Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(73)
“That’s why we’re leaving the kids behind,” I says. “But if there’s something causing the infection down by Port Arthur and thereby disrupting the balance of Tasmania, we need to eliminate it. It’s why we’re Druids, love.”
She grinds her teeth together and her jaw flexes so hard I’m afraid she’s going to start changing, but she takes a deep breath and growls instead, “Then I’m going with you.”
I glance at Siodhachan and he shrugs first, then nods, so it’s not a problem for him.
We drive down to Dunalley, which is right at the top of the peninsula, and check in to an inn there. Tasmania says there are a few devils nearby, and the parents are content with escorting the kids to do some healing on their own. By the time they’re settled and we’ve eaten dinner—Siodhachan and his hound eat by themselves outside, and I feel bad—the sun is setting and we climb into the van, casting long shadows.
Greta’s projecting a cone of silence and it’s fecking boring, so I reach out with me mind to connect with Siodhachan’s hound, Oberon, and find out that there’s at least a conversation there, even if it’s beyond my understanding—and I’m only hearing his side of it anyway. I can’t hear what Siodhachan is saying.
<So I can’t use the phrase Netflix and chill as a verb? But why not, if you can tell people to just chill? Oh … so I should definitely not use it as a command?>
Fecking modern slang. I have had plenty of conversations like that with Greta.
We have the windows down—a hound and a werewolf practically make that a requirement—but even I am noticing that the air here is much different. There’s no pine, for one thing, but plenty of dry grass and eucalyptus in the wind, and a hint of salt from the ocean. Damn loud bugs drone on about their desire for sex, and the occasional chatter of mammals or the chirp of birds whips past our ears.
Siodhachan’s driving, and he pulls us into a parking lot that’s almost deserted, some lights giving us just a dim glimpse of what lies beyond. I see some brick buildings, painted white or maybe a sickly cream, and they must be old or have suffered a disaster at some point, because they look like they might be ruins, with roofs and chunks of the walls missing. The lawns in between them look like they’re better kept.
“What’s this place, then?” I says.
“This is Port Arthur.”
“Not much of a port. Or am I unclear on the concept? Where’s the boats?”
“Port Arthur was a penal colony for the British. One of the worst.”
I know I can’t be hearing that right; I’m still building me English vocabulary. “Penile colony, as in lads walking around with their cocks out?”
“No, penal, as in penitentiary, as in prison.”
“Ah. So it was a colony of prisoners, then?”
“A favorite practice of the British. They would ship their undesirables from England to Australia’s main continent and use their forced labor to establish infrastructure for settlers. The worst of those prisoners they sent here to Port Arthur. They practiced ‘advanced’ methods of rehabilitation here.”
Greta tilts her head to the side and speaks civilly to him for the first time. “You mean in the same way the United States used ‘advanced’ interrogation techniques?”
“Yes, very similar. It was thought at the time that if prisoners were forced to reflect on their crimes, this would somehow inspire true repentance. So they were given the silent treatment for an hour every day: a black bag over their heads and an admonition not to speak but just reflect. Naturally, few of the men could remain silent in such conditions, so they made some noise, and as punishment they were thrown into a dark cell for solitary confinement. This drove many of them mad, and they had an asylum built right next door.”
“Gods below, why didn’t they just club them with a branch and get it over with? Fecking cruel.”
“Why are we here?” Greta says.
“Aye, lad, I know ye didn’t want to speculate earlier, but I think now is the time.”
“Let’s head over to the grass,” Siodhachan says, “and get in touch with Tasmania. See if there are any devils around.”
“Fine. But fecking speculate already.”
“A lot of people died violent deaths here, Owen. The prisoners, yes, but the native Tasmanians before that—the British pretty much wiped them out, so there are no longer any full-blooded natives, and nobody talks about it. Regardless, I don’t think anyone who died here was in a happy place, you know? Not even the guards. It wasn’t the time or place for peaceful living. There are more than fifteen hundred bodies buried on a little island over there,” he says, pointing to the southeast, “called the Isle of the Dead. But they all died right around here.”
“So you’re suggesting this area is haunted,” I says as we step onto the grass. “Big fecking deal. Maybe one of those unwashed crews of nervous lads can film a ghost-finding show here in the dark and jump at every little noise they hear.”
I really should not have said that, because right then a chorus of ragged, smoky screeches tears through the night all around us, as close to the harrowing cry of a ban sidhe as anything mortal might get, and if we hadn’t all clenched as tight as we could, I’m sure we would have shat ourselves, and that’s no lie. I have never heard anything so fecking awful, like claws on steel, shearing away me sanity and all me muscles strung tight as a harp string, expecting a brief final visit from the Morrigan before the darkness takes me.