>Delete File: Y/N?, Sheriden Goldie

Silver pulls the eyepatch away from her left eye. Her fingers press the skin around the metal protrusions, unable to rub in case her skin should pull away from the edges. She closes her one eye, stretches and feels the slight grind in her shoulders. Metal plates and screws pop over each other. She returns to the screen. Silver aligns her aug-eye’s interface over the display’s and selects ‘upload.’

Feeling behind her ear, Silver slides the memory card out of its slot. The patch of synthetic skin hangs loose, and she imagines she can feel the cool air touching a circuit. All phantom feeling, but she shivers anyway. The frame of the screen has a glowing port that she presses the card into. It zips closed, the download of data starts ticking over at the bottom of the screen. She cracks the plastic seal of a new memory card, and slots it in, pressing the synthetic skin back into place. There is a faint buzz and hiss, as the internal vacuum seals the opening.

A blue icon flashes at the edge of the screen. Silver taps the glass table top, and it opens. Mei’s avatar smiles from the corner of the message box.

Mei: You heading home yet or what?

Silver smiles, without parting her lips. Her fingers draw a circle on the table top, and a keyboard illuminates. Silver types.

Silver: Changing over memory cards, just waiting for the download to finish.

Mei replies with a thumbs up.

A second blue icon flashes. Silver frowns, tapping it open.

Rosalie: Has sent you a parcel.

Rosalie: Wish you were here…

Silver aligns her internal interface.

>Open parcel

>Data received

>Image file received.

>View now? Y/N

The image unfolds, spreading across her screen. Silver feels the lower edge of her eye quiver. The city sprawls behind Rosalie, hugging the base of the mountain. She is standing with her back to the camera, but her head is turned, the sunlight catching red hair and haloing her face. The tear falls hot and quick, and Silver’s hand darts out to catch it.

The phone vibrates on the table. The sound interrupts snores from under the blanket. Silver’s arm reaches for it. Long fingers catch an edge, spinning the phone away. She caterpillars to the edge of the bed, picking up the phone. It’s buzzing stops.

‘Hello?’ she says. Her aug-eye boots.

>Interface activating

>Date: 2567.05.07

>Time: 08:37

>Ready for input

She feels the buzzing through the base of her skull.

‘No, I’m in bed still, it’s my day off remember?’ Her sandpaper voice bounces off the walls. She sits up, swinging heavy legs over the edge of the bed. The blanket slides away, half onto the floor. She doesn’t pick it up.

‘What do you need me to come in for?’ Her fingers trace figure eights around her eyes, sweeping the sleepiness away. She presses her feet into the carpet. The blinds begin to rise as her augmented interface systems boot up. The sunlight creeps up the wall slowly. Silver mutters into the phone. She goes to the alcove that serves as a kitchenette. The coffee machine sputters.

‘Sorry, say that again… Couldn’t hear you…’ The coffee mug trembles in her hand.

>Biometric warning: Breathing – Erratic. Pulse – Increasing. Blood Pressure – Falling.

‘Do you know—’ she pauses, waiting for the voice on the other end to finish. ‘Yes, of course, I’ll come in straight away.’

>Biometric systems: Increase fluid intake. Regulate breathing. Sit down.

Silver’s hand still trembles as the coffee drips into the mug. She focuses on the rhythm of her breath: inhale, exhale, repeat. The coffee burns her tongue, and the feeling of lightness behind her eyes begins to fade slowly.

Standing outside the precinct, Silver watches the passing traffic. Her aug-eye boxes and tracks the cacophony of movement. Her other eye is bloodshot. Silver slides up the optic cover and wipes the moisture away with an unsteady hand. The cover hides her tears from the other agents inside. She is glad of that. She slides the cover down. The ache in her stomach won’t let up. Her hands tremble, so she pushes them into her pockets. A dark car rolls to a stop.

The last time she had seen Rosalie, outside the hospice, they had fought Rosalie ripped a branch off a Japanese Maple and lunged wildly at Sliver. Stabbing for her face, neck, eyes. She had screamed to turn it off the whole time. The nurses pulled Rosalie away with sad nods. They saw this all the time. They left Silver standing in the garden until a dark car had driven her away. The branch of the Japanese Maple remained cast aside on the manicured lawn.

Silver is drawn back to the present as the car door swings open. Silver realizes it is now dark blue, not the black one she remembered.

‘Sil, is it true?’ Donna’s impeccably coiffed hair, chemically set into a wave, has a distinctly greyer tint than the last time Silver had seen it. Donna’s arms wrap around Silver’s shoulders. At the touch, Silver suddenly feels cold, but her biometrics remain stable.

‘They wouldn’t let me see her…’ She says. Silver’s eye fills with tears, seeping under the edge of the cover. Donna squeezes her shoulders and they walk inside.

The room is clean, but the walls were the sort of beige that reminds Silver of stained sheets. Donna sits next to her; a tissue box placed in front of her. Silver plucks one out and holds it under her eye.

‘She hasn’t called home for weeks,’ says Donna, speaking to some other unseen entity.

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Silver asks.

‘Around June,’ says Donna. Silver waits for her to continue. ‘She came home for a while; continued her treatment remotely. She struggled. We struggled. She asked us not to visit anymore when she went back in.’ Her voice wavers.

‘She sent me a photo,’ says Silver, ‘yesterday. She was standing on a lookout.’

‘That must have been from when she came home. We tried to take her out, get her to see beauty again.’

Silver examines the table top in minute detail.

>Composition: Wood veneer. Polychip filler. Recycled metal frame.

>Structural integrity: 98%

>Projected product lifespan: 150 years

The swirls in the veneer are suddenly shadowed.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Silver looks up at her boss. He is looking back at her, his aug-eye shifting in spirals. He sits in front of Donna, and starts to deliver the speech Silver had heard so many times before, but never from this side of the table. She doesn’t realise she is shaking until Donna touches her hand as they stand to leave. Her boss says, ‘I’ve approved your leave Sil, take some time to process this.’ She mouths words. A waved hand silences her protest.

She mouths words. A waved hand silences her protest.

Outside the precinct, Donna and Silver stand together, waiting for Donna’s car to return.

‘We knew she would die. We expected a call from the hospice. Not this, never like this…’ Says Donna. Silver’s aug-eye boxes and traces the paths of the traffic. It keeps her mind busy, distracted. Donna keeps talking about Rosalie. The disease had eaten away at her body. Leaving her hollow. Her organs were removed bit by bit, replaced by wheezing machines, augmented substitutes, or not at all. Donna sighed, and Silver could feel the aching relief seeping out of her.

‘I’m still going to miss her,’ says Silver.

‘Of course,’ says Donna, ‘call anytime.’ Silver knew she wouldn’t.

The quilted foam of the Sync bed is velvety under Silver’s exposed shoulders. The visor slides down over her face. Her aug-eye syncs up, the optic cover projects scrolling text.

>Archive File Retrieval Commencing

>3…

>2…

>1…

There is a shimmer as the visor becomes opaque. Silver lets the screen blur in and out of focus. A wave of nausea passes over, as the images whirl, mixing her own internal interface with the memory bank construct. Vertigo passes as the image stabilises, adjusting to her focus range and muscle triggers.

Her eye watches the visor’s projections of the building’s mainframe through the patch. Her aug-eye follows the paths that light up across the screen. The data-streams of the different departments, all flashing in a disharmonious pattern. She focuses on the archives. Maybe I shouldn’t do this. But her mind is already queuing up the commands through her interface.

>Case File Search: Rosalie Flanagan

>Result: 1 File Found

>Unpacking File…

The report streams out, and Silver feels the bile rise in her throat. The images sear themselves in her brain. The crumpled dress around the withered body. A bare-branched sapling tossed amongst the wind. Chipped dollar-store nail polish, pale fingers, lying curled on the dark road. Silver shivers, and feels the velvet ribs of the bed press against her skin. Her biometrics trigger again.

The visual recording of the investigating agent fasts forwards at a flickering pace. It flashes through the day. Silver lets it run while she reads the coroner’s report.

Cause of death: Asphyxiation

Time of death: 01:35 am

Notes: Victim was pedestrian. Brain chemistry suggests unstable mental state.

The video stream shivers and she is watching the road through a windshield. It skips past the sprawl, through the suburbs, into a driveway, a house. Silver watches the flickering lights of home, children, wife. It keeps all of it, every recording, every minute… The thought runs through her head, repeating. Since the install, since logging the cards…

Her mind is wandering, under watchful sensors, and she finds her own files scrolling across the visor. I shouldn’t. But she lets her mind reach. The data file opens, softly, like petals to the sun. Her rookie days. She was leaving work early. The video skips through and then there she is. Rosalie. Sun-kissed and carrying the rabbit bag she loved. Silver had called it childish, but the nurses had encouraged Rosalie to keep it. We were going to the movies, she thinks, recalling the feeling of Rosalie’s hand pulling her along. They had been happy that day.

Silver felt the edges of the memory caving in, could feel the archive recording, absorbing her feedback. A message rolls across the screen,

>Time to jack out.

She folds the soft edges back in, packing the happy face of Rosalie like an origami crane. Silver tags the memory, filing it away in the archive. She begins to withdraw, mentally pulling away. The archive fades out across the visor. She surfaces, taking a deep breath, the recirculated air tastes metallic at the back of her throat.

‘That was a serious dive, Sil,’ says Mei.

Silver slides the visor away from her face. She ignores Mei standing over the bed and goes to the coffee machine. ‘Keep going like that and you’ll begin to corrupt your memory files, you know?’ Mei’s voice echoes around the archive room. Silver focuses on the dark stream of coffee dribbling into the cup.

‘Mei, has anyone ever deleted their own files?’

‘Sure, sometimes. But you can only delete the parts that aren’t relevant to cases, so they have to be screened before deletion, get all the approvals, you know.’ Mei leans against the edge of the sync bed, arms crossed, while Silver nods her head.

‘Do the file deletions affect the brain — you know, the sync?’

‘Yeah, so we’ve heard, it’s not supposed to.’

‘But…’

‘But people delete files, then in about a month – gone. Completely un-retrievable.’

‘Completely?’

‘Yeah, we tested a group of agents. Zero memory bleeds after deletion. And no memories for them to corrupt.’

Silver picks up the coffee and sips. The steam warms her face, and she can feel the place where her cheek is damp. She wipes away the tear, smearing the sheen across her cheek.

Mei sighs, ‘If you changed both eyes, you wouldn’t have this problem.’

The city sprawls around the base of the mountain. Silver stands, leaning against the railing of the lookout. The sun has dipped below the horizon, and the light haze of the city is growing. A network of nodes, flashing lights, towers, and hubs. Silver’s eye adjusts to the light differential in increments. She feels the cool metal of the railing through her shirt. Here in the quiet stillness, she can feel the miniscule vibrations of her aug-eye. She traces a finger along the ridges of metal framework, all plugged in under the skin. She stares into the valley below. The wind that slides down the mountainside rustles the treetops. The optic processor in her aug-eye works overtime.

I can delete it all. I can forget. If I delete, delete… Rosalie.

>Opening data file…

The ellipses flash in sequence. Opening, unpacking, synthesising. Silver waits, her legs swinging back and forth.

>Files ready for review

A message pops up; Silver had to remain linked to the agency network to access the memory files.

Mei: You can just skim through them you know, then authorise the deletion.

Silver: Thanks, I’ll think about it.

Mei: No one would think badly of you, heaps of people do it, you know…

Silver: I’ll let you know.

Mei: No problem, talk later.

>Open files Y/N?

Silver slides down her optic cover, fixing it over her organic eye. The data begins to unpack, lining up in sequence. She picks one in the middle.

She is staring at Rosalie. The memory’s sense-net begins to overlay and dampen her physical senses. The cold air from the open window raises goosebumps on her skin. Rosalie’s eyes are bloodshot, and there is a dribble of clear mucus under her nose.

‘I hate it!’ she says, ‘why did they do that to you?’ she is running her hands up into her hair. The rise of her jumper exposing the pale belt of skin under the navel. ‘I can’t be here! Not with… that!’

Silver’s own voice cuts through, ‘I had to get the augmentation to move into the force, it wasn’t exactly negotiable!’

Hacking sobs follow. Silver remembers the anger, the heat in her chest. The sense-net enflames her cheeks.

‘I don’t want that!’ Her voice choked around the hacking sobs rising from her chest. She paced, gnawing at her fingertips. ‘What is that? I don’t know if it’s even you anymore!’

‘Of course, it’s me,’ says Silver, the feeling of her stomach falling away bled into her voice.

‘But who else is in there, Sil?’

Rosalie walked across the room. Her hands grabbed Silver’s face. Rosalie put her face close, eyes darting back and forth. Frantic. Searching. Silver slipped a hand up and slid up the optic cover.

‘It’s still me, Rose,’ she said, softly.

‘No, that’s not what I meant…’ More sniffs.

Silver feels the tear. Is that mine or the sense-net? She stops the playback. The overlay of senses lessens, but the tear still rolls down.

She remembers how that argument ended.

They had lain together, for hours, curled close. Silver shut down the aug-eye interface and Rosalie traced figure eights around her eyes. Rosalie had learnt not to press too hard. Skin split from the protrusions bled for days.

Silver felt the tingle in her cheeks as the memory faded out of her vision. It would take all of it. She thinks. It would take all of her part of me away. Her lips are dry, and she licks them, feeling the numbness in her gums, the tightness in her throat. She wonders if Mei is still monitoring her.

Download a PDF of ‘>Delete File: Y/N?’

When I was a Child, Hiroki Kosuge

When I was a Child

Leichardt’s Trilobite, Jamie Derkenne

The road north east of Singleton in the Hunter Valley passes through gently rolling country, alongside huge open cut mines and cattle pasture until it reaches the Glennies Creek Dam and skirts around the east side of Lake St Clair, a body of water two kilometres across and about eight kilometres long dotted with grassy islands, built specifically to supply water to the coal mines.

Past the dam the road starts steeply climbing towards the Mount Royal National Park through hilly grasslands. Soon after, the landscape loses its cultivated aspect and takes on a wilder appearance. The road narrows, becoming rutted dirt. A huge boulder tumbled from a ridge above lies in the middle of the road in such a way that the car can barely inch pass. Massive stinging trees 40 metres high with large light green heart-shaped leaves sweep their branches low over the road dappling the shafts of sunlight. I once stood barefoot on a stinging tree leaf that had been rotting in a pool of water long enough for it to appear black. The touch caused excruciating pain lasting days. Interspersed among the stinging trees are native tamarind with leaves two thirds of a metre long, and mossy stands of Antarctic beech, a tree that grew in South America and Australia before they cleaved off the Antarctic continent. Creepers, thicker than a human arm stretch from trunks to the canopy, and thick carpets of lichens and mosses cover fallen branches. Apart from the National Parks trails, the forest is all but impenetrable. The air becomes cooler, less dusty and more humid. Lyre birds, mimicking chainsaws, reversing graders and people chatting call from the forest depths. The walking trails are so deeply littered with leaves that I nearly step on a coiled yellow and black tiger snake, all but invisible in the litter, slumbering in the middle of the path in a patch of sunlight. It watches me warily as I walk around.

The next day I park at a small picnic area that has a lush green lawn manicured by grazing potoroo, wallaby-like creatures no more than 50 centimetres tall. The lawn leads to a path that scrambles steeply up through strewn boulders and rocks to Piri’s Peak. The vegetation quickly changes from rainforest to open woodland, with large eucalypts, some so ancient they have been hollowed with age, so that it is possible to stand inside the tree. The path narrows, and follows a ridge line and then a narrow rocky ledge until it reaches the peak, from which Mount Royal and the never ending ranges and valleys stretching to the horizon can be seen. On the way down mists roll in, making it difficult to discern the path.

Along a road, stopping for thermos coffee and to admire the view back across the descending hills to the lake I pick up a gritty piece of limestone. A cold rain spits. I finish my coffee and head back to the car and just before I chuck the stone, I stop still, staring at what is in my hand. It takes me a while to realise that what I am holding is a rock that has the clear impression on one of its faces of a trilobite. Leichhardt’s trilobite. Ludwig Leichhardt, the explorer who disappeared without trace in the immense deserts of Northern Australia.

Trilobites are creatures that lived between 520 and 250 million years ago. The earth was very different then. The dinosaurs had yet to evolve. Huge insects, some with wingspans measured in metres, hovered among the horsetail and fern trees that would eventually fall, decay and pressed by the weight of eons become the coal that is mined throughout the Hunter Valley today. Trilobites were early creatures but they were not simple. Some evolved eyes so complex that they had depth of field and a lack of distortion that humbles the human sense of sight.^{^[1]} Others had sensory pits capable of detecting tiny vibrations and faint molecular traces. The number and variety of these organisms indicate that they were not only abundant, but survived for more than 270 million years. A cataclysmic event 250 million years ago, possibly a huge asteroid impact, wiped out 96 per cent of all marine life, including the trilobites and 70 per cent of land animals.

The forest I stand in is not pristine: it was once logged and has supported humans for eons. Some of the blackened trunks tell of past bushfires, and despite the present dampness one can easily imagine the litter of dead tree fern fronds making excellent incendiary fuel. The forest is old, older than knowing, older than the memories of the Wanaruah, whose home this was for eons until 1826 when they were nearly wiped out by invading pastoralists.^{^[2]} What I see, looking around me is very much what Ludwig Leichhardt saw when he stood here in 1843. He wrote: ‘Here I believe I saw a trilobite. Although I could not find this small fossil again, so I would like to make later observers aware of this location.’^{^[3]}

The trilobite I hold in my hand is only two centimetres long. It has a three lobed body (hence the name), no visible suggestion of legs, and large compound eyes only faintly visible. It is not a fossil that is in the same league as the huge trilobites patiently extracted from the Moroccan slates. It is an indistinct fossil, but there is no doubt that Leichhardt would have spent some time examining just such a specimen. Such fossils were at the time on the cutting edge of science. Their mere existence tested the faith of men such as Leichhardt. How do you reconcile religious belief with a fossil that clearly shows a creature that lived, prospered and evolved into all sorts of shapes and sizes so long ago that it is outside of human imagination to envisage the passing eons?

Born into a Lutheran family, Leichhardt remembered with affection the church of his childhood. He maintained his religious beliefs, but grew independent of church teaching. He told his friend Eduard Hallmann, an atheist who asked him about life after death, ‘I only know the following to be sure: as organisms, we will decompose, and new life will come into being from the individual elements’. It was not a theistic view in the modern sense but Leichhardt wanted to believe there was some divine spark in humanity. Hallmann retorted ‘Fair, unfair, good, evil, it is all null and void. Nothing is intrinsically good, nor evil … everything is as good as everything else’.^{^[4]}

Such troubling views were not limited to Leipzig friends. Riding through similar country to Mount Royal in northern NSW, Leichhardt had gone to Neale’s station, where he met a prophet of sorts, a tall white-haired man with a flowing beard who told him he preferred the company of his Newfoundland bitch and Galway pony over humans. They chatted for hours. The hermit explained he had less time for religion than he had for people. The Bible was abominable: ‘God is an irrational assumption, the soul is nothing but the puff with which the servant girl stirs up the fire’.^{^[5]} This strange land he was traversing was questioning the very limits of Leichhardt’s being.

Leichhardt has been in the area for two months. He had ridden up from Newcastle to Glendon Station in December, marvelling at the searing effect an intense drought was having on the landscape. ‘The vegetation begins to wear a sickly appearance for want of rain,’ the Maitland Mercury reported.^{^[6]} It was through a hot, harsh and barren landscape that Leichhardt made his journey to the lush rainforest at Mount Royal. As he travelled north he would occasionally glimpse through the trees the high mountains of the Barrington Range to the north. Had it been July or August he might have seen snow covering the higher peaks. Apart from the dam, the roads and tracks he took were the ones that still exist, and indeed the ones that had existed for millennia. The early explorers did not attempt to barge through the sometimes dense upland forest and lowland rainforests of the region, but followed the paths of the traditional owners, the Wanaruah people. From St Clair station he was guided by an old sawyer who had been tree felling in the area for nine years along the Mount Royal path. It was 26 January, 1843. As he rode up, Leichhardt busied himself with his geological observation, including his notes on the trilobite. The track to Mount Royal would have been quite obvious skirting east of Carrow Brook at the base of high tree covered ridges to the east and south. Leichhardt wrote of how the valley grasslands gave way to rainforests along the creek as the valley narrowed. Higher up, he saw stands of tree fern among the dense scrub formed by various trees. Here, Leichhardt wrote carefully with his only writing implement, a pencil, the thing to be avoided was the ‘nettle tree’ with its broad heart-shaped leaves.^{^[7]} Today this landscape is cleared pasture with much of the lower-lying land under the water of Lake St Clair. Leichhardt appears to have been captivated by the rainforest along upper Carrow Brook and its tributary gullies and by the new plant species and their growth habits he was observing.

‘The creepers became very numerous, the native vine stretched from trunk to trunk and made the scrub almost impenetrable. Mosses hung down in long garlands from the branches, lichens covered rocks and living and dead plants.’^{^[8]} He noted other fossils along the creek: spirifers, brachiopods, bivalves, ancient corals and sponges. At the foot of Piri’s Peak he roasted a potoroo and then followed a path which left the rainforested valley and its meandering creek, up a sledge track used by bullock teams to haul timber. The three kilometre path he found ‘extremely steep’. He wrote: ‘We gained one terrace after the other, always sandstone covered by forest.’ He stopped at the base of a steep grassy ridge to camp.^{^[9]}

As he was preparing camp his horse broke its bridle and ran off down the track it had come. He walked some 45 kilometres down the valley and back up again looking for it. His companion decided to ride back to Glendon, Leichhardt decided to stay put. He made himself a home in the butt of a huge hollowed tree, lining the floor with tree fern fronds. During the following days he climbed Piri to watch the sun set. In his tree hollow house, using a saddle as pillow, he watched a wallaby graze in the thick grass. He watched the Orion constellation and the brightest star cluster in the night sky, Sirius, wheel overhead while the forest chattered with the echoing voices of flying squirrels. The next day he found his horse and rode back to his camp, rebuilt his fire and hung some pressing papers out to dry by draping them over a nearby branch. An ember caught the papers, burning them and a shirt he had hung out to dry. Later that night the same fire ignited the tree fern fronds he was using as his bedding, burning his blanket and more clothes. A day later he lost the one and only pencil he had been using to keep his diary. When it started to rain, he decided he’d had enough, and returned to Glendon, where he stayed until 4 March. The night he left a large comet illuminated the sky with its long bifurcated tail.

I stay at Callicoma Hill, in a small, comfortably appointed hut heated by a Rayburn. There is enough solar electricity to run a radio and a reading lamp. The owner, Martin Fallding, a keen conservationist, has left his own written account of Leichhardt’s journey through the Mount Royal area, including the fact he believed he found a trilobite. Even though it is October the night is cold. I walk outside to investigate the snarling of mountain possums and startle a mob of kangaroo grazing just outside the door. There is no moon, but the silhouettes of the nearby trees can be clearly seen. As the kangaroos thump off I look up and see an immensity of stars and the faint glowing pin-pricked clouds of the milky way, stretching as a red, green and purple band across the entire sky. In cities and towns such sights are impossible. A cluster of meteors silently curves over the earth, glowing white for a few seconds before being extinguished.

I live in a world where we are cocooned from the immensity of existence by comforts and knowledges of modern life, but holding that trilobite in my hands for a brief few seconds I understand how a young German natural philosopher would have felt, gazing out on the vast and unknown landscape from his tree hollow, watching the immensity of the stars above, having cradled the immensity of the ages, a fossil imprint tens of thousands of times older than all of human existence, in awe of the inability of even human religions to explain the never ending wonder.

^{^[1]} Zigmond, Richard E. “Trilobite eyes: calcified lenses in vivo.” Gen. Comp. Endocrinol 18 (1972): 450.

^{^[2]} Connor, Linda H. Climate Change and Anthropos: Planet, People and Places, Routledge, 5 Feb. 2016: 53

^{^[3]}Fallding, Martin, and Doug Benson. “Adventures, hardship and a scientific legacy: Ludwig Leichhardt’s 1843 journey to Mt Royal in the Hunter Valley, NSW.” Cunninghamia 2013:322

^{^[4]} Finger, Hans Wilhelm. Ludwig Leichhardt: Lost in the outback. Rosenberg 2013:13.

^{^[5]} Rothwell, Nicholas. “Explorer Ludwig Leichhardt’s adventures into the great unknown” The Australian October 19, 2013. http://www.theaustralian.com.au/arts/review/explorer-ludiwg-leichhardts-adventures-into-the-great-unknown/story-fn9n8gph-1226741751520.

^{^[6]} Fallding 308

^{^[7]} Fallding 310.

^{^[8]} Fallding 310.

^{^[9]} Finger 65.

Hypersuite, Stuart Madafiglio

Hypersuite

Act 4 – My Heart is a Floozy, Melissa Farrell

Act 4 – My Heart is a Floozy

Act 3 – My Jealousy is a Clown, Melissa Farrell

Act 3 – My Jealousy is a Clown

Act 2 – Mirror Maze, Melissa Farrell

Act 2 – Mirror Maze

Act 1 – The Telephone, Melissa Farrell

Act 1 – The Telephone

Asklepios, Claire Catacouzinos

The gods would hear them. They must. One of the gods must hear their screams, their wallowing, their cries, their prayers for help, for cures, for remedies. A god who could soothe them, who could tell them everything would be all right. A god who loved them. That was all they needed. A god who cherished them.

City of Sikyon, Northern Peloponnese, 420 B.C.E

Along the sparkling grey rocks of the Asopos River, the dark-haired Sikyonian woman, Nikagora, scrubbed and scrubbed a purple cloth clean, her fingers raw from the frosty water. There was another woman, swollen and ready to give birth any day now, soon to hear the cries and wails of a baby; her baby. Nikagora stopped scrubbing the olive oil stained cloth and watched the pregnant girl who was holding her stomach with a handful of her garment, her body swaying as she stamped on a long red cloth, drowning the fabric deep into the river. Each stamp reminded Nikagora of what she wished for, how far away her hopes were leaving her.

She yearned for her body to be clean, cleansed by the river god Asopos, to scrape her apart, to rub her with oil, to anoint her with a child, any child like his twenty nymph daughters, the Naiads. May her child be a demi-god, a half creature, a nymph, anything, just as long as she could be a mother.

Nikagora exhaled a long deep breath. It had been too long, she thought, almost five years since she was fourteen and married. Five years and she had still not swelled with a baby. Her sister had five already, one was lost in childbirth, and Nikagora had been there, watching her sister lose someone so dear, so small, so much hope in those tiny-skinny fingers…so much.

‘Is something wrong, dear?’ the old woman, Aristodama asked nearby.

Looking up, it was the woman’s blue eyes, as deep as the river beds that poured into her soul, wanting to help her, to listen to her. The same old woman who helped her and young married girls learn the ways of washing garments, the best angles the river hit the rocks and the sun along the river bed. Nikagora felt lucky, worthy that this knowledgeable woman wanted to talk to her. Had she heard the gossiping girls talk about the curse that was on her marriage?

‘It is my husband,’ she said, wringing the purple cloth, ‘ever since he fell at the stone quarry his hips have never been the same. We try,’ she said, looking at the woman, ‘but he is in pain, and my womb has still not taken his seed after all these years, nothing has changed.’ She discarded the scrunched up cloth and grabbed another. ‘Nothing has changed, nothing will ever change.’

Aristodama touched her shoulder. ‘There is still hope, child, Asklepios will help you.’

The God of Healing, Nikagora thought, he had done nothing for her, just like Apollo and Artemis and Hera and Zeus – nothing.

‘He will come to you just like he helped me and I had my son. Take this,’ Aristodama said, her wrinkled hands that were clotted with blue veins removed a golden amulet around her neck, ‘you take this and hold on, Asklepios will come when you are ready.’

Nikagora rubbed the amulet in her palm, her thumb tracing the snake that circled the staff. ‘How will the god appear to me?’ she asked, ‘how will I know? Do I need to make an offering tonight?’

‘No, child, he will come to you, he is different to the other gods.’

She could not believe what the old woman was saying. ‘How can he help me when I have not paid him homage, I have not given him a gift, said a prayer to invoke him?’

‘Just hold the amulet,’ Aristodama said, ‘he will find you.’

That night, after the Sikyonian women stamped on and washed and cleansed the stains on the hundreds of clothes, then spread them along the rocky shore to dry in the sunshine, they hauled them onto a mule cart, and went back up the river to the city. Nikagora grabbed her bundle, was paid by the official six obols, just one drachma. This was all she could use in the following days to feed herself and her husband.

When she arrived home, her husband, Echetimos, was sitting in the courtyard, carving a piece of wood, tiny scraps of shavings fluttered to the holes of their unfinished mosaic floor. She ambled along the cracked pebbles and wrapped her skinny arms around his neck, taking in the smell of burnt wood mixed with thyme and oregano; the Lemnos red wine that her husband so dearly loved to purchase at the market.

‘What are you making?’ she asked, as she kissed the side of his cheek, his beard prickling her face. A beard he combed every morning with olive oil, a beard that should be shaved, torn from his chin like every other man who was mourning. Nikagora every day mourned for their loss, their loss of having no children. And yet, she loved him, loved him for his boldness, his hope.

He lifted the figurine up to her now. ‘A little horse,’ he said, steering her hand over its smooth muzzle. ‘I need to make the wheels soon, and then the toy will be ready.’

‘And who will play with it?’ she asked, jerking away from him. ‘What good is a toy without a child?’

Echetimos turned around. ‘A gift, to your sister’s little one.’

She tugged her cloak closer and stared at him. Was it him or her that was being punished by the gods? At the beginning, before his injury at the stone quarry, it had been nights upon nights of love, warmth, bed sheets, oil lamps burning, their hopes tangled with their limbs and their hair. Then a year went by, ‘Do not worry,’ her sister had told her, ‘eat and eat apples and honey-cakes and grapes and you will surely be ripe to bear children’. She listened to her sister, but still, change did not happen. Another year, a new garden in their courtyard with the ripe fruits of fertility that she needed, and still, nothing. And now, five years had passed; the gods had left her barren. And her husband, since the accident he could not work on foot, the wooden stool was his ally, his hips, the master of his body, the controllers of pain and happiness; the thorn stabbing at them every day.

‘Why do you choose to mock us? Why must you sit at home and make these silly toys?’ she said.

She feared that if she did not give him an heir, he would leave her. How many times she had seen a physician and tried a new test to open her womb, staying in a room fumigated with crushed laurel leaves and myrrh and garlic, and then another test by applying an ointment mixed with goat fat and cyclamen and fig tree juice, and those green cardamom seeds. And then there was that time when she had wrapped herself in a cloak and held incense below her opening, waiting for the smell to travel through her womb to her mouth, waiting for the smell to escape her lips, showing that she was not infertile; but she was. Oh Hera, and the last test she had done was the most horrid, before Echetimos had fractured his hips. She was told to insert a woollen pessary into her womb that had been dipped in goose fat, marrow of ox, rose oil and thapsia root, and then, she had to drink leek juice and white wine as well – for four days! She had never stunk so vile in her whole life with that remedy. She felt like a foul-smelling hag, her womb venomous and dark like the Furies, always wandering around with madness. Echetimos had refused to sleep next to her for those nights. ‘It smells,’ he had told her, ‘and stop seeing that physician; he will surely kill us with all of those potions.’ She had never felt so lonely.

‘They are not silly,’ he said, staring at the horse, ‘they make young ones smile.’

They make me hate myself, she thought, I hate myself for not giving you what I was born to do. ‘You deserve better,’ Nikagora said, ‘you will be fatherless if you stay with me.’

‘Nikki,’ he said, standing up from his stool with his ebony walking stick, wincing from the pain in his hips, ‘how can I be a father like this?’

‘Your pain will go away; it has only been three months since you fell.’

‘I was supposed to be cured before the harvest season and look at me,’ he said, and she did: both of his callused hands leaned on his walking stick, his long hair was bedraggled and his tunic sagged on him without his girdle, pulling his hunched over body further to the ground. ‘I am a cripple.’

She could not be angry with him, how could she be when they were both in pain? It was pain that was separating them from each other, the Algea spirits were torturing them, cursing them.

Nikagora went over to her husband and kissed him. ‘You are not a cripple, my love, we will find a way, together.’

She escorted him into the reclining room and then vanished inside the storage room, scooping out from the huge amphorae barley flour and sesame seeds for supper. After they ate the barley porridge and dipped barley bread into wine, they climbed into their wooden bed and mattress stuffed with leaves and hay; silence between them. Nikagora turned over and her husband wrapped his arm around her waist like he did every night.

‘I love you,’ he said.

His embrace used to be all she needed, but now, as she grabbed his hand and rested it on her womb and said, ‘I love you too,’ all she could think about was a prayer she wanted to say to the gods. I want a child, she wanted to pray, I want a child that I can call my own. I want my husband to be cured. I want to share our bed again, the way a husband and wife are meant to.

While she slept, Asklepios arrived in her dreams. She was in awe of him. He was as mighty as Zeus, holding his golden staff, his curly white beard as long as the monstrous snakes that hissed and slithered and coiled behind him. The oil lamps flickered as he came closer to the sitting Nikagora; she was naked, her flesh bare for him to see, stripped down to nothing; she felt like nothing. She scrunched her body into a ball, trying to hide her breasts from him, but Asklepios reached out his hand and touched her forehead, soothing her. She saw long-cloaked companions standing behind him now, his daughters, the all-healing Panakeia, the good health attendant Hygeia, the remedy-maker Iaso, and the healing and curing Akeso; they all held small stone boxes, crested in gold and red, but it was their faces that eased her fright and pain, their faces, full of hope, just like their father. The sacred snakes circled all of them now, hissing. ‘My child,’ Asklepios said, crouching down low to look Nikagora in the eye, she reached out and held his hand, bringing it to her cheek, her tears falling on his hand. ‘At present, you need me. I will be your guide.’ Yes, she thought, yes, you will help me. ‘Travel to Epidauros with your husband and I will appear to you again in the temple.’ I will, she thought, I will go. ‘I will be your cure,’ was the last thing he said to her.

Nikagora wondered what would happen to her in Asklepios’ temple. Would he need to lie down with her, consume her with his body, the snakes hissing, his daughters watching? Or would one touch, or one ointment from him be all she needed? And how would he cure her husband’s hips?

In the morning, when she jolted awake, she stuffed leather sacks with clothes and wrapped honey-cakes and barley-bread in linen cloths, and loaded them into food sacks, and then she filled small amphorae with sweet red wine and loaded those next to the front door. She snatched their secret stash of drachmas and obols that were stuffed deep inside an amphora that had a chipped rim. She counted the coins. They had fifty drachmas saved. Money that would have been used to extend their house with rooms for their children. Children that were still unborn. If it wasn’t for Aristodama and her amulet, Asklepios wouldn’t have appeared to her. How she wanted to thank the old woman for helping her. Perhaps when she returned from Epidauros, she would speak to her again. She gripped the money bag, knowing what she had to do, and fled from her house in search for a mule cart. It would take a couple of days to get to Epidauros from Sikyon and the cart was needed for Echetimos. As soon as she went to her neighbour’s property nearby, the farmer Onesiphoros was picking olives from a leafy tree, ready for the harvest season, she hurried to him, begging to borrow his mule and wagon.

‘It will only be for a couple of days,’ she told him, shaking the money bag in front of him. ‘How much do you want?’

‘Where is your husband?’ he asked her, still holding the weaved basket under his arm.

‘Packing our bags,’ she lied, ‘he sent me here to rent our transport. How much do you want?’

Under those bushy eyebrows as gnarled and thick as the olive tree’s trunk, his brown eyes squinted, probably curious to understand what she was trying to do.

‘You must help us, Onesiphoros, I need to appease the gods.’

‘When will you return?’

‘Allow me seven days and I will not be a burden, your belongings will be returned.’ She shook the bag again. ‘Please?’

He licked his top teeth and made a sucking sound. ‘Ten drachmas and you have a deal.’

It was expensive, yes, but she did not care. All the money in the world was worth saving her from being barren and healing her husband’s hips.

After the exchange was made, Nikagora returned home and loaded the sacks and amphorae onto the wagon. She dashed inside the master bedroom and sprung her husband to his feet, telling him of the news, of her dream, of Asklepios finding her. ‘Can you believe it?’ she screamed in excitement, hurrying him to dress. ‘We must leave now, I have rented a mule and wagon from Onesiphoros, Asklepios will help us, he is our last hope.’ They needed to get going, they needed to get to Epidauros now.

She prodded him to hurry and dress, but he still stayed seated on their bed, wearing his loincloth and linen bandages wrapped around his hips. ‘Nikki,’ he said, ‘listen to yourself.’

She paused for a moment and looked at him.

‘You spent our money on a wagon and mule? What for, so that we travel for two days and have our hopes stretched even more, and then nothing will come of it? What have you done?’

‘We must do something; I cannot sit around here waiting for a miracle. He has come for me, Echetimos, for us, to mend our sorrow. Why will you not see what I see?’

‘The gods have forsaken us, so why would this one help us, what does he want?’

‘Come with me and we shall learn together. He will help us.’ Echetimos had to listen to her, he had to believe, oh how she wanted him to believe in her dream, to believe in Asklepios. ‘He will be the answer to our prayers.’

‘And what if you have been mistaken, what if nothing happens?’

‘Then it is by the will of the gods that we should not be a pateras and a mitera.’ A father and a mother. ‘Perhaps, we were only ever meant to be just husband and wife.’

No, Nikagora thought, I do not think so.

Three days had passed. Three days of riding along rocky outcrops and wheel ruts and dirt roads. Nikagora kept asking for directions to Epidauros while Echetimos sat beside her, carving another wooden toy. The bumps on the road escalated the pain in his hips, but he kept carving the toy, fixating his mind on what this could all mean. ‘This time,’ he had said, ‘this will be for our own child.’ Ever since that morning she had awakened from her dream, since he had agreed to come with her, she loved him even more. It did not matter if she had a girl and not a boy, as long as she had a child with him.

They had now arrived into the bustling city of the ambeloessa, full of vineyards, the city of Epidauros. Men and women in wagons passed them, whipping their mules as they rode along the cobblestone road into the city. Merchants, on either sides of the road, were amongst colonnades selling scaly mackerel, red mullets, tunnies, anchovies, freshly picked apples and figs and dates. Further into the city were stalls selling purple, white, and red linen, while others sold tall and round jars. As they got closer, Nikagora noticed a couple of stores selling bronze and terracotta figurines shaped as body parts, like legs and hearts and eyes and ears and breasts. But there was one that looked like a woman’s womb that Nikagoara had seen in her physician’s house when she visited. This terracotta piece looked like an upside down open vessel that was ribbed.

‘What are those?’ she asked a local man.

‘Votive offerings for Asklepios,’ he said, passing by.

If Asklepios healed her, and she knew he would, she would come back to Epidauros and purchase that terracotta piece and take it to his temple herself.

Further ahead there were three old Epidaurian men holding signs that said, IEPOY ASKLHPIOS. Sanctuary of Asklepios. They were almost there.

Nikagora turned to her husband. ‘They will show us the way.’

They paid the three peppered beard men, and in a group of ten people, they followed the men up the hill, along the wheel-rutted road. After a couple of minutes of walking, they passed a long line of women crawling up the road on bloodied knees and hands, their foreheads sweaty, their clothes ripped, their hair disarrayed, their faces stained with dried tears and dirt. Oh Hera, Nikagora thought, smacking her hand to her mouth as she watched the women. Echetimos reached for her hand and clasped it tight while they road past, listening to the wailing women.

‘Be my Saviour!’

‘Please, oh please, help me!’

‘He is dying, he is dying…’

‘Once, just heal me once!’

‘Take me, take me!’

Later, much later, when they had passed the women, the outcrying had stopped. It took them three hours to reach the sanctuary on the winding hill. Three hours and all Nikagora could think about were those wailing women on their bloodied hands and knees, distressed, needing, aching for Asklepios to help them. She wondered, if Echetimos had not been here with her, would she be one of those women, a living carcass scraping her body on the ground, crawling and pleading for help, sacrificing her blood to a god?

Once they entered the sacred grove of Asklepios and tied their mule to a nearby tree, Nikagora held Echetimos’ hand, and together, while he limped, and she walked beside him holding two barley cakes, they lined up behind the bustling crowd to offer their cakes at the altar in front of the temple. Men were scratching their scalps, women tending to their clothes, others held baskets filled with honey-cakes and figs, and in the air, all Nikagora could smell was burning incense. We will see him today, she thought, we will be cured.

A man in a long white tunic approached the altar and raised his arms in the air. ‘My name is Methodios, before you can enter Asklepios’ house tonight, for those of you who wish to stay, you must bathe in the nearby baths. In the presence of our Healer, you must be clean.’

Nikagora thought it was a good idea. She stunk of sweat from the past three days, and from those annoying flies that were buzzing around the mule’s buttocks. She did not want to imagine if any of those flies were tangled in her hair.

‘I will meet you in the evening,’ she said to Echetimos.

‘Nikki,’ he said, grabbing her hand before she could go, ‘what if this does not work?’

‘It will,’ she said, squeezing his hand, ‘have faith, my love.’

She repeated these words over and over in her head while she bathed in a bath house amongst other naked women. Their chatter was loud, deafening the words she tried to repeat in her mind. Why couldn’t they let her concentrate? she thought.

‘My friend has been here three times. She had a cataract in her eye, she was having bad headaches, and I think the other time she came for her husband’s yellow toe. Asklepios healed them all!’

Nikagora stared at the women: one woman had a lopsided breast, another had purple patches on her skin, one kept jabbing her fingers into her mouth, wiggling her teeth. But there was one woman who was like her, with no stretch marks on her breasts, hips, or stomach; a childless woman. He will help us, she thought, he has too.

She melted into the steam, patting her face with a wet cloth. Tonight was it, she thought. Tonight was the night Asklepios needed to cure her and her husband like he promised. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop herself from crying. Tonight was the night he needed to help them. Please, she thought, biting down on her fist, do not abandon us.

That night, Nikagora and Echetimos lay beside one another in the temple of Asklepios on straw pallets, their noses touching. They held each other’s hands in front of their chests, listening to the hundreds of whispers drifting in the temple, their noses filling with burning incense. They had only eaten vegetable broth for supper and their stomachs rumbled as their eyes gazed at the glorious amount of fruit and cakes at the offering table in front of Asklepios’ ivory and gold statue.

Nikagora listened to the slapping of a temple slave’s sandals above her head. When she looked up, she saw that it was Methodios, and like the rest of the temple slaves, he started blowing out the oil lamps.

‘Sleep now,’ he said to the bountiful bodies in the room, ‘sleep now and if you hear any noise, remain silent; Asklepios will be in his house attending to you.’

She tried listening to her breathing, pacing herself of what was to come. Echetimos squeezed her hand and she held on, trying to fall asleep.

In her dreams, Nikagora was standing in the sanctuary of Asklepios, in front of the altar where they had placed the barley cakes at midday. When she looked up, she saw Echetimos as tall as a tree, strolling down the temple steps with Asklepios, the god’s hand on her husband’s shoulder, his chest puffed out. ‘Go to her now,’ she heard him say. Her husband came to her and cupped her face and smiled. ‘It is your time now.’ He kissed her, his lips warm and nourishing, and as he did, he undressed her, sliding her tunic straps from her shoulders. Her body naked before him, wanting to be the mother of his children. He helped her lie on top of the altar, and as she lay there, her hands on her stomach, all she could think was that this was it, finally, after all these years, she would become a mother. Echetimos placed her tunic inside a stone chest beside the altar and then, when Asklepios approached them, her husband held her hand. Do not let go, she thought, never ever let me go. Asklepios wearing his holy laurel garland touched her forehead and said, ‘You have come, and now my child, I will give you the gift you have desired.’ He made a clucking sound, and Nikagora did not wince when five snakes slithered down his arms and coiled to her stomach. They lay there, hissing, their long tongues lapping her with tickles. The last thing she could remember was Asklepios’ daughters, the all-healing Panakeia, and the good health attendant Hygeia, carrying the stone chest that treasured her tunic, and then her eyes blinked, until she was staring into the eyes of her husband.

Five years. That was all it took for Nikagora to have her fifth child. Another girl. When she had returned home from her travels, Aristodama at the Asopos River took one look at her and said, ‘You are with child.’ She then told Nikagora that Asklepios all those years ago had given her a healthy son, Aratos, and she knew the God of Healing would help her too. ‘Keep the amulet,’ she had said, ‘give it to another woman who is most deserving.’

Asklepios had also cured the lame to walk about. Echetimos was always seen now in his carpentry workshop with his five-year-old son, Agasikles, his first born. But Nikagora and him could not stop there, they now had four daughters, five healthy children that would witness today the festival in honour of Asklepios at the new erected temple in honour of the Miracle-Worker and Dream-God. It was decreed with good fortune by Nikagora and the Council that in fair and pious fashion the sacrifices and offerings of the year to the other gods would be held at the Sanctuary of Asklepion in Sikyon for all the sick and diseased.

Nikagora stood outside of the temple and stared at the two reliefs on the roof, one was a small figure of a woman riding a serpent, and beside them was a wife and husband surrounded by their five children. When she walked inside the temple holding her youngest daughter, and her second born holding her hand, she stared at the gold and ivory statue of the god, beardless, holding his rustic staff in one hand, and a cone of the cultivated pine in the other, crafted by Kalamis. Nikagora would always be thankful that this metalworker and the city had seen what her and her husband and Aristodama had seen, and believed in – Asklepios the Saviour.

He is the one who guides and rules the universe, the saviour of the whole and the guardian of the immortals…

– Aristides, Oratio XLII, 4.