and takes the boy’s hand gently in its own. All at once, the violence, the chaos and the terror fall away. The screams subside. The machinery throttles down to a low thrum. Ruby’s own strokes slow as she holds several high notes with a delicate hand.

  His hand still entwined in that of the presence, the boy gingerly steps forward and over the pile of ruined bricks, led by the shadow, out and away from the bunk house.

  The boy turns back to his companions inside, as the dawn begins to break. The presence too has dissipated with the violence and, with a warm glow playing across the boy’s dirty face, he smiles, urging them to follow him.

  Through the gap they file – slowly, hesitantly. None of them are sure of what to expect. But, as a dawning sun rises to meet them, they step out of the bunk house. Each and every one of the prisoners is touched by a comforting warmth that splashes across their faces—a light that has eluded them for what seemed like a lifetime.

  The concentration camp crumbles all around them. Buildings collapse inward and plumes of smoke rise in their wake. Other gaunt, emaciated prisoners file out of similar structures.

  The boy leads the way toward a brilliant green meadow, beyond a ruined barbed wire fence. Wild flowers bloom as the prisoners cross over from the coarse, grey stone of the prison to the soft, lush pasture of the field beyond.

  Some fall to their knees in gratitude of the splendour to which they have been delivered. Others just stand, unsure of what to make of their circumstance now. But in time, they look around at each other and, slowly, they greet each other with beatific smiles.

  In the centre of the meadow stands the boy, free of the shackles that have been his bondage. His eyes meet those of an elderly woman who kneels on the ground nearby, unable to support her own frame. In that moment, her eyes are as vibrant and alive as his very own.

  In that final moment, Ruby drew the bow away from the violin, allowing the last note to trail away. Then she lowered her instrument and gingerly looked up at Khalili. She was surprised to find him sitting there, his eyes reddened with evidence of tears.

  Ruby shifted uncomfortably and fidgeted with her violin.

  “W-was that okay?” she asked hesitantly.

  Khalili nodded slowly and
gestured silently to the auditorium behind Ruby.

  Slowly, she turned to see a number of people who’d been watching her. They appeared visibly moved. Some of them, like Khalili himself, were wiping away tears.

  “I have not heard that piece played in a very long time,” Khalili said, his voice thick with emotion. “And I don’t think I have heard it played so…beautifully.”

  Ruby smiled awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say next.

  “How did you do it?” Khalili asked, after several moments. “How did you play so…completely…having never seen that piece before?”

  Ruby shrugged her shoulders.

  “I just…read it…I see all of the music on the page and I bring it inside of me. It’s how Nana taught me.”

  Khalili seemed to slump back in his chair and he whistled air through his teeth absently.

  “There are perhaps only a handful of individuals in the entire world who can do what you did just now, child. I have no doubt that you are indeed gifted.”

  Ruby’s eyes widened then and she sat up straight.

  “Does that mean you want to take me on?”

  Khalili indulged in a thoughtful pause that seemed to last for an eternity. Then he nodded.

  “We will work together—you and I—and we will refine your technique. You could go far, young Ruby. Farther than anyone I have encountered in a long time.”

  Ruby nearly launched off her seat and into the air, letting out a squeal of delight, causing some in the hall to jump in their seats. She stifled her voice almost immediately and regained her composure.

  “Will you come to see me again next week? Same time?”

  Ruby nodded eagerly, but then hesitated, frowning.

  “I don’t know if I can pay you, Mr. Khalili.”

  The professor brushed her concern away with a wave of his hand.

  “Do not worry about that, young Ruby. Money is the least of our concerns. Just you make sure that you arrive here safely.”

  He lifted the sheet of music from the stand and closed it, handing it to Ruby.

  “Take this. Put it in your case and take it home to your grandmother.”

  Ruby gently took the aged piece of paper from Khalili and laid it in the violin case before placing her instrument in after it.

  “No one has given me a chance like this before Mr. Khalili.”

  Khalili nodded and smiled as he stood and gestured toward one of the side doors of the hall.

  “Well, maybe we can do something about that.”

  Unknown to Khalili, Ruby or anyone else near the stage, far up in the rear seats at the back of the hall, a lone figure stood, watching quietly. Dressed in a pair of denim jeans and wearing a grey suit jacket, he was tall, handsome and though quite a lot younger than Khalili had a stylish greying at the temples of his neat, short hair. Charlie Lynch was a fellow teacher of music in the school and a close colleague of the professor. He’d slipped in part way through Ruby’s performance and watched her play and he remained there now, studying Khalili and the young girl curiously as they walked toward the exit.

  Once the child stepped through the door and was gone from view, Lynch maintained a thoughtful expression, as though he was mulling something over. Then, he turned and left the hall as silently as he had entered.

  Ruby returned the following week and the week after that at the same time and via the same train she’d caught previously, only now she and Jeremy did so without having to dodge the ticketing officer. Each time they dutifully presented their tickets to the officer who fixed them both with suspicious looks before moving on without so much as a word.

  Together, with Jeremy watching from his seat in the front row of the hall, Khalili and Ruby conducted her lesson over the course of a couple of hours, refining her technique, introducing new exercises to her repertoire, challenging her with new compositions that were previously unknown to her. Ruby’s approach was the same every time. No matter what it was that Khalili put in front of her, Ruby devoured the music on the page, committing it to memory and reproducing it with meticulous attention to detail and an emotional investment that drew an increasing audience to the auditorium whenever Ruby was there to play. Jeremy himself could see the effect that Ruby was having on the people around him. They were transported by her skill through every single note and, all the while, Khalili was gentle in his instruction, modifying her technique only subtly in order to extract the very best from her.

  For Jeremy, those two hours took him away from his own turmoil, the problems at home and at school, his obligations to Gavin and Mickey. Ruby’s music nurtured something unspoken inside of him—something pure and untainted. It was something he was sure was reaching the others in the audience. It was, quite simply, beautiful.

  Ruby brought her music home and played it for Virginia who seemed equally nourished by it and Jeremy noticed a glint in his grandmother’s eyes whenever Ruby performed for her and the children. It was as though Virginia was remembering a time long ago, when she herself was young and was filled with a happiness and contentment.

  And, all the while, Charlie Lynch, who’d appeared previously at the very top of the seats far back in the hall, returned each time – even if it was only for a few minutes – to watch the young Aboriginal girl and her uncanny gift and his colleague, Khalili who seemed to be relishing his role as a one on one tutor more than he ever had before.

  But Lynch did not know who this child was. She wasn’t on the books as a student officially, nor had Khalili introduced her to anyone in any official capacity. Each week, she came, she performed and learned and then she disappeared as if she had never been.

  It was creating mutterings among the music students, the faculty and the school more widely.

  Lynch remained silent. He merely watched with quiet poise each week and left the auditorium before he could be seen by Khalili or the child.

  Chapter 16

  1959

  Simon the dog was no longer the gangly pup Virginia had encountered by the wood pile all those years ago. He was now a handsome adult with a shining black and white coat, a proud face and a lean body. Despite the indeterminate mixture of his breeding, Simon was the finest working dog on the farm, the most active. He was also fiercely loyal to Virginia and had become her protector of sorts.

  Virginia was now sixteen and she too, had come to be regarded as the hardest working ‘employee’ on the Penschey farm. No longer was she the sickly child who had first arrived here. She had grown into an attractive and athletic young woman, whose quiet and unwavering commitment to her work had made her physically strong and often, as capable as her male counterparts. Strange as it might have seemed, Virginia had earned the grudging respect of the staff on the farm, particularly among the horsemen that worked for the Pastoralist. Virginia was often called upon to prepare their horses before they headed out each day. She knew how each of them liked their saddles and bridles applied to their mounts. One horseman, in particular, often slipped her a piece of fruit or a portion of his sandwich on his way out each day. It was a kindness that Virginia cherished.

  There were, however, individuals on the farm who regarded Virginia with contempt. One in particular, a pimply young stable hand with a nasty air about him, constantly harassed Virginia whenever she was working in the stables, feeding the horses or mucking out the stalls. He would hang about whenever she was working there, sit on the railings above her and spit at her or make cruel jibes about her skin colour. At other times, he would interrupt her with a couple of the other young farm hands by tracking mud and manure through her freshly cleaned stalls and try and get a rise out of her by getting close to her and taunting her.

  Virginia kept her head down and tried her best to ignore him but he remained unrelenting.

  And then the taunting took a sinister turn.

  The young stable hand and his colleagues would push her into the darkest corners of the stables where no one could see. Then, each would take turns, pushing themselves on top of Virginia, forc
ing themselves inside of her while the others held her down, covering her mouth with their hands so that no one could hear.

  In the beginning she screamed at the top of her lungs, terrified and desperate to get away from the boys. They beat her, scratched at her body and struck her face. And then the threats came. They threatened to tell the Pastoralist that she was the instigator of their advances—that he would send her away and she would be put into an institution. The only way she could prevent this from happening was to remain silent. And so, Virginia endured their behaviour—the fear of what the Pastoralist might do to her far out weighed anything that the young men did. Likewise, she felt could never tell Mrs. Penschey; for fear that she might confront her husband about their behaviour and place Virginia in the same peril as a result.

  But then, almost by accident, Virginia discovered a way to deter them. The young stable hand, as it turned out, had a fear of dogs and he came to be particularly terrified of Simon.

  This she discovered one day when she brought Simon with her to the stables, which she didn’t normally do, for fear that the dog would unsettle a couple of the newer horses.

  On this occasion, the stable hand turned up as usual and, without warning, Simon attacked him—launching at him like an enraged lion, growling and snarling at him before taking a large chunk of skin out of the young man’s rump.

  From then on, Virginia kept Simon with her at all times—especially, whenever she was working in the stables. His presence and, more importantly, his growls and snarls whenever the stable hand came within range ensured that she was protected from him.

  Simon and Virginia became a ubiquitous partnership. They were rarely seen around the farm without one another. He was beside her at the wood pile, overseeing her daily routine of chopping the firewood for the homestead, at the stables, tending to the horses and he was there beside her when she was sweeping the verandah, washing the windows and scrubbing the timbers.

  As far as everyone was concerned, it was an unspoken expectation that wherever one was, the other would be close by.