Shadowville: Book One of the Shadoweaters

by Paul Taylor

  Ben's first full day in Casino dawned fresh and clear, the sun was a bright, white marble in a high, blue ocean of sky lined with clouds like cresting waves. If Ben had been a superstitious man he might almost have been tempted to believe that the fresh, new morning signified a fresh, new start for him. As it was, he was almost able to forget the ugly break up that had sent him back here.

  It was the perfect day for house hunting, but also, in a way, the worst day. In this kind of weather every house would look beautiful, he wouldn't know what to choose. But it had to be done. He didn't want to be staying in the Motel indefinitely, and he'd rather not fall back into the rental loop and end up paying off someone else's house for them. Hell, he thought, why not buy himself a place, he could afford it. With the over fifty grand he had in the bank he could probably afford to buy a mansion here.

  Nowhere in town really warranted driving to get there and the Real Estate agent was no different. With petrol up to a record ninety-nine point nine cents per litre, Ben sure wasn't forking over the fifty or sixty dollars it'd take to fill his beast. So he walked to the Real Estate Agents, albeit by a slightly circuitous route planned to take him around through the residential areas. He left the Motel and turned left at the Memorial Baths and headed up Richmond Street past the recently abandoned Bowling Club (that would have to be a record, thought Ben, the first ever drinking establishment in Casino to close down), and the beautiful old houses that backed onto the steep banks of the Richmond River.

  Despite having spent the vast majority of his child and teenage life in Casino Ben couldn't remember ever actually walking along this street. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember off the top of his head if he'd ever even been up this street, although he supposed he must have at some stage. Ben's childhood, apart from occasional stays at his cousin's house in the nearby town of Woodburn, had existed in a world confined solely to his house; the small farm it stood upon; and school.

  The furthest from home he usually got was down in the dairy at the bottom of the house paddock, clambering through the roof, transported to the far off, mystical city of New York in the guise of Spider-man, always on his way to save Mary-Jane, his faithful girlfriend, from some horrendous evil.

  Sometimes if he was feeling particularly adventurous, he'd go down the river where he'd be the Hulk, bulldozing through trees and underbrush, trying to hide from the hateful, puny humans. Or he'd be Wolverine, as silent and deadly as a brown snake, tracking his prey through scrub and bush, claws ready to pop.

  There'd been the time he'd found the old well down the paddock, now no more than a hole in the ground covered by a couple of boards and dumping ground for all manner of dead pets. Somewhat stupidly, he'd gone back to the house and asked his mother about it. And didn't she go off the handle!

  She'd fallen to her knees, hugging him tight to her bosom and hissing over and over to him that he was never to go there, never! Did he understand? It was a horrible, awful place and she didn't want him going anywhere near it. It was dangerous and she didn't want to lose him like-

  She'd bitten down on what she'd been about to say but it was too late. Ben already knew. She'd been about to tell him that she didn't want to lose him like they'd lost his sister, Kim.

  The first thing Ben noticed about the houses down Richmond Street, and he wondered if this was universal throughout town, was that a lot of them had some form of security grill, or even bars, on their windows and doors. That was certainly a new addition since last he'd been home.

  The second thing that drew his attention, somewhat more favourably and he again wondered if it was consistent with the rest of the town, was that every third or fourth house along the street was for sale. The place might have become more dangerous but it still made it a buyer's market and no matter what the circumstances Ben reckoned it was always profitable to own property. Apart from the beefed up security, incongruous on the beautiful old weatherboard homes, it appeared not much else had changed around Casino. Unlike Sydney, where beautiful old homes and bush land were routinely knocked down and bulldozed to be replaced by towering brick edifices which were, in the main, monstrously ugly, there was very little rebuilding in Casino. It was still small enough that development took place on the outskirts of town, seeking to expand its borders, whereas the city, stretching its limits and ever finding new ways to capitalise on space, had turned back in on itself, feeding off its older parts in a deranged act of auto-cannibalism.

  Ben didn't pretend to understand it. It was a city-thing. Almost a fervour, a desire to keep moving, always in search of new, better, modern. It doesn't matter how ugly a thing is as long as it's modern! The trouble with modern, thought Ben, was that it dated very, very quickly. Obviously biased by his country upbringing Ben wanted nothing more than a traditional home. Now he meant to have it.

  He didn't know how many Real Estate Agents there were in Casino but he guessed there would probably be less Agents than what there were pubs. So he wouldn't need a list to check off each one as he visited it. In fact, he had a feeling it might only take him a half an hour to see them all.

  As it turned out, he only even needed to visit one to find, not what he was looking for, but something he was interested in all the same.

  The Agent was Savins Real Estate and Ben, like countless other people house shopping across the world, stopped and looked at the display window. The front window was where the best properties were apparently displayed, in rows of glossy, eight by ten photographs with one paragraph descriptions. Casino being, primarily, a farming district, and with almost half as many people living outside the town on farms as what lived inside its limits, it was inevitable that a lot of the advertised properties would be farms.

  Despite spending the majority of his teenage years submerged in learning about computers and spending almost none of it doing actual farm-work, Ben had long harboured dreams of owning his own farm. Where he could run some chooks and a few head of cattle, turn a large section of it over to growing fruits and vegetables and become almost self-sufficient. Thus, it was unavoidable that the first property his gaze would stick on was a smallish farm a few kilometres outside of town.

  The photo, as usual, didn't reveal much, a fair-sized house with a veranda overshadowing it like a hat. But it was the description that grabbed Ben. The paragraph identified the house as being traditional colonial style with high, airy ceilings, polished wooden floors, gas stove and an old wood stove plus decorative wood finishes throughout. Set at a price of a thousand dollars an acre, plus a going market price for the house block, the property was quite affordable at only one hundred and sixty thousand, he'd be lucky to get a unit on the outskirts of Blacktown for that in Sydney.

  Inside the real estate agents a girl sat behind a high desk chatting on the phone and chewing bubble gum flavoured Extra. The sickly sweet smell of the gum, combined with an overdose of perfume was almost overpowering. Ben had a start for a second when he thought the girl might be someone he knew. When she looked up from the phone and smiled and he realised she couldn't be, she was too young, maybe five years younger than him. All of a sudden he felt quite old. Still, he thought, returning her smile, she was quite pretty. Full, soft lips, milky skin, big brown eyes like pools, low cut top...

  Ben leant on the counter and admired the view down her top as she talked. Eventually she finished talking about guys and what so-and-so was up to and who she was going to the pub with that night and hung up the phone, turning her full smile on Ben.

  "How can I help you?" she asked him, flicking her light brown hair back over one ear.

  "I was just interested in" - jumping your bones - "looking at a property," he said. "There's one in the window I was interested in."

  "Oh, okay. For that you'll need to speak to Mr Layton," she seemed crestfallen that she couldn't help him. "Hold on one second and I'll call him."

  "All right," said Ben.

  She picked up the phone again and pressed a button on it "Mr Layton?" she said after a moment. "There'
s a gentleman here who's looking to buy a house." She smiled up at him.

  She paused for a moment, listening to someone who was obviously Mr Layton, then hung up.

  "If you'd like to take a seat, Mr Layton will be right out," she said, holding his eyes a little too long.

  "Thanks," he said, and sat down in one of the flat, hard chairs lining the wall of the office. On the opposite wall were a half dozen photos of Casino from the early 1920s and Ben stood up to look at them.

  "You're not from here, are you?" asked the girl.

  "No," said Ben, turning to face her. "I used to live here until six years ago when I moved to Sydney."

  "Wasn't it exciting enough for you here?" she asked, steadily holding his eyes while fiddling with a pendant that hung almost into her cleavage.

  A big man with sandy hair and an open, friendly face came out of the office behind the girl, breaking the moment. "Hi, how you going?" he said, grinning at Ben.

  "Hi," he said. "You must be Mr Layton."

  "That's me," he said and shook Ben's outstretched hand. The guy, for some bizarre reason Ben couldn't quite put his finger on, reminded him of a Polar Bear. "And call me Sam."

  "Okay, Sam," agreed Ben, he stole another glance at the receptionist but she'd gone back to talking on the phone.

  "Now, what's this place you're looking at?" said Sam, guiding Ben towards the window.

  "I think it was this one," said Ben, trying to recall the layout of the display. It consisted of vertical rows of photos fixed to movable poles so they could be easily swung around to face into the office. Trying to remember the one you wanted was like playing that old Memory card game.

  Sam spun one of the poles around so that one column now had its back facing out onto the street.

  "It's just like Sale of the Century, isn't it?" Sam laughed.

  Ben was too busy examining the properties to manage more than a dutiful chuckle. There was his, third down from the top.

  "Yeah, that's it," he said, pointing to the shadowy house.

  "Oh, a beautiful property this one," said Sam. "I actually inspected the place myself, the timber floors are in perfect condition and it doesn't mention it on here but there's a big, ornate fire place in the main living room. I guarantee you won't be sorry if you buy this place. Ninety acres, fully arable, good cattle property. There's a river cuts across the corner of it so you've always got water."

  "Do you think they'd consider selling the house block separately?" asked Ben.

  "Between you and me?" said Sam, he put his hand on Ben's shoulder and leaned in close as if imparting a great secret. He smelt of Brut and cheese. "These folks are old, they're desperate to sell up and move in town. I think if we offered them enough to pick up a nice place they'd sell us the lot just to be rid of it. And you could always sell off the extra later if you didn't want it. Come on, let's go have a look."

  Despite himself, Ben couldn't help getting a little excited. He knew the agent was full of shit, that the owners probably wouldn't settle for a cent less than the property's full worth. Chances were, they wanted a nice fancy place in town, with all the modern conveniences, so they'd need all the money they could get.

  They took Sam's car, a shiny new Ford Taurus in maroon, and Ben realised that even up here in the country Real Estate must pay well.

  Still, he was able to live comfortably enough on what he made designing web pages. He drove a big old lump of a car out of choice, not necessity. And although the old Valiant looked beat-up and junky he'd redone all the motor not long after he bought it and it ran like a dream.

  "I know you're going to love this place," Sam was saying as they sped out along Coraki Road. "Are you looking to actually set up a farm for yourself or just a holiday place?"

  Ben was a million miles away, staring out the window and thinking how many times he'd travelled this road as a kid, him and his sister Kim, going to their auntie's with their mum. Everything had been so much simpler, before Kim's death, before Ben had gained so much weight and became a loner at school.

  Gradually, he realised Sam was trying to talk to him.

  "Sorry," said Ben. "I was in my own little world, I guess. Nah, I'm thinking about starting my own farm. I grew up on my parent's property and I've been managing a dairy farm down in Sydney for the last five years." This last was a blatant lie but Ben didn't want Sam thinking he was some naive "city feller" who thought he could start a farm from nothing and make a go of it. Of course, it was quite possible that this guy knew less about farming than Ben did. That was the thing with Casino, it was large enough to have "Townies", who placed themselves above what they considered "country people", and the majority of them wouldn't know the difference between a cow and a bull until they tried to drink the milk.

  "I can see I don't need to sell this place to you, Mr Reilly. Once you see it, you'll be begging me to sell it to you. Did I mention it has two dams?"

  "Really?" said Ben, looking out the window. "Are we nearly there?" He was thinking he might actually be able to make a go of this. How hard could it be to run a few head of cattle and mend a couple of fences? Harder than he thought, no doubt.

  "This is it coming up on the left here," Sam pointed out the window to an iron gate set into the middle of the barbed wire fence. A rutted dirt track led away from the gate and across the paddock to a house sitting away back on a low hill.

  From this distance it looked to Ben almost exactly the same as in its photo. The sun was only halfway up the sky and most of the house's wide veranda was in shadow.

  There was also a faint sense of familiarity about it, as if he'd seen it before. He dismissed the feeling, he supposed he had seen it before, dozens of times while driving past it. That was all.

  They had to pull up at the gate and Ben offered to get out and open it. As they drove up the road, after closing the gate behind them, Sam said, "I had Sheree call Mr & Mrs Bennett to let them know we were coming. So they're expecting us."

  If Ben had been paying attention the name Bennett might have set off alarm bells and kept him out of a lot of trouble later on. But as it was the only thing that stuck was that the young, sexy receptionist was called Sheree, everything else had gone in one ear and straight out the other. Maybe he'd ask her out when they got back.

  Ben stayed out by the car as Sam went in to see the owners, he leaned against the far side with his hands in the pockets of his dusty black jeans and stared across the paddock towards the road. Sam had asked if he wanted to meet the owners but Ben declined, he didn't particularly want to hear the old biddies going on about how sad they were to be leaving the place after so many years but it was for the best, it was just that there were so many memories and blah, blah, blah, boohoo.

  Up on the veranda Sam was talking about Ben's interest in the place but also how he might only be interested in the house. The old folks said something, Ben couldn't quite make it out, but they sounded unsure. Then Sam was telling them Ben had also expressed interest in going into farming so once he looked around a bit and fell in love with the place he might be willing to buy the lot, at a very reasonable price.

  Ben thought he could almost hear them salivating and he felt a hot flush of guilt creep over him. He wanted to run up to them and explain that no, this was all a mistake, he wasn't that interested in buying the house. But, of course, he didn't.

  The owners made themselves scarce as Sam showed Ben through the house, guessing correctly that their presence would only make prospective buyers uncomfortable and might even influence the decision. There was nothing worse than looking through a house and having the owners following you around like over-protective parents making sure their daughter's date didn't try and get jiggy with her.

  As Ben walked through the house, drifting from room to room, crossing the wide hallway, he became convinced he could see two sets of rheumy old eyes peering at him from gapped open doors, like children peeping through a keyhole. He was half-tempted to run at the door and shoulder-barge it open.

  T
he house was as nice as Ben had imagined. The veranda was a big affair that stretched around three sides of the house, along the fourth it swept into a small spare room, and was done in all round with wide slats and railings. The supporting posts were smooth, round logs and the entire tin roof had not long ago been replaced with green, rust-proofed corrugated iron.

  The outer walls were soft yellow, and the interior, right through the hallway and living area, was a mix of pastel blues, greens and yellows with the lower half done in wood panelling. The floors were polished timber with thick, rich rugs laid across the middle of each room. And the living room did indeed boast a large, ornate fireplace. It was Ben's dream house, that was for sure. It spoke of comfort and money, of snuggling with your wife on a cold, wintry night and having sex on the rug in front of the fire. But there was a feeling about the place that he couldn't shake, as if he'd, not been here for before, but should still somehow know it, as if someone he knew had lived here. The answer danced there, tantalisingly out of reach, he could almost grasp the edge of it.

  "What do you think so far?" asked Sam, slapping him on the back and guiding him through to the kitchen.

  "It's not too bad," said Ben, trying to sound unenthusiastic, the last thing you wanted was a Real Estate Agent to think you were actually interested. It wasn't hard after Sam had interrupted his train of thought. Whatever realisation he'd been on the verge of was gone now.

  "You haven't seen the fantastic kitchen yet," said Sam, sweeping him in with a grand flourish.

  Ben had to stifle an urge to rush right in and start cooking a roast dinner. The door out of the dining room was placed right in the centre of the kitchen's long side wall so you came through straight into the middle of it, all the better to appreciate its glory. The floor had been tiled with terracotta because timber would quickly wear in such a well-used and invariably messy room. The counter tops were vast expanses of granite and the cupboards, which seemed to stretch for miles, all had brass finishes.

  At one end was a stainless steel fridge-freezer that took up the whole wall and along the wall opposite Ben was a long counter broken by a sink with two tubs as big and deep as Olympic swimming pools, above the sink were two large, wide windows and at the end of the counter was a door leading through to the laundry and the backyard. To the right of the laundry door was what looked like an ex-army stove with six hot-plates and an oven big enough to roast a Brahman bull.

  At the far end of the kitchen was the show-piece, a big, old, hulking wood stove that crouched like a living thing in an alcove that all but swallowed the wall. On either side of the alcove a niche had been cut into the wall almost as high as a man and about a foot wide. They were stacked full with firewood and Ben felt a momentary sympathy for whoever had to cut a winter's worth of the wood.

  "'Ey?" said Sam with his hands spread. "Now is this a kitchen or what? Just imagine the beer you could keep in that thing," he gestured at the fridge, "and the hunk of cow you'd fire up on that beast," he gestured at the stove.

  "It is pretty impressive," agreed Ben. Real Estate Agent be damned that kitchen looked like something you'd feed the Klumps with. "Is it okay if I have a look around outside?" asked Ben, glancing out one of the picture windows.

  "Sure, go ahead," said Sam. "I'll stay in here with the owners and see what sort of a deal I can cut you."

  "I didn't say I was going to buy it yet," said Ben.

  Sam smiled at him. "Well, my job is to make you an offer so good you'll be mad not to take it."

  "Okay," said Ben. "Knock yourself out."

  As he walked outside, Ben could hear the owners talking to Sam, all but sure that they weren't selling the house yet. Sam told them it was as good as sold and even from the back yard Ben could hear the lie in his voice. Further out, was the sound of a car driving down the track towards the house but he paid it little heed.

  The farm stretched away from him back up and across the hill, endless brown paddocks and sad clumps of trees. Ben realised with a start that if this visible section was the whole property then there was no good bushland on it at all. There was no way he was buying a farm without the benefit of good bush.

  Ben decided he definitely wasn't going to buy it and went to turn back into the house to tell Sam so. If he'd turned at that moment, he would have seen a girl staring out the kitchen window at him, but he didn't. As he turned something caught his eye and he bent to look at it. It was nothing really, just a standing thistle casting a shadow. The thing was, the shadow looked thick, not so much a shadow as a puddle of oil on the ground.

  As Ben looked at it, it almost seemed to move, although the thistle was standing still. How could the shadow move? Ben stared at it, mesmerised by its rich, thick blackness, it was like a black hole torn in the grass.

  Moving like a man in a dream he reached out slowly to touch it.

  Before he could, a girl's voice called out from behind him and Ben stood and turned to face possibly the greatest danger of his life.

  CHAPTER THREE