Juno Lucina

By Mandy Hager

Her mother is a psychic artist, driven near to breaking point by a husband bent on conformity and control. The ugly childhood scenes have burrowed into Tess's mind and festered there. Buried, too, are Tess's own fledgling artistic and psychic abilities – unwanted 'proof' of the same inherent evil that has destroyed her family and stalked her dreams into adulthood. Tess flees into the safety of a teenage marriage, not realizing that the price of safety is her sense of self. When her husband, Alan, is tragically killed, the anger and dissatisfaction boil over and threaten to consume her. Sent upon a reluctant journey into the world of full moon rituals, witchcraft and unexpected violence, Tess is finally forced to confront the 'wolf' of her nightmares. She must learn anew to trust – her mother, her psychic instincts, and also Jeff, an unheralded admirer from her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590881163

Book preview

One

She was never quite sure when she first cast herself as a witch. It was sometime after the shock had worn off and the embarrassed smiles and knowing looks came sharply into focus.

She’d joked of it, at first, with a brittle laugh. But each day, as the mirror mocked the sunken, stagnant puddles beneath her brooding eyes, and the wayward halo of blood-red hair, she grew more convinced.

And perhaps that was portentous. For a witch could behave as she liked. Could shun the world. Be rude to do-gooders. Fester away in the black thoughts forever.

But the perversity, and the inherent dangers of it, scared her.

FEET DUSTY IN THE DRY, rocky soil. She plucked at snails, hundreds of them. Picked them off. Heard the clink of shells as she relegated them to the bucket, to form a sticky, frothing burial mound.

One transparent spiral cracked between her fingers. Sorry mate, life’s a bitch.

She emptied the bucket over a steep bank, sentencing the helpless bodies to plunge through bleak mid-day light. Look away. Study, instead, the lolling sea. Hum a Gregorian chant to mask the dull thwack as the snails hit the ground. How easy to join the ranks of murderer.

She retraced her steps up the path towards the house, enraged by the lush, vulgar bursts of color around her. All the back-breaking hours of toil, and these overpriced shrubs had the audacity to choose this year to ripen into self-sufficient glory. This year, when by rights the entire disloyal hillside should have suffocated beneath a weedy pall of neglect.

How much more apt it would feel to slash a way up through a thicket of thorns to enter the castle above. Not that the house really resembled a castle—too small. Too subtle.

She arched backwards to reverse tired muscles, rubbing her hands along the railway track of bones. And not the body of a fairy tale princess, this, being neither pert nor adolescent fresh. Besides, a fairy tale princess wouldn’t understand that kissing never really wakes the dead.

She wiped her feet on the doormat, the cool of the deep veranda soothing her. This small wooden house was her bolt hole, her refuge. Like the dark, safe corner of the chicken run she’d hidden in as a child—where musty droppings seasoned rotten food scraps. Crouched low, her back solid against the wall so that nothing could creep behind and pounce.

Hands splayed beneath the running kitchen tap, she worked the caked dirt from beneath her fingernails. Rinsed a glass, the water filling and overflowing until cold enough to quell the pulsing fire in her throat. Water spilled down her chin as the phone rang. Pause now. Ring, you bastard. Wait with tense breath for the answer machine to click on.

Tess? Her mother’s voice, gathering shape in the room. I thought I’d catch you during a gardening break...

Tess’s face burned with naughty-girl censure. Mum knew. She always bloody knew.

...anyway, Happy Birthday, love. I’ve couriered you a parcel—a jersey. If you don’t like it, come up and we’ll swap it...

Good try, Mum. Tess drained the glass in the sink, and wiped her hands on the old gray shorts. Alan’s shorts, paint splattered in a lasting color chart. Blue, the kitchen. Deep burgundy, the lounge. White, the—

...some wine as well, in case you’re having anyone around... Her mother’s voice petered out.

Tess risked a glance towards the lounge, to the phone, crouched hunch-backed on the desk. Mustn’t move towards it. Must stay a safe distance from the intricate maze of wires that might reveal to Mum where Tess shirked, recusant, beside the bench. Besides, there too, on the desk, The Other. The All-Seeing. Coward, his eyes accused. Liar.

She turned to the window-framed sea, where, every day, the weather took the view and altered it, like the twist of a kaleidoscope.

...call me sometime, okay? ...Well...Bye then. Stale, urgently held air stampeded from Tess’s lungs, as the message clattered to an end. The dial tone jeered as she crept forwards, to stare down at the receiver lying innocently in its cradle.

The green message counter winked 4, her hand a hovering hummingbird above the playback button. The urge to press erase so strong, to wipe away the demands unheard. But the conditioning of years was stronger. The same conditioning that paid the bills the day before disconnection, and wrote polite thank-you notes to patronizing strangers.

CLICK Tess—Trevor here. It’s Tuesday, 11:15. Why the hell didn’t you phone me on Friday? This story’s crap. I won’t print it. For Christssake, ring. No, on second thoughts, cancel that. Come in and see me. No excuses this time—just do it. Shit.

CLICK Mrs. Chromain? Adrienne Fisher here from the bank. Regarding your accounts... Fast forward. Pass it over. ...Imprudent behavior...wasted opportunity... Blah, blah, blah.

CLICK Hello darling—it’s me! Ah, Hannah! I wish you’d change that dreadful message—you sound like a bloody undertaker! Anyway, happy birthday. I’ll try you later. Ta ta!

CLICK Tess? ... Stop! No need for an encore from Mum.

But as for Trevor... She reached for the phone just as Vincent, the cat, skidded into the room—a rat limp and heavy in his mouth.

Out, she screamed. Get out! She clapped her hands. Stamped her feet in a furious bid to herd him back outside.

Dark, congealing blood glooped onto the wooden floorboards. Vincent skirted the fridge and bolted for his favorite spot beneath the table. He growled a gravelly warning to keep away, as she reached for the broom to prod him out. She pleaded—begged—him to leave. Until, with a final threatening snarl, he slunk back outside, into the bushes.

Stay away—you total, utter—bastard. Tess stood guard, sobbing at the obduracy of the cursed creature. And at the fear—which rose each time he did this to her. Pathetic. That the sight of something killed could turn her to a sniveling wreck. He was a cat, after all. Wanting to share his prize. His gift.

She laughed, the sound hollow in the empty room. A birthday gift. A dripping reminder from a cat.

But as she tipped disinfectant over the hardening trail of blood, a sigh engulfed her. Wipe it away. God—if only it was this easy to wipe it all away.

Two

Draft 3: REST HOME REVERIES:

Happily Ever After,

or a case of the Bah Humbugs?

Walk down this corridor and what do you find? Row after row of neatly made beds. Nice, until you stop and study those beds—see the skeletal outlines of the human husks who inhabit them. Tucked tight, pinned in place. No sign of movement. No possible escape.

And we call that life? Come on now, who amongst you would really, truly wish it for a loved one? Now dig deeper and ‘fess up to the biggie—Who of you would wish it for yourself?

I challenge anyone to enter these depressing urine-steeped halls, and explain to those confused, lonely souls how this is better than being dead.

Do the dead struggle every day with inconsolable pain? Loneliness? Despair? Those of us who are left behind know the bitter taste of those answers. Let’s face it, the dead are lucky...

The fracas sucked her into the room. Endless buzzing of voices, tapping of keyboards, explosions of laughter. Thank God she didn’t come here every day.

Trevor was there, slumped over his phone—a gleam of sweat on his bald patch where the thin, raked line of hairs cupped to one side in a neat guide. Cut Along The Dotted Line.

He glanced up, as she negotiated the maze of desks, and frowned through matted eyebrows. Sit down and don’t bloody move, he snarled, hand across the mouthpiece. Yeh—sorry Reg. Yeh, go with the school one. But for Christssake leave that stupid cow from Upper Hutt alone. She tries this every year...Yeh, mad as a meat axe, mate! Don’t touch her... Righty ho... Spot ya! He slammed down the receiver and spun to face her, eyes tired and bagged. Well, well. You’ve finally managed to drag yourself in to see old Uncle Trev, eh?

I’m sorry, Trev—I did try to ring last night. Her face grew hot.

Trevor rummaged through his desk. What’s this, Tess? He thrust the pages in her face. What the fuck is this? I send you out to write a nice little piece on a rest home development, and you send me this ghoulish, didactic piece of shit—

Janice and Anthony smiled in sympathy, used to Trevor’s histrionics. Compelled to put on a performance, he worshipped the concept of yelling as an effective motivational aid.

What’s the matter, Trev? Did it strike a chord? A bit below the belt, with his wife and all. But he usually appreciated a good spar.

He grunted, hand tapping the Rothmans in his breast pocket. Come on, I need a smoke. He motioned her to follow. I really do need to talk to you away from here.

The brown haze in the staff cafeteria stung Tess’s eyes. Trevor lit his cigarette and inhaled, swallowing a mouthful of coffee before exhaling. He toyed with his lighter. Look love, he said. "We can’t print that stuff. You’re a feature writer, damn it all—forget bloody Watergate or Wag the Dog, or—or—whatever! Our readers don’t want to be depressed by what they read—they want to be entertained. He slurped another mouthful of coffee. I shouldn’t need to tell you this."

I couldn’t do it, Trev, she confessed. You should know what it’s like. All those people, those wasted lives. Sitting there, waiting to die. And no one giving a toss, really. Just wiping bottoms and clawing in the money. It’s obscene, Trevor. Ob-scene.

He sighed, the breath driving fallen ash across the pink Formica tabletop. You’re not there to judge it, love. Make fun of it—yeh—that’s okay. Christ, Cynical’s your middle name. But this bleeding heart stuff—it’s not what the punters pay for. It’s just too depressing.

She bit her lip.

I can only give you one more chance. Words barely audible, he focused on the cigarette in his hand.

What?

One more chance, Tess. I’ve carried you too long. People have...noticed. His eyes lifted, to lock with hers. I’m sorry love. You’ve got to get your shit together. You’ve had long enough.

Long enough? How could he sit there, him, in judgment of her? Go to hell, Trevor. Her body lifted with her voice. You, of all people. You bloody hypocrite. Christ, how long is it since Edna died? Five years? She steadied her hands on the side of the table. Five years, Trev—and look at you. You’re smoking and drinking yourself to death ‘coz you can’t live without her. She snatched the cigarette from his mouth and mashed it into the ashtray. Okay, so you don’t like the story. But don’t feed me this other stuff, Trev. It’s bullshit.

Whoa! Calm down, for Chrissake. What’s the matter? Got your period? He reached across the table and patted her arm. It’s not me, Tessie, it’s bloody Mitchell. Snapping at my heels, checking every damn thing I do. Just waiting for me to fuck up. A drop of sweat coursed down his temple. He’s been asking questions. Like why you only produce one story a fortnight when you used to be full-time? And what’s with all the gloomy stuff? I mean, how’m I supposed to explain that last piece you wrote? The silly season feature that ended up reading like a case study for Victims’ Support?

Since when has Mitchell told you what you can and can’t print?

Trevor wiped his face, sweat smearing into the thickets above his eyes. Don’t ask. That bastard’s after my job. Two more years, that’s all I ask. But they’re going to snatch it away with some weak excuse. He touched her hand. Don’t help them find one, love. Trevor’s job her responsibility? She didn’t need this crap as well. He lit a new cigarette and shrugged. Something’s gotta kill ya.

Poor bastard. He really didn’t have a lot to live for. All those years nursing Edna, watching her disintegrate organ by organ. You would think he’d have been relieved when she died—revel in the freedom. But he was lost. A caricature of himself.

So, what exactly d’you want me to do? She had to finish this before the morning tea rush of gossip-hungry denizens.

I want a feature story, Tess. You know—one of those light, funny pieces you used to do with your bloody eyes shut. And I’ve got the perfect topic.

Oh yeh?

Look, there’s a group of women into serious full moon rituals over in the eastern suburbs. I want you to...

Tess swallowed hard. I can’t do this, Trev.

Damn right you can! he snapped. Spy on them and give us a good laugh for the Weekend Feature. He studied her, and sighed. Look Tess. I’ll spell it out— if you’ll excuse the pun! This story—it comes from upstairs.

No Trev! You don’t understand! She gripped the table, to force back the sobbing child in her head. I...it’s just not...something...I can...feel comfortable with.

And I presume you’d feel more comfortable about being unemployed? He slammed his hands onto the tabletop and kicked away his chair. They’ll be ‘At It’ next week. Be there. I’ll fax you the details. Don’t fuck up. The sickly scent of tobacco clung to her face as he patted her cheek. Just don’t fuck up.

Tess shoved open the fire exit door and cooled her forehead against the gray concrete of the stairwell. Of all the subjects, of all the stories in the world... The uneasiness of it. The dis-ease. Disease. That black sickness, which could tear a family apart. Could be passed on...

If Dad finds out, he’ll murder us! Dancing with Mum in the back yard, wearing her see-through nightie, his favorite apple blossom in our hair.

It’s May. It’s May, the lusty month of May... Mum sings so beautifully. Her clear voice cutting sharp through the air of this sunny afternoon and shimmering above the trees while bonfire smoke weaves up through the leaves like the magical mists of Avalon—that wonderful place she talks of as she tucks me into bed at night.

...when everyone throws self control away. It’s...

We’re making a mixture. A magical potion to throw on the fire. I know the magic words to use—we learnt them for a play at school. Hubble, Bubble, Toilet Trouble...

Mum chucks in her special herbs, and I’m plucking the blossom petals and—

WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?

Dad. At the gate. Frowning with his Grandma face. The face she wears when she takes Mum outside and shouts. The scary face. What’s he doing home now? It’s only afternoon tea time and—

Sarah! He’s yelling. Marching through the fairy leaf-trays on the lawn. Stomping on them. Swearing. Leaving bright red finger marks on Mum’s arm as he drags her through the garden. ...not having you filling her head with this codswallop. It’s bad enough that you’re off your rocker—but you leave Theresa out of this—or I’ll send her to my parents and I’ll...

No, Dad. Please! Don’t send me to Grandma’s. I wrench at his sleeve to pull him off and watch his fingernails dig deep half moon circles. Please Daddy don’t...

Control yourself, Theresa! Control. He slaps my hand. The stinging heat dries my throat.

Leave her, Mum shrieks. Blossoms tumble from her hair. Crush, and bruise to rotten brown beneath his shiny shoes.

Run away. Down past the swirling, smoky fire. Down past the secret witches’ den. To the safety of the coop. Crawl in and hide. Shut out the rolling thunder of Dad’s voice... the sadness in Mum’s silence. My body hunched into a ball, my back against the warm, safe concrete. Arms wrapped around my chest—my out-loud beating heart. Waiting. Waiting for the footsteps of the wolf...

She stumbled through a door, onto the street, fear clawing at her chest. A group of German tourists argued over a map. Buses lumbered past, glum spring-loaded heads behind smeared windows. Normal, washed-out people. Suits. Frocks. Trip Trap Trappings.

Nothing to fear at all.

Three

Sylvia squirmed in the chair, her round face pasty in the mid-morning light that streamed through Tess’s kitchen window. I really think you should get out more. You’ve got to Accept What’s Happened and Get On With Your Life. It’s been over a year now, dear. You should be Getting Over It.

As Sylvia’s dogs-bottom lips drew tight into her habitual Good Housekeeping smile, Tess resisted the urge to throttle her. She meant well enough, even if Alan had reckoned that giving advice was the closest Sylvia ever came to orgasm. As if he’d know. Besides, rather Sylvia than Barry, her sleazy little husband. With his leering face— "Anything you need, sweet—anything..."

...and I said to Barry that you must Move Past this Resentful Stage. That you must Move On. Sylvia beamed, her lips snapping shut in self-applause.

Tess escaped to the sink. How’re the kids?

Alistair’s fine, Sylvia purred, as she unearthed a tea towel from the drawer. He popped home last week, out of the blue. Poor thing had a terrible headache. And such a pile of washing! I sent him away with a couple of cooked chickens and a banana cake. I’m sure he doesn’t eat properly.

Poor Alistair, indeed! Him and his father, living their fully serviced lives—surprised and annoyed if Sylvia dared speak. Both with the same pencil-lipped mouths, and cold-fish eyes.

And Tania, Sylvia continued, She calls collect every fortnight. She’s a devil with money, that girl. She swept a strand of hair back into her tight, unflattering forty-five dollar Mid-Week Special. You know, you’re lucky really, she muttered. Quite lucky, when you think about it.

Lucky?

Sylvia tugged at the bunched material around her waist. Yes, think about it. Here you are now—nice home, nice little job, no kids, still quite young, and no man to tell you what to do. Her voice lowered to a confessional whisper. I quite envy you, dear.

Tess’s hands clenched beneath the cheerful skin of bubbles. Lucky? That was obscene, even for Sylvia. She hauled her hands from the sink to steady herself, water and suds dribbling down the wooden cupboard fronts. Well, Sylvia, I wish I thought so. Control. Must stay in control. "Alan was my best friend. My Husband. Not just some man who told me what to do." She dredged the teapot from the sink, excess water slopping onto her feet. Thumped the pot into the dish-rack. Dried each finger, joint by joint. To meet Sylvia’s eye would shrivel her like burning plastic.

Yes...well... Sylvia gasped. I didn’t mean it like that, dear. I...of course you wish Alan was still here...we all do...it’s just that...

Tess rounded on Sylvia, who flushed to her Autumn Lights roots. "I know what you meant, Sylvia. She flung the words. Watched them slam into Sylvia’s timorous face. Look. Forget it. Tess sighed. I’m sorry." The bewilderment in Sylvia’s