narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

  ~~~

  I had taken the direct train from Kodrum to Town CBD.

  I hate hospitals. They remind me of when Dad left. I remember the smell. It is the same everywhere. The smell of Tut’s second birthday ... not cake, not burning candles, just a lot of tears and fat sympathetic nurses giving us rock hard butter-scotch candies. I remember our four-year-old Ajak throwing them at the doctor. I remember Mama rocking back and forth in her seat next to Dad’s cold body. I remember our intelligent Ajak telling her it was okay to cry. Ajak said Dad told her if anything ever happened to him, she would take care of us. Ajak Lola Dengere, the problem-solver. She once warned Uncle Deng to ‘never ever in his entire life’ lay a hand on Tut. Tut had broken Uncle Deng’s special soapstone smoke-pipe. Apparently the pipe was a present from his special girlfriend ... one of his many special girlfriends. The bloody pipe from a place called Tabaka in Kenya.

  I am sitting at Royale Hospital’s lawn, ignoring the hunger twists my stomach is doing.

  This cannot happen to Yonah. He will live. He needs to tell me his story ... forget the story. Yonah is young. His life is just starting. He is young. He is so young.

  I have my portable MP3 headphones in my ears, listening to Jamila by Jose Chameleon, a Ugandan talent. Bad choice of music at this point in time. Jamila is an abused woman. Her husband beats her up like a punch bag ... but she goes back to him after their two families do their problem-solving thing. I like the beats of this song though. I see its video in my head every single time I listen to it. I like the mud huts and the banana plantation. I like Chameleon’s Maasai shuka ...

  A paramedic has been yelling at me for the past five minutes.

  ‘Allo?’

  I apologise in a static tone of a girl who needs ice cold water splashed all over her.

  ‘That thin lady is asking for you,’ he says, pointing at Yonah’s mother – a verge of death from the word go.

  Five minutes later I am walking back to the train station. I couldn’t have managed driving had I brought the old car. I could hit someone on the road if I do not kill myself at it.

  I stop to get some M&Ms at a kiosk. I hear the news headlines for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Police have charged an Afghan man with one count of murder and one count of assault in relation to the brawl in South Guildford last evening. Witnesses say the multicultural footy game turned sour when one player was called a monkey and another a terrorist. A nineteen-year-old Sudanese student was stabbed with a knife. Yonah Mayang died at Royale Hospital a few hours ago. The victim’s mother has expressed utter sadness at the tragedy ... ‘We came here to get some peace ... he was my only son’ ... Police are urging locals to remain calm ... the fight was not racially motivated.’

  Sure, they were fighting for the last piece of M&Ms in a chocolate factory.

  ‘Nyanyai!’ someone’s voice startles me.

  ‘Marija?’

  She smiles sadly and gives me a sudden hug.

  ‘I am sorry. I did not know you knew him. But I saw you with him at ...’

  ‘Good Sammy’s?’

  She is embarrassed. I can tell.

  ‘Such a lovely boy.’

  I feel a sudden sense of double loss. Yosam ... Yonah had a girlfriend. The girl’s mother is staring right at me with that jah face of hers. I spot her daughter yards away. She can barely look at me.

  She has bright pink newsreader-stiff hair and a ring on her tongue.

   

  Sunday 3 June 2012

  My Name Is Gertrude …

  Robyn Chaffey

  Hazelbrook, NSW

  I’m grateful to be here at this meeting tonight, but I am really quite nervous. You had already been recommended to me by three other confessed mums in my neighbourhood. Then last week, when I had reached the end of my tether, and could manage my life no longer, I asked my doctor what he thought … he said both his wife and his mother had long attended your meetings and he’d felt it had a healing effect on the whole family.

  ‘It is, after all, a well known fact,’ he reminded me, ‘that the disease of motherhood is a family disease!’ Then he added, ‘It is utterly impossible that anyone could live in the same house as one addicted to motherhood, with the behaviours and compulsions that engenders, and not be affected! You must do it for them if you won’t do it for yourself!’

  I felt quite sick about coming here, I don’t mind telling you. I sat outside in my car for ages and watched you all come in. What was I getting myself into? You all looked so ‘normal’ though! I think I thought you would all have hairstyles reminiscent of people with their fingers permanently jammed in power-points, super wrinkled brows and heads that shook like the wobble dogs in rear car windows.

  I have for so long felt totally alien in my own life, I guess that is what I expected to see and hear in you.

  I had promised myself I would just sit and listen … see what happened in here. I planned to see the meeting through in silence and hit the street immediately it ended … just knew I was going to need a long draw on a strong black caffeine … and a chance to roll my neck and crack it back into place.

  Fortuitous though that the first person to speak, spoke of ‘denial’! Then you all seemed naturally to follow suit.

  Did you read my mind? Or is it actually possible that we all suffer the same symptoms? I thought I was the only one. Oh that it really was de Nile in Egypt! Can you imagine what it would be like to just lie back, close your eyes and float away … aaah!

  As I sat here and listened to you I knew quite well it was the ‘other’ kind … the kind that had me postpone my need for exercise till I had long outgrown all my clothes … my need to pay a good hairdresser because the kids wanted Nike shoes and I had a ‘duty’ to provide … the kind that suggested so strongly that it was I who should give up my career to look after the children because my husband’s work was more important … Denial or Martyrdom Syndrome?! I don’t ever remember anyone demanding any of it.

  There is an upside to this denial thing though. I’ve seen it clearly as I’ve listened. That which is engendered and long nurtured within the dread disease of motherhood, which is passed on only to the female children and is sadly rife in womanhood, gives birth to camaraderie and laughter, gentleness with strength, enough knowledge of tears to comfort others … as you have done for me tonight.

  My name is Gertrude … and I am a recovering Mum.

   

  Monday 4 June 2012

  One Day

  Pat Ridley

  Sandringham, NSW

  The last of the five kittens died today. I had kept it alive for six days and I really thought this one would survive. Two died yesterday and two the day before. I buried them underneath the bushes at the back of the block of units. I didn’t have the heart to bury this one – I just covered it with the bit of blanket and pushed it into a corner. I wish now I had never heard them miaowing in the middle of the night and got up out of my nice warm bed and rummaged through the garbage bin. I found them eventually in an old shoe box, one dead – the other five mewling. Why did I bother with the heating of the milk, the searching through dusty drawers until I found the eye-dropper, setting my alarm clock to feed them every two hours, the whole bit? Why did I prolong their agony? Shit, why did I prolong mine?

  God, wait a minute, what’s happening here! I can’t crack up now – not now – not after the past two years. Well, say it then, say it again and again, til you’ve got it through that thick skull of yours – say it, say it, say it! Okay, alright here goes –

  ‘My name is Suzanne Carter …’ Louder, louder, you fool, you MUST say it louder –  

  ‘MY NAME IS SUZANNE CARTER, I AM TWENTY-EIGHT AND I HAVE NOT HAD A DRINK FOR TWO YEARS AND EIGHTEEN DAYS!’

  Was that loud enough for you? They’ll be banging on the wall in a minute. So, what’s the big deal, who the hell cares anyway? What did they teach us in Group – ‘Care about yourself first, and then others will begin to care’.

&n
bsp; Right, so let’s get on with the ‘caring bit’. I’m hungry; what have we got to eat in this place? Nothing in the fridge, except one shrivelled-up black banana. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t vegetarian, it would be so easy just to go and get a hamburger. Well, I suppose I could always get some chips at Joe’s.

  I thought about the week ahead on the way to the cafe – tomorrow Group Therapy and AA Meeting. Thursday, dole – good, I can buy some food; must try and buy some more soup mixes, lentils and beans, that way I’ll always have something to eat even if I run out of money. Friday, nothing except AA and Saturday, nothing. My mouth began to water thinking of those hot chips and I ran the last few steps to Joe’s Cafe. The little blonde waitress ignored me at first and then jumped when I repeated my order. I almost felt sorry for her. Save the sympathy for yourself, honey, she probably has a fat husband and three kids waiting for her at home, and all you have is a dead kitten.

  Joe came round the counter with the chips and said he was looking for someone to work weekends, and would I be interested? I got such a shock I nearly dropped the chips. He is a nice man, Joe, and has always treated me the same, even when I had the red Mohawk haircut and the nose ring. I told him I would let him know tomorrow but I knew I would say ‘yes’. I could not believe he really trusted me enough to offer me work. The day was improving and I did a little skip as I rounded the corner.

  I still had seven chips left when I let myself into the flat. I got a glass of water and curled up on the couch to finish them. There was a tiny sound coming from somewhere in the flat – a mouse, maybe. Oh please, no mice, not again! I glanced at the bit of blanket over the dead kitten and God help me I swear it was moving! I picked up the tiny bundle and parted the wrap – it was wriggling and looking at me through half-open eyes. They had been clamped tight shut this morning. I got the eye-dropper and set to work. This one would live. I would make sure of it – so help me God!

   

  Tuesday 5 June 2012 8 am

  Chicken Dinner At The Roadhouse

  Graham Sparks

  Bathurst, NSW

  All the living things whose flesh I’ve ever eaten

  have now a life in me,

  ’though caged or penned in first edition,

  in me they have a better lot,

  for done to them they truly have what I would unto me.

   

  When I see the little spirit clouds against the blue

  and gentle hills that rise above the soft green snatch of earth

  moist with rill and ferny glade,

  they too feel my gladness.

  And when I head out on the highway

  and play the ten note organ

  that makes the little ‘jimmy’ sing,

  they too share my freedom.

   

  Tuesday 5 June 2012 4 pm

  Two Lovers

  Rimeriter

  Lansvale, NSW

  A wedding took place in a church long ago,

  the groom was resplendent, the bride was aglow.

  They had known each other since ringlets and curls,

  she was the pick of the bunch; amongst all other girls.

  He tried many ways to impress her; no doubt,

  when he succeeded, inside he would shout.

  There’s pleasure and pain in courtship and love,

  but if the god Eros smiles down from above,

  both hearts will entwine and love will ensue,

  with trust, dedication; both must be true.

  Time just moves on, and lovers do too,

  in the mid nineteen fifties, it was me, it was you.

  I tried to impress you in so many ways,

  I loved you, I left you and counted the days

  we took to resolve the situation: no doubt.

  Perhaps that's what true love is really about.

  There’s pleasure and pain in courtship and love,

  but when the god Eros smiles down from above,

  both hearts will entwine and love will ensue,

  with trust, dedication; both must be true.

  The years are unfolding toward the next century

  unknown the adventures that still are to be.

  As lovers have continued through all of the ages

  we too will have our story, in history’s pages.

  I love you still, of that there’s no doubt,

  that’s what true love is really about.

  There’s pleasure and pain in courtship and love

  but because the god Eros smiled down from above,

  both hearts have entwined and love did ensue.

  With trust, dedication

  both have been true.

   

  Wednesday 6 June 2012

  The Barcoo Flood

  David Anderson

  Woodford, NSW

  Storm clouds gathered above the Barcoo River as the bullocky lit his fire

  The first drops fell and it wasn’t too long ’till his wagon was caught in the mire

  In the hills the big storm released its load and the swift river rose in a blink

  It rushed down the cracked and dry stream beds, thirsty for the want of a drink

  Then the river grew angry as a shearer’s temper and reached for the dusty banks

  It flowed across the parched brown flats and rose up the sheep’s scrawny shanks.

   

  Poor Bill, the bullocky, swam for his life, his dog old Blue by his side

  He watched as his team was struggling to swim in the Barcoo’s mounting tide

  The squatter’s sheep were fading fast as they swept past Bill in the stream

  As the lightning flashed above his head poor Bill wished it was only a dream

  Then his pony he’d freed from the back of his wagon swam past and he grasped at its tail

  He grasped Blue’s collar and said ‘Save me Lord and I’ll pray every night without fail.’

   

  His tired horse struggled up a slippery bank as Bill and poor Blue caught their breath

  They too climbed the slope and lay in the mud as Bill contemplated close death.

  The lightning lit up and split open the clouds who released more rain to the ground

  When through all the thunder and rage of the river Bill heard a peculiar sound

  It resembled the cry of a baby quite small or was it the bleat of a sheep?

  And in that brief moment he couldn’t recall that he’d seen the Barcoo flow so deep.

   

  Then he found a woman face down in the mud and a baby so cold near her side

  It let out a cry but Bill surely knew in the woman he couldn’t confide

  For her lungs they were full of the wild Barcoo brew of water and mud, foul and brown

  But the baby she’d placed up high on a ledge so the mite wouldn’t fall in and drown

  Then he climbed on the horse with the child in one hand, the other one held fast the reins,

  The rain had now stopped, and the storm clouds rolled by while the sun shone down on the plains.

   

  Bill entered the camp where the black people lived with the news of their terrible loss

  They gathered around and Bill then stepped down and handed the babe to old Floss

  The men went out to the Barcoo banks to bring the poor mother back

  And Bill was given a place to sleep and some food in an old gunny sack

  He left the next morning for he surely knew that the people would need time to mourn

  And he too felt a loss for Bill had a son that he’d seen not since it had been born.

   

  So Bill left the Barcoo and with his dog Blue, for Sydney by train he did travel

  To seek out his son and right things left undone, but he knew it was hard to unravel

  For the love of his life, his poor darling wife had died in the birth of his son

  And everyone knew that the best thing to do was for Bill to go on the run

  ‘You can’t rai
se him,’ they said, ‘With you he’d be dead, in a month if left in your care.’

  So he kissed the mite’s head, tucked him into bed and ruffled his sweet curly hair.

   

  Now Bill found his son, his only dear son at work in a bar at The Rocks

  He’d married a girl from the Emerald Isle who worked in a store selling frocks

  They had a small child, yes old Bill’s grandchild and he held her tight in his huge arms

  She had eyes like her mother, who wished for a brother to add to her family’s charms

  Now Bill was content, but still had a bent for the North and he left on the train

  But he’ll come back once more see his family for sure, when the Barcoo flood hits once again.

   

  Thursday 7 June 2012 8 am

  You Can't Go Wrong

  Toni Paton

  Blackheath, NSW

  Horticulture was his passion,

  Working amongst plants and weeds.

  Tilling, digging and sowing

  Scattering countless seeds.

   

  A man who worked close to nature,

  Enjoyed his work with the earth.

  An affinity with all around him,

  Seen, from the day of his birth.

   

  With a lifestyle happy and carefree –

  Grew a beard down to his waist.

  Thrived on the spoils of his labour,

  Fruit and veg were his favoured taste.

   

  On arising early one morning

  He peered in the mirror to see,

  Pushing their way through his beard –

  Green shoots of a little tree.

   

  Leaving it there, he let it grow,

  Nurtured and cared for it well.

  The rate of growth quite amazing,

  It was happy – was easy to tell.

   

  Time passed, the tree was felled,

  (Weight from his beard sheer bliss)

  For an environmental disposal

  His line of action was this …

   

  The leaves he used for compost,

  The bark, mulch for the ground,

  The trunk cut up into timber.

  What satisfaction he found.

   

  Having thought about his plan

  All that was left was the root,

  This, a log for his fire

  Leaving only – a small pile of soot.

   

  There’s a lesson in this story,

  In the very words you have read.

   

  If you have an inspiration,

  Try it … you can’t go wrong!

   

  Friday 8 and Saturday 9 June 2012

  God's Other Son

  Paris Portingale

  Mt Victoria, NSW

  ‘So, I said to the officer, “It may be illegal, but not if I do it”.’ Carlo touched the graze on his temple to see if it was still bleeding, but it wasn’t. ‘He must have been in a good mood, got laid that morning, maybe. Had a little win on the horses. Didn’t hit me straight off. He was pretty laid back. He got up my licence and he says, “And why would that be … Carlo?” I said to him, “That’s because I am God’s other son, come down to earth to save mankind,” which actually is the fact of the matter. But anyways, that’s when he hit me. He said, “That’s not funny, son,” and whacks me with his stick, through the window.’

  Edgardo DeRay, on the other side of the cell, said, ‘Didn’t know God had the two sons. Don’t know that bit’s in the bible at all.’

  On and off, Edgardo had spent periods, brief, and on occasion not so brief, in a number of lock-ups around the state and was accustomed to sharing space with the widest variety of souls a person could imagine. He’d learned that toleration was the key to keeping yourself in one piece, and that a little polite acceptance of another’s foibles kept a place free of various troubles, easily eruptible in the confinement of a cell.

  Carlo said, ‘Oh, it’s there alright. Every time you see mentioned, “The Other,” well, that’s me.’

  ‘The Other?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s in there. Couple of times. The Other. You can look it up.’

  ‘It probably just means the other camel or something.’

  ‘Depends on your point of interpretation.’

  Getting up, Edgardo said, ‘Going to use the Johnny-hole there. Be obliged if you’d just look the other way.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Carlo, and he walked over to the bars and hung his arms through for a while.

  When Edgardo had finished, he said, ‘So, who’s your momma, then?’

  ‘A fine, church-going, God-fearing woman name of Ellie May Morgan.’

  ‘So, how’d she get herself in the family way and come along with you? God do that?’

  ‘Yes, yes he did.’

  ‘Came down and laid with her?’

  ‘No, nothing carnal like that. We’re talking about almighty God here, not some Johnny Lunch-Pail from the local which-what factory. It was an immaculate conception, like with his first son.’

  ‘All these maculate conceptions. Makes a man wonder if the good Lord’s got no actual penis or something.’

  ‘Oh, He’s got a penis alright. But when you think about it, you can see how He’d see it wouldn’t look one hundred percent right him coming down and doing the actual rumpy himself. He immaculately conceives from up there in heaven.’

  ‘Can see his point. So, where’s your momma at now?’

  ‘Huntsville. Huntsville Alabama.’

  ‘Got a cousin lives there. Ray Arlington Tucker. You know him by any chance?’

  Carlo tried to conjure a Ray Arlington Tucker but there was nothing. He said, ‘No, can’t say I do.’

  They were silent for a while, then a deputy brought in lunch. Boloney sandwiches, one for each of the two prisoners.

  ‘Bread’s stale again,’ Edgardo said.

  ‘Wouldn’t know anything about that,’ Carlo said. ‘This is my first time under arrest.’

  ‘Well, bread’s usually stale. Tuesday we got fresh. Said to the deputy, “How come bread’s fresh today?” He said, “Cause we run out of stale”.’

  After lunch, Carlo and Edgardo had a nap, then the deputy came back to get the plates. Edgardo said to him, ‘This here’s God’s other son, Carlo Morgan, deputy.’

  The deputy said, ‘Shut it, DeRay. God ain’t got no other son, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch. I won’t have no inflammatory talk in this jailhouse or you’ll be talking to old Mr Nightstick here,’ and he took out his subduing baton and gave the wall a whacking to demonstrate the kind of conversation that occurs in an intercourse with old Mr Nightstick.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Edgardo said, and the deputy told him, ‘Yeah, well stop saying. My daddy’s a preacher, plus I got a uncle down in Montgomery’s a preacher as well and I won’t abide the Lord’s name getting taken in vain.’

  ‘Fair call,’ Edgardo said, and the deputy gave him a look, then left.

  ‘Touchy son-of-a-bitch,’ Edgardo said.

  ‘Ah, it was like that with my brother and the Romans,’ Carlo told him.

  ‘You got a brother?’

  ‘I’m talking about the Lord Jesus Christ.’

  For want of any other entertainment, Edgardo said, ‘He’d be just your step-brother though, because of your different mommas, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Still brothers.’

  ‘True. You actually met him?’

  ‘No, but that’ll come.’

  ‘Up in …’

  ‘Yeah, come the day.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You’d be looking forward to it I’d imagine, although you’d have to be in a state of actual death to achieve the thing.’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Be nice though, you never having met him in person and all.’

  ‘Yeah. I im
agine there’ll be a bit of a to-do.’

  Edgardo smiled, thinking of any two brothers, never met, getting together. ‘Reckon there would,’ he said.

  Edgardo grimaced then and put fingers to his chest and rubbed. ‘Oh, momma,’ he said.

  ‘You alright there?’ Carlo asked him.

  ‘This damn stomach. It’s like goddamn battery acid bubbling up in my throat,’ and he got up and took himself to the bars and called out, ‘Deputy, you got any of that Zantalox left? My stomach’s giving me the living hell.’

  The deputy replied something and a few minutes later appeared with a bottle of some white mixture and he handed it through the bars. Edgardo unscrewed the lid and was about to put the bottle to his lips when the deputy said, ‘Don’t put your filthy criminal lips on that or I’ll shoot you where you stand, you goddamn thieving son-of-a-bitch,’ and Edgardo went and got a plastic jail cup and poured in a serving, screwed the top back on the bottle and handed it back through the bars. ‘Thanks, deputy,’ he said, but the officer left without response, and Edgardo drank the mixture and tried to burp but nothing would come.

  Five minutes later, Edgardo was still in some distress and Carlo said, ‘Maybe I could help with that.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll just wait for the Zantalox to work.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be working.’

  ‘I’ll give it a bit longer. What do you think you could do, anyway? You got a miracle up your sleeve there, Mr Other Son of God?’ and Edgardo laughed.

  ‘Maybe,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Like your brother, Lord Jesus Christ, with the lepers?’ and Edgardo grimaced again and rubbed his chest. ‘Oh, momma,’ he said.

  Carlo got up and came across the cell and put an open palm on Edgardo’s chest and cast his gaze up towards the ceiling with a look that suggested he was seeing through and way further up, possibly into the firmaments themselves.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Edgardo asked, and Carlo told him, ‘Using the power given to me by the Lord God himself, handed down as birth right to his second to only begotten son, Carlo Morgan of Huntsville, in the glorious, God-created state of Alabama, 35801.’

  Carlo felt Edgardo’s chest relax and, with a little push to further settle things, took away his hand and said, ‘There, that ought-a do it.’

  Edgardo smiled the slow smile of a man suddenly up and relieved of a grievous and burdensome pain and said, ‘Dear Lord above.’

  Carlo went back and sat on his bunk, whereupon Edgardo, stretching to further enjoy those first, fine moments of relief said, ‘Could have been the Zantalox finally doing what it should have. No offense to you, Mr Morgan, but it could have been that; the Zantalox working itself into the system.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Carlo. ‘No saying it wasn’t. Only thing is, in the laying on of the hand back then, I did sense a certain something not right in there.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘It’s just, once laid on, the healing hands feel away everywhere. Can’t help it. Can’t shut it out, it’s the way of the hands.’

  Despite himself, Edgardo felt the tickle of a little, uninvited, worrisome thought, and he said, ‘And what did the hand see?’

  ‘A malice.’

  ‘What kind of malice?’

  ‘Called a cancer.’

  ‘What cancer?’

  ‘Liver.’

  ‘My liver’s fine. Nothing wrong with my liver. Never given me a day’s trouble.’ He put his hand over where he thought his liver to be and said, ‘Nah, nothing there.’

  ‘A liver sits on the other side, bit further up,’ Carlo told him. ‘Not that you’d be able to feel anything. Not at this point in time.’

  ‘Ah, you’re just talking through your hat. And God ain’t got no other son. What would a son of God be doing in a jailhouse like this anyway? And don’t go touching me again. In fact, stay over there on your side. I don’t want you anywheres near me. You’re a freak, weirdo, son-of-a-bitch.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Carlo, and he lay himself down on his bunk and looked up at the ceiling with his previous, faraway eyes.

  A couple of hours went by with no further conversation proffered by either party. Carlo could be quite happy with his own company and nothing else, content to stare into the infinities and attend what considerations his mind took to the forefront.

  Then, lying on his bunk across the cell, Edgardo said, ‘You still there by any chance, Carlo?’

  ‘Yep, I’m still here,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Look, and don’t take this to mean I go along with any of your old folderol about God’s other son and all that crap, because I don’t. Ain’t no The Other in the bible, I know that for a fact because in all my church-going time I never once heard no mention of no The Other.’ Here Edgardo paused to more arrange his next words so as to not sound like they in any way countenanced any notion of second sons or malice-feeling hands, and when he had them in a way he felt expressed just that, he said, ‘Just out of a pure, nothing-else-to-do line of distraction, because God knows there ain’t nothing else to do in this goddamn incarceration hole …’ and here Edgardo stopped and cursed himself for a fool for entertaining any notion of truth in Carlo’s God’s other son ramblings, and turned on his side to face away to the wall.

  Carlo said, ‘You want to know about the malignance?’

  ‘Ain’t no malignance.’

  ‘Well, that’s well as may be. I wouldn’t force a malignance on any man, friend or foe, or otherwise. I was just telling what the hand saw, that’s all. Felt it would be a disservice not to say something is all. Take it as you will. Can’t say I’d take it much differently, the positions being reversed.’

  Edgardo rolled back over. ‘God damn you, Carlo. What the hell malignance is it you think you saw in there?’

  ‘Your liver’s got a cancer is what the hand saw. I’m sorry but I can’t make it any different.’

  ‘Well, what’s it doing?’

  ‘What a cancer does. It’s just growing away in there. Cancer doesn’t give a never-mind about anything much.’

  ‘And what’s going to happen with this cancer?’

  ‘It’s going to eat you up. It’s what cancers do.’

  ‘So, what am I going to do?’

  ‘You got plenty of health insurance?’

  Edgardo laughed but it had a strong edge of the bitter. ‘I got so much health insurance I got health insurance coming out my goddamn health insurance.’

  ‘Well, you’ll probably be okay if you don’t dilly dally about with the thing.’

  ‘God almighty, for a God’s other son you sure ain’t got no handle on sarcasm, that’s for sure.’

  Carlo raised up and swung his legs so as to be sitting on the edge of the bunk. He said, ‘The thing about it is, it’s all about faith. If you’ve got the belief, anything can happen.’

  ‘I got faith,’ Edgardo said.

  ‘Who am I then, Edgardo?’

  ‘Carlo Morgan from Huntsville, Alabama.’

  ‘35801.’

  Edgardo snorted.

  Carlo said, ‘And who else did I say I am?’

  ‘God’s other son, but that’s a load of crap.’

  ‘Who healed your acid reflux bubble-up back there?’

  ‘Zantalox, that’s who.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘If you’re God’s other son, show me something a God’s other son could do.’

  ‘I thought I already did.’

  ‘No, something proper Godlike.’

  ‘That’s not the way it works.’

  ‘Thought so,’ Edgardo said, and a certain disgust came out with the words.

  Carlo stood up and went over to Edgardo and said, ‘You got a pack of cards about you anywhere?’

  ‘Sure I got a pack of cards, but no goddamn card trick’s going to convince me you’re nothing you ain’t.’

  ‘Give me the cards. Won’t hurt you.’

  Edgardo took a deck of cards out of a side pocket and Carlo said, ‘They’re your cards, right?
’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Just check them out first, see nothing funny’s going on.’

  Edgardo flicked through the deck. ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘Okay give them to me.’

  Edgardo handed them over and Carlo shuffled them and then fanned the deck out, face side down, on the bunk. He said, ‘Okay, pick out a card.’

  Edgardo went for the middle of the deck, then changed his mind and moved down to the second last card. He looked up at Carlo for some indication of rightness or wrongness and, receiving nothing, moved over towards the top of the deck, looked at Carlo again, and selected a card and looked at it.

  ‘What is it?’ Carlo asked.

  ‘Like I’m going to tell you,’ Edgardo said.

  ‘Ace of spades, right?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Okay, pick another card.’

  Edgardo took a second card from somewhere near the middle and looked at it. ‘Can’t be,’ he said.

  ‘Try another one,’ Carlo said, and Edgardo picked another card. ‘Goddamn,’ he said and flicked over card after card, all of which were the ace of spades. ‘How’d you do that?’ he said.

  Carlo shrugged and gathered all the cards and straightened them and handed the deck back to Edgardo.

  Edgardo flicked through the pack again and they were all still the ace of spades. ‘Goddamn,’ he said. ‘I got another three weeks in here. Now what am I going to do for a distraction?’

  ‘Three weeks is going to take a toll on that liver you got in there, I can tell you that,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Goddamn will you stop going on about the liver.’

  ‘Just saying,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Well, what do you propose doing about it if you’re such a big, God’s other goddamn son? Eh?’

  Carlo held up his hands. ‘Might take both of them this time,’ he said.

  Edgardo said, ‘Crap,’ and again a disgust came out with the word.

  ‘Like I said, I don’t force anything on a person who doesn’t want it,’ Carlo said and went back to his bunk.

  After a few minutes, Edgardo said, ‘Just say for a purely hypothetical sake I let those hands over here again. Just as a hypothetical question, what would you do?’ Carlo started to get up and Edgardo said, ‘You sit the fuck down. Didn’t say to come over. Just asked what’d happen if you did.’

  ‘I’d put the hands of the almighty over your liver and let the power of the Lord God, handed down to me at the time of my earthly birth, do its work.’

  ‘And that’s going to fix right this cancer?’

  ‘That’s the way it works.’

  ‘Like when Jesus healed the lepers?’

  ‘Much the same.’

  ‘No, it’s crap.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’m just offering, nothing more.’

  Edgardo punched the bed and said, ‘Goddamn you, Carlo.’

  Carlo held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose. Only saying.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Edgardo punched the bed again and said, ‘How the goddamn hell I even know you’re not some crazy lunatic and that there ain’t no cancer at all?’

  ‘How does anyone know anything for a hundred percent good and for sure?’

  ‘Weasel words, question for a question.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Still, nothing.’

  Carlo sighed and said, ‘Look, could you hold it in yourself to believe, no matter how far it feels the truth of the thing’s getting stretched out, that maybe, maybe in the tiniest of maybes, coming from the fact it’s impossible for any man to know the full truth of anything in the universe, that just as a tiny little maybe, around the size of a grain of sand, it could be possible I just could be God’s other, second son?’

  Edgardo said reluctantly, ‘Put out like that, grain of sand wise, yeah, I suppose. But it don’t in no way make it so.’

  ‘Okay, so holding onto that grain, try to imagine that little grain into a belief.’

  Edgardo cast his eyes to the floor and stood staring and concentrating for a while, then looked up.

  Carlo said, ‘So, have you got a belief going there?’ He held Edgardo’s eyes and Edgardo nodded and Carlo said, ‘So, you believe in me?’

  ‘Goddamn, Carlo, you’re standing right there, what’s not to believe?’

  ‘No, do you believe I could be a direct, other son of God?’

  ‘Okay, a little bit.’

  ‘So, can I heal your cancer in there before your organ swells to the size of a football so that’s pretty much all of you there is?’

  ‘Goddamn it, Carlo, put your son-of-a-bitch hands on the thing and get it over. Deputy’ll be here in a minute with supper.’

  ‘Good. Good man,’ Carlo said and came over and placed his hands over the spot where Edgardo’s liver resided and held them there for the count of sixty, making a full and complete minute. Taking them away, Carlo said, ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  ‘Don’t feel no different. Felt a bit warm is all.’

  Carlo held out his hands and said, ‘Here, feel these.’

  Edgardo touched Carlo’s hands then pulled away. ‘God in heaven,’ he said. ‘They’re colder than ice.’

  ‘Liver sucked all the healing warm down into itself, Edgardo. Cancer’s gone by the way.’

  Edgardo said, ‘You better rub those things else they’re going to drop off. Never felt a pair of hands so cold. You’ll get yourself frost-bit.’

  Carlo folded his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits, and it was at that point that the deputy did come with supper, which was a stew and chunk of bread sitting on top. They went to their bunks to eat and Edgardo, biting a piece off the bread, said, ‘So, could you turn your God powers to make this stuff a bit more fresh baked?’

  Carlo smiled and said, ‘I doesn’t work like that, Mr DeRay.’

  ‘Pity,’ Edgardo said.

   

  Sunday 10 June 2012

  To Borrow Freedom

  Susan Sargent

  Narrabri, NSW

  The sound of galloping hooves echoed distantly in Sandra’s head. She turned to look, an instinctive reaction, yet she already knew that there was nothing there to make that sound … only twittering birds, annoying buzzing insects and the odd small lizard skittering through the undergrowth. She’d heard this sound before, many times in this place – her place, a place that only she knew about, her quiet hideaway from the stresses of life. Occasionally, the hoof beats would be accompanied by a shadow, or a flash of white brilliance, a flicker in the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look, there was nothing. The spirit, however, what she could feel, was unmistakable. He was there, no doubt about it.

  Everyone knew the legends of course. A ghostly white horse, running wild and free in the scrub, said to appear every few years to entice young maidens from their homes, with the vain hope of riding high upon his back, then lead them to their deaths in the wild bushland. Some sort of Pied Piper routine. But those were just stories, weren’t they? Every town had its folklore, after all.

  Sandra tossed her fiery curls, and closed her eyes, listening for those distant hoofbeats, trying to find their bodiless sound in the white noise around her. She knew that the more you tried to find him, the quicker he vanished, but she could feel him in her soul – he was nearby. Yes, there was the sound, closer this time, carried to her on the light whispering wind that brushed her face and breathed hello as it went. She kept her eyes closed, enjoying the peace of her tranquil hideaway, imagining the majestic creature who owned that sound.

  He was tall and powerful, with a snow white coat, long flowing mane and a tail held proudly aloft as he ran. He exuded an air of indestructibility, daring anyone to challenge him. His legend had been passed down for generations, keeping his magic alive. That was all he needed to exist – just one believer. The more who believed, the stronger he became, but one was all he required.

 
Sandra caught the familiar scent of horse wafting on that gentle breeze. That was a new phenomenon, something she’d experienced only recently, for perhaps a week or two. She’d been lucky of late, managing to spend a little time in her special place every day, giving her the opportunity to let him into her soul, to blend their two psyches as one. The lazy summer days afforded her freedom compared to the busy weeks of springtime, although the summer harvest would soon be upon her, filling her days and keeping her away once again.

  She felt his presence in her very core. He always arrived so unobtrusively, gradually filtering into her consciousness, barely noticed, like the changing of the tide. He never spoke to her directly, using images in her mind rather than speaking to her in words. Sometimes he would simply lead her thoughts in the direction he wanted them to go. She was happy to be led. She enjoyed the images and feelings he gave her, finding peace where others might feel violated. He had a straightforward mind, steadfast and strong in its simplicity, easy to please but definite in his wants and needs. Sandra often found herself wishing that her family were like him – no uncertainty, no untruthfulness and certainly no deceit to be found. It was refreshing to find such an open, honest, unadulterated mind.

  Suddenly, the galloping sound was right in front of her. She hurriedly sat up and opened her eyes in a brief moment of panic, fearing that she would be trampled under his mighty tread. The sound abruptly stopped. Sandra’s heart fell. He’d gone. She’d ruined the moment.

  A soft nicker murmured from behind her, followed by a gentle nudge against her back. She started with fright, then froze for a moment, wondering if this was real, then turned ever so slowly, afraid that he would vanish at any moment. As she gazed upon him for the first time, she could not believe what she saw. She felt her excitement grow as she realised he truly was standing right in front of her! The Legend of the Scrub was right here, right now, with her. Sandra. Plain, boring, normal Sandra. She’d never heard of anyone actually seeing him – at least, not outside their dreams! She trembled at his commanding presence, completely in awe of this magnificent beast. He was exactly as she imagined him, flawless white coat, snow white mane and a long, flowing tail held proudly aloft. Tiny rainbows danced across that dazzling hide, playing an intricate game of hide and seek with the twilight shadows of the sunset. His snow white mane glittered in the evening light, slightly tousled by the breeze which gently ruffled it. Sandra knew what he was there for. In her mind she saw herself, astride his broad back, riding the wind along with him.

  It was the most invigorating, uplifting thing she had ever experienced. The power he exuded was immense, almost overwhelming, yet at the same time he was gentle and cautious in his way. She felt his muscles rippling and bunching as he ran, the sound of his hoofbeats matching his stride, although from the images in her mind Sandra knew they weren’t touching the ground. She daren’t look down to find out. She revelled in the feel of the wind in her face, her fiery hair billowing out behind her like a stream of flames. This was as close to flying as she could possibly imagine.

  She thought the horse a true enigma. So many contradictions! To know he was real, and yet not real, there but not there, the stuff of fairy tales, and yet here she was, upon his back, revelling in the feeling of complete and utter freedom – for that is the true magic of the equine. To ride upon one’s back is to borrow freedom, if only for a time. She didn’t need an enchanted horse to know that. She experienced it every day. Although, definitely not like this. This was something else entirely.

  She felt him slow as they returned to her quiet place. The dusky evening sky had given way to a starry, moonlit night, the moonlight creating wonderful new reflections on his pure white coat. She felt a pang of disappointment at the idea of dismounting from that magnificent broad back. It meant she would have to return to her life, to daily routine and everyday stresses. It was one thing to borrow his freedom, but to have to give it back … how could she go back? Somehow she knew that if she did, she’d never again hear his call. They had bonded on that magical ride, in a way she did not really understand. How could she return to normality after that exhilarating ride? She’d yearn for that freedom forever and a day … and her soul would be empty without him. She could not.

  And so, the legend was true – he did lure young maidens from their homes and their families. Not to their deaths as the townsfolk believed, but to a magical freedom that no earthly being could ever know. Sandra smiled as she and her newfound partner turned and galloped away, shimmering in a glorious shower of stars to blend flawlessly into the dark night.

   

  Monday 11 June 2012