Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 (6 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E
ffie smiled to herself as she replaced the receiver. It was great to hear Emma’s voice again. She was glad that she had been the one to end the resentment between them. Hopefully this would help to ease the guilt that she felt when she had dumped her animosity onto Emma after she lost out on the deodorant commercial by staying home with her friend. Emma might be a bit of a bore at times with her reclusive ways, but she was still a friend. A ‘mate’, as Effie liked to call her, mocking the Australian accent.

She missed Emma being in the flat, having another girl to talk too. Even if Emma wasn’t all that interested in discussing ‘girlie’ things, and even if she was a social cripple, she was still a sympathetic ear that Effie could talk to about the latest man in her life.

She checked her backside in the mirror, and started throwing her make-up into a beaded purple evening bag. Geoff was so taken up with Robert he hardly bothered to give Effie the time of day.

For a split second before she left the house, the urge to stay home surfaced in her. To just sit at home, with a face mask on, lie on the couch, watch ‘Neighbours’, as she would have done back in England. She shrugged the feeling aside. Tonight could be
the
night. She was lonely without Emma. A new man in her bed would help to ease that ache. She ran back into the kitchen, and from her old handbag took a couple of condoms, tossing them into her evening bag. You just never knew when a girl could get lucky.

Effie failed to notice the ripening moon that night. Her mind was too filled with the play she had just seen with a group of friends. A wank, they had all decided. Overpriced, underwritten and definitely overacted. At least it wasn’t a complete waste of time; they were all on the fringes of the theatrical scene and knew the importance of getting out and being seen. It was always worth it in case you got the chance to network. And you could always hit the clubs afterwards. She was a big believer in creating your own destiny, and having a good time while you were at it.

The moon was a silent witness as the fledging actors tumbled out of a taxi and headed down the city streets. From her great height the Bluites were microscopic, no longer human. They barely seemed to exist as sentient individuals at all.

Soon they had found a jam-packed nightclub and ordered drinks while Effie shook her trim body to the beat of the music. They had all slipped some ecstasy and were ready to party. A young man named Jason noticed her, moved over and began to sway next to her. She knew him slightly through mutual friends and flashed a big smile at him. He moved closer and began to dance with her. Within minutes he was grinding himself, slightly, teasingly, against her silk-covered crotch. Effie felt warmth rise in her body and she found herself reciprocating, encouraging him. Jason’s reactions were totally unexpected — she had always assumed he was gay. In fact, hadn’t she seen him with one of Geoff’s friends?

She wondered vaguely what was happening. Then her hand accidentally brushed against his crotch area and she realised he had an erection. She forgot about her doubts and, feeling lightheaded, put her arms around his shoulders. He responded by dancing closer to her, his hands moving down to rest on her buttocks. Effie suddenly felt charged with sex; this was the best ecstasy tablet she had ever taken! She felt a wild impulse to pull Jason’s cock out and ride it in view of the entire nightclub. She wanted to take him home, and wished Emma still lived there, so she could enjoy freaking her out; Em could be such a square at times. A wave of loneliness for her friend, and self-pity for herself, swept over her.

Hopefully Jason’s house wouldn’t be too far away . . .

He smiled at her across the darkness. ‘I’m on the north shore,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

What’s this? He can read minds and turn me on like no-one else I’ve ever known?
Effie’s drugged mind felt a twinge of paranoia.
Emma reads minds, too; does that mean they’re in some kind of communication? Maybe they’ve fucked before. But she couldn’t be as attractive to him as I am . . .

‘What about the back lane?’ he whispered, interrupting her reverie.

For a second Effie hesitated. She thought he’d have a bit more class than that. Still, it might be fun. She felt a tingle in her groin as he boldly moved his crotch against her thigh. Any resistance she might have had dissipated.

‘Come on, let’s go!’ She grabbed his hand and they brushed past their group of friends, who were sharing a joint at a table.

‘Who’s that guy she’s dancing with?’ Geoff wondered aloud. ‘He doesn’t look like her usual type; he seems a bit old for our Effie.’

His boyfriend Tony shook his head, jealous of Geoff’s interest in the girl.

‘Who knows? Who cares? Effie’s a big girl — let her look out for herself.’

They kissed tenderly, oblivious to the fact that Effie had just left the security of the nightclub with a stranger she perceived to be Jason. Effie’s friend Simone, stoned and bored, watched them enviously and wished for the hundredth time that night that there were more straight men in Sydney.

*

Effie and Jason faced each other in the deserted alley. His hands opened her bra and her breasts ached for his touch, his sight. He smiled a strangely inhuman smile as he began to rub and knead them. A part of Effie’s brain struggled with the bizarre conviction that this man was not Jason, but a stranger to her, as Ishran allowed his Glamour to slip slightly. He seemed to have taken on a cold, alien edge which threatened to fill her with panic. At the same time she felt flooded with an intensity of desire she had never felt before. She was confused, excited and frightened, and the ecstasy was only adding to the weirdness. Perhaps it was the cause. She allowed him to hold her in an iron grip and rub between her legs with his free hand. Suddenly she felt unable to prolong the foreplay. She struggled free and reached hungrily for his cock. He smiled grimly.

*

Ishran was enjoying himself. It was not every day Earth women gave themselves so eagerly, but the ecstasy had permitted the veil between the worlds to be penetrated unusually easily. His own innate powers had done the rest. Effie was a helpless moth drawn to his irresistible flame. He wanted to expose himself totally to the blonde Bluite before him, but decided to restrain himself and save the revelation of his true power for the moment of ultimate pleasure. For now, all he wanted was to fuck her. His reptilian eyes watched her arch back against the wall, opening herself, readying herself for him. Ishran was ready, too. The tendrils of his kylon had unfurled, and they were stiff. With sap dripping from the ends of his bi-shaft, he moved toward her.

*

Half-way through the hot and savage sex, a sensation of sweet, cool knowledge rushed through Effie. The man whose body thrust inside her was not kindly, sensitive Jason. This man was not of this Earth. The thing he had put inside her was not of this Earth. Seconds before a tidal wave of pure orgasm swept through her body, Effie saw his erect, dark wings and sensed what the rest of him would look like. Ishran laughed as he watched pleasure and fear battle across her face. The final part of the sex act with Bluites was the part he always enjoyed the most.

CHAPTER TWELVE

– Human sacrifice is NOT murder.
– I placed my ear to the stone and listened to his great heart.

— Notes scrawled in Johanna Develle’s sketchbook

L
ater that evening, I felt my feet moving slowly down concrete steps. Torches of fire signalled the way for me to tread. The air was musky, sweet, and perfumed with frankincense. I could hear the melodic singing of temple spirits floating in the air. I was in a large cave filled with the sound of the ocean. Dead fish lay gutted on the slippery wet floor. I could smell the ocean’s brine. A huge concrete slab lay before the waves, which lapped furiously at a makeshift altar. The cave smelt of blood, of death and decay. There were figures drawn onto the walls of the cave. I could recognise the images of pigs and snakes. Large steaming buckets filled with an ominous dark fluid emanated wisps of smoke. I glanced about nervously as the sound of huge wings flapping filled the air. A snake slithered past my feet. The side of the cave was covered in green moss. It felt damp under my fingers. The sound of singing filled the cave, melodious and sweet and yet terrifying to hear at the same time.

It was the sound of a young girl singing.

I come now unto the place allowed,
Hail Great Sow,
All that is darkness is mine.
Oh Beautiful One,
Blessed are you, purified by swine,
Never alone, you are always mine.

The child’s voice faded into silence and a figure appeared at the entrance of the cave. It was Effie. I noted with sorrow how she had lost weight, and how her heart chakra area lay bruised, open and bleeding. The damage filled me with revulsion and deep pity. Then Effie turned her eyes on me. They were no longer her eyes but the eyes of a demon.

‘It’s time, Emma,’ the Effie-demon said.

A large black hunting knife appeared in her hand. Suddenly, from nowhere, swooped the largest owl I had ever seen. Its wing-span was the length of my arm, the feathers a brilliant merging of soft browns and lustrous golds. It flew at the Effie-demon and knocked her off balance.

I shot up in bed, jolted into wakefulness, my heart pounding. There at the bedroom window was the owl. It seemed the most natural action for me to approach the window where it perched passively, waiting for me.

I’m still in the dream
, I told myself,
I’m controlling the dream. How interesting!

A warning hissed in my mind.
They can only enter if you invite them in.

The owl waited patiently.

As I looked into its eyes, visions whirled and spun before me. I saw cornfields filled with blood. I saw an Egyptian High Priestess entombed alive for knowledge that overthrew the priests. I saw ancient fertility monuments that seeded generations, alien life forms planted into the earth, and finally a single raindrop, glistening and perfect, the whole world contained within it.

The owl scratched the glass impatiently with its claws. I saw, with sudden horror, the damage its claws could wreak upon my face.

Even in a dream you can die. In our dreams lie the seeds of our deaths.

The owl scratched harder. It proved impossible to deny the creature’s commands, so I advanced toward the window and threw it open. But the owl was gone. From the distant mountains echoed the lonely cry of a woman, then all was still.

*

I had to get out of the house. I was getting cabin fever what with the vivid dreams I was having, and the mural that I was convinced had changed. Or had it? The more I thought about it, the less sure I was. Perhaps I simply needed to get my eyes checked. I really needed to get out, make some contact with people, if I was going to start thinking that my dead aunt was returning to the house to work on a painting. Prior to coming to the mountains, I had vague dreams of meeting like-minded people among the burgeoning artistic community that had settled in the mountains. I needed to form contacts with the locals.

Perhaps it was simply talking to Effie yesterday, hearing her confident, familiar voice on the telephone, but today I felt as if I could take on the world — well, at least get the confidence to enquire about putting some of my artworks up for sale. I threw a small portfolio of my paintings into my day pack and left the house, making sure that I locked the door carefully behind me. A legacy of my years of living in Sydney.

I never felt totally at ease on the short walk into the nearby towns. Although I avoided the more scenic mountain walk, I was always conscious of the fact that Johanna had chosen to live her life in isolation, and she had died a sadistic, apparently meaningless death there.

Black puddles lay on the ground, an icy wind blew and I huddled into my trench coat. It was difficult to believe that it was spring when it was this cold. It felt like the dead of winter. My fingers were red and freezing, and I vowed to look for a pair of gloves as soon as I reached Katoomba. Although I was walking on a major road, not one car passed by, and I had to fight to keep my already overactive imagination from spinning out of control. All my life I had been a person who valued privacy and enjoyed my own company. But now, when I was actually living the sort of life I had often longed for, I was acting like the female lead in one of those corny horror films.

For the hundredth time I attempted to make sense of the journal entries of Johanna’s. Was I the child that she referred to? Had Johanna had a child that we didn’t know about? Or was there another child? What were the Solumbi, crossings, the Azephim? The entries had raised more questions than they had answered. Or were they just proof that my aunt’s mental balance had been precarious? Not to mention mine, for I had even been seriously entertaining the thought of performing some type of exorcism on the house to release my aunt’s spirit.

Reaching Katoomba, with its eclectic range of shops, I browsed in one of the local second-hand bookstores where a woman sat playing a small piano. A log fire burned in a corner, and I picked up a couple of books, one on Egyptian art and the other on occultism in Australia.

‘You’re Emma Develle, aren’t you?’ the woman said, as she placed my purchases in a small brown bag.

‘Yes,’ I replied, squirming at the thought of how she might have recognised me. A blurred photo in the paper? A two-second flash on a news report, perhaps?

‘I was so sorry about your aunt,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the worst things that has ever happened up here. Ghastly. It’s hard to imagine that there are such evil people out there.’

‘Did you know her?’ I asked, unable to resist finding out another snippet of information.

‘Not really, love. Mainly by sight. She was one of the local characters, you know. Well, the population of Katoomba is under 10,000, so anyone a bit different is going to stick out. She came in here a couple of times, looking for books on witchcraft and whatnot. She was a nice old thing.’

I tried to avoid tapping into her thoughts. I could probably imagine what she thought of my taste in literature.

‘She displayed quite a few of her paintings in The Silver Hen,’ she said. ‘I think Wendy, the owner, was quite friendly with her.’

After getting a detailed description of where The Silver Hen could be located, I left the shop, the sounds of a Bach CD spilling out onto the street after me.

Turning into one of the many little shopping avenues off the main road, I passed a hand-made chocolate shop. Staring into the luxuriant display of sweets was a schoolboy. He turned as I was walking past and I banged into him.

‘Oh, sorry!’ I said, reaching out a hand automatically to touch him. A faint buzzing, like a shock, zapped my arm, and I stepped back. He glared at me and ran off. Where had I seen him before? I frowned, suddenly feeling sick and disorientated. His face was familiar to me. Was he some sort of child actor? I paused, trying to remember his pointed, knowing face, his red-and-grey school cap and dark grey blazer.

I was still trying to remember when I pushed open the door of The Silver Hen. A bell sounded, which brought the owner out from a back room, curtained off with gold and blue beads.

‘Hi, can I help you at all?’

She was tall and thin, with dark hair cut short, and an attractive face with striking bone structure. Around her neck was a large silver pentacle. There was a pause while we studied each other. Outside, I could hear the wind moaning and rushing with chill intent, and I shivered. Her dark eyes widened.

‘I’m sorry, but are you Emma Develle?’

I nodded, trying to force my lips into a smile, while I tried to take in the art gallery. There seemed to be paintings, and sculptures and photographs and ceramics, piled into every area of the room.

‘God! I feel awful! I should have come up and said hello before. I’ve just been so busy with the shop, and Jeremy’s been sick. You’ll probably think I’m terribly rude. But then I thought perhaps you might like time to settle in, before the locals start descending. I’m Wendy, anyway.’

The flood of words rushed over me. Warmth, acceptance. I realised how lonely and alienated I had been feeling by the too-eager way I shook hands. I looked around the gallery.

‘Wow, what a place.’

‘Do you paint? I’m sure you do. Johanna was such a great talent. I’ve had some of her works here. I sold heaps after she . . .’ She broke off, looking embarrassed, as if suddenly realising how tasteless it must have seemed to enthuse about Johanna’s murder stimulating demand for her artworks.

‘I do, but my stuff is completely different to Johanna’s.’ Now I was back on familiar turf. Gathering my courage, I pulled my portfolio out of my bag. ‘I was hoping that I could exhibit my stuff in a couple of the local stores. Would you mind having a look to see if you would be interested?’

She took the book, smiling. While she riffled through it I feigned interest in a shocking-pink ceramic cow.

‘These are great. Yeah, I could put some up for you. I’d especially be interested in those abstracted landscapes. Tourists are our biggest trade, and they always go for that sort of thing. I charge 10 per cent commission on any sales. Can you give me four to start with? I’m sure I could sell them.’

I had to fight to look suitably casual about her offer, to keep the big delighted grin off my face.

‘Have you got time to sit and have a cup of tea with me? It’s such awful weather outside, you don’t want to go straight back out in it, do you?’

I didn’t.

‘Did you know Johanna well?’ I asked, sipping a cup of peppermint tea. Wendy hesitated before replying, and her eyes slid uneasily away from mine.

‘Not well, no. Only through the business here. I had tried to involve her in some of the local women’s group activities, but she wasn’t interested. She was a bit of a loner, old Johanna. I do wish she had come along to our meetings. I’m sure that we would have benefited heaps from all her experience.’ Her eyes looked at mine, searching. I realised what she was hinting at and I tensed.

‘Do you have any of her paintings or drawings left?’ I asked in an effort to change the subject before she asked me to join her group.

‘Only one. It’s out the back. I was going to keep it for myself, actually.’ She disappeared, returning with a small, unframed oil painting. Two figures: a young girl like a fairytale creature, holding an owl; an elder female, an ancient Crone figure, with eyes piercing and sunken with age. Around the two women was a broken circle of light. It was a beautifully executed painting, but there was a sense of despair about the figures. The background was painted in various shades of black and shadows seemed to creep toward the women, who were caught in the broken circle. I frowned. Had I seen these women before? Was it in a book at my aunt’s? Maybe they were in another painting that she had done.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. And it was. I felt the same sense of helplessness that I always did when I saw my aunt’s work. My own work in contrast appeared much more laboured, crude and clumsy compared to the astonishing array of emotions that Johanna managed to capture in oil.

Wendy seemed embarrassed. ‘I’ll pay you for it, of course. I just really liked it, and I thought that I would get it framed.’

I turned the painting over. On the back was scrawled,
Khartyn and Rosedark
—
the circle is broken.
I handed it back to Wendy, wishing that I could hang onto it, but it would seem churlish to reclaim it.

‘No, that’s all right,’ I lied. ‘I’m sure Johanna would have wanted you to have it.’

‘Is there much of her stuff up at the house?’ Wendy asked. She leaned closer to me, and I resisted the temptation to move away.

‘Heaps. Lots of studies, completed works and half-finished paintings. There’s a half-finished mural on the lounge room wall.’ I laughed nervously, not liking the intense way that Wendy was looking at me.

‘Well, any stuff that you want to get rid of, bring it to me. I’m sure that the craze for her work will continue. I know all the galleries are selling out of Johanna Develles. There was some journalist guy in here the other day after them. He’s planning on doing a book on her. I’m surprised that he hasn’t contacted you. By the way, if you ever come across a wooden box that she has in the house, then I’d be interested in purchasing it. It has a large shell on the lid of the box.’

‘I’ve seen that box,’ I said carefully, and I felt the energy between us change. Her tongue flicked her lips nervously, and I sensed her desire and need. ‘There’s no key to it. I was thinking of busting it open.’

‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m interested in the box, key or no key. You might damage it if you force the lock. Besides, there is a key. Johanna told me. The key must be in the house.’

I knew she was lying. The easygoing camaraderie that we had shared swiftly evaporated with that knowledge.

‘Well, I must be going,’ I said. ‘I’ve still got some shopping to do.’ I stood up, feeling exhausted. Wendy crossed to the counter and passed me a business card.

‘My home and work numbers are both there,’ she said. ‘I’d love you to come along to one of our meetings. You can come as little or often as you like, there’s no pressure. If your interests lie in the same directions as your aunt’s, then I think you’ll get a lot out of it.’ Her hand touched her pentacle briefly, and I nodded, knowing that I would never attend one of her meetings.