That Devil's Madness (8 page)

Her mother had insisted she'd lost all contacts with the family left behind. And when Nicolette pulled out the photo albums, she saw they contained only photos taken in Australia.

‘Where are all the other photos?' she'd asked. ‘Those of before we came here?'

‘I threw them away when your grandfather died.'

‘But why? If you didn't want them, you could have given them to me…'

‘They were the past, and the past brought us nothing but trouble. Why do you want to dig all that up? Forget the past, Nicolette. I have.'

Nicolette was stunned by her mother's attitude, but realised how much of the past
she'd
forgotten. Why was that? When she thought about it, everything she remembered was what Grandpa Louis had told her. Why did she not have any of her own memories?

As the days wore on, Nicolette realised she and her mother had very little to talk about, so that she soon felt more of a hindrance than welcomed, and realised there was little to keep her in Adelaide.

In Melbourne she'd stayed at the ‘People's Palace'. It came with bedbugs and a breakfast each morning of sloppy minced beef in pretend gravy served on soggy toast, but it was all she could afford and she didn't really care where she slept. She knew she also had to find work – she'd increased her Bankcard limit to pay for the funerals – so she took some of her photos to
The Age
, hoping to sell a couple and maybe convince them to take her on as one of their photojournalists. She hadn't made it passed the receptionist.

She hadn't expected anything different when she entered
The Herald
building, but somehow she found herself in front of Cec Wallace, who'd been editor then. He'd looked at her photos and shaken his head, but he must have seen the resignation in her eyes, because as she walked back down that black and white tiled floor, he'd called her back.

‘One of my copy boys' just quit. You can have his job, if you can make a go of it. You never know – there might even be a cadetship down the track.'

So she'd worked as a copy ‘boy' for a year. The pace was frantic but the work wasn't difficult. Her first task for the day was to sort through the foreign cables and separate them into topics – news, sport, finance and so on. Then the reporters would arrive and soon shouts of ‘copy' would ring out, and she'd take that reporter's story, along with the six carbon-papered copies, and distribute one to each sub-editor of interstate bureaus throughout the building, and one to 3DB, the radio station owned by
The Herald
. Sometimes the call would be ‘Shute!', which meant a sub-editor had finished editing a story, and wanted her to send it via a canister up the hydraulic shute to the typesetters on another floor. She was really nothing more than a messenger girl, but the staff was friendly and at the end of the day she was tired enough to be able to sleep. Soon she'd cut back her Bankcard debt and was able to rent a small flat in St Kilda. Cec Wallace left
The Herald
during that year, but still she'd been offered a cadetship at the end.

And slowly – ever so slowly – those periods of intense grief became less extreme, less frequent, so that now she could think of Willow without breaking down. She even came to realised how cruel she'd been, blaming Michael for her daughter's death, so that she'd been able to grieve for him as well. But not breaking down at the thought of Willow didn't mean she missed her any less, and there were times when she'd be caught unawares – a child calling out ‘Mummy' behind her, a toy she saw in a shop that she'd think Willow would like – but over time she was able to accept that she'd always have this feeling of loss deep inside her, this part of her missing forever. It was just a part of who she was now, and it always would be, and she knew now that she could live with that, no matter how hard it was.

8

Louis watched the small figures of soldiers on horseback slowly making their way up the track that hugged the foot of the mountain, until they disappeared around the massive boulders that indicated the turnoff to their military camp at Ain Azel, a two-day's ride away. Now they were truly alone in this valley called Aïoun Asif Mellul.

He turned, slowly taking in this rugged scenery that was to become their home. To his left rose the mountains of Djebel Tinezert, the first mound densely covered with oaks, junipers and mastics, the next a forest of pines. Before him lay isolated valleys, then more mountain ranges, and beyond that, the desert. The sun burned low in the sky, and flocks of small birds fluttered above him, chattering and cheeping as they flew to the banks of the stream that defined one of the boundaries of their land.

‘Louis, stop daydreaming and come help me.'

‘Yes, Father.' He rolled up his sleeves.

‘Come on, don't take all day.' Marius had already unloaded their few belongings from their mule's back, and was clearing the fallen slabs of wall at the base of a ruin. It had been a gourbi – a traditional, simple dwelling made of straw and dried mud, long since deserted. The remains of two walls at right angle to each other still stood about a metre-and-a half tall – they would provide shelter for their camp. The old mule and the dairy goat they had bought were tied to a tree whose shadow provided a small oasis of relative coolness.

‘Here, take this.' Marius handed Louis a metal pan and bucket. ‘Give the animals a drink, then get some water for us as well. I think we can both do with a coffee.'

Both do with a coffee –
as Louis made his way to the stream he smiled at the tone his father had used. Since leaving Sablières, his father had been treating him more like a man, like an equal. Well, he was a man – nearly. He would be thirteen next birthday, old enough to leave his family and homeland behind, and come help his father establish a farm out of nothing.

He watered the old mule, taking the time to stroke its scarred muzzle and long ears – one of which had a wedge cut out – then watered the goat. When he returned to the stream a small elephant-shrew was at the water's edge, poking its long nose under the leaves, looking for insects. Quietly Louis approached it, but the snap of a twig alerted the small animal. It rose on its hind legs and screamed and snarled, outraged with this intruder, before bustling away.

Louis filled the bucket with water once more, then rose. Something was wrong. Whereas only a few seconds ago the air had been filled with the sounds of birds chirping, insects buzzing and small animals scurrying, now there was total, absolute silence. The light changed, rendering the sky sulphur yellow. The clean fresh scent of the air changed to that of hot earth, heavy and threatening.

‘Father? Father?' he called as he ran back to camp.

Marius was busy tying a second rope from the mule to the tree. ‘Sand storm's coming. Cover our gear with a blanket. Put something heavy over it all. Hurry.'

Louis gathered their belongings into a heap and covered them with a blanket, then laid slabs of broken wall along the edges of the blanket, and a couple on top of the pile. The light turned from yellow to blood red. The temperature rose suddenly and a gust of wind corkscrewed dried leaves into the air then hesitated for an instant before blustering on. A lizard darted in front of him to hide in a crack in one of the slabs. Louis saw a dark wall of dust on the horizon, boiling and swirling towards them.

‘Louis, come. Quickly.' Marius pulled him to where the two walls joined and sat down, back against the wall. ‘It's going to get worse. Get your handkerchief. Tie it over your mouth and nose. Hurry.' He did the same, then wrapped a blanket over them. ‘Hold on to it. Don't let go.'

The wind howled and the air was pregnant with sand and dust. Louis clung to his father, holding the edge of the blanket as close to his body as possible, trying to prevent the grit-laden wind from entering his mouth and nostrils and turning his eyelids into sandpaper. The air became hotter still. For an eternity he was only aware of the wind screeching, attacking. The grit that stung every bit of exposed flesh like minute angry gnats. He thought he heard the mule scream. In this demonic nightmare of raging winds Louis fought to breathe, not daring to open his mouth, his eyes, sure he would die. On and on and on the wind sandblasted his skin in spite of the blanket and Louis felt panic struggle to overtake him but for the reassuring arm of his father holding him close.

The wind stopped abruptly. Total silence. Slowly he lowered the blanket. Looked around. The air still choked with dust. Difficult to breath. His eyes stung and watered.

‘Are you all right?'

Louis nodded. Stood up, coughing. Spat out sand. A bird twittered in a nearby tree, then another. ‘It's over?'

‘It's over. Impressive, hey?'

But Louis was coughing and gagging, trying to get the sand out of his lungs.

‘Come on, let's check the animals, then we'll go to the stream to wash off.'

His knees felt weak, his ears could still hear the howl of the wind. His skin felt as if it was being scoured at every point where it touched fabric. He looked around him as he walked, at the surreal yellow glow in the air, the red dust of the desert painting every rock and tree with its gritty blush.

‘Does it happen often?'

‘Now and then, I'm told. You'll get used to it.'

#

They were sitting around a small fire in the gathering dusk, toasting a pan-full of chestnuts they had brought with them from home. All seemed peaceful now. The chestnuts' nutty aroma filled the air. An occasional crack as the hard shell burst open. The flapping of birds' wings, the scurrying of small creatures. The mule under the tree was asleep, wheezing softly with each breath. The goat grazed. Then, softly, a tinkle of bells resonated in the air. Louis looked over the wall of the ruin.

Coming towards the stream was a small caravan of three camels and two donkeys, the camels glowing a soft pale gold in the evening light. A man dressed in deep indigo robes over loose-legged trousers rode the first camel. He sat cross-legged, his legs around the front of the saddle and his feet on the camel's neck. His face was hidden, except for his eyes, by a turban the same colour of his robes, wound round and round his head and across the lower half of his face. Tucked in his belt was a khanjar, its curved silver sheath reflecting light. Other pouches hung from his belt. Louis stared at this apparition, mesmerised by the slow swaying of the ornate leather braidings and tassels that hung either side of the camels, and by the tinkling of the silver bells attached to the saddles.

Behind this man, on the second camel, was a boy dressed in loose white trousers and a short robe. The third camel and the donkeys were loaded with bundles wrapped in cloths that glowed in jewel colours in this evening light. Leading the donkeys were two women covered from head to foot in soft gauzy cloth the same indigo colour, with only their faces and hands showing amongst the blue. A small girl followed, shepherding a few goats.

‘Who are they?' Louis asked.

‘Tuaregs, I think. The captain told me about them – they go to the towns to trade. You're lucky to see them. They don't come very often, apparently.'

‘Are they friendly?'

‘They won't bother you. Just be respectful and you'll be all right. Come, those chestnuts should be ready.'

‘I'm so sick of chestnuts…'

‘Just be glad we've got them. Come.'

#

They were on their second cup of coffee when the smell first reached them. Roasting meat, thyme and garlic and spices that Louis couldn't identify, but that made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. The handful of chestnuts that had been his evening meal seemed already digested. He looked over the edge of the wall once more. Across the stream he could make out the square shape of a tent dyed red, surrounded by a veranda-shaped flap held up by wooden poles. The skin of the tent glowed softly from lamps lit within. The man and the boy were sitting cross-legged on a carpet near the entrance, talking. Beside them glowed the embers of a campfire above which a whole carcass of meat sizzled on a spit, turned slowly by the small girl.

‘That smells so good,' Louis said, flopping back next to his father.

Marius smiled and puffed on his pipe. ‘Don't think about it.' He pointed to the sky with the stem of his pipe. ‘Look, have you ever seen such stars?'

Louis stared at the sky. It was the same sky that was above Sablières, but here it seemed darker, the stars more numerous, brighter. An owl hooted. The full moon seemed so close that he felt he could touch it, if only he had the energy to raise his arm. The air was much cooler now, and the soft sounds of the night soothing. His eyelids felt heavy.

#

‘Louis, wake up. We have visitors.'

Louis sat up. Yawned. He could hear footsteps approaching. In the forest a fox barked. Together with his father he went to greet these visitors.

It was the boy from the caravan, and one of the women. The boy was about Louis' age, and he carried a large long object wrapped in a palm-fibre mat, about a metre high. From the way the boy walked, it was obvious the object was heavy. The woman carried a brass platter on which rested a roasted goat's head. It had been split lengthwise, each section displaying half of the brain resting in its bony cavity, half of the tongue ridged by a row of teeth yellowed by spices. Small globules of fat shimmered at the edges where flesh met bone, and meat juices spread into the engravings of the platter. The woman stepped forward. Though she did wear a veil, it did not cover her face but sat at the back of her head, flowing over a multitude of plaits, and coins and silver jewellery were attached to the front of her hair near the scalp. From her ears dangled silver earrings, and around her neck hung a brass and copper talisman and a garnet and silver necklace intercepted with little silver palm tree shapes. She wore a number of silver bracelets and several rings. With both arms outstretched, she offered the platter to Louis, who hesitated.