Part 8 (1/2)

The lamas knelt down and began to pray.

Then the split sky began to fold along the white light in the middle of the universe.

And so did the vast land. The shadows of mountains rushed to an unnamed centre, just like fighting beasts, and their bodies huddled together.

The daughter lowered her head and saw the shadow of her body begin to bend, just like a tree eaten away by insects, and it finally broke from her waist.

Then all the shadows folded together from opposite directions, swallowing all the people, all the mountains and rivers, and all the oceans and stars.

The lamas' smiles flashed as an arc on the last second.

n.o.body could see how the Big Bang started--it was quite different from all of humanity's previous hypotheses.

”Ghost Jail”

Kaaron Warren.

Kaaron Warren is an Australian writer currently living in Fiji (where this story is set). She is a winner of both the Ditmar and Aurealis Awards in Australia, and the author of the short story collection The Grinding House (2005). Kaaron's first three novels are forthcoming from Angry Robot, an imprint of Harper Collins in the UK.

Rashmilla arrived early at the cemetery, knowing she would need to battle the other beggars for a good place: not too close to the grave of the much-loved leader, not too far away. Cars stretched for a kilometre, spewing exhaust as they idled, waiting to park.

Rashmilla's face was dirty because the water didn't run every day. She waved a laminated letter at the people, a piece of paper which proved her house had burnt down and her five children, too. Many carried such a letter. They shared it. Once, a house did burn down with five children, but it was not Rashmilla's house. Not her children. There was a fire when Rashmilla was seven, her mother's house; her twin sister burned to death. Her childhood ghost, now always seven, always with her.

Rashmilla had a sack full of dried peas to sell. Most people refused the peas with a wave of a hand. ”Please, for my children,” she said, holding out her hand. Her childhood ghost wreathed around her neck like a cobra.

People gave generously; they always did at funerals. It was the fear of punishment in the afterlife, punishment for greed or cruelty. Rashmilla waved peas at the outer mourners and was about to push her way further in when she noticed a young child trapped in a closed circle of gravestones, whimpering. His family ignored him; they did not like to think about how he could be saved.

Rashmilla stepped in, ignoring the whirl of angry spirits, letting her twin sister snarl at them. She told the child, ”It's okay, I can help you,” then stepped out again. He kept whimpering and Rashmilla hissed, ”Sshhh shhh, they don't like voices. Voices make them envious and wild.”

She walked slowly around the circle, reading the dead names in a stilted, cautious way. Then she worked at each gravestone with her fingers, finding the one which was the loosest. This, she pried up and tipped over.

The circle broken, the boy stepped out, silent now. He glared at his family, as if to say, ”A strange woman had to save me.” Rashmilla put her hand out to the mother. ”Please,” she said. The woman ignored her. Rashmilla stepped forward; she would be paid for helping the boy.

”You need to say thank you.” It was the police chief, come himself for the important funeral. He stood beside Rashmilla, twice as broad across, two heads taller than she.

The boy nodded, his mouth open. He glanced sideways, looking for his mother to help him out of trouble.

”Saying thank you would be a good idea,” the police chief said, his voice gentle. ”Give her money.”

The boy ran; Rashmilla shook her head. ”It doesn't matter,” she said. ”I didn't do it to be thanked.”

”Why, then?” The police chief leaned closer, intent.

”Simply that those ghosts need to be told.”

”What about this man's ghost? Whose death we mourn?” Police Chief Edwards said. He led her to the graveside, pus.h.i.+ng through as if the other mourners didn't exist. Her childhood ghost muttered in her ear.

”Did he die in peace?” Rashmilla whispered. Her childhood ghost nodded, much braver.

Police Chief Edwards didn't smile or respond. Rashmilla thought he would beat her. She said, ”His peaceful death will give him quiet,” and the police chief smiled.

A small man, dressed neatly, threw himself into the mud. ”Murder! Murder!” he wailed, and he threw both arms up, reaching for the police chief, as if beseeching him to take the act back.

Out of nowhere, men appeared, police sticks in hand.

”Such bitterness,” Police Chief Edwards said to Rashmilla. ”Such anger. It was an unfortunate death.”

”Who killed this great man?” the speaker shouted. ”Who silenced his great voice, who stilled his tongue and stopped his hand? Ask the question, ask it! Murder! And the guilty dare to stand here!” The policemen dragged him away.

Rashmilla shut her eyes, not wanting to see, but the men were close, so close she could smell hair oil. She stepped back from the conflict and tripped over a stone, too fast for her childhood ghost, who leaned forward, wanting a better look.

”I want to talk to you. Don't be frightened.” Chief Edwards looked at her ghost, not at her. ”In the van. We'll sit in the van and I will buy all your peas. Your day will be done.” He held out his elbow to her. ”Come on,” he said. ”I have tea in the van. I will read your letter.”

He was being very kind to her. n.o.body read her letter; no-one cared about her house fire. He held her arm with gentle firmness.

In the van he poured her a tin cup of tea. It was black and strong and she felt the energy of it filling her as she sipped it.

He watched her, a smile on his face that she didn't like. He said, ”There was a man buried here today. I will not lie and say that he was a good man; for all I know he beat his wife and spent his children's school fees on beer. But he still deserves to rest easy. Lies will send him to a restless grave. That mourner should not tell lies.”

The van had thick walls, Rashmilla thought. She could not hear the prisoner in the back. She nodded. ”I heard what he said. He said this man was murdered.”

”He wishes to discredit the very people who save this country.”

She closed her eyes, but her childhood ghost watched, sitting on her lap.

”I saw what you did for that young boy.”

”I don't need a thank you.”

”What you both did for that young boy.”

She blinked at him.

”I can see her. Your ghost.”

”Most can't.”

”It's a talent which can be learnt. It can be useful.”

”Not useful. A nuisance. Always the one to tell those bad ghosts what to do.”

”Yes, I saw that. You have a way with them.”