The Worm King Read online

  The sergeant looked grim. ‘Listen Wiri, there’s a couple of things. I don’t like some of this any more than you might, but I gotta pass it on. Yeah, that deal with the looter’s a shocker, but I hear it was actually much worse than you might’ve heard, because the old lady who owned the house was still in there when he went through, and they reckon he molested her something awful, but she’s too shocked to say much about it. She’s certainly bruised real bad though, all around that area too, you know, and they’re recent bruises, and this guy had all her stuff back at his place.

  ‘The other thing is, I’ve just had a talk with Frank Smith, from the business council, which is virtually running Tamworth now. He owns the big car yard out on 15. He said you can all leave whenever you like, but if you had anything to do with that bus out on 34, west of town, you’d better not count on getting it back. They’ve impounded it. The council said if it was yours, they’ve feed and sheltered plenty of you, so it’s only fair. I never said a word to him about any bus, so it didn’t come from me.’ He glanced meaningfully in the direction of the Mason.

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Jerry, from somewhere behind Lord Brown.

  The sergeant attempted to press on. ‘The council does want you to stay, so they can rebuild the city here. Smithy reckons everyone will head away from the coast now, and the inland cities will be the ones to take off. They’re saying this place will be the bee’s knees and some of ‘em are even talking about putting the festival back on next year! To lift peoples spirits, you know? Personally, I think they’re dreamin.’

  ‘No way!’ shouted Jerry, struggling to his feet. ‘That’s me bus!’ Sgt Kevin shrugged sympathetically. For a moment it looked like Jerry might dive straight at him, but instead he turned in the direction of the Mason, and scowled.

  Lord Brown immediately stood and grabbed Jerry’s arm, then spoke quietly in his ear. Whatever he said took Jerry from fuming rage to nearly serene in virtually a split second. Just like that! Āmiria was amazed, and couldn’t imagine what he must’ve said because Jerry loved that bus. Suddenly it came to her: there’s only one possible sentence he could’ve uttered to calm Jerry down that quick. One thing, in the whole universe. He must’ve said, “I’ll get your bus back.” Nothing else would have done it.

  Āmiria wondered how he planned to do it.

  After Sgt Kevin and Tim left, Lord Brown began talking no-stop. Most of it was gibberish about old towns she’d never heard of, apart from a ten minute diversion on something called the Poisson distribution when Zelda asked how often comets actually fell, although absolutely no one could follow what he’d said.

  ‘It is an excellent sign,’ he insisted. Some lady who slept not far from them (and normally a bit snooty so Āmiria didn’t talk to her often) had waddled over all concerned about the hanging and telling everyone they’d be better off heading south, down to Dubbo.

  ‘The fact that they’ve scheduled it for the beginning of the following day shows organization and reluctance. In Dubbo, the hanging would’ve been considerably more spur of the moment, I can assure you, because we came through there on the way here.’ He didn’t mention the lions, thankfully, because the lady sounded like she might have rellies there.

  The Mason began working his way towards them, calling out a name Āmiria couldn’t quite make out. Lord Brown must’ve seen him too, but continued nevertheless, speaking loudly to no one in particular. ‘Tamworth is very organized, nothing like Dubbo. It’s already evolved into a small city-state. The organizations behind this setup aren’t bad in themselves, but the darkness has bought out their baddest. The baddest of the bad now reign, and there is far more evil to come. More than any of you could possibly believe. This town has swung to the right so far that it’s come back around, and into itself again. Each time it re-enters itself, plunging in at a lower, muckier level and it keeps looping down and around like this until it implodith. Loopity, loopity, down, down, it goes.’

  ‘The Bartletts? The Bartletts from Sydney?’ called the Mason, nearer, and no longer shouting because he obviously wanted to listen too. ‘The Bartletts? The Bartletts from . . . ’ He stopped completely, arms folded.

  ‘When this loop-strain is removed it’ll be like a rubber band snapping and bursterly surgith forwards on a tide of great verily. It will trigger innovation, oh yes, and wave upon wave of lateral thinking, and new roads, most of which will peter because they’re dangerous, and they will kill you, or they’re no improvement on the old ways and the Greatness is all that’s left: the teensy few who survive and manage to ride this all-encompassing travesty. Along with the scum, who also ascend to the top as they must: festering and killing everything their black hands touch. Those creatures who don’t innovate will be left behind and gradually, oh yes, and with great certainty, they’ll be relegated to minions. The Great, the Scum and the Minion. Within this jostling: this trinity of death; one idea is destined to revolutionize. Or maybe it’s one person? We must find this light! Find it, I beg you!’

  Mason shook his head in disbelief and continued walking. ‘The Bartletts? The Bartletts from Sydney?’

  The minute he’d left, Lord Brown lowered his voice and said, ‘Right. He’s gone.’ Then gave specific instructions to go forth and gather supplies for departure. With dinner only an hour off, much talking and general hubbub arose in the gym, making it the perfect time to move around without attracting attention.

  So ten of them spread hither to gather supplies. Āmiria immediately went to the three young men in blue uniforms who’d arrived yesterday. It turned out they were from an RAAF training camp on the outskirts of Tamworth. She’d been watching them, and they always kept a close eye on a canvas bag one carried, which she hoped might contain a decent torch, or at least spare batteries for a torch. The grenades proved far more enticing. Within minutes of completing the trade, the cadets were taken away along with a bunch of others by the Mason and one of his cronies, to help fix some shelter nearby. They’d obviously been starving, and Āmiria would’ve almost been compelled to give them something even if they hadn’t had the grenades or anything.

  Nevertheless, her father was surprisingly angry about the transaction and confiscated them. He said she might not even get them back, which made her much happier because it meant she did actually have a chance at retrieval, provided she didn’t step out of line for a while. Wiremu said when he saw those bloody cadets again, he’d be having a word with them too.

  Greg Tilson, an unemployed panel-beater from Brisbane with no friends, deliberately picked his sleeping position a week ago, choosing right near the Mason’s tower because he thought it’d keep him safe, like. Then there’d be someone watching his stuff all the time, when he went to the loo an’ that. Not that he had much stuff left. In fact, come to think of it, pretty well nothing. Paid not to dwell on that. While he was trying not to dwell on it, a voice whispered in his ear:

  ‘Pssssssst!’

  Greg turned to see a tall, gangly man slipping to the floor beside him. The stranger wore a Diggers hat with a motley feather stuck in one side. ‘What?’

  ‘Do us a favor?’

  ‘Why? Who are you?’ He’d seen this man drinking and being loud and causing a ruckus yesterday, so was immediately suspicious.

  ‘Name’s John. Do us a favor, will ya mate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘See that Māori bloke walking to the door?’ Greg looked up to see a dark-skinned yobbo walking slowly towards the door, looking sort of in his direction, but not directly at him. ‘He’s going to wait outside for you. He wants to speak to the Mason—yeah, the bloke on the tower—but out in private. It’s real important. Just go out like you’re going to the loo, and that Māori bloke’ll give you the message that he needs to speak to the person in charge, and you come back in and tell the Mason. Easy as pie; you’re just passing the message on. Can’t go wrong.’

  After a five minute negotiation, the deal was struck, and Greg agreed. Initially it all unfolded much as planned: Greg strolled
out, the Māori was waiting and straight away said, ‘I need to speak to the fūlla in charge.’ So back inside went Greg, and told the Mason, who said “Come with me” and they both went outside. But alas, there was no Māori, or anyone. While the Mason called vainly into the dark, Greg stammered, ‘I’m positive he was right here,’ and as he looked around, happened to glance back in through the door just in time to see the man in the hat reach up onto the Mason’s tower, and remove his Bible. Greg began to wish he’d gotten more than, like, just a tennis racquet for doing this.

  Three hours after dinner, Āmiria was bored, scratching the fur on Peanuts neck trying to get the knots out when the sound of the Hat’s laughter distracted her. He lay on his stomach next to the nearest lantern, approximately five meters away. They’d put the gym on half lights until 5am, and their lantern was one of the three still on, although in an hour that would go off and one of the others come on. The Hat glanced up sneakily, then back down at the book in front of him. Geoff and Hemi lay alongside and Lord Brown sat cross-legged with his back to the Mason, reading it too.

  Āmiria slithered over, dragging Peanuts. ‘Look!’ snickered the Hat, ‘see, he’s made notes all through it!’ Geoff and Hemi laughed.

  ‘That’s mean,’ protested Zelda. She and David had swapped their bedrolls with an elderly couple, so they could be nearer the lantern for a spell, because David was afraid of the dark, and the cold, and the hard floor and virtually everything.

  Lord Brown flicked a page over. ‘It’s an excellent short story collection, but it is just a book. It’s a very long, old book, with plenty of war stories and magic and—’

  ‘Rooting?’ interjected the Hat.

  ‘Hmmm. Yes. I was going to say romance but that’ll do. Although I don’t think the exact terminology “rooting” crops up in the Bible a great deal, unless it’s in some agricultural context that I don’t recall. Still, it’s got all the ingredients of a good yarn. You don’t want to take it too seriously though. All the stories are handed down from prophets, who’re invariably men, and each prophet is reputed to have some unproven special connection with an equally unproven mystical being. All the religions have them, without exception. The Hindu’s have the sacred texts of the Rig Veda, which were written five hundred years before the Bible. The Zoroastrians had the scriptures of the Gathas, which were also churned out well before the Bible. The Muslims use the Koran, which came well after the Bible. They’re all ripping yarns, if you enjoy that sort of thing.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in God then? asked Zelda, dismayed.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Oh, you do have a soul! There is hope for you.’

  ‘No. There is no hope for me, and there’s no such thing as a soul either.’

  ‘You can’t say that for sure? I know I’ve got one!’

  ‘As soon as you show it to me, I’ll review the situation, I assure you.’ Lord Brown paused, looking at her expectantly. ‘No? No soul today? Well, all right.’

  ‘Just because I can’t pull it out and show you in ten seconds, doesn’t mean it’s not there! That’d be crazy: you can’t discover a person’s soul that quick. It takes time. And . . . love.’

  Āmiria snorted. ‘Spew bucket!’

  ‘Discover?’ retorted Lord Brown. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head. That’s just the problem: it still hasn’t been discovered. After 2400 years of rigorous empirical testing: nothing. Zip.’

  ‘James Brown discovered soul didn’t he?’ chimed the Hat. ‘I mean, get dowwwwn Slick. Jive time!’ He made a wavy motion with flattened hands, one in front and one pointed out behind, raising his chin like a chimp.

  ‘Tool,’ said Āmiria.

  He stopped. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Ahhhh . . . cool. James Brown, he’s really cool.’ She wondered who James Brown was. Some old black piano player from way back before they even invented phones, if she recalled. ‘So James Brown discovered souls then?’ Out loud, it didn’t sound so plausible.

  Lord Brown smiled at her. ‘Plato invented the idea of the soul, in 400BC. But the road Plato went down, investigating the soul, and spiritual consciousness, has turned out to be a complete failure. What we know today, about the soul, hasn’t progressed one iota since Plato’s day. The best comparison you can make is with Aristotle, who was born at virtually the same time as Plato, in 384BC. He was actually a student of Plato’s, attending the same university. Well, I suppose you’d call it a university and it was like the ones we have today, except only men and they spent most of the day wandering around drinking wine in the nude, but more-or-less similar. Anyway, Aristotle went down the science road, developing mathematics and biology and physics. Think how far these fields have progressed? But the soul? It’s been a failure! Not one shred of evidence. There is no such thing.’

  ‘If we have no soul, then we’re just a . . . just a bag of guts and bones!’ exclaimed Zelda. ‘Do you think that’s all we are?’

  ‘You’re closer than you realize. Bag of guts and bones? Yes, that’s very close. The latest theory on the makeup of the individual says we are each a distinctive chemical soup. Every person is merely a chemical soup which reacts to external stimuli.’

  ‘I like guts and bones better,’ declared Āmiria. She reached between Hemi and Geoff, and picked up the bible.

  ‘Mason!’ whispered Geoff urgently. She looked up and he was not ten meters distant, coming straight at her. The Hat and Lord Brown faced the wrong way and were yet to spot him. Āmiria darted her spare hand forward and grabbed the magazine, which had been lying under the bible, then placed it on top of the book. She opened the magazine so the Bible was totally hidden from view.

  ‘Has anyone seen my Bible,’ demanded the Mason. ‘I believe it was . . . ’

  He stared down at Āmiria’s reading material. ‘Sweet Jesus! Are you allowed to look at that?’

  ‘I . . . well . . . ’ Her father appeared, giving the faintest of nods as he sat down next to Lord Brown. Suddenly she felt more confident. ‘Well sure, dad lets me.’

  The Mason looked disbelievingly at her father who shrugged, disinterested.

  The double-page, glossy spread showed a blonde lady with enormous jumblies and a vibrator. It was the first time Āmiria had actually seen a real one. She’d heard a couple of the skankier girls at school talking about vibrators, especially over the last year, but never seen one in action. She never realized they were that big, and couldn’t see the slightest appeal in jamming that into your privates.

  ‘Oh my!’ The Hat gazed over her shoulder. ‘I see she’s using a Glenn and Jennings 500.’ He seemed impressed. ‘Normally you need an external diesel generator to drive one of those.’ The Mason coughed in disgust, like he was trying to work out a fur ball. ‘Can’t see a power cable though?’ The Hat peered closer at the photo. ‘She must have it on hand-crank? Wow, she’ll never walk in a straight line again, after half an hour on that beast!’

  ‘Yeah!’ hooted Āmiria, and laughed a bit madly although not sure exactly what she’d agreed with. The Mason clearly hadn’t got the message because he still stood there, mouth open. She punched the air with her fist. ‘Whoa! Hand-crank! Choice!’

  ‘You shouldn’t be reading that at your age.’

  ‘I’ve got some crayons, sometimes I color the fuckin pictures in.’

  The Mason looked like he’d been slapped. Even her father frowned, and she knew she’d pushed it one step too far. The Mason began backing away, then stopped. ‘Are either of you named John?’ he asked Geoff and Hemi.

  Both shook their heads.

  ‘What about you,’ he asked the Hat, suspiciously.

  ‘Hat.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hat. It’s Welsh.’

  ‘I don’t know . . . ’ The Mason scowled in frustration. ‘And no one here’s seen my Bible?’ He gave the Hat another piercing stare, while everyone else found something different to look at. ‘Right then.’

  Āmiria casually turned the page, hoping he’d l
eft but not wanting to look up and draw his attention. The blonde lady was on all fours this time, smirking back into the camera, and appeared to have somehow got the vibrator stuck in her bottom. It looked bloody painful, so she quickly flicked to the next page, thankfully an article called Forum, and pretended to read that.

  ‘Hey!’ The Mason still hadn’t gone. She looked up and he pointed straight at her. ‘We need someone to clean out the changing room loo.’ He gestured in the direction of the toilet at the end of the gym. ‘If you’ve got time to be reading that muck, you can clean out the loo, if you don’t mind!’

  ‘They aren’t even supposed be used, are they? Āmiria exclaimed, appalled. ‘It’s not my job!’

  ‘Well someone’s used ‘em. Must’ve snuck in when it was too cold and wet to go outside.’

  ‘Which is fairly well all the time,’ added the Hat unhelpfully.

  The Mason put his hands in his pockets and stared at her father, daring him to disagree, but he just shrugged again and turned away.

  After the Mason left, all he said was, ‘I don’t want to hear you using the F-word like that again, my girl. Now get back and get some sleep.’

  The cadets returned shortly after breakfast, having spent an uncomfortable few hours attempting to sleep in the partially-constructed shelter they’d been working on. Her father spotted them right away, and as soon as they’d sat down, he got up, holding the rucksack. She’d been trying to keep an extremely low profile in case the prospect of cleaning the bog came up again. Thankfully it hadn’t. He wagged his finger at her: come with me. Tamati also rose, following without smiling or even glancing her way, which Āmiria thought might be a bad sign because Tamati usually smiled a lot.

  The cadet who’d traded the grenades looked apprehensive as they approached. Her father stopped short, turning momentarily. ‘Which one was it?’

  ‘The one with blonde hair. His name’s Daniel but the others didn’t say their names.’ He grunted and continued. The second cadet looked more scared than Daniel, while the third had his head in his hands and failed to respond to their arrival. They didn’t get up and her father dropped to a crouch directly in front of them, plonking the rucksack on the floor between himself and the cadets. Tamati sat alongside in the narrow pathway between beds so Āmiria did the same.