Noah was a just man,
perfect in his generations.
Noah walked with God.
A young couple walk in the sort of embrace that only teenagers and young adults can pull off without falling over each other’s feet. He was slim with glasses, torn jeans, a dark jacket and a nervous yet proud expression. She was brunette with an hourglass figure, a black leather belt and a wild look in her eyes that said she wanted to be at home in bed with her newfound playmate.
Neither of them seemed to notice that they were walking through ankle deep water, the rain was torrential, the water was rising and lightning flashed on the horizon. He leaned in for a kiss and stumbled. She fell under his weight, hit her head and sank. The water was somehow much deeper now and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t find her.
She surfaced face down an arm’s length away. He grabbed her sodden shirt and pulled her closer as he flipped her over. He dragged her up where the water wasn’t so deep and started CPR.
He heard ribs crack as he pushed down on her ribcage. With each compression more blood gushed out of the wound on her temple. The sinking feeling in his stomach told him that his beau was beyond conventional means of resurrection resuscitation resurrection.
Working by instinct alone, the young man performed an alchemical transformation of his turbulent emotions and poured it into her heart chakra. In those dark moments he made a deal with forces he didn’t understand, but which gave him that which he desired most. He wanted to feel the warm embrace of his lover and the vital energy which flowed from her every pore. What he got wasn’t quite what he asked for though.
Through a break in the clouds the moon shone down on her face. Her eyes opened to reveal blood red orbs. She coughed as she rolled over onto her hands and knees and then heaved to expel the water from her lungs. She stood and lunged his neck with her black acrylic nails. As they flashed past his face he was sure he could see them growing.
The rain grew heavier and lightning flashed all around.
“Hey, hey, hey! What’s going on?” His features took on a look of horror at the dawning realisation that the being before him was not the same being that he had fallen in love with in science class. She lunged again and again. Subconsciously he began to refer to the being as a revenant and he was thankfully that it was not possessed of any semblance of accurate motor control. For if even one blow landed he was sure it would tear his throat out and who knew what next.
He fought the creature for what seemed like an eternity. The flood water was now carrying debris from nearby houses, some of which made useful weapons. A fence paling here a plastic cricket bat there. But as the fight ground on the revenant got better at using its body and the young man knew he was doomed.
He leapt into a boat which had slipped its moorings and was taking a tour of the ordinarily dry suburb. He heaved on the oars and gained enough distance to carry out the plan he had hatched.
He would make another revenant to fight the first one. But this time the alchemical transformation would not be tainted by his grief or his broken concentration. He would do it right this time.
One of the gods must have smiled upon him as he located a young woman's body floating in the woody debris of the flood waters. He pulled her aboard and completed the transaction. This time he saw his lover’s eyes gazing back at him. She looked down at her body and then back at him.
“What the fuck?”
Before he had a chance to explain the pointy end of a star picket occupied a space it had created for itself between his brain stem and hippocampus. The other end was held firmly by the revenant.
The new revenant saw herself holding the star picket and was terribly confused. What had happened? She remembered her lover’s books on witchcraft and voodoo and wondered if that had something to do with the vision she beheld. She didn’t have too long to ponder this as she rolled to avoid a blow from the bloody star picket. Little bits of skull and brain spattered her cheek and hair. She stood up and immediately lost her balance, falling off the boat.
As she oriented herself under the boat she realised she didn’t need to breath. She also noticed that she could think much faster and that she had access to some infinite store of information that was just behind the thin veneer of reality which was at this moment crumbling for her. She took the opportunity provided by her concealment to bring herself up to speed on what had happened. She realised she was dead and she grieved for herself. She grieved that she would have to destroy the body she used to inhabit. She grieved for her lover and for the people of her town who were dying in the flood.
She was tempted to swim away from her undead sister, but knew that she would not stop until she had destroyed every living thing on earth. Her sense of compassion could not allow that to happen. She rose to face her and they were instantly locked into combat. They fought for what seemed like hours. The new revenant was faster and more keenly aware, for she had a soul, she was more than just a mindless reanimated corpse. She fought with purpose, with vision. But each time she opened her opponent up for a killing blow she faltered. Her compassion was at the same time a great strength and a great weakness.
Even though she was undead she started to feel tired. Or maybe her soul grew weary. She thought that if she could get the attention of a mortal human, they would do the job she could not. Reaching down below the floodwaters she found a metal garbage bin lid. She hurled the lid at the shore of the new lake. It bit into the ground and lodged itself up to its handle. The lid had found its mark. It had finished its journey just below the feet of a young couple sitting on the shore kissing in a lover’s embrace – oblivious to the rain and the flood. The feeling of the kinetic impact, more than the sound, broke their romantic reverie. They looked with surprise and astonishment at the errant missile. Their countenance morphed to display horror and mortal dread when they saw the two revenants. Both bleeding and wearing torn rags. The new revenant looked at them with pleading eyes. The old revenant looked at the back of the new revenant’s head ready to pulverise it with her star picket.
Simon’s alarm went off and he awoke in a cold sweat. He got his breath under control and wandered downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. It was still raining. Would it ever stop? Simon decided to stop trying to influence the weather.
Simon walked slowly. The torch had a powerful beam, but the path was covered with fallen logs and tangled with vines. Occasionally the quartz and amethyst speckled granite moved beneath his feet. His were the first human feet to walk this way in many months and the rain had been quite enthusiastic in recent weeks as the monsoon passed through. Indeed his home town had just weathered its worst flood in over 70 years.
The path down to the waterfall was steep and slippery. Simon slipped in a few spots, but managed to maintain his balance using the staff Demeter had gifted him, except for the one time he didn’t and he fell on his arse.
When he reached the waterfall Simon turned his torch off. The moon shining through the gap in the rainforest canopy illuminated the scene quite nicely and when his eyes adjusted Simon found he could see the waterfall much better without the torch. He found a nice rock to sit on and meditate. Upon sitting down, he realised he was soaked in sweat and was quite thirsty.
“Traditional Owners, Spirits and other Inhabitants of this Land; I humbly and respectfully ask if I may wash my face and fill my water bottle with the waters from this stream.”
The answer came quickly. He had been holding a dialogue with Demeter on the path, but the answer came from the spirit of the forest. A kaleidoscope of words and images flooded Simon’s consciousness.
“NO!”
“Your bottle is full of water. Don’t be greedy! Your water is tainted, don’t you fucking dare pour it anywhere near this stream.”
“A guardian is coming. The guardian’s business is none of yours.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“We demand a sacrifice.”
“Um, okay.”
crickets
“So what did you guys bring me here for?”
Demeter responded “You’ll see. Go back up the path.”
Simon stood up, retrieved his staff and commenced the climb back up the path. He reached for his torch….
“DON’T!”
“But I can’t see.”
“Yes you can.”
For the last week Simon had been noticing a seemingly random thought during his mindfulness practice The quieter you are, the more you can here, now the thought expanded to include You can see more with your eyes than a torch.
“Don’t use the fucking torch again or your training is over.”
Simon didn’t say anything, but acknowledged Demeter’s command by making a concrete decision to let his faith light the way. The climb was surprisingly easy. Now that his eyes had fully adjusted Simon saw that the moon illuminated the path almost as well as it illuminated the waterfall. As he strode on Simon wondered to himself why he hadn't been allowed to drink from the stream. The spirit of the forest yelled, “The guardian is coming! Offering!!! Sacrifice!!!” At the same time he saw himself cutting his hand to make an offering of blood. A branch shifted in the breeze and the moon shone directly on a colony of fungus growing out of a fallen log. Simon put the words and images together and intuited that he was to cut his hand and offer his blood to the fungus.
“YES!!!” the forest implored.
“Okay then.” Simon said hesitantly as he drew his blade. He held his hand over the log and sliced with the knife. His calloused hands appeared to be too tough for the blade even though it was very sharp. His aversion to pain overrode the will to press harder and he sheathed the blade. Demeter chimed in “Perhaps you can offer something else.”
“But what could be good enough?”
“Don’t worry, it will come to you.”
Simon had walked for nearly an hour to reach the waterfall from his campsite. The thought of walking back without using the torch left him with some apprehension, but his resolve to follow Demeter’s instruction was firm.
A vine drooping down across the path whacked Simon in the face forcing him to turn his head, whereupon a patch of forest brighter than the rest caught his eye. He stopped, dropping down on his haunches staring with mouth agape. He was captivated by the sight he beheld. It appeared as though a light shone from within the forest floor. He looked up to see if the light was from the moon, but here the canopy formed a thick blanket blocking all light from the heavens.
He looked back down and wondered aloud “What on earth is that?”
“You can turn your torch on just this once. I want you to take this with you, but I know you won’t if you don’t see it first.”
Looking at the source of the mysterious glow with the light from his torch, Simon saw that it was a small log covered in moss and lichen. His sense of wonder increased.
“I want you to take some cassowary poo home with you and put it in the garden with that log.”
Simon picked up the log in his left hand, his staff in his right. He continued back to his camp and made a mental note to come back for one of the piles of cassowary poo he had seen on the way to the waterfall.
Now that he knew what to look for, he saw patches of the luminous fungus in many places on the forest floor. He found that if he aimed his new gift at them their light slightly increased in intensity. As the path wound its way back to the beginning the canopy closed in and blocked all light. Simon hadn’t noticed on the way because that feature of the environment was obscured by the intrusion of the torch. The moon no longer illuminated the way. Simon held up his gift and willed the path to light up. The path lit up. He wondered if the path was populated by the same fungus that was responsible for the patches of illumination spread throughout the forest. The path got brighter still. Whack! A branch smacked Simon in the face.
His concentration wavered and the path dropped back down to its previous intensity. Rounding a corner he turned the lights up again. Whack! His attention broke again. This happened twice more and Simon wondered if Demeter was trying to direct his attention to something.
“Nah, it’s just funny.” Demeter chuckled.
Simon laughed too.
“Oi Simon. Do you want to fight a cassowary?” Simon thought an immediate reply.
“No.”
“Then run.”
Simon thought of the cassowary dung he had seen on the way. He had checked and it was not fresh. Still, he was being told by a Goddess that he should run. But the path was full of obstacles, most which he could not make out and both his hands were full. He put two and two together and saw himself falling to the ground. He elected to walk faster.
“Not fast enough. Run!”
As if to demonstrate the principle of synchronicity Simon’s boot struck a log and he nearly fell.
“RUN DAMMIT!”
Simon beheld the unseen adversary of an angry cassowary closing the distance behind him and perceived the litter strewn path in front of him. He knew his patron wanted him to run. He felt conflicted. He felt fear. His sweat turned cold.
“RUN!!!”
Simon started jogging. His webbing bounced with each foot fall. He hadn’t taken the time to properly adjust the straps on his chest harness before setting off, so the webbing was loose and the various packs slammed into his chest making it hard to settle into a comfortable rhythm.
“FASTER!!!” Demeter implored.
It occurred to Simon that since he started jogging he had not stumbled, nor collided with a vine once. This observation strengthened his faith in the protection provided by his patron.
He ran faster. Despite the weight of his sturdy hiking boots. Despite the chest rig smashing into ribs and belabouring his breathing with every step. Simon realised that there was no cassowary. This was a test of faith.
Demeter smiled. Simon felt a rush of warmth and joy pour through him, energizing his every cell. He was nearly sprinting now. The various discomforts of his physical body faded to a mere annoyance. He slowed down only to navigate around a fallen behemoth of the forest which lay across the path. Once he had worked his way back to the path he resumed his feverish pace. The pouches on his chest rig resumed their staccato refrain.
As he ran he thought about the contents of those pouches. The only things he had made use of were his torch and water bottle. Everything else seemed redundant. The map. The compass. The first aid kit. The knives. All of it seemed only to hinder him.
“Why am I carrying all of this?” Simon inquired introspectively.
“They are a physical manifestation of the thoughtforms of your culture, Druid. You carry these things because you think you need them. You think you need them because your culture tells you that you need them. You are in nature now, have Faith that nature will give you what you need.”
“Oh right. That makes sense.
“Of course it does. Now, tomorrow you are to climb the mountain. Don’t worry about your guitar. That lesson will come later from another teacher. Climb to the top of the mountain and your real training will begin.”
The Druid walked with his newfound Cleversense. Every fibre of his being was alive and pulsating with vibrant intensity. As he looked out upon the forest and surveyed the scene he felt he was reaching out with some part of his being that he hadn’t used before. With his ego stripped bare he truly felt like part of the forest. Something within him, something beyond his mortal consciousness was holding palaver with the spirit of the forest. It was not the same as talking to the spirit of the forest, or talking to Demeter. This was something else, something deeper. Something that came from within and without.
About the time he met the Oracle, Simon had been listening to interviews with a mycologist of some note on a popular podcast hosted by man of eclectic interests. The mycologist had awakened Simon to the importance of mycelial networks. He took the information on board as an integral part of his Permaculture practice and had gone as far as structuring his practice such that the main focus was to encourage fungal growth; the planting of seeds and seedlings was secondary, almost an afterthought. Such is the power of a well developed mycology that it provides water for its participants, provides phosphates and attracts animals who in turn help build the soil food web. All of those animals and all humans contain their own mycologies too. Fungi were the first lifeform to move out of the ocean whereupon they set about creating soil. It’s almost as though the majority of ecosystems are set up by and cared for by the fungal networks that are spread by and within all of their inhabitants.
As Simon walked with his newfound Cleversense he wondered if it was really his sense at all. It felt as though he was borrowing the senses of the inhabitants of the forest.
Demeter smiled.
When he awoke the next morning, he washed up and had a leisurely breakfast. He tightened the straps on his webbing and attempted to be ruthless in selecting those objects which he would take up the mountain. Reflecting upon his actions later it seemed a waste of time. All he really needed was water, food, his crystals – the collection had grown considerably since that night in Wandjina Creek – and an offering. All else was dead weight. Moving that weight up and down the mountain was good training for the next journey though.
The day before he left on his quest the Druid had acquired an ornamental wooden mask. It had called out to him from amongst other objects and curios at the thrift shop.
“Hey cuz!”
“Over here bro.”
“Take me with you bro!”
So, he did. Now the mask stood against one of the poles of the Druid’s open-air living area. He had figured out why the mask insisted on coming as he ate his breakfast. It was to be a guardian. First it needed to be cleansed and blessed. Simon called up a breeze and the mountain provided.
“I cleanse this guardian with the purifying air of the sacred mountain.”
Next, he sprinkled dirt on the mask.
“I cleanse this guardian with the life-giving soil of this sacred forest.”
Now holding the mask over the smoke rising from a charcoal incense disk.
“I cleanse this guardian with the divine smoke of frankincense and sandalwood.”
Finally, holding the mask over his head with arms outstretched towards the sun.
“I cleanse this guardian with the illuminating rays of the sun.”
“My name’s Fred bro.”
“Please to meet you Fred. I’m Simon.”
“I know bro.”
“Of course. Can you look after my camp while I’m gone?”
“Yeah, no worries cuz.”
“If anyone looks like they’re going to mess with it can you summon a cassowary to scare them off?”
“I don’t know cuz. But I’ll give it a go ‘ey. There’s one hanging about. Her name’s Stacey, I think you already know her cuz.”
“Sounds good Fred. Though, I don’t think I know any cassowaries. Thanks though.”
“No worries bro!”
The trek to the top was hard going. On his second stop for food and water, Simon found a multitude of leeches on his shins. They had congregated around the tops of his boots. Some of the leeches had dropped or been torn off and blood ran down his shins, pooling in the top of his socks.
“So the forest got its blood offering after all.” Demeter and the spirit of the forest both laughed.
“One thing that is well known about the Druids is that they believed in an immortal soul and the idea of reincarnation.”
“Like Buddhism?”
“Yeah. Some people even think that the Druids were influenced by Buddhists who may have travelled to Europe thousands of years ago.”
"How old is Buddhism? Or the Druids? Which one came first? What about Stone Henge?”
“Well some people think the ideas ran the other way. If you look hard enough you can find evidence to support either case.
“Which one do you think is true?”
“I don’t think it really matters which one came first. It’s interesting though, the commonality I mean. Between two schools of spiritual philosophy from quite different cultures. And don’t forget Buddhism is an offshoot of Hinduism, which also holds the principle of reincarnation as a basic tenet. There are other cultures who believe in the cycle of reincarnation, it’s quite widespread. If that is in fact how reality works it would make sense that so many different religions see things this way.”
“So, what’s the relevance to the story?”
“Reincarnation is a key that unlocks many of the secrets held in the stories of Hellenismos. Without that key many people read stories - like the fate of Herakles after Hera gave him the jumper – about heroes and demigods dying and they think of the Gods as being cruel and unusual. But if you see the death from the point of view of ‘levelling up’ of the soul, the death can be a gift. Conversely, if the hero opts out because the gift of the Gods is too much to bear, then they are doomed to repeat the lesson in every life until they get it.”
As he had gotten ready that morning Simon had felt something tugging at him, urging him to get up the mountain without delay. He had bargained with whatever entity that was, or at least he told himself he had. He should have listened. But he insisted on making sure everything was just so. He wasted hours.
It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but on reaching the Western peak he began to have serious doubts. He began to wonder if he would make it to the top.
The Western peak was beautiful. It was as though the Gods, or the Dreaming Beings, or both had built a massive cairn on top of a mountain. Simon shed the physical manifestations of his cultural thoughtforms and climbed to the top of the cairn. He sat.
Starting with nine round breathing Simon stilled his thoughts. As was his habit he meditated with eyes closed. A memory surfaced in his mind’s eye, “Westerners think they have to meditate with their eyes closed for some reason. I always meditate with my eyes open.”
Simon opened his eyes.
The voice of the Oracle now.
“A Druid is preceded by a mist. In the old times a Druid could walk anywhere he wanted and be shrouded by a mist so no-one knew where he was. The really powerful Druids could summon a mist big enough to hide an army.”
Mist rolled up the Western slope and the Eastern slope of the mountain. The mist from the East rolled up over the saddle and down the Western side. The two walls of mist clashed together and climbed into the sky like white fire. The intermingling tendrils crashed down on the treetops and broke apart like surf on the beach.
Simon remembered his purpose in visiting the sacred mountain.
“Demeter, Spirits of the Forest and whoever else is listening. I humbly and respectfully ask for guidance. I came here this weekend seeking to learn about divination. Based on the events of the last few weeks I am filled with a certainty that one of the things I am to divine is whether or not another flood is coming. Also, I feel that I am supposed to divine something of my own path over the next few months. Am I right? Or are these just artefacts of my ego. Are they part of my fears and attachments? I want to walk the right path and help in whatever way you guys deem is appropriate, but I know so little. Please help me to know what knowledge I am to seek. Thank you.”
Simon resumed nine round breathing and slipped into a deep meditative trance. No answer to his question was forthcoming but he felt very relaxed. He felt recharged and energized, ready to resume his upward trek.
He had tarried too long in the morning. As he reached the bottom of the saddle between the two peaks, he saw that he would not make it to the Eastern Summit before the sun went down. He made his apologies to his patron and with a heavy heart he turned around. The heavens opened and within a minute he was soaked through.
For me there is only travelling on paths that have heart,
on any path that may have a heart.
The melodic tones of Elton John played over and over again in the Druid’s mind as he strode onwards towards the summit.
The Druid’s footsteps beat in time to the rhythm.
“And I guess that’s why they call it the blues.”
The song had inserted itself into his internal dialogue all by itself, as songs tend to when they get stuck in your head. A few times Simon sang along with the song without realizing he was doing so. Each time he was consciously aware of the song he thought of his sister. Elton John was her favourite artist when Simon still spoke to her. He didn’t know for sure if he still was, but he decided that it was highly likely.
He keeps walking. Today he has more than enough time to reach the Eastern summit. In fact he intends to push on past the summit and work his way down the Eastern slope to the helipad. It is cold and raining and he knows that there is a shelter he may be able to sleep in.
He reaches his destination but sleeps in his tent. It has stopped raining and the wind has abated. He feels warm enough in his tent with his dry warm clothes on. The next day he makes his way back to the base camp and heads home. The first trip was preparation. On this second trip he received his gift. It had wormed its way into his brain and set up camp. Later that week he buys an Elton John record and starts to explore an artist he thinks he has always detested, but could never say why.
He didn’t know what the gift was when he received it. He failed to recognise it. Cast not pearls before swine.
Simon is confused. He remembered that for a long time he had an aversion to Elton John, but why? He examined his thoughts and traced the thread back to his second year of primary school. He had been learning songs by Elvis Presley. He learnt to sing all of them. He would put on an Elvis tape to go to bed with at night and in the morning he would know the words. He wanted to be an Elvis impersonator when he grew up. His Mum approved, she said he could make lots of money if he was good. And looking menacingly into his eyes while she lightly dug her nails into his triceps she whispered low enough that his Dad couldn’t hear ‘I’ll make sure you’re good.’ But that’s not what he’s thinking about now. Now he’s thinking about Elton John and his aversion. He remembered Elvis for a second and then remembers that from his love for Elvis grew a love of the song Crocodile Rock. As they walk up the steps to the school fete Simon sings the chorus of Crocodile Rock which had just been playing on the radio. His Dad says ‘What’s this? I thought you were going to be an Elvis impersonator.’ ‘I am Dad.’ Simon continues singing.
‘That’s an Elton John song.’ Simon's father looks cautiously at his wife with a hushed sidelong glance as he speaks to his son.
Maria is fuming. Simon fails to register.
‘Oh cool. Maybe I can be an Elton John impersonator too!’ he continues singing.
‘No, you fucking won’t.’ She reaches out grabs his arm and pulls him close, nearly throwing him off balance. She sinks her nails into his tricep. Enough to cause the greatest amount of pain without drawing any blood. Simon whimpers, but he knows not to make any noise, that could draw the attention of a bystander and though it would stop the now pain it would mean lots of later pain.
‘Elton John’s still alive so you can't impersonate him. And he’s gay. You’re already fucking weird enough. You’re not going to be gay too.’
He tries to hold them back, but a couple of errant tears stream down his face and Simon says in a choked whisper ‘What does gay mean?’
‘Shut the fuck up and enjoy yourself. You’re here at the fete to have fun, now go find your friends and have fun and don’t talk to anyone about Elton John. I don’t want to hear you singing any Elton John songs when we get home either. Do you understand me?’
Right, that’s why I used to freeze up at Elton John songs. Fuck.
Simon cries in the present for the Simon in the past.
He feels on the threshold of an awakening. He feels the threads of his past tugging at him, threatening to pull him back. He doesn't want to go back. He doesn’t want to live those memories again. He wants to be a Druid. He wants to find a meaning to his life, but not like that. To live all of those memories again would surely drive him insane. Now he has a job, bills, responsibility. He cannot afford to be insane.
Maybe you are insane. You’re talking to yourself mate.
“A couple of weeks ago when we were talking about the knowledge about Druids and how none of its written down. You said there were two reasons. I get that first reason now. Some information is so powerful that its flow must be tightly controlled so as to prevent terrible tragedies and disasters.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“What is the second reason?”
“In the Bible there are lots of stories about people receiving visions from burning bushes, or as they lay down to sleep at night. Some Holy Books were supposedly wholly written after their authors received visions under similar circumstances. So, you see this method of transmission isn’t restricted to Druids.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. I’ve been thinking about that. But what I don’t get is why do all those other philosophies have plenty of written material as well as a secretive mystical tradition, whereas the Druid’s left no written material.”
“In some schools of mysticism there is a focus on what is called experiential learning, rather than reading and writing as we do in the west. The real teachings are only ever transferred by word of mouth. You see to reduce these mysteries to the written word would be meaningless. The best way to learn these mysteries is by direct access.”
Being a child of the 90s, Simon remembered Super Mario Brothers very well. Especially Super Mario Brothers 2, but not for the reason you might expect. He suspected his sister had very strong memories of that game too, but for her those memories seemed to be in a locked box for which she had no key. She had put it out of reach so she could never be tempted to look inside.
Their Dad was away with work. The game had been on lay-by and they finished paying for it the day before he had left. The whole family went to the big shopping centre a few suburbs over, where Maria had put it on lay-by a few months before. She took the game out of its box for a few hours that night, but it wasn’t until the next day that Maria attacked it with gusto. She had gotten up early that day – around midday – despite her perpetual hangover. Thinking ahead she had put soup on for dinner, but neglecting the present she forgot about the earlier meals of the day.
The sun was almost going down and the kids were hungry. The boys were old enough to know better than to ask anything of their mother when she was drinking and gaming. Their sister could barely talk yet, but she knew how to say she was hungry.
Maria was attempting to jump over some obstacle in a desert of angry turtles. She had already failed this jump twice and was getting frustrated. The smell of the soup was still wafting through the house. It had been ready for hours, but Maria just wanted to finish one more level before they could have dinner. Just one more level. Just one more level. Just one more level.
“But I’m hungry Mum!!!” Maria was distracted by her daughters cry and Mario fell in the hole.
“That’s it you little bitch! You think you’re fuckin hungry? Well now you can fucking eat!”
Stomping to the kitchen she continued the expletive laden diatribe. Maria returned with the pot of soup and with just enough care not to spill boiling hot soup everywhere, put it on the table. She dished up a bowl for each of her three children. She gave the food out in descending order by age. The boys knew not to touch it yet. Crystal reached for her spoon, but her mother’s clenched fist smashed down on her hand.
“Don’t fucking touch it until I say you can touch it!” she screamed an inch away from Crystals ear, prompting a fresh round of sobs that forced tears down her already sodden face.
When she was sure you had the absolute attention of the terrified children, she stated her demands.
“Now you little shits will eat every last bit of this soup.” she had taken a step back from the table now and was talking in a voice that approached normality. Her glassy eyes looked like they belonged on a Medusa and Simon was sure her teeth had developed points.
“This soup was meant to do dinner for you for a week, but now because someone” she leans in toward Crystal and staring a hole through her mind with the power of pure malevolence “can’t keep her fucking mouth shut” she strikes the back of her hand with her open palm “you fuckin little bitch.” pointing at the GAME OVER screen on the cheap TV “You have to eat all of the fucking soup.” smashing her fist on the table so hard that some splashed out from each of their bowls. Maria smacks her daughters head again, harder this time.
“EAT THAT!”
“CLEAN THAT FUCKING MESS OFF THE TABLE NOW!!!”
“YOU TOO!”
She points at the boys making sure they don’t miss out on any of the fun. She stands and watches as her children lick the soup from the table. By the time they have finished – which is in only a few seconds, they’re well trained – she has regained a semblance of composure.
“Now, you will eat all of that.”
“You have fifteen minutes to eat it all or I ram it down your throats.”
“and then straight to bed without brushing your teeth.” she points down the hall to the bathroom and stamps her foot for emphasis “BECAUSE NONE OF YOU DESERVE TO HAVE FUCKING TEETH WHEN YOU GROW UP.” her eyes slam shut and she looks down at her feet, her head shakes.
Such is their pain that the boys have learnt to cry silently. Simon can hear his tears falling in his bowl of soup, he hopes his mother can’t hear and angles his head slightly so they fall on the table. Now they make a patter sound on the tablecloth, instead of a plop sound in the soup. Simon angles his head back to the bowl.
Which is louder?
He alternates between crying into his soup and onto the table. He is very careful to move very slightly so his Mum doesn’t notice and accuse him of being weird.
“What the fuck are you doing with your head? Is something wrong with you?’
She smacks him on the head with her open hand.
“Eat properly!” She screams.
She hovers like a banshee over a battlefield thinking about where to strike next.
“I’m punishing your brothers too Crystal because you all get punished together. If I punish you too much, you’ll get used to it, but if I punish your brothers it hurts you too.”
The children motor through their servings. The promises of additional abuse are not always acted upon, sometimes she gets tired, sometimes she passes out, sometimes she forgets. But tonight, she seems serious, plus Dad’s away and she’s always worse when he’s away.
Every time they finish their bowl, she gives them another. When they’re nearly half way through their second bowls she remembers the game. Picking up the controller she turns to her daughter.
‘If you distract me and make me miss a jump again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
She resumes the game now.
“Simon you little shit. The soups cooled down enough now so you can get some for your brother and sister. If you weren’t so fucking stupid you could serve it while it was still hot and you wouldn’t spill it everywhere and I wouldn’t miss out time playing MY VIDEO GAME!”
Simon serves out three more bowls. The boys are on their fifth and Crystal is still on her fourth when she dares to suggest that she is full. She has done well to hold her tongue this long, but now the hastily crammed in liquid presses heavily against her diaphragm.
“WHAT DID YOU FUCKING SAY YOU LITTLE BITCH?”
“I’m full Mummy, I can’t eat anymore”
Maria presses pause, gets up, turns around and stomps over to the table.
“I’ll tell you when your fucking full you little slut!!!” Smacking her in the back of the head again.
“EAT!!!” She grabs a handful of hair and pushes her head toward the table. “If you don’t eat it, I’ll smash your fucking face into the fucking bowl.” Her voice has twisted and contorted and sounds like something from a horror movie. Her face has twisted too. In moments like this Simon wonders if he is imagining his life. Is this what happens to people in hell? Am I in hell now? Is this what people mean when they talk about hell on earth? Does this happen to other kids?
She pulls her hair back jerking her upright in her seat. Crystal screams in a mixture of fear of death and elation that she didn’t get her face smashed into the bowl.
Martin silent as always just sits there crying and eating his soup. Simon looks at him and wishes he could hold it together the way his younger brother does.
Despite the danger Crystal just can’t help but keep screaming. She tries to eat a mouthful of soup but can’t stop trembling long enough to feed herself. She spills the contents of her spoon.
Whack!! on the back of the head “EAT!!!”
Crystal manages to get a few more mouthfuls down, but then it becomes too much. She throws up on the table at first.
“Don’t make a fucking mess!!! Get it in the bowl you bitch!!!”
Crystal finishes throwing up in between frantic sobs. The bowl quickly fills up and the mixture of soup and spew spills over the side.
“Now eat it!!!” holding her hair and forcing her head down again. The times for threats of violence has passed. Now it’s just straight to the violence. Crystal is forced to eat her vomit.
“You fucking sicken me you disgusting pigs.” A final whack on the head and Maria returns to her Michinbury Brut and Super Mario Brothers. Over twenty years later Crystal still hadn’t returned.
When she was a teenager Crystal had an eating disorder. She was bulimic. She couldn’t stop eating. It was as though some force compelled her to eat even when she wasn’t hungry. She would eat and eat and eat and eat until she threw up. No-one could understand why. No-one could remember. It must be a teenage thing. Everyone goes through uncomfortable transitions in adolescence.
She had a drinking problem too. For some reason she would drink and drink and drink and drink and then…. A different Crystal would emerge. No-one could understand why. No-one could remember. Crystal would scream at her friends that they hated her. She would scream that they were ruining her life and making her feel bad. They didn’t know why she felt this way. At first they would react with sympathy, compassion and kindness. But everyone has a limit. Crystal would run into the night and would not respond to anyone’s attempts to help her or calm her down. Eventually someone would ring the police. They would take Crystal home. Larry would apologise and say he didn’t know what had gotten into her. Maria had usually passed out from too much drink. On any other night Maria would be able to pace herself. But when they got a call from Crystal’s friends to say she was having a meltdown, Maria’s pace would quicken. Some memory must have stirred inside her – linking her with her past self – reminding her what she had done to her daughter.
In the dream Simon is on his way home from volunteering at the library. He didn’t have his car for some reason so he had to walk. He had to cross Araeti River a couple of times. At one point there was a young lady crossing in the opposite direction. As she was crossing a crocodile came and bit her on the shoe, it dragged her under water and Simon followed to help rescue her. Even though she was under water he could hear her and was in communication with her the whole time. At one point the river went under a warehouse. He went inside the warehouse to follow the crocodile and the lady. The river was behind walls and cupboards and things, it followed the path of the main corridor through the warehouse. There was a spot where the corridor took a 90 degree turn to the left. In this spot the crocodile got stuck. Simon was able to pull away two cupboards from the wall and then rip the sheet off the wall. Then there was a door with a lock on it which he opened and the lady climbed out.
The crocodile swam away. The young lady was very grateful and said her sister and mother would be waiting for her at the river. Simon went back to the point where he had first seen her and sure enough there were her expected family members, her Dad was there too surprising her with his presence. They walked together perpendicular to the river and after a short time came upon a game reserve which was fenced and the gate was being guarded by an African game warden with an AK-47 and a friendly demeanour. The lady’s Dad said something in an African language and they were allowed in. After a short walk they came to a raised platform with small mud huts and glowing mushroom things that Simon has seen in other dreams. He was excited to see them again and as soon as he caught the glow of the light, he ran to see them. The others called out why he was running and he yelled that he wanted to see the mushroom lights. The mushrooms were releasing their spawn into the air in beautiful clouds of red and yellow, which were lit from within with an orange glow. There were little mere-cats dressed in special robes performing a ritual around the mushrooms.
Simon woke up in the present. He didn’t recognise his body.
Who’s arm is that? He doesn’t remember getting these tattoos.
What the fuck? Is that my arm? The arm follows him. It does seem to be attached. He looks around the strange bedroom he has found himself in and recognises things here and there and here and there. Dawning realisation confronts him. He remembers his name and where he lives and what he is supposed to be doing. His consciousness snaps into being. The clock says 06:52.
Fuck!!! I have to be at work in 8 minutes. I slept in again. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!!!
One day when he was in primary school a letter was sent home to Simon’s parents. Some red flags had been raised and some helpful adult had hypothesised that Simon might have autism. The letter listed behaviours such as flapping his hands, odd facial expressions, preferring to spend his lunch time in the library reading, difficulty with team sports, failure to make eye contact and poor coordination among other things.
When most parents receive this sort of letter, they will do whatever they can to ensure the best outcome for their child by accessing whatever supports are available and learning as much as they can about the condition their child may have. Some parents ignore it. But not Maria. She had her own special plan which she rolled out straight away and creatively modified as time went on. This had happened in the past, before he even went to preschool. She had been hanging out with other Mum’s and they were comparing one another’s children.
Something’s not right about your boy Mary. He’s not like the other kids. Why does he prefer to play alone all the time?
She thought she had fixed him already. But he was up to his old tricks again.
No son of mine will be autistic.
A few months into the new program Simon was laying in the bath splashing about. He was flapping his hands in the water. Enjoying the proprioceptive sensation of his hands moving, the water playing over the skin of his hands, the drops hitting his face and the noise. There was a certain symmetry to the rhythm he was splashing out and he enjoyed that too.
His Mum heard him from the lounge room. Simon wasn’t allowed to have the door closed in case he was doing something naughty like this and he tried really hard not to, but autistic kids have trouble concentrating sometimes.
So engrossed in this stimming behaviour was Simon that he didn’t hear his Mother until she was in the bathroom and by then it was too late. She yelled “I told you not to do that!” Words seem to escape her and she just grunts now as she steps on his chest and pushes his head under the water. She doesn't want to drown him though – just scare him – so she lets him up and then pushes him down again. Simon is scared. He urinates, barely aware that he is doing so.
Now his Mum has thought up a chant. Every time he comes up for air she yells “Autistics are spastics. Autistic are spastics. Autistic are spastics.” over and over again. Eventually she runs out of energy and stand with her hand against the wall for support, puffing.
She glares at her son as she does and chastises him for making her so tired. Simon is screaming and moaning as he comes back from the abyss. When Maria is sure he has come back from the brink of hysteria she admonishes him “You’re not allowed to be autistic you understand me. That letter from the school has things that you do. YOU CHOOSE TO DO THEM! You don’t have to flap your hands. You don’t have to sit in the library. You CAN look people in the eyes. You just want attention. You just want people to think you’re special. Well you’re not fucking special.” she stomps on his chest again hard enough that he smacks his head into the bath tub “You’re a fucking piece of shit. I wish I could kill you!” she resumes the stomping to a nightmare cadence once more – without the chanting this time. “If you’re autistic all the kids at school will make fun of your brother and sister. All the kids will bully them and won’t be friends with them. And when your brother and sister are teenagers, they’ll kill themselves and it will be all your fault!!! But you probably want that don’t you sick piece of shit.”
“No mummy.” Simon sobs.
“Don’t fucking lie.” she stomps harder “You’d like it if they were dead because you would get all the attention.”
Simon dares to speak up “I’d like it because they would be with God and you wouldn’t be able to hurt them anymore.”
“What?!” Her eyes open wide. The whites of her eyes loom large terrifying above her snarling mouth. She grabs a handful of his hair and smashes his head into the tap. Simon loses it and starts screaming and babbling with the pain. He feebly beats his hands against the side of the bath in an attempt to escape. A welt is coming out of the bruised skin in his forehead. Maria pulls his head back and see the welt.
She bends down so her face is inches from his “You think you’re funny do you? God doesn’t care about you. He said it’s okay for me to hurt you because he hates you too. And now you’ve got a big red bruise coming out on your head so you’ll have to stay home from school tomorrow. Aren’t you lucky? You get to spend the day at home with me.”
She turns to leave the bathroom and yells as she walks down the hallway “Now get out of the bath and go to your room. You can sit in there and think about what you’ve done.
