Broken souls are the Devil’s vessel

Inmate statement of Dupont Zantine, cover letter.

It is cold here in this dark cell but my happiness beams heavenly light for me and my new
friends who are incarcerated at with me here at Yatala Prison. Tomorrow, like today, and
yesterday, I shall be taken from this lowly room and brought to sunshine or rain so I can tend
the prison’s garden and ecological preservation effort for native plants.
My release from these grey walls is four hundred and ninety-six days from now –
though, I have found love here and have begun a long-term fruit tree grow in a plot by the
eastern wall, so that it catches the hottest afternoon sun. After my release, I may request to
return so I can continue and fund a proper program. The other inmates love the beauty of the
garden and truly enjoy helping me. It gives them some purpose into which their soul may be
delivered and saved.
Master Yoda once said; “Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter.” And at last
– after this past horrible year – I have come to realise and live that, and only now do I heal.
Souls, you see, our truest selves, deepest instincts and realisations are sponges for
divine potencies; known as gods, sages or archetypes. They whisper to us from the
Empyrean, with want to possess us by influence and our truest self must contend with their
power with acceptance or rejection. Disguised as emotions, they breach into thought and
progress through choices and then behaviour, should we allow them. Each moment is a
choice of alignment toward heaven or hell, to make reality better or worse, a choice of what
spirits to channel. Our consciousness is the last line of authority. At last, we choose what we
do – however much influenced by spiritual conviction. Spiritual conviction, however, can be
impossibly strong and no human can overcome the power of a complete breakthrough, but we
choose nonetheless.
Always thought I was good, stalwart and deeply loving, even after heavy grief. But
I’m not, and nobody is. I realised this when that infernal disaster came. Blindsided by hate I
rotted from within until happiness hurt and Hatred spawned.
Anger alone relieved me; like a drug, its powerful high was beyond euphoric.
Before my downfall, for seventeen years, then all my life, I tended toward the Muse,
the Fool, the Mother and the Scholar and heaven’s beam had always shone upon me with
passionate enthusiasm; for they were the idols I worshipped. And for seventeen years my soul
remained good. But highest heaven opens the deepest hell; yin and yang spin equal.
When the temptation of darkness came, the power of my love corrupted into a hate so
wretched and evil that my soul became host to the devil who spoke to me with words so
seductive I did not resist.
And my actions resulted in horrific catastrophe and destroyed many miracles.
Now I understand that I allowed Hellish Hatred to channel into and flow through me.
Every moment from now on, I vow to goodness and pray to be among god’s
redeemed and reunited with my father when my time comes.
There is much evil that remains in my soul. Now, it is my task to vanquish the
remaining wickedness within and shine a light unto others, heal my family, offer amendment
to the families I have harmed and be a force of good upon the earth.
Enough with the preamble, however, this is my descent into and rise from evil told in
story format.
A cautionary tale for good people.
 One
“Goodnight!” I bowed to those drunken few who remained at my high school graduation
afterparty. One final gesture to my childhood friends who shall never be all together again.
Sloshed beyond belief, I raised, then sipped my last beer and just took it all in one last time
before stepping off stage and stumbling toward dad who waited in the car.
I fumbled the door and fell into the passenger seat, so glad to sit down. Everything
hurt and I just wanted to go home and sleep for one hundred years.
“Oh Jesus… will not save you.” Dad cringed as I sprawled over the passenger side.
“Oh my god, can you not?” My stomach squelched something terrible.
“You do owe your God. Get your seatbelt on and get comfortable.” He handed me a
bucket. “Lean into this until we get to the Hut.”
“The hut?”
“Yes, yes. We are not going home; we’ve got to set up for Christmas. We’re
celebrating at the hut this year, remember?”
“No.”
“Big day tomorrow, you’ll be up in the morning like you said?”
“Morning? Oh sure.” I spat as sarcastically as I could and faced away and tried to
enjoy being drunk. 11:59 is morning.
I felt then, as we accelerated down that dark road, that everything was about to be
very different. Storms gathered overhead, lightning struck the east skies and thunder shook
the world and made it spin.
In awe I beheld the arrival of the Gods who arrived with holy ferocity; Thor boomed
in the skies wind gusted in from the sea as Poseidon raged alongside Aeolus. Morpheus and
Hypnos appeared and transitioned me from the car, across the river Lethes and into dreams…
wherein memories of crawling into a cocoon returned to me. I felt urges in the darkness. I
reached out with my new arms and flew away into the sunlight on blue wings.

***

Wind had blown away the rain with terrible force, the outback hut shook on its foundations.
Could feel the breeze on my newly shaved head.
Dad’s ‘sturdy’ creation needed better stability. Hand-made in the nineteen seventies
by himself and his ‘carpenter’ friend, Drake Stevens; it needed a lot of maintenance work.
The cold springtime sunrise had broken, pinkening the sky. The already overgrown
garden would quickly blossom.
All that seemed so far away, though.
Snug on my chaise lounge, still drunk with nausea boiling in the pit of my stomach, I
tried to relax by listening to birds chirp and the tempest blow as pale light cracked through
dark clouds. Unsuccessful I lay in a sickly frenzy.
School is over!
 The thought caused me to grin and cozied me into a heavy-eyed ease. Angelic vocals
sang to me beautiful, with voices resonating earths music and cheers of celebration and so I
sunk into perfect rest, but… my easy life was over. And there ain’t no rest for the wicked.

“Aw, I thought you’d at least be awake by now; you sounded so excited yesterday.”
Dad’s voice echoed from the stairwell and snapped me awake. His boots thudding and belt
jangling as he climbed up to my loft.
“It’s so early.” I yawned, trying not to vomit, hangover headache throbbing.
“You said you’d be ready by sunup to help with the garden.”
“Dad – I’m exhausted – I barely slept.” I complained, and looked at him; his face
looked pale and gaunt. Probably the lighting. “I’m drowsy and feel sick – my last week of
school was really hard.”
“You feel sick? Ha. So, tiredness excuses you from honour, does it? Come on, I intend
to raise a man not a wimp.”
A sickly cough burned in my throat. “Seriously dad, don’t guilt me. Can’t we do it in
the afternoon?”
“That’s when we burn away the overgrown and dead brush. Come on, we’ve got to
start in thirty minutes.”
“Isn’t that banned?”
“What? By those activist protester weirdos? They’re not authority. What do they want
to do, repurpose each and every broken branch and loose twig? World would burn down
before they put their bloody signs down. No, we burn this afternoon.”
“Can’t we do that tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we have to strengthen the houses support, you felt that wind, didn’t you?
We have a schedule, remember. And you agreed to it. You must learn integrity.”
“What is this? Boot camp? Why is this so important?”
“Because I’m raising young, capable man who can upkeep the property, you know, I
won’t always be able to.” His voice drifted. “Mandy and I are thinking of a second
honeymoon, this time next year.”
“So, it is bootcamp and you’re training your replacement so you can jack off on some
beach with mum?”
“Oh, come off it. Actually… yes, that’s correct, except she’ll be doing the…
anyway.” He turned away and trotted downstairs, garden tools dangling. “Coffee’s ready. Do
you want your usual poached eggs?”
“No!” I faced away and tried to doze into a haze.
“Suit yourself!” He shouted up, then started happily whistling. I could not block the
tune which haunted up the staircase. Then he began to fry onions, they hissed, crisped and
caramelised in smoking oil. My stomach roared with hunger. But I was tired!
Light shone within me; a divine electricity activated as if the angel of compassion had
arrived; Dad is really trying here the thought vibrated my body with an urge stronger than
hunger or the need for bladder relief, until I rolled out of bed and stood in the cold, feeling
hungry and needing to pee.
Puccini had heard me, and pranced upstairs to woof at me, then returned down to
where the food was cooking. Smart boy.
I shivered numbly until my survival instincts kicked in, they had to or I would have
frozen to death. Fast as I could, I put on my heavy coat, pants and boots and then stomped
downstairs, vainly trying to waken. Discomfort ached my whole body; the battle between
heaven and earth raged. All I wanted was to ease, but felt bad about that.
At last, I sat down and slumped at the kitchen table resting my head on my arms.
Dad sat in front of me, and put down two plates of poached eggs and tomato on toast
with so much black pepper and tabasco the whole neighbourhood probably sneezed, and a
share plate of crispy bacon. His smile was happy and his eyes full of aliveness. Puccini
jumped and begged for bacon by offering a handshake. Ask and thou shalt receive.
I threw some down, then looked up at dad. He had already almost cleared his plate.
“Thank you.” I resigned, and pulled my plate closer.
“Knew you’d come around!” He grinned. “How was your sleep?”
“Terrible, I want to go back to bed.”
“When you’ve got work in the morning, don’t drink yourself silly the night before.
Schools still got a few lessons for you, it seems.”
The temptation to flick egg at him was very strong. Damn Trickster, stop being funny.

(I’m not the Trickster – I’m Justice!)

“When’s mum and Ester coming?” I ate the egg.
“Tomorrow – I believe. The garden and house work is our territory, you know, and
we will be up each morning; they’ll refurbish and redesign the interior. By Wednesday you’ll
be used to it and won’t want to sleep in.”
Damn it. “Nah, want to play your piano for them. Still can’t believe you built it.”
“Tuned her last week.” Dad announced, proudly. “She’s pretty rock and/or roll. Tell
you what: you work well enough today and we’ll make some music after dinner, sound good?
Record something maybe.”
“Yeah, if I’m alive.”
“You’ll be right, the work will waken you. Speaking of which…” Dad stood and went
over to the workbench and found the correct tools and presented them as I ate. “Spade and
secateurs should work to uproot the clovers; we’ll start with them then get to the wild grass
roots.”
“Alright.”

Breakfast settled and coffee drank I felt much better and proud that I followed through with
my promise. A holy reward for heeding the angels; but they continued to test me.
Dad led us to the front door and opened it wide. The sting of the breeze hurt pretty
bad. “Ow!” I yelped as the bitter wind nipped my ears and nose.
“Get to work and you’ll warm up.” He had already pulled a handful of roots out.
Exhausted, but willing I found a way. I leant down, and began to pull, faster and faster
to snuff the cold, and let the moment wash over me like meditation.
The work got easier as the minutes progressed. After a while, I had noticed that
mushrooms of all sorts had sprung up overnight in the rain.
“Hey dad, can we eat these?”
“Some we can, we can have them for lunch. Nothing tastes better than freshly picked
mushrooms.”
Once we’d cleared all the weeds – we together picked all the good white caps and
made a salad. Dad picked some ones that bruised blue, but did not explain to me why.
“This, my dear boy is the fun part.” He held up a weird, gun looking cannister.
“What’s that? A flame thrower?” I joked.
“Yes, well, it’s a diesel disperser. It drips flame, we’ll use it to control the fire so that
it sweeps through the yard entirely and at low intensity.”
“That is so damn cool – can I use it?”
“I’ll show you how it works first, but sure, while I pile the bigger branches you can
keep up the easy burn.”
Together we set the yard on fire. Better by our hand than by Gods.
Feverishly hungry, we roasted locally hunted wild boar over the raw licks, and ate
gloriously like cave men.
After some whisky – dad found the courage to play his very own sonata on his hand-
made piano for me. Sat on the porch I listened and watched the garden dance in the breeze.
What a full day, my rest that night felt very earned. What a good day. Imagine if I’d stayed in
bed.
 Two
Mum arrived with Ester at noon on Monday.
I noticed the forlorn mood as the turkey roasted, like ghosts disappearing in the air.
Dinner was wonderful but that forsaken feeling never faded, until at last we toasted with
brandy over pudding and custard.
“You all must have noticed my push to connect you with my life,” dad announced.
“Your obsession to teach us all you know has got a bit tiresome, dad. We’re our own
people.” Ester said.
“You are indeed, and you are my children. My legacy, my renewal and survival. I
bestow my magic unto you selfishly. I want the force of my life to live on. For you to have
learned my lessons and my life’s work preserved.”
“Very poetic and beautifully spoken, dad. What is this about?” Ester’s sarcastic tone
faded halfway through the sentence. “You’re never this sentimental.”
“I was diagnosed five years ago. Inoperable cancer, stage four now – I don’t have
long.”
“What?”
“Dad! No?!” Ready for them to say ‘punked’ and laugh at the inappropriate and
severely unfunny joke, I braced for impact. Nobody cracked a smile. Damn, hadn’t realise
how good actors they were.
“Do not hate me but… when I learned that I was presented with a choice: to get
treatment and be in and out of hospitals for expensive procedures and save another so many
years of low energy life and for you to know me as a sick man who required care and pity, or,
to raise you two, be the best father I can be, give you the best childhood and raise you to see
me as a hero who can do anything. And I chose.”
“You can do anything, dad.” Ester sobbed. “You raised two successful, good children
who are educated and hard-working with only a small criminal history… thankfully without
jailtime.” Ester’s smirky eye was meant to knife me, so I laughed.
“Thank you. It’s not so bad, and it’s not all over. I’ll be here for new year’s… then…
then I’ll face the Lord on my terms. Socrates spoke of a completed life. I’ve lived all my
dreams and had a long life of love and have left my bit of Earth a little better than I found it.
Would have been good to see a Tasmanian sunset one last time – but – in show business they
say – leave them wanting more. Good day, good sleep; good life, good death.”
“We can go, make one final trip?” Ester’s voice cracked, deep sadness had set into her
confused eyes.
“No, I want to be home. With Pucci, with all of you. Then… I alone will go.” His
certain expression hardened with the final syllable.
“What are you going to do? Kill yourself?” I joked.
“Yes. In a way – I have arranged a ceremony with an Amazonian Shaman who will
open the way and then lead me into forever.”
Silence cast over the family as the meaning of his words hung in the air.
“Well!” I jump up with bombastic boisterousness and high energy cheerfulness. “We
can drink to that.” I skipped over to the mini-cellar and found the 500mL 1995 Cognac, four
glasses and returned to the table.
“Dupi!” Mum gasped. “You… can’t open that! That’s for… the most important
occasion.”
“Mum.”
 “Oh, bloody hell, he’s only dying! I was saving that for Puccini’s 10th birthday.”
“Serious? I only got the cancer to drink the cognac. Now I will die without a taste?”
Dad dramatized. “Oy vey!”
We all laughed until Ester interrupted with a slammed fist. “Dupes, I’m thirsty! Hurry
up with grandma’s old booze.”
“Overruled!”
“Here, here!” Dad bellowed.
I offered the bottle between mum and dad. “The honours?”
Dad sat back, hands in lap and looked at mum.
“Yes, my King.” She yielded, then carefully popped the aged cork, poured into four
small glasses and set the bottle down.
“To Ganthor Zantine’s death!” I raised my glass.
“To death!” Ganthor chanted.
“To death!” Quartet unison, then we drank.
Granny Anny sheened from the living room.
 Three
Next morning, I had woken very early, decided to have a shot of whisky, toke my pipe and
return to bed. Relaxed into the deepest, most comfortable rest as the smoke flowed through
my blood and I disappeared into the strangest reverie.
The forces of love, sentimentality and pride stood by and supported a newly
confident, potent and frenzied Muse who spoke with elegant clarity: Much of the best music
has been written in great pain and music is father’s passion. You and he never played a duet,
perhaps it is too late for that; but a performance for him is not. It is time for harmony.
Creative juices poured from the ether and into my mind as I awoke once again – and
to the smell of caramelising, nearly burnt onions and mushrooms and coffee.
I awoke and skipped downstairs, tripped over Puccini and smashed my knee on the
wall as I hit the floor.
“Slow down there, mate.” Dad did not look up from the yolk mixture he poured in.
“Potato pancake?”
“Please.” I hobbled over to the table. “Big day today.”
“What’s up?”
“Well, you’ll find out soon enough.
“Oh?”
“Can’t say!”
“Alright, alright enough with the vagueness – here’s your breakfast – there are no
illusions on the plate.”
“Yeah, right.” I took one bite, and squealed at the heat.
“New hot sauce I’ve found called Dingo’s – that one is Mango Habanero.”
“My god!”
“Speaking.”
“Oh bugger off.” I gasped. “Mm, very fruity. Not so bad actually, just didn’t expect
the spice.”

The time to message everyone I’ve ever known from the high school’s music programme had
come.
“Hey! Still doing music? Remember you were pretty good from high school.”
(“Yes.”) “Great! Are you in a band, or know any bands that need pianists? Gotten back into
music again – and only really worked on stuff alone – but want to try out playing with others.
Can send you some recordings, if you’d like, give you a sample of my sort of skill level and
style.” Or some variation got sent out, mostly to no response until, at last, Gabriella
Veronique did know of a struggling ‘boy’ band with two very feminine girls as lead vocal
and guitar. They were the men of the group while the boys remained boys.
Modern ideas are weird.
Anyway, “they met every Wednesday and Saturday and would ‘love to have a noob
with fresh ideas’ to join the band. | ‘If they’re not shit.’”
“Thank you for connecting us Gabe | Nice to chat with you again.”
“Yeah! You too.”

“Hey! Gaby mentioned you. Glad to hear you’re keen! We’re at 31 Wayward Grove. We start
at eight thirty and usually meet at eight.”
 “See you tomorrow!”

On Wednesday, I was out front of the address by 7:59 sharp and walked to the door. I readied
to knock, but the door swung open before I could.
“Welcome stranger!” Greeted a gracious, and oddly sexy girl with quirky gothic
features, seductive eyes and a happy grin. Her persona immediately attracted my attention.
“Hello there.
“General Kenobi… you are a bald one.”
“Heh, yeah, donated it. Used to be long and black, but would be uncomfortable with
the coming summer heat. Uh, I’m Dupont, here to–”
“Join the band! Yep. I’m Priscilla – you can call be Prissy, but not pissy, pansy or
pussy or else I’ll make it look like suicide with two shots to the back of the head. Lovely to
meet you!” She jumped forward and hugged me with both arms and full body weight.
No cuddle had ever felt so good, I don’t know – there was something about her touch
that was just… so amatory, so flowery, so feminine and made me feel so very fertile.
“Pleased to meet you too.” I said… And so is he, oh, bout to press against her leg, oh,
careful there… then broke the embrace.
“Welcome to the studio. As you can see, it’s just a granny flat we’ve installed a bar
and mixtape table into, but we make it work. Speaking of bars, you want to do some chin
ups? Five at least before you come to the bar and have a drink, we’ve just bought bottle of
Jose Cuervo. Don’t mind Slim Jim.” Prissy pointed to the dalmatian who relaxed like a good
boy on his bed. “He’s a licker – like the tequila. Oh my God, why am I a musician I should
have been a comedian. How am I this funny. So do you want a drink?”
After basking in the room for half a moment, I nodded. “Please.”
“Then give me five!” She pointed to the pull-up bar over the bar pass.
“Right-o.” I jumped up and did six.
“Oi, Dopey, here’s your drink – by the way these are the guys. This is Jess, badass
bass bitch. Nah, she’s a softie.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” I met Jess’s gaze and shook her delicate hand.
“Likewise.” Jess seemed so ordinary, dressed in funky attire and Nike SBs. I looked
closely at them and saw tears at the toe edge and ripped laces. “Skate much?”
“Whenever I’m not jamming. Keeps me off drugs.”
“Oh, fair enough – that’s good. Mature decision. Do you drink?”
“One sip, one smoke and four years of growth will be undone, so no. Maybe one day
I’ll be able to have a beer with the boys, but not for many years. No caffeine either, or red
meat.”
“Respect. I’ll remember not to offer you any then.”
“Thank you, it’s for my health, I’m not a square. I would eat meat and be drunk if I
could, believe that. By the way this is Mat.”
“By the way I’m Mat.” Mat slapped me on the shoulder and pulled me in for a man
hug, our tips may or may not have touched. “And this!” Mat presented. “Is Hubert Humberto
the dirty Mexican.”
“Don’t say that! You horrible racist.” Hubert offered me a handshake. “Can’t stand
when people call me that and not the filthy Guatemalan that I am.”
“Habla Español?”
“We have Tylenol, don’t know about halophenol.”
 “Hilarious. I’m Dupont anyway.” I offered my hand
“What kind of Frog name is Doo-phondt” Hubert shook it.
“Obviously the name of a mad lad.” I tried.
“We’ll see.” Mat said, before picking up and blowing into his trumpet.
“Well!” Prissy cut in. “You gaylords can flirt later or get into heavy petting or
whatever, let’s warm up. Oi, Dopey, piano is over there. Go tune it or whatever. Hubert is
your reed in?”
“Net yet, sir!”
“What is your major malfunction, dirtbag?!” Prissy exaggerated frustration and went
over to her bass and huffed. “We’ll just riff for a while – in base C – exchange style and see
what we can come up with. Fifteen minutes of free play, no stopping, no talking, only music.
Everyone ready?”
I nodded.
Then there was a silence, all was still. Priss plucked the first note, a smooth C boomed
into the quiet like Thor’s thunder, the beauty of the sound caused me to laugh with sudden
ecstasy. She continued up and down C blues scale with a strange funk compound rhythm,
each note punching the space with perfect sharpness.
“Sir, poor leadership, sir.” Hubert’s warm up was more of a show off, he started on a
low C, harmonising with Priss, then bent the note up so that it hit every frequency up to Db,
then again up to D and so on for every other note up and then down the range of the
instrument. I did not know saxes could do that. Tim bounced from C to G up and down the
register of his trumpet finding anchor. Jess a syncopated beat with mathematical precision
and Mat riffed on the guitar, gliding over the C blues chords.
And – there was music, a steady flow of styled notes harmonised in the soundscape.
Whether due to the music or alcohol, it did not matter, but my Muse arose from heaven
within, summoned to the vibrations of sound – the synchronicity – the humanity. For I
noticed the music felt like accompaniment for a centre focus.
…3… 1…
On beat 3 I let my raised my hand, and let my thumb drop on middle C and began to
improv in the most basic style, slowly adding complexity and layers until I found a flow that
worked with the band’s rhythms, styles and progressions, and that felt good.
It was weird, I woke up with an idea, and there I was that afternoon playing. What
force compelled me I love eternally.

“You play hm, well… like a true pianist, this is why we’ve been without one for so long.”
Mat said.
“Okay…?” I rested my arms and looked at his smirking face.
“Snaking everyone’s lines, like right after they begin. Can’t do that. You have to learn
to listen to other players and not cut them off. Thankfully there just a few crashes, but no
injuries.” He elaborated.
“You make me sound like a scooterer at a skatepark.”
“You’re equivalent, yeah, good analogy.” Jess put in. “Pianists are the worst. Look up
worst in the dictionary and you’ll hear the Entertainer playing in your ears.”
Mat yawned. “As repentance, Doo-doo Pond, go get us some alcoholic beverages
from the bar fridge.”
“You what mate.” I laughed.
 “I’ll have a Jack and Coke mate.”
“Same.”
“Get me a stout, and yourself whatever.”
“Jeez, guys, bloody right-o, settle down. What did your last slave die of?” I scoffed.
The thought of more tequila was a good thought.
“Over work.”
Brews in hand, I kicked the fridge closed and went over to sit with my new friends.
Somehow their gnarly remarks made me feel welcome. I distributed the refreshments, sat
down and for a moment we all drank in silence.
“So, like, what’s up? Why are you here? Not to sound rude, but what’s your deal.”
Mat asked.
“Oh… well,” I drank, burped, drank again. “Never did much with my music. Dad’s
not well, he’s… not got long. Wanted to perform for him if possible before his time – um, if
not, at his funeral. He taught me music but we never played together – um… so I wanted to
honour that by playing in a group for him.”
“You want us to make music for a dead man still alive. And then a dead man? Who is
the same man, because he’s going to die.”
Priss shot him a confused look.
“Yes actually.” I said. “That pretty well sums it up.”
“That’s very heavy metal man, not going to lie. So, we got to write like a funeral
march?”
“With fiery licks.” I said.
“Hell, uh I mean, Heaven’s yes!”
“Same place.”
“Alright! Let’s do it.”
Priscilla suddenly looked quite serious. “We’ll work on your group playing, it’ll take
some time, especially because you’re a nuisance pianist but, you’ll work well with us I think,
think if we put our skills and drives together, we’ll be able to make some good music. We’ll
run you through some of our songs – charts are piss easy but you’ll have to improvise over
the basic score. Then we can start to think about some of your project and wrap up for debrief
by ten thirty.”
“Thank you.”

Rehearsal ended. We had vague sketches for an experimental jazz fusion album.
“See you again on Saturday.” Priscilla smiled, her genuinely kind and happy
expression jolted me forwards. Never have I craved love so hard, nor so quickly before, but
titanically I remained still.
“Thank you, yeah, I look forward to it. See you then, Priscilla.” I smiled.
She smiled, then waved. As I walked away, the feeling that I would certainly die
without children panged within me unless I do something about it then and there. God damn
it – how does she have this effect on me?

December had come too fast.

Our song, here’s to you rain main, (for your fertile seed; as god jizzes upon the earth;
to bring life, like my birth, now I too shall breed…) the psychedelic ballade of praise of life,
centrepiece of the album, was complete.
On Christmas day, after sneaking strangers into the garage, I went over to the family room
where dad was sat. He had a sort of distress in his eyes which cast over his smile, but I
pretended not to notice.
“Dad, there are some folks I’d like you to meet and a present for you.” It pained me to
see him in such sickly, unrecoverable sorrow as death closed in.
“Yes, my dear boy. My dear Dupey, show me your friends.”
“We have set up in the garage, set the King’s Seat for you.”
“Now?”
“Now, come along.”
Life came back to him in a flash as he jumped up as if it were his last life mission and
hobbled – on his own, mind you – to the garage. Reminded me of Grandpa Joe after Charlie
brings home the golden ticket.
Hubert took it upon himself to play Chopin’s famous funeral march as father entered.
“Welcome, dead man.” Priscilla boomed.
“Howdy there, Lovely!” Dad beamed. The Christmas party had already assembled
into an audience, mum stood by his seat as cup bearer. He straightened up and skipped over
to his place like a child. “Hi everyone!”

We played through 70’s and 80’s rock and roll, then at last presented our ballade for him. The
joy, the pride, the sadness, the intensity of emotion in his face as we blasted that final chord
caused him to kick over the King’s Seat, spill the King’s Wine and roar with applause. It
wasn’t applause for the music, I don’t think, but applause for the humanity, applause that his
music teaching, his piano building, his musical way of life had paid off, that I had played
with a group in his life time.
“We have a whole album for when you die!” Priscilla said.
“Oooh! I’ll tune in on God’s radio, and listen from the clouds. I will be there to hear
it, I promise.”
“Don’t worry Dopey.” Mat had picked up the Kings Seat and brought over a plastic
garden chair. “You sit with your old man, I’ll get the drinks.”
Mat returned with vintage bourbon and poured nine tall glasses, neatly.
“Leave the bottle, I’ll need it for the barbecue,” Hubert said. “Oh Mr Zantine, sir, I’ve
been marinating these ribs in my glazed barbecue recipe and my goodness, my dad showed
me how do this when I was a kid, the sticky, sweet, succulent meat would convert any die
hard vegan, going to oil the barbecue with bourbon.
“Can’t wait, I’m starved. The King demands entrees!”
“I’ll make a platter.” Mother offered, and disappeared into the house.

“Thank you, boys, for this rock and roll treat, absolutely thrilled that you’ve made an
album for me, you’ve made a wonderful night, best of my life.”
“And it’s not over yet.” Mother winked. We all pretended to ignore that.

He was buried at James’ cemetery’s Citrus Grove on the Second of January.

Took several weeks for Puccini to realise he would never return and stop waiting by
the bedroom door with a sock, ready to play.
 Four
“Christmas will be different this year,” Mother announced. “My mum has invited us to
Tasmania – where the rest of the family will gather. Xavier and Jamie-Lee are coming down
from Canada, Jackson from New Zealand and I hope Roger and Gloria can come from
Germany, but there have been those international complications. Are you both coming?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea, get back to our roots a little more.” Ester said. “I am.”
“That sounds wonderful, I’ll come,” I said. “Might take some time off before then,
spend the rest of Spring at the hut, it’ll need some maintenance, meet you guys there in
December some time.”

An assembly of activists had gathered in the city, loudly protesting controlled burns for their
environmental harm.
“Our environment is poisoned; our ozone is damaged! Fire smoke is a pollutant! Clear
dead wood safely with gathering and donation to the local woodworks so they can be more
properly used. Fire destroys the habitat of too many animals it must be prevented! Ban all
fire!”
The absurdity of their statements took me off guard; the demonisation of that which
has made us human, besides, the impracticalities of their statements were so goofy even
verging on silly. No way they can be taken seriously, right?
I drove my packed ute the forty-minute drive out to the hut. To my horror, I had
noticed that the way did seem more overgrown than usual. Should have gone around to
question the locals when the burn-offs would begin, would have, but I noticed groups of
volunteers attempting to clear the bushland by hand and load up storage trucks.
Wonder if they realise how bad all that combusted fuel is for the ozone.
Not going to stop me. As soon as the last of winter passes – I’ll weed and burn as
instructed by my father and protect the hut. I had decided.

Rained early the next day so I could only clear weeds and prepare the ground for the burn,
but after that I could only wait.
It rained for a week. Alone with the piano, Puccini and I were happy. At last, the
storm passed and the summer sun beamed hotly.
Dry air had blown in with harsh winds, and at last, that Friday, about noon, it was
almost dry enough to really prepare the grounds. I had decided to clear away the small debris
around the property with a small burn; but it was far too smoky to do much more.
So, I chose to really start the next morning.

And so, I collected my fishing gear, saddled on Puccini’s lead, packed my rucksack
and headed off to the lake up north. Thought the floods and water-streams would bring in
much more fish from the river.
We hiked to the water’s edge, found a dry, stony bank and set up camp. The view was
incredible, especially at sunset. Cool air wisped on the wind as night fell.
There were plenty of fish, but I only needed two and caught them quickly. Planned to
have them for breakfast the next day. For a few hours, we lazed, explored, ate steak and
drank together under the moonlight.
 Five
Puccini and I listened to Puccini’s Turandot, as performed by Wichita’s Grand Opera, 2015
and basked in dusk’s fading warmth as I felt for tugs on the lines. Night’s darkness revealed
the universes beauty. Brilliant stars sparkled against deep blue cosmos, there was nothing
between me and them, I looked up into infinite depth and felt the totality of creation wrap
itself around me. Reality hugged me with the force of an entire spacetime – as it hugs you
too, dear reader. Never before or since had the magnitude of love and spiritual splendour
been so real to me. Father’s smile beamed down from above.
Afterwards, we put on Verdi’s Il Trovatore with the Berlin State Opera, 2013.

There was a significant tug on the line that throbbed at a fishy pace. I jumped up to reel it in,
last fish before I packed it all away, and pulled in a large kingfish. A mysterious dread
washed over me when I touched it – a horrible sunken fear. Tears pooled at and dripped from
my eyes.
Puccini howled in panic. Smoke filled the air.
I looked up as death descended.
White clouds formed on the ground and floated up under orange spikes.
I rubbed my eyes to see clearer, they had begun to sting and itch something terrible.
BUSH FIRE! A cry came from within. It’s damn bushfire.
Smoke filled the atmosphere.
I glanced about for nearby foliage and did not see a lot. Dusty smog suffocated the
entire world. It wouldn’t be the fire that would kill me, but the damn smoke that had gotten
grotesquely strong. Flickers of orange, and blasts of heat blazed against the night as it spread
through the bushland. Black smoke choked the air and blocked out the moon.
Cornered into the billabong, my world closed in.
I gave myself over to panic, to fight, to instinct for survival. Without thought I jolted
up and dashed over to where Puccini had collapsed on the dirt. I grabbed him and dragged his
heavy body into the cool pond waters, then improvised a mask for the both of us with my
jumper and shirt.
Puccini’s wheezes stoked the most unpleasant gloom I’d ever felt. If he died in my
hand, I could not live with myself.
I held him tight, head above the water in profound, almost holy horror all night.

Then there was light. Sunrise pinked the east sky. Wind blew and cleared much of the smoke.
Puccini crawled to the sand, stood and shook off some soot and muck. We had
survived. I stood, grabbed his lead and surveyed the remnants of the burned earth.
It all looked pretty barren. Birds chirped and tried to find their homes among the
coals, but no trees stood. Only ash blew in the wind.
Dad!
I looked downhill and followed the trail back with my gaze. Across the lane was a
square of blackened embers and what looked like melted twisted metal. The hut was no more.
Scorched and still aflame, the structure had crisped. I walked through the desolation. Dad’s
piano had broken into ashes.
Holy shit.
Tears welled at my eyes, I fell to my knees.
But it was no time to be emotional.
 It was hot, I was emotional, Hell had closed in. I prayed, I heeded heaven for a guide.
In the silent smokiness I sat until a clear thought drifted into my consciousness: The
book of fish has a printed map.
Thanks God.
I unshouldered my bag and retrieved the book, from which I could trace a path to the
nearest town of Brukunga
“Let’s go, boy.” Puccini at my side, we began our trek across the wasteland.
A panic so furious calmed me into total focus.
Dad’s music! Was my first thought, his compositions! His CD records! The piano!
What has happened! This is unbearable! Panic crippled me.
KEEP GOING.
With grit teeth, I stood and continued toward Brukunga. The landscape was black, the
fire had destroyed everything. Whispers of hatred laughed in my soul. All goodness had
evaporated. As I marched it felt as if I had charged over a trench toward the enemy. Were I to
encounter any oppositional forces, I would have killed without hesitation.
Who are the enemy? God? Nature? The realisation screamed my soul deep into the
depths of Tartarus, the agitation gave me the worst boost of energy I have ever felt. I just
wanted to be distracted and in denial, this was all so silly. Not the damn activists. I looked
around. What else could have fuelled such an intense fire but the unburned brush? Their
protests did this. The realisation pounded into my skull. And in that moment, when all Light
had faded, Hatred alone swelled within me. I no longer felt sad or existential, just angry.
What had they done? Are they to be punished? Do they even realise this was them?
They’ll probably use this to further their ideology – somehow.
I lost my mind, then. Took a fallen branch, and, as if it were a sword, I smashed a
rock over and over again until the wood split in twain.
A forced calm of exhaustion fell over me. I pulled Puccini closer. “Well, boy, we’ve
got some idiots to destroy.” Together we stumbled toward the nearest road.

The bottom of Hill crescent looked like a war zone. Houses had exploded fallen away. A
charred, dead body lay in the gutter.
What?
No.
I did not believe it.
I dragged Puccini over to the crusty deadness, and to my horror found that, yes, those
were human remains. [Belonging to Gormun Cox I found out later.]
It was no time to be terrified, we had to keep going. Puccini barked wildly, I knelt, pat
him and held him tight and then yanked him and myself forward up Hill Crescent.
Four more properties had been ruined, many continued to smoke. Firefighters worked
their way down, but were presently overwhelmed.
I heard horrific screams wail in the distance, caused my hair to stand on end. Instinct
caused me to run over toward the sound of sorrow, but even on the bottom of the street I
realised that I was too late. On the porch of a smoking bungalow two things squirmed but
smoke and red licks stung my vision from far away.
I pulled Puccini aside, and chose to break through someone’s back yard to avoid the
smoke. Across the street I could see that the structure slowly blackened and broke as screams
got louder and more ferocious. It was difficult to feel, then.
Sudden silence cut through the smog.
The smoke blew away after an hour. I kicked in the backdoor of this random house
and found the kitchen. I took a bowl from the sink and filled it with water, I splashed myself,
again, and then splashed Puccini, again, then filled it and drank a whole bowl and again, and
then filled it and put it on the ground. Puccini drank for five minutes straight.
I watched through this family’s lounge window that the house next door had burned
out and the smoke slowly faded. I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge and found some
juice, a bottle of water and some nicely plated roast beef.
Without shame, I took two plates for myself and put a third on the floor.
Puccini and I ate like Kings in the Wasteland, these people roasted a good beef.
Another round of water later, and the smoke had almost completely died down in the
house next door. Perhaps everything had burned away. First, I filled my water bottle and stole
two more, filled them and put them in my back-pack. I took the rest of the roast beef too, in a
cooler bag I had found, and stole some ice to keep it good.
Puccini and I hurried through the front door and out onto the street only to find the
one of the worst images, the most horrific realities one could ever see.
The family had gotten out together. Looks like the father led them, but something
caused them to fall and they died together on the porch, their charring corpses were then
melting together in the embers.
Like a good soldier, horror did not affect me, then, it could not.
They were beyond help; I could still help myself. So I did not approach them but
continued on my way along the hazy road.
Over the rook we found a filthy, bloody boy sat, leaned against a stone post. I thought
he was dead too, but Puccini aggressively jumped toward him, ripped his lead from my hand,
and hurried over to lick the boy’s face. That made the young lad gurgle.
I reached over and touched the boy’s face, a vital warmth flushed through it. “Hello?”
I said, probably sounded stupid, but he cracked his eyes open.
He grunted a dry low croak, then reached out to me. “Are you here to save me?” His
broken voice bled.
“Yes.” Without thought I reached for my second water bottle and gave it to him.
After a long drink, the boy looked at me. “What happened? Are my family good?”
A coldness swept through me, then. We had to survive together now. A boy
tormented by grief would be problematic. “The guys from the house? Yeah – saw them a way
off – also headed to town. Was trying to get to them before I found you, actually. I’m sure
they’ll be there when we get there.” I had to convince him. “What’s your name?”
“Jerome.” The boy coughed.
“Well Jerome, I’m Dupont – good to meet you – think it’s time to get out of here
though – who knows what God will do next.” I reached out my hand, he took it and stood, he
collapsed against me.
“That wasn’t god.”
No, it was not. “Firies are just down the road, they’ll help us, we just need to get to
them.” I assured the confused chap.
Side by side, we dragged ourselves and Puccini toward the red and blue lights that
flashed in the distance.
“Mum told me to always stay put when lost.”
“Not when there’s immediate danger.”
“What if she’s mad at me, for leaving?”
“After this… she will never scream at you again.” I choked. “You’ve been so brave.”

Rain fell bringing coolness to the air, along with noxious fumes. Jerome’s coughs had
got far worse.
At last, we had arrived at red and blue. Police cars had blocked off the road, the
officer radioed updates. I could not speak; the smoke had dried my lungs. I collapsed out of
total exhaustion, the last of my energy clutching Jerome’s head, guiding it to my belly so he
didn’t die as we fell.
The officer noticed us, I heard him approach and felt his touch. There was, after that,
a sensation of lifting… then total oblivion.
I woke in that hospital bed with a fixed, holy resolve.

Fall from Heaven

No peace found me as I lay and watched the garden blow in the wind from my private room
in the trauma centre. I played the part of a healing man until my release, all the while, hell on
my mind.
Moved back home, mum and sister were still away. Puccini and I were cooped up
alone.
Agony of grief was too raw; it took possession of my body. I reached over to the wall and
pulled down my broadsword, yanked it out and violently hacked at the log pile until the blade
bent.
Peace weakens you. Forgiveness ruins you. How do you enjoy the pain that ever
oozes through you like thick sadness? Your goodness is not justice. Not only do they continue
to protest – but are unaware of the damage they have caused – you have let them get away
with your downfall. And you hate yourself for it.
Hatred haunted my every thought.
“What do you want me to do? Kill them?”
Not so straight-forwardly.
“Make them kill themselves?”
Good idea.

I put down the sword and lay abed – sleep came easy.
I awoke dreadfully nervous.
It would be my final day of a normal life, whatever the result. My self could not cope
with the pressure. Silent meditation settled my fluttering heart. With the sincerest prayer, I
begged muse of music, artist divine I give myself over to you.
Divine energy surged through me as passion burned with excitement; called Apollo,
Ihy or Saraswathi. Possessed by this deity, I became fearless.
Drove to the monument where Priscilla and Jess oversaw the stage crew.
“Dupey! You’re here early.” Pris waved. “Going to be a big day today, good turn-out.
Was such a good idea to book this venue and on such a beautiful day. We’ll attract heaps of
passer-bys.”
“Yeah, the numbers look good, I’m keen.”
“Need help with your keyboard and speakers?”
“Think I’ll be okay – might take some time for me to figure them out.”

Gathered with the locals and nearby farmers to speak on the necessity of environmental
upkeep and maintenance with four guest speakers.
300volt cord into a 300-volt outlet, turned up to maximum. Left to run properly, the
generator hummed to life. I cordoned off the area.

Activists had congregated.

“Fires must be banned!” Chants interrupted the speakers. “We will not tolerate the
advocation of burning. Smoke pollutes our already diseased earth and it must be stopped.
Human intervention has caused too much imbalance, it must end!”
“Your absurd ideas are beyond dangerous; your rhetoric is terribly destructive.”
“The amount of pollution you’re causing here to advocate pollution is what continues
to destroy the earth!”
“No! This has gone far enough. Last year-”

Four activists had snuck around the generator.

Warn them! Humanity whispered. Stop this! Turn off the generator!
“Get off the generator, get away from the stage and do not touch anything.” Said the
speaker.
“Scary words won’t affect our cause!”
“Step back! I mean it. Go.”
“So that you can continue the show? Do you think we’re stupid?”
Anger filled me as I reached for the mic, for the power control.
And allow them to continue this idiocy? Let it be unpunished? The thought stayed my
hand. As I stood still, happiness washed over me, a gentle, childlike joy.
Four idiots bypassed the caution: high voltage fence. Thought they could just unplug
the cables.
Nobody stopped them.
The sudden break caused the power to surge and spark.
Electricity buzzed through the hands of the activists, zapping them to the spot with a
boom. Their stiff bodies collapsed to the floor.
Screams of horror filled the soundscape.
Flames licked at the dry grass. Smoke choked the air. The sudden, panic induced
evacuation was pure horror.
As soon as I comprehended what had happened, I cut the power main and the
generator flickered to a halt, the broken fan stopped.
I watched some brave man throw clothes onto the generator to smother what he could,
while two others sprayed the area with fire extinguishers to at least push it away.
Flames burned through the bush. I laughed at the hellscape, at the fear, at the death.
Justice Hatred cackled. The music of revenge has a wonderful melody.
Disbelief panged my soul.
“Dupont! Let’s go!” Jess bashed into me with terrible frenzy. She grabbed and pulled
until I stumbled after her.
Emergency services sped toward the fire as we stumbled en masse toward the main
road. No fear or post traumatic stress afflicted me, only guilt. I hadn’t given myself to the
music, but to passion in disguise. I realised the devilry before I felt it. Devoted to that spirit
with complete conviction and love, my vision had distorted.
Satisfied, the hatred in me died down to embers. Left with my humanity and
conscious, reality had set in.
Success felt awful.
Guilt haunted me, despite my lawful innocence.

Sparks ignited; a cord had been split. Power overcharge caused electric surges that
zapped openly. Screams of horror were cut short, by the short circuit. Overcharge sent heat
spurting into the air. Connection with the ground condemned two instantly. Four others
became trapped as fire caught and began to spread.
As safety protocol dictates – I powered off the machine, and dialled down the charge.
With only basic fire extinguishers and a single hose, little could be done beside
contain the fire, so we cut off supply and covered and drenched what we could.

Police interrogation:

Questions at the station were not as harsh as I had thought. Four protesters had died.
All had been proper. In their barrage they had damaged the generator’s power cords.

Overridden with guilt – evil beckoned me to embrace it.

Truly I hate it, father would not have been proud.
Found not guilty and released – I realised the horrible truth of my evil and shunned it.

I went to the churchyard.

“May I garden for you?”

I garden now – seven days a week for local church yard and temple, each have given me my
own allotment to grow what I please.

Tomato seeds in the ground could at last restore mine soul and the world entire.