Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

A
s the morning progressed, I decided to walk to the village to do my shopping. The cottage was beginning to close in on me. Throughout the morning I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being watched. I wanted the stimulation of external, everyday affairs — it was the only way to escape the paranoia clutching my mind.

The stores were only a 15-minute stroll away, and as the rain had now set in to an incessant drizzle, I figured I might as well purchase my supplies before it became even heavier. Armed with my umbrella — for the rain, or for protection? — I decided to take the main road into the village instead of the mountain road, although the latter boasted some spectacular views. I wasn’t up to admiring the mountains at the moment. After all, they had failed to protect my aunt from her enemies. Instead they had shielded her frail figure from view, muffled her screams for assistance, and watched dispassionately as she fought the dark beast that overpowered her and drank from her, and the bird . . . the bird that had pecked her eyes out as if seeking to destroy her soul . . .

I shook my head quickly, seeking to dispel the terrifying vision. I was perspiring. An overwhelming sense of darkness and hopelessness began to permeate my body.

God, Emma, you really are heading for la-la land.

I buried my face in my hands and longed for a sense of normality to return. For the remainder of the short walk I forced myself to focus on external objects. I noted the lace effect of the tree branches against the slate sky. They were like dark cloud shadows in a soft wash, and formed the shape of unicorns, stags and horses. I saw the intricate palette of a fallen leaf, awash with colours no artist could duplicate. I wondered at the late-sprouting leaves from shrubs and trees. Native flowers curled tightly, waiting patiently to germinate. Eventually the odour of the rain-soaked bushland began to pacify my corkscrew emotions and I relaxed and began to detach myself from the terrors lurking in my head.

*

The waiting Solumbi, merged with a large tree, grinned as it watched the young female Bluite pass. He was forbidden to kill the woman before Sati gave him the order to do so, but he was already aroused with excitement, anticipating the chase when the death hounds would be unleashed and he could run with them.

*

I selected my purchases quickly in the grocery store, uncomfortably conscious of the unabashed interest shown me by the young red-haired woman behind the counter. News had obviously spread about the stranger who had moved into the Develle home. When I first entered, she had nodded and spoken to me.

‘Hello, Emma.’ Under her gaze I became aware of my untidy appearance; hastily scraped-back hair in a ponytail, paint-splattered black workshirt and equally paint-splattered, worn-out sneakers.

‘Painter then too, are you?’

It was more a statement than a question. I nodded, wary of her attitude. There were moments when I dreaded the mind thoughts I would read, or the illnesses and addictions that the colours which surrounded people would reveal to me.

‘Yeah, that’d be right. Your aunt sure liked to paint some weird stuff. Horses with two heads and black angels! Nah, give me a nice Impressionist painting any day.’

Her voice trailed off suddenly as she realised she was bad-mouthing a murder victim. I forced my lips into an insincere smile. Thankfully, the entrance of a few schoolchildren interrupted the awkward moment and allowed me to make a hasty exit.

As I walked home I keenly felt the usual self-loathing that possessed me every time I realised I lacked the social skills to hold a normal conversation. Feeling the thoughts of others would often overwhelm me. I also felt embarrassed that the local store assistant knew my aunt better than I did. Plus how did she know my name? I couldn’t remember mentioning it to the taxi driver yesterday.

Lost in my remonstrations, I was startled by a large black bird, which flew out at me from a bush. For one panicky instant I was sure it was heading straight for my face, but it veered off at the last possible moment. I watched it go, a dark speck flying toward the mountains. My nerves were in a worse state than I had realised.

I ate a solitary meal of tofu in peanut sauce and steamed vegetables in my garden haven, braving the mosquitoes to witness the spectacle of the sky transforming itself from blue to mauve-grey to black. Stars shone softly, enhancing the charm of the ripening crescent moon. I toasted the moon’s silvery beauty with my grape juice.

‘To new beginnings,’ I murmured, surprised to discover tears welling in my eyes.

When the mosquitoes had finally become the victors of the evening, I retreated inside to leaf through a few of my aunt’s sketchbooks. Johanna had been a prolific artist; it would take months to sort through her work.

I also discovered a beautifully carved wooden box in her studio with an exquisite shell painted onto the lid. It was locked. I was keen to discover the key and examine the contents, but my attempts to locate the key proved fruitless and I was reluctant to destroy the box just out of idle curiosity.

There were hundreds of black-covered sketchbooks, all neatly labelled with the year. I selected one of the more recent ones. The girl in the store was right — some of Johanna’s artwork had been pretty creepy. One whole journal was dedicated to demonic-looking angel figures. Detailed notes accompanied many of the sketches. The angels appeared similar in build. Huge dark wings enfolded their bodies, beatific faces that were both serene and sadistic. Their hair was long, in some cases to their knees, woven into intricate plaits with tiny bones for decoration. Huge rays of light emanated from around their heads. Some had genitals, the males’ phalluses resembling huge, overgrown flowers. The women had open vulvas similar to a human vagina. They were a disturbing contrast of light and dark, of evil and purity.

Around one particularly beautiful angel Johanna’s handwriting detailed the following:

Ishran. Dark King. Angel Lord. Son of Seleza. Ability to draw energy from humans until death occurs. Husband of Sati. A Crossa. A Ghormho.

What on earth had initiated the transformation of Johanna’s work from happy dancing fairies and elves to these sinister, cartoonish beings? They were not even as technically well executed as her earlier work. My heart began to pound faster as I read another caption under a snarling, almost shapeless being with black hairy arms and protruding needle-sharp claws.

Solumbi. Manifestations of mankind’s negative thought patterns. Causes death by draining creator’s blood. A Crossa.

I stared at her nightmarish Solumbi. It was like a distorted grizzly bear. The hairy monstrosity had myriad eyes, huge, lethal claws, and rows of razor-sharp teeth. Outside, the rain began to fall again. In the attic bedroom overhead, a floorboard creaked.

Later that night I had a hot chocolate on the back steps, watching the waxing moon as the shadows across her surface played tricks with her light. I had a good laugh to myself about my over-reaction to my aunt’s artwork. I imagined heading down to the local police station in the morning to inform the boys I had a new lead on Johanna’s murder.

‘A Solumbi, sir, one of my aunt’s very own creations,’ I’d tell them. ‘A most peculiar thing, it must have come to life somehow and drained the blood from her body!’

I could guess their response. I grinned, and let my thoughts unfocus.

Hypnotic sounds of crickets merged with an owl. Bats flew swiftly overhead. The breath of the garden was savoury. Thyme, jasmine, verbena, roses; they gently blew their soothing perfumes at me. Overhead the moon shone silent benediction upon the earth.

CHAPTER FIVE

L
ater that night, as the moon illuminated the sky over the town’s lights, the Stag Man entered Emma’s new home. He sniffed the air warily, daintily; were the Solumbi here? The odours of the Bluites’ everyday living assailed his senses. Toothpaste, perfumes, dead cells lying around the house, the bitter tang of unfulfilled dreams and regrets, the musky aroma of sexual desire and the heavy, sweet smell of shock that still vibrated through the house. Overwhelming odours flowed around the Stag Man.

He paused outside Emma’s bedroom door. He could sense the deities of Morpheus and Hypnos and his tension eased somewhat; she was deeply asleep. Inside the tiny bedroom he watched the cords that emanated from the sleeping girl.
What world was she travelling to tonight?
he wondered.

His paws scraped the wooden floor of the bedroom as he moved slowly toward the oblivious girl. His breath came noticeably faster. Closer, closer. Now he could see the dark shadows under her eyes. Her face was eerily blue in the moonlit room. Her Protector stood forward, startling him, holding a blue amulet toward the Stag Man. He recoiled in shock. The Protector’s energy was so much more powerful on Earth! Regretfully, he backed slowly from the bedroom. With the Protector so close he would not be able to reach Emma tonight. Then again, if he couldn’t, neither could the Solumbi. If the Protector was this close to her tonight then the Solumbi had to be near.

The Stag Man’s coat gleamed silver-gold as he began the invocation. Hecate would only hold the moon for him for a short space of time. He had to prepare. There was a lot of work to accomplish on the Blue Planet tonight.

He crept warily into the garden, all of his senses alert, listening. He had tarried too long in the land of humans. The enchantment was wearing thin. His dark-blue nostrils sniffed the air, his huge, dark eyes looked up at the house where Emma slept. He knew it was futile to attempt to re-enter the house. The Protector was too close to her. He glanced around warily, ready to flee at any second. There was danger here. He could sense it. The air was heavy with the familiar odour of the angels. So they had crossed! The moon transmuted his white hide to silver as he basked in her light. He had no choice. He had to leave the Blue Planet quickly and call Emma to Eronth. If she remained here, she would die. At least in his world she would have the protection of the Crone. The Bluite Protector would be futile against the combined strength of many Azephim.

A Solumbi who had been crouched in the shadows suddenly darted at him. He reared. Fire flew from his hooves, and in a flash of silver and gold stars he dematerialised. Cheated, the Solumbi growled with disappointment. It was hungry and needed to feed.

CHAPTER SIX

A
fter a week of settling into my new home, I had established a routine of sorts. I would rise early, enjoy the luxury of breakfast outside, and then spend the morning working on my paintings. The afternoons and evenings found me cleaning, and also organising my aunt’s possessions. Or I would stroll into the village, exploring the numerous antique shops and art galleries, trying to summon the nerve to enquire about putting my artwork in for sale, and funking it every time. I had lost my confidence with my last disastrous exhibition in Sydney. I was slowly becoming used to being the focus of attention wherever I went, and thankfully, my shining, my gift of being able to read people’s minds, appeared to be lying dormant.

I enjoyed the cleaning side of my new life. It felt as if I was cleansing the house of energies that were lingering, energies that if left could begin to affect my thoughts. I needed to make the house mine, and one thing I had discovered about my aunt was that she wasn’t overly familiar with the scrubbing brush.

I bundled up most of Johanna’s books and clothes and left them out with the recycling. Going through her art, letters and photographs was a mammoth task, but I felt I needed to at least try to piece together the puzzle of who Johanna had been, and hopefully find out why her life had ended in that monstrous, unspeakable manner.

She had kept many journals over the years, often a jumbled combination of sketchpads and writings. Mainly they were unemotional entries describing her current work in progress, but one day I found a cryptic entry in her spidery, copperplate handwriting.

*

27 October 1964. Full moon in Scorpio. Leura, Blue Mountains, New South Wales.

I grew fire for you, Khartyn. Fire that rose in my body. Fire that rushed along my spine, brushing my fingers into tiny, flickering, ochre flames. Kundalini energy surging. Sacred serpent gift bringer!

With gifts of power and knowledge came realisation of the truth that I had always suspected — that I was a mere pawn in the game that you and Mary played.

Both of you offered friendship but you misled me, lied to me. I have thought about our time together in Eronth for months and I have decided upon the only logical course of action for myself. I do not wish to cross again! I no longer desire to be the acclaimed Bluite, straddler of worlds. I am convinced that being the Crossa will lead only to madness . . . or worse.

I have realised what you both greedily seek from me. I refuse to give it!

Throughout the last year in my mountain retreat I have painted you both constantly. Am I attempting to exorcise you? Or perhaps manifest you? At times I no longer know. I have achieved the moderate success with my book that you predicted, but at what cost to my soul?

The question that haunts me (and that I know you will both refuse to answer) is this: when I bring the Azephim, the Solumbi, even yourself into paint and words, am I merely assisting you to cross?

Was it never about me crossing and always to do with you crossing? I’m too old and tired, too afraid to ponder the answers, although there have been signs. Both of you believed, or said you believed, that I would return and join you in your battle against the Azephim. You fed my bloated ego with half-truths, half-lies. You willingly nourished my fantasy of being the one to recharge the Eom. You both told me how you longed for me to be the Chosen One. But after I viewed the Glomx texts certain truths have become obvious to me. I suspect you were always aware of this knowledge. I do not fit the Glomx riddle, being neither Mother, Maid nor Crone! But my mind is filled with the sting of the knowledge of who is the awakener.

No, I will not travel to Eronth again. My mind is too filled with suspicion, my body too weary. The crossings have aged me. I am a young woman old before her time. My punishment, no doubt, for opening cracks between the worlds. Even here, back on Earth, I feel the Azephim have followed me.

I am an artist and a Bluite, but I want to live as an artist and a mortal. I want to plant seeds in the earth without fearing Persephone’s hands pulling me toward her. I want to sit under an indifferent sun and live life in a sacred, meaningless way. I want to feel part of my race once more when I walk among men. I want to be able to look into a mirror without fearing the face that may or may not be there.

I want to be free from the burden of having a foot in two worlds and a firm connection with neither. For when I wander through these mountains, my friend, I can feel the Earth’s sun on my face, I can hear the kookaburras and rosellas, but what I truly sense and smell is not the Australian bush but the scent of Solumbi. They are coming.

There are days I fear for my own sanity.

May the Dreamers protect me — I fear I have brought them here . . .

*

It wasn’t just the journal. When I had first read it, I had begun to harbour doubts about Johanna’s mental balance. Perhaps Jade’s caustic comments about her sister over the years had been right. But when I started to observe the mural that she had painted on the lounge room wall, it was my own sanity that I began to doubt.

It appeared to be changing.

Originally I had taken the work to be a landscape of English meadows, although Johanna, of course, couldn’t resist adding fantastical touches such as three silver moons and small zebra-like animals. There was a blurred figure in one corner, but no details were clear, as it had been rubbed out, as though the artist had changed her mind half-way.

Although it was not completed, it was a whimsical piece of work, something in the visionary style of Remedios Varo. I had played with the idea of gessoing it out, but couldn’t bear the thought that I would be destroying one of Johanna’s last works in progress. Perhaps when I was more settled I would finish it for her. Our styles were totally different, but I liked the symbolism of the two of us working on the same piece.

The only problem was that the mural was ahead of me. It appeared to be finishing itself.

Perhaps, I thought, I’m only imagining that it is changing from day to day, varied by a detail here, a shadow or colour there. It seemed to have gradually but steadily faded, and suddenly one morning one of the zebras had clearly moved its position overnight. But of course I knew that was impossible, which made me doubt my own mental balance. I had been convinced that the largest zebra had been to the rear of the herd, but now it was on the far left of the mural, and its eyes seemed to follow me whenever I went into the room.

The rain continued to drizzle intermittently, and that night there was a strange tapping on the front door. A faint scraping, like something trying to get in.

I cowered under the bedclothes, my mind filled with all the horror stories that I had heard over the years. Johanna was back. Her corpse was restless, and she had returned to her original home to find a relative, who was little more than a stranger, occupying her space. It never occurred to me to go down and investigate the scratching during the night. I was too afraid. The next morning I walked tentatively into the lounge room, and the largest zebra was back with the herd.

It wasn’t just the journal. It was the isolation, the half-pitying, half-fearful looks that I received in the street. It was the knowledge that Johanna at her worst was still a more talented artist than I’d ever be.

It was also the strange noises late at night. The phone that never rang. The soft breathing that I would hear at times over my left shoulder. It was the letters, old family letters, some filled with bitterness after all these years. It was the soft web of fear that hung over me, that echoed in my footsteps, that tasted like stale blood in my mouth. It was the house breathing me in, expelling me out, and never fully accepting me. It was the footsteps that never approached the house, and the doorbell that never rang.

I was always waiting for Johanna to come home.

It was the memories.