Suspended In Dusk (17 page)

Patrick nodded. “I’m heading to Calliope tomorrow, but I’d appreciate a bed for the night. Is there anywhere to stable my horse?”

The publican poked his head in the kitchen and yelled something. After a moment the child from earlier scurried out, glanced sidelong at Patrick and disappeared out the front door.

“Charlie will deal with your horse. What’s your name, lad? Is this your first posting?”

“Patrick. Yes. O’Malley.” His cheeks warmed again. “I’ve travelled from Bundaberg. From the seminary. The priest in Calliope died. They sent word asking for a new one. The Bishop thought it would build my character.” Patrick remembered the Bishop’s face as he’d said that. The others had sniggered; Davvy had said it was a good way to get rid of dead wood.

“It’s rough out there,” the publican said and reached across the bar. “The name’s Bailey.”

Patrick shook his hand. “Thanks for your kindness, Bailey. God smiles on you.”

Blond whiskers grunted at that. Patrick ordered food and slunk off to a table in a shadowy corner.

* * *

The grandfather clock struck midnight. Patrick woke with a start, a puddle of cold drool under his cheek. The pub was full of tense men. Each careworn face stared toward the entrance, and as the last
dong
faded an expectant hush descended.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman with a round figure in a blue dress strode in. She was followed by a teenaged girl with blonde hair and a beaming smile, and then a little girl who was a younger version of Charlie. Still more women entered.

Patrick waited for the scolding to begin. Instead, smiles and hugs were exchanged, and Patrick’s breath misted in the suddenly frosty air.

Music blared from the jukebox. Townsfolk danced to songs Patrick hadn’t heard since he was a child. He sidled along the wall to the bar.

“Shouldn’t those children be in bed?” he asked Bailey as he scratched his head, unable to figure out what made him so uneasy about the scene. The publican stood with his hand resting on the bar, a slack expression on his face. He shook himself at Patrick’s words.

“You should take
yourself
to bed,” he said with a frown.

“But…” Patrick leaned forward and studied the women. “Where were all these people before?”

Bailey tensed. “The God-man needs his rest,” he said, raising his voice above the din. The revellers paused in their merrymaking and regarded him with suspicion. His skin prickling, he took his room key and retreated upstairs.

* * *

Sleep eluded him. The sounds filtered up through the carpeted floor until the first pale light of pre-dawn smudged the room with charcoal shadows. When quiet finally reigned he drifted into a fitful slumber.

He woke, his heart pounding. Hot air blanketed him, his skin coated with sweat.

Patrick sat up and kicked the damp sheets off his legs as the significance of the dandelion lying on the dirt in front of the burnt, pocked crab hit him. A child’s offering in remembrance. Could the women be ghosts? “Stupid fanciful dreams,” he muttered, but the disquiet lingered. The Good Book mentioned spirits, of course, but he’d never thought they could be real.

A snippet of history from the seminary seeped into his consciousness, something he’d tried to forget.

He’d joined the Church to make a difference in the post-Peak Oil world. As society collapsed during the Upheaval people had turned to organised religions to piece together some semblance of community. In Queensland the Church of Reclamation became the biggest institution, co-ordinating food deliveries and redistribution of resources. Big business had funded the formation of a rogue Church whose primary function was to hamper the unifying efforts of the Reclamation, all in the name of bottom line. The rogue group had called itself the Brothers of Mercy and targeted small communities.

While the communities had suffered at the hands of the Brothers, the Church of Reclamation, lacking the ability to apprehend them, did nothing. Eventually the Brothers disappeared as their benefactors fell victim to the realities of post-Oil life, though not until after they’d destroyed many smaller towns in rural Queensland. Women were often prime targets, persecuted as the source of society’s ills, tortured and killed while the Brothers cited Eve as their justification.

The Bishop said spending too much time near the gas fields, breathing the tainted air, had driven the Brothers crazy.

If the townswomen had been murdered by the Brothers, their souls may have been too shocked to cross over. And if their men refused to let them go…

Patrick pushed himself up and dressed before he slunk downstairs. Bailey called out to him.

“It’s best you leave today.”

“That was the plan,” Patrick replied, not meeting Bailey’s eyes. “I thought I would leave closer to dusk and travel at night—the heat is unbearable so close to the gas fields.”

“Our version of Hell on earth.” Bailey pursed his lips and studied Patrick. “Best you keep to your plan.”

Patrick’s gaze flickered to the jukebox. He cleared his throat. “I need to check on my horse. Where is she stabled?”

Bailey hollered for Charlie. The boy scurried from the kitchen and grunted at Patrick. Outside he could smell the bitumen baking in the sun. A dog barked but nothing else moved on the street. Everyone must be holed up in their houses, as was sensible in such heat. Charlie led the priest to a house with broken windows and peeling paint.

The boy unbarred the door and pointed inside. Patrick shuddered as goosebumps rose on his skin. He peered in.

The room must have been a lounge room once, but the carpet had been pulled up, exposing the concrete floor, and all furnishings had been removed. Constance, still saddled, was hitched to a long metal railing that had been installed at some point since the house had been abandoned. A single shattered window let sunlight into the room, and the other window was boarded up. A basin half-filled with water had been set on the floor beside the railing, and some attempt had been made to strew dried grass on the hard concrete.

Patrick’s cheeks grew hot and his chest tightened. He’d neglected his duty to his horse. She’d carried him through a desert wasteland with stoic endurance, and would carry him to his destination without complaint. She deserved better.

He crossed the floor and unsaddled her, then stroked her side, checking for signs of stress. She whickered softly and turned to nuzzle at his ear. Patrick rubbed her down and cursed himself for his stupidity. Charlie was too small to tend to a horse, and these people would know little about tending them. He hadn’t seen any since leaving Bundaberg.

One of the panniers carried grain mash, and Constance snorted eagerly and buried her muzzle in the bag when Patrick offered it. He tied it around her neck and let her munch for a while, internally berating himself.

If she became unwell he would be forced to stay in Miriam Vale. Or he’d have to leave her behind and continue on foot. The former made him uneasy, the latter was suicide. Patrick tried to convince himself that his duty was paramount, that God would protect him, but he was a long way from the seminary and the people here were hostile, the town decaying.

He put his arms around the horse’s neck and breathed in her earthy scent before he untied the pannier and gave her a last pat. Constance whinnied as he headed back to the pub for food. The sun glared down, bleaching the colour from all he could see. The streets gasped for moisture, cobbled with rock and broken bitumen and sand.

Bailey grunted when he saw the priest.

“Could I get a bite to eat?”

The publican pointed to a blackboard. “I do a noon special. Hope you’re not fussy.”

Patrick prayed it wasn’t rats. “Not at all.”

Time dragged on, each minute reluctant to give way to the next. A slender fellow with mutton-chop sideburns pushed the door open but let it shut again when he saw Patrick at the bar. The next man to enter was short and dark with curly hair, and he too left at the sight of the priest sitting alone.

“You’re bad for business.” Bailey glowered as he set a bowl on the bar and pushed it across. Patrick inspected the contents. The brown sludge steamed, and smelled of unidentified meat and pepper. The priest sampled it. It was decent enough, better even than some of the food he remembered from his novice days.

The door whooshed inward. Light and dry air invaded the pub. The man, silhouetted in the entrance, stood at the threshold and called out.

“Had enough of this, Bailey. Want him gone.”

“Yeh, Morgan, I know,” the impassive barkeep replied. “He’ll be leaving this evening. Now off with you.”

The door swung shut. Patrick stared into his stew. “I’d like to help you,” he said.

“Ain’t nothing the likes of you can do for us.” Bailey slammed a glass onto the bar, the burn on his face flaming. Liquid sloshed over the edge and splattered on Patrick’s hand. “Lemonade?”

“Thanks.” Patrick took a cautious sip. Still warm and sour. “When were the Brothers of Mercy here?”

Bailey shook his head. “Best you stop, now.” He leaned over the bar and looked into Patrick’s eyes. “You’re not like them others, I know that but I ain’t the majority here, you understand. Folks here are angry, and seeing you has flared it up again. You just eat your food and be on your way and don’t be talking to nobody.”

Patrick swallowed. The mouthful of stew he’d forgotten to chew slid painfully down his throat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“It ain’t worth much, God-man.”

Patrick hunched over his bowl and shovelled the hot stew in as fast as he could. The sounds of Bailey tidying, sweeping, the clinking of glasses, the squeak of chairs, all melded into a meditative hum as Patrick contemplated his options. The sharp scent of vinegar roused him from his reverie as Bailey ran a rag along the bar.

“Finished?”

The priest handed his bowl over. Bailey disappeared out the back with it. Patrick tapped his fingers on the bar and recalled his lessons. Souls that didn’t cross over were trapped in purgatory, repeating the same movements over and over. It was difficult to free them, doubly so if their loved ones clung too tight. He scrunched his face, the quandary almost defeating him. These men were living for their dead womenfolk, not for God.

The men of Miriam Vale must be brought back to God’s will
. His face smoothed, and he straightened. As Bailey returned Patrick pushed the chair back. It screeched on the wooden floor. He hurried to the stairs.

The man called Morgan blocked his way. He grinned, showing broken teeth. A crimson smear marred his cheek.

“What do you want?” Patrick asked, his heart hammering.

Morgan held up his hand, a twisted red claw. “Have you ever seen a human candle?”

Patrick backed up, shaking his head. “It wasn’t—”

“Your kind did nothing to stop ‘em. They herded our girls into the claws of the crab, claimed they were sinners, tied ‘em up and burned ‘em alive, even the young ones. We got the bastards, killed ‘em all. Was too late, though, wasn’t it? Had to put a bullet in my wife’s brain, put her outta her misery. You ever had to do somethin’ like that, God-man?”

His bowels loosened. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan leaned in, his foul breath made Patrick’s eyes water. “Yes. You’re all good at saying sorry.” Then he pushed past Patrick and went into the bar area.

Patrick’s body was hit by tremors as he trudged upstairs. It was one thing to speculate, another thing to have his suspicions confirmed. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this. In his room he knelt and prayed, asking God for guidance and forgiveness. As afternoon fell toward sunset the words came to him, planted in his mind by divine will. He knew what he must do, knew the time and place.

Patrick wiped the sweat from his brow and sat on the bed. “Thank you, Lord.” He stretched his shoulders. “I won’t fail you.”

* * *

The timing had to be just right. Dusk was the liminal time between day and night, one of the transition points that caused the veils between the worlds to thin. The spirits would be able to escape purgatory to enter Heaven—or Hell, if that was their fate—but they needed a priest to entreat on their behalf.

Patrick could see the train station from his room. The site of many departures and arrivals would be the best place to send the spirits on their final journey. Patrick tiptoed down the stairs, his breath shallow. He slipped past the entrance to the bar where the room swarmed with patrons, and then he was out into the street and running across toward the train station.

The sun had not yet sunk below the horizon. Patrick exhaled, his throat tightened with nerves as he climbed the stairs to the platform. He took a deep breath and focused on the rusting train tracks.

“Holy Father, bring these women forth from Purgatory so you may judge their sins.” The air froze. His skin pebbled with goosebumps and he opened his eyes. Ghostly apparitions stepped forth onto the platform, as though alighting from an invisible train. The women of Miriam Vale, old and young; beautiful and not, their ethereal forms clad in the garb they’d been wearing in the pub the night before.