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In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Mavis adjusted her reading glasses, peering suspiciously at the announcement flashing across the common area screen.
“Right then,” she said, tapping it. “Would you look at that. We’re not drifting to our doom in the black abyss anymore. We’re going home. Makes me almost sad to think of it that way.”
Gloria snorted. “Home? I haven’t lived on Earth in so long I don’t even remember which part of it I used to hate the most.”
Sharon sighed dramatically. “Oh, don’t be daft, Glo. We had civilisation back there. Fresh air, real ground under our feet. Seasons!”
Mavis leaned back with a smirk. “And let’s not forget: gravity. Remember that, Glo? That thing that kept our knickers from floating off at inconvenient moments?”
Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “Oh please, Earth gravity’s overrated. I’ve gotten used to my ankles not being swollen. Besides, you do realise that Earth’s just a tiny, miserable speck in all this? How could we tire of this grand adventure into nothing?” She gestured widely, nearly knocking Sharon’s drink out of her hand.
Sharon gasped. “Well, that was uncalled for. Tiny miserable speck, my foot! That tiny speck is the only thing in this whole bloody universe with tea and biscuits. Get the same in Uranus now!”
Mavis nodded sagely. “She’s got a point, Glo.”
Gloria narrowed her eyes. “Oh, don’t you start. I was perfectly fine living out my days in the great unknown, floating about like a well-moisturized sage of space, unburdened by all the nonsense of Earth.”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me. Two weeks ago you were crying about missing your favorite brand of shampoo.”
Gloria sniffed. “That was a moment of weakness.”
Mavis grinned. “And now you’re about to have another when we get back and realise how much tax has accumulated while we’ve been away.”
A horrified silence fell between them.
Sharon exhaled. “Right. Back to the abyss then?”
Gloria nodded solemnly. “Back to the abyss.”
Mavis raised her cup. “To the abyss.”
They clinked their mismatched mugs together in a toast, while the ship quietly, inevitably, pulled them home.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy
The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.
In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.
In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.
The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.
It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.
A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.
“To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”
A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.
Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.
That was without counting when the madness began.
The Gossip Spiral
“Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
“The Lexican?” gasped another.
“Yes. Gave birth last night.”
“What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
“Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
“Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”
This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”
Wisdom Against Wisdom
Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.
“Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”
Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.
“Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”
Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”
Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”
The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”
By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.
Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”
More Mass Lunacy
It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.
“I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
“Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
“Who took my water flask?!”
“Why is this man so close to me?!”
“I am FLOATING?! HELP!”Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.
“For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”
Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.
Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.
Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.The Unions and the Leopards
Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.
“Bloody management.”
“Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
“Damn right. MICRO-management.”
“Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
“Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”
The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”
“…seriously?”
“Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”
“That’s inhumane.”
“Bloody right it is.”
At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.
“Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”
The Slingshot Begins
The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.
Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
Someone else vomited.Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”
Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
“And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.
“Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Klyutch Base – an Unknown Signal
The flickering green light on the old console pulsed like a heartbeat.
Orrin Holt leaned forward, tapping the screen. A faint signal had appeared on their outdated long-range scanners—coming from the coastline near the Black Sea. He exchanged a glance with Commander Koval, the no-nonsense leader of Klyutch Base.
“That can’t be right,” muttered Janos Varga, Solara’s husband who was managing the coms’ beside him. “We haven’t picked up anything out of the coast in years.”
Koval grunted like an irate bear, then exhaled sharply. “It’s not our priority. We already lost track of the fools we were following at the border. Let them go. If they went south, they’ve got bigger problems.”
Outside, a distant roar sliced through the cold dusk—a deep, guttural sound that rattled the reinforced windows of the command room.
Orrin didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before.
It was the unmistakable cry of a pack of sanglions— лев-кабан lev-kaban as the locals called the monstrous mutated beasts, wild vicious boars as ferocious as rabid lions that roamed Hungary’s wilds— and they were hunting. If the escapees had made their way there, they were as good as dead.
“Can’t waste the fuel chasing ghosts,” Koval grunted.
But Orrin was still watching the blip on the screen. That signal had no right to be there, nothing was left in this region for years.
“Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t think this is just another lost survivor. This frequency—it’s old. Military-grade. And repeating. Someone wants to be found.”
A beat of silence. Then Koval straightened.
“You better be right Holt. Everyone, gear up.”
Merdhyn – Lazurne Coastal Island — The Signal Tossed into Space
Merdhyn Winstrom wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still trembling from the final connection. He’d made a ramshackle workshop out of a crumbling fishing shack on the deserted islet near Lazurne. He wasn’t one to pay too much notice to the mess or anythings so pedestrian —even as the smell of rusted metal and stale rations had started to overpower the one of sea salt and fish guts.
The beacon’s old circuitry had been a nightmare, but the moment the final wire sparked to life, he had known that the old tech had awoken: it worked.
The moment it worked, for the first time in decades, the ancient transponder from the crashed Helix 57 lifeboat had sent a signal into the void.
If someone was still out there, something was bound to hear it… it was a matter of time, but he had the intuition that he may even get an answer back.
Tuppence, the chatty rat had returned on his shoulder to nestle in the folds of his makeshift keffieh, but squeaked in protest as the old man let out a half-crazed, victorious laugh.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, you miserable blighter. We just opened the bloody door.”
Beyond the broken window, the coastline stretched into the grey horizon. But now… he wasn’t alone.
A sharp, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the distance.
Helicopters.
He stepped outside, the biting wind lashing at his face, and watched the dark shapes appear on the horizon—figures moving through the low mist.
Armed. Military-like.
The men from the nearby Klyutch Base had found him.
Merdhyn grinned, utterly unfazed by their weapons or the silent threat in their stance. He lifted his trembling, grease-stained hands and pointed back toward the wreckage of Helix 57 behind him.
“Well then,” he called, voice almost cheerful, “reckon you lot might have the spare parts I need.”
The soldiers hesitated. Their weapons didn’t lower.
Merdhyn, however, was already walking toward them, rambling as if they’d asked him the most natural of questions.
“See, it’s been a right nightmare. Power couplings were fried. Comms were dead. And don’t get me started on the damn heat regulators. But you lot? You might just be the final missing piece.”
Commander Koval stepped forward, assessing the grizzled old man with the gleam of a genuine mad genius in his eyes.
Orrin Holt, however, wasn’t looking at the wreck.
His eyes were on the beacon.
It was still pulsing, but its pulse had changed — something had been answering back.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 — Aftermath of the Solar Flare Alert
The Second Murder
It didn’t take them long to arrive at the scene, Riven alerted by a distraught Finkley who’d found the body.
Evie knelt beside the limp, twitching form of Mandrake, his cybernetic collar flickering erratically, tiny sparks dancing along its edge. The cat’s body convulsed, its organic parts frozen in eerie stillness while the cybernetic half stuttered between functions, blinking in and out of awareness.
Mandrake was both dead and not dead.
“Well, this is unsettling,” TP quipped, materializing beside them with an exaggerated frown. “A most profound case of existential uncertainty. Schrödinger himself would have found this delightful—if he weren’t very much confirmed dead.”
Riven crouched, running a scanner over Mandrake’s collar. The readout spat out errors. “Neural link’s corrupted. He’s lost something.”
Evie’s stomach twisted. “Lost what? But… he can be repaired, surely, can’t he?”
Evan replied with a sigh “Hard to tell how much damage he’s suffered, but we caught him in time thanks to Finkley’s reflexes, he may stand a chance, even if he may need to be reprogrammed.”
Mandrake’s single functioning eye flickered open, its usual sharpness dull. Then, rasping, almost disjointedly, he muttered:
“I was… murdered.”
Then his system crashed, leaving nothing but silence.
Upper Decks Carnival
Sue was still adjusting her hat and feathers for the Carnival Party wondering if that would be appropriate as she was planning to go to the wake first, and then to the Lexican’s baby shower. It wasn’t every day there was a baby nowadays. And a boy too. But then, there was no such thing as being overdressed in her book.
The ship’s intercom crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts, its automated cheerfulness electrifying like a misplaced party horn.
“Attention, dear passengers! As scheduled, with the solar flare now averted, we are preparing for our return to Earth. Please enjoy the journey and partake in today’s complimentary hibiscus tea at the Grand Hall! Samba!”
The words ‘return to Earth’ sent a shudder through Sue’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.
A sudden pulse of static in her artificial limb made her flinch. A garbled transmission—so faint she almost dismissed it—whispered through her internal interface, that was constantly scanning hacking through the data streams of the ship, and having found critical intel that was quickly being scrubbed by the maintenance system.
Signal detected…
Beacon coordinates triangulating…
…origin: Earth…Her breath stopped. Sue had spent years pretending she knew everything, but this… was something else entirely.
She got the odd and ominous feeling that Synthia was listening.
Quadrant B – The Wake of Mr. Herbert
The air in the gathering hall was thick with preservative floral mist—the result of enthusiastic beauticians who had done their best to restore and rehydrate the late Mr. Herbert to some semblance of his former self.
And yet, despite their efforts, he still looked vaguely like a damp raisin in a suit.
Gloria adjusted her shawl and whispered to Sharon, “He don’t look half bad, does he?”
Sharon squinted. “Oh, love, I’d say he looks at least three-quarters bad.”
Marlowe Sr. stood by the casket, his posture unnervingly rigid, as if he were made of something more fragile than bone. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Ethan.”
He was in no condition for a speech— only able to utter the name.
Gloria dabbed her eyes, nudging Mavis. “I reckon this is the saddest thing I’ve seen since they discontinued complimentary facials at the spa.”
Mavis sniffed. “And yet, they say he’ll be composted by next Tuesday. Bloody efficient, innit?”
Marlowe didn’t hear them.
Because at that moment, as he stared at his son’s face, the realization struck him like a dying star—this was no mistake. This was something bigger.
And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of knowing too much.
He would have to wake and talk to the Captain. She would know what to do.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Darius: Christmas 2022
Darius was expecting some cold snap, landing in Paris, but the weather was rather pleasant this time of the year.
It was the kind of day that begged for aimless wandering, but Darius had an appointment he couldn’t avoid—or so he told himself. His plane had been late, and looking at the time he would arrive at the apartment, he was already feeling quite drained. The streets were lively, tourists and locals intermingling dreamingly under strings of festive lights spread out over the boulevards. He listlessly took some snapshot videos —fleeting ideas, backgrounds for his channel.
The wellness channel had not done very well to be honest, and he was struggling with keeping up with the community he had drawn to himself. Most of the latest posts had drawn the usual encouragements and likes, but there were also the growing background chatter, gossiping he couldn’t be bothered to rein in — he was no guru, but it still took its toll, and he could feel it required more energy to be in this mode that he’d liked to.
His patrons had been kind, for a few years now, indulging his flights of fancy, funding his trips, introducing him to influencers. Seeing how little progress he’d made, he was starting to wonder if he should have paid more attention to the background chatter. Monsieur Renard had always taken a keen interest in his travels, looking for places to expand his promoter schemes of co-housing under the guide of low investment into conscious living spaces, or something well-marketed by Eloïse. The crude reality was starting to stare at his face. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up pretending they were his friends.
By the time he reached the apartment, in a quiet street adjacent to rue Saint Dominique, nestled in 7th arrondissement with its well-kept façades, he was no longer simply fashionably late.
Without even the time to say his name, the door buzz clicked open, leading him to the old staircase. The apartment door opened before he could knock. There was a crackling tension hanging in the air even before Renard’s face appeared—his rotund face reddened by an annoyance he was poorly hiding beneath a polished exterior. He seemed far away from the guarded and meticulous man that Darius once knew.
“You’re late,” Renard said brusquely, stepping aside to let Darius in. The man was dressed impeccably, as always, but there was a sharpness to his movements.
Inside, the apartment was its usual display of cultivated sophistication—mid-century furniture, muted tones, and artful clutter that screamed effortless wealth. Eloïse sat on the couch, her legs crossed, a glass of wine poised delicately in her hand. She didn’t look up as Darius entered.
“Sorry,” Darius muttered, setting down his bag. “Flight delay.”
Renard waved it off impatiently, already pacing the room. “Do you know where Lucien is?” he asked abruptly, his gaze slicing toward Darius.
The question caught him off guard. “Lucien?” Darius echoed. “No. Why?”
Renard let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Why? Because he owes me. He owes us. And he’s gone off the grid like some bloody enfant terrible who thinks the rules don’t apply to him.”
Darius hesitated. “I haven’t seen him in months,” he said carefully.
Renard stopped pacing, fixing him with a hard look. “Are you sure about that? You two were close, weren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re covering for him.”
“I’m not,” Darius said firmly, though the accusation sent a ripple of anger through him.
Renard snorted, turning away. “Typical. All you dreamers are the same—full of ideas but no follow-through. And when things fall apart, you scatter like rats, leaving the rest of us to clean up the mess.”
Darius stiffened. “I didn’t come here to be insulted,” he said, his voice a steady growl.
“Then why did you come, Darius?” Renard shot back, his tone cutting. “To float on someone else’s dime a little longer? To pretend you’re above all this while you leech off people who actually make things happen?”
The words hit like a slap. Darius glanced at Eloïse, expecting her to interject, to soften the blow. But she remained silent, her gaze fixed on her glass as if it held all the answers.
For the first time, he saw her clearly—not as a confidante or a muse, but as someone who had always been one step removed, always watching, always using.
“I think I’ve had enough,” Darius said finally, his voice calm despite the storm brewing inside him. “I think I’ve had enough for a long time.”
Renard turned, his expression a mix of incredulity and disdain. “Enough? You think you can walk away from this? From us?”
“Yes, I can.” Darius said simply, grabbing his bag.
“You’ll never make it on your own,” Renard called after him, his voice dripping with scorn.
Darius paused at the door, glancing back at Eloïse one last time. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, and then slammed the door.
The evening air was like a balm, open and soft unlike the claustrophobic tension of the apartment. Darius walked aimlessly at first, his thoughts caught between flares of wounded pride and muted anxiety, but as he walked and walked, it soon turned into a return of confidence, slow and steady.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a familiar name. It was a couple he knew from the south of France, friends he hadn’t spoken to in months. He answered, their warm voices immediately lifting his spirits.
“Darius!” one of them said. “What are you doing for Christmas? You should come down to stay with us. We’ve finally moved to a bigger space—and you owe us a visit.”
Darius smiled, the weight of Renard’s words falling away. “You know what? That sounds perfect.”
As he hung up, he looked up at the Parisian skyline, Darius wished he’d had the courage to take that step into the unknown a long time ago. Wherever Lucien was, he felt suddenly closer to him —as if inspired by his friend’s bold move away from this malicious web of influence.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
There was a sharp knock on the front door. Amei opened it to find Finnley from Meticulous Maids standing there, bucket in one hand, a bag of cleaning supplies in the other.
“Back to tackle that oven,” she announced, brushing past Amei and striding towards the kitchen.
“Good to see you too, Finnley.”
A moment later, an anguished cry echoed from the kitchen. Amei rushed in to find Finnley clutching her brow and pointing accusingly at the oven. “This oven has not been treated with respect,” she declared dramatically.
“Well, I told you on the phone it was quite bad.”
“Quite bad!” Finnley rolled her eyes and dumped her supplies on the counter with a thud. “Moving out, are we?”
“In a few weeks,” Amei said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve still got books and stuff to pack, but I’m trying to leave the place in decent shape.”
“Decent?” Finnley snorted, already pulling on a pair of gloves. “This oven’s beyond decent. But I’ll see if I can drag it back from the brink.”
Finnley proceeded to inspect the oven with the air of a general preparing for war. She muttered something under her breath that Amei couldn’t quite catch, then added louder, “Books and boxes. Someone’s got the easy bit.”
Finnley had cleaned for Amei before. She was rude and pricey, but she always got the job done.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Amei, retreating back to her packing.
“Sure,” Finnley muttered. “But if I find anything moving in here, I’m charging extra.”
The house fell silent, save for the occasional scrape of metal and Finnley’s muffled grumblings. An hour later, Amei realized she hadn’t heard anything for a while. Curious, she walked back to the kitchen and peeked her head around the door.
Finnley was slumped in a chair by the kitchen bench, arms crossed, her head tilted at an awkward angle. Her bucket and gloves sat abandoned on the floor. She was fast asleep.
Amei stood there for a moment, not sure what to do. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I take it the oven won?”
Finnley’s eyes snapped open, and she straightened with a snort. “I just needed a regroup,” she muttered, rubbing her face. She looked at the oven and shuddered. “I dreamed that bloody monster of a thing was chasing me.”
“Chasing you?” Amei said, trying hard not to laugh.
Finnley stood, tugging her gloves back on with determination. “It’s not going to win. Not today.” She glared at Amei. “And I’ll be charging you for my break.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The door knob of Truella’s bedroom turned, and then rattled. Sated and sleepy, she ignored it. Then an insistant rapping of knuckles sounded. Rufus looked at the door, and back to Truella.
“Ignore it, it’s probably the maid,” she said. “But what a time to come, at siesta time.”
The knocking got louder and a voice hissed through the keyhole, “Let me in! Open the bloody door, FFS!”
Frella! What was she doing here? Truella pulled the sheet around her and padded over to the door and unlocked it.
“About time!” she started to say, opening the door, and then leapt back in astonishment to see Sister Audrey standing there glaring.
Audrey pushed past her, slamming the door behind her and locking it. “Listen, this is the plan. Oh don’t look so baffled, it’s me, Frella. Audrey offered to let me possess her for 24 hours, it was the quickest way to get here. Now listen, this is what we’re going to do.” Audrey/Frella launched into an outline of the plans for exploring the cellars later that night. She had turned to face Truella at the door, and hadn’t noticed Rufus. Quickly, he slid off the bed and hid underneath it.
When Audrey/Frella had finished, she asked “Got any weed? I could do with a quick puff.” Truella replied affirmatively. “Oh and what have we here, what is that mans leather coat doing on your floor? You absolute tart, Truella. You’ve only been here since this morning and you’re at it already!”
This was too much for Rufus, who crawled out from under the bed. “Hold your tongue, woman!” he admonished, while reaching for his shorts. “And I heard all that,” he added. “And if you’re going down there, I’m coming with you.”
Truella looked at Audrey/Frella helplessly.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done!” snapped Audrey/Frella.
“I didn’t tell him, you did,” Truella shot back, “You’re the one who barged in here spilling the beans!”
“Well, he may be useful I suppose,” Audrey/Frella said, and stalked out, muttering tart under her breath. Why oh why, did she agree to do this?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“What? Malové sent you a personal letter? And a golden key! We merely had a memo for the merger,” Truella said, pacing quickly in Jeezel’s bedroom.
“You’ve been swooning over Mr. Dark since we got here,” said Jeezel. “Have you even checked your own things? Maybe you have some kind of message or clue or I don’t know what. But stop pacing like that, you’ll bore a hole in my floor.”
“That’s not your floor,” said Truella with fire in her eyes.
“Girls, stop. That’s not the point,” said Eris, her voice carrying icy breeze of Sweden’s coldest winters. “We don’t even know if that message is from Malové.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jeezel and Truella in unison.
“Yes, what do you mean?” asked a floating glowing orb with Frella’s voice.
Eris brushed a few sparkling dark purple powder from her chest. “Bloody dragon soot,” she muttered. “Well, from what you told us, Silas tried to jinx you when you were discussing about the rituals. Baiting you with the idea that there are amongst or around us forces that would rather see this merger fail. Then, conveniently, handsome Garrett comes to your rescue and warns you about Silas’ evil plot, and talks to you about the very thing Malové supposedly entrusted you with in that letter, and muddying the waters even further with that tale about ancient Punic families.”
“What’s wrong with Punic families,” said Truella.
“Why are you blushing?” asked Jeezel.
“The point is, that it could very well be part of a plot to plant doubts about everyone and everything, so that we make the merger fail ourselves.”
“And then exit the witches from the picture,” said Frella’s glowing voice.
“But who could possibly have hidden the envelope amongst my things without me noticing?” asked Jeezel.
“Who comes and goes into your home?” asked Eris.
“Yes, who?” asked Truella with a sudden renewed interest.
After a few moments of reflection, Jeezel raised her hand to her mouth. “You can’t mean Joe? My fan’s brother who came to do some works for me.”
“I don’t mean anything. But if I recall well, you mentioned you gave him the keys or your home so that he could come do the repairs whenever you’re not there.”
“You gave him your keys?” asked Truella, her eyes wide open.
“But Luminia would have seen him.”
“Well even a familiar needs to go out sometimes.”
“Or maybe after a torrid night, when you’re finally resting,” suggested Truella.
“Ooh! You would love that!” Jeezel said. Then she put the back of her hand on her forehead and moaned: “My brain’s not made for that kind of messy story. I can’t investigate, do the rituals, flirt with the enemy. There are too many things to do and too many possibilities.”
“There, dear. You have us now,” said Eris, still brushing the dragon soot from her dress.
“And I know one who needs to go to the bottom of a chest,” added Truella. “Frella, we need you here.”
“I’m not sure,” Frella said. “I guess someone has to investigate what really happened to Malové. Who knows if that postcard and that love affair are even real? I’ll let you know.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Not another one!” exclaimed Truella. “Another time and money wasting conference in another bloody castle!”
Eris sighed. “It’s a party, a birthday party, not a conference. You know, one of those fun things that people do for entertainment.”
“If Malove planned it there is bound to be a catch. It’s another money making pushy sales thing, I bet.”
“Actually,” Frella ventured timidly, “You’re right, it’s not just a birthday party.”
“How would you know?” Jez was blunt.
Frella stammered nervously, “Well I, er, I overheard a snatch of conversation, you see…”
Jeezel gave her a piercing look and said “And? What did you overhear?”
“Something about the pink spider. We have to find it for some reason, before the others do. Well of course Malove was going to tell us,” Frella rolled her eyes at Truella, “But not until we got there, at the last minute. And no, I don’t know why. And I don’t know what the pink spider is, either. But maybe we can find out before we get there.”
“What’s the castle and where is it?” asked Truella.
“It’s the Flossy Liar Chateau,” replied Eris, “In France somewhere. Maybe you can find out some of the history, Tru. Frella, do some research on the botanical garden. And Jez, the costumes…”
“Getting a bit bossy, aint she,” Jez said to nobody in particular, and to Eris she asked sweetly, “And you, dear? What will you be researching?”
“Why, the legends of witchcraft, obviously. There are bound to be some legends and witchcraft.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Getting this out in the room did bring a tide of emotions; pent-up frustration, indignation, bits of bruised egoes, the whole spectrum. Truella’s tirade had managed to uncork a complete bundle of electricity in the atmosphere, but the genie had left the building.
Eris had suddenly felt like scrambling away, but had stayed along with spaced out Frigella and Jeezel as she’d felt a pang of responsibility.
Surprisingly, Malové had remained composed throughout the heated ensuing exchanges, trying to be constructive at every turn, and managing to conclude most of the debates —even when was not fully settled, and by far, a round of collected feedback afterwards, she’d clapped appreciatively saying. “Congratulations team, seeing how we are no longer covertly disagreeing behind everyone else’s back, I can see improvement in our functioning as a cohesive Coven. Believe it or not, being in a place to openly voice disagreement is a sign of progress, we’ve moved past the trust issues, into constructive conflict. There is still much to be done to commit, be accountable and focus on results together, but I feel we are on track to a brighter future, you’ve all done well.”
Back in her cottage in Finland, Eris was wondering “then why do I feel so bloody exhausted…”
She played back in her head some of the comments that Malové had shared in private after, when Eris had enquired if there would be some consequences for her witch’s friend actions. Once more, Malové has shown a unusual restraint that had put her worries at ease for now.
“Truella’s actions during the Adare Manor workshop presentation displayed boldness and conviction, two qualities that are essential for any individual, executive or otherwise, who wishes to effect change within an organization or a venture. Standing up for oneself is not only about self-assurance; it’s about ensuring that your voice and perspective are heard and considered.
However, the manner in which one stands up for oneself is crucial. Berating others, especially in a public forum such as a workshop presentation, can be counterproductive. It can create resistance and diminish the opportunity for constructive dialogue. While I understand her frustration, it is important to channel such energies towards a more strategic approach that fosters collaboration and leads to solutions.
As a leader, I advocate for clear communication and assertiveness, tempered with respect for all members of the coven. The success of our ventures, vaping or otherwise, depends on our ability to work cohesively towards our common goals. Truella’s passion is commendable, but it must be directed appropriately to benefit the coven and our business endeavors.”
She had asked Eris to convey the same to Truella. She’d made no promises —her friend was known to be more difficult to herd than cats. But with time, there would be a chance she would see reason.
Meanwhile, their sales targets had not gone away, and they had to keep the Quadrivium afloat. With Truella checking out of the game, and clearly not overly engaged on results, it fell onto the rest of the team to deliver.
A second session of workshop and celebration was planned in a month’s time in Spain with all top witches. With Eris’ last experience in Spain and her elephant head, she was starting to dread another mishap. Plus, she sighed when she looked at the invite. She would have to fetch a cocktail attire. A vacation was long overdue…
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
An unexpected result (or was it an intentional one?) of the octobus ride was a profound appreciation for the arrival at the destination. Not one of the witches had been truly looking forward to the event, but when they entered the building they were deeply grateful for the smooth hard floors and walls and sharp minimalism, if that is what the sparse clean decor was called.
“This place is sorely in need of some steampunk hats,” remarked Truella. “And some Victorian clothes.”
“Beats the hell out of that gross octobus, though,” Jezeel said, who was swanning grandly around the large entrance foyer, her boots making a neat thud rather than a revolting sucking sound.
“I rather like it,” said Frella, “Steampunk hats wouldn’t fit in here at all. Are you sure that party is being held here?” For a moment, she felt a ray of hope. She was feeling that it might be possible to remain unnoticed and unbothered in the vast clean space if she sat somewhere looking serenely vacant and unapproachable.
Spotting the shiny black grand piano in the corner, Jezeel glided majestically over to it and hopped onto the back of it, striking a glamourous pose. Naturally everyone took flattering photos of her as was expected.
Eris had rushed off to find a lavatory, and eventually emerged holding a strange awkward bundle.
“What on earth is that and where did you find it?” Frella noticed the look of alarm on Eris’s face. Truella was still taking photos of Jez from various angles, much to Jezreel’s delight.
“What does it bloody look like!” Eris said in an exasperated tone, “It’s a baby, someone left it in the loo! Go and ask at the desk, find out who lost a baby. I think it’s nappy needs changing.”
Frella went off to ask, returning shortly with surprising news. “There is nobody checked in here with a baby, Eris. Nobody knows whose it is. Here, give it to me, the poor thing.”
Eris handed over the smelly bundle gratefully.
I can stay in my room with this baby, Frella thought, It will be the perfect excuse not to go to the party.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
It was impossible to sleep in the octobus, despite that Truella always found it easy to drop off while a passenger on various modes of transport. Unlike the usual gentle rocking of a bus or train, the tentacular motion resembled a slow roller coaster, and the interior walls were slippery. Tactile my ass, she muttered, this is revolting. Truella felt her stomach heave when a steward brought a round tray covered with a glass dome, full of unspeakable fishy things to nibble. At this hour of the morning!
Jezeel wasn’t enjoying it either, her boots had an unfortunate attraction to the slimy interior and kept sticking. It took a great effort to pull her foot up to change position and made a disgusting squelchy noise.
“Sit still, will you? You’re making me sick with those slurpy noises!” Truella glared at Jezreel. “Take the bloody boots off why don’t you!”
“I’m not putting my stockinged feet on that, what if it pulls them down?”
“When’s the last time you had your stockings pulled down, sweetie?” Eris said with a sly grin. Frella tittered in the background, momentarily distracted from her angst about the party looming ahead.
Malove came rocking up the aisle, uncharacteristically beaming with pleasure. “I knew you’d all enjoy it!” she said, apparently believing that they were. “Are we all feeling tactile and tender? Soaking up the harmonious healing? Feeling the fullness of environmental resonance? Good!” she said, oblivious to the pained expressions of the four witches. “You’ll be delighted to know that I’ve asked the driver to take the long way round, via Dublin. We have plenty of time. No!” she said, holding up a hand with a smug smile, “No need to thank me. You all deserve it.” And with that she slithered off into the slippery depths of the strange vehicle.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
4pm EET.
Beneath the watchful gaze of the silent woods, Eris savors her hot herbal tea, while Thorsten is out cutting wood logs before night descends. A resident Norwegian Forest cat lounges on the wooden deck, catching the late sunbeams. The house is conveniently remote —a witch’s magic combined with well-placed portals allows this remoteness while avoiding any inconvenience ; a few minutes’ walk from lake Saimaa, where the icy birch woods kiss the edge of the water and its small islands.
Eris calls the little bobcat ‘Mandrake’; a playful nod to another grumpy cat from the Travels of Arona, the children book about a young sorceress and her talking feline, that captivated her during bedtime stories with her mother.
Mandrake pays little heed to her, coming and going at his own whim. Yet, she occasionally finds him waiting for her when she comes back from work, those times she has to portal-jump to Limerick, Ireland, where the Quadrivium Emporium (and its subsidiaries) are headquartered. And one thing was sure, he is not coming back for the canned tuna or milk she leaves him, as he often neglects the offering before going for his night hunts.
For all her love of dynamic expressions, Eris was feeling overwhelmed by all the burgeoning energies of this early spring. Echo, her familiar sprite who often morphs into a little bear, all groggy from cybernetic hibernation, caught earlier on the news a reporter mentioning that all the groundhogs from Punxsutawney failed to see their shadows this year, predicting for a hasty spring —relaying the sentiment felt by magical and non-magical beings alike.
Eris’ current disquiet stems not from conflict, but more from the recent explosive surge of potentials, changes and sudden demands, leaving in its wake a trail of unrealised promises that unless tapped in, would surely dissipate in a graveyard of unrealised dreams.
Mandrake, in its relaxed feline nature, seemed to telepathically send soothing reminders to her. If he’d been able (and willing) to speak, with a little scratch under its ear, she imagines him saying I’m not your common pet for you to scratch, but I’ll indulge you this once. Remember what it means to be a witch. To embrace the chaos, not fight it. To dance in the storm rather than seek shelter. That is where your strength lies, in the raw, untamed power of the elements. You need not control the maelstrom; you must become it. Now, be gone. I have a sunbeam to nap in.
With a smile, she clears mental space for her thoughts to swirl, and display the patterns they hid.
A jump in Normandy, indeed. She was there in the first mist of the early morning. She’d tapped into her traveling Viking ancestors, shared with most of the local residents since they’d violently settled there, more than a millenium ago. The “Madame Lemone” cultivar of hellebores was born in that place, a few years ago; a cultivar once thought impossible, combining best qualities from two species sought by witches through the ages. Madame Lemone and her daughters were witches in their own right, well versed in Botanics.
Why hellebores? A symbol of protection and healing, it had shown its use in banishing rituals to drive away negative influences. A tricky plant, beautiful and deadly. Flowering in the dead of winter, the hellebores she brought back from her little trip were ideal ingredients to enhance the imminent rebirth and regrowth brought on by Imbolc and this early spring. It was perfect for this new era filled with challenges. Sometimes, in order to bloom anew, you must face the rot within.
The thoughts kept spinning, segueing into the next. Quality control issues with the first rite… Even the most powerful witches aren’t immune to the occasional misstep. It may not have been voluntary, and once more, hellebore was a perfect reminder that a little poison can be a catalyst for change. No gain without a bit of pain… All witchcraft was born out of sacrifice of some form. An exchange of energy. Something given, for something in return.
Luckily, she’d learnt the third rite had gone well even in her absence. Tomorrow was the final Ritual, that would seal the incense yearly recipe. The Marketing department would have to find a brand name for it, and it would be ready for mass production and release just in time for the Chinese new year. China was their biggest market nowadays, so they would probably make most of the yearly sales in the coming month.
As she muses, Thorsten, her biohacking boyfriend, is coming back now the sun is getting down. A rugged contradiction of man and machine.
“Have you managed to contact your friends?” he asks, his pointed question tempered by a calm demeanor. He doesn’t know much about her activities, not because she hides any of it, but because he’s not anxiously curious. He knows about their little group, with the other weirdoes in quest of some niche of freedom expression and exploration in the vast realm of witchcraft.
“Yes, I did. We had a nice chat with Jeezel and she sends her regards…”
“She bloody always do that, doesn’t she.” They had never met in actuality, but she would never fail to send her regards (or worse if crossed) even if she didn’t know the person.
Eris laughed. “Well, Frigella was going to bed…”
“If I didn’t know better, one could think she does it on purpose.”
Eris continued. “Well, and get that; Tru was busy making some French fries.”
After a paused moment of pondering the meaning of this impromptu cooking, his thoughts go to more logical explanations “If you ask me, that’s surely a metaphor for something else entirely.”
“Meat and potatoes… And sometimes,… just potatoes.”
“Or in this case, possibility for a hearty gratin.”
They share a delightful laughter.
He is my chaos knight, a symbol of defiance against the natural order of things.
A quality she adores.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After the first of the four Rites of the Annual Incense Making was done, and the Coven disbanded for the day, Frigella was pulled by the sleeve by the weird one Truella.
“Psstt. Come to the Faded Cabbage in 30 min. Have something to tell you.”
Frigella rolled her eyes. She was not one for secrecies, cloaks and ladle, all that sort of mischiefs. But Truella seemed intent, if her electric hair had to tell the story for her. “Alright, I’ll be there.” she finally said, surprising Truella who’d thought she’d have to do more coaxing.
The Fadded Cabbage was hidden around a darker corner a stone’s throw away from the headquarters of the Quadrivium, some place the city council and gentrification had not yet touched for some reason, probably a strong ghosting spell.
Frigella sighed. She had been as usual too punctual, and of course, Truella was nowhere in sight. Unless…
She put a light spell on her round glasses which turned a subtle tint of violet. There she was. Under a cloaking spell, in a shady corner, slurping on a macchiatto lagger with cinnamon. Or some odd brewage of the sort she knew the secret.
“The old hare’s clearly lost the plot.” She spent no time engaging the discussion.
“I’ll have to stop you there, Tru.” said Frigella, “I don’t care about the politics. Much less if you’re trying to make a power move.”
Truella spluttered her offensive brewage all over Frigella’s neat starched apron. “You got it all wrong, Frig’. I don’t care about the power, I only care about my craft and freedom. It’s been too long we’ve been called to arms, like every bloody year. And my interest have grown since.”
Frigella chuckled. “You mean, you’ve been all over the place, haven’t you. From Energetic History, you’ve moved to Concrete Plasticity, Telluric Archaelogy, Familial Arborestry, I must say… It’s been hard to keep up.”
“You’re one to tell. All that mystery, and not much to show for. You’re barely doing the minimum to keep our flagship household Incense ‘Liz n°5’ afloat.” Truella sighed.
“So what’s your plan?” Frigella wondered?
Spring was upon them.
“Bloody too early, if you ask me” said Malové, the Head of the Coven of Mystiques, but just CEO of Quadrivium Emporium to the outside world.
“Meow.” Only the Coven’s familiar, a clichéd black cat dared to voice what seemed to have been the common thought. How tedious, so much spring cleaning of the collective energies to do, and almost 2 months ahead of schedule. Blame the telluric energies catch-up with the cosmic downpour of the world’s mind agitation. Or global warming, as it’s labelled nowadays.
“You know how it goes.” Malové continued. “We set the tone of the stories ahead. And it can only be done by actually writing it. Yeah, how exciting. Like conducting an orchestra in a zoo, there’s plenty of potential, but I guess we’ll have to work on our priorities.”
“Do you mean keeping the zoo’s hyenas from eating everybody else?” Frigella was not one to beat around the bush.
“Yeah, something like that. And you know how you control hyenas?”
The witches assembled looked at each other sideways.
“The Whale would tell you it’s a lovely story of shared resonance, forging bonds based on trust… But that’s a load of bollocks. Some emotions are only managed through stronger ones – so let’s do what we do best, get our Incense ready, and put some order in this bloody chaotic mess. Who wants to start?”
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
Like ships in the night, Zara and Yasmin still hadn’t met up with Xavier and Youssef at the inn. Yasmin was tired from traveling and retired to her room to catch up on some sleep, despite Zara’s hopes that they’d have a glass of wine or two and discuss whatever it was that was on Yasmins mind. Zara decided to catch up on her game.
The next quirk was “unleash your hidden rudeness” which gave Zara pause to consider how hidden her rudeness actually was. But wait, it was the avatar Zara, not herself. Or was it? Zara rearranged the pillows and settled herself on the bed.
Zara found her game self in the bustling streets of a medieval market town, visually an improvement on the previous game level of the mines, which pleased her, with many colourful characters and intriguing alleyways and street market vendors.
She quickly forgot what her quest was and set off wandering around the scene. Each alley led to a little square and each square had gaily coloured carts of wares for sale, and an abundance of grinning jesters and jugglers. Although tempted to linger and join the onlookers jeering and goading the jugglers and artistes that she encountered, Zara continued her ramble around the scene.
She came to a gathering outside an old market hall, where two particularly raucous jesters were trying to tempt the onlookers into partaking of what appeared to be cups of tea. Zara wondered what the joke was and why nobody in the crowd was willing to try. She inched closer, attracting the attention of the odd grinning fellow in the orange head piece.
“Come hither, ye fine wench in thy uncomely scant garments, I know what thou seekest! Pray, sit thee down beside me and partake of my remedy.”
“Who, me?” asked Zara, looking behind her to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else.
“Thoust in dire need of my elixir, come ye hither!”
Somewhat reluctantly Zara stepped towards the odd figure who was offering to hand her a cup. She considered the inadvisability of drinking something that everyone else was refusing, but what the hell, she took the cup and saucer off him and took a hesitant sip.
The crowd roared with laughter and there was much mirthful thigh slapping when Zara spit the foul tasting concoction all over the jesters shoes.
“Believe me dame,” quoth the Jester, “I perceive proffered ware is worse by ten in the hundred than that which is sought. But I pray ye, tell me thy quest.”
“My quest is none of your business, and your tea sucks, mister,” Zara replied. “But I like the cup.”
Pushing past the still laughing onlookers and clutching the cup, Zara spotted a tavern on the opposite side of the square and made her way towards it. A tankard of ale was what she needed to get rid of the foul taste lingering in her mouth.
The inside of the tavern was as much a madhouse as the streets outside it. What was everyone laughing at? Zara found a place to sit on a bench beside a long wooden table. She sat patiently waiting to be served, trying to eavesdrop to decipher the cause of such merriment, but the snatches of conversation made no sense to her. The jollity was contagious, and before long Zara was laughing along with the others. A strange child sat down on the opposite bench (she seemed familiar somehow) and Zara couldn’t help remarking, “You lot are as mad as a box of frogs, are you all on drugs or something?” which provoked further hoots of laughter, thigh slapping and table thumping.
“Ye be an ungodly rude maid, and ye’ll not get a tankard of ale while thoust leavest thy cup of elixir untasted yet,” the child said with a smirk.
“And you are an impertinent child,” Zara replied, considering the potential benefits of drinking the remainder of the concoction if it would hasten the arrival of the tankard of ale she was now craving. She gritted her teeth and picked up the cup.
But the design on the cup had changed, and now bore a strange resemblance to Xavier. Not only that, the cup was calling her name in Xavier’s voice, and the table thumping got louder.
“Zara!” Xavier was knocking on her bedroom door. “Zara! We’re going for a beer in the local tavern, are you coming?”
“Xavi!” Zara snapped back to reality, “Yes! I’m bloody parched.”
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
“Nice BMW,” said Yasmin. She pointed towards a shiny black car parked in front of the supermarket. “My Uncle has that model.”
“Pretty flash,” agreed Sergio. He sniffed and scratched his nose vigorously. Yasmin was amused to notice Zara frown, ever-so-slightly. Sergio squinted towards the BMW. “Looks like it’s a rental too. Beats this bloody Toyota any day.”
“Do either of you want to get anything while we are here?” asked Zara brightly. “I’ve got a little stash of snacks back at the Inn …”
“No I’m good, but I do need to use the loo,” said Yasmin. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she surveyed her surroundings. There’s that garage over the road but it looks a bit dodgy. Wish I’d gone back at the airport now.”
Zara nodded. “Okay I’ll just get the wine then! See you in a few minutes”
“The toilet is around the back, but it’s in use,” said a friendly man behind the counter. Yasmin wondered how long before she got used to the distinctive nasally twang of the Aussie accent. She thought briefly of Fred and the mysterious brown parcel in her bag. She thanked the man and perused the shelves while she waited. As she was struggling to choose between a bar of chocolate or a bag of cashew nuts, neither of which she wanted but she felt obligated to buy something, a well-dressed woman stormed in and flung the toilet key at the counter where it bounced and skidded to a stop next to a box of chewing gum. “Disgusting,” Yasmin heard her say before she pivoted on her Gucci-emblazoned trainers and flounced out the door.
“Looks like the toilet’s free,” said the man with a grin.
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
Made it through customs with the parcel. Should be at the hotel early this evening.
Finally a message from Yasmin. Zara replied: Finally, a message, wondered where you’d got to!
With an affectionate smile Yasmin pretended to roll her eyes.
I’ve got something very odd to tell you when I see you. Gotta go, talk laterBloody typical! Zara thought, rolling her eyes.
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
Although not one to remember dreams very often, Zara awoke the next morning with vivid and colourful dream recall. She wondered if it was something to do with the dreamtime mural on the wall of her room. If this turned out to be the case, she considered painting some murals on her bedroom wall back at the Bungwalley Valley animal rescue centre when she got home.
Zara and Idle had hit it off immediately, chatting and laughing on the verandah after supper. Idle told her a bit about the local area and the mines. Despite Bert’s warnings, she wanted to see them. They were only an hour away from the inn.
When she retired to her room for the night, she looked on the internet for more information. The more she read online about the mines, the more intrigued she became.
“Interestingly there are no actual houses left from the original township. The common explanation is that a rumour spread that there was gold hidden in the walls of the houses and consequently they were knocked down by people believing there was ‘gold in them there walls”. Of course it was only a rumour. No gold was found.”
“Miners attracted to the area originally by the garnets, found alluvial and reef gold at Arltunga…”
Garnets! Zara recalled the story her friend had told her about finding a cursed garnet near a fort in St Augustine in Florida. Apparently there were a number of mines that one could visit:
“the MacDonnell Range Reef Mine, the Christmas Reef Mine, the Golden Chance Mine, the Joker Mine and the Great Western Mine all of which are worth a visit.”
Zara imagined Xavier making a crack about the Joker Mine, and wondered why it had been named that.
“The whole area is preserved as though the inhabitants simply walked away from it only yesterday. The curious visitor who walks just a little way off the paths will see signs of previous habitation. Old pieces of meat safes, pieces of rusted wire, rusted cans, and pieces of broken glass litter the ground. There is nothing of great importance but each little shard is reminder of the people who once lived and worked here.”
I wonder if Bert will take me there, Zara wondered. If not, maybe one of the others can pick up a hire car when they arrive at Alice. Might even be best not to tell anyone at the inn where they were going. Funny coincidence the nearest town was called Alice ~ it was already beginning to seem like some kind of rabbit hole she was falling into.
Undecided whether to play some more of the game which had ended abruptly upon encountering the blue robed vendor, Zara decided not to and picked up the book on Dreamtime that was on the bedside table.
“Some of the ancestors or spirit beings inhabiting the Dreamtime become one with parts of the landscape, such as rocks or trees…” Flicking through the book, she read random excerpts. “A mythic map of Australia would show thousands of characters, varying in their importance, but all in some way connected with the land. Some emerged at their specific sites and stayed spiritually in that vicinity. Others came from somewhere else and went somewhere else. Many were shape changing, transformed from or into human beings or natural species, or into natural features such as rocks but all left something of their spiritual essence at the places noted in their stories….”
Thousands of characters. Zara smiled sleepily, recalling the many stories she and her friends had written together over the years.
“People come and go but the Land, and stories about the Land, stay. This is a wisdom that takes lifetimes of listening, observing and experiencing … There is a deep understanding of human nature and the environment… sites hold ‘feelings’ which cannot be described in physical terms… subtle feelings that resonate through the bodies of these people… It is only when talking and being with these people that these ‘feelings’ can truly be appreciated. This is… the intangible reality of these people…..”
With such strong ancestral connections to the land, Zara couldn’t help but wonder what the aboriginal people felt about all the mines. If one of their ancestors had shape changed into rocks, and then some foreignors came along and hacked and blasted their way through, what would they think of that?
“….many Aboriginal groups widely distributed across the Australian continent all appeared to share variations of a single (common) myth telling of an unusually powerful, often creative, often dangerous snake or serpent of sometimes enormous size closely associated with the rainbows, rain, rivers, and deep waterholes…..”
She drifted off to sleep thinking of water holes in red rocky gorges, the book laying open in her hand.
When she awoke the next morning with the slatted morning sun shining through the venetian blinds, the dream image of the water hole was bright and clear in her minds eye. But what was that strange character from the game doing in her dream?
She closed her eyes, remembering more of the strange dream. Deeply orange red boulders and rocky outcrops, shivering gum trees, and green pools ~ it was coming back to her now, that creature in the blue robes had appeared more than once. In one scene he appeared with a blue diamond lantern with what looked like a compass inside.
I’ll ask about the hiking trails today, Zara decided, and go for a walk in that gorge I read about yesterday. Bert said there were good hiking trails. You came here early so you could play the game, she reminded herself.
“It’s all a game,” she heard the parrot outside her window.
“I’d forgotten about the bloody parrot!” Zara said under her breath. “Pretty Girl!” she said, opening the blinds. “We’re going out for a walk today.”
In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys
It was a pleasant 25 degrees as Zara stepped off the plane. The flat red land stretched as far as the eye could see, and although she prefered a more undulating terrain there was something awe inspiring about this vast landscape. It was quite a contrast from the past few hours spent inside mine tunnels.
Bert, a weatherbeaten man of indeterminate advanced age, was there to meet her as arranged and led her to the car, a battered old four wheel drive. Although clearly getting on in years, he was tall and spry and dressed in practical working clothes.
“Welcome to Alice,” he said, taking her bag and putting in on the back seat. “I expect you’ll be wanting to know a bit about the place.”
“How long have you lived here?” Zara asked, as Bert settled into the creaky drivers seat and started the car.
Bert gave her a funny look and replied “Longer than a ducks ass.” Zara had never heard that expression before; she assumed it meant a long time but didn’t like to pursue the question.
“All this land belongs to the Arrernte,” he said, pronouncing it Arrunda. “The local aboriginals. 1862 when we got here. Well,” Bert turned to give Zara a lopsided smile, “Not me personally, I aint quite that old.”
Zara chuckled politely as Bert continued, “It got kinda busy around these parts round 1887 with the gold.”
“Oh, are there mines near here?” Zara asked with some excitement.
Bert gave her a sharp look. “Oh there’s mines alright. Abandoned now though, and dangerous. Dangerous places, old mines. You’ll be more interested in the hiking trails than those old mines, some real nice hiking and rock gorges, and it’s a nice temperature this time of year.”
Bert lapsed into silence for a few minutes, frowning.
“If you’da been arriving back then, you’da been on a camel train, that’s how they did it back then. Camel trains. They do camel tours for tourists nowadays.”
“Do you get many tourists?”
“Too dang many tourists if you ask me, Alice is full of them, and Ayers Rock’s crawling with ’em these days. We don’t get many out our way though.” Bert snorted, reminding Zara of Yasmin. “Our visitors like an off the beaten track kind of holiday, know what I mean?” Bert gave Zara another sideways lopsided smile. “I reckon you’ll like it at The Flying Fish Inn. Down to earth, know what I mean? Down to earth and off the wall.” He laughed heartily at that and Zara wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she laughed too.
“Sounds great.”
“Family run, see, makes a difference. No fancy airs and graces, no traffic ~ well, not much of anything really, just beautiful scenery and peace and quiet. Aunt Idle thinks she’s in charge but me and old Mater do most of it, well Finly does most of it to be honest, and you dropped lucky coming now, the twins have just decorated the bedrooms. Real nice they look now, they fancied doing some dreamtime murials on the walls. The twins are Idle’s neices, Clove and Corrie, turned out nice girls, despite everything.”
“Despite ….?”
“What? Oh, living in the outback. Youngsters usually leave and head for the cities. Prune’s the youngest gal, she’s a real imp, that one, a real character. And Devan calls by regular to see Mater, he works at the gas station.”
“Are they all Idle’s neices and nephews? Where are their parents?” Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked, Zara thought when she saw Bert’s face.
“Long gone, mate, long since gone from round here. We’ve taken good care of ’em.” Bert turned off the road onto a dirt road. “Only another five minutes now. We’re outside the town a bit, but there aint much in town anyway. Population 79, our town. About right for a decent sized town if you ask me.”
Bert rounded a bend in a eucalyptus grove and announced, “Here we are, then, the Flying Fish Inn.” He parked the car and retrieved Zara’s bag from the back seat. “Take a seat on the verandah and I’ll find Idle to show you to your room and get you a drink. Oh, and don’t be put off by Idle’s appearance, she’s a sweetheart really.”
Aunt Idle was nowhere to be found though, having decided to go for a walk on impulse, quite forgetting the arrival of the first guest. She saw Bert’s car approaching the hotel from her vantage point on a low hill, which reminded her she should be getting back. It was a lovely evening and she didn’t rush.
Bert found Mater in the dining room gazing out of the window. “Where the bloody hell is Idle? The guest’s outside on the verandah.”
“She’s taken herself off for a walk, can you believe it?” sighed Mater.
“Yep” Bert replied, “I can. Which room’s she in? Can you show her to her room?”
“Yes of course, Bert. Perhaps you’d see to getting a drink for her.”
