Elegy Page 18

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah, thought you might say that.’ Pete finished his beer and opened the other one.

  ‘What was he going on about?’ Gabe asked.

  Pete shrugged. ‘Mum reckons a lot of it was rambling nonsense stuff, but he said enough to get her asking me questions.’ He looked at Gabe. ‘Did you really beat the crap out of him at school?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gabe admitted, though he clearly hadn’t done a good enough job.

  ‘And did you threaten to kill him?’

  Gabe remembered what he’d said, and the disgust he’d felt, with Casey and later with himself. ‘That’s between him and me.’ And Matt.

  ‘Not any more, mate,’ said Pete.

  Gabe sighed and rubbed his face, trying to wake from the nightmare. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.’

  Pete nodded. ‘True, but with everything else that’s going around, it’s getting you a lot of attention.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gabe asked, his scalp prickling.

  ‘Rumours are flying about you and Jenny. And Casey was going on about her being in your car with a box of frangers. That true?’

  Gabe went cold, recalling that night at the library. Why the hell hadn’t she told him? ‘There’s nothing going on. She’s a friend, nothing more.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  That was the problem with Pete, Gabe thought. He was too ready to believe the worst, like the rest of the town. ‘Is that it? Just lies about me and Jen? Hardly worth the effort of coming out here, mate.’

  Pete stared out across the drive to the darkness beyond. The sky was clear, and stars and a half-moon dusted the land with silver; Gabe was reminded of Cait. And maybe Pete was too.

  ‘How are Michael and Caitlin?’ Pete asked, his voice neutral. ‘Haven’t seen anything of them these holidays.’

  Gabe cursed Casey and his big mouth. ‘Jim’s been keeping them busy,’ he said, stalling.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of Michael all week, but he won’t answer. Won’t return messages.’ Pete started on the other beer while Gabe wondered how much he should say to douse his curiosity. He’d known the risk, but he hadn’t imagined it’d come to light so soon.

  ‘Pete, I don’t know what’s going on with them and that’s the truth.’ Except it wasn’t. And that was three times he’d lied in one day.

  ‘I’m not jealous. I know she’s not interested. I’ve known it for ages and I figured whoever did get her in the end would be one lucky guy. So long as it wasn’t Casey.’ Pete’s smile was faint and a bit bitter. ‘But this is Michael, man. It’s not right.’

  Gross, Jenny had called it. And Gabe felt a quick surge of anger and protectiveness for his sister, and for his brother too.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded, because he was sick of the pretence, and better that he got Pete on side. ‘Because they’ve shared a house for eleven years? They’re not related. It’s not illegal.’

  ‘That’s just a technicality, and a lot of people around here won’t get it. Whichever way you slice it, he’s still her brother. As good as, anyway. The two of them are weird enough without adding this to the mix.’

  Pete was right, and Gabe thought of the hypocrisy of Short Town – short on sense and short on sympathy. He thought of Jenny’s church, of the praising of saints and the prayers for sinners. Those who’d been in that church, those who’d praised the loudest and prayed the longest – they’d be the first to put a torch to Michael and Cait.

  ‘How long have you known?’ Pete asked him.

  ‘A couple of days.’

  ‘I guess this explains him breaking up with Jenny. Does she know too?’

  Gabe shook his head. ‘She suspects, but she’s dealing with it. And so will everyone else.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? Mate, it’ll be a bloody lynching. Jim will put a bullet in him, for sure.’

  Gabe couldn’t argue with that, and he felt a stab of pity for Michael and Cait. Then again, maybe neither of them would care. Certainly Cait had never worried about what anyone said or thought. Nor had Michael. But Gabe hadn’t foreseen this, hadn’t had time to think through all the implications, and he realised he should’ve taken more care. He shouldn’t have bashed Casey, he should’ve buried him.

  ‘So what now?’ Pete asked.

  There was a sudden relief. Pete hadn’t asked him there to drop a bombshell; he’d help, if he could. And Gabe would need it because, just like that, his day had gone from good to bad. He thought of Jenny, of all her misery about the town and about Kylie, the flak she was copping because of him and everyone’s petty jealousies. He thought on what he’d said to her about taking things slow and learning who to trust.

  I trust you.

  Sighing, he considered the lie he’d told her – the one that ate at him – and he wondered if lies spawned, spreading and multiplying, so that once one was told, others followed until you couldn’t remember when or how you’d even begun. He remembered the look on her face, up at the calf pen, when he’d suggested a way to keep her warm, and heard again his own laughter.

  I trust you.

  Gabe thought about all of it and then he thought of his brother and sister. And digging deep – real, real deep – he buried his shame because he was about to orchestrate another lie, and this one was a whopper.

  ‘I need you to do something for me,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, what’s that?’

  ‘First things first.’ Gabe dredged up a smile and nodded at the beer in Pete’s hand. ‘You got any more of those?’

  ii

  ‘Why not?’ Michael had demanded, the day they began the fence. It had been two days since the incident in the clearing, and Jim had given Cait a chance to rest sore muscles. Michael hadn’t been so lucky, but he’d been impatient for the weekend to end, wanting to show her what he’d learned.

  ‘Because there’s no need,’ she said.

  ‘Cait, you’ve never dug a posthole in your life. You have no idea how hard it is. The ground’s like concrete after the summer. It’ll be easier this way.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ she challenged. ‘Perhaps I’ve dug many postholes. Not this time but before.’

  He scowled. He didn’t like it when she reminded him of what he didn’t know any more than she enjoyed seeing what he’d already become. ‘Well, if you’re such an expert … here.’ He handed her the iron bar and she tried not to sag under its weight. ‘Go ahead. Start digging.’

  They didn’t have a diesel auger, and Jim wouldn’t hire one – that would’ve defeated his purpose and lessened their punishment. Cait dragged the bar over to the first marking and lifted it unsteadily before letting it drop. It barely made a dent, and she heard Michael chuckle. Glaring at him, she hefted it again, ramming it into the earth, her whole body jarring with the impact.

  ‘Mind your feet,’ he yelled. ‘Gimme that.’ He seized the iron and Cait stepped back, hiding her smile while he got to work.

  Lift, drop, twist. Lift, drop, twist. Every few times, Cait would shovel the loosened dirt away until the hole deepened enough to use the narrow hand digger. Beneath the surface, the ground was stony and hard, but they’d have to dig down half a metre before they could start on the next. And the next.

  Michael grunted with each lift and every drop, the sound of his exertions becoming their rhythm, driving them on. They didn’t speak while they worked; there was simply no time, or energy, to spare. The wind was cool, not cold like it had been, and Michael stripped to the waist before they’d even completed the first hole while Cait pared down to a singlet. Every now and then there’d be a clang of iron on rock, and Michael’s grunts became groans as he wasted time probing around the stone to loosen it. He’d look at Cait, questioning, but she remained adamant. Though his groans became curses, he never disobeyed.

  She was surprised he still sought her permission. If he’d taken it upon himself to sink every post using his power, she couldn’t have stopped him. But something held him back, despite
his newfound certainty. Perhaps it was fear, a vestige of the day his power had wreaked havoc, before he’d surrendered to it. Perhaps it was guilt, the memory of her bloodied and broken still fresh. Whatever the reason, Cait was glad he didn’t push, because she needed time to overcome her own fear. Michael was old – older even than she – but he was also just seventeen. To have access to such power, to have harnessed and accepted it at such an age this quickly and without her help or guidance, had rendered Cait useless. The memories she guarded had become her only foothold, so she kept them safe, in that jar which had once held her gift, and refused to surrender them.

  They worked until lunch, breaking only to drink water or stretch cramped muscles, and at midday they sat together by the ute and she listened while he talked. He told her what he’d done in the bush, about his surrender and the burning.

  ‘Is that how it’s supposed to happen?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Cait replied. But not so soon.

  ‘If it’s done, why won’t you let me use it?’

  ‘Michael, it’s not a question of letting you. The power is yours, but every time you use it you run a risk. Even now.’

  ‘How? It’s in me now. It is me and I’m okay with that.’

  ‘Yes, but your emotions are still raw. You’re young – an adolescent, hot one minute, cold the next.’ She didn’t mean to sound condescending but there was no other way to explain it.

  ‘We’re talking about digging a few holes in the ground, not moving bloody mountains,’ he grumbled.

  Cait looked at him. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s tonnes of wood or a single pebble. The effort required is the same. The words are the same. It’s the emotion that determines the outcome. Answer me this: how do you feel about being here today, having to put up this fence?’

  He glared at the half-dozen piles of earth and the bright string line that ran across the paddock. ‘Pissed off,’ he admitted.

  ‘Exactly. If you could overcome that feeling, if you could control even the tiniest bit of anger that flares every time you strike rock or when the hole isn’t wide enough or deep enough, then you could do it. But you can’t yet. You need to wait. You need to be sure.’

  ‘But when I healed you, and cut that wood, I wasn’t sure of anything. And it worked.’ He was stubborn, deter mined to prove her wrong. ‘But overriding all those other feelings was love,’ she said, ‘more powerful than anything else. With love and patience, you can indeed move mountains.’ She’d seen him do it before, long ago. Then, he’d tended cows also. ‘Come on, let’s get back to it. It might take longer, but it won’t kill us.’

  He stood and picked up the rod with a sigh. She was right; it didn’t kill them. But by the end of the day, even with the aid of gloves, her hands were raw with blisters and her back and arms ached. Michael fared better – he was more used to such toil.

  The next day followed the same pattern. He began by protesting, then gave up and worked until lunch, when he questioned and argued some more, before giving in and working again. On the third day, he began talking about his dreams.

  ‘It’s the same girl every time – really beautiful, all in green. I’m older than her, and it’s like we know what we’re doing is wrong but we can’t help it. Like we’re possessed.’

  ‘It’s just a dream,’ Cait told him. His passion begged pity but she was merciless. If he understood, she’d lose any control, and control was everything for a pair as ill-fated as them.

  ‘I think I know her,’ he continued. ‘And then suddenly she changes and I don’t any more. She’s older or her hair is dark, and the places we meet are different and everything’s sort of hazy. You know what dreams are like. But it’s the same girl. I know it is.’

  ‘Always?’ Cait asked, softly.

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘You know who she is, don’t you?’

  ‘You’ve loved many women, Michael. Their names aren’t important.’ She didn’t lie, but it was a skirting of the truth.

  ‘Hers is,’ he insisted. ‘She’s more important than anything else.’

  ‘She’s just a girl in a dream, Michael.’

  ‘What if you’re wrong? Because it sure feels real enough.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Cait told him, her voice flat and hard, and she began to pack away the lunch.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ he said, following her back to the ute, where she threw the bag onto the tray. ‘Why can’t you just tell me?’

  ‘Michael –’

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m too young. Don’t you dare.’

  She glared at him. ‘I wasn’t going to. I was going to say that it’s not necessary. You don’t need to know. It won’t help you. If anything, it’ll make things worse.’

  ‘How? And who the hell put you in charge? Why do you get to decide?’

  ‘Because.’ It’s how I keep us safe.

  ‘Because? That’s all you’ve got?’ She turned to walk away, and he grabbed her arm. ‘Tell me about the girl, Cait. Tell me why I keep seeing her – her and all the others.’

  ‘Let me go.’ Cait’s voice was like ice.

  But he didn’t. He stared and his eyes narrowed. ‘Shit, you don’t know, do you? They’re not just dreams. I’m remembering, and you don’t know why.’ He laughed but it wasn’t a nice sound. There was no joy in it.

  ‘Leave it, Michael. This isn’t the time,’ Cait said, and struggled to get free.

  ‘It’s pissing you off, isn’t it? That I’m remembering. That I don’t need you and your memories any more.’ His voice was cruel, his words like barbs. ‘Because that’s all you’ve got – thousands of sad little memories locked up inside you. Do they keep you warm at night, Cait? Huh? Do they comfort –’

  The crack of her hand on his cheek was sharp, but his anger was the rumble of earth, low and ominous. The ground trembled.

  ‘Sad, Michael? Yes, they’re sad. All of them,’ she hissed. ‘You’re pathetic. You just remember a feeling, the heat of a body, the elation. You remember your satisfaction. But do you remember how it ends, Michael? How it always ends? Do you remember that too?’

  ‘What would you know about elation?’ he sneered. ‘Better to remember feeling than feel nothing at all. You keep your cold memories, Cait, but give me mine. Give me that, at least. Give me the girl.’

  ‘That girl is gone. She died a long time ago.’ Her anger was as fierce as his, and their rage pressed on them, suffocating.

  ‘I don’t care. I want to know who she was. I want to know why I loved her. I want to remember!’ he shouted. Thunder boomed beneath their feet.

  It was time to finish it, and surely it was better this way? She had to be cold; she had no choice. Briefly, she pressed dry lips to his cheek, felt him shudder, and at last he released her arm. When she pulled away, his eyes were closed. Bowing his head, he touched his skin where her mouth had been.

  ‘That’s all I can give you, Michael,’ Cait whispered. ‘I’m sorry. The girl is gone, and that’s all that’s left.’

  When he raised his head again, his eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘No, not all,’ he said, and grasping the back of her neck, curling his fingers in her hair, he pulled her to him. ‘There’s this too.’

  Then there was only the feel of him and the taste of him, the sweetness of his breath and the trembling of his hands. His kiss was fast and it was slow, it was strong and gentle, joyous and sad, and she forgot her resolve. She forgot about keeping him safe. She didn’t fight it, because every desire she’d ever felt, every longing for him, every whispered word, every touch, every kiss in every lifetime, culminated in that single moment. Because this way was good too.

  His mouth moved on hers, his hands released her hair and slipped down, learning the shape of her new body, its contours. She caressed him too, feeling the smooth sinew of muscles and the taut, young strength of him, and they sank together to the ground that quivered with a new urgency, a desperation that built and demanded and took, striking a tempo that heightened until it consumed them both. It d
idn’t matter that time had come loose from its mooring. There was only Michael and there was only Cait, and those they’d been before were forgotten for a while.

  ‘Why her?’ Michael said, his hand skimming up Cait’s arm to her shoulder, then trailing back down again. She lay with her head on his chest, beneath his jacket, and listened as his heart steadied. ‘Why was I seeing her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’ve never done this before, never remembered anything. She – I … It was no different to any other time. No more remarkable. No more tragic. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Tell me about her, Cait. About you.’

  She lay still for a moment, enjoying the feel of him, the touch of his hand. There was so much to say and it was hard to know where to begin. ‘I was just a girl,’ she said at last. ‘When I married him, he was older than my own father.’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘No, not really. It was common enough, and he was kind. A great man. A great king. You’d made sure of that. But it was a difficult time – cold and dangerous – and life was brutal and cruel and short, not like the stories.’

  ‘I wasn’t there, was I? At first?’ His hand tightened and released and then resumed its path.

  ‘No. We’d already died, years before. He still missed your guidance, even after I arrived, and he’d speak of you often. But he used your gift well, Michael, and for a brief time there was enough brightness to light the whole world. Then you returned, remade. You came with your sword and your armour and your courage and you became his champion, though you didn’t know him and he didn’t recognise you. You were his closest companion, just as you’d been before.’

  His lips touched her head. ‘And that’s when you and I met.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, remembering. ‘At first it was easy to keep you at a distance – there were so many battles and you were often away. But every time you came back to court, it became harder to resist you. Your power had grown – not like it is now or even as it was before. It was more of a strength, in war and in peace. You had a presence even he couldn’t match.’