Elysium Page 7

  ‘That’s it, then.’ The more I heard, the more I was convinced that Rosemary had been seeing her grandmother’s ghost. ‘She wouldn’t know where to find you anywhere else,’ I explained. ‘Your grandmother, I mean. If it was all in your head, it would be happening here as well.’

  As far as I was concerned, the whole thing seemed perfectly obvious. Even Rosemary had to see the logic in what I was saying. And she did, I think. She blinked, and scratched her cheek. But she didn’t smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘Well . . . maybe.’

  Then she wandered away towards the stewed fruits. Sylvia followed her. Matoaka suddenly realised that Dad was heading for the door, and jumped up, wiping her mouth. ‘If I miss my meditation, I’ll be constipated all day,’ she informed us, before departing.

  All at once, my family was on its own again.

  ‘I want to do the ghost tour,’ said Bethan, turning to look at Ray, ‘but I want to play snooker first.’

  Ray grimaced.

  ‘You promised,’ Bethan reminded him.

  ‘I know, I know. I promised. I’ll do it.’

  ‘And I want to have a massage,’ said Mum. ‘Colette had a massage and she said it was fabulous. Expensive, but fabulous. I’ll get my exercise this afternoon, when I do the bushwalk. But right now I want a massage.’

  ‘Which leaves Allie,’ said Ray. ‘What do you want to do, Allie? Before the ghost tour, I mean. Presumably you want to do that.’

  I glanced over at Michelle. She had already visited the buffet bar, and was now back at her table, sitting alone with a glass of juice and one slice of toast. Sylvester was on his feet, peering suspiciously at the stewed prunes. Colette was next to him, questioning a waitress about the milk. (Was it really skim, or just low fat?)

  ‘It depends on what Michelle’s doing,’ I muttered.

  ‘Go and ask her.’ Mum stabbed at a slice of rockmelon. ‘Maybe you two can just hang out for a while.’

  Hang out. I hate it when Mum tries to sound trendy. I don’t even know why she bothers, not with me; some people just aren’t trendy, and I’m one of them. In fact I’ve resigned myself to the fact. I’m brainy, not trendy.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, and crossed the room to where Michelle was sitting. She gave me a half-hearted smile. She had big dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said.

  ‘Is that all you’re eating? Haven’t you seen the fruit, and the eggs?’

  Michelle sniffed. She’s a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to breakfast buffets, because her mum loves posh hotels. ‘They don’t have any brioche,’ she said. ‘Or any mushrooms.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘It’ll give Sylvester something else to complain about.’

  This time, Michelle smiled a proper smile. Suddenly her mood seemed to improve. She told me that she had slept in her mother’s room the night before, on a rollaway bed. Sylvester had been so angry about this that he’d slept in Michelle’s room, just to ‘prove there were no ghosts’. I shook my head, wondering why Michelle bothered to waste so much energy on getting back at Sylvester. Didn’t she know how lucky she was, not sharing with Bethan? I would have loved my own room.

  ‘So what happened?’ I asked. ‘Did Sylvester see any ghosts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see any ghosts?’

  Michelle flashed me a mischievous look, and sucked at her straw. When she didn’t reply, I began to tell her that I had seen something – and smelled it, too. But I was interrupted by her mother.

  ‘Allie.’ Colette pulled out the chair next to mine. On the plate in her hand lay a single slice of rockmelon. ‘How are you this morning?’

  ‘Good. Thanks.’

  ‘Do you have anything planned?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact . . .’ I explained about the eleven o’clock ghost tour. ‘Did Richard tell you?’

  ‘We discussed it last night,’ Colette replied. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not for Michelle.’

  Michelle sat up straight, her eyes widening in alarm.

  ‘Mum!’ she protested. ‘I’ve got to go! I’m in the Exorcists’ Club!’

  ‘Ghosts upset you, Michelle.’ Colette carefully cut up her slice of rockmelon with a knife and fork. ‘From what I could see, you weren’t very keen on them last night. You can’t have it both ways, I’m afraid.’

  Michelle opened her mouth, then shut it again. She looked furious, but she couldn’t think of a convincing argument. Her mother had her cornered.

  ‘Besides,’ Colette continued, ‘this morning we’ll be visiting another cave. One we haven’t seen before. Something on the north side of the Grand Arch.’ Chewing very slowly, she added, ‘You can come too, Allie, if you want.’

  Poor Michelle. She’d been a bit too clever for her own good. I would have gone with her, but I couldn’t. By the time we had all finished breakfast, and checked with the guides’ office, the only available north-side cave tour was scheduled for ten o’clock. Since it was going to be ninety minutes long, I couldn’t join it without missing my exploration of Caves House.

  All I could do was stay with Michelle as she waited in the Grand Arch. I felt even sorrier for her when I saw that Paul and Sylvia had bought tickets for the same tour of the Imperial Cave. They wandered up with about three minutes to spare. ‘I would have liked to do the ghost tour, but Paul wanted to do this,’ Sylvia explained to Colette. It occurred to me that Paul’s interest in the Imperial Cave tour was almost certainly the result of a desire to stop his mother from doing anything else.

  When he pulled a face at me, I scowled back at him.

  ‘He’s such a pain,’ I said to Michelle.

  ‘Sylvester’s worse,’ she replied.

  ‘He can’t be.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘There’s no comparison,’ I protested, and Michelle suddenly gasped, as if struck by a sudden idea. I couldn’t ask her what it was, though, because at that moment she was summoned by her tour guide. So I said, ‘Good luck,’ and wandered back to Caves House.

  That was when I started writing this report. I got my notebook, and a pen, and I sat in the guest lounge, feeling important. There were a lot of visitors milling around outside, you see, but only people actually staying at the hotel were allowed to use the lounge. To my surprise, there was a big bowl of fruit on one of the tables – fruit that you could eat, if you were a guest – and magazines to read, and even a small library of books. For a while I was distracted by the marble statues dotted about, and by the flower arrangements, and the television. But at last I settled down to think about my report.

  There was one thing puzzling me. In my experience, ghosts only seem to hang about when they desperately need something. Eglantine, for example, was desperate to finish her story. When we helped her to do that, she disappeared. Abel Harrow, the miner’s ghost, was desperate to find gold. Poor little Eloise, the baby’s ghost, was desperate for her mother. Once their needs were satisfied, there was no reason for them to stay.

  So why were all these other ghosts hanging around the Jenolan Caves? Were they in desperate need of something? And if not, why were they trapped? Why did Miss Chisolm keep setting the same old dining-room table? Why did James Wiburd feel compelled to keep wandering round and round the same underground passages? It was as if they were stuck in a groove, unable to free themselves without someone else’s intervention.

  I was wondering whether James Wiburd’s ghost might be guarding the caves, or protecting them, when Rosemary strolled in. She had been passing through reception, she said, and had seen me through the door. Flinging herself into one of the big, comfy chairs, she asked me what I was doing.

  ‘Oh – writing about this trip,’ I replied. ‘Some of my friends couldn’t come. They’ll want to know what it was like.’

  Rosemary nodded. She glanced towards the foyer. Then she leaned forward and said, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. About my dream.’


  I waited. She smiled awkwardly, scratching her nose.

  ‘This is all new territory, for me,’ she added. ‘Ghosts and things.’ She sort of giggled, adjusting her glasses. ‘I was never particularly convinced, until I met Richard . . . he’s told me some amazing things. About you, for example. Your house.’

  I shrugged. ‘It was haunted, but we got rid of the ghost,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. You’re a bit of an expert. So perhaps you’re right. It’s not absolutely impossible. What if my grandmother really is trying to tell me something?’

  ‘You could always ask.’

  ‘I have,’ she admitted, surprising me a lot.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘What I mean is, when she first appeared – well, I more or less asked her what was wrong. I think.’ Rosemary hesitated. ‘I told Richard, but he never suggested she might be a ghost. I’m sure it never occurred to him.’

  ‘Oh, well. Richard doesn’t believe anything much, unless he’s got a reading on his equipment,’ I said, waving the subject of Richard aside. ‘So what did your grandmother tell you?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a thing. All she ever says is, “I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t know what’s going on!”’ Rosemary sighed. ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘Oh.’ This didn’t explain much. I wanted to help Rosemary, but how could I? What could her grandmother possibly mean? ‘Do you think maybe she doesn’t know she’s dead?’ I asked, and suddenly felt awful. Because Rosemary gasped. Tears filled her eyes. I had really upset her.

  ‘It’s probably not that,’ I said quickly. ‘She must know, after all this time. She’d have to be stupid not to.’

  Rosemary cleared her throat, looking away. There was a brief pause. Then she remarked, as if wanting to change the subject, ‘By the way, I’ve been thinking about that animal you saw. And the smell you smelled.’

  ‘Really?’ I was surprised.

  ‘Of course, when I was researching the traditional beliefs of the Gundungurra tribe, I didn’t really . . . well, you know. I’m not Aboriginal myself. And it all sounded pretty far-fetched.’ She smiled a watery kind of smile. ‘Though now, after all this talk about ghosts . . . well, it just sheds a different light on things.’

  ‘What things? What do you mean?’

  I was completely lost. Rosemary apologised. She explained that she had a theory – a theory about what Ray and I might have encountered, on our morning walk. Though it sounded ridiculous, it was probably worth mentioning.

  ‘There’s something in the Gundungurra mythology that fits,’ she said. ‘A monster called Mumuga, which had very short arms and legs, and hair all over its body. Mumuga couldn’t run fast, but when chasing members of the tribe it used to make them sick and weak by moving its bowels all the time as it ran, so that its prey would be overcome by the stench, and fall down. That’s how it used to catch them.’ As I stared at her in amazement, Rosemary continued. ‘I don’t remember much else about it, but I do remember the business with the smell. After all, it’s not easy to forget.’

  ‘You mean – you think a Mumuga was trying to catch us? Me and Ray?’

  Rosemary’s smile this time was firmer. ‘Not exactly. I mean, I don’t necessarily believe that’s what happened. I’m just passing along some information. Because it seems relevant.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She glanced at her watch, and rose from her chair.

  ‘Well, I guess I’d better go and find Richard,’ she said.

  ‘Wait – hang on –’ I was still trying to sort out what she’d just told me. ‘Has anyone else ever seen this thing? Or smelled anything anywhere?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Allie, I wouldn’t know.’ She really did sound sorry. ‘I’m no expert. These little mysteries – well, who can say? People talk about seeing yowies and bunyips and other strange spirit creatures, but there’s never any proof. Perhaps you should try the Internet.’

  I nodded, thinking furiously. The animal I’d seen – what had it really looked like? I’d had an impression of grey fur, and scuttling legs. Scuttling, short legs. But it had moved so quickly. (Too quickly for a Mumuga?)

  ‘Anyway, I might mention all this to Jason,’ Rosemary remarked. ‘It’s probably worth passing on to the staff here, you never know. Are you going to be joining Jason’s tour, Allie? The ghost tour?’

  ‘Oh – uh – yes.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you then. And . . . thanks for the advice.’

  She left without mentioning her grandmother again. For a while after she’d gone, I tried to concentrate on my report, but I couldn’t. So I finally went up to find Ray. I knew that he was almost certainly playing snooker with Bethan, on the first floor.

  What I didn’t realise was that Dad had decided to play too. When I walked in on them all, Dad was stretched across the pool table, working a cue through his fingers. Matoaka was watching him from a corner of the room. There were cans of soft drink scattered about.

  ‘Did you buy lemonade?’ I demanded, of no one in particular.

  ‘There’s one for you,’ Ray quickly assured me.

  ‘Come and sit here.’ Matoaka patted the seat next to her, dimpling in my direction. ‘You can tell me what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been talking to Rosemary.’ But I was addressing Ray, not Matoaka. ‘Do you know that the Aborigines around here used to be afraid of something called the Mumuga?’ I informed him. ‘It used to run after people, pooing all the way, so that the awful smell made them pass out and fall over.’ As Ray lifted his eyebrows I added, ‘It was small and hairy, with short legs. Just like the animal I saw.’

  Ray blinked. Bethan frowned.

  ‘You mean there’s some kind of animal that poos people to death?’ my brother demanded. ‘That’s stupid!’

  ‘It’s not an animal,’ I said. ‘It’s – well, I don’t know what it is exactly. A sort of spirit creature. Like a bunyip.’

  Bethan snorted.

  ‘You couldn’t have seen a bunyip. There’s no such thing.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I retorted. ‘Lots of people reckon there’s no such thing as a ghost! And we know they’re wrong.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s stupid,’ Bethan scowled, as Dad finally tapped a red ball with his cue. It bounced off a few other balls before trickling to a standstill.

  ‘If I had been allowed to concentrate,’ Dad said crossly, ‘that might have been a better shot.’ But Matoaka waved him down.

  She was interested in what I’d been saying.

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ she exclaimed. ‘Allie, where did you hear this? From whom?’

  ‘From Rosemary.’

  ‘And she told you what?’

  Patiently, I repeated myself. Matoaka got very excited. While Bethan stubbornly wielded his cue (which, though short, was still too long for his arms), Matoaka began to crow and gasp over my news.

  ‘I had a feeling!’ she insisted. ‘I could sense something, from the moment I arrived. Didn’t I tell you, Jim? I knew this place was spiritually significant.’

  ‘But it might not have been a Mumuga,’ I pointed out. ‘Rosemary just mentioned it, because she liked the coincidence.’

  ‘Oh, of course it was a Mumuga, Allie, what else could it have been?’ said Matoaka. ‘What else would make a stink like that?’

  ‘A broken sewage pipe.’ Ray spoke softly, from the edges of the conversation. ‘A dead animal. A gas leak.’

  ‘Yes, and anyway, if this stench was a hunting technique, then why has no one else been attacked, around here?’ Dad wasn’t convinced. ‘I mean, apart from the stink in the caves, where else has this alleged creature cropped up? Why attack Ray and Alethea, and no one else? It doesn’t make sense.’

  It didn’t, either. Matoaka opened her mouth, but nothing emerged; she was trying to think of an answer. Bethan gave his target ball a huge whack, and sent it bouncing off the table.

  Ray cleared his throat.

  ‘Ah . . . it’s just a thought,�
� he said, ‘but – well, it does make sense, in a funny sort of way. If you consider that I have some Aboriginal blood in my veins.’

  CHAPTER # seven

  The ghost tour was kind of spoiled for me, after that.

  Not that it wasn’t good, or anything. The bartender, Jason, was a very funny guy. He was young and fair, with a round, plump face; he told us all kinds of amusing stories about guests who got lost in Caves House, and guests who wanted furniture rearranged because they were hooked on Feng Shui, and guests who came thousands of miles just to spend all their time in the bar, and one guest who insisted that he’d seen a ghost, even though the ghost was a housekeeper. (This guest, apparently, hadn’t been taking his medicine.)

  Jason also told us some pretty good ghost stories. He started in the dining room, where he described how, one night, some staff locked the doors after the guests had left. In those days, a chain was always stretched through the door handles, to prevent anyone getting in before morning. As the staff watched in dismay, the heavy doors strained against this chain, as if someone was trying to open them from the inside.

  ‘Of course, that was a long time ago,’ Jason said. ‘More recently, during renovations that took place about six or seven years ago, the painters had a lot of trouble with ghosts. One of them was working on a scaffold when he looked around and saw a lady dressed in nineteenth-century clothes. He called out to his mates, and they turned just in time to see her fading away.’

  According to Jason, the same poor painters had stored their supplies in Room 123 – Miss Chisolm’s room. They tended to leave their stuff scattered about untidily. But then one night some nearby guests heard a lot of noise coming from that room, though they saw no one entering or leaving it; the next morning, when the painters arrived at work, they found that their paint cans had been neatly arranged against one wall, from the smallest to the largest, and that their other equipment had also been tidied up.

  ‘It could have been Miss Chisolm,’ Jason said, with a grin. ‘On the other hand, it could have been a few of the staff, dropping a hint. No one will admit to it, either way.’

  Jason actually showed us Room 123, and Room 104, too. There was nothing very special about either of them. Richard searched in vain for interesting energy signatures, while Bethan closely examined the walls (hoping, no doubt, to see evidence of paranormal scribbling, like the scrawls that kept turning up in his bedroom before we got rid of Eglantine). Meanwhile, I was distracted by some unanswered questions that I kept turning over and over in my mind. One of them involved the ghost dog in the car park. Had it really been a ghost, or had it been the Mumuga? And what about all those other strange experiences in the caves: the growls under the bridge, the closing gates, the vanishing figures? What if they had been the Mumuga, as well? What if Dad had been right after all? I remembered what he had said, the day before: ‘This land is of great importance, but not because of any ghosts. Its transcendental quality is derived from its place in Aboriginal spirituality.’