Under a Gumleaf Veil

An orange light flickered without rhythm in the breeze. Jean died opening a window,  sparing them the bother. Her tea had gone cold since then. Mikkl drank it slowly, watched  that oolong green dancing heavily. A man dressed in army surplus sat with him at the counter.  

“Fine right beer,” Jian said. 

Her discoloured skin hunched naked against a busy corner; in between flickers, you’d  barely notice. 

“One day I’ll figure something else to say.” 

Foam covered his smile, covered their rifles, covered her counter. 

“And one day I’ll stop waving to the cockatoos,” Mikkl said.  

Outside, a dozen pallid eyes faced high toward the starless night, mouths open for their  spirits to leave. Empty vessels smashed and cut apart for the birds to feed upon. Onto this, her  body was thrown, whole and longing, the hooked swastika carved into Jean’s forehead pressing away from heaven.  

Forgetting her name, Jean woke to an eternal night. A clock ticked. The bed smelt of  bourbon-soaked gum leaves. Through her only window stretched mountains, and in a liquid crystal blue, the glow of a full moon awakened, all embracing and oppressing at once. Inside was heat buzzing, floors tiled grey; the walls evoked some kind of themed Appalachian hotel room.

Turning back to sleep, she found herself standing by a driftwood door. This other room was a library in an old man’s boat shed, though the waters were gone and that old fishing trawler had broken up upon black, sandy stones. In one corner was a woman in blue-black velvet, her gloved fingers floating over pages yellow then white.  

“I’m dead.”  

“It’s sad.” 

“Why am I here?”

“Genuflect.” 

Jean fell onto monkly-bare knees.  

“Your face is in the mud,” said the blue-black woman. 

Feeling her lips — so dead, yet warm — Jean fell backwards into a loving world unfolding on itself. And all became still. 

Meat pie — cold under the sun. They stood over their mass Tibetan sky burial, angsting and smoking. Mikkl had wanted to face her skywards and so they returned. Bayonets fixed  feeling for her, the bodies conjoined in blood.  

“There is nothing worse than negative energy,” Mikkl said. 

Those cigarette flames tempting their gumleaf veils. 

“Just so.”

“In everything, one’s soul should be still.” 

“Even this,” they said. 

Jian found her resting against a metal post, facing towards heaven. The hooked cross  carved onto Jean’s forehead had dried and shrunken into a wheel. Hands washed clean and  souls bloodied, they walked to a gum tree and took a piss, the wind feeling kindly.