Songbird

By J. Victoria Michael

A twentieth century woman is lost in a fantasy world with nothing but the clothes on her back and her innate humanity. This is the story of her compelling need to redefine herself.

When Irenya O’Neil suffers a panic attack and falls into the realm of Dar Orien, a world with a failed MageGate system, she finds herself unable to return home to her infant son – she is trapped in a nightmare that tests her sanity.

Confronted with evidence that she possesses a Gift of power, Irenya attempts to control her fledgling talent through music. This could be her ticket home. But Irenya becomes mired in the civil unrest that has befallen Dar Orien. Sickened by the bloodshed and fearful for her own safety, Irenya is desperate to find her way home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Odyssey Books
• Release date: Jun 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781922311085

Book preview

Prologue

The brass section of the orchestra crackled, and the resonance of a pipe organ reverberated through the packed concert hall. Violins quivered. The voices of three hundred students rose in unison and the music gathered pace toward its finale. For thirteen-year-old Irenya O’Neil, who had sung the anthem often enough in rehearsal, the sustained passion of the performance caught up her voice and fused it to the music, swept her to a place entirely new. She closed her eyes and soared higher and higher, though the girl knew she was still standing, real and solid, in the hall. The sound faded, though she felt no incongruity in that change, no fear of heights or of forests far below. Her wings were huge golden pinions, feathers tipped black and gleaming in the starlight. She heard her voice singing from the stars, no longer the promising girlish descant but a strong pure voice chanting a song of power. Each note streamed off her wings…

Irenya sensed something amiss as the final triumphant note thundered through the hall. She opened her eyes on a bewildering scene. In a circle around her, students were crying out, flinging up their arms for protection.

Next morning they were reprimanded for almost ruining the final moments of the concert. The girls said they suddenly felt as if they were flying among the stars on a huge bird. Some claimed they heard the creature calling to them. The principal eyed each student, weighing adolescent hysteria against calculated prank. Her gaze rested on Irenya, the only student who stared at the floor and said nothing.

The principal concluded that whatever the cause, their lack of discipline had been unacceptable. She punished them with a brief suspension from the choir, except for Irenya, whom she branded with a speculative stare.

Rumours began to circulate and some students avoided her. She left the choir, said singing was boring, but told her grandmother the one truth she understood.

‘I don’t want to sing anymore. My throat goes so tight it hurts.’

Part I

Dislocation

Irenya O’Neil crossed the threshold of her son’s room and leaned over his cot. Mikey lay with his head turned toward the night-light, one hand still holding Finn Frog, the other close to his mouth, a comforting thumb at the ready. Next door the yowl of cats shattered the night air. A security light flooded the room, leaching the brightly painted walls of their colour. The silk dream-catcher and its festoon of feathers hung unmoving in the humid air, yet its shadow high above the cot appeared to change shape. Mikey stirred. Irenya whispered to him while she untangled a fragment of leaf caught in one of his tight curls. Outside, the yowls rose to shrieks. Mikey opened his eyes for a few moments, staring at her as though her face mirrored the brief savagery outside. This child, she told herself, this child will have a family. He will not be abandoned.

It was late and she needed to go. The sensor light went out, plunging the room into darkness. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the night-light, then she straightened. Her head reeled and the floor shifted. I’m fine, she reassured herself. Stood up too quickly, that’s all.

In the hallway, she lifted her jacket and worn leather bag off the row of hooks. No car keys. From the main bedroom she heard David’s wheezy snore. If the keys were lost she couldn’t go. Staying home would be the sensible thing to do, but the fridge was empty. We’re out of paracetamol. And guess who’ll have the flu next. She shuffled junk mail, patted jeans pockets, and lifted bone-dry laundry that had been dumped on the table. The keys fell to the floor.

David’s voice rasped from the bedroom. ‘Irenya?’

She picked up the keys. ‘I’m on my way. Mikey’s asleep.’

‘Thought you’d gone. They close at midnight.’ His voice trailed off to a whisper and ended in a fit of coughing.

She stood at the door of the darkened bedroom. ‘Sounds awful, honey. I’ll get something to ease your throat.’

‘Are you going to be okay on your own?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine. Good as gold. Back soon.’

The front door needed an adjustment and she had to pull it hard until the lock clicked. Rain began to fall, big drops plummeting through the oppressive air. As she opened the driver’s door, everything tilted around her. She clung to the door, breathing hard, until the dizziness passed.

Five minutes later, she turned onto the deserted highway, two black lanes glistening in the circles of tangerine light. Mist curled off the warm asphalt and a gust of wind buffeted the car. She flicked through the radio stations. Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ blasted from the speakers. She turned up the volume and accelerated, racing the exultant Valkyries swooping over clouds on their way to Valhalla. Violins and brass swept her along on the bravura ride.

After twelve months of what her doctor diagnosed as ‘panic attacks’, Irenya knew the symptoms and dreaded the arrival of each one. They began with dizziness and a sense of other, as though she had stepped over a crack into a shadow world where no one could see her. Next, her feet and legs would lose feeling; she couldn’t tell if she was sinking into the ground or levitating. Cold and sweating, she would clutch something solid, certain her heart was about to rupture. Then came the deafness that cut her off, isolated her inside a fear so profound it left her struggling for breath.

Tonight, something had changed. The deafness clapped down without warning as she pulled into the empty car park. She slammed her foot on what she thought was the brake but hit the accelerator. The car shot forward, bounced over a low garden bed and came to rest in a parking bay. She gripped the wheel. Her vision blurred. Air scraped her throat in silent choking gasps.

Sound returned, though muffled. Agitated violins and the final drum roll from the radio echoed her heartbeat. She switched off the ignition, found a pulse in her neck and counted. The panic subsided. A jetliner roared overhead on its approach to Melbourne airport, distance and heavy cloud corrugating the noise. Christmas was only fourteen days away, nothing was prepared, and she so wanted this one to be special, the last for the millennium. Mikey would be old enough to love the gifts and a glistening tree. Nothing was going to spoil it, not the dilapidated old house that had once belonged to her parents, its walls steeped in grief and her grandmother’s madness, and certainly not her own silly fears.

She placed both feet on the asphalt and wriggled her toes. Soon the wind would change direction, bringing a promised cool change to the humid and overheated city. She so looked forward to that. Wagner’s music still rang in her ears, the five-note motif repeating itself over and over, faster, insistent, squealing like a malfunctioning tape. She leaped out of the car, stamped her feet, and counted in the nursery rhyme voice Mikey loved.

‘One, two, never guess who… three, four, fall through the floor…’ The panic retreated. She strode around the car. The headlights were still on and the door open. God! They told me anti-depressants would make it worse for a while, but this…

The exit sign beckoned; home was ten minutes away. Instead, she grabbed her jacket and bag, locked the car, and headed for the supermarket. Above the entrance, an e in the illuminated sign flickered. If it failed, the sign would read Harvey’s Nit Mart. She managed a brief smile. The lights and the hum of air-conditioning reassured her.

A concrete ramp zigzagged to the brightly lit doorway a few metres above the car park. She rounded the bend in the ramp and stopped, pinned by a presence behind her. A familiar voice in her head yelled, Turn and look! You’ve felt this before. She tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t pass her throat. She inched her head around. The voice mocked her. Idiot! You see, it’s just a wall. She stared up at the expanse of painted bricks and shivered.

Inside the cool supermarket she slipped into her jacket then discovered the shopping list was not in her bag. A popular song, flattened into Muzak, jangled in her ears. She chose a few jars of baby food then headed for the next aisle, trying to recall the list. The trolley wheels crabbed then bumped the edge of a peanut butter display. Everything swayed around her. The fluorescent glare shimmied as if the whole place was shaking loose. She tightened her jaw and kept going, edging the trolley into the toiletries section where she found pain-killers and lozenges for David. In the next bay, detergent bottles were sliding along a shelf, a double image ghosting behind them. She clung to the trolley, witless in front of household cleaners, deserted by the voice that had jollied and nagged and cursed her weakness. She had to get home.

The checkout assistant joked about Melbourne weather. His laugh barked at her, five notes in G sharp, repeating in her head as she joggled the trolley toward the exit.

The automatic doors snicked shut behind her. Night air pressed clammy fingers on her face. David’s red Corolla waited in the car park and the lights of Melbourne glittered in the distance.

She started down the ramp toward the brick wall. One, two… never guess who… Her feet were numb. Three, four… drop through the floor… The brick wall shifted in and out of shadows. Five, six… babe in a fix… The air pressed against her face and chest. One, two… never guess who… She tried to drag the trolley back to the door but the wheels refused to respond. Her hands were glued to the handle and the maddening thing set its own runaway course down the ramp, straight for the brick wall. Even as she braced herself for impact, the surface vanished and in its place loomed a dense blackness, a huge void. A sudden wind flung open her jacket. She glimpsed Mikey’s face, his eyes wide and frightened, his rosebud lips mouthing a silent Maar… mee! She felt no panic or fear, only an overwhelming regret. The black edge swept over her and the void wrapped her in oblivion.

Consciousness returned so abruptly Irenya gasped. She heard the rattle of the trolley escalate into a wild bounce, peaked by a crash, a tinkling of broken glass, and the patter of a small jar rolling over a hard surface. An eerie hush followed. Irenya pushed up off the floor and got to her feet, amazed to find herself unhurt. She had fallen on the landing of a wide marble staircase, rising to another level at either side. Below her, the stairs swept down to a foyer and a pair of massive doors. The building appeared to be deserted and unusually quiet, no hum of air-conditioning or rumble of traffic. She peered down at the trolley now lying near the flared foot of the staircase and sighed at the mess. Her handbag and groceries were scattered over the floor. She turned, expecting to see how she had entered the building.

What she saw was a huge black rectangle. Like a painting. The only thing visible in the lifeless black was Harvey’s concrete ramp and the fluorescently lit doorway. The edge of the ramp protruded right into the stair landing, as though it was some kind of 3D art installation. She reached out and touched it with the tip of her finger. Solid, cool concrete. What happened to the wall? Is it some kind of door? Whatever it was, she had run down the ramp and straight through that opening. She stepped closer and stretched out her hand, expecting to feel the warm humid air of Melbourne. Instead, she touched the cold hard surface of invisible glass.

Mystified, she hesitated, uncertain what to do first, clamber out or retrieve her things from below. My bag. My mobile. I need the car keys. Best thing is for me to get out of here, talk to the checkout fellow, and go home.

As she started toward the staircase to get her bag, she heard a distant shout and the sound of someone running. Good. I don’t know what this place is but at least help is on its way. She was two steps down when a man ran into the foyer. He checked mid-stride at the sight of the trolley and groceries. He saw her just as she opened her mouth to apologise. Next, a blur of movement ended with a blade in his hand. His weight shifted forward and one booted foot lifted. Irenya didn’t hesitate. She ran back toward the opening. Behind her, she heard him curse the broken glass underfoot.

The edge of the ramp stuck out at thigh height, rough with stone aggregate and rusting steel reinforcement. She might rip her jeans but she could do it. Once in the store, she would yell a warning to the checkout assistant: ‘Lock the doors. Call the police.’ She threw herself at the ramp but the moment she made contact, Harvey’s doorway and the ramp vanished. The invisible glass materialised and her outstretched hand slapped against its cold surface. Her reflection rippled into view. She looked stunned, confused, her features a little warped in the glass. The man appeared suddenly, as if he had leaped up the stairs two at a time. He wore close-fitting trousers and a long jacket belted at the waist, the skirt of which flared open at his knees. His fair hair finished in a straight swing at chin level.

She held her breath and turned. He was little more than a youth. His eyes were almost leaping from their sockets and his mouth hung open. She saw his jaw clamp tight and he swallowed hard. He planted his booted feet wide and raised his sword, but made no attempt to come closer.

The man couldn’t possibly consider her a threat, and once he understood, he might help her. She smiled and fluttered her fingers in greeting.

‘Hi. I—’

‘Hold!’ His command and the lift of his weapon brought her up sharp.

Another man leaped down the stairs on her left. They closed in, tense as hunting dogs. Irenya forced herself to ignore the churning in her stomach, determined to be reasonable and explain what had happened.

‘Look,’ she said, making eye contact with the first man. ‘Some kind of weird accident has happened. I need to get back to my car but—’

‘Throw down your weapons.’

‘Weapons? I was shopping.’ She pointed to her scattered things, certain their presence explained everything.

A third man ran down the stair on her right. ‘Yashi, who is this woman?’

The youth half-sheathed his sword. ‘I know nothing of her yet, Captain.’ He eyed her length, her jacket, the fit of jeans, and the runners.

Irenya cringed under the scrutiny. ‘I was next door shopping. I fell here.’ She pointed to the mirror behind her, then faced the captain. ‘I’d like to get home. Would you please—’

‘Your name?’

Why did he want her name? Maybe she wasn’t the first; maybe the wall had done this before.

‘Irenya O’Neil,’ she said.

‘Oh-neel? There is no such princedom.’ He cut short her attempt to speak. ‘You have entered the citadel of Ilkyrie with no authority,’ he said. ‘Your freedom will be granted only at the discretion of his grace, the archprince. I ask again—’

‘The what? Oh, I see! This must be the Liberty Cinema. I knew it was in this area.’ Not being a fan of cult movies, she had never ventured inside the place. Her best friend Natalie had come here once, just for a laugh, and told her about the weird clothes and weirder patrons. The regulars were proud of a certain reputation, everyone knew that, but Nat hadn’t mentioned a citadel, and certainly not swords.

‘I just want to get to Harvey’s car park,’ she told the man. ‘I am so sorry for the intrusion and the mess, but I do need to get home. I have a baby at home and my partner is sick. Please, would you show me to an exit?’

The men were staring at her, distrust palpable in their stillness. She swallowed around the thickness in her throat and pointed at the mirror. ‘You should fix it. Such a large door shouldn’t open just like that. There’s something wrong with it.’ She turned to the mirror and attempted to prise the ornate frame from the wall. It was fixed rock solid. She pulled harder. Her face flushed with the effort and the cold scrutiny at her back. The frame wouldn’t budge; it looked as if it had been there for years. She touched the glass surface. The change was instant. Their reflections were snuffed out like a candle, replaced with a grey cloud as lightless as unpolished pewter. She stumbled backward in surprise.

Hands gripped her wrists. She stuttered, but no recognisable words emerged. She heard her voice muttering polite, clumsy protests, while inside her head another voice screamed… Do something. Kick, for heaven’s sake. But the message wouldn’t move from her brain to her legs. She was stuck in idiotic good manners, unable to convert her sense of outrage into action. As the captain knotted a cord around her wrists and tightened it, her limbs came to life. She aimed a kick at the youth’s knee. He didn’t bother to move and her shoe scraped across his shin.

A new voice cut the air. ‘Captain, what is happening here?’

The knot of people around Irenya unravelled. She craned her neck to see the newcomer at the top of the stairs. If she had hoped to see a business suit to match the voice, she was disappointed; the man wore voluminous robes that brushed the floor. The state of his shoulder-length hair suggested a hasty arousal from sleep, but his air of authority was unmistakable.

‘Lord Gedric,’ said the captain. Irenya felt herself propelled forward. ‘This woman is an intruder. The manner of her arrival is suspicious.’ His voice dropped a tone. ‘Look what she has done to the mirror.’

‘There’s something wrong with it,’ she called out to the man at the top of the stairs. ‘Call the police. It was just an accident. Please, I have to get home to my baby. And if this is some sort of joke, I’ve had enough.’

‘Who sent you?’ he asked. His face was shadowed, but she could feel his eyes boring holes in her.

A flicker made her glance at the mirror. Something in the tarnish moved. The grey surface shimmered like a gauze veil, billowing in the centre of the mirror before snaking off into the strange depths. The mirror lightened, as if someone had thrown a switch dissolving the gloom of the landing. The captain barked a command. The men spread out, their swords raised, but the gleaming surface did nothing except throw back their wary reflections. Her skin crawled. No experience in her thirty-one years could make sense of it. She looked at the man standing at the top of the stairs. In the renewed light, his features were more visible. One corner of his mouth turned down, setting his face into a sneer.

‘What is this place?’ she whispered.

‘Captain!’ Gedric commanded. ‘Keep her confined until daybreak. She will answer to his grace.’ He inclined his head at the floor below. ‘Do not touch those items. I wish to examine them.’

The grip of hands jolted Irenya out of paralysing fear. ‘No!’ She struggled, but they were already dragging her away. ‘Stop it. Call the police!’ But her protests stuck in the thickness of her throat. The men half-carried her along narrowing passages and down stairways, the rope biting into her skin and grinding her wrist bones against each other. In a dank stone passage they untied her wrists and pushed her over a threshold. The door clanged shut.

In shocking blackness she stood very still and tried to remember the room before the door closed. The air pressed close, filling her nostrils with the reek of damp stone and stale urine. When the rasp of her breathing subsided she whispered, ‘Is anyone there? Hello… is there… is anyone here?’ Somewhere, Mikey was crying. The sound punched the air out of her lungs. She sank to her knees. Another sound welled out of the darkness, the five-note Valkyrie motif. She searched the door with shaking hands but could not find a latch. David! Please. Please. Help me. With her fingertips she felt along a wall of stone, using her foot as a sightless person might, inching sideways, testing each movement, terrified of what she might step on. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She recoiled at the feel of soft cobwebs and then the sudden solidity of rock; she had turned a corner. Without warning her knee connected with something solid, something jutting out from the wall. Her voice emerged as a child’s squeak. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ She put her hand down and flinched from something soft. She listened, then tried again, felt along it. Thin cushioning and maybe a blanket. They smelled musty. At the next corner, she let out a cry when one foot touched something hard. She froze at the smell. Urine. Shit. Vomit. Not fresh. At last she felt a change of surface. She was back at the door, quietly sobbing, retching and shaking with fear.

She sank to the cold floor and huddled against the door. Time stretched and squeezed, and the silence hurt her ears. She could not remember when misery gave way to oblivion.

A sudden blow across her lower back startled her awake. A second blow struck the same place. Light flared, hurting her eyes, and a voice cut through the clogged confusion of waking.

‘Move away from the door.’

Irenya winced at the blinding slash of white. She felt hung-over. ‘David? Is that you?’

‘Move back!’ Not David. The shaft of light thinned to a sliver. As it widened once more, the edge of the door caught her across the thigh.

‘Away,’ said the voice. ‘Over there. Sit down.’ Light streamed in, revealing not the vast hostile space of the night, but a small room, bare except for an old wooden bucket in one corner. The walls were made of stone and festooned with fine cobwebs.

Afraid they would leave her in darkness again, she pulled herself upright in stiff obedience and limped to the wall. On a wide ledge lay the mattress and blanket. She settled herself on its lumpy comfort, shivering and aching all over. She needed to hold Mikey. Tears spilled over and ran down her face. She prayed David had called the police. They’d be asking questions, showing the checkout operator a photo, and fingerprinting the Corolla. David would be beside himself, what with the flu and Mikey to look after. He’ll call Natalie. She’ll help.

The youth from the previous night edged into the room, keys jangling. He groped along the wall, found a hook, and hung the lantern he was carrying. Behind him shuffled a young girl little more than a child, a bowl cradled in her arms. She stopped just inside the doorway and gaped at Irenya.

‘Meia’s mercy,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you was having a joke on me, Yashi. Instead she looks—’

‘Never mind what I said. Look to your duty,’ he cut in. ‘Set that down before you have us wading about in puddles.’

The girl remained motionless as if she hadn’t heard. Beneath a knee-length smock she wore a shift that brushed the tops of her laced boots. The upper corner of a large pocket had come loose, and the sleeves of her shift were gathered below the elbows revealing white, bony arms.

‘Sirani!’ Yashi rattled the keys at her, then dropped them into the pouch on his belt.

The girl roused herself and turned to him. ‘I think you all be wrong about her.’

He jerked his head in Irenya’s direction. The girl adjusted her grip on the bowl and resumed her shuffle, eyes fixed on the contents. ‘Well,’ added Sirani. ‘I think you all be jumping about like fat on Barrith’s griddle.’

‘And what would a country girl like you know?’ he said, sighing.

Preoccupied with settling the bowl on the stone ledge, the girl didn’t notice him follow the comment with a smile. Irenya had no idea what the exchange meant, but if the girl was referring to her, of course they were in the wrong. She couldn’t think beyond the physical discomfort of her aching head and blocked nose.

‘Water,’ she croaked.

‘This be for washing,’ said the girl, pointing thin fingers at the water. ‘But you can have a sip first if you want.’

As she lifted the bowl, Irenya noticed the girl’s hands were scarred. Irenya tried to steady the bowl, but her own hands were cold. She managed to gulp one mouthful before water slopped into her lap. The girl sighed an apology and Yashi grunted. Irenya dabbed at wet denim using a corner of the blanket. It looked as if she had wet herself. She clamped her teeth hard to keep her chin from quivering and concentrated on rubbing the denim. If their intention was to humiliate her, they had succeeded.

Another grunt from the man prodded Sirani to action. She produced a cloth, plunged it into the bowl now clutched in the crook of one arm, gave the cloth a brief squeeze, then proceeded to wipe Irenya’s face as if she were a child. The man looked on. Water dripped down Irenya’s cheeks, into her mouth and off her chin, wetting the crotch of her jeans even more.

She grabbed at the wet rag. ‘I’ll do it myself!’

Sirani stumbled backward and dropped the bowl. It struck the floor, sending shards of pottery across the cell. Yashi pulled the girl away and raised a fist. Irenya reeled between fear and fury, certain he would hit her.

Footsteps echoed down the passage and someone shouted. ‘Yashi? What is wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he called back, glaring at Irenya. ‘Dropped the water, is all.’

‘Hurry,’ yelled the voice. ‘We must go.’

Yashi gave an easy reply, but maintained his glare.

Irenya pressed her hands into her lap and her mouth twisted out of control. ‘Please. I’m really sorry. I just want to go home.’

The girl peered from behind his shoulder. ‘Sorry, Miss. Only meant to be helping.’ She stuffed the wet cloth back in her pocket. ‘No need to tidy your hair. So short!’

Irenya slipped to the floor and began retrieving broken pottery from the puddles.

‘Leave it,’ said Yashi.

She stood obediently, feverish and utterly miserable. In the passage three more men surrounded her. She started up the first flight of stairs flanked by her escort.

They walked along corridors now and again glimpsing patches of sky. The fresher air cleared her head. In every alcove and foyer there were paintings or plaques or large urns. Many of the floors were creamy marble, seamed with red and brown striations and inlaid with brass patterns of animals and birds. Tapestries, their colours threaded with what looked like gems, draped the walls. The place was beautiful. It intimidated her, made her furious. Someone had money. Someone who thought they could unlawfully deprive her of her freedom, keep her from her home, from David and her baby. When I’m out of here, I’ll bring the police straight round. And Harvey’s will know just what kind of neighbours they’re sharing that wall with.

They stepped into an arched colonnade. A cool breeze brushed her face and chilled the wet denim. She was standing at the edge of a large courtyard enclosed by two circular buildings and a series of walls. Rising above the slate rooftops were mountains, marching peak after peak and glowing in the early morning sun. Disbelief shredded every thought in her head. She could not possibly be next door to Harvey’s. Not any longer. A cold fear clamped her stomach.

‘Oh my god! Where the hell am I? What…’ The guards gripped her arms and urged her on. She squirmed free and faced Yashi. ‘Where are we? This isn’t Melbourne. Where am I?’

He laid a hand on her shoulder and pushed her forward.

She dropped to her knees and let out a long howl. ‘No, no, no-o-o. My baby, my baby. No-o-o-o.’

The guards grabbed her and tried to get her up. She lashed out with fists and feet, her cries rising to screams. They picked her up and in a small plain room they sat her on a chair. She slid to the floor, curled up, and wept.

She heard a man’s voice close to her ear. ‘Lady, listen to me. If you wish for answers then you must calm down. You are about to face the archprince, who will decide what must be done. You need to stop crying. You need to be polite. No harm will come to anyone here if they are truthful.’

Irenya looked up at the speaker. She remembered the face from the night before. The young man had called him Captain. ‘How…’ She hiccupped. ‘How… How far am I from Melbourne? I feel sick.’

Her thirst satisfied with a glass of fruity cordial and her face rinsed in cold water, she was