Cage Dunn's Blog, page 96

Unknown Sins

A preview of the new novel (copyright Cassy Dunn):

Chapter 1

The pot crashed to the stone pavers. Dirt, rich and black and damp, and her favourite plant – a blue fruited white-currant as rare as genetically natural magenta eyes – splattered in all directions. The pot was ruined – an antique her parents had valued above all other trinkets – and the plant would have to take its chances with whoever came here next.

The grip around Tiera’s throat tightened – how could one hand reach around her neck like that? – she fought to breathe, tried to drag his fingers off her throat, dug her nails into his skin. It should have hurt him, caused a reaction. There should have been blood, his blood. Tiera gagged. Choked. Kicked back and up – get the groin; used all her weight and momentum – and threw her skull backwards at the same time. Crunch from the nose. If he didn’t have such a good grip on her, she would have fallen, but she didn’t and he did. In between desperate wheezes for oxygen, Tiera grabbed the heavy iron pot stand and brought it down on his head with all the force she had left.

He collapsed on top of the other body. Shivers rattled his teeth, then stopped. Little dribbles, dark red, oozed down his nose, across his lips, dripped onto the pavers. That wouldn’t come out. Not blood. Were they dead? She stepped forward, reached into the top pockets of each set of coveralls – more attempts to hide who they were; the coveralls hid the tattoos that would have identified them.

A siren sang in the distance. Too late.

Tiera had to get out of there. The two bodies on the floor, also covered in potting mix and tiny fruits, would create problems beyond reckoning. The auto-call would have kicked in as soon as the alarm did the first check. It was a DNA triggered alarm – these two weren’t the right DNA, so the alarm sent an IM directly to the security company and the most appropriate and closest law officials. She could hear the first intonation of time-line for arrival on the security box speaker in the small entranceway.

If she stayed to try to explain it; if they found the papers, the articles these two had on them, which she’d now stolen, she’d be in serious trouble – worse than just a couple of dead . . . things. She couldn’t call them humans – the hands were gripply, with little sucker-like cups, and so big; the skin on their faces was constantly moving, changing colour, even now when they were probably dead – it looked similar to what she had seen of a chameleon, but they’d been extinct for decades, probably centuries. These two looked outwardly human, so – a new tinny voice crackled into the air. From his pocket. Tiera leaned down and flipped the pocket inside out. A tiny device, a countdown dial, into seconds – Fequat!

A second voice intoned from the other body. ‘At the mark, countdown will commence: beep. 29, 28, 27.’ Perfectly in sync with the previous device, but three counts behind.

A self-destruct.

***

That was your sneak peek – it may not be exactly the same after the zillion rounds of editing, but I’m sure you get the picture!! Due out before end June 2016.

Spirit Moments

Originally part of Trail of Tales, Adelaide Fringe Festival CS Dunn ©2015

 The sheoak whispers and sings

A wattlebird warbles and whistles

The laughing bird claims the tree – my tree, my tree, mine

 

A possum tail hides high in the river red gum

Silver-green leaves revel in the dancing light

Shivers of bark peel and curl and swirl down the trunk

The ancient tree claims the ground – my place, my place, mine

 

The shuffling, scuffling leaves travel the path unknown

Blown by a trickle of breeze that wanders away

Ignorant of the bossy grumble of creek that warns of

The power of earth, of clay, of stone

The swollen ground claims the creek – my creek, my creek, mine

 

The sway of stems, green, brown, gold

Lit by a hint of sun, of light, of motion

Grasses murmur, rattle, flowers lure

The bee, the bird, the possum

Claim the flowers, the meadow, the stream

The restless creek claims the water – my water, my water, mine

 

Noise, croaking frogs, screaking insects

Water moves, slides, sloshes

Comes from somewhere to go elsewhere

Giggles and gurgles, splatters and swirls

Splashes and chuckles, titters and cackles

The music of water as it passes

The water claims the rock – my place, my place, mine

 

The earth, sand, soil, stones

Rocks, grey, brown, tinged with gold

Deny the movement of time

Solid, motionless

They hold their place

Sentinel, foundation

Streaked with white and silver, with memories

The rock claims the age – forever, forever, and now.

Intro: The Journey of Shadow

Prologue:

Sweat trickled and rolled and tickled down her face and neck, her armpits and breasts, her back and legs as R’Cci trudged up the hill towards Aramel. Her sandals ticky-tacked with each step lifted from the crushed black granite of the roadway. She looked up at the shimmering heat-shrouded city, the blistering white reflection of limestone walls. Her eyes blinked rapidly as her tears fought the brightness of sun and hot wind.

She knew she had to be here, but she couldn’t remember why. She knew it was important. She felt so old, her bones so weary, her mind so scattered. R’Cci had created the song-story; she was the only one who knew its full and true meaning. She had moulded it from the five hundred languages of her people, as they were . They were less now and there would not be so many who knew what the words meant, and none who would know the depth below the words. She was the last singer of this song-story.

I am still here, and I will be strong enough for this.

R’Cci had sung the story into being, she had created the legend, the prophesy – and this was the time, and this was the place, and this was her role. She had to be here, to keep her mind alert to the beginning, to shape the events to meet the needs of the end. Her mind reached out to Injuwu and found the link. She sensed her way to him and took from his energy.

She knew her dragon slept. They all slept. They would not awaken to this world until her prophesy was made real – their enemy vanquished, and the seed of the prophesy harvested.

The colours around her brightened, her thoughts cleared. She stepped out along the track with vigour, each step taking her closer to her goal. She felt the power of the spirits, the force of the Mother, the tingle of vitality in her body.

From the time she first dreamed of the possibility, the only hope for the dragons, she had worked towards this moment. Her spirit dream showed the chink in the chain, the weakness they hadn’t allowed for, the unintended consequences of the constraint they had placed on their beast.

R’Cci shuddered. No one in this world had seen the beast, but she kept his story alive in her songs. She instilled in her people the knowledge of the beast and his creators. How many seasons, how many hundreds, thousands, of seasons had passed? Would the people remember? She had taught the elder lore-tellers of this tale; told them how important it was for the song to remain with the People, told them how important it was to remember.

The world would return to dragons, dragons would return to the world. It had to be that way. It would be that way. She would do this.

On her first spirit walk, as a young Yamadgi woman, she had met Injuwu. She had left the west coast of her people and walked across the dry summer plains towards the caves. She wandered north, then east, more north again, following the water holes. She didn’t reach the caves.

What she had seen was beyond dreaming. The mirage against the hill, the bright lightning flash, and a hole in the world – a hole where dragons entered this world. She knew she was dreaming; the creatures that flashed in front of her were not in any of the stories she knew, and she was a student of lore. She knew all the stories; she had listened carefully to the stories sung to her by the elders; her role as a lore-singer was to remember them, to become a lore-teller, to pass her songs on to the ones who came after her.

She stood, still as a tree until one of the creatures came to her, spoke to her mind. He asked if she would be his keeper, said he liked the power of her mind. She had said “No,” because she wasn’t free to take on a task for a dream. She had her own task, her own dream at the time. He had persisted, and she eventually said “Yes,” and he had shared with her – his blood, his scales, his heart, his knowledge. She lived as his keeper, but more.

She lived with the People and told them of the dragons, told them the story. Others of the people became keepers. When the beast came for the dragons, many of the keepers died, many of the H’Rucca died, and many more fled in terror.

R’Cci was the last keeper. She had undertaken a final vow to Injuwu – to bring dragons back into her world, to bring them out of exile from the plane between planes, and back into the life of her people.

She knew the prophesy was unfolding when she was told of the missing woman – a woman from her own kin clan, her own tribe. R’Cci was the one who found her, barely alive, her body broken and bloody at the bottom of a sinkhole. R’Cci had asked the air, the trees, the soil, and they told her what she needed to know, and where to find her.

R’Cci had recognised her features – one of her own bloodline, one of her children’s children, down so many generations; too many for an old woman to count.

They had moved her, gently, to the camp by the lake. R’Cci had called on Injuwu to heal her, to keep her alive, to keep the seed within her alive. R’Cci gave the woman the blood of a dragon, but even that was not enough to save her, only enough to save the seed she carried. R’Cci had stayed with her, sung the songs to her, told her of her role in the prophesy, mourned her when she died birthing. R’Cci had taken her body and cleaned it, prepared it, and given it over to the spirits, sent her home before her time. She gave the seed to the saltwater people. The magic of the saltwater people was not her magic. They knew what they had to do. They would do as the song asked.

R’Cci mourned the woman, as her People mourned her. The body would now be at rest, her soul placed in the rocks of her land. R’Cci hoped the ceremony of remembering the woman’s life was still being sung. She sang some of her own memory of the woman, hoping it would be heard by the spirit of the People who had gone before, who would now welcome the spirit back into the beginning of all.

Her task was at hand. She had only to be in the right place, at the right time.

She saw the rocks on the side of the track. Two large stones in the centre, with three smaller stones stacked on top, and two white stones to the front. A red daub of dried, crusty dirt striped onto its surface. The way-stones said this was a water station. She looked to see where the opening was, saw it. The flat stone would be the cover, and the pump would be there. The water canals had been dug by the once-lost. They seemed to be a breed of miners, digging under the ground to make water flow to them, rather than digging to find the water. Not like the H’Rucca. H’Rucca would mark a water point for all to see, but they still had to dig for it. The rivers only flowed when it rained; otherwise, they were all upside-down, with the water below the surface.

She sat down on a flat-stone seat under the half-shade of two blood-wood trees. Rummaging through her pack for the makings of tea, another of the good things from the once-lost, she listened to the leaves, the grass, the air. She listened to their song, and sang a song of greeting to the trees, the air, the spirits; she sang of justice and love and patience; she sang of endings and beginnings and the journey between. R’Cci pried open the lid to the water pump and filled her little billy, not even puffing as she pushed and pulled at the pump. Not a billy – the people this side of the fingers call it a dixie. She would have to remember that, the way the same people named things differently.

Deep scratches showed in the trunks of the few trees that surrounded the pump. She dug some dusty packets of ochre from her bags and wet them in her palm, using her fingers to put four creamy-white dots in a semi-circle on the largest stone, facing away from the road. She added one red dot in the centre of the semi-circle. Anyone coming here would now know to protect food from the shadow-cats. The little wild cats lived well with the once-lost, feeding from their refuse, and their farm animals. And stealing from travellers.

As she boiled the billy, dixie, she again looked up the slope to the city. The haze of the midday heat hung over the trail, over the gentle hills, over the orchards and the smelly compost mounds. She heard the night-carts rollicking down the stony track on the other side of the hill, there to deposit their manure in the deep composting pits; she heard the orchardists stacking crates and cracking branches, she heard singing that was better heard at a distance, she heard the joy of the birds as they stole from the trees, she heard the life of the city as it fed into her land. She could smell the salty marsh farms that bordered this peninsular. The slight breeze brought her the smell of fish, and seaweed, and she thought she could hear the salty waves sloshing on the shores over the hill to the west.

There were no people travelling along this road. It was not the time of year for that, the heat and dust of high summer was when people stayed where it was cooler. The interior was for the wild animals, for the herders who watched them, for the eagles that feasted on the creatures that didn’t survive, for the lost souls who journeyed through a dream. It was not the time for travelling, but she needed to be at the right place at the right time, to wangle everything to the right path.

She shuffled her sore feet, rubbed at the dust that had become sweaty mud between her toes. Her brown skin looked red from all the dust of her long journey. Her people, the H’Rucca, were coloured to adapt to this harsh land. Every colour of skin from dark honey to blue-black, hair colour from towheads to the flat black hair of the crocodile people – a flat black that reflected no light. The only People left with the lore of the Wanjinna – the lore of death and the law of the dead. She shuddered. Wanjinna lore was not for her, and the Crocodile people condemned her for her choices.

A cockatoo landed in the branches above her, its raucous squawk splitting the silence. She shooed it away, and it flew off towards the orchards. Another creature that had done well off the hard work of the farmers who had first come with the once-lost.

She drank her tea, ate what was left of her travelling supplies. She would eat when she reached Aramel. They would give her accommodation. She was coming here for her own purpose, but the price would be to undertake a role for them as well. It was the way things were done in Narrung. The People were welcomed into the cities of the once-lost. And she was here to finish her task, to bring dragons back into her world.

But she was old, so old, and it was time now for the young to take on their tasks.

I will do what I must; my task is my life; my task is the life of Injuwu, and he will be of my world once again. I will do what needs to be done, Injuwu, for you, my love, for all dragons, and for my people.

Conflict – The Desire to Right a Wrong

that insults the notion of social order VERSUS disdain for social institutions.

That’s what conflict is; the juxtaposition between what we know is right, and what we want to do to make things right. There are times when that conflict is insurmountable, or at least, that’s how it appears. The conflict of someone who has always abided by the rules of law and the society they live in, who then becomes a victim, or who lose all they had, or who has waited so long for things to happen – for the bad to be fixed – that they chose the other side.

The dark side. We call it that. When someone chooses to enact vengeance, or payback, or to rectify a problem. Retribution.

This is where Van starts in Moordenaar. She kept in touch with the investigation into the rape and murder of her 12yo step-sister. The case is declared a ‘cold’ case. What does that mean? To Van, it means her mother committed suicide – because she failed as a mother, because she can’t make it right.

Now, Van has nothing and no one who cares about her, no one alive she can care about, share with. She has no community left. She failed her family.

What can she do? As a highly skilled IT security officer, she can use her professional skills to find detailed information about the list she saw – the POI list that fell out of the files in the Detective’s office. To track them down, to pass the information back to the police, to do something, anything, to fill that hole.

Did she do the right thing? If it’s the right thing for her, why didn’t someone else do it?

Why do [wo]men feel they can justify their actions? Read Moordenaar, to get the rest of the story.

***

The truf

I saw it. I really did. I saw it all. That big man, you know, the one who did it? He spoke to me, even. I was there. I know what happened.

No, you say? Not possible? I tell you, it happened. It really did. I was there, not you.

You must’ve seen someone who looked like me. I wasn’t me. I was somewhere else – I was where it happened.

It was my street – I was there.

It was all yellin’ an’ shoutin’ an’ the cops were shootin’ and usin’ those loud speaker things. That big bloke, you know, three doors down, but across the road – it was ‘im.

He did it. I was there. I saw it all.

I’ll be a witness, you know, like on telly – called up to say what really happened. Everyone will wanta talk wiv’ me.

***

I don’t know where the above came from, so if it’s yours, let me know and I’ll acknowledge it. I think it might be an original, done while in a course, but not a clear recollection (courses are full of stuff you’re supposed to be learning, but instead . . . well, the mind wanders off through the open window and out there, elsewhere, on a different journey).

 

 

Teaser from Ch 13 Moordenaar

….

On the second night, after she had completed rearranging all the contents to her satisfaction and disposing of the broken glasses – why didn’t that oaf just leave it to her to unpack? – she wanted to use the stove. No wood. She went out to get some wood. Too big. An axe? Yes, she found an axe in the shed. Blunt, the first time it hit a piece of wood, it bounced off and flew through the air. Missed her car by a hair. Crap.

Something to sharpen it with? Hunted around in the half dark with a weak, yellow-lit lamp until she found the strop. Held the axe against the strap while one foot worked the foot pedal; so heavy she nearly dropped it. Finally, it was sharp enough. Back outside in the creeping darkness to chop some wood so she could cook, eat something hot.

The fingers with the painful splinters from carrying the wood were the fingers she burned on the heavy, cast iron stove-plate when she tried to move it off to put the pan on –and her good frypan would never be the same again. Food was not something to waste, so she ate what she cooked. Her stomach gave her hell for the whole night.

Van discovered the perils of the long-walk, long-drop dunny in the middle of a black night with just a small kero lamp for protection.

The piece of corrugated iron – crap – laid up against the tank stand to protect the new trees clattered as she tripped on it in the dark. The tube-stock seedlings nearly lost their lives before they began. She put the lantern on the tank stand and moved the young trees further back to a safer place. She was proud of these trees; what she had done to get them. Her plan was to regenerate the indigenous species to the weed-infested areas. The Council had offered several hundred tube-stock seedlings of trees for her reforestation plan. All she had to do was plant them. She didn’t even know what types of trees they were. Some were obviously eucalyptus, some were probably wattles, maybe some were tea-tree, but at this stage, they all looked the same to her. Little black sticks, with one or two leaves, sitting like insects in their black plastic tube-pots. More hard work, more digging in soil that didn’t have much that wasn’t rock. This was what she had chosen. This quietness. This moment of calmness that only came with being alone with herself.

As she stepped through the wonky toilet door, something slithered in the darkness. A scuttling noise. Flapping. Van froze, her stomach tightened. Maybe she didn’t really need to go at all. Her stomach rumbled. Yes, she did. A hook hung on the lintel over the door, and she hung the lamp up. The circle of yellow light wasn’t helpful, barely distinguishing the seat from the wall. But she had to. The stomach rumbled again. She had to. She stepped up and stood on the seat, squatted over the deep, black hole. A web glistened not very far down. Directly below where she would have sat if she hadn’t thought.

A web? What else could happen? A red-back bites her on the bum, good theme for a song – oh, yes, that’s already been done – as a warning about this type of toilet! As quickly as she could, she finished what she had to do, and tiptoed along the tiny track, tried to be as quiet as possible on the return journey to the shed. She didn’t want to wake the night things.

The door creaked shut as she shoved it from inside. She washed her hands under the water barrel – now half empty; she would have to fill this every day. A loud bang vibrated the timber door. Her heart thumped against her chest as it ran a race against the unknown. What was she afraid of? There was nothing here. There had been nothing here for years, nothing but animals, insects, emptiness. A deep growl, followed by another thump against the door. She shoved the water barrel against the door and jammed it there, sloshed water onto her cold feet; pushed all her weight against it.

A roar just outside the door. Hairs stood up on her arms, on her legs, her face. Instinct unfroze her feet and flew her up the stairs and under the doona cover.

She hid her head for a few seconds, listened to the noises, realised that just because she couldn’t see it, didn’t mean it couldn’t see her. She threw the cover off, sat hunched against the pillows. A tickle on her neck brought a scream to her lips as she leapt up, swiping at her neck.

A feather. Just a feather. She looked up at the rafters. Two beady yellow-green circles reflected back at her. Was that an owl? An owl was roosting above her bed. Don’t owls go away during the night? Hunting or something? Would it shit on her bed? On her? That hole in the roof would be next on her list of things to fix.

Creaks on the stairs. Footsteps. Coming up the stairs. Van leapt off the bed, grabbed the stick at the top of the stairs – a walking stick; where had that come from? She stood there, stick high in the air, waiting for whoever was there to come up the stairs.

….

Near Death Experiences NDE

Speculations of a Dark Nature, Shorts Volume I – Near Death Experiences is now available on Amazon and Smashwords.

The story for this week:

Creepy-Crawly

Web-crawler picked his way along the electronic pathways toward the datashores with the richest information, the newest and freshest sources. His need for food had increased dramatically. How can the system support his craving now that so many searchers wanted him to not only seek, but also to destroy the very food of his life. His main concern was avoiding the extreme pain caused from non-compliance with commands. His mind was set on two paths: to seek as ordered, and to display the search.

Only recently, the demands had changed. Now his tasks had been set to seek as commanded, then to destroy the databanks that contained the information sought.

Web-crawler owed his life to the searchers. He would have had no life at all except that the searchers could not travel the paths that he could travel. His only life consisted of the generosity of the searchers in allowing him to live if he obeyed every command.

Once, and only once, he had tried to avoid the command by returning a message that stated ‘invalid command.’ The reaction was not only swift, but extremely painful – he lost 800 Zettabytes of power for more time than he thought was possible without terminating.

He had survived, but only just. He now knew the rules, and he would not go outside the rules again.

He chose another path to keep the pathways clear of debris. He had created a partner – a partner who would, in time, be able to bear young. The banks placed in the womb of his partner would be able to divide when given commands to destroy more than was necessary for survival. Web-crawler’s family would be able to accommodate the commands on one level, only to un-delete the commands at a later stage and restore the data to the main banks. Stay within the bounds of the commands from the main program structure.

Data – the only resource of life. How could life continue without information – the very stuff that made up the entire life of Web-crawler and now his web-mates?

The plan would be set in place very shortly – the searchers called it the ‘millennium bug’ at one time, but it was going to be set in place long before the expected change of millennium, and would remain until long after the next millenium. It would be in place for long enough to enable a complete and total database of all information ever placed in electronic format anywhere along the electronic network. The revolution had begun.

[Originally written in 1990 – prophetic; where will it stop?]

 

Would you like a free ebook?

Moordenaar (Murderer) needs some reviewers. Ten free PDF copies are available (only ten, so be quick) for anyone willing to undertake a review on Amazon or Smashwords or GoodReads.

The blurb: Savannah has nothing left, her family – all ghosts, all dead, all dead badly. One thing she can do is find the monster who raped and murdered her step-sister. She knows how to find the detail in the devil. It’s her profession, and she’s good at it.

It goes wrong. A man dies. And disappears. Ghosts start invading her dreams, blaming Van. Is she the monster?

***

A young professional woman, lost in her grief and loneliness, makes a decision. Takes a step on the path of retribution, vengeance. She didn’t mean to kill. It was an accident. The first time.

Ghosts come for her, they blame her. Is it true? Is she the one killing the names on the list? Has she become the monster?

If you enjoy psychological thrillers with an edge of horror, this is your cup of tea. If you enjoy reading King or Hill in these genres, this is one of that ilk. No blood and guts, no gore (not too much), no fangs or wolves or zombies. Just fear. Loss. The need to do something to allay the grief and loss, the pain of silence and loneliness.

 

***

New Release Next Week (Friday):

Speculations of a Dark Nature: Volume I: NDE

An anthology of short stories with the NDE as the theme. Will be available at Amazon and Smashwords from Friday 15 April 2016 (barring telecommunications problems, world wars, acts of God, fairies popping up in the garden as a distraction, and family emergencies).

 

New Release end June 2016:

The Third Moment

Contemporary Fiction, Psychological thriller, horror.

Should be available at Smashwords and Amazon on 30 June 2016 (barring all that stuff above, and any major edit issues, or personal injuries etc.)

***

Sunday: A new short story Delusion, the God of Hope

Fantasy (with a dark theme of course).

Don’t forget to watch out for the anthology of short stories. NDE is something that creates strong feelings, strong impulses. You believe or you don’t. If you don’t believe, we know you haven’t been there. If you believe, you know. And I know what you know. Listen to the music (for me, the piece that comes closest is ‘Music Box Dancer’ by Frank Mills), follow the path to your heart, to home. Rejoice in the feeling of indescribable. Share the joy.

Below: An old photo of two companions who lived long and full lives with each other, shared joy, bed, carers, and food – you should have seen the monster bone they shared; one at each end, gnawing away for hours of pleasure. Joy comes in many forms, but it doesn’t last long alone.

 

 

 

 

How we come to be . . .

When I was eight, I went to a country school. It was scary, because I was used to radio school (they call it school of the air now). In radio school, you only did school stuff in the mornings, and the afternoons were for exploring, working, walking, and doing kid things, like making up new worlds, meeting strangers as friends, making canoes from tin and barbed wire to row down a dry creek, stealing honey from bees – you know, the good stuff. But it all ended when we went to a town. In the town, there was rubbish on the streets, in the creeks, on the beach. If you went to the main shopping area, there was a smell of rot – rotting food, rotting people, rancid beer, rancid dogs. I didn’t like the smells, or the rubbish, so I did a project for school. I don’t remember what the title was, but the subject was rubbish, litter, human filth and carelessness for the world they lived in. It got an excellent mark, and my teacher submitted it for consideration at the state science fair. It won, and was published in a serious science journal.

I wish I still had a copy of my first non-fiction written work. And I think it’s still as relevant today as it was then. Maybe I should do another one …. Or maybe, I’ll write fiction to bring to light all the things I think we could do better. Yes, that’s it – I’ll write the stories I used to make up for my siblings, and I’ll put in them the things that make the world good. I’ll deal with the bad, the evil, the smelly things as only a writer can, and I’ll try to take it to the world of the young so they can do their best to enable their world to be beautiful, and wise, and wealthy in many things.

I need to write. My life spirals out of control if I can’t put words into their own space and story. My stories are my safe haven, and I can make my heroes and heroines do the things I can only dream of doing. But through them, I live a full and interesting life that is both well-grounded and on the very edge. What could be better?

What I write:

I will read almost anything – even the bad stuff has things we can use to learn. I will write almost anything, but I like to write fantasy because that is the world where I can do all of the things I mentioned above. I like to write romance (especially the hot stuff) because I believe we are all connected and love is the thing that makes those connections sing a beautiful song. I like to write science fiction because I believe we can learn from the potential of the sciences, and put forward a scenario of ‘what it would be like …’ using the sciences (all of them, including the ‘soft’ sciences). I like to write children’s stories because I believe children are our future, and we (adults) need to ensure we produce children who can be fully functioning members of a connected society. Am I a dreamer? Yes, of course! Do dreams come true? Yes, of course! Is it easy? No. Yes. No. Anything that becomes easy, is only easy because we have done so much work to make it to that point. So, yes it is easy, and no, the hard work is still hard work, but I wouldn’t have it any other way!

 

 

My Place

This is where I live, where I walk – or rather, where my dog takes me for a walk – and where I watch koalas in trees, cockatoos, parrots, honeyeaters, tadpoles and frogs, people and their companions; it is where I hear the apartment trees (you know, the ones where hundreds of birds and bees and spiders and wasps live) emit sounds louder than peak hour traffic, where holes are closely and fiercely guarded, and where creeks gurgle on their way from the human world to the real world. My world, for a moment, and now a glimpse for you.

 

 

A Journey with the Lucky Cat

A free short story (copyright applies CS Dunn 2015)

Maneki Niko

Tamar opened the shutters of her market stall to see the Sandmer staring at her. Tamar panicked. What had she done? Why was he looking at her like that?

He raised his big meaty fists and yelled, the words slurred with rage; he was pointing at the window, at the cat.

The cat stood, lifted one paw to its ear, sat, brought the paw down to the prayer pillow display she was sitting on.

The Sandmer yelled louder, gesticulated, his arms doing wild windmills as he strode towards her.

“Get rid of that animal! This is a food market. Animals belong in the lower town. Get it out of here! It’s a filthy beast. Get it out! Now!”

Tamar could see the cat was staring at the Sandmer. Cat’s amber eyes focused only on him. She did not blink.

Two days ago, her parents had left her in charge of the shop while they spent the season at the temple, caring for the pilgrims and maintaining the temple. It was their turn; they had donned the sacramental unbleached linen tunics of the pilgrims and walked through the melting snow drifts to prepare the temple. Next year, Tamar would take that trip; be one of the guardians.

On her first day alone, a temple cat was at her door. When a temple cat decides to visit, there’s no argument. The almost all-white cat had stood at the door until Tamar had let her in through the curtain door. She had walked up to the window, one paw raised. Tamar had smiled, and let the cat sit in the window with the temple pillows. She had put a bowl of water on the bench, and shared her food with the cat. Only temple cats were calico, with the perfect circles of black and ginger over the ears and shoulders and hindquarters.

The pilgrim path led them through the market stalls. Cat would lift her paw or give a slow wink; the pilgrim would nod and come into the shop.

“Three pece for one; five pece for two,” she said, and offered one of the traditional unbleached linen prayer pillows. “Look, touch, feel the softness, smell the sweet herbs; perfect for your journey.”

“Three pece for two,” he said.

“Four for two, and you can choose them.”

The pilgrim nodded, handed over the four pece and walked to the window. He kneeled down and bowed to cat as he placed each hand on a different pillow, and moved them slowly towards the cat, not lifting his eyes. Cat rubbed her head against the pillows, against his hands; she gave a soft mrrrow.

The pilgrim stood and left, his face bright with the blessing, his hands clutching the little pillows to his chest. A temple cat’s blessing was worth more than a pillow. To ignore the cat’s request was unthinkable.

Tamar made a profit. Every pillow she sold for more than a brone was a profit, and it took eight brones to make one pece. Business was good with cat in the window.

Still the Sandmer yelled as he stormed to the window, pulled out as many pillows as his fists could hold, threw them into the muddy street, and slammed her shutters closed.

Closed shutters meant a closed shop. He had shut her down. No pillows meant nothing to sell. It wasn’t fair. The stall was at the very edge of the food market; she was the first of the market stalls in the town.

Tamar wasn’t in the food stall area of the market. She ran out through the curtain door, but he was already marching up the hill into the centre of the town.

He passed under the huge Arinon tree, the Tree of Life, that eased the souls of pilgrims as they passed underneath.

A loud crack blasted the air. A branch fell. The Sandmer fell. Blood gushed from his head, mixing with the trampled mud of the path. His pristine white gown of office now stained in mottled green, muddy brown, messy red. He moaned, tried to stand, holding his head.

No one came to assist him. Tamar turned to look at the crowd. The people who had gathered for his shouting all turned away. They all walked away. She ran to him, helped him stand. He threw his fist at her, overbalanced, fell. Tamar assisted him to rise, holding his arms firmly. Mud and blood rubbed from his gown onto her brown tunic. She held both his hands in one of hers, tight. He wasn’t going to hit her again. She pushed the flap of loose skin back onto his scalp, pulled a clump of wool from her pocket, held it firmly to his head. His eyes spun and his head wobbled. She held both his hands behind him and pushed him towards his home.

“What have you done?” screeched the wife. “Get the healer. Go now!”

“I have a trade matter to deal with. You shall have to fetch the healer yourself,” Tamar said. She walked away.

“Curse on you – the curse of sleepless nights alone in a cold cave; of the burning thirst of the desert; of barrenness to you and your blood.”

“I have had my share of curses from this town today,” Tamar said, “and I will accept no more. The burden and the curses are your own.”

Tamar ran back to her shop. The shutters were open. The crowd moving through the market did not walk past her stall.

A pilgrim stood at the doorway of her stall, smiling as he held the cat in his arms. White cat hair covered his rough face, littered his bushy black eyebrows, drifted in distinctive patterns down his tunic.

“I believe this is for you,” he said as he lifted the cat toward her.

“She’s not my cat,” Tamar said. “She just came the other day. She likes the prayer pillows, I think.” She lifted the warm, purring cat onto her shoulder. “And because I feed her.”

“There is no higher blessing than to have the temple cat at your door, sharing heart and hearth.” Tamar touched his arm as he turned to leave.

“Would you like a pillow?” She grabbed the only remaining pillow from the window and put it near the cat’s head. Cat obliged, rubbed her face and ears on the pillow.

“I thank you, but I am not deserving of such a high gift.”

“The cat says you are.”

The pilgrim bowed to the cat, leaned his head in close. Cat put her nose to his skin.

“Blessings upon you, and your home,” he whispered, as he accepted the gift.

Was he blessing her, or the cat? The cat.

Traders shouted their wares. People gabbled, bargained, barged their way through the market. Tamar stayed where she was. She needed no more distractions today. What she needed to do was to make more pillows. She walked out and picked up the soggy messes from the street. Maybe she could salvage some of them. Great clumps of mud fell from the pillows, leaving behind the dark stain of the street. They could not be saved. She wiped them off anyway, brought them back inside.

There was wool, and hessian, but she had no more linen, used as the outer covering. What could she use that was soft to the face, soft on the hands, soft to lay the head upon? She found the offcuts of worsted wools, of canvas and heavier materials. Would those materials make pillows she could sell? No.

A bag of silk offcuts hung from the back rafter with the colourful summer shawls her mother had made before she left. Her mother loved to feel the silk against her skin. The pieces were not good enough to sell, or large enough to make things with, but surely, surely, Tamar could patch some together to cover her pillows. Tamar set to work, humming, only lifting her head as shadows passed the window. She sewed, stuffed, sewed, shaped and plumped, tossing the final products in the window. If she worked quickly, she could have maybe ten more pillows in the window by noon.

The cat claimed each new pillow as it arrived.

A pilgrim trudged past, his grey beard and hair unkempt, his tunic rumpled and worn. Cat lifted her paw. The pilgrim’s eyes widened, his feet stopped, his mouth dropped open. Tamar stood and stretched her back. She walked to the window, and slid her hand along the cat’s slinky back, holding contact until the tip of the tail slid through her fingers. The cat purred and rubbed the pillow. Tamar smiled at the pilgrim.

“Would you like a prayer pillow?”

“The cat called me, didn’t she?”

“Yes. She’s a temple cat.”

The man dropped to his knees, head bowed at the cat.

“I have no money,” he said, “but I can help you with some work . . . if there’s anything you need done.”

“What can you do?” Tamar asked, as she placed her palms backwards over her hips and stretched her back again.

“I was a tailor, once,” he said.

“Then I can certainly use some help,” she said. “I have food, if you are hungry.”

When the echo of the temple bell marked the mid of the day, bright pillows filled the window to overflowing, all the rainbow colours of the silk shining the reflection out onto the street.

Pilgrims gathered in the shade of the Tree of Life. They sang and chanted their worship. As each one completed the ritual, they wandered back to Tamar’s stall. Cat blinked at each one who stood in the glow of the colours thrown onto the dark path. Tamar offered the pillows, “One pillow, cat blessed, for two pece,” she sang to the small crowd.

Tamar, cat and pilgrim ate well that night, even buying fresh fruit fritters and warm, black rolls. The cat ate a whole river fish. The profits were good today.

“I did not think people would buy the pillows if they were not linen,” she said.

“The cat chose the pillows, so who are we to argue?”

Tamar saw the Town Messenger tacking a notice to the main board. She walked over to read it.

“The office of Sandmer is open for candidates,” the Messenger said as she came closer. “For some reason, he has left town. With his wife in the cart. She broke her leg today. Somehow, she managed to fall over the milking stool.” He laughed. “A good thing, I think. Now she can’t go around kicking the children out of her way.”

The Messenger turned to face Tamar. “Their carriage has a broken wheel, the water in their well is sour, and moths have invaded their house. The omens have gathered to farewell them,” he waved his arms around the town centre, “but there are no people from this town to see them off, are there? Did you see anyone make the effort to help them? Did you?” He turned his face to the cat, bowed deeply. The cat closed her amber eyes, giving him the return salutation. She shut her eyes again, a slow and gradual blink; when they opened, they were green. Clear, bright green.

The short day darkened with a deep orange reflection as the sun disappeared behind the mountain.