SUHA AND THE MAGIC WHISPERS
Atari Hayes
Communication Entry 00010-25 7:05
Relay 15 : Denmark here.
Relay 5 : Abigail here.
Relay 15 : Pinging command relay…
Relay 15 : Zero bytes returned
Relay 5 : Pinging command relay…
Relay 5 : Zero bytes returned
Relay 15 : Same same.
The manuscript page lays yellowed against the Writer’s shaking lips. Scabbed scar tissue arms and perfect, pale hands over these drying words : Magic shadows hate me, caress me.
An Edwardian looking desk centres his study room of plywood shelves and naked posters, trash strewn floor, food stores in one corner, books in another. A dancing mirror reflects kerosene hues over every cut boy part and piece. He wakes watching himself. There’s always dissatisfaction in that image, the sunken eyes, spiky hairs. In a world without people — he’s convinced himself this can’t be self conscience.
The adjoining passageway hides a bunk bed barely used, hewn into concrete. The bedside table is a small armoury. He cleans the contents every week: Service rifle, five magazines, four boxes of ammunition. The exit hatch somewhere above has a bag strapped to it. Emergency supplies for a week and maps of disused checkpoints and survival depots.
He motions toward coffee.
Communication Entry 00010-30 14:46
Relay 15 : Rock doves are back again.
Relay 5 : Maybe they’ve really left.
You should sleep watching the cameras tonight.
Relay 15 : Eggs hatched as well.
Relay 5 : Could name them for your characters.
Relay 15 : Need to |
He stands from the terminal, scratching away a raw neck; thinks about nodding till they talk again. The dancing mirror stares back, penetratingly evil in such a mundane, childish way. Sometimes he sees unreal things there, floating through starless space. Always a lingering compulsion to immolate, let this all fall away. The Writer drops into bed, his manuscript page beside. These passages have been gone over and over like skin, never with approving eyes.
“Girl/Nape/Ghoul”
Black cuts in the land and extraordinary green, an urban silence above all else. I can feel him staring from across town, dreaming his boy dreams. Through my telescope, his mind unfolds, picture something sullen yet whimsy. Spark of electric current from his brain to mine. Deep warmth. Raindrop on the lens makes me stand too fast, I get dizzy and the world becomes a blurrier than it has to. Need to remember, silly Suha.
In the distance, a few blocks east from here, you can see my home. Tarps and lanterns and blankets straddling a billboard. Advert for the perfect body. I’m perched in a bombed out apartment, fourth story, rat in the rubble. Below is a throng of men. Wall of speary flesh at the quick step, ragged clothes and spiky furs. They’re trashing through the knick knack store this telescope came from. Maybe they remember wanting one.
We’ve a job to do, Suha. My colleague has the west and I the east. Reconnaissance, preparation. Our people are moving in soon. Caches need to be marked and hidden; infrastructure is to be readied and ancient ordinance destroyed. Bring order and civilisation — old, unkempt words. It’s solitary work overall. Every third week we conjoin for supplies, maybe bit of talk if I’m lucky. Michael is out there now, dreaming with flowing auburn hair.
He looks for change in the mirror, pulls out a chin hair. Today was a day of ritual : Reflect, unnerve my eyes, clean the gun.
“Be so much easier out there,” says the Writer.
Teeth against purple lips and freckles so smooth. Their other relays have been quiet a long, long while. Murdered by whispering monsters in pipes and vents.
“Let this sleep and dream for once, Suha.”
Write, says the Shadows.
Communication Entry — Addendum 00010-31-01 3:57
Relay 15 : Hey, still up?
Michael is sitting over a very blue fire. His eyes feigning reflection, probably empty, probably quiet. Calm, skin crying, hands sleeping in the flames. Came in from a big, scary journey cross lands of petering ghosts. Kept us safe and warm. Wind keeps the hair from my eyes. I could tell you what his dog tags say, what that tattoo on his nape means… He looks my way for once.
‘Dealing with passerbys?’ he asks.
‘Watching.’
Michael notices his breath and shifts in the concrete.
‘All we seem to do.’
The conversation plays. Non-lucidity grips too hard and the world withdraws. This creature outside, eyes wide, hands so coarse down my throat. Legs and shadows want this flesh so bad. Gravel tears these arm hairs away. If only you saw in here, but you’re not even looking at me.
Be so much easier out there.
Rain makes us sleep the night here. Patter, patter. Boxed jam and jealous dreams. The colours on your regimental patch seem evil staring my way : White and red. Our sigil a dandy hussar, curling hair, a white rose piercing his heart.
Bullet holes in the concrete, in the trees outside. Bird-napped the rock doves after. Not many sounds out here. That’s probably the main scare, along with these birds. Endearing, and warm, but the lengths they cling are eerie. Never flying far or high.
This world isn’t the least bit evil looking. I don’t know what me and Suha are to do.
The Writer played out her words, broke the dancing mirror this morning. Hadn’t quite shot a gun in forever; felt orgasmic, then nothing much. Like captivity was always easy to betray. Sullied it all. Doves seemed eager for living friends at least. They don’t sing or speak, but they listen.
She’s brought a good supply of dried foods and bullets, enough paper as well for dawdling. There’s a whole lot of things down the vale to write about. Piled up or wrecked or growing, the world had converged a little round their bunkers. Crammed into the valley is a division’s strength or more of fighting vehicles. They pose in great wedges bent inwards, backs to Relay fifteen. There aren’t any bodies or bullet casing. The trees stand unfazed. Past the nearest formations, nestled in a shallow dell is a medical humvee, its hood faces up the slope. Through the windscreen grows a redwood, young amongst the others. The writer enters and finds a spot to rest. Her birds lie close. She can hear the stream bed, a creek humming slowly.
Abigail is just across the way. She’s beautiful for sure.
I’m reading Tales of the City and trying not to think. Been five weeks since we last conjoined. Rains and all that; Michael signalled things are fine as always. He’s more distant, somehow colder.
More men walked on down below this morning. Only ten or so, listless, a great herd of buffalo. Lingered for a while on fallen walls of bricks, never saying a word to each other. It was a Brythonic scene. Made me want to ride them down like a knight of Avalon. Almost what we are. Maybe that would draw a sound.
The moon is bright, I’ve the night vision on anyway. Puts a film over it all. In green colours these vinyl stores and discount phone repair shops crawl by. I’m quiet. Street level now. Just over the road, an alley, one of those men peeled off. A straggler — given up, gone to die or sleep and let them take his voice. I creep. A splashing puddle opens his eyes. Spikey beard vomit crusted, around shadows, the eyes an infinitely reflected green. Can’t see the iris. My pistol unholsters, levels, a round punctures his chest. Gun metal cool on bare hands. He slumps down into nothing,
The body so cold against mine. Blood not even warm.
Next morning glows feel freer than usual.
Out a humvee come the rock doves. We warble together like magpies, craning our heads. Dancing in the fields and winds, scrounging for worms, clothes not there no more. Service rifle falls to the wayside. Now the bunker’s here. Great monolith of concrete sprinkled with dust. We see it from above and beside with many eyes and mine. The entrance hatch is rusted, hollowed like a submarine resting on ancient coral reefs. Kind shadows speak to me. They caress my arms, tear the scabs away. Guides our hands.
And I open the door.
Suha wakes sprawled and comfortable as a raccoon, still in the humvee. She finished writing her ending as the downpour did its thing. Like the rain was commanding her too get it over with. Good thing too, less weight, she leaves the manuscript behind. The creek’s a little enlarged and freer from the rains, running fast, singing to a higher pitch. Suha wishes to write the language of waters.
That old bunker, Relay 15, still sits high and needy on the horizon. She can’t quite remember what Abigail’s purpose was there. Logistics coordination? Something in that direction.
The writer finds a nice spot with her birds to rest again: In shade on a little hill, earshot of the water.
“A good spot,” she says to the birds. “what do ya think?”
“Chirp and blurp,” she imagines them saying.
Suha grabs a branch firm, tears it off, little splinters and blood no bother. Ties it to her service rifle with shoe string and grass. A little cross. Plants the gun firm in the ground and buries most all her things under it, thinks of heading back for the manuscript.
Best not, says the shadows.
Suha’s content with this death, at least she’ll die familiar with herself. It’ll be like the story. She says goodbye to her doves. They fly away, watching.
Up close the bunker is beautiful, heavy metal in a brutalist sense. Looks like an ancient warning against radiation. The light concrete grey brings back memories of late nights high in skateparks and storm water drains. Should really be tagged or overgrown, but it’s just there. Abnormal stillness. The structure has one entrance, wide enough for an army. Little intercom at the rightmost side. Click. There’s static, stinks of corroded batteries.
“Hi there,” Suha whispers.
“Hey… come on in you silly thing,” replies the intercom.
She thanks them. The voice is familiar, perfect, androgonus — maybe her mother’s, lover’s, could really be Abigail. Suha hasn’t heard another voice in ten years, if this is an end, that’s a kind gesture.
The great door crawls open, almost heavenly. A moment of hesitation
In the waters, birds, and munching things, this world slowly regains a voice. Shadows collect themselves into corners and crevices, watching, sleeping, singing. A girl called Suha lived.
Atari Hayes is a Sydney based writer making Fantasy and Queer literary fiction. He works exclusively from one in the morning to three am, and can be found in the trees and contacted via loud sounds.
