Elysium

  When Michelle said ‘my room’, I thought she meant the room that she was sharing with her mum and her mum’s boyfriend. I wasn’t expecting to enter a room containing one double bed.

  ‘Is there a fold-out, or something?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well – where are you going to sleep?’

  Michelle stared at me as if I was wearing a lobster on my head.

  ‘I’m sleeping on the bed, of course,’ she replied.

  ‘You mean – you’ve got your very own room?’

  Michelle sniffed. ‘What else? Do you think they’d want me barging in on their rom-a-a-antic weekend?’

  Poor Michelle. She sounded really vicious. So I tried to change the subject.

  ‘Richard told us that this place is haunted,’ I said. ‘Rooms 104 and 123.’

  ‘Did he bring his equipment?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Michelle was talking about Richard’s infra-red camera, and his electromagnetic field detector. He uses them whenever he’s hunting down ghosts for PRISM. Richard often does this kind of work in his spare time. So does Sylvia Klineberg, who was supposed to be doing the Ghost Tour as well. ‘Have you seen Sylvia, yet?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know. Sylvia. I told you about her. She came to our house once, when we were trying to get Eglantine’s ghost out of Bethan’s bedroom . . .’

  But Michelle wasn’t listening. Her mother was addressing her from the room next door.

  ‘Michelle? Is that you, my sweet?’

  Michelle didn’t reply. Instead, she dragged me over to her bed. I thought: oh, no. Because she had a very mulish expression on her face.

  ‘Come and see this little torch I bought,’ she said to me. ‘It’s really cool.’

  ‘Michelle? My darling?’

  ‘Michelle, I think your mum wants you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Michelle, picking the torch off her bedside table. It looked exactly like a lipstick case on a keyring. ‘I guess I couldn’t hear her. Since I’m in a different room, and all.’

  ‘Michelle!’ Michelle’s mum suddenly stuck her head around the door. She looked a little more done-up than usual. I mean, she’s always beautifully groomed and everything, but she doesn’t normally wear such glossy lipstick or such big earrings or so many gold bracelets on her wrists. Not when she picks Michelle up from our house, anyway. ‘Oh, hello, Allie,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Settling in all right?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘It’s not quite what we expected, is it, Michelle?’

  ‘What – you mean because there’s no spa bath?’ Michelle smirked. Her mother’s lips tightened.

  ‘The bathroom situation – yes,’ she said, in even tones. ‘I was going to ask, Michelle, if you wanted to borrow my hair dryer?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Your hair’s wet.’

  ‘It’ll dry.’

  ‘Well – okay.’ Michelle’s mum threw up her hands. ‘I tried.’

  My heart sank as she withdrew. I could see that Michelle wasn’t going to be having much fun at the Jenolan Caves – she was too upset about Sylvester.

  And then, to make matters worse, my dad arrived.

  I heard his voice while Michelle was demonstrating her new keyring torch (which had three different light filters, for pink, blue and yellow beams). When I peered out of Michelle’s room, I saw that the adults were all gathered in the corridor. Mum was reluctantly introducing Dad to Michelle’s mum. Michelle’s mum was eagerly introducing Sylvester to my mum. Dad was introducing Matoaka to just about everybody.

  Sylvester was a tall, skinny man with a big nose and a black goatee. He looked very tanned – especially standing next to my mother. (Redheads aren’t supposed to go out in the sun a lot. If they do, they get skin cancer.) As for Matoaka, you wouldn’t believe what she was wearing. I mean, my mum’s a bit of a hippy, at heart, but I’ve never seen her with feathers tied to her hair. Or hanging off the bottom of her skirt. Matoaka was also dressed in tie-dyed stockings, beaded moccasins, and a really pretty Thai silk blouse.

  She was talking about the ‘totemic vibrations’ of the Jenolan Caves – which she’d never visited before.

  ‘They’re so powerful,’ she exclaimed. ‘You can feel the spirit of the Dreaming, can’t you? I mean, I find it hard to breathe, I really do. The air is so thick with energy.’

  ‘I guess that’s why it’s such a good place for ghosts,’ Ray remarked politely, and Dad snorted.

  ‘This whole ghost thing is so insulting,’ he said. ‘Most of the time it’s just a western construct imposed upon a traditional, mythic heritage. This land is of great significance, but not because of any ghosts. Its transcendental quality is derived from its place in Aboriginal spirituality. All this business of ghost tours and haunted hotels – it’s so trashy and commercial.’

  ‘Then why don’t you just turn around and go back home?’ my mother asked, in a dangerous sort of voice.

  ‘Because I have every right to be here,’ Dad replied. ‘I want to know what sort of things my children are getting involved in.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Mum folded her arms. ‘Is that why you vanished from their lives for eight years?’

  ‘Guys . . . please,’ said Ray. ‘This isn’t useful. Not now . . .’

  I groaned to myself, before hiding in Michelle’s bedroom. To have Michelle fighting with her mum was bad enough. To have Dad fighting with my mum was even worse. It wasn’t going to improve our weekend, that was for sure.

  Talk about atmosphere. I didn’t see how Richard was going to pick up any paranormal signals, when the air was already humming with tension and bad feelings.

  Besides, I thought, what ghost would put up with all the noise?

  CHAPTER # two

  You can guess what happened next. After everyone had found their rooms, and unpacked, and changed, it was about half past three. Two and a half hours to go until dinner, in other words. So what were we all going to do?

  Mum thought a bushwalk would be nice. Bethan wanted to look at the tunnel. I was more interested in exploring the hotel. (I still had to find out about Miss Chisolm, and Room 123.) We were discussing our options when Dad knocked on the door, and asked us what our plans were. He and Matoaka wanted to join us.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ he said serenely, ‘that I think it would be a good idea to get out into the fresh air, after such a long drive. Don’t you, Judy?’

  Now, it just so happens that Mum had said exactly the same thing to me, about two minutes beforehand. But she obviously didn’t want to admit it. In fact she didn’t want Dad along at all – I could tell from her expression.

  Come to think of it, she hasn’t had much to do with Dad since he came back to Australia. Normally she only sees him when Bethan and I are being picked up, or dropped off. This would be the first time they had spent any amount of time together for at least eight years.

  ‘Actually, Bethan wants to look at the tunnel,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I don’t know if that’ll be airy enough for you.’

  ‘The tunnel?’ said Dad, and Bethan hurried to explain.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘The big one you drive through.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dad nodded. ‘You mean the Devil’s Coach-house.’

  ‘Is that what it’s called?’ said Bethan, his eyes glinting. ‘Wow!’

  ‘Uh – actually, that one’s the Grand Arch,’ Ray mumbled, from one corner of the room. ‘The Devil’s Coach-house is something different. But we can go there too,’ he added hastily. ‘It’s very close to the Grand Arch.’

  Dad looked cross. Mum looked pleased. Suddenly, I wanted to get out. I really, really can’t stand that kind of bickering and sniping. Bethan is lucky, because he usually doesn’t notice. But I decided that, if Dad insisted on joining our party, then I would have to hide out with Michelle.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d better just see what Michelle’s doing,
’ I said.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Alethea.’ Dad pulled a long face. ‘We’ve come all this way for a chance to explore the natural world together, haven’t we? I mean, you can always see your friends at school –’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Jim, of course she can go,’ my mother interrupted. Breezily, she waved her hand. ‘Off you trot, Allie. Just remember – be back at the dining room by six.’

  I scurried away, before Dad could start arguing about the amount of time I spent with Mum compared to the amount of time I spent with him. (I’m so sick of the whole subject!) But when I found Michelle sulking in her bedroom over a Jenolan Caves brochure, she gave me the bad news. Her mum had decided to have a massage, and Sylvester was complaining of a headache. So Michelle had been given a choice: either she could stay in her room reading brochures, or come along with my family.

  She came along with my family.

  In the end, it wasn’t too bad. The Grand Arch was only a short walk away, so there wasn’t enough time to start an argument before we were suddenly swallowed up by this enormous, shadowy cavern. Then we had to concentrate on not getting hit by the cars that were winding their way through the Arch – because the cars and pedestrians all had to share one narrow road. Finally, when we reached the sheltered spot where many of the tour groups started, we were too busy talking about the Arch itself to worry about who was being unfair to whom.

  ‘Look,’ said Mum, her voice echoing slightly. She was pointing at a cluster of people who were walking down a flight of stairs high overhead. ‘They must have just finished a tour.’

  ‘Are there more caves?’ asked Bethan. ‘Through that door?’

  ‘There are at least 250 caves,’ Michelle replied – and, when everyone stared at her in amazement, she added, ‘I read it in a brochure.’

  ‘Only some of them are open to the public,’ said Ray. ‘Apparently, people are discovering new caves all the time.’

  ‘I wish I could discover a new cave,’ said Bethan, wistfully.

  We spent about six or seven minutes slowly walking through the Grand Arch, before emerging into the sunshine again. On the other side of the Arch we found a long stretch of river between drooping ferns. The river was very, very blue – almost as blue as Bethan’s ice-cream had been. Dad explained that the blue colour came from a high concentration of calcium carbonate. Above us, people were spilling out of doors in the cliff face, clattering down metal staircases and plunging back into the rock again. A few people also seemed to be disappearing down a path that wandered off to our left.

  So we followed them.

  First we climbed a few stairs. Next we passed a little stone utilities house, with a metal roll-a-door. Finally, we turned a bushy corner – and gasped as another great rent in the hillside opened up before us. The path headed straight into it.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ said Bethan.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Michelle.

  ‘That’s the Devil’s Coach-house,’ said Dad, reading from a sign that stood beside our path.

  The Devil’s Coach-house started off quite narrow and dark, but widened into a huge light-filled chamber with a small hole in its ceiling. It was like walking through a big throat into an enormous open mouth. The mouth was dribbling dusty grey stalactites – so many stalactites that its roof appeared to be melting. There were big holes poked into its walls, as if by a giant finger. The floor was covered in a tumble of loose boulders, most of them highly polished. Rusting metal spikes stuck out of some, while others bore a blush of yellow lichen.

  We all stood speechless, until Bethan caught sight of Richard Boyer.

  ‘Look!’ he cried, and laughed at the echo produced by his voice. ‘Hey!’ (Ey, sighed the cave.) ‘There’s Richard!’ (Ichard . . .)

  Richard was with Rosemary. They were holding hands, and I don’t know if they really wanted to have us barging in on them. But they were very polite. In fact Richard told us how the Devil’s Coach-house had been named.

  ‘It was because of a bloke called Luke White,’ he said. ‘He was a cattle thief, and one night he slept here after a drinking binge. In the middle of the night he woke up and saw six horses drawing a coach around the cave. The horses were being driven by the Devil. When he told people about it, the name stuck.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Bethan. But Mum wasn’t impressed.

  ‘After a drinking binge, did you say?’ she drawled. ‘Sounds like the alcohol talking, to me.’

  Richard smiled.

  ‘I certainly don’t think PRISM would regard Luke White as a reliable eyewitness,’ he conceded.

  ‘What about the Aboriginal name?’ Matoaka asked, earnestly. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Uh – no.’ Richard turned to his girlfriend. ‘Do you?’

  ‘The caves were called Binoomea,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure about the Devil’s Coach-house. Though I do know the whole place was supposed to have been formed by Gurangatch. He was a sort of Rainbow Serpent. Half fish, half reptile.’

  ‘Rosemary was once involved in listing an Aboriginal sacred site, up near Katoomba,’ Richard explained proudly, and Matoaka caught her breath.

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘What an honour!’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosemary smiled her shy smile. ‘It was.’

  ‘I’m an old soul myself,’ Matoaka continued, ‘so I can always see ancient energy in other people. Do you have a blood connection, or is it purely spiritual?’

  Rosemary blinked. She looked confused. Richard said, ‘I – I don’t think Rosemary has any Aboriginal ancestors. If that’s what you mean.’

  ‘My own spirit guide is Powhatan,’ said Matoaka. ‘Native American. But I’m open to the harmonic force of the sacred in every culture.’

  ‘Matoaka has very strong shamanic skills,’ Dad added.

  No one knew what to say to this. So after a brief pause, I asked Richard the question I’d been wanting to ask for a while.

  ‘Who’s Miss Chisolm?’

  His face brightened.

  ‘Ah! Well, Miss Chisolm is the most famous ghost at Cave House. She worked there until 1965. The dining room is called Chisolm’s because her ghost is supposed to be always rearranging the table in the far right-hand corner, after the room has been locked.’

  ‘Co-ool,’ said Bethan.

  ‘The trouble is that most of the apparitions seen around Cave House have been in the form of a woman dressed in nineteenth-century clothes,’ Richard went on. ‘So it’s been argued that the ghost is actually that of Lucinda Wilson, who was the wife of the caves’ first caretaker, Jeremiah Wilson. Though the dog was probably Miss Chisolm’s.’

  ‘The dog?’ said Ray.

  ‘Every now and then, someone sees a dog in one of the car parks,’ Richard explained happily. ‘Because it’s a national park around here, a ranger gets called in to deal with it, but the dog always disappears.’ Pushing his glasses up his nose, Richard grinned at Bethan. ‘Whenever the dog appears, strange things also happen in the dining room. Then someone found a photo of Miss Chisolm with her dog, and . . . well, they drew the obvious conclusion.’

  Michelle and I exchanged glances. We were both impressed. Clearly, Richard had picked the perfect spot for a PRISM outing. The Jenolan Caves had to be crawling with ghosts.

  ‘Are you making this up?’ Dad asked, sceptically.

  ‘I’m not,’ Richard replied. ‘I can’t speak for the sources. Most of the houses around here – the ones belonging to guides past and present – are supposed to be haunted. A ghost carrying a suitcase has even been seen walking the roads. And there are the caves, of course. The caves seem to be full of ghosts, if you believe what you hear. Which I don’t, necessarily.’ He grinned again. ‘But that’s the challenge, isn’t it? As a paranormal investigator, you have to sift the truth from the lies.’

  I was going to ask if he had brought his equipment. Matoaka, however, jumped in first.

  ‘If there are spirits trapped here,’ she insisted, ‘then they must be trapped by the force
of the Dreaming. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of ley energy paths were converging in this place – don’t you think, Jim? The vibrations must be fierce. All those underground chambers must amplify the imbalance.’

  Dad inclined his head. Mum cast her eyes to heaven. Richard shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know about energy paths,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve heard it said that the Jenolan Caves cast a spell on people. They keep coming back, and finally they can’t leave. Not even in death.’

  Silence fell. We all looked around, feeling the weight of the fretted rock that arched over us. A nasty picture flashed into my head: a picture of the huge mouth in which we stood suddenly closing. Trapping us all inside.

  I thought: if you die in the caves, do you automatically become a ghost? Because you aren’t allowed to leave, for some reason?

  ‘Right,’ said Mum, ending the pause. ‘I think it’s time for a coffee, don’t you?’

  CHAPTER # three

  That night, we ate dinner in Chisolm’s dining room. Our table was in the far right-hand corner, near the window. It was pretty big because it had to accommodate fifteen people.

  Richard had booked it specially. Sylvia Klineberg was there, and she greeted me with a smile. No one in my family had seen her since that business with Eglantine, last year, but she hadn’t changed much. Her hair was still short and grey. She still dressed neatly. The only difference was that she didn’t seem so brisk and efficient – perhaps because of her thirteen-year-old son, who had come with her.

  His name was Paul, and he was a real pig. I don’t know what his problem was. First he kept kicking the table leg, like someone Bethan’s age. Then, when Sylvia asked him to ‘Please stop, darling – there’s a good boy’, he started poking holes in the tablecloth with his fork. He wouldn’t eat his food, either. He kept mashing it into a disgusting mulch. Finally, Sylvia gave him some of her food: roast lamb, I think. Paul chewed away at a few mouthfuls before spitting them out, and dumping the mangled bits of gristle on his mother’s plate.

  Michelle and I couldn’t believe our eyes.

  The other two strangers who ate with us were Gordon and Joyce. They were a retired couple, and they had been members of PRISM for years. They had also been just about everywhere. In Scotland, they had visited Loch Ness. In Queensland, they had looked for the mysterious ‘Min Min’ lights, which travellers in the outback are sometimes supposed to see. They had been to Nepal, to Salem (Massachusetts) and to Egypt. They had even been hypnotised, and had attended a ‘past lives’ workshop. Their main hobby was staying in haunted houses.