Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine Cranes

The gloom shone as he glanced back at the car, filled with his entire life. Or at least everything he was able to pack quickly.

He shivered, clutching himself, while walking the short path. The front gate looked just as rickety as last time, its hinges bent, the steel rusted over and rusted over again. He thought of exposed wounds not healing and hoped the spirits were giving him a sign.

He stopped and looked over at the front yard. Then, just as now, he found beauty in the order. It was not brash, but restrained, deferential. The garden knew its place and would never draw attention to itself. But if you looked closely you'd find an infinite amount of detail to get lost in. Was this the way with all Japanese gardens? Or were you supposed to find something else in them?

Already he was at the little pavilion. Even under dark clouds, the red of its low wooden walls stood out. He followed a flapping noise until uncovering a crane: beautiful, poised, embroidered in fabric. But injured – a laceration across the wing, where the stitching had come loose. The cool breeze gave it a slight tug, drawing it away, before moving back like it was in flight and he remembered her. He remembered the way she sat, so still, with lowered head, her thin grey eyes constantly downcast. He remembered wondering what was going on in the mind behind those eyes, in the soul behind that mind. What sort of pain could you keep inside such a small chest?

Out here, on that day, both of them sitting against the red. This was the only time he saw a tear. A single drop of pain, flowing slowly down a pale cheek.

He stood, out here, on this day, watching the crane, covered in the drops of early morning dew. He wondered how many times, after that day, she rested against that crane and released one more piece of her pain, how many days she felt alone. A surge of regret affected him. Had he really come for forgiveness? Or something else?

Standing at the front door he was overcome by the smell of larch. The only other time he tasted that scent was behind this door, on that day, sitting, avoiding the person he was with. It all seemed so mundane, so grey; simple, sombre people encased in a mist. Then, through the gloom, he had noticed a strip of black fabric. Enclosed within was the shape of a girl. Not the body – there was no body left – just a figure, entangled in amongst the gathering, but set apart, like a ghost. She was most alone surrounded by all those people.

A suddenness had hit him and he wanted more than anything to hug her heart, to make it warm and safe and strong. But they had never met before and it felt wrong to have such convictions. Wasn't that for others to provide for; family, proper family, and friends, proper friends?

So he waited and watched, but did not stare. With her eyes averted he could have stared. But he stole his glances in waves, each peek offering a special newness.

The flutter of a bird's wings made him jump. Just as they did for her that day, before their eyes locked, where he had tried to let her read the kindness and empathy in his expression. She stared, that day, not breaking away, not letting him in on her feelings.

He knocked on the door. And waited.

It was that tenderness, that introspective nature in her which pulled at him. It was the kind of instant connection which made him doubt himself and his feelings. But the doubt didn't last long – how could it with that kind of gentleness? Was this as those of the past would write about? Was this real love? Not lust or admiration or friendship, but real, true love?

He remembered her large mouth barely moving. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and deliberate. She saved most of her energy for breathing. She was perfectly equanimous. It was the most beautiful vision he had ever encountered.

'Coming!' shrilled a loud noise from within.

He was brought back into the current world, the darker world; but a world with that spark of hope, of anticipation.

'Hey, sorry about that,' said a teenager at the door. 'Was just doing the dishes and – oh.' The teenager looked up for the first time. 'Sorry, I thought you were someone else,' she said.

He took a deep breath and controlled his expression, relaxing his facial muscles. Was he someone else? Was she someone else? He looked closer and recognised the small indent on her top lip.

'Are you looking for mum?' she said.

'Yes,' he said.

'She just went out. Be back soonish if you wanna wait.'

She shrugged, which contorted her face even more.

'Err, you alright?' she said.

The abrasiveness of her voice made him shiver. He pretended it was the cold air and shrank away.

She led him inside.

His mind was jumbled, confused, concerned. This wasn't right. And why did he lie?

He sat in the lounge room and looked through the arched doorway to the body in the kitchen. It was a body now, not just a shape, with wide hips and frizzled hair, with denim jeans too tight and a white top too loose. He peered with disdain at the outline of a dark coloured bra underneath.

'So how do you know mum?' she said, in between clanks and chinks of dishes.

He tried to speak but his mouth would not move.

'Hey?' she screamed, assuming she did not hear.

'I was here at the funeral,' he blurted out.

'The funeral?' she said, undulating incessantly.

This can't be right, he thought. But it can't be her sister - she was an only child. And it was only a few years ago.

'Oh,' she said, gaining understanding. 'Really? I don't remember you. How did you know dad?'

'It was more my...the person I was with, at the time, she was related to you. To your father.'

'We don't really see that side of the family much. Most of 'em are in Japan, I think.'

'Yes. I haven't seen you since that day.'

'Oh my god!' she screamed and came into lounge room.

Did she finally recognise him? At least that was something. At least the tug he had felt was truly two-sided. It wasn't in his mind, not this time. It was truth where before there had been none.

'What was I like? I bet I was embarrassing.'

He looked down.

'Mum doesn't talk about any of that stuff, like with dad and that,' she continued. 'I didn't talk much then, either, did I? God, I was so shy. And stupid. Jeez, I remember just not wanting to talk at all, like everyone should just know what I'm feeling and know when I was hot or cold or thirsty or tired. But not hungry – I never ate.'

And you were beautiful because of it all, he thought.

'Oh, and even nodding was so tiring!' she said while nodding vociferously, as if making up for lost time. It was ugly. The movements were erratic, fast, uncontrolled. It was like she was outside of herself.

He let out an involuntary noise, a grunt. He tried to think back to her face, to how it was, how tender and sweet and gentle, but the vision would not come. It was gone. Faded like the ghost it probably was.

He felt the presence of the garden, peering in at him through the large window. He turned toward it and closed his eyes. A moment of tranquillity filled his soul. When his eyes opened he spoke, softly: 'Your garden still looks nice.'

'We get someone in to do it. Some Filipino guy or whatever. Always pervin' on me, ha! Creep.'

'The crane is injured.'

'Huh?' she said, again screwing up her face.

'The crane in the pavilion. It was damaged. Perhaps by the recent winds?'

'Oh, that. Nah, mum didn't want that changed. That's how it was when he died.'

How had he forgotten the crane's state that day? If he miss-remembered that, perhaps the rest was a dream. He began drowning in doubt.

'She got all weird and has made the whole thing some...what's that word? Like when you make something to remind you of a dead person?'

'A shrine?' he ventured, monotonously.

'Yeah, I guess.'

He felt the coarse words hang, motionless, ingratiating themselves into him. And so he let the conversation end. Part of him wanted to say something more, to clear up any misunderstandings. But what could he say? It would sound sleazy and, to her, he'd be the same as the gardener, a creep. Worse, someone who could be discussed lightly with strangers.

A stranger. That's what he was. That's what she was, now, too. She'd become older but had now grown up. She'd somehow un-grown, become less than she was, less than the delicate petal he remembered.

A knock echoed through the house and she raced to the door. There was no point in forcing himself to endure any more misery so he took the diversion as an opportunity to escape. He did not want to engage with her mum, did not want to make up stories and lie about his reasons for being there. And if it was someone else at the door, a boy, a man...he wasn't sure what it all meant, what the feeling in his stomach meant. Whatever it was, whatever he was here for, he didn't have it, and never would.

Crouching, he pulled his hands away and sat back. A long, deep breath later the wind picked up and carried it out the pavilion. He flung himself into the garden and looked into the darkened sky. The crane flapped its wings and flew, up into heaven.

© 2011 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

The Stranger

'You scared me half to death, mate. What's ya problem, standing just outside the light? That kinda thing can get you killed round here.'

Grimbald placed the butt of his rifle on the wet grass, leaning it wholly against the large eucalyptus tree.

The Stranger stood still, his long oilskin covering a massive bulk, his Akubra painting his face in shadows.

'Come on then, get closer to the fire,' said Grimbald, having trouble seeing the eyes of his new companion.

At length, the Stranger walked a few paces to the fire and stood. He watched Grimbald limp his way stiffly to a large upturned log.

'Have a seat, mate, have a seat,' motioned Grimbald, smiling, running his fingers through his long knotted hair and feeling the course texture of its bright red strands.

The Stranger looked behind him for a moment, staring, surveying the dark and rolling lands beyond the clearing. The only sounds were the cracks and pops of the open fire. He slowly sat down on the end of the upturned trunk.

Grimbald leant over and passed him a hot mug of boiling water. 'There, that'll warm ya up.'

A slight wind hovered above the fire and caused the smoke to drift between the two men.

'What's ya name, mate?' asked Grimbald.

The Stranger gave him a look and then turned away with a slight smirk, as if he were just asked a dumb question.

'It's alright,' said Grimbald. 'I know that blokes don't have much need for a name out here.'

A name wasn't an identity, he knew that much. It wasn't a description. A man called Grimbald could just as well be a ballet dancer as he could a mass murderer. You just wouldn't know. He just wouldn't know.

'My name's Grimbald, at any rate. Where are ya coming from, stranger?'

The Stranger stared back, still smiling, still unblinking, still quiet.

'Listen here, didn't your mother teach you manners? I've been nice enough to make you feel welcome. I've given you a warm mug of nature's finest and a bloody good fire if I do say so myself. Least you can do is give me some company. Gets lonely out here on your own.'

The Stranger availed the man once more, his expression at once more serious.

'Should I thank you?' said the Stranger, coarsely.

What a strange thing to say. Grimbald wasn't expecting to hear that sentence. He certainly wasn't expecting to hear that accent.

'Cold night like this, course you should be thankin' me,' he said. 'Should be on your hands and knees, thankin' ya lucky stars.'

'Interesting,' said the Stranger, as if it were three words.

Grimbald didn't really listen to the answer. He knew what was right and what was wrong. He knew what the Stranger should have said, what he should have done. But sometimes a man grows up in the wrong kind of environment and that can skew his thinking. Sometimes he got all kinds of crazy thoughts and wouldn't manage to say what he really felt. It was up to those with big hearts and good parents to take care of those less fortunate. To put it another way, you gotta do what you gotta do.

'What are ya doing, travelling about this late?' asked Grimbald.

The Stranger looked behind him once more, as if he expected something. Or someone.

Grimbald wanted an answer this time, so he waited. He looked closer at the Stranger's face. The red and yellow of the fire reflected brightly off parts of the man's lumpy skin.

Now an anger was slowly brewing inside him, though he wasn't sure why.

The Stranger took a big swig of the boiling water in his mug before making wet noises with his tongue, as if he were still drinking it all down.

Grimbald suppressed his rage, putting it in the other room. It was getting full but he promised himself to only let it out when he really needed to, when the time was right. His tight face relaxed and he ran his fingers through his hair. 'Anyway, good to have ya here,' he said, distantly.

They sat in silence, both with one quiet ear to the land. Grimbald stared out at some grass a few paces away. It was reddened by the light of the fire. The way it grew in patches reminded him of a scalp with just a few chunks of hair remaining, and of the war.

A sharp snap of a twig sent shivers down Grimbald's spine and for a moment he was somewhere else. Both men stood abruptly, looking out into the gloom. The darkness deformed, changing shape at will. Then a shadow crossed in front of a dimly lit row of trees. Grimbald pressed his rifle close to his shoulder. He held his nerve, letting his eyes do all the shooting, while his head remained still.

A meek distant cough relaxed the gun arm of Grimbald. 'What are ya doin here?' he shouted sternly. 'I told ya to stay where you were.'

The shadows spawned a boy, no older than ten. Even as he approached the bright fire his dark hair and sooty face gave the impression of being consumed in darkness. The Stranger gave the child a long stare.

The boy clutched his own shoulders and shivered. Then shivered again, to get the point across.

'Alright mate, come on,' said Grimbald, motioning to the fire.

The boy sat between the men, a tiny figure amongst giants.

The Stranger shifted his gaze from Grimbald to the boy and back to Grimbald. He looked closer at their noses, their mouths, their hair.

'Thought you said you were alone,' said the Stranger.

Grimbald looked up quickly, his face a picture of shock. 'Uh, yeah,' he said, quivering. 'Me and this kid's it. We got no one else, stranger.'

'You lied,' said the Stranger.

Grimbald played with his mug, pressing his fingers hard against its smooth texture. 'Hey now, I'm no liar, let's get one thing straight.' He said it so unconvincingly that even he didn't believe it.

'Of course you are,' said the Stranger. 'You lied.'

Grimbald regained some composure with the warmth flowing through his hands. 'I just meant no adult company. You know? Not the same thing talkin' to a kid.'

'There's only one thing I hate more than liars,' said the Stranger. 'That's them that lie about their lies.' His voice broke a little, removing some of the hoarseness.

It was only now that Grimbald noticed how large the man was, how his presence seemed to loom over them both. He also noticed how the boy was sitting a little too close to someone he didn't know.

'Hey,' said Grimbald, looking at the boy, 'go grab more hot water for me, matey. Here's my mug.'

After the boy got up, Grimbald licked his lips and shuffled on his perch, moving slowly toward the Stranger. The Stranger watched him closely.

'Did you say where you come from, mate?' asked Grimbald, looking into the large, dark shape.

'No,' said the Stranger.

By the time the boy got back, the only available space was on the safer side of Grimbald, which he took without thinking.

'Not from up north, by chance?' asked Grimbald. His hands shook as he blew across the top of his steaming mug, cooling it enough for a sip.

'Yes,' said the Stranger.

'Heard there was some trouble up there.'

'Trouble,' said the Stranger, partly as a question, partly a statement.

'Yeah, up at Mamburi station.' He wasn't sure he should be saying it, saying any of it, whether he was making a mistake. He hoped...he didn't know what he hoped. Sometimes a nervous man would speak too much. A good bushman's best weapon was his silence. He wasn't a good bushman. 'Sad, real sad,' he continued.

The Stranger shook his head.

'You didn't hear about that? Strike me pink, it was all over the papers. Some crazy bloke went and set fire to the homestead. Apparently he waited until the kids were there, alone-' He swallowed. He was trying to act tough, mean, anything but nervous, but his throat had betrayed him. 'He tied the kids up – all of 'em, mind you; every single one!' He swallowed again. Damn his throat! 'So he tied 'em up and...geez, did some other stuff I'd rather not say. Blood everywhere. Then lit the place up. Least that's what the father said. And you gotta take a man at his word, you know?'

The Stranger stopped drinking and held his mug very still. 'That's an interesting story,' he said.

'They're a good mob up there,' continued Grimbald. 'If it can happen to them, it can happen to anyone. The whole thing's got me spooked, let me tell ya. That's why I didn't really tell the whole truth before, you understand.'

As the Stranger breathed in deeply, his nose made a slight whistling sound.

Through the steam of his hot mug Grimbald noticed a large red spot on the Stranger's jeans, just above the knee. The flicker of the fire cast an uneven light over the spot, periodically hiding it in darkness before it erupted, bright and shiny like fresh paint, before fading into the shadows once more. He stared at it for some time. He'd seen that kind of stain too many times, on too many friends, and the colour seared once more onto the back of his head. A few small pieces of a large jigsaw puzzle swirled in his mind, as he struggled for clarity.

He sensed a pair of eyes on him, felt their presence against his skin, against his soul. It was all he could do to avoid a shiver. Without blinking, he raised his moist eyes slowly until they met the cold stare of the Stranger. He sat up quick, covering for a lack of composure.

'You, uh, been in a scrape?' asked Grimbald.

The Stranger stared back. His small, blue, unblinking eyes laid their assault on Grimbald, while the rest of his body remained still. A moment later, with the tiniest of movements, almost imperceptible to even the sharp-eyed boy, the Stranger shook his head.

Grimbald sat back a fraction, now aware of his own deep breathing, in and out, a fine cold vapour dispersing with each breath.

'Been rustlin' up some good tucker? Lots a rabbit down near the creek proper.'

The Stranger said nothing as the fire cracked and popped. Eventually he shook his head slowly.

Grimbald swallowed loudly and looked at nowhere in particular, anywhere but the Stranger. He raised the warm mug, fighting to keep his hands still, and took a sip of the boiling water. 'Shit!' He pulled the mug away quickly, dabbing his burnt lips.

'How long were you in the war?' said the Stranger, breaking his silence.

'Huh?' Grimbald sat back a little. 'Oh. Yeah. Three years.' He looked down and hunched his shoulders, like a man who was trying to hide from himself, uncomfortable in his own skin. He pressed down on his left leg, pushing his foot into the hard dirt, forcing the pain to rise up his body and land as a grimace upon his face.

'I'm guessing you did something you regret,' said the Stranger. 'I'm guessing you've been hidin' from it all this time.'

Grimbald sauntered over some sentences in his mind, mouthing some of the words, and speaking only one. 'What?'

'Tell me what you did.'

It was said in such a knowing way that it sat in the air, thick and resonant. Grimbald peered out into the darkness, finding a single leaf, isolated, hanging down from a weak branch. He focussed on the leaf, suddenly finding importance in its hardiness. The wind pushed forcefully at its dry form, but no matter how hard it tried, the leaf could not break free. It was born of the tree and it would stay a part of the tree.

'Tell me what you did.'

'Tell you what I did? What makes ya think I did anything?'

The Stranger smiled. It hit Grimbald harder than any words could and he erupted: 'Hey! Enough! I'm about this close to asking you to leave. We hafta stick together out here, bushman's oath and all that, but by crikey, if you don't push the boat.'

'Have you always had a problem with your temper?' said the Stranger, calmly.

Gimbald shouted. 'I got no problem-' He stopped and cleared his throat, before continuing, quieter, almost whispering. 'I got no problem with my temper, stranger. The problem's on you.'

The smile hadn't disappeared from the Stranger's face. 'Tell me what you did,' he repeated.

'This isn't school and it certainly ain't show and tell. Got it? So don't go thinking you can ask questions and I'll answer 'em. You got the problem! You! Not me.'

'You hurt those kids, didn't you,' said the Stranger.

'What kids? What? What are you talking about?'

'The Mamburi kids. You hurt them.'

'Hurt them? I saved them! I saved them! Well, two of 'em.'

Grimbald's glassy eyes stared into the fire. 'It was hell,' he continued. 'Flames were everywhere, everywhere! All a man could smell was the smoke. All that bloody smoke in my nose. I can still smell it. And taste it. I couldn't do nothin' about the others. But I got two out, I really did. It was hell, just hell.'

The Stranger stared back, licking a tooth. 'You saved two,' he said.

'Yeah, two!'

Grimbald had just finished getting the words out when he realised what he'd said. He swallowed hard.

The Stranger tilted his head, sharing his attention with both Grimbald and the boy.

'Where's the other?' said the Stranger.

'The other?' asked Grimbald.

The Stranger stared, a deep stare, his lips lightly parted. He seemed more forceful now. 'You saved two. Where's the other?'

'Oh, err,' said Grimbald, scrambling. 'I dropped that one off at my aunty's. Not my real aunty mind, so's you know, just a family friend I've known since I was whipper snapper. She's real good with kids.'

'Why didn't you leave this one with your fake aunty?' said the Stranger.

'Well, err,' started Grimbald. 'I, uh, that is, we didn't think it'd be proper to leave a boy without a man's influence.'

'So the other child is a girl,' said the Stranger.

'Now, now, I didn't say that. Didn't mention what she was.'

'You did. And you've done it again. You're not very good at lying, are you?'

'Stop calling me a liar!' shouted Grimbald, standing.

The Stranger stood with him. They eyed each other, close, with meanness. Both men were hard, tough, and both men had been around long enough to know that the other wouldn't back down. Not now.

The Stranger narrowed his eyes and stood steady. His hand was moving slowly, slowly, down his side.

Grimbald's wide eyes flickered around, watching closely, the mind behind them thinking. Concentrate now, he told himself. Don't let your guard down. Not again. Not like this.

A piercing high-pitched scream invaded the clearing. Both men turned in its direction, forgetting the other. Another scream, mixed in with water splashing. They all knew what was happening, even the boy.

The Stranger's mouth widened as he smiled broadly enough to see his dark teeth. 'You better go save the girl,' he said. 'The one you left with your fake aunty.'

Grimbald turned back to the Stranger, then to the boy, then to the screaming. He no longer cared about maintaining a fierce expression, of putting on a façade. He noticed the Stranger edging toward the boy. Indecision filled his mind. Then another loud scream.

'She's gonna drown in that river if you don't hurry,' said the Stranger, still smiling. 'You about to let someone else die? About to make the same mistake twice?'

Grimbald made to run off, even taking a few steps toward the screams, before looking back at a large arm now resting over the shoulders of the small boy.

Grimbald's muscles contracted. There was no choice. He looked down at the boy then up to the Stranger. He felt the warmth of rage pulse its way up his body. It felt exhilarating and strong and what life was all about. And it felt like home.

The fire became darker, losing its yellows and oranges and becoming simply red. Grimbald's eyes bulged. In one movement he was upon the Stranger, diving and forcing him to the hard ground. He ignored the muted pain in his side and raised himself up over the Stranger, punching, punching, punching, punching him.

The Stranger pushed him aside and rolled to his feet with more agility than a man his size should possess. He grabbed the large pot of boiling water and feigned to throw it on Grimbald, who was now circling on the other side of the fire.

Smoke rose between the men and still the screams came from the river. The boy ran off.

Grimbald brushed his damp shirt and didn't notice the knife landing at his feet. His gun was now ten metres away from him. He knew from experience, bitter experience, that if you focussed too much on a weapon then you'd lose concentration and the fight would be over.

His eye sight became blurry, seeing only faint shapes and hazy movement. The power grew inside him, shifting from his other room to this one, to the now. He felt it encompassing him like water, making it harder to see or hear or touch or feel anything outside.

The Stranger threw the boiling water and hit mostly the fire, putting it out immediately. The darkness shot up. It wouldn't have mattered for Grimbald who was already in darkness, who's past six years had been in darkness.

In a flash the Stranger was mauled, his skin peeled away from the bone with his blood erupting in spurts. The act was merciless and fast, leaving no time for pain or torture. Only a stew of muscle and grit remained.

The distant screaming ended. A few moments later the sounds of three pairs of splashing legs became softer until finally all that could be heard in the cool night air was the foul stench of the past.

© 2011 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

Rats, rats, scouring rats, cute little rats, happy rats

Then Dean turned his flash light on and we all turned our flash lights on and Cassandra turned her camera on and immediately our mouths gaped and we'd only just passed the entrance. Everyone ooh'd and ahh'd while Dean raced out ahead and took the lead since he was the one showing us the way. This left the rest of us to walk slowly and just point our torches at the cement walls and hear all the weird sounds. A loud ba-bum from a car above scared Wendy and she started saying how we shouldn't be in here and that it was illegal and that she heard about these kids who came down here and got killed by something or other. 'We aren't kids,' I said, because we weren't. 'I know,' said Wendy, but she didn't really believe it. It was like she was still in high school and she was already getting on my nerves.

Dean was standing by the cracked cement wall and looking at something, looking really close, which made us wonder and also wander over to see for ourselves. I pointed my torch at Dean and then at this little shelf set in from the wall with some batteries and all sorts of junk, surrounded by notes left by someone and everyone who'd been here before. Dean explained that we should leave extra batteries for torches so that no one gets lost down here, 'coz we're all part of a clan and should look out for each other. Sprawled on the wall nearby was this massive guest book with names and funny messages and jokes like “what do you get when you line up 100 blonds ear to ear? A wind tunnel” and “if tennis players get tennis elbow and squash players get squash knees, what do gynaecologists get? tunnel vision!”, the last of which Wendy didn't like. I was just surprised they spelt gynaecologist right. There were also more serious messages like “when it rains, no drains,” which turned Wendy even more whiny.

Cassandra was really keen to leave her own name there, to leave it for prosperity, and when I asked why she said she didn't know why but that she wanted to do it. When we realised we didn't have anything to write with and that we couldn't even get the rocks to make any writing marks on the wall she kept saying that it was fine and she was fine and that it didn't matter.

While this was going on Dean had taken off and was now ahead of us again. The rest of us walked slower, in awe at how the cement walls gave way to real cave rock, which really got our torches moving and legs walking and tongues talking.

Cassandra came from nowhere and surprised Chris, which really made him jump, and made us all laugh. Then she pointed the camera in his face and started asking him questions, like 'What is the meaning of life?' and 'What is truth?' Chris was perplexed at the best of times and this wasn't the best of times so he stumbled over some sentences which didn't really make sense. Then Dean shouted out from ahead that the meaning of life was sex. I laughed but the others didn't have a good sense of humour.

'I never even knew this place existed,' I said. Dean was still up ahead but heard me and said that there were tunnels all over Adelaide. 'Under Adelaide,' corrected Cassandra. Dean didn't listen and just kept talking about some really old tunnel from behind Government House that went to Frome Road and was only there so that soldiers could take their horses to graze without having to cross a busy road, back when we had soldiers.

Chris went missing and when we went to find him we found him near a wall looking at some amazing wall art, looking it up and down like it was holy. He appreciated that stuff more than me, being arty farty, but I still liked the idea of someone coming in here and spray painting some picture so that other drainers could check it out, like we were in some exclusive club. The graffiti spelt out a name, followed by the word tomb. I shouted out to Dean to ask if that was the name of this tunnel, 'coz I heard that they were named after the people who found them, but he didn't hear me.

We kept walking, kept jumping, kept singing, all the way through this dark and scary and amazing tunnel. 'Pass us the goon bag,' someone said. Pretty soon we were all walking and drinking, feeling like bums in our underground tomb.

We got to a spot where this big fan was moving slowly and blowing air all around us, even against Wendy's hair but not in the glamourous way you see in shampoo commercials but more like something out of Bladerunner. But not the first theatrical release because that had a totally different feel to it. Now they're just cashing in and doing five or six versions which really goes against the spirit of the film.

Cassandra jumped in front of me, trying to scare me like she scared Chris but I didn't fall for it. We kept walking while she backtracked, like some cameraman from a nature documentary or like I was some presenter on a kids TV show. Cassandra, Cassandra was short and sweet, not short and pudgy, but short and cute, enough that I'd given it some thought, as it were. But she was Chris' old girl and I couldn't do that to him, not poor old Chris, not nicest guy in the world Chris, not good friend Chris. Not for a girl, even one like Cassandra. Besides, she seemed hung up on Dean.

Wendy, Wendy, moaning Wendy, moaned about her shoes and how her feet were hurting. Cassandra said to just take them off which horrified Wendy who pointed her torch at the ground and showed us all how filthy the bottom of the tunnel was, with mud and water and who knows what. Then Chris said 'Kick 'em to the curb, girlfriend,' referring to the shoes. We all stopped walking and just stared at him. I said it was good he was trying humour but maybe he should practice at home in front of a mirror first. This got a great laugh out of Wendy, but Cassandra stayed neutral and looked at me seriously like I'd really hurt his feelings which made me feel bad. But moments later I was talking about how utterly terrible Lord of the Rings was as a book, about how I understood that it was quite influential in defining the modern fantasy genre but that it was flawed because it was just lots of walking, walking, bits of talking, followed by a long trek in the mountains. Chris turned and said that that was all we were doing, walking and talking, and he had me, he totally got me, which got a stern expression from me and a few laughs from Wendy and a louder one from Cassandra which made me laugh and we all laughed and I felt better.

Then Wendy chimed in about another book with lots of travelling which was this boring book called On The Road, where this guy just went from one side of America to the other and spoke in this rambling style which got tiring very quickly and which tried to seem profound but really wasn't. It shocked me that Wendy had actually read something not by Ann M Martin.

That got Cassandra started with her favourite topic: American Imperialism. She went on and on about how they were hypocritical and how they interfered with foreign states, even Australia. She said that in the 70's America didn't like Gough Whitlam so they orchestrated some political manoeuvring so that he got sacked, which I'd never really known. Every time she mentioned something bad that America spread, Dean would chime in with good things they'd done, just for the argument. She would mention wars, he would mention McDonald's. She would talk about how McDonald's was bad for the environment and he would say that America was a world leader in environmental sustainability. You could tell she didn't really believe him but she couldn't argue against it because she didn't know for sure.

Dean was rat-tat-tapping on the walls and the pipes. I said to the girls: 'What's the best start to a song?' The others started tat-tat-tapping, just like Dean, using our tunnel as an impromptu instrument, trying to recreate some hideous pop song. I said: 'No, no, no, I meant lyrics-wise.' The others umm'd and ahh'd until I just bore right in and said the best start to a song is from What's My Scene by the Hoodoo Guru's. The others tried to get it in their heads and it was Wendy who got there first, singing 'And another thing...'

This got Dean started and you really shouldn't get dean started, especially when it comes to music, especially when it comes to anything, 'coz once he gets started he just doesn't stop. He went on and on about other 80's groups and then about Australian music and how Triple J doesn't play enough Karnivool any more and how Birds Of Tokyo were awesome at the Gov and all this stuff that frankly me and Chris barely listened to. The girls were Chinese whispering to each other like they always did and I could see Chris glance a few times over to them, not longingly like some besotted love bird but definitely with something, with some kind of feelings and it made me think.

We kept moving on down the tunnel till we got to this thin mummy passage that scared the crap out of Wendy since it looked like a trap, like in old westerns where they'd be travelling in their wagons and get to a thin spot between cliffs and it'd always be an ambush, they even knew it was going to be an ambush, but still went in regardless. That's what I like about those films, how they'd do all this bad stuff and then get to the point in the story where they'd know they were doomed, they'd just know, and they'd accept their fate anyway. Dean accepted his fate first and went through the passage. Before he went in he said that he hadn't gone further than this before, that last time he was here, which was the only time, he got this far and the girl he was with couldn't wait any longer and they did it right here and just left afterwards.

So we kept trying to look at the thin passage while someone shone a torch in everyone's face which got on our nerves a little. Every time it hit Wendy I could see her trembling like she'd just watched the first Saw film, maybe the second one, but not anything later since you kind of know the formula by then which makes it less scary.

Dean called back and said to come straight away, that we'd never believe what he found. We all rushed through the thin passage, even Wendy, who kind of grabbed onto me for protection as we walked which I didn't mind. When we got to the other side it was this massive room with pipes jutting in from all angles and bright green moss shining in the lights, different coloured lights, setting it up like an Alien film but much more pleasant. It even had a waterfall that landed in a kind of urban lake, which made the air misty and all atmospheric. 'That's gorgeous,' said Wendy, still holding on to me. We all wow'd and ooh'd and ahh'd for ages. Cassandra filmed heaps of it, from all different angles. She said it's the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. We all agreed. Then Chris said that he bet we were the only ones to ever see it which is obviously wrong since it was man-made but we were too busy ooh'ing and ahh'ing to care.

Dean jumped up one of the pipes and stood there like a pirate on the end of a pirate ship. He had taken a few more chugs from the goon bag and said some stuff about muses and about how they shouldn't desert him at this his finest hour. He was looking at us but the truth was he was my muse, not the other way around; he was the thing that bound us together and kept things moving; they always had to be moving.

'I reckon we're the only ones to ever see this,' said Chris again. This time we all paid him out until he had that puppy dog look on his face and we all felt sorry for him and surrounded him in a big group hug. After, we sat down and passed around the goon bag. I took a massive swig and it ran down the sides of my mouth but no one saw so I drank again. Not long later my head was spinning and the colours looked even better. It was like we'd found paradise. 'These truly are the glory days,' I said and laid back on the cement floor. Wendy had curled her fingers between mine and we both lay back together.

My fingers tingled as Wendy moved off and had a private chat with Cassandra in the corner of paradise. That left the boys alone and so we did what we always did and talked about girls.

Dean said that he can't go up to a girl who he thinks is perfect because he'll just look at her and look at her and try to find some imperfection, and he won't stop until he does, and after he does he won't like her any more because she's not perfect like he thought she was and that it's all about expectations, which I suppose is true. So he said he goes for 7's or 8's, maybe 9's if he really needs it. If I hadn't seen him around girls I'd think he just lies a lot but I've seen him around girls and he wasn't lying. My contribution was about porn, since I wasn't as fast as Dean. I said I can only watch porn with ugly chicks in it, or at least average looking, because it's all a fantasy, it's all in your mind, and if you can't imagine a situation where a really hot looking chick would want to do you then it just won't work. Chris seemed a bit embarrassed and so we pestered him about his sexual encounters. He wouldn't budge. Dean asked about Cassandra and what she was like when they were together but he still didn't budge which I was happy about. Dean then said that he never watches porn. I was incredulous at this but he assured me and Chris that he just doesn't need to, that he's got a friend and they have sex whenever. I started to think if I could do that, have sex with a female friend, and I decided I probably could.

Chris finally chimed in and said that when he was younger he had this idea for a little device which would let you tell someone you liked them, but kind of secretly. Me and dean looked at each other. But the idea wasn't that crazy as he went on and talked about how you'd put this little device in your pocket and when you passed by a hot chick you could just press a button and if she had one of the devices and thought you were attractive she could press her button and then, only then, would it alert both of you that you liked each other. It was like this safe way for people with low self-esteem to get to know one another. I thought it didn't seem to meet the demands of the target demographic since you could press your button when some hot chick wanders past but then when you don't receive the signal that she likes you, you'd get all sad and mopey. Chris said that wasn't true because the girl might not even have one of the devices, which was true. Dean said that Chris was dopey, not mopey, and that the whole idea was bunk. He couldn't understand why you'd even need it. I at least understood it, but I wouldn't have invested capital in the idea. Then Cassandra said that he should write an app for it, that the device could just be a mobile phone. That shocked us all because we didn't know the girls were listening in on our conversation and recording it on the camera. 'This is man business,' I said. 'Stop listening in on our conversation.' But they just laughed at us like girls do when they're doing the wrong thing but don't care.

Dean jumped up and started walking through all the pipes. He was keen to move on and seemed almost angry that we were wasting time just lying around talking. We all followed and got out our flashlights and kept walking through the tunnel that didn't end. Until we got to the end. There was no great finality to it, or even a nice final wall, since the sides of cement just kind of converged on this one point, almost like it was hiding the fact it was an ending at all, and more like something that continues on like the inside of a circle. 'Well that sucks.' Everyone was all bummed. Dean was saying how it was a kind of microcosm of life, that as soon as you get to where you're going you realise it wasn't worth getting there. Cassandra was saying that yes, it was a microcosm, but of how the journey is what it's all about and reminding us of the paradise room. Dean didn't like the conversation and got real angry, jumping up and down and punching the wall. We all weren't happy with the ending but we didn't think it was all that bad, yet Dean was going crazy and wouldn't calm down. It was like he had wanted something out of this, something more that he couldn't share with anyone but him. The girls all surrounded him and spoke quietly to him, then Chris joined in and it seemed to be working. Chris was always really calm, at least with people, and while I couldn't hear what he said I knew it was working because Dean's shoulders were relaxing and his face wasn't red any more and he didn't seem like he'd bash the whole place down. I stayed back and kind of waited, not sure what to do.

I looked up and saw a grate on the ceiling with sunshine streaming through. There were these old fashioned metal ladder rungs leading up to it which looked amazing and made me think of sewers and nineteenth century Paris for some reason.

Then dean just fell back and his face seemed pale. He wasn't having a fit but you could see he was in pain. We didn't know what to do. 'What do we do?' shouted Wendy. I was even more helpless. Chris was quietly talking to Dean. My stomach was in knots and I got all confused and I swear someone else was shouting but everything was hazy. All these noises came into my ears and I had this feeling that something bad was going to happen, that the end of the tunnel was going to be the end of something else. I started thinking about God and Buddha and what happens when you die and I realised that I didn't really know and I promised myself that I'd read more books on comparative religion and spirituality and all that pseudo-hippy stuff that everyone seems to love.

Then dean looked up. He was fine. He jumped up as if nothing happened. This was good, we all thought it was good, but we didn't feel that good. Chris and Cassandra and Wendy were all perplexed and had other things going on in their heads, while I felt guilty for thinking about myself when Dean, cool Dean, lady's man Dean, was almost about to die. 'You were faking it,' screamed Cassandra, 'You were faking it.' Dean just swaggered off. Cassandra ran to him and hit him but he didn't do anything back and then he laughed, but not a full laugh, more like a nervous laugh. But it didn't matter because soon we were all laughing and having a good time.

To get to the ladder rungs we had to jump a small stream of water. It was nothing, but Cassandra made a big deal of it, that it was kind of like we were crossing over into being proper grown-ups, even though we already were. She said it was like our bridge to Terabithia. I hated that book but decided not to say anything since the others were all happy with the idea.

We clambered up the ladder, Dean first, followed by Cassandra, then Chris, then Wendy and finally me. I looked back at the tunnel and thought for a second that there was something important I should learn from this. I wasn't sure what it was. Then I realised I'd spent too much time around Cassandra and it was just a stupid tunnel. So I kept climbing and looked up the ladder and saw Wendy's bum which looked nice from this angle.  

© 2011 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

The Silent Truth

Brumby sat in silence. He breathed in the sweet aroma of mould. The room was wet and dark and he felt a bit like an old mushroom: bent over, still, stringy, tired. He felt his stomach – a slight nervousness shook from his body in waves, each pang filling the small room with a strange kind of energy, the kind it had soaked up many times before.

He breathed out deeply and looked closely at the paint peeling from the walls, revealing two, three, four different coats from two, three, four periods of the past. He wondered how many people had been in this room, like him, alone, waiting. He wondered how many of them felt nervous, how many were excited, how many feared their own lives, their own futures; how many just wanted it all to end.

A large old poster of the building, its main hall filled to the brim with gentlemen in dinner suits and ladies in their finest, obscured some writing on the stained wall. Brumby leant forward, ignoring the loud creak of his bones in the quiet air. The blurred cursive letters seemed to perch just outside his vision. Another creak echoed around the room as Brumby patted his pockets, searching for his glasses. It wouldn't really help – he had lost the ability to see, truly see, years ago, back in his youth. Before him. Before it all changed. It was hard to look into the future, and often much harder to the past, but Brumby wanted more than anything to look at what was happening right now, to see his own life for what it was, not what others said it was, not what he himself felt it was, but what it truly was; objective, cold, real. How does one get at the truth? How do you avoid the lessons from your experiences and the voices outside your head telling you what it's all meant?

The past seemed to be dominating his mind lately. It hadn't always been like that but he couldn't remember a time when it wasn't. It must have been a gradual process, like when you're with someone for many years, with them every day, and then look back at old photographs of them when they were younger, when you were both younger, and it's only then that you realise how different they look, how much they've changed, how much you've both changed. Maybe it makes you pine for the past and how things were. Or perhaps you feel thankful for the life you've had. These aren't the thoughts of a young man. But he was born old. Bitter and cynical, he could now add wretched to the list.

A loud knock on the door made him jump. The noise invaded his silence, a silence both cherished and feared in equal measure. He clutched at his case subconsciously, feeling its dimpled texture like a blind man reading Braille. But he knew the words already, knew the whole story.

'Ten minutes, mister Brumby,' shouted a young voice.

The door opened slowly, slightly, which reminded Brumby of his own hesitant peeks into his old bedroom. That guilty feeling came back in waves and his body drooped with pity.

The head poked in for a tiny moment and was gone, leaving only the fading sound of footsteps. Just checking that I am still alive and of this earth, thought Brumby, or that I am awake. A smile creased his face.

He pulled a tightly wrapped sandwich out of a small bag and placed it gently onto his rickety legs - not the flat surface they used to be. Slowly, very slowly, and carefully, very carefully, he unwrapped the sandwich, methodically opening one side, turning it over, finding the seem, and opening the other side. He looked down at the white bread and remembered his own dirty and blackened fingers, tiny at the time, wrapped around the exact same ham and cheese sandwich, devouring it hungrily and forgetting to thank the kind Mrs Whyte from the house over. It's strange to think how naive you were when you were younger, as if you had no understanding of the world around you. Maybe that was a good thing. It has to be easier going through those experiences, perpetrated in your home, your sanctuary, if you don't know how bad it truly is.

Brumby looked down at the sandwich, now unsure whether to take a bite. Something was stopping him, something inside, preventing him from fully satiating himself.

He blinked.

When he opened his eyes a young man, the flash from earlier, was staring him straight in the face, with an expression of worry.

Brumby blinked a few more times.

The young man's shoulders relaxed. 'Five minutes, Mr Brumby,' he whispered, as if not wanting to wake the old man.

'Brumby,' said Brumby.

'Yes,' drawled the young man. 'That's right, you're mister Brumby.' His eyes darted either side.

'No,' said Brumby, 'Just Brumby. Not mister. Not doctor. Certainly not The Great. Just Brumby.'

'Oh,' said the young man. 'I'm awful sorry.'

Brumby looked into the young man's eyes, which blinked and shied away.

'What is your name?' asked Brumby.

'What?'

'Pardon?'

'I said wha- Oh. Pardon?'

'What is your name?'

'Julius, sir.'

'Ah.' Brumby sat up rigidly, his arm held out, as he looked distantly beyond the near wall. 'Men at some time are masters of their fates: the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.'

Julius looked at him blankly.

Brumby gave a little chuckle. 'Perhaps my Shakespeare could use a little work,' he said.

Of that he garnered little response.

He thinks me a madman, thought Brumby. 'Julius Caesar,' he said, more as a question.

'Oh, I hate my name,' said Julius. 'Always picked on when I was a kid.'

You still are a kid, thought Brumby. 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,' he instead responded.

'Romeo and Juliet! I know that one.'

'You are positively full of culture!' lied Brumby.

'Well now,' said Julius, stepping away, 'If you're gonna be like that I'll-'

'No, no,' protested Brumby. 'Please. Forgive the ramblings of an old man. Here.' He patted the bench next to him.

Julius sat slowly, eventually speaking: 'You aren't old. Well, not that old.'

Brumby chuckled. 'With a line like that, P. T. Barnum himself would be proud.'

Julius nodded absently.

'It is said,' continued Brumby, 'he never uttered that celebrated line. It was much against his nature; being, as he were, more focussed on the customer and business, lest he make fools of the general public. The false utterances of man, as they pertain to credits and such like, oft take a life of their own, seeming to exist outside that of their origins, and like the multi-headed Hydra of fame, have no connection to reality whatsoever.' He shook his head.

'But aren't you famous?' asked Julius.

'I sincerely hope not,' said Brumby, seriously.

'Yeah, sure you are. Even I heard of you and I don't care much for that kind of thing.'

Brumby chuckled, which brought on a cough and a few wheezes. 'That kind of thing,' he repeated, smiling.

'Hurts my ears,' explained Julius.

'Are you interested in other music, Julius?'

'Uh, sure,' he said. 'Well, maybe not the music so much, but this joint, the history. It's seen so highly, even more than the people who've played here. It feels like it's always been here, like the town was built around it. There aren't too many ways you can touch tradition like that. You've got old photos and old people, but this thing has had more photos taken of it and more people in it than I could ever see or meet in my lifetime.'

'Why does that appeal to you, Julius?'

'How can't it? I'm never gonna do anything like you do, I'm not gonna make music or entertain people. But you can bet I wanna make my mark and not just be a nobody.'

'A nobody,' Brumby whispered. He would also be a nobody if he didn't get in with the wrong crowd at the wrong time; part of the revolution. Maybe, thought Brumby, if I were but a nobody, my own life would be possessed of more truth. Rather, my soul is caught by my past, unable to escape the pretence.

'So you wish to make your mark in this place?' said Brumby.

'Who me? Nah.'

The young man had a dreamy look about him.

'What then instead?' prompted Brumby.

Julius stared for a moment. 'Baking. I want to be a baker.' He looked over at the old man.

'A baker?'

'I know, I know. Before you say anything, I don't care what other people think about it. I know it isn't changing the world in the way you do, but it's something I love. I want to settle down and own a bakery of my own, be a part of some community, you know? The kind of place everyone can come to and feel welcome and relaxed, the kind of place that's always been there and always will. I want to be your age some day, no offence, still with my little business, knowing all my customers by name, being a part of their lives, and them a part of mine. That's...it's how I want to make my mark.'

'It is a lovely dream and worthy goal,' said Brumby.

'I don't really go for any fancy stuff. I just want to focus on baking and making sure Cordelia's happy.'

'Cordelia?'

'My wife. Well, hopefully. I haven't actually asked her yet.'

'How delightful,' said Brumby, clapping his hands excitedly. 'You have the beginnings of a thesbian family. Please tell me you will name your first child Othello!'

'Look, you really should get ready to go out there. You're on in a few minutes.'

'Oh, I am terribly sorry, young Julius. I have clearly offended you with a severe lack of tact. You'll have to forgive my humour; it is not as refined as should be for a man my age.'

'It's OK,' said Julius, looking determined. 'You can make fun of me all you want, I just don't like anyone talking bad about Cordelia.'

'You seem to love her very much.'

'Yes,' said Julius.

Just one word, but it hit Brumby with a massive force. So used to his own indecisiveness, to vagueness and doubt, the sound of a single word said with such confidence, such assuredness, was like a revelation. It filled him with energy and enthusiasm, perhaps even a morsel of optimism. At length he looked down at his sandwich, then up to his companion.

'Can you provide for me a favour, Julius?'

'Yes. Maybe. What is it?'

'A little doubt is a good thing,' said Brumby with another small chuckle. 'Fear begone, this will not burden you overly.' At this Brumby looked deeply and gravely at Julius. 'Promise that you will, in all earnestness, perform every act of goodness and rightness upon your dear Cordelia that is imaginable to any but the good Lord.'

Julius started 'Of course-' but was cut off with a persistent Brumby, now leaning in close.

'Promise that you will not be of burden to her with your own doubts and stubbornness, your own jealousies and wanderings. Promise you will spend copious time with her, any such time you possess, even if it is bad for business, for your bakery, and let her not think for even a moment that your love for her is any less than absolute.'

'I promise,' said Julius, seriously.

'Promise that you will never perform an act...' He licked his lips, almost tasting the bitterness, and continued: '...denigrating to her person, such as to asperse her name, and your very own, before your neighbours, lest even that of our Lord.'

'I promise.'

Brumby leaned back. 'I believe you,' he said. 'I like you, Julius. You possess not a silver tongue and thus say only that which may be right and true. You have been given good graces on his earth and shall not beseech the vast opportunities therein by being that which you are not.'

'I'd like to think so,' said Julius, filling with a little pride.

They listened to the muffled sounds of an audience growing restless.

'If I may be so bold, Julius, and please take this in the manner with which it is given; you do not belong here.'

'Wha- er, pardon?'

'Here, in this place, on this night. It is nothing but lies and deceit.'

'I'm not quite sure I follow.'

Brumby felt that pang of excitement. He knew it was time to go on stage, to play in front of his marauding fans – fans, how pretentious was that? - but he felt an unbreakable urge to say what he had to say, to finally remove the burden hanging over him.

'I knew a man at one time,' he began. 'My personage, as it were, was of or about your own age. The world was on the precipice of its own demise and our undoubted intent was to ride in and save the day, if you excuse the saying, as of knights-errant in their chivalrous tasks of righting wrongs and saving damsels. Pessimism and entropy were our enemy; music our weapon. Filled with hubris, a lack of success in our endeavours seemed the crazier thought; at least, in so much as when the words were spoken by him, where all ideas were novel and, dare I say it, ground breaking. Music was in an embryonic stage, having not the time or inclination to evolve, in the Christian way you understand; the music was seen as something trifle, the zeitgeist lacking as then a deeper understanding of the effects in not only the pulling of our heart-strings, but as of a deeper sense in our souls.'

Brumby cleared his throat. It was harder to talk of this than he imagined.

'We detested the band moniker, being as we were more of a gang; not in the way you might think it, as is common with the youth of today, and whose consequences give cause to more strictness and punishment than can be dolled out; but I will refrain from continuing down this path given that you are not at all in the that mould and would most likely become tired of lecture. No, we were family and at our head sat the greatest of them all, an unsurpassed exponent of the classics, a merciless artillery, wielding the violin as it were an extension of his limb: his name was Vincent.'

'I don't think I've heard of him,' said Julius.

'No. That much be true. Even if you had sat friendless adjacent a bright window and studied the history of the music arts throughout your best years, with your lectern draped in the dust of disuse, would you not hear a whisper of that name. Yet, yet my dear Julius, he has brought with him more to influence the lives and culture of music-men than any before and, darest I say it, to come, through their profession, and therefore to every person on the earth.'

Brumby breathed in and out deeply, his eyes damp and mouth curled.

'Oh, he used to play. Did he play! The purest most fantastic music you could ever be privileged to hear! We would sit in my study, like children in class, our legs crossed, despite being all men of age, and our hearts open, our ears fixed in awe at our master. It was at that moment that I blasphemed and withdrew from the lord; for I knew – I knew this! - God did not exist; there could be no form of measurement in which the greatness we bore witness to could be bettered, whether be that on the earth or in heaven.'

Brumby's eyes tightened. They filled with wetness and he cried. His face scrunched, his mouth open, he relived the experience; happy, joyous and warm. The colours – oh, the colours, dancing in front of his eyes, from orange to yellow to red to orange. For a moment he felt the connection, felt embraced by the music, the memory of the music, and didn't feel alone.

When he opened his eyes, the warmth, the energy, remained. It embraced him like a father does a child on a cold winter's day.

'Then one day,' said Brumby, 'he left us. He was gone. As they say, it is the shortest lives that burn the brightest. What he left behind, he-' Brumby breathed out through his nose deeply. 'Nothing can explain the events of that day, not truly; I would thrash the man who ever dared.'

Julius stared at Brumby intently, not breathing, not making a sound, for fear of missing a word. He had felt the energy himself, radiating off Brumby. The room could absorb it in its stride, but his own soul would have to take time to understand the feelings.

'After that,' continued Brumby, 'I gave up on music, unable to bear even the slightest noise. I trapped myself within the confines of my room and slept, slept and ate. At times my unnatural nocturnal reverberations would awaken my person and grate on me such that I resolved to absolve myself of the comforts of dormancy. Further, to hear my teeth grind on the fleshes was but the devil's aulos to my ears; such that I desisted. But one and six days whence, my lucidity in peril, I was forced to wince at many flashes of sounds, some near, some far, that would but fade in before fading out, and repeating themselves incessantly. The ceaseless burdens of my wretched soul were relentless, until:

'Silence. I awoke. Alone, or so I thought, in the quiet, white room of the general hospital. I was later to discover my error in the form of my room mate; an older man from Geelong by the name of Georgios. He quickly, and without due prompting, regaled the story of how he, in all earnestness, woke one day feeling all manner of distress. From what I gathered through his uncouth rhetoric, he had become obsessed with a happy life and full future; but had neither. So, waiting until his wife left on an errand, he hoisted himself up to the railing and, with much effort from all I can tell, tying a noose there upon, the poor fellow looked down at the emptiness of his life. Unfortunately for him, being a man of numbers and no expert seaman, the rope slipped and the poor fellow fell to the floor with such force that his body became unable to move.

'When his wife returned and found him there, strewn on the floor, she laughed, laughed like a drunkard. Where before there was indifference, he now detested the woman and hated all those around him, as if the failed attempt had left him with nothing more than vile scorn.

'It was at that point I came to a realisation. My thoughts before this discourse were of my woe, and only that. However, being but a knife's edge from the reprieve of death can take you in one of two directions: bitterness enshrines you further, as the joyousness of others becomes your jealousies, and annoyed you get at their pity; or you perform those acts required to survive, no matter their particulars, and quickly determine how best to share your accompaniment with those close to you.

'I chose the latter, but not with person – for I had none I wished to express my love, not wife nor parents, for clear reasons. What I did possess was music. That is in what I wished to share my new found optimism, that being the way I could return wholly to humanity. And so I began my recompense.

'My early efforts were laughable. Alone in my minuscule apartment I could not help but be embarrassed that the same room which heard the great Vincent play would have to endure the horrid noises emanating from my instrument. More I played and worse it sounded such that my soul beseeched me to stop. At length, my mind flittered and eventually landed on his perfections; the feelings they aroused were but one part from a degree too powerful to overcome. After much concentration I did what any sane man would do, and tried to recreate them.

'I would hasten back and forth, pondering, playing, attempting to determine the primary elements which made his sound so unique, so earnest to the soul, so fantastical. Much later, for I did not keep track of days and could not in all honesty give a proper account, I had completed my first piece. Any man appropriate and willing to submit I would play it for, and every one to a tee loved it and would applaud it, giving full approbation. At such a pace I was standing before large audiences, playing on important stages. The adulation granted on those evenings would but drive me further. Each piece I wrote, each vain attempt at recreating perfection, seemed to bring with it only more success and more accolades.

'The momentum has thus continued the rest of my life and has brought me here, to this hall, and to my last ever performance, my last ever lie. I'm a fraud, Julius, an absolute fraud. And you know the worst part? I'm not even a fitting fraudster, for the best, most famous of “my” pieces contain only a small part, a threadbare resemblance to the greatness I beheld all those years ago.'

Brumby felt a sudden urge of tiredness overcome him.

Julius sat back. 'But maybe,' he said, 'you are better than you think you are. I can sure see the effect this Vincent has had on your life, so please don't take offence, but maybe your mind has made it all seem better than it was. Like when I used to think back to my childhood at the big playground where me and my brother used to play, and we decided to go back a few months ago but it seemed all small and tiny, not at all like it was. You know?'

Brumby chuckled. 'Thank you for your kind words, Julius,' he said. 'Alas, if there is but one truth in the heavens and the earth, they can be found in the unmatched purity and divination of The Great Vincent. I have chased him my entire life and have not once come close. Never. And now that chase is over, dear Julius, and I have but come a distant second place; as have my family who bore the biggest brunt of my viscerous alienation. It has been too much. I lost a good wife, two children, and a sister. None will engage me, none will open their hearts with their ears and listen to my joy. Why wont they listen? Just a brief selection, a slight hint; the chance to hear an echo, a laboured rendition of perfection. That is all I crave. But they will simply not come. Why won't they come?'

Brumby slouched, sliding down the bench. Julius caught the limp body and held it tight, saying nothing, unable to speak.

There Brumby lay, semi-conscious, in the tiny green room of The Great Hall. His eyes slowly closed and he listened deeply to the fast approaching silence.  

© 2011 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

To be of the Land you must know the Land

And it came to pass that the great opposing forces of the universe did stage their endless battle. They that be full of power. They that be full of knowing. They that be the spirit. They that spread out over the Land.

I am thirsty, said the boy.

You are thirsty, said the man.

Yes.

Listen.

The boy listened.

Do you hear, said the man.

No.

What do you hear.

The insects.

What else do you hear.

The wind.

What else do you hear.

Nothing.

Do as I do.

The man pressed his ear to the branch. The boy did so.

The man shook the forked tree.

What do you hear, said the man.

The boy listened.

I hear it, said the boy.

The man cut the branch. The man held the branch over the boy. The boy drank.

The man walked quickly. The man had large feet. The man made deep grooves in the Land.

The boy followed. The boy stepped in the grooves. The boy jumped to land inside the grooves.

The fire in the sky was big. The man had protection from the fire. The man liked the flies on his face. The man liked the flies on his neck.

The boy waved his arm. The boy lost protection of the flies. The boy lost protection of the Land.

I am tired, said the boy.

You are tired.

Yes.

Look, said the man. Do you see the great bird. Do you see the Land.

The boy looked up.

There is only a rock.

Look closer. It is a bird. There. It has the hump of an emu. There. It has beak of a dromus. It is as old as the Land. As old as the Time.

The boy squinted. The boy could see only a rock.

You are not looking of the way, said the man. You are looking outside. You must look inside. Close your eye.

The boy did so.

What do you see.

Darkness.

What else do you see.

The boy rubbed his nose. Darkness.

No. What else.

The bird.

The boy opened his eyes.

The man walked to the cool bird. The boy ran to the cool bird.

I am hungry, said the boy.

You are hungry, said the man.

Yes.

Touch the Land. What does it tell you.

The boy touched the Land.

It is hot, said the boy.

Yes. What else.

Nothing.

The man walked. The man touched the Land. The man closed his eyes.

Here, said the man.

The boy touched the Land.

What do you feel, said the man.

Nothing.

Do you feel the Land move.

Yes.

The man punched the Land. The man held a lizard.

We thank the Land, said the man. We are of the Land.

The fire in the sky rested on the mountain.

I am sick, said the boy.

The man pulled at the fruit. The man pulled at the other fruit.

I am not hungry, said the boy.

I know. Do as I do.

The man licked at the outside of the fruit. The boy did so.

What do you taste.

Nothing.

The man licked at the outside of the other fruit. The boy did so.

What do you taste.

Nothing.

Do they taste not of the sameness?

No.

The man caught the falling boy. The man gave the boy of the other fruit.

What do you taste, said the man.

Sweet, said the boy.

Yes. Sweet.

The boy was better.

The holes in the sky were bright.

The man woke the boy.

What do you smell, said the man.

Smoke.

What else.

You.

Good. What else.

Nothing.

The man sat against the tree. The man waited with the spear.

The dingo bit the man. The man flung the spear at the dingo. The dingo landed at the feet of the boy. The body did not move.

You are safe, said the Land.

The great fire in the sky rose.

Stop, said the man. The two armies.

The two armies, said the boy.

Yes.

Where.

The man pointed to the plain.

The man pointed to the mountain.

Look closer, said the man.

I see only the dust, said the boy.

Listen.

I hear only the Land.

Breathe.

I smell only you.

Taste.

I taste only the air.

Do you feel them, said the man.

No, said the boy.

The man fought bravely.

The man screamed. Do you feel them.

No.

Until.

The boy saw the armies. The boy heard the cries. The boy smelt the past. The boy tasted the red. The boy felt the pain.

The boy was dead. The man was dead.

The man was alive.

© 2011 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

Stripped Bare

Beep.

'Hello Samantha, it's me again. I forgot the reason I rang before. These things always make me nervous. Umm, I don't know what you're doing at the moment...'

What the hell you think I'm doing? Having sex in some big orgy?

'...Dad wants to invite you to dinner tonight.'

Ha! Don't think so.

'We'll have schnitzel. Beef, of course. Not chicken. I know you don't like chicken.'

Coz I've told you, like, a billion times?

'We can have a family meal. Like we used to. All three of us.'

Borrring.

'Umm, so drop a message. I mean, send a message or drop a line. I mixed them up. I'm so silly.'

You can say that again.

'…'

I rub sleep from my eyes and pull the phone away from my ear - still connected. I wait.

She finally talks again.

'We haven't seen you since your 21^st and, well, Dad misses you. He talks about you all the time. He's been such a pain the last month, trying to finish off the verandah. I told him to get some help but he won't budge. It's no good for his back. The silly old fool thinks he can do everything he used to. He's even worse at work – racing with the young guys.'

Wait, young guys?

'He needs to move up to the office and get away from the shop floor.'

Yeah, but back to these young guys...

'Honestly, I don't know what to do with him. The only reas-'

Beep.

'One unread message,' blares the phone. 'Eleven thirty-two A.M.'

I squint out the bright window. It's way too early to be up. I fall back onto the bed.

'Samii!' says the rough voice of Dave on the mobile. 'Got a gig for you tonight. An eighteenth. Asked for you 'specially. Give's a call back and I'll let ya know the details. Catch ya, babe.'

Ooh! I'm awake now! The thought of a gig always gets me going. It's like, anything's possible, anything can happen. Makes me a little nervous and a lot excited. The three hundred dollars is handy, too.

'Mmfmm,' muffles a voice under the pillow.

I search for my clothes. The treasure hunt takes me all over the room. I pull at my fishnets, wedged behind the desk, and nearly go flying tits over arse when they come free. Above the desk is a large poster of some real old guy with a dodgy moustache and freaky hair. He looks like a pedo. The writing above him says: “Great spirits have often encountered violent opposition from weak minds.”

I think about it for a bit - it can take me a while to get these things. I laugh. So true. Funny fucker.

'Oh,' says the guy in bed. 'You're uh, still here.'

'Yep,' I say.

'Shit!' he says.

What the fuck does that mean?

He jumps out of bed. 'I'm late.'

Oh.

'Where are you going?' I ask, while slipping on my Zanotti sandals.

'Umm,' he says.

'Don't worry. I don't wanna come with you or anything. Just making conversation.'

'Oh. Yeah. I'm late for class. I don't wanna miss any of it, the lecturer's fuckin hot.' He looks at me and shrugs. 'I like older women.'

I smile and look at him for the first time. His nose is massive. His hair all stringy. Pretty fugly with the light on.

'What umm, what are you learning?' I ask.

'Do you mean what subject is the lecture on? Or what degree am I doing? They're different things, you know.'

'No, I know,' I lie. 'Umm, what degree?'

'I told you last night.'

'It's not a good night if you remember it.' My turn to shrug.

He sniffs. He waits.

I know he wants me to leave but he's being an arsehole. So I take my time brushing my hair.

'Can I keep that poster?' I say, pointing above the desk.

He snorts. 'No. Don't think so.'

Hmmm. Gotta remember to ask before, not after.

'Anyway, I gotta go,' he says.

I don't move. I look over at him patiently. 'OK.'

You wanna play games? I can play games.

'Fine, stay then,' he says, storming out of the room. 'Just don't steal anything!'

When the door to the unit closes I stand quickly and stumble out the room. Yep, way too early to be up.

I've almost left the joint when I stop, turn back, and snatch the poster from the wall. That's what you get for being a prick.

I plonk my phone down near the sink. Mum hasn't called again so she probably got the hint.

I wish I had these massive mirrors at home. They look amazing. I'll see if someone knows how much they cost. Oh well, last-minute check time.

My blonde hair looks nice and wavy down my shoulders, but the fringe is still giving me problems. I press it down but now it looks pressed down. Argh, now my roots are showing through - I really need a colouring.

That don't matter, other things they can look at.

I press my boobs together so that more cleavage shows above the silver and frilly tubular top. I turn a little to the side.

You don't need massive boobs to do this job – it's more about having confidence in your body. I do feel a little sorry for the girls with nothing at all, but if they're that concerned they can always get a little boobs 'r' us work done.

I fiddle with the top. Yeah, don't think I'll be needing surgery.

The ruffled skirt looks amazing. It's like I've got nothing on underneath.

I shove my phone down the silver fuck-me boots, which look fine and all...but I just feel naked without my Zanotti's.

'Hey, you ready babe?' shouts Dave, just outside the door of the toilets. He's a good guy. I've had rep's who just wanna fuck after the gig. I'm not a prostitute! The funny thing is, they're always the ones with small dicks.

'Hang on,' I say, and finish putting the circle-y bit on top of my head. I thought this would be the best costume, with where we are and all. It totally matches. Dave said to go with the cop outfit but that's got nothing to do with this place. I guess that's why I'm the stripper and he's just, like, a helper.

We walk down the corridor together. Everyone looks. All girls are just haters, anyway. And they're jealous. They got nothing on me.

I notice some of the younger guys looking weirdly at me. Fuck off you pricks, you'll probably hire me to do your bucks night.

But it's all fine. I'm here coz I wanna be here. Don't matter what they think.

'Samii,' says Dave, 'this is Debbie.'

She looks at me even worse than the nurses, or whatever the fuck they were. What's her problem? She isn't hot enough to look at me like that. Just all old and wrinkly and in need of a colouring even more than me! Hell, she needs to put her head in some massive water thing to wash off whatever's growing in her oily, gross hair. Heh, good one.

'Oh, I'm glad you could make it,' says the bitch.

I'm not like when I was younger. You can't think one thing and say something completely different, put on an act. It won't work for me. I've had enough friends in my life to know it. That's what separates the good friends from the bad ones: they only talk about you behind your back, not to your face.

I nod, smiling. 'It's fine.'

'Brad's really looking forward to this,' she says. 'It's what he wants.' She looks down for a moment. The bitch can't even look me in the eye. 'And if it's what he wants, it's what we want. You know?'

I touch the little wings on my back to make sure they're still there.

'We just,' she says, 'we don't know how long...'

The old woman screws up her face which reminds me a bit of mum. Then she covers her face with her hands and rushes into the room.

'Uh, maybe we should just get started, ay babe?' says Dave.

Thank christ. Thought I was gonna be in the corridor all night.

I brush more glitter across my bare tummy and psych myself up. I feel that throbin' beat from the room. It's the start of Closer. It just 'verbs all though my chest, getting louder and stronger.

'...You let me desecrate you...'

I burst through the door and start my routine without even looking. A few poses, a few slinky body moves. Just the standard stuff while I get warmed up.

I hear a few woo's from the boys along the wall. They're all seventeen or eighteen, sitting in a row on this long bench, almost like they were still at school. Not much quality there. Way too young for me, anyway.

'...Help me; I've got no soul to sell...'

I dance over to the big bed in the middle of the room and bend forward, showing my cleavage. I've positioned myself so that my arse is also pointing at the boys. One of them gasps. Without turning I know that he's got a little too excited and Dave's had to calm him down, in his own way.

Another few steps and I'm up near the top of the bed. The boy has all these wires and stuff coming from everywhere. He looks a bit unsure. But cute. Nice bad-boy shaved head. Maybe I should see what he's doing when he gets out of here. What was his name? Brad? Wait for this one, Brad!

I raise up and flick my hair - 'I wanna fuck you like an animal' – letting it come free.

I'm not normally a fan of NIN but this one gets me going!

I squat a bit, dangling my hair over the boy's face while giving more of a back show for the friends.

When I rise up Brad's got a massive grin on his face. Heh, he wants to fuck me like an animal, the cutie. I smile back.

With a flick I leave him that circle thing that was on my head. It was annoying me anyway.

The song fades and mixes with a new one. I like to begin with a fully dressed set at the start, then move onto- Wait! What's this? I thought it was Pussycat Dolls next. Oh yeah, I don't have buttons, so probably good he skipped it.

'...Nothing feels right when I'm not with you...'

I also don't have a T-shirt on, but I love this song so who cares?

A few bumps on the floor and some leg stretching later, I'm getting ready to give the birthday boy an even better show.

'...gotta be strong, I'm really hurtin' now that you're gone...'

Must suck being in hospital, especially for your eighteenth. I couldn't stand not being able to go out and have fun. Luckily, it's Samii to the rescue!

I strut around the bed and turn so I'm facing the big white curtain thing, almost tripping over a gold Guess handbag on the floor. Must be that old woman's. She's got good taste.

My hands release the clamp on my top – it falls quickly to the floor. I do some hot bendy moves to get them thinking about what's to come. With my boobs cupped I turn and step up onto the little metal case in front of the bed. I picture the boys in their school uniforms. Man, remember when I was that young?

In a flash I remove my hands and show 'em my body. They go fuckin' wild. I love audiences like this! Dave is hovering over them but they're harmless anyway so I'm not worried.

I let my fingers wander all over my body. Ooh, that reminds me, I haven't done a wet show for ages. I should come up with something later.

'...In bed I lay, with nothing but your T-shirt on...'

A jump and I'm next to the bed, leaning down over the boy. “Happy Birthday, Brad,” I whisper, letting my lips touch his ear. Don't get me wrong, I don't normally do any touching – I'm not that kind of stripper – but this poor boy's in hospital and I know he wouldn't hurt a fly.

I stay bent over him for a bit longer, knowing my boobs are rubbing against him. When I do stand up I notice that he's joined me, in his own way.

With my boobs held, I push them together and play with the nipples. Guys always like that. I turn a few times to make sure both Brad and his friends get a good show. When I turn back once more I accidentally knock the curtain and it swings open a bit. There's another guy there. For a split second I lose my train of thought and almost stop dancing completely. Since I'm, like, so experienced, I manage to continue on with my routine without anyone else noticing.

But who the hell is this other guy? Why isn't he out with the others? Not some Catholic nutter, I hope. He's wearing a blue and red, vertically striped cardigan, blue pants, and scruffy off-white shoes. His little moustache makes him look older than he probably is. His head is still in the same place it was, facing the curtain, even though the curtain's not there any more.

I do a few more turns and end up facing the new guy. I hold my boob up and stretch my tongue down, licking my nipple, but he still won't look. Watch me, you fucker.

'...Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air...'

Shit, the next song's on already. I race to the centre of the room and bend down slowly, following my standard routine. You can do other stuff too, but it's good to have a base you can work from. Since I'm falling behind, I better go back to that now.

Out the corner of my eye I notice the moustache man. He glances quickly at me and then looks away, as if I caught him doing something wrong. Got ya, buddy.

I stretch down even further with my head between my legs. Down this low I can see below the bed. A slight stretch further and I see legs. Lots of legs.

My hands slide up my own legs as I stand up straight. They must be behind the curtain. Err, what the fuck?

'...Tell me how you gonna be without me...'

I look over at Brad who's still enjoying the show. When he grins you can see his bones. I didn't realise before how freaky it is. It's like his skin is see-through. And I can tell how small his body is from when I pressed down over the blanket. Jeez.

I half dance to the curtain and pull it back. They are all old, definitely older than the moustache guy, apart from one girl around my age. She's wearing this purple fleece top, but she has these amazing gold earrings that'd look great on me! She must be the one with the good taste in handbags. The rest have got clothes from the Salvo's or something. None of them move or say anything even though I've caught them out. They just keep looking straight ahead. The old woman is there. She's the only one who looks up at me now. She doesn't get angry or anything, just looks at me with, like, red eyes. Doesn't even look like a bitch any more. Just real sad.

The boys on the bench clap and cheer for me to continue. That's when I realise my body has stopped moving. Their noise fades off and it's like I'm here alone with this old woman who looks more and more like mum. At least, mum when she's sad. I kinda put two and two together and realise that they're not being complete dicks by sitting behind the curtain. It's not even that they wouldn't want to see me strip – moustache guy definitely would. It's just that they're doing it for him, for Brad, before he...well...fuck. This is just fucking weird. How the fuck am I supposed to strip when all these fuckers are just waiting for him to die?

'I...umm...' realise my shoulders are drooping and I can barely move. What do I do now? I turn my head and look over at Dave who is sitting there without speaking. It's the only time I've seen him with nothing to say. The only sound is from the boys on the bench, who are now whistling at me to continue, and from the CD player.

'...Losing you is like living in a world with no air...'

I turn back to Brad and quickly turn away. I can't even look at him now. This is all too fucking much. The old woman still watches me and I can't tell what she's thinking. I'm normally good at that stuff, working out what people are thinking based on how they look, but I just can't do it with her. It's almost like she has no feeling left. It's all gone.

'I...' rush from the room.

The corridor gets blurry as I run towards...where? I don't care, away, away from here, my head is spinning and the colours are changing from blue to purple to orange to red and I open one door and then another and some woman might be screaming at me or it could be some kid who doesn't want to be here or maybe an old man I don't know but it hurts the pain in my ears and the stinging in my eyes as I keep running inside another door and trip and fall onto the hard floor where it's cold really cold but it's like everything else is worse so I don't really care about it and I cover my face but all it does is make my hands wet and I wriggle myself on the floor and cry really cry probably looking like some horrible creature probably looking like that woman from earlier but I don't know why don't know why I'm crying but I'm in the toilet I must be in the toilet again 'coz through the haze I make out those massive mirrors and all I can think about is how I need to find out how much they cost how much for each one and would it be cheaper if you got more than one and how much bigger can you get them and if you got one double the size how much more would that cost?

A little later I'm sitting upright. I don't know how long I've been crying for but I don't have any energy left for more. I feel a bit like the old woman, Brad's mum. Just feel, like, numb and stuff.

I look down at my knee. There's blood everywhere! It's fucking gross. And I realise my phone's on the floor. Must have fallen out when I tripped over. After I pick it up my fingers start dialling one of my contacts.

'Hello?' says the voice on the other end.

'Umm,' I say, 'is it too late for me to come over tonight mum?'

© 2011 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License