The Promised Land. Mudrooroo

with a ‘Sweet dreams await you’.

      Lucy looked after her and shrugged, turning her attention to her blank canvas. She had failed to get her friend to sketch in a topic and she had not the skill. She knew it; she knew it, and what would she now do to fill in her days? She sighed and fiddled with her wool, then gave a start as from the halfblocked-up window, there came a flapping sound somewhat like a gentle rapping. She tried to lean over the sideboard to peer through. Only the darkness of the night. She sighed again and then suddenly there came again that rapping, but this time it was a gentle tapping at her chamber door. She made a moue. Not that old Rebecca Crawley again with her endless sad stories of a once bright life turned as dismal as the colony to which she had been exiled. She could relate to the poor woman, but it did become tiresome to listen on and on. Maybe she should help herself to her husband’s brandy and dull the next monologue with it. Again that soft rapping. She meandered her way through the chairs and luggage to the door and opened it to her delight.

      ‘Amelia,’ she gasped as the naked woman slipped into her room and into her arms. ‘You knew that I was feeling peevish and so came to me. Let me hug you some more. I was languishing, thinking you were far out on that – that trail, as that American I once met persisted in saying, although we had regular roads and streets where we lived.’

      ‘Enough, sweet child. I missed you and could not leave you moping here or me moping there. How dusty and tawdry this place is ... as dusty and as melancholic as the land. Perhaps I have been here too long?’

      ‘What, you just arrived! I won’t let you leave after only a hug. If this is all that you have for me, you should have brought your dog. I shiver when I imagine his tongue on and in me, and I a young wife too.’

      ‘Silly, sweet, I meant this land; this end of the earth place. I’ll be with you for a little while.’

      ‘Well, it is the ends of the world.’

      ‘It is; but we have each other,’ smiled Amelia, manoeuvring Lucy towards the bed.

      ‘Wait, Mela – can I call you that? Once I had a good friend, a chum called Mina, and she was somewhat like you, though not as much fun. Wait until I am free of my clothing. Help me! I don’t want to spot it and I doubt that that woman will be back this night, for she seemed somewhat tipsy. She has a thirst for the brandy.’

      ‘And your Mela has a thirst for you,’ replied the woman, unlacing her, then thrusting her down upon the bed and pressing her lips hard against her neck. She kissed the pulsating vein, then thrust her fangs into it. The iron taste of fresh young blood overwhelmed her senses for a long moment, but only until she felt Lucy’s throat tighten to emit a shriek. Quickly, she put her hand over the girl’s mouth and nose, cutting off her air supply. Lucy’s body began bucking as she fought to get air; but Mela, with the hunger on her, continued to deny her blessed relief while she drank up her blood. With the girl slipping away from consciousness, she finally released her.

      Lucy lay there shuddering all over. It was as if she had passed through a little death and found that she still endured. At last, her breathing and body settled. Languidly, she turned and pressed herself against her friend’s naked body. It was so cool and drew away her own warmth. Timidly, her hand went down past Mela’s belly and her fingers brushed her pubic hair. ‘You are dry and arid there,’ Lucy murmured, ‘and I have not the strength to arouse you. Mina used to like my hand doing this to her, but she was so moist.’

      ‘Well, the land out there is dry and arid, and I have only supped on you a little this night. Next time, you shall find me as drenched as you may wish. Now I should be off, for I must get back before the dawn. It was only your sweet self that called me here, and that red foam I find so delicious.’

      ‘But, but you will be back soon, Mela? I swear that I need you more than anything.’

      ‘As soon as it is possible, for the taking of your vital fluid will weaken you. Just build yourself up for my next visit and don’t fret. Occupy your days with that embroidery.’

      ‘Well, what am I to do if you are not here? Rub myself raw?’ pouted the girl. ‘Go away, leave me to mournful solitude. I have decided to be Clotho, the youngest Fate, and embroider a tapestry with scenes that depict your adventures while I suffer alone here. Go away. There is my canvas and there is my wool; they shall be my friends. But wait, I have no picture.’

      ‘Silly, silly goose, you mix up the stories ... and as for that blank canvas. Give it here.’

      ‘See, it is as blank as your heart; and if I mix up the stories, it is because you mix me up. O let me be that other Fate, the third, Atropos who cuts the thread that ends a life. I need you too much to live on alone.’

      ‘Be like Penelope and embroider while you wait.’

      ‘O enough of these silly stories. You will go and I shall cry and then I shall embroider. Leave me something that I may begin. When my needles pierce it through and through, I will imagine your teeth at my neck.’

      ‘Give me the canvas, the night is seeping away. There! This is how the journey began. That is the governor and his wife. Saint George sits in his bughi and a native constable on that dray. It is enough, for that corner. The rest I will sketch in as we go along and I visit you.’

      ‘But where are you? I want you more than them. Your pale hair, your glowing fair face, your azure eyes tinged with the red of the sunset. I want you as you are now, naked and unashamed and flushed with my blood.’

      ‘Let it be, my sweet one; let it be! See in that tree? What is that which hangs there with strange reddened eyes that peer out at the scene?’

      ‘It is a bat. I want you there, Mela!’

      ‘But let that be me, and I’ll figure too in the other pictures I shall draw for you. Now I must hasten; but before I go I’ll do another scene. There is Saint George, it is but a joke of mine. There is your husband playing the preacher in front of his flock; but where he should clasp a Bible he holds a golden nugget. There, that is your next tapestry scene done. You shall have more as we go along, and when you think of me, look to the picture in which I shall be hidden.’

      ‘Is that you in the darkened sky, obscuring a star?’

      ‘It is, and that is where I soon shall be. Hug me now and I’ll lick away the blood which still drips from your lacerated neck ... Now farewell. Ah, you taste so very sweet, like a peppermint. I could easily suck you all away; but, no, there are others. Sweet dreams and in them I shall come to you all moist.’