Aurelia

Chapter 1

All aboard to Canberra, going once… twice… sold to that struggling gentleman on my right, the obnoxious railway porter makes fun of my bound towards the carriage door. How do you do, sir? May I take that for you? He swiftly finds his manners and removes my bulky suitcase with half of my clothes hanging out the side. And I gather his speed is hardly a result of my reproachful look, rather I feel his keen observance towards my bedraggled state. In fact, today has been ridden with tardiness and relatively disastrous outcomings. I never run late, never! To me, it is a sign of bad manners, although this morning was harder to leave home than usual.

I rush into the carriage and find it empty with a plethora of seats to choose from. I feel like a child with a penny in a milk bar, my selection is plentiful, yet perhaps not quite as sweet. While the large frame seats appear strong, comforting with sponge-like leather arm supports, I, nonetheless, observe the discomfort of the seats’ position. Rather than sitting in rows with a simple view of the outside, I have unfortunately managed to board a relic from the past. The seats are aligned with their backs to the windows. I suppose I should be thankful that no one else is in the carriage, otherwise it would look as though I were staring at them to peer outside. And damn it if I’m going to cause myself an ailment, twisting my neck constantly to look behind.

The engine blares its steam up front and the wheels begin to move forward. With fast feet, I find my seat at the far end of the carriage in a somewhat secluded corner. The light is dim, yet bright enough to see words in front of me. Thus, I now feel perfectly lonesome and comfortable enough to begin my diary. A recount of what has happened to me…

I reach into my satchel and pull out the diary prior to peeling apart the first water warped page. But, before the train leaves the station, a group of men’s voices begin to resonate loudly from outside.

Open the door! Open the door! Immediately, I spring from my seat and race to the window to investigate this hindrance.

As soon as I arrive to the window, I see the panic of three youths bellowing out orders to me. Open the door, sir… please!

I stumble back, with the train instantly picking up pace while my mind teeters upon the legality of my situation. There is little time to spare, so I stick my head out through the window gap, I can’t… it—it’s against regulations! I reply until a ginger boy throws his hat in my direction.

Just do it ya pansy, he responds like a demanding behemoth.

Very well! I dash for the door and open the latch. And like horses leaping over a jump, they each pile into the carriage and throw their luggage to the side. They puff like a group panicked bulls expanding their considerable chests whilst infesting the room with an unwashed bodily odour. I now have three young men to deal with and by the look of things, quite the rowdy type.

Each of these rambling ill-breeds breathe deeply, choosing by their own accord to drip their sweat across the carriage as they fight for their seats. Oi, that’s mine, no that’s mine. If I could just scream at them and say, Just choose your god damn seats, the clamour would cease. Omitting the fact that I don’t think I will ever be able to write my wretched tale, not with this lot.

Eventually, they negotiate the seating order. Two fat, short and ugly looking twins with pig noses and a lanky boy with curly ginger hair, sit up the other end of the carriage. I can hear the ginger boy and his snivelling rat nose snigger to the twins while they chuckle at his remarks. They are loud, obnoxious and completely uncouth!

Minutes later the train stops at Surry Hills and the twins yell out the window. Oi Raymond! We’re in here. Hurry up! They make such a scene calling out for him that the station porter demands that they shut up or risk being dragged off the train.

A short moment later, Raymond steps in and stops by the doorway. He shuts the door and makes an enormous fart. Nothing like a bit of fresh air in the mornin’, he declares, clapping together his masculine hands. He then steps forward prominently with his footballer’s stature and proceeds to shake the twin’s hands, followed by the lanky ginger. G’day, Alfred, Rodney. Come ’ere Lester ya pile of shit. He near breaks their hands except for Lester, the lanky ginger, he stands almost three inches taller than Raymond.

G’day, mate, did you have a good Christmas? Lester asks.

It was bloody amazing. My father had all me family over for Christmas lunch. And I mean everyone, especially me second cousins, Betty and Denise. My God, you haven’t seen tits until you’ve seen Denise without her blouse, he gushes until Alfred, the shorter, fatter—and if it were possible—uglier twin, crinkles his swollen cheeks.

Wait, how did you see her without her blouse?

Raymond winks at him and stretches out his arms boastfully. This is the sugar in your tea, chaps. I poured me drink on her blouse, right? She had to go and change it of course. She’s one of those really into her looks type, ya know what I mean? And me being the bloody genius that I am, I raced up to the bathroom before she did and ripped off me clothes.

Oh, here we go again, bare-chested Raymond, Lester rolls his eyes.

You said it, Lester! Bare-chested, me junk hanging loose. The door opens and it’s me Aunt Fanny.

What! everyone shrieks.

Yep, it was me Aunt Fanny. Caught me naked. I came up with an excuse that me drink spilt over me clothes as well. And good thing she believed me otherwise the whole family would’ve heard about it. Anyway, I got dressed and went to me room. And sitting there with her blouse off was Denise. Bon appetite, boys! The twins continue to ask Raymond more questions about his lewd endeavour with his cousin. I think that they get off on the fact that women will talk to him, even if they are related. Because there is absolutely no chance any lady in their right mind would ever go near them.

Meanwhile, I look down to my diary for a distraction because it is so tantalisingly hard to listen anymore to their petty conversations. I decide to be spontaneous and hope that something will simply appear within this unmanageable air. I remove the lid of my pen and place it down on the first page of my diary. Only nothing happens, no words appear except for a growing pool of ink.

My anger looms like a constant drip of water testing my patience. That is until I feel Lester’s hand on my shoulder. I’m sorry about them, mate.

I look up at him and glower at his encroaching hand, But you’re one of them, aren’t you?

He rolls his eyes and then sits down. I suppose I am, but… he begins to speak until I interrupt.

Ar, ar, ar, ar! I never said for you to sit down, now did I? Do me a favour young man and tell me are you going to be raucously loud this entire trip?

He hesitates until a large smile covers his face, Yes.

And are you going to Duntroon?

His smile grows, Yes, he then strokes a few frizzly strands of his developing ginger beard, deviously. That’s right, mate, we’re gonna be here the whole trip. And just for you, we’re gonna be as loud as we can.

I cross my arms and nod, Is that right? We both look at each other in silence. His glare is fierce and my eyes begin to water. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to come across like that. I’m becoming more aware of myself these days.

He looks confused, Righto.

Make as much noise as you want, I’ll just move into a different carriage, I state, rising from my seat with my bags.

I begin to open the connecting door when his voice calls, Oi, wait a sec! I didn’t catch your name.

I take a moment and grin, Oh, you will find out soon enough, I reply before quickly stepping into the next carriage.

I find my seat again, a sponge-like padded arm chair in a secluded corner. It is far enough away from three old ladies knitting scarfs and not too dim. I pull out my diary, whilst noticing that my letter has fallen from my chest pocket and into my satchel of books. As I slide it out, the titles of the novels stare me in the face. ‘Romeo and Juliet’, ‘The Trumpeter of Krakow’, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s ‘Sonnets of the Portuguese’, ‘Tarzan’ and the most impressionable, the innumerable stories of Francis Arthur Hildebrandt.

They arise memories, feelings that I never had. It isn’t a story that you would tell your children without fear of what they would think of you. But that’s if I had any. Perhaps if I did have children and I was forced to tell them about me, I would tell them only as I knew myself at that point in time.

It’s ironic to write my story in this diary, underneath a title that I never wrote, 1937. I don’t own this diary and maybe I shouldn’t use it. Although I know that I must write my story. If I didn’t, it would be an insult to those who died because of me.

My story is called Aurelia, it means golden.

Chapter 2

I am in a barrier of warmth, but as each second passes, I get colder and colder. My body is moved side to side every so often. I can smell salt and the heat from the sun. There is a constant surge of water that ascends and descends in a continuous rhythm in the distance. It continues to splash, it never stops. I am silenced within myself in a world of power, where I am an insignificant being, lost in a maze of time and space. Why am I here?

I open my eyes to a shining beam of sunlight, the burning tightness of my skin and the drenching of surging water. There is nothing around me, only a flat beach covering land that stretches for a distance unknown. Where am I? What is my story? Why am I here? I search my mind for answers but realise I have none, I have no memory. What happened, I don’t remember anything.

I gain movement in my body and now I am at peace with the background of water splashing my lower torso. In front of me, I find a little wooden chest with a filigree of golden flowers. Immediately, I reach for it, noticing the scratches and cuts upon my reddened forearms. As I pull it closer out of a mound of sand that softly piling waves have created, I see a name. I slide it closer and read the name ‘Aurelia’, engraved on the side.

Aurelia who? Who does this name belong to? What does this chest mean? What is happening? It is as if I had washed ashore, holding this jewellery chest. Yet it is more meaningful than a floating device, but what?

I open it with clumsy hands to discover the chest empty. Huh? I think as empty as I am. Nevertheless, I decide to use my sore, aching body and slide out of the ditch of sand that has built around me. Once I make it ashore, I look around and everything seems so bright. Even the beauty of the crushed mother of pearl shells that are speckled throughout the sand is overcoming. I then lay back onto the sand and close my eyes, listening to the waves break in the background.

There is one thing I realise in my absent memory and that is the obvious. I had to have come here from the sea, it is the only explanation. Yet before I think of anything else, absolute exhaustion weakens my entire body. Within a short moment, I fade into unconsciousness.

***

I wake up to an old day and my aches have settled. I’m feeling better, well good enough to stand up. But when I do, I make the mistake of glancing at my clothes. I’m hideous! My legs are covered in filthy black suit pants and I assume a once white collared shirt with the sleeves pulled up, anchored above my elbows and terribly stained with beach debris. I’m disgusting!

It takes a while, but I eventually set my appearance aside to look around. There appears to be washed up wreckage scattered across the shoreline like rubbish next to a bin. Most of the wreckage is made up of planks of wood and damaged barrels. However, there is one intact barrel presumably holding its contents inside.

I waste no time, considering my plan of attack to open the barrel. Obviously, I was no labourer because the first thing I think to do is to thwack it with my palm. Ahh… I scream at the abhorrent pain. Regardless of my blunder, I continue trialling ideas until I knock off the upper rings enclosing the barrel with a plank of wood. My initial thought is that I was involved in a shipwreck. But, my imagination enlivens and proceeds to scare me with all the ghastly possibilities. The most terrifying is that I was thrusted off a ship with my death intended. Perhaps I survived!

After some time, I pull out the round wooden disk sealing the barrel. I then take a gander inside. It is utterly bizarre! I find a wedding dress, a pair of heels, a hair brush, a makeup purse and further inside a suit jacket and a black velvet pouch with cuff links. Having said that, the Aurelia on the jewellery chest may align.

I swing the jacket over my shoulder until I feel the smarting thump of a cigar and an extravagant silver stepped pyramid on black patterned lighter from the pocket. I’m confused. This is a barrel full of wedding clothes, a suit jacket and accompaniments. Still, I search deeper to unearth a women’s small travel bag. I lurch forward to the mound of a sand dune in advance of resting down for a closer inspection. But, the sun has completely disappeared and the sky is darkening. Only an orange stream of light slips through the night’s command, a signifier that I must make a fire. Yet I soon find out that I don’t know how to make a fire. The lighter in my jacket pocket must make do.

I flick the lid open and spark the wheel, the glimmer of light is barely enough to unclip the bag. Yet, a more poignant task awaits my absent talents. While I perceived the drops trickling from my head and onto my back were rain drops, the vibrant red within the lighter light speaks to the contrary. I feel for the gash on the back of my head and dismally the sudden sting reveals the location. All I can do is cover my wound with a part of my shirt. I have to keep the sand from finding its way in, especially with the strengthening wind.

As I gently tie a bow in the shirt material, I realise that I must have been involved or am the groom to these wedding garments. This explains the pants and shirt that I have on and that the shoes could be missing in the water like the rest of my life.

Once again, I reach for the bag and open it, unclipping the metal clamps and pulling the leather trims apart. I find a diary, with the name ‘Aurelia Jackson’. I must be a part of this story. Possibly Aurelia Jackson was going to be my future wife. I just wonder what happened. Obviously, I had been involved in a shipwreck, but what happened to Aurelia or for that matter the rest of the ship’s crew. The possibilities could go on…

Chapter 3

Last night was horrible, I hardly slept. And this morning isn’t any better. Straight away the sunlight shines into my eyes while a colony of seagulls screech over the top of me. I feel like a lethargic bear that has just woken from a seven-month hibernation, not to mention the taste of hot sand in my dry mouth. Maybe I am just affected by the gash on the back of my head or my unknown story. All I know is that I must leave.

I pack everything into the middle of the suit jacket and begin tying a knot with the sleeves. But then I notice that I have left out the diary. It lays on a crest of sand with the vacant pages flicking across within the breeze. Instantly it dawns upon me that I never searched through the diary, I must have fallen asleep.

Without hesitation, I quickly break open the clips and peel the first damp page apart. Fortunately, the ink has not leeched. I read the year ‘1937’ and there is nothing else. I feel so irritated, completely baffled. Aurelia Jackson is teasing me, but I don’t know why. I sift through every page just to make sure that I haven’t missed a word. Yet there is nothing, not even a smudge.

I feel a sudden rush from my heart and sweat begins streaming from my forehead. If I am going to leave and search for answers, it’s vital that I first calm down and come to terms with reality. Because anything at this point in time is too far-fetched to draw a conclusion from.

I look around over the vast stretch of desolate sand dunes, distant mainland and reefs in the distance. I could scream for hours and nobody would ever hear, nobody! Yet abruptly the thought enters my mind. Where is Aurelia Jackson? My God, I have been worrying about myself for all this time, but I haven’t thought once about where she is.

I spring from the sand and fumble around in circles. Seconds later I fall back onto the sand, suffocating on my own breaths. Just calm down, just breathe! I then glance at the diary again; however, this time, it’s a light in the dark. The thought enters my mind that Aurelia can help guide and support me through my struggles ahead. Because finding her will explain everything.

Swiftly I tie the sleeves of my jacket together with the diary placed carefully on top of the other for safekeeping. It is now a makeshift bag, a perfect solution to a long travel. I swing it over my sore back before I stand and stumble through an obstacle course of sand and wreckage.

I climb the highest dune and then look ahead. There appears to be a continuation of the dune system of straggly coastal plants and then a woodland behind, stretching as far as the eye can see. I have little choice but to walk through it, hoping that it leads somewhere.

The deeper I travel, the more it becomes a jungle of dry, sharp, splintering branches and small leaves. During this time, the sun continues to singe my skin and the ground wears my feet thin. It is a fierce battle through the dunes, but eventually, I make it to the shade of the woodland. Without hesitation, I drop onto the mellow spindles beneath a lustreless she-oak.

Suddenly, a gentle stream of wind sweeps through every crevice, flapping every leaf it passes. Then it swirls, twirls and dances around the ferns, navigating its way through its endless labyrinth of maze-ridden tunnels. Eventually, it finds its way with the last of its might, pass my eyes. I am most fortunate to see this wind. It shows me the pools of water collected on the fern fronds. I slide my tongue down the length of it, allowing drops of water into my withered inner body.

I then roll onto my back and observe the ceiling of the woodland. The sun sheds light through the leaves above, like stars flickering in the darkness and beauty of space. I imagine what my future holds. Will it be a love ballad that entails a mystical fairy tale about two ambitious lovers struggling to live a life together? Or is it simply a quest to rediscover myself, with arduous experiences and intense pain. I can see floating images circling through my mind. The answer must be amid these possibilities. However, I can’t tell. Each time I focus, they blur into the background or fly away into the darkness, the unknown. I am anxious, I am tired and most of all I am hopeful I will rediscover my lost past. Before I realise, I am asleep.

Chapter 4

I gain consciousness to an orange light reflecting off a shiny surface. The day appears old, although I begin to feel pleasant as a slight breeze drags the ocean’s wintry climate over my sweltering head. But I can’t rest anymore, my bowel begins to build with a precarious pressure. It is like snakes rampaging through my stomach with an obvious intention—to escape at all costs! While the pain necessitates a poo, I can’t help but feel completely uncouth. I am no man to be defecating in the woodland, I am no man to drop my pants for the eyes of the woodland to see. Nonetheless, it must happen!

I cover it up with sand and spindles; however, in my reckless haste, I didn’t consider what I would use to clean my bottom. This must be the lowest point in my life, bent over with my pants hanging down looking for a leaf that is not long and pointed. You stupid oath! You damn nincompoop! And if it couldn’t get any worse, a rock trips me up, sending me tumbling down the slope and onto the bank of a lagoon, naked!

I glance between the branches that stole my pants, but first I need to clean my bottom. Without thinking clearly, I briskly dash for the water. And as fast as I plunge my rear within, I leap out screaming, OUCHY! The salt in the water stings the cuts on my legs and bottom like a thousand wasps biting all at once. I then lay prostrated over the sand with my legs trembling in loathing periods.

Now it is as if I were back on the beach again, the jewellery chest is in front of me. I must have collected the satchel on my way down to the bank and it fell out. A secret compartment has ejected behind the engraving of Aurelia. It is a small empty tray lined with fine black felt and has the indentation of a jewel. I search high and low over the sand and through my tumble route from the spindle covered woodland floor, yet I find nothing. I dread to admit that I have lost a precious jewel and to find it now would be looking for a needle in a hay stack.

I pick up the chest and hear a rattle. This is strange, I had never heard a rattle inside it before. Instantly I unclip the clamp and open the filigree lid, nothing. I lift each segment, nothing. While I pause to think, my hands shake the chest again. The rattle appears to be coming from beneath the secret compartment and like an anxious prospector, I agitate the tray. Suddenly, a sliver of wood unlatches from the side. The hinges hang down and a red jewel drops into my hand. At first, I thought it was a ruby, yet for a rather queer reason I know that it’s not. This jewel is one of the rarest stones on earth, a red diamond. It has astronomical dimensions. It is at least fourteen carats, round cut. It must be worth tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of pounds!

Excitement, thrill, elation runs through my veins like shooting cocaine. What life have I been taken away from? What life did I live? I am magnificent, the glory within my hands, I am magnificent! I can’t wait to see Aurelia Jackson. I can’t wait to see who I am…

Even though I am tired and sore, this red diamond has inspired something within me to continue forward. Although, first thing is first. I must put my pants back on and secure the jewellery chest and red diamond in the satchel.

***

My once sore feet now begin to pierce through the brisk wind barrier, finding their stream like a bullet into a cold night’s air. I’m letting the embankment of the lagoon lead me around the woodland because I can barely see anything. The sun has almost disappeared.

It was a mistake to consider my past, owing to the fact that the excitement has turned into a throb in the back of my head. Perhaps if I were fortunate enough to have been a low-class labourer, there would be nothing to concern myself with? A dull life, little money, just nothing compared to everything!

The sun has now disappeared and my feet begin to slow. I don’t know why, but I am scared. Every foot I step, I exhale with a weakened groan, I’m almost there… but I’m not. Everything is jumping out in front of me. I don’t where I am anymore. I think I’ve veered away from the embankment of the lagoon and stepped into the woodland. I’m lost, I’m lost in the dark! My excitement has taken a dramatic fall off a cliff to the knees of this woodland, pleading for mercy.

Out of nowhere something throws me onto my back. I scurry my feet backwards until I reach what I think are the roots of a tree. Now I hear footsteps and the hum of an eerie song. Then suddenly the footsteps stop, and the song turns into the croaky breath of Black Annis, the blue crone witch. My back must be against the oak tree in front of her cave that she carved from her sharp, slimy claws. I can feel her long pointed nose slide up against my cheek, while her claws dig at the back of my neck. It makes perfect sense that Black Annis has come for me. I have misbehaved, why else would I be in this situation?

I can’t bare the wretchedness anymore. So, I crawl across the ground, spitting out mouthfuls of rotting vegetation and bugs hovering around my lips. My hands push forward into the nothingness where no shadow, no mercy belongs. Simply the dark, a place where time has no light. The red diamond is useless. It doesn’t have the power to strike away the call of nature’s hunger to consume the rest of my nearly depleted will. Was I to die in the wreckage or was I to die in this dark, thick woodland?

I break away the branches blocking my path as I drag my satchel and red diamond before… I see light! I dive away from the witch, beneath the light. I peer up to the light and mutter under my breath, Black Annis eats children, not men.

Chapter 5

Pull the bow over the bank. Come on, gents, move your weight, I want some supper in my belly. Come on, HEAVE, HEAVE. That’s the way ya pickled onions, this deep obnoxious voice burns my ears into a panicked wakening.

Come on, boys, before your supper cools. This stew’s best hot. Then with another swish battering to my ears a haggard woman’s voice barks from the distance.

I lay stagnant outside the woodland in the middle of a sandy track. It goes all the way up a hill with crops covering the peak like snow on top of a mountain. However, the unrefined voices come from behind a grassy mound in front of me. I begin to lift myself out of a sandy ditch until I stop. My satchel is missing! I search fretfully along the track, behind clumps of shrubbery and the lantern post, but it’s not there. Only seconds later do I turn around to the woodland behind me. It is still dark and creepy even in the sunlight. Nonetheless, I step towards the woodland and there I find my satchel, hanging off a twisted branch.

Within an instance, I pull the satchel off the branch and swing it over my back. Then quickly, I head down the track and around the grassy mound. An old fishing cottage begins to appear and so do the voices of the fisherman again. But I am stopped by a dandelion flourishing on the sandy track. It sticks out of the dry sand and presents as a blissful yellow flower. I wonder whether it is a beckoning for a new start.

I look ahead and there is a middle-aged rough-bearded man with a tweed bucket hat. He leads two teenagers and a young boy to the balcony of their fishing cottage. They are all drenched in the ocean’s rotting sea life, with splattered fish guts covering their lurid brown overalls, like pigs in a pool of mud and decaying waste. I can see steaming clouds of stench hovering above their flat caps and for chief, the boisterous bull, his tweed hat seems to absorb the putridity and transform it into an obscene attire. He doesn’t veer away from wearing those gruesome overalls, but completes his look with a patchwork brown blazer and a knitted red scarf with dried fish giblets hanging off.

The rowdy boys, in a juvenile manner, raucously and belligerently horse around, while the matron mother quickly ends their parade into a rapid disrobing into household clothing. After her sharp shriek of grief, the boys now dressed in a shirt with long black pants and oddly in gentry’ shoes, race into the house for what I assume is for the devouring of her country fish stew. Chief slowly undresses with his aged body, albeit not too old to cheekily surprise his wife with a long-awaited kiss and a grab of her rear. She reacts to this by slapping away his hand with a giggle. Before they shut their battered wooden door covered with attached fencing pine, I yell out while stumbling through their meadow yard clustered with mauve cut leaf daisies swaying in the wind.

Excuse me, madam sir… Hello…

They pop their heads back out and walk onto the front deck of their cladded house with a rusted iron roof. G’day, mate, the matron replies with her voice echoing over the surrounding hills of their beach front home. Immediately, I step onto the path directed to their front door as chief rushes to my side in a flash. He is like a comrade to a wounded soldier.

Christ, son, what on earth has happened to ya? Bloody hell, Marge, grab the boys, let’s help this lad inside. He twists his head back and forth like a willow in the wind. Can ya walk? he worriedly murmurs through his thick salt and pepper beard. He then places his large arm around my back.

Within seconds of his frenzy, all three boys race out and take part one way or another in aiding my movement inside. It is strange, the rancid fish stench is not too bad, but this attention is growing most overwhelming. They lift me up on their shoulders and haul me to their house.

Ahh, I can walk, truly, lads, this is most kind but not entirely necessary. My last words are groaned with jolting movements as they ascend the decaying stairs. This is the most