Here I am in one of those outback tin-shed pubs that I will forget by next month, thinking about why I ride from one dirt-hole to another. Do I imagine I enjoy the gambling and cheap booze so much? Or won't I admit that I need Ryas? Even my horse is tired. All I can do is lick up what Ryas offers me, and observe every particle of life that he silently lures me to. He came from Georgia to New South Wales, exuding an unspeakable force. Men preferred death to facing his mind, but I craved the flames. The air in this shantytown pub never gets any fresher. I breathe in the muck and watch the dust dancing in beams of sunlight that come from cracks in the plank walls. Forever, it seems, I am playing the rounds with Ryas Leefman, cultivator of my obsession. I watch him misspending his life; his eyes sensuous pits of the beastly unknown. We are matched in elegance --- feral creatures, profiting from a vocation that strokes the soul in either way we choose. Ryas, volcanic and refined, steals the blood of men like a prankish whore. My manhood is a mere nub that is left clanging at his pull. Yes, he is handsome. His erect ego curls my trigger-finger. I want to kill him. I'll send him out in a rhapsody of lead I think, as he shuffles the deck, lubricating the cards with his appeal. Watching him wrings my liver out. His girl is next to him, posing like a ripe tart -- her flimsy elegance deodorizing the poker circle. He kneads the vulgar tassels that dangle cheaply from her scooped neckline. "Splendiferous, my dear'" comes his approval of her whorish looks. Ryas cuts me a look. His poetic speech seems ridiculous in this blasted shack. He is aroused; searching the faces of nowhere men. He always liked to string common bushrangers along, baffling them with his smooth, easy talk. He'd pass around acrid whiskey and tobacco to get us all tame, then fiddle with the betting like you've never seen, and finally; he'd win. The minutes stretch. Men are riled by the distractions Ryas imposes on the game. Grete, a meaty moron, bangs the table. "Shut off the cream and deal us boys! Your blabbering is making us edgy!" His face was glossy with horse sweat. I did not want to look into his intense, black eyes. Raw savagery, I thought. Don't tangle with the Irish. We all waited in tenseness for a blank moment, knowing that Ryas would push and tantalize. "Oh, are we all a might tired then? Maybe we should have ourselves a nap to restore our nerves. No use getting excited over a game now --- is there? Just a bit of fun. Let's rest awhile." Playacting the fool, he stretches back, pretending sleep. My mouth gaped. Grete hunches there in a stupor, not understanding that his rump was getting a mule's kick up it. Some knotty thief stands in defiance. "I'll make eyelets in your fancy shirt Ryas!" he promises, fumbling out his clunky gun. "And I'll button your head through your rear, sir" was the awakened reply. "Eyelets and buttons? Is this the ladies' sewing circle?" spits another of the boys, leaving with coward's haste. The jittery barkeeper rushes over a bottle of gambler's tonic, knowing the time is appropriate to muzzle Ryas. "A flush of liquor, Ryas?" he said, showing the label to be his bush best. "Fill my vessel" said Ryas, always the winner. Fiendishly he dispatched a toast, pointing the finger of Zeus at the snorting Grete who was inhaling anger in strangles. "Here's to the belly of Jupiter, my friend. Suckle the wine and baste yourself in marrow." Confusion set on Grete's mottled face. "Your words is rot Leefman! I'll be danged if you peg my ass. Are we a playing or not?" Ryas elasticized his southern accent. "I'm genuine." So the fossilized faces assumed the situation... the cigarettes were lit once more. Barkeep grimaces as he buffs up the jarrah counter to a shine not befitting Shantytown. Was he thinking, as I was, how Ryas ran a perpetual stage of entertainment for his own flaky pleasure? Grete mashed his porous hand on the table, holding his privy parts with the other as if they were going to detach themselves in shock. He always bet with haste and inadequacy. We rumpled our lips as he combed his bald basin of a head with short fingers. Barkeep froze his palms to the counter in stern concentration. The ashtray is vile with use. Unhinged players sort their deal, throwing out expressions of defeat, perhaps believing more drink will change the luck Ryas has so lovingly dealt them. I see unsteady hands and dribs of saliva, brown with cigarette dung. We'd been going for hours, most of us dried up for loot or anything else to bet the master with. He had turned our bowels out again, yet I envied him and swelled hot at the thought of what he possessed. No one could resist his potency, and wherever he went --- hotels; miner's tents; whatever hole he could prop up a poker table in --- they would come and do a death ring of gambling that always saw him depart with the last coin and jewel in his wet fist. He sat as a tailored corpse, waxy and oppressive, sipping brandy even in the fustiest rooms. Dead in personality and beaming hate through murderous burnt-cork eyes, I nevertheless would be his imitator. I had followed him for about a year --- he had ignored me like I was slop, but privately, his soul hungered for me. My ribs are eaten out. He was opening me up now with a probing stare. The somber hat he always tilted low locked an eerie tinge on his pastel flesh. He knew my cards. I had nothing. He was splitting me in two. Enfeebled, I scrape for a jab at the cardsharp's only weakness --- his hatred of filth. "You're soaking in pus" I direct at the rootless sorcerer. What's in your bladder, toad-eater?" he questioned; his vowels stuffing me with sand. No one missed the flare of his gold watch as he spread out a smacker of kings. "I guess I have the whiskers again." ? He fingered the audience, his mouth fat with winnings. "You blistering bastard!" retched up a voice. "You cheated!" ? The silence was instant; those at the table stapled in a magnetic whorl. Ryas sadistically pulled his blade from his side and paused to lick the tip of the long perforator. My stomach drew in. "This here point is about to neutralize you, cowboy." The knife turned in the offender's direction. The fool withdrew; a sudsy hand clamped on his gun. Ryas' wrist spun the thresher and pinned a card to the table. "I jest not. Don't light my fuse again, because I'll plug you without a twitch. Your blood will leak for me." There was no answer left. The fool walked out stiffly and we unwound a bit. Everyone rolled out a smoke, hastily striking up. Grete blew a match out. "Call it off boys. The game's gone stale. Might as well strut off to Miss Lucille's and get a hot bath." "Yeah" happied up an unwashed nobody. "Anyone after a bit of bosom?" "Girls don't like you Grete..." put it someone. "Say you stink!" The twit surveyed the crusty crowd, hoping for a response. Their jaws clanged with laughter, filling the pub with open mouths of dingy teeth. Grete defended himself while the others kept to their amusement. "Now you wait here. Miss Lucille's never rejected on me. Hey, she's got the greasiest bun you ever slipped on. Ain't that so?" He looked at his mate for agreement, but Ryas cut in. "You filthy imbecile. My horse wouldn't urinate on you." Like naughty juveniles they waddled out in a cloudburst of yeasty laughter. Miss Lucille's girls were about to be sprayed. For a pure moment I beheld the coldness of Ryas' sculptured face... his coffin-kissing lips; wondering what it was that I should obtain from him. I stayed in the chair, compressed with the shame of my dud hand. I shriveled before him. Ryas winked, littering me on the floor of the pub. He fondled his glass, daring me to offend him. We seize each other's mind as the whiskey burned down his enviable gob. Kayleen, Ryas' woman, has her net gloves on my money, clawing it like biscuits into her beaded bag as if it was my masculinity. She'd been sitting there all comfy for most of the day. Every now and then I would notice her tawny hair glittering in the ruptures of afternoon sun. She hadn't been in Australia long, and something told me she should have been in jail. Anyway, I still admired her. She swung around and glared at me. "You'll get your goodies, sassy boy." ? My cigar was dead and hanging like a branch. Ryas' lead eyes were afire. He had the smile of a snake, wheeling me on to a rutty ride. Should I go the pace? "Meet you at the graveyard tonight. Late; real late." ? My chest lifted in expectation. He was going to give me what we both wanted. Power. I faked a casual ride out of town, passing Kayleen, motionless in the shadows. She posed astride her horse, breathing short. The hot wind meshed hair over her face and she threw me a peculiar, sour smirk. At the graveyard it was just me and the bones. My quivering back rested against a headstone. Where is Ryas? I wait, pent up and tortured. I want him. He cantered up as the stud of the night; dismounted and dropped the reigns. I didn't know if I was going to be skewered or thrilled. He thrust his body into my face. Nothing was said. The hypnotism was immensely pleasurable. When he spoke, I stood up. At last we were only eyeballs apart. "You've been on my trail like a piddling puppy." ? "Why did you make me?" ? "I don't give away what I know. Do you know what power you're after?" ? "You know I'm not a tin-penny bastard like the rest of them. And I know you're not. So, why did you make me starve?" ? "I thought you would come to the understanding that I like to tease." ? His gaze heated up. "Love it." ? "And what about Kayleen?" ? "She's a woman. They are handy to have." ? "You know she wants chains on you." ? "I only like particular chains." ? He took a shovel from his horse and tossed it on the ground. "Pick it up and dig here." ? He pointed to an unmarked grave. I didn't ask why; there seemed no reason to. I had to smolder with desire until he considered me worthy of the status of apprentice. Years lay ahead of me. "Tomorrow night you start by having Kayleen." ? "She likes her men to bleed." ? "So do I. See my spurs?" ? From now on I wouldn't hesitate. Ryas Leefman was mine. I positioned a lantern and dug up the dead. "Who was he?" ? "A gunfighter from Arizona. Died with venom in his veins." ? "Snakebite?" ? "What you need is his courage. I studied him over three states." ? "And these leftovers...?" ? "Lie on him, face up and keep your mind on the stars. I'll do the rest." ? So I vulcanized myself in an occupied grave where I learned to absorb ghost power. If this is the beginning of knowing, then I believe in eternity. |
