Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
Brisneyland by Night – Part One
Thursday, December 25th, 2008
It was a gypsy cab in every sense of the word: battered and beaten, everything grey, the vinyl of the seat sticky, the rubber floor mats so thin as to be almost transparent … I imagined they were the only thing stopping me from seeing the road speeding beneath us.
Instead of an air freshener, a gris-gris hung from the rear-view mirror. Scratched along the inside of the doors were protective symbols even I couldn’t read, and occasionally marks made by fingernails. I didn’t want to think about that too deeply. And it smelled. Not bad, but of incense, sickly sweet and cloying.
There weren’t too many cabs like this in Brisbane, although as the population grew so too did the demand.
The single eye in the back of the driver’s head examined me while the other two on his face dealt with the night-time traffic. I wasn’t his usual client, neither Weyrd nor wandering Goth. I didn’t use gypsy cabs much or at least not until the accident. Now I was a regular victim of public transport. Environmentally friendly but sometimes my fellow bus and train commuters were creepier than the gypsy cab drivers. Bela had given me the number. He was going to get in trouble for it, but I guess he figured I might do some good before that happened.
It wasn’t my usual kind of job, but then again, once upon a time I didn’t ache inside and walk with a limp. Bela thought this might keep me amused and, with my sick pay almost gone, I needed money. Besides, he knew about my dad. I might see something no one else would, hopefully before someone joined dots and people in high places started digging where a whole lot of worms hid from the light of day.
‘What you looken for?’
‘The Winemaker.’
He got quiet then. This was one of those times when you learned about people, how they react.
Most folk, Normal or Weyrd, are law-abiding. But there’s a market for everything and the law of supply and demand. In the usual course of things kids cry, right? But enough to fill a standard wine bottle? Enough for a large dinner party?
‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘I got some ideas. Name’s Ziggi.’
‘Verity.’
‘I hearda you.’
‘I bet.’ I looked out the window; the lights of the Story Bridge swam in the blackness.
Refuge
Wednesday, December 24th, 2008
Satan came to supper last night. There’s nothing peculiar about that, or in his usual feeble stab at getting me and the missus to make a deal. Once we get past what he calls ‘the formalities’ he’s a pretty good guest. We take what we can get–ain’t many people around here we care to have to supper.
Philippa starts with the soup, rabbit with leeks. There’s only a hint of hare from the rabbit I shot last week, but it’s rich enough. Satan smacks his lips. “That’s fine, just fine. You added rosemary, didn’t you?”
“You know,” he says. “I couldn’t help noticing your herb garden is, well, let’s say small. I could furnish you with considerably more space. I could offer, oh, that patch over there.” He gestures out the window at Mount Buffalo-Runs-Over-Cliff silhouetted against the evening clouds.
We laugh it off as always. We’ve got enough growing space for the two, sometimes three, of us.
Over fried chicken and corn on the cob we dissect local politics, rightly guessing which ninety percent of the school board is in Satan’s pocket. He does surprise us by saying that Ferd Tucker down to the feed store is on the side of the angels. Ferd talks so all-fired religious we just take it for granted he’s going straight to Hell, do not pass Go.
Philippa brings out the cherry cobbler. The Devil tries to compliment her on it, but she tells him it’s from Winn-Dixie. We talk on about one thing and another over cigars on the porch, until he brings up the usual subject just as the last flicker of light winked out in the west.
“Join me,” he says. “I like ruling down under, but I’d rather take over up top.” He looks to the sky, but it’s not the first stars of the night he’s looking at. He’s looking at Heaven, torn six ways from Sunday.
Rebellions make refugees. God’s got plenty of angels and Satan’s got his, but there’s plenty more besides.
I shake my head. That’s all it takes.
Like I said, ‘the formalities’. Once we get past them he’s okay.
Satan spreads those beautiful wings of his. I spread my own to see him home.
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This is Edd’s 50th story for The Daily Cabal.