Scan McMullen - Rule of the People

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Rule of the People

by Sean McMullen

other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *

Herman Diactoros watched as the two men came staggering down lamplit Stephen Street, rolling

drunk and only upright because they supported each other. Trailing after them were twelve dogs,

bunched together in a disciplined pack.

"Spent it all," bawled the taller of the pair, who was dressed as a bushman.

"Aye, it's true Ben, but the beer were cold an' the pork pies were hot," his companion replied, taking

his ancient top hat off and waving it.

A hunchback, Diactoros noted, nodding. They passed him, then the dogs passed. The leader of the

pack gave him a sharp, nervous glance. Clever dog, thought Diactoros.

"Down here then, matey, there's a nymph o' the pave who owes me a little favour," cried the

hunchback as he guided the bushman into a narrow lane.

Diactoros noted that the dogs were guarding the entrance to the lane. He had seen enough. Walking

back down another laneway he sprang for a high ledge, caught it and pulled himself up, then inched along

it until he reached a window ledge. Here he stood, reaching higher until his fingers closed on guttering.

With a motion as fluid as if his body had been quicksilver he pulled himself up and rolled onto the roof,

then crawled silently over the slates.

"Yer knockin' but there's nobody home," the bushman was complaining as Diactoros peered over the

edge of the roof into the laneway.

"She's as real as I be meself," retorted the swaying hunchback. "Here's me hand on it."

The bushman spat on his own palm and rubbed it on the seat of his trousers. "Water," whispered

Diactoros. As the bushman grasped the hunchback's hand he spasmed, as if shot in the back. There was

a hissing sound like steam escaping from a boiler. "Air." The bushman man stiffened, and the hissing

became a high-pitched squeal. It was coming from the bushman's mouth, his ears, the entire skin of his

body. Agonised, he slowly sank to his knees. The hunchback still gripped him, and it was as if a tiny,

bright lantern burned between their hands. "Fire." The light that leaked out brightened with every

heartbeat, and the bushman's skin began to glow creamy white beneath his clothing. By now the

hunchback was also blazing with light, but from his clothes as well as his skin. The lane was L-shaped, so

that nothing but the glow was visible from Stephen Street where the dogs stood guard. The intensity of

the light grew and grew, until the two men were nothing but brilliant lumps as bright as the sun. The light

faded abruptly.

"'Ere, I seen the glow again," called a voice in the distance.

Down in the lane were now two dogs, a terrier struggling and floundering amid a pile of clothing and a

nondescript little hound sitting back and watching. "Earth," Diactoros concluded. The terrier began to

whine, then tried to turn upon itself and fell over. The other dogs dashed in, seized the boots and clothing

then dashed out. A few remained to shepherd the confused, staggering terrier from the lane as the sound

of footsteps in Stephen Street grew louder.

"'Tis Jack O'Lantern, all right, he's scared them dogs wi' his light," called a man who was entering the

laneway with his cane held high.

"Yer talkin' broggers, Marty, there's nowt 'ere but barrels an' rats."

"But you saw the light too!" insisted the man with the cane.

"That I did, but now I sees nowt an' I'se afeard o' this place."

"If we caught Jack O'Lantern we'd be famous."

"If we caught Jack O'Lantern we might be dead. Come away, Marty, let's to the Stooker's Arms for a

pint."

"Ach, be buggered if yer not right, Mus," the other conceded. "No fire, no lantern, nowt te show a

constable."

Diactoros slowly withdrew is head as the men left and sat in the shadow of a chimney, contemplating

what he had just seen.

"The mighty Shapemaster, reduced to this," he said to the stars of Orion that sparkled in the summer

sky. "The res publica, Shapemaster, it's rotting you like a mortal's disease."

* * *

Most of the promenaders on the beach had arrived by the Sandridge Railway, which had been running

extra trains that afternoon. Although there was a deliciously cool sea breeze after the heat of the summers

day and there was a bright and beautiful comet in the sky to the northwest, most of the citizens of

Melbourne were there to gaze upon something far more novel than a silvery streamer in the sky. It was

the evening of January 26, 1865, and the Confederate raider Shenandoah was riding at anchor not far

from the pier. A small flotilla of boats was gathered about the warship, all crowded with townsfolk from

Melbourne.

The rider who came through the grass-topped sand dunes behind the littoral frowned to see the

hundreds of onlookers crowding the beach. He was dressed in moleskin trousers, coat and cloth cap,

and had several weeks of beard on his face. He reined in for a full minute, surveying the beach as if

assessing it. Finally he made up his mind.

"Giya, Vikki," he said as he nudged his mount into motion again. "We'll have to go into the water this

time."

The brown mare splashed into the shallows, then waded slowly out until the water came up to her

belly. Several people on the shore pointed, perhaps wondering if the rider was intending to swim his

horse as far as the Confederate warship. The water was over his boots when he reined in.

Almost at once something sleek and solid surfaced and brushed past the horse, then doubled back and

glided beneath at her belly.

"We have a big audience tonight Jamie," said the rider in a soft baritone, leaning over in the saddle,

"although they've really come to see that warship."

The seal gave a cough-like bark and made a splash with one flipper.

"Yes, It's a lot of fuss over very little," the rider agreed.

Reaching into the saddlebags he unbundled a package and began to feed dark, reeking lumps to the

seal.

"All I have today is human hair from the barber shops mixed with mutton fat, fish oil and some of my

own blood. My supplier at the undertakers has been taken ill, so the usual portions are not to be had."

He neatly folded the greasy pages of The Argus and put them back into the saddlebag. The seal

yelped twice.

"Yes I know it's unpleasant, but it's enough to keep a human soul within a seal's body. I might be

holding you by a thin thread, Jamie, but I've not let go for twenty two years."

On the shore there was a knot of people gathering who were showing distinct interest in the rider who

was speaking with a seal.

"Time to go. In a fortnight I'll be on a boat on the Yarra. Now keep low in the water and swim away

quickly. Someone may have a gun."

The seal vanished amid the dark wavelets. The rider turned his mare, ran a hairy hand over the stubble

on his chin and rode for the shore. As he rode clear of the water one of the promenaders hailed him.

"I say there, sir, there was a seal out there in the water," he called as he hurried over with several other

men. A few women minced after them, their hooped skirts bobbing and swaying.

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