Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 12, Issue 2 Page 4

  ‘I need to see it the way you do,’ Percy insisted. ‘See the Pyramid when they just began to build it. Can you make me see that?’

  Murdoch turned, and the horse-god ever so gently licked Percy’s eyes. The sensation stung Percy, but through watering eyes he could see all things in all ways. The land itself, spat up from magma and mantle. The city, from the first hut to the sprawling metropolis existing beyond even Percy’s own time.

  He saw the Great Pyramid from conception to crumbling finish. There were the surveyors marking out the plain, the slaves hauling in stone blocks on rollers. Before they could build the layers up, Percy spurred Murdoch on, the thread tearing up the landscape behind them.

  Man and horse leapt through the lowest level of the workings, scattering slaves and overseers, until they came upon the central stone of the lowest layer, the huge block that would start the whole structure.

  ‘Keep them away,’ Percy shouted, and slid from Murdoch’s back. The horse met the first of the Chaos creatures, hooves flashing as he bought Percy a moment of time.

  He ran around the big stone block with the loose thread, fastening it in place with a fishing knot. Then he ran, until he felt Murdoch seize him up by the collar of his shirt.

  When they were clear of the Great Pyramid’s edge, Percy let his image of the nascent structure go. When Murdoch lowered him, he turned around to see that the Pyramid was tall and crumbled, with the weak-point of all creation buried safely in those depths of unmoveable stone.

  Then he blinked again, the last of the horse spit searing at his vision, eating away at his flesh, and then he knew no more.

  Percy woke screaming on the edge of Lake Timsah, clutching at his eyes. After a horrid moment, he realised he could see, and that he was looking at the bright lights of the waking, living world.

  For a long moment, he lay down in the gritty sand, letting the light and the fresh air cleanse him. He cried and howled and then finally he lay down, numb to everything.

  As the sun climbed up into the sky, Percy got to his feet, and that was when he saw Murdoch. The white stallion was floating face down in the lake, completely still. Percy was up and running, thrashing around in the water and trying to pull the horse into shore. He pushed up against that bulk of wet fur and flesh, groaning and straining for what felt like hours, until the horse was snagged against the grit of the shore.

  Exhausted, Percy lay against the horse’s face, dead eyes staring into his own. He’d come back from the land of the dead, but it made sense that a price would need to be paid.

  He was still sleeping there when the Mounted Military Police found him, and hauled him to his feet. He was clapped into irons, and thrown into the stockade.

  ‘Private Altschwager, absent without leave for three days,’ the duty sergeant intoned. ‘Killing of a horse through misadventure.’

  Deegan and Fyodorov came for him at the end of his month’s confinement, with the news that Lawrie had died. Due to the illness ravaging the camp, 3rd Light Horse had been sent to take Damascus in their stead.

  ‘Bloody typical,’ Deegan said. ‘It was our only chance to see some action in this war, and we bloody missed it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Percy said. He saw it then—the tent city was slowly being dismantled, and men were loading guns and artillery onto the boats.

  ‘The Germans just signed an armistice,’ Fyodorov said. ‘Percy, the war is over.’

  The ships ferried Percy Altschwager and the other soldiers back to Australia and civilian life. He had nothing to show for his time in Egypt but a medal and a deep scar across his right hand.

  Fyodorov went back to Russia in the 1920s and no one heard from him again, but Deegan kept up a scatter of correspondence from Victoria.

  He sent Percy a photo from just before their demobbing, the famous shot with hundreds of Australians sitting on the steps of the Great Pyramid. Percy remembered when the photo was taken, the feeling that a great secret was buried underneath him. But later he laughed with the other soldiers in the marketplace, and drank too much, and spent a regrettable night at one of the local brothels.

  The returned soldiers filtered out to their districts, and he and Bernie returned to Millicent and a hero’s welcome. Reunited with Florence and his growing child, he planted the seed for his next child that night, the second of his seven. Life became a ballet between the mundane and the knowledge that he’d been over to the other side, had seen impossible things. He drank a little, but spent most of his time working in his shed, trying to kill the memories with a mixture of German industry and steady denial. He would honk mournfully on an accordion, and encouraged his children into a love of music simply in an attempt to connect with the distant old man.

  Murdoch, the horse-prince, Resheph of Egypt, whatever the beast had been, it had given him this chance, delivered him back to life from the far side of death. Still, the life he lived was unremarkable from that point on, and Percy couldn’t decide if that was a blessing, or a missed opportunity.

  He won a share in a Model T Ford, a lottery with two friends. Being the only one who knew how to drive, he became the first motorist in his district. When work dried up, he travelled to the docks of Port Adelaide, only to find that the post-war hatred of Germans was strong. Defeated, he returned to the south-east of the state, and life followed the slow tides of planting, harvesting, logging and planting.

  Years passed, and the need to feed his growing family sent Percy to work for the Overland Telegraph. He travelled the dry interior with the other linesmen, keeping that single thread of communication open with the rest of the world.

  The centre of Australia was open and limitless, with nothing more to Percy’s world than that sagging line of cable, the posts that leaned and fell to termites and dry rot.

  This endless repetition set his mind to thinking, and he realised that if a canal could bisect two continents, one enormous line of cable could do the same.

  He was working on another weak-point! The scar on his hand twinged. As the team of linesmen righted poles and set the line straight and true, Percy realised they were setting the same insult on this land.

  Each night he slumbered beneath the stars in his swag, sweating and reliving that horrible war in the Underworld. It was all true! The longer he laboured on the line, the more he could feel the hairline crack in reality here, driven by the Morse-tappings of men from halfway around the world.

  He wondered if the gods would be here when it happened, what would happen when the crack finally gave. Would there be a gathering of champions, or just a lost old man here to witness the end of all things?

  The other linesmen grew distant from the dour German, who spent his smoke breaks sitting on a tea chest, puffing cigarettes and staring out into the bush. He considered sabotaging the line, but sooner or later another team would be called out to fix the break.

  One quiet dawn, Percy Altschwager woke to see a white horse watching him from the scrub. He stood from his bedroll, and followed it into the wilderness without saying a word.

  Afterparty

  J.J. Irwin

  One year in the ground, more or less, and ten months of her presence over my shoulder. That’s what I’m thinking about as we scrape the last few handfuls of dirt off Soph’s coffin. Standing in an open grave as midnight ticks closer is the least haunted I’ve felt in months.

  Dom slides his fingers under the coffin lid, and I quickly press down on it.

  ‘Don’t—don’t open it yet,’ I say quietly. I don’t want to see.

  ‘It’s okay, Liv,’ says Ae-Cha. ‘It doesn’t need to be open. Can’t raise a body without the key ingredient.’ She taps her forehead; I chuckle a little, though it’s not a joke at all. Up the slope this place is all historical monuments and fancy memorials to famous dead people, and the cemetery’s had problems with vandals for years. The worst was on Halloween. Someone dug up Soph’s grave and stole her head for a laugh. For about a week the local news was full of po-faced men going on about con
tinuing investigations and taking the matter seriously, and public reassurance that contrary to popular belief, a gorgon’s head is not dangerous to onlookers. Lots of talk but no results, and the news cycle moved on. Funny how nobody looks too hard when it’s the beasties that get hurt.

  Despite the darkness and the protective screen of headstones I feel exposed, and with every passing car and crowd we freeze until we’re sure we’re alone again. There’s been a lot of stopping and starting. The 9pm kiddies’ fireworks have been and gone, and the night thrums with the electric expectations of Sydney on New Year’s Eve. It’s a night for celebrations and new beginnings.

  And farewells.

  Dom has done the bulk of the work in dingo form, swift-digging paws sending the loose earth flying. Now he’s back in jeans and shirt, still barefoot as he shakes stray dirt from his hair. Ae-Cha is copying the last glyphs from a print-out of her grandma’s email, and Melbo has crouched below the protective bulk of a neighbouring monument, keeping watch and shielding the candles from the sea breeze. With his swan-wings cupping the lanterns, he looks like just another maudlin cemetery statue. I’ve got an armful of trinkets, our memories and talismans of Sophie. They’re depressingly light in my hands.

  Ae-Cha has a plan. I don’t know if I want it to work or not. If I want Soph here for a night, or for the half-heard whisper that’s dogged my heels for months to stay. Isn’t a lifetime of crumbs better than a single cake?

  ‘Remember, don’t ask her about the afterlife,’ Ae-Cha is saying as Melbo passes her the candles. ‘Don’t beg her for gifts, or bind her with promises.’ She nibbles at a hangnail, a nervous habit that neither nail polish nor grave dirt has stopped. ‘The point is to have a good time, and let her go. If there’s something keeping her here, we break it. Soph deserves to rest in peace.’

  I nip my tongue, taste salt-sweet blood in my mouth. No final confessions of love tonight. But better to see Soph one last time, even if it means drowning that part of my heart.

  The darkness beyond the cliffs is pricked by the lights of ghost ships drawn to the ferries and yachts flocking the length of the harbour and spilling from its mouth. I should draw strength from the wind off the open sea, but I’m a harbour nymph at heart. The grand old ocean isn’t home.

  Ae-Cha nods at last, knelt in the grass in front of the makeshift shrine. For a moment we are still and silent, four friends arrayed around an absent fifth. Then it’s time. No need to check a clock—the new year arrives in an eruption of colour and noise, underscored by staccato rumbling from the harbour show over the hill. The rattle of fireworks drowns out our calls, even Ae-Cha’s fox-scream and Dom’s musical howl. The fireworks are still going when the candles blow out.

  Melbo breaks off his singing. In the bubble of expectant silence, a flicker of very mundane light upslope catches my eye. A drunken passer-by who wandered into the inviting darkness, or a security guard finally spotting us? I hsst the others’ attention. Dom flings his picnic rug over the grave hole, and we tense to scatter.

  From where I’m crouched, all I can see is a dark figure moving against the night sky, visible only by the stars they blot out. I can’t pick out any sounds over the distant blatter of the fireworks. They come closer, lighting the way with their phone. Not a guard, at least.

  About ten paces from us, they stumble and half-catch themselves on a headstone, dropping the phone. Before she even speaks, I recognise the boneless way Soph rolls over the offending marble block. I flick my torch on and light her way. She’s in an outfit that mirrors the joss-paper clothes we burned at nine, layers of rich red and gold.

  ‘God damn, pointy fucking things. Who chose to throw me a party in the graveyard?’ She’s grinning as she says it, wild and joyous. I grin back, lump in my throat.

  ‘Missed you too, Soph.’

  ‘Aw, babe,’ she says, brushing herself off. She runs a hand over the snakes that twine through her hair, and they stir a little at the contact. ‘Who wouldn’t miss me?’

  There’s an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before, but that’s what dying does. Strips the little lies away, leaves only truths and unforgiving bone. Once you’re dead, the world moves on.

  Well, most of the world. Soph bounces forward, and Ae-Cha envelops her in a fierce hug. Melbo’s not far behind, squishing Soph in a side-hug that tangles the snakes in her fringe with the black feathers still in his hair. Dom sidles up and pokes her arm, grins when she slaps his hand away. For some reason it’s the noise of palm against knuckles that convinces me. It worked. Soph’s back, and things are right in a way they haven’t been since last January. I come forward, and she hooks an arm around my neck.

  In this threshold night, with the sounds of revelry and chaos and joy still in the air, I can stand here in the tiny silence of my own thoughts and admit that I loved Soph. I never had the guts to tell her—don’t even know if she’s into me that way—but I did. Do.

  ‘You dyed your bangs!’

  I let her loop my hair around her finger, pastel green like she always used to wear it. Her snakes perk up in interest, red bellies flashing against lacquer-dark scales as they sway uncertainly forward, testing the air with their tongues. One of them bumps its snout against the corner of my lips. I take a half-step back, pulse quickening, and cover it by grabbing my purse off the ground.

  ‘C’mon, Soph—we promised we’d give you a proper send-off.’

  We find the address eventually, a narrow sub-street place wedged in the seams between the darkened shopfronts of daytime commerce. The crowd inside is still riding the boisterous high of the midnight countdown.

  Ae-Cha and Dom manage to stake out a corner with two small couches and table. There’s not a single fleck of dirt from her earlier activities, and though Dom’s hair is still scruffy dingo-orange, Ae-Cha’s guise is perfect. No telltale fox tail tonight.

  I smile a little as I find a spot to sit. Ae-Cha budges over to make room, and I wind up rather lower than I expected. The seat seems to have lost all its springs along with most of its padding. Yup, that’s me all over—getting in too deep in situations it’ll be a pain and a half to get out of. Melbo notices my undignified leg-flail and settles himself carefully on the front edge of the couch. Sophie sidles over to the wall so she can watch the room.

  ‘Dom,’ Ae-Cha says, side-eyeing a chintzy lamp in the corner, ‘there are doilies. There are doilies here, Dom.’

  ‘Yup,’ he says from the depths of the other couch.

  Sophie leans over Dom’s shaggy head. ‘Why have you brought us to a hipster bar, dog boy? I want to dance.’ She pouts and wriggles her shoulders in a boneless cha-cha-cha.

  ‘A couple of reasons,’ Dom says. ‘One. We have been arse-deep in gravedirt the past couple of hours, and I need a break before any more action. And two.’ He points. At the next table over, one of the barmen sets fire to something in a large tiki mug. ‘The cocktails.’

  Sophie’s pout transforms into a delighted ooh. ‘Olivia, we have got to order one of those.’ Ae-Cha nods in vigorous agreement, bouncing a little. She’s always loved the opportunity to show off with fire.

  We turn our attention to the serious business of the drinks menu, and for a while it really is like it used to be. Ae-Cha adds a little extra zing to the flaming drinks, blue-green foxfire dancing like fireflies up the straws. We tell jokes and catch Soph up on the last year of shows she’s missed. When the conversation inevitably turns to what happened to Lachlan, I let Dom and Melbo take the lead. It seems petty to speak ill of the living when his mom’s just died, but he didn’t have that excuse when Soph was in his car.

  Around us, the crowd slowly shifts from the people who only stayed out for the fireworks to those who clearly intend to party all night. Tonight, it’s our crowd.

  At about three rounds in, Melbo and Ae-Cha begin to bicker as they always do over whose shout it is next. Other people’s arguments about buying drinks for everyone might revolve around getting out of it; Melbo and Ae-Cha are too damn conscienti
ous for their own good.

  ‘I left early last time, I should pay for the next drinks.’

  ‘No, no, you paid for the taxi, let me.’

  ‘Damn it, Melbo, put that back in your wallet. I’ve got money right here. Don’t make me kick you, I’ve got my pointy heels on…’

  Soph catches my eye from the other couch and smirks in shared amusement. She launches herself upright, swipes the cash from the table and the notes in Ae-Cha’s fist. ‘Executive decision, honeycakes—you both pay. More Mai Tais, yeah? I’ll be right back.’

  I watch her wriggle past a girls’ night out and slide into a space at the bar. All of the snakes are hidden from sight, tucked away in her mass of curls. One pokes its nose out from the nest as she plants her elbows on the bar-top; it’s hard to judge, but I think it flicks its tongue in my direction.

  ‘Hey, remember what we said,’ Dom says, drawing my attention back. ‘No sadface tonight. This is for Soph.’

  ‘I know,’ I sigh, ‘I’m trying. I just—I really, really wish it could’ve been different. Bring her back for good, not just a night.’ It’s the thing I haven’t been able to say out loud, not to them or my mum or anyone. Not since Halloween pranksters stole that possibility. ‘I just want it to be like it was.’ I stare at the sea-green toes of my shoes, and it feels like a confession to something I didn’t mean to admit. Which is so stupid, but I can’t keep the little wobble out of my voice, and Ae-Cha squeezes my knee in sympathy and suddenly the lights are going blurry when I blink.

  Oh, god, I’m going to cry. In public, in my makeup and all. I press a knuckle into the corner of one eye and pray viciously for a distraction.

  ‘Who let the scene tragics in here?’

  Boisterous, male, and entirely too close to my ear. Worse, I recognise the voice.

  Not the distraction I had in mind.

  Ae-Cha bristles by my side. ‘Shove off, Mitchell. This is a private night out.’