The Tens by Vanessa Jones (tharntype novel english TXT) 📕

for the birdbath. There were tiny little wooden signs that ended each row. Mint: make something brand new again. Basil: potent for money, Rosemary: protection and cleansing. There was even an adorable little sign under the huge pregnant orange tree that read: Orange blossom: propel wishes. The garden was heady with scent which transported her far away, out of her body and into a place where she was safe and not riddled with the emotional torment of being abandoned by her one true love. The smell was a comfort and a frustration; for the barely-there scent of the plants wafted over the breeze like a ghost catching flight and it reminded Sophie of something that she could not grasp. Somewhere she had been before. But her mind circled around and around and could not land on the place where she had been. It was like having a déjà vu but not being able to remember what the déjà vu was about.

Sophie slowed her shuffling down, enough that she could feel Everley tugging at her with impatience. Her head swam and she wanted to lay down in between the shrubs and watch the honeyeaters and the robins dance across her eyesight, minding their business. As she gave in to Everley’s gentle tugs and hastened her pace towards the shed, she realised two things. The shed and herb garden gave something away: that these people lived here. It wasn't just a campground for the weekend, it was their home. And secondly, she realised the smell of the herbs that had entranced her, it did so for a reason. It made her feel like she was home too.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

'Before the sermon, we simply must feast!' One of the men, Jesse, pulled back the sliding shed door like a magician pulling back a curtain to reveal a trick as Everley and Sophie approached. The shed seemed to go back like a tunnel and Sophie was in awe at the paraphernalia that lined the walls. In the middle of the shed, sat a long wooden table which was cluttered with a variety of overflowing bowls of a mish-mash of salads, dotted with condiments, plates heavy with thick meats in shades of grey, white and pink. Weaving around the plates were swarms of roots, parted by thin white candles.

The group rushed in behind her as one, clapping their hands with joy, arms entwined, a vibrancy in the air that was almost infectious enough for Sophie to catch. If she'd let herself. She didn't realise how hungry she was until she saw the luscious green leaves of lettuces laid around a bowl, shiny with oil and holding sliced boiled eggs that were covered in a greying dressing.

'Come on in!' Clive's baron-like voice boomed through the shed, drawing the group in and echoing around them until everyone found a place. Oversized mugs of steaming tea were passed around as Everley was stationed at a large porcelain urn, administering the tea to all who asked.

'Right, everyone in?' Clive checked. When there were no protests, he stood up pushing his chair back with the sinewy hard bit of the back of his thighs. Holding a candle, he jigged his way up to a large wreath that hung from the back wall of the shed. With a flourish, he lit the wreath which went up in fierce flames, in a matter of two seconds. Everyone cheered at the fiery display and began ravenously stabbing their plates with forks. Sophie watched as the wreath dripped burnt bits to the floor, nothing remaining except a bare blackened bit of wire. She wanted to get lost in the fantastical celebration of it all but the twist in her gut, that she had inherited since Alex left, would not unravel.

'Sshh. He's about to start.' One of the pointy men aggressively stated to two women who were whispering, hunched over the remains of their salad. The spicy scent of the herb garden breezed in around them.

Clive bounced up to a gap at the top of the table. Sophie had watched people earlier in the day move in a makeshift stage, which was nothing more than rudimentary steps and a small platform that jutted out, a metre off the ground. Made from plywood, it looked as unsteady as it did ridiculous against the backdrop of the cluttered shed.

Clive jogged up the steps, clapped his hands together and looked to the ceiling, keeping his hands at his chest. It was the first time that Sophie had seen anyone in the camp not don one of the hideous outdated jumpers. He wore black cargo pants and a white cheesecloth shirt, despite the chill, and looked like he could be taking a European vacation, not living out in the middle of a paddock.

'Ahhhhh.' Clive looked around at the faces that beamed up at him, while a few people shuffled around, getting comfortable, swaying their spines from side to side, wrapping excess shawls around then, reaching for one anothers' hands. They were preparing themselves to listen, Sophie noticed. They wanted to hear whatever was about to happen.

'What a glorious time is thrust upon us!' He began.

A chorus of 'Venus is...' echoed throughout the watchers. Sophie felt uneasy. Who was Venus?

'Some people, those that live in the city or other parts of the world, might believe that what we do here, what we believe, what we know to be true, is a little... kooky.' The watchers laughed.

'And that is okay. I honour all those that question their truths. But we're living together because we are preparing together. We all share a unique vision that we have been blessed with that not many of this world have been privy to. And for that, we must be grateful. Do you agree?' Clive smiled at a few people looking up at him, avoiding Sophie at all costs.

Something dropped with a clunk in her stomach. Nausea curled up like steam from