Lonesome Howl (6 page)

with a Harding. We've got work to do.'

Mum raises her long fingers to her lips,

telling me not to bother arguing.

I walk away.

Jake: a creek apart

Lucy is sitting on the same rock as yesterday.

She's slowly pouring beer into the stream,

one bottle at a time,

and arranging the stack of empties on the bank.

I don't really know her at all . . .

I call across Wolli Creek and she waves back.

‘I'll meet you at the bridge, upstream,' I say.

I don't feel like wading across

and getting soaked,

not with a long hike ahead.

Lucy and I walk along each bank,

glancing across every few seconds.

I feel like a real fool doing this,

separated by the creek.

We reach Hopkins Bridge

and I cross to her side.

She's carrying a schoolbag, like mine.

‘Food and water,' she says.

‘And I stole Dad's beer.

I poured it all into the creek,

while I was waiting for you.

Do you think fish get drunk?'

Jake: the swamp

We follow the creek

for a few kilometres with Lucy leading.

I can see tiny fish darting through the water

as we walk along an old sheep track

overgrown with wild grass.

This leads us into the swamp

and almost immediately

the sun passes behind a cloud.

The path disappears

as we pick our way through the sand and mud,

feeling the ooze creep around our boots.

I remember the swamp stories at school.

‘Do you believe in the lights, Lucy?'

She scoffs,

leading the way through the marsh.

‘Yeah, it's a wild pig with a torch.'

Black biting sandflies buzz around my face

and lodge in my ears.

I slap a bug off my arm.

‘This sand is really boggy,' I say.

Lucy turns and says,

‘It's mud and sand and water,

all mixed up and squelchy.

That's what a swamp is, you know?'

She sure is prickly.

As she turns and strides away,

I imitate her words under my breath

while the sludge seeps into my boots.

Lucy: the swamp

It's the arse-end of the world

and we're walking through it.

I don't believe in the lights

and I've never seen anything

coming out of this swamp but the clean water

that trickles down into Wolli Creek.

I've heard all the stories in town.

I'm not scared.

Let's face it –

if you live in a crap town

and you're going to be stuck there forever,

well, you find a place that's even worse

and you make up stories

and run it down

to build up your own little place.

You'll step on anything

just to get that little bit higher yourself.

Jake: firewood

Finally we leave the swamp behind

and start the slow climb to Sheldon Mountain

through the forest of paperbarks.

Lucy is way out in front,

forcing the pace.

I whistle for her to slow down.

‘Let's stop up ahead,

for a minute.'

We sit under a tree to rest,

both leaning against the papery trunk,

looking back over the valley.

We take off our boots and socks

and dry them on a rock.

I can see the willows along Wolli Creek

and in the distance,

smoke lazily rising

from the rusted chimney at Lucy's house.

I touch her arm

and point in that direction.

Lucy says,

‘Mum will be asking Peter

to go and get more firewood

and I know Peter will shout back,

“Get Lucy to do it, it's her job!”'

‘Don't they know you're here?'

Lucy shrugs.

‘They know nothing

and that's the way I like it.'

‘Will they do anything

when they find you're gone?' I ask.

‘Yeah, they'll make Peter get the firewood.'

Lucy: good riddance

I stretch my legs out,

feel the tension ease from my body.

Jake passes me the water bottle

and I take a long swig,

thinking of Peter having

to do some farm work,

for a change.

And Dad,

stalking around the house

looking for his beer,

saying,

‘She's probably run away.

One less bloody mouth to feed.

Good riddance.'

I reply, under my breath,

‘Good riddance to you.'

Jake: too many questions

When we start walking again

I ask Lucy,

‘Does your mum or dad

ever talk about my family?'

She keeps her head down,

treading carefully along the path.

‘I wouldn't know.

My parents don't say anything to me,

unless it's to tell me to do something.'

I can't believe that.

‘Come on. Do they?'

Lucy stops and looks at me

through her hair.

‘I told you.

They don't talk to me,

and I don't talk to them.'

She walks ahead

and I follow slowly.

I say, to myself,

‘You must live in a quiet house.'

‘
What?

'

‘Nothing. I was just saying . . .'

‘I live in a dump.

That's where I live. A dump.

Are you happy now?'

I see the anger in her eyes

and hold up my hand.

‘I'm sorry, Lucy.

It's just my dad . . .'

I stop.

This won't help matters.

‘Your dad what?'

Lucy says,

‘Didn't he want you coming with me?

Because I'm a Harding.

That's probably enough reason for him.'

Lucy shakes her head.

‘If you want to go home,

and be with your know-all dad,

then go.

No one's stopping you.'

Jake: the bush

Lucy walks deeper into the bush,

not turning around once.

I follow a few paces behind.

I'm not going back.

Not until I've proved Dad right,

or wrong.

I'm too old for wolf stories now.

It's time I found out the truth.

The land gets steeper and rockier.

Lucy and I walk slowly,

scrambling over huge boulders

on our hands and knees.

We don't talk,

aware of each sound in the forest.

Every snap of a branch

makes us stand silent and still,

straining to see what's out there.

The paperbarks give way to tall mountain ash.

The air is cold and crisp.

A cockatoo screeches, high above,

and we both jump in fright.

Lucy almost smiles, for a moment,

then she turns and follows the track.

I check my watch – midday.

We've been carrying these packs for a long time.

‘Lucy. Let's stop at those rocks ahead, for lunch?'

We scurry up the rough incline.

I climb first, stretching for each hold,

until I can pull myself onto a smooth rock.

Lucy passes both packs

and I help her up.

‘Egg sandwich, okay?'

‘You bet. I'm starving.'

She grins

and I can see she's got crooked teeth,

just like me and Mum.

It makes me like her.

My dad always joked

when he talked about Mum,

‘Never trust anyone with straight teeth!'

I think my Dad's wrong about her.

Even if she is a Harding.

Jake: knives

Lucy lies back on the cool stone.

‘My dad sat in front of the television last night,

sharpening his knives.

That means one of the old chooks

is going to get it today.

They'll be eating a stringy boiler

for dinner, tonight.

Chicken soup tomorrow night.

The dogs get the bones.'

She closes her eyes

and pulls her jacket tight around her.

I look down at her smooth skin

with the slight wrinkles around her mouth

as if she's smiling

or grimacing at the world,

I'm not sure which.

The wind is picking up.

Soon, Sheldon Mountain will be covered

in mist and cloud.

‘The weather's closing in, Lucy.

Maybe we should turn back?'

‘No way, Jake. I'm going on.'

She lifts the pack and starts walking,

deeper into the bush.

I follow, thinking of her dad

and the sharpening knives.

Lucy: the groove

Sometimes when I walk

I get into such a groove

that my mind shuts down

and a rhythm takes over.

A sentence forms,

and no matter how much

I try to forget it,

the pace of my walking

keeps it coming back.

‘My dad is an arsehole.'

Before I realise it,

I'm keeping time with a beat

that pushes me on,

step by step,

to the trees ahead;

a slow steady climb.

‘My dad is an arsehole.'

I'm bouncing along

up this narrow track

not even aware of Jake

falling further behind

with every step.

‘My dad is an arsehole.

My dad is an arsehole.'

SIX
The mist

Lucy: the mist

I love the mist,

the way it drips off the leaves

and coats everything with a glistening skin.

It reminds me of my favourite fantasy novel –

the Lady of the Lake

standing on a boat

in the middle of a veiled pond,

like a ghostly dream.

I always pictured myself on that boat,

gliding, untouchable.

With a wave of my hand

I could disappear back into the fog

from where I came.

That's the life.

Untouchable,

like a princess.

Like a wild dog.

Jake: the cold quiet

The mist closes in.

We can see ten metres

through the looming murk

and no more.

It's coldly quiet.

A fog blanket has shrouded the mountain

and dampened every sound.

No bird calls.

No insect buzz.

We're far from roads

and farms

and family

and loudmouth Peter

and the barking dogs.

Lucy and me,

creeping through this gloomy other-world.

The wallaby path gets narrower

and steeper

as we ready ourselves

for the last climb to the top.

Lucy waits for me to catch up.

She says,

‘I've never been this far before.'

I remember my trip here with Dad,

looking for lost sheep

and finding the ripped carcass.

Blood and fur,

matted together on the rocks.

‘I have. Once.'

Jake: the fall

It only takes one smooth rock,

a wet boot

and the memory of a dead sheep.

I slip

and the weight of the pack

spins me round,

backwards,

tumbling,

rolling down the hillside

unable to stop.

There's no way to escape this crazy fall.

I keep my arms tight around my head

because all I'm thinking as I roll

is a rock and my face

coming together.

I close my eyes

as the blood rushes to my head.

Lucy is shouting out my name

so I dig my feet hard into the earth

and a bolt of pain

shoots through my ankle.

That's when I stop falling

and scream.

Jake: fractured?

I close my eyes,

grit my teeth

and beat the ground with my fists,

trying to block out the pain.

I swear,

over and over,

at myself,

at the mist,

at the bloody wolf

and my dad for believing in it,

for telling me about it.

I feel totally, absolutely helpless.

Lucy slides down the hill,

saying ‘shit' over and over

as if that's going to help.

When she reaches me,

she kneels down,

unties the laces

and gently removes my boot.

‘Shit.'

‘Can you stop saying that?'

I'm shaking as I touch the lump

throbbing on the side of my ankle.

Fractured?

I have scratches on my arms and legs,

a rip in my pants,

and a cricket ball growing out of my ankle.

Lucy says, ‘Bloody hell!'

Despite the pain, I say,

‘Thanks, Lucy. That's much better.'

Lucy: shiver

I stop swearing and hold Jake's ankle

as he winces in pain.

I feel so useless,

cradling his swollen foot,

looking at his ripped clothes;

seeing him like this.

I let the weight of his foot sink into my lap

and I clutch his leg

to help him stop shaking.

We stay like this for a long time.

Neither of us know what to do.

Finally, Jake opens his eyes

and jokes,

‘Ring for an ambulance?'

I try to smile.

Jake says,

‘I think you'd better go back, for help.'

I shake my head.

‘No, not now.

I couldn't make it home before dark

and there's no way they'd find you until tomorrow.

You can't stay here all night.'

I shiver at the thought.