The Kuthun (7 page)

All of a sudden I catch a glimmer of a shadow in the woods off to the right of where they are walking. I strain my eyes to see what it is, but it is too far away for me to make out. My heart beats faster. I decide to use an incantation that allows me to zoom in on an area of focus—sort of like a wide lens of a camera. I won’t be able to hold it for long though.

I focus my sight on the edge of the tree line. ‘Cantona zar,’ I whisper, making sure no one can hear me.

My eyes zoom in so that I can see to within a few metres now. I stay searching for a moment, waiting for my vision to adjust. Uncle Jo and Magi are making their way towards me from the left. Magi has her nose down, trying to catch the scent of whoever was here. Uncle Jo is exploring the area all around him for any sign of disturbance. I see him crouch down and run his hand over a flattened patch of grass. He looks up, staring in my direction.

I follow his gaze and look to the right, where I saw the shadow of another person only a moment ago. I search the surrounding trees, waiting for a glimpse of who it might be.

And then I see him.

A man—tall, well-built. He is about a hundred metres away, standing amongst the thick undergrowth of the dense forest floor. He is wearing long pants and a grey hoodie that is covering his face. I can’t make out his features through the dim light of the canopy.

Damn it! I focus harder, zooming in closer to him, and as he reaches up to push past a tree I am able to catch a glimpse of a black scripture tattoo on the inside of his forearm. I catch the letters:
sanguinem
.
He senses movement behind him and turns his head quickly in the direction of Uncle Jo’s location. He puts his hands in his pockets, and with head down quickens his pace.

Magi growls and I watch her rush past my point of focus, with hackles raised and teeth bared. She is in full stride, ears back, ready to attack. Uncle Jo is running behind her, fast! I didn’t know he could move like that. He is powering through the long grass, jumping over obstacles, with arms pumping hard. He has a look of pure determination on his face.

My adrenaline is pumping as I watch them run ahead, wanting to be with them, wanting to help them catch the man who is hunting me. That is…if this
is
the Venator? What would be the odds that all of these events happening at once were just a coincidence? No, this has to be him. This has to be the man that has been sent to kill me.

The Venator takes off at a sprint, his powerful legs accelerating hard to create the distance he needs to escape. I try and zoom in further but it takes too much out of me. I am desperate to stay with them but my magic weakens and I see them fade into the forest before the spell abruptly ends. My eyes are back in the classroom once again.

No! Not now. I frantically search the tree line for any sign of them. Nothing.

I feel my blood charging, my hands tingling. I search the room for some sign of escape. The few seconds that I sit there feel like an eternity. I have to do something!

My hand flies into the air. ‘Yes, Elena?’ Miss Matherson asks me.

My mind is racing with a million thoughts. Focus! ‘Um, may I have a toilet break?’ I ask urgently.

She is looking at me strangely.
Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!

‘Okay, but be quick about it,’ she says.

I quickly get up and all but run out of the room. I head down the hall, not sure where I am going, but knowing that I cannot sit there when Uncle Jo and Magi are out there chasing down the Venator.

Even thinking that name gives me the jitters.

I’m hurrying along the hall, passing lockers and
classrooms, where the muffled voices of teachers and students echo out through the walls. I can’t keep my thoughts clear. Are they okay? Have they caught him?

I hit the stairs two at a time. They lead me onto the first floor where I run towards the exit. Not knowing what I will find when I pass through them, I push open the double doors and am blinded by the glare of the sun. Shielding my eyes I look across the oval to where I last saw them. I ignore Uncle Jo’s warning to stay away from the oval and I take off at a sprint.

I think about everything that is happening and feel responsible. My heart aches at the thought of anything bad happening to them, or to anyone I care about.

Uncle Jo’s words run through my mind, ‘I do not want you to head outside any further than the oval, no matter what.’

I stop running, panting from exertion. As I bend down to rest my hands on my knees I look at the last few remaining metres to the tree line. I want to follow them but I also remember my promise to Uncle Jo. I reluctantly turn back and start walking towards the wooden table, which is situated under the Sequoia tree, at the entry to the oval. As I sit there, hoping they’ll return safely and engulfed in emotional turmoil, a memory of my mother returns to me.

We are sitting on the back verandah of our one-storey federation style cottage overlooking the garden, where purple wisteria is in full bloom. Mum is in her wicker rocking chair and I am seated at her feet on a large cushion. Magena, her beloved dog and Magi’s mother, is by her side as always. She is knitting—a pastime she loved, and I am practising my spells. My hand is moving over a bowl of flower petals. I channel a spell that sees them float up into the air in a circular motion, heading towards the heavens, where they will be a gift to our loved ones who have departed.

Mum is smiling, she nods her head in pride. ‘You are very gifted, Elena,’ she says quietly. She is staring at me lovingly. ‘Always remember who you are. Believe in yourself. And never forget that I love you.’

Sadness and regret are evident in her eyes. I stare at her for a moment and then I smile. ‘I know that, Mumma. I’m not afraid,’ I respond confidently. I get back to my spells.

I emerge from my reverie. I can’t have been more than seven at the time.
I am not afraid.
My own words echo through my head and I gain strength from them.

Only a few moments have passed but I look out in the distance, searching for any sign of movement. There is nothing stirring but the leaves above me. I gaze upwards and see that an owl has perched itself on a lower branch. It is watching me intently. I take in its features and realise that this is the same bird from the garden. This can’t be a good sign.

School has not broken out for lunch yet so I have time before being disturbed. Maybe the kuthun can help me? I don’t know how exactly, but I think it is trying to tell me something. Something important. I hesitate briefly before reaching up to my necklace. My hand wraps around the smooth outline of the kuthun and I close my eyes.

I am standing on the edge of a stream. Water is trickling over the rocks and there is a slight breeze that is blowing behind me, stirring the leaves of the overhanging trees that reside on the bank. With it is the scent of mint and another herb I can’t quite place. I look around me, trying to take in what I see.

High snow-capped mountains fill in the backdrop. The land around me is vast and open, with patches of red dirt peeking up through the snowy landscape. A thin veil of mist is sitting atop the stream and dragonflies are hovering over the water’s surface. As I am watching them flit to and fro I hear what sounds like children’s laughter, coming from over the adjacent hill. As I turn towards the noise I see smoke billowing its way up into the sky and I decide to investigate.

I climb the small hill and reach the rim, my head cautiously peaking over the top where another world plays out before my eyes.

Small fires are burning everywhere, surrounded by tents that fill up a wide area of land. Wooden poles bunched together stick out of the tops of what looks like animal hides, giving off the colours of creams, beiges, blacks and browns. Within moments it occurs to me that these aren’t tents, these are teepees.

Images of the Wild West enter my thoughts—cowboys and Indians, saloon bars and animal spirits. My mind strives to comprehend where I am.

I think about the previous jumps through space, knowing that the kuthun takes me back to places that involve my family history. I use this information, trying to remember where this place could be, and who of my family would have been here at some point in time.

Then it becomes clear.

This must be where my eighth Great Grandmother Isabella Cole came to when she fled from Salem so very long ago. I stifle a shocked laugh. Could I really be here in the place where it all started? I stay where I am for now, trying to regain some composure before I head into the village.

There are many people milling about. Women clothed in heavy buckskin dresses with fringed arms and midriff beading are talking as they beat out rugs with sticks on makeshift lines of rope. Children are running around chasing one another in what looks like a game of tiggy. A few young boys are playing in and out of the teepees shooting at each other with wooden bows and arrows, and a group of young women are gathered around woven baskets where they appear to be shucking corn.

Off in the distance horses are making their way towards the village. They are being ridden bare back by men whose auras are emitting red and orange hues—telling me they have great strength and courage. They have paint on their faces and different coloured feathers in their long, dark hair.
They are beautiful
.

I watch them ride into the outskirts of the village, taking in the faces of those around them. One infant runs up to the man in front and holds out her arms to him in a display of affection. He smiles and bends down to lift her up onto his horse. She positions herself in front of him and grabs onto the horse’s mane, like she has obviously done many times before. They continue to ride until they reach the paddock on the far side of the encampment. I see them dismount their horses, take off the simple cord bridles, and let the horses roam free.

I look back towards the camp area and the smoke that I saw earlier catches my attention. It is coming from inside the far tent, on the outer edges of the village. I notice that this tent is different to the others.

As well as the animal hides that cover it, there is also bold colours of paint splattered across the outside. I feel myself being drawn towards it, comfortable in the knowledge that no-one can see me. I walk through the centre of the camp taking in all the smells, sounds and sights. There is an air of peacefulness within this place. I feel the harmony between man and nature here.

I reach the outside of the tent and can hear someone chanting melodically from within. I hesitate only a moment before I pull back the smoke flaps and step gingerly inside.

Before me I see a woman lying on a bed of reeds. Her head is turned away from me and she isn’t moving. The fire is before her and a strange smelling smoke fills the tent. On the other side of the fire an old man is seated, his face weathered and worn with age, his long grey hair falling below his chest. A simple feathered headpiece adorns his crown and around his neck hangs a large chain of small animal bones. His hand is wrapped around a small antler stick decorated in a variety of beads, feathers and leather braids. He is shaking the stick rhythmically, the rattling sound that emanates from it moves throughout the tent in a haunting fashion.