Red Fox (11 page)

“Should we follow the street?” Whil asks as we come to the main gravel road just fifty metres from our caravan. It veers off two ways. The left road goes deeper into the mountains and eventually, hours down the track, to another town. The right heads back towards my aunt and uncle’s.

“We need to stay in the bush, but keep the road in sight,” I tell him.

We take to following the path at a safe distance. It is a windy lane, on occasions very steep and slippery, but Whil and I manage to move along at a fast pace. We keep a thick layer of trees and shrubbery between it, and no horse carriages—or worse, illegal government cars—come by. I feel like we are safe and have evaded our enemies well. We outsmarted them. Well, Whil outsmarted them, but he wouldn’t know where to go if it weren’t for me. I thought he was so useless yesterday but without him, I would still be in the ring trying to work out how to escape. I decide that we do need each other after all.

I can’t go on this journey alone.

I can’t live my life alone.

The bushland changes the further we travel. At Native Dog Flat, the bush and pastures are quite green, almost forest-like, but after several hours of travelling the trees in which we take cover thin out. Multiple deer paths criss-cross through the bushland. We are soon following a strand of small, scattered flats through the bush, which I identify as the Emu Flats.

The world slowly loses its brighter colours and the bushland turns grey, white and dull green. Only the sky offers a glimpse of bright blue colour. Typical Alpine bushland. Other people think it is dull, lifeless and boring, especially foreigners. But I find it beautiful. Enormous burls on gumtrees make the trunks take amazing shapes. Whil points out one burl that makes its tree look like a pregnant woman. I guffaw at him, and we decide to sit down and rest. We must have been walking for at least five hours by now and the hilly terrain is taking its toll on our bodies. My feet are sore, my back is aching from carrying the backpack (even though Whil and I have been sharing the task) and although it’s cold, the hot sun is shining above us so my nose has burnt. From here on the terrain becomes less difficult to navigate. The mountains slowly transform into open farming pastures where there are few obstacles and the temperature is warmer.

Whil’s head looks good. I can’t see any blood soaking the white bed sheet yet, so I assume I’ve done a good job wrapping it. We sit on the roots of the pregnant tree, eating some sultanas and a few of the chicken biscuits.

“I wonder what we will find when we get to this place,” Whil wonders aloud. “How far away are we now?”

Emu Flat, which we are now, is only a half hour drive from my auntie’s house. So we should be at the house by the end of the day.

“We’re probably halfway there,” I tell him. “We should be there by nightfall.”

“What’s it like?”

I think about the cattle farm. I’ve always thought it was incredible, but it might not seem so to Whil. It isn’t special in any way, after all. I only think so because my family lives there and I have fond memories of it. I wonder if any of their horses or cattle will still be there. If the government took my auntie and uncle, would they have left the livestock in the paddocks to go hungry without proper management? I wouldn’t think so. That’s not a very Biocentric thing to do. However, many things the government does aren’t Biocentric acts at all.

“Just like a normal farm,” I tell him with a shrug. “Or it was once. Let’s keep going. I wouldn’t mind having a proper sleep tonight.”

“Did I take up too much room last night? Didn’t you sleep?” Whil asks anxiously.

I look at him, surprised. “No, you crushed yourself against the wall all night and didn’t move from that position. I just meant a soft mattress instead of the hard ground would be nice after walking all day.”

Whil nods. “Okay, that’s good. Should we keep going?”

“Yes,” I say, but as Whil picks up the bag to carry for the next leg of the journey, I wonder if he was genuinely concerned that I hadn’t slept well because of having to share the bed with him. The more I see of Whil, the more I like about him, but I shrug it off and we continue.

Within the next hour, it is hard to keep concealed while following the road. The trees grow further and further apart until eventually we are walking through completely open pastures and having to jump over barbed wire boundary fences.

Farmers once owned this land. The land we are walking on now belonged to an elderly stockman I once met named Buff. He owned beef cattle and sheep but there are no signs of any livestock on the land now. We come to a deep stream flowing through one paddock. The little torrent is swarmed with chunks of ice that have come loose from the frozen rivers in the mountains.

I glance towards the road, the temptingly easy-to-follow gravel road, where there is a dry bridge crossing. Neither of us feels like wading through the cold water so we cautiously make our way towards the rickety bridge, Whil watching the road behind and me looking forward. There is no traffic and no signs of life or movement anywhere. Though the silence is a good sign, for it means no guards are about, it is also disconcerting. I’m so used to hearing the bawl of bulls, the baa of sheep, the whinnies of horses, and the creak of wagons full of hay. The silence is disturbing and a cruel reminder that things have changed drastically since my last visit. Whil and I bolt over the bridge like a troll might be hiding beneath it, getting ready to pull us down and devour our flesh. But the real trolls would be on the road above the bridge, and one would have the square-shaped jaw of a man named Seiger.

We return to following the road at a safe distance through the paddocks. The pastures are all untouched so the grass is high and brushes against our jeans. The silos that sit in the middle of some of the paddocks are empty. In the paddocks there is no leaf canopy to stop the snowfall so the snow is thick and Whil and I trudge through it. I’m glad I’m wearing gumboots but after ploughing through the sphagnum bog three days ago, which filled them with mud, they haven’t had time to dry and my feet are drenched and freezing. We might as well have gone through the stream earlier and saved ourselves the trouble—we are saturated from foot to thigh now anyway.

Through chattering teeth, Whil makes a joke. “When we got cold on the dairy, we used to stand in the cow poo to warm our feet up.”

I half laugh and half snort with revulsion. “That’s disgusting.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t like some warm cow poo right now,” he says with a devilish grin.

My toes are so cold they ache and feel like they may well snap off. “I still wouldn’t do that, you crazy hillbilly. My family just wore nice warm socks in winter like normal people do.”

Eventually, talking seems out of the question for we begin to shiver. Both of us are eager to get to shelter tonight, so we concentrate on keeping a fast gait, which means we are panting a lot, unable to talk.

Suddenly, I see a vehicle up ahead, coming down the road at an alarming speed. Whil and I are some distance from the road and it’s unlikely we would be spotted at all, but the sight of the car terrifies me. I see a flash of its olive green camo print and I instinctively know that whoever drives the vehicle is no friend to us. The car is far enough away that I cannot hear it yet, and as I freeze on the spot, I glance at Whil, who is staring in the opposite direction to the car and humming musically. The idiot…

I spring at him without thinking, snatching him into my arms and towing him to the ground. Once again my instincts take precedence over my logical mind, for the driver would be much more likely to see fast movement on the vast plains of paddocks rather than two people trudging alone quietly and unnoticeably. The way I grab Whil makes us fall to the wet, snowy ground together. He hits the ground and I land straight on top of him, causing him to cry out, both winded and surprised.

“Shhh! Shhh! Shhh!” I hiss in his ear. “There’s a car on the road.”

Whil’s expression darkens and he cocks his head so he can look at me through the corner of his eye. I prop myself up on him slightly, and can just hear tyres crunching in the snow some distance off. When I look back at Whil, an impish smile has worked its way onto his lips.

“There isn’t really a car, is there, Freya?” he says with a chuckle.

It takes an instant for the meaning of his words to sink in. Then, realising how closely I am pinned against his body with my chest pressed against his back, I blush. “There
is
a car.”

“Whatever you say,” he smirks.

When I’m certain the car is gone, I scramble off Whil and kick a clump of snow at him. He laughs and darts out of the way; face radiant with a smile.

“Here I thought you were different to other boys,” I say, putting my nose in the air and trekking forward again. “Your mind is in the gutter.”

“Here I thought you weren’t the sort of girl who literally threw herself at a man.”

“I didn’t throw myself at you. I protected you from being spotted by that car,” I say. We continue bantering, and I feel the cold chill in my body fade away.

I could walk to my aunt’s house from this point with my eyes closed. We come to a ‘T’ intersection in the road. I lead Whil to the right, and I know we are only ten minutes away. On the last stretch of our journey, the sun begins dropping in the sky. One minute, we are walking along in the afternoon sunlight and the next the land is enveloped by darkness. Black clouds suddenly roll overhead, sweeping down from the mountains and rumbling with thunder, and I’m glad we’ve moved so quickly today. The last thing we need is to be stranded outside in a storm for another restless, damp night. The land takes on a grim, grey water-washed effect that you only see right before a storm, and the rain comes just as we reach the long, gravel driveway that leads to the house I have stayed in so many times.

The rain pounds down as we jog up the driveway, past the rusted old water barrel mailbox, and in through the log front gates. On the gate hangs a sign featuring a huge red and white Angus bull that reads ‘Hidden Valley Farm’. I feel my heart swell. Everything will be okay. Regardless of whether my aunt and uncle are here or not, we now have a safe, comfortable place to stay. Maybe forever. Jogging through the mud and feeling the cold chill me to the bone, I’ve never felt such a powerful rush of confidence, and I kick my heels up happily.

As we close in on the house, hastening our pace to reach the shelter of the veranda and splashing through quickly forming muddy puddles, I glance at Whil. He is saturated. The rain skims off his face and he squints into it, wincing as the thunder claps overhead. Streaks of bright silver lightning flash and the paddocks surrounding the house light up.

Despite being saturated and exhausted, I beam at the sight of the log farmhouse and its green, steeple roof. Atop the roof is the dark figure of the chimney spout and I grin, remembering the time Clara, Jack and I were outside the house during the night time, and I mistook the black chimney for a monster crouched on the roof and ready to spring. At the next flash of bright lightning, I steal a glance at Whil and see his uncertain stare directed at the house that offers no memories for him. He will feel at home when he meets my aunt and uncle though…

My thoughts come to a jarring halt. Maybe they are gone. Maybe only Whil and I will occupy the house. And then what? How long can we stay here—just the two of us?

Could I stay here forever with Whil? Can I commit to being with this person, who I hardly know, for the rest of my life? But even if I’d like him to be around for the next fifty or sixty years, which I’m not sure of, I don’t know whether he wants to stay with me. He’s come this far. He helped me escape and I’ve brought him to safety.

We’re even. Maybe now he wants to find his own path. Maybe find his own family.

We jump onto the wooden veranda and the rain is now coming down so hard and fast that the noise of it drumming on the tin roof is deafening. The water overflows the gutters and streams off the roof in a curtain. I feel like we are standing behind a waterfall and watching it cascade down a cliff. It’s hauntingly beautiful, watching the rain beat down on the garden beds, which look dead and unkempt thanks to the wintery months. The rain hits the remaining snow and causes little holes to appear in it, melting away the white.

Most of the Hidden Valley Farm consists of cleared, grassy paddocks, but each pasture has a cluster of native trees like gums and candlebark to shade the livestock. There is a large group of these trees a small distance from the house and I can see a stack of firewood piled beneath them. I wouldn’t mind having a cosy, hot fire to warm up by, but ice is in my veins and I decide I’d rather have dry clothes than a roaring fire. A fire will give away our position too easily anyway. If Whil and I are so important to the government, Seiger will be sent to search for us, and for all Whil and I know they could be looking right now.

I strip at the door, only leaving on my undergarments, and dump the rest of my soaked clothes outside the door in a soppy heap. Whil does the same and we slip into the house, too drenched to worry about one another’s bare bodies.

12.

              The house smells the same: like dog hair and the flowery Jean Nate perfume my aunt used to wear. It looks the same too. The portraits of racehorses my uncle once trained hang on the timber walls. There is one three-seater lounge with an antique floral pattern in front of the old box television and the wood fire heater, and three more singular armchairs clustered around that don’t match in the slightest. As I walk further into the open style living, dining and kitchen area, my cold feet sink into the brown shagpile carpet. Lights that no longer work hang from the cathedral style ceiling, and already spiders have hung their cobwebs in multiple places around the room: corners, lights, doorways. The bookshelf, which holds an assortment of novels, sits in its usual spot by the back door.

An open magazine titled ‘
Horse Sales’
lays discarded upon the oval shaped wooden dining table, which is draped with a white tablecloth. In the small kitchen, the dishes have been done and are piled neatly beside the sink. Everything sits just as it always has.

But the house feels empty. As if it has been empty for a while. I know what this place is meant to feel like. There is always a pet dog barking to go outside or a cat scratching to come in. My uncle would be inside sitting at the table reading ‘
Horse Sales’
with a cup of tea at this time of the evening, trying to convince my aunt to buy another racehorse. My aunt would be making dinner, shaking her head and disagreeing with the proposal. Usually, you can feel the
life
in this house.

But Whil and I are alone as ever yet, for some reason, it doesn’t upset me. I know my aunt and uncle will be in the As, wherever they were taken. And being safe in this familiar house feels like a warm comfort blanket to my fatigued mind.

I place the hiking bag in the kitchen and then open the hallway door. It’s dark but I find my way to the end bedroom and enter it, knowing my aunt and uncle won’t be inside. I riffle through my aunt’s wardrobe and slip on a dry jumper and a pair of flannelette pyjama pants. Then I go to my uncle’s chest of drawers and begin plundering it as well. If he ever caught me going through his things when I was a child, I would have had my ear twisted and be called a thieving prat, but he isn’t here anymore. I find a pair of jeans for Whil and a simple long sleeved shirt, because my uncle never wore pyjamas, and go back out to the living room.

Whil sits in my uncle’s old blue reclining armchair, staring at the television as if it might flicker on if he gazes at it hard enough. He gratefully pulls on the jeans I give him and sighs. I’m glad we both have pants on. Oddly enough, now that we are clothed again, I feel a small tingle of pleasure at the thought of being alone with this boy who I met thanks to a chance encounter just three days ago.

“No one home?” he asks.

“No,” I say, keeping the sadness from my voice. “They got them too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s really okay. I should have known better,” I tell him.

“Do you think we will be safe enough here? Isn’t this the first place they will come looking for you?”

“How would they know I had relatives who lived up here?” I ask.

“Well, those tests we were given before the rally asked for all of our personal details. They government would have been able to find the links between families with those and with old documents. They’d surely have them backed up on a database.”

I frown and purse my lips. “We’ll just have to be vigilant for a few weeks. Even if they still have that sort of information, they don’t know whether I spoke to my aunt and uncle, or whether I’d been to this area before. We can stay here or we can go back out into the bush and live there for the rest of our lives.”

“We just need to be careful,” Whil says quietly.

“Then we’ll be careful,” I say, walking back to the kitchen and opening the pantry. I find a few candles on the bottom shelf and light them with the matches from the hiking bag. I set them around the room while Whil goes to look around the house. I sink onto the three-seater lounge and stretch myself out, wincing as I hear muscles cracking. It feels so good to lie down in a place I know. To feel relaxed and warm after walking the whole day.

I glance at an old newspaper that sits on the coffee table. It reads “Government Proposes Life Altering Scheme to Turn all Power Off.” It was the last newspaper that was ever printed. I suppose my relatives kept it lying around for a sense of normality. They liked getting the weekly paper. I close my eyes. After a few minutes, Whil returns and I hear him scuffling about the kitchen and then walking closer to me.

“You’ll sleep more comfortably tonight,” Whil says, and I open my eyes to find him smiling at me over the top of the sofa. The soft yellow flicker of candlelight twinkles in his kind eyes. I feel warmth spread up my neck to blush my cheeks, but I can say anything. He leans closer with an enquiring expression; as if uncertain I’ve heard him. His face lingers so close to mine. I take a deep breath, for my head is spinning.

Finally, I manage to get one strangled word out. “W-Why?”

He says, “There are three separate bedrooms here. You won’t have to sleep next to me.”

I blink. “Oh, right,” I say, sounding delighted when in fact my stomach gives an unpleasant twist.

“I think I’ll sleep now. I’m exhausted,” he says. “Night, Freya.”

“G’night,” I say casually. He strides away and I hear him close the hallway door behind him as he goes. When I’m sure he’s out of hearing range, I groan and smother my face with a pillow.

Why does this have to happen when things are so complicated? I can’t feel like this for him. I have to concentrate on surviving. On finding my family maybe and creating a safe life with
them
. Not a life with Whil!

But the sleepier I get, the harder it is to push the image of Whil’s face from my mind. And my brain keeps wandering up the dangerous path that asks
wouldn’t sleep be easier if you
were
in the bed with him?

~

A rooster crowing makes me jump out of my skin the next morning. Propping myself up on the couch, I squint into the morning light, for we left all of the curtains open, searching for the creature that makes the horrible noise. It is standing right at the front door, bawling its lungs out and ruffling its colourful feathers. Startled by the rooster, I go to the front door and swing it open so quickly I hit the noisy bird in the behind. It runs off, flapping its wings and clucking wildly. I glare after it, heart racing, but my mouth falls open in wonder at the sight I see outside.

The rain last night has changed the landscape entirely. The snow that veiled the scenery has melted away to reveal sprouting grass and tiny flowers. The garden beds look as though they’ve come to life overnight although flowers are not yet blooming. All around the yard, brown, white and black chickens are scratching the ground in search of grubs and worms. They are my aunt and uncle’s chickens. The sky is blue and the sun is on the rise, setting the morning sky alight with mottled colours of blue and pink. The place has that divine smell of freshly fallen rain.

I stare open-mouthed at my surroundings, unable to believe the change. Then in the cluster of native trees that houses the stack of firewood, I see movement. My first instinct is to retreat back into the house for it could be Seiger and his men. But before I can even jump back into the shadows, I hear a high-pitched squeal and see a whirl of colour: black-and-white, then a mottled-brown, and then a beige colour. I know immediately what they are and I cannot contain my joy.

“Villain! Buster! Barry!” I cry out.

The three domestic horses, once owned by my aunt and uncle, throw their heads up in alarm. When they see me racing towards them, hands in the air and shrieking, they don’t shy away. Humans once provided them with shelter, security, food, and water. The sight of me sprinting towards them just makes them happy. They throw their heads high, whinny a greeting, and trot to meet me at the edge of the trees. I scratch each of them on the forehead, astounded that they are still nearby the house when the property’s front gate is wide open. Doesn’t freedom call for them like it does to me?

The melted snow has exposed sweet baby grass all over the yard, and a dam, covered in waterlilies is overflowing nearby, so I figure it is a good place for three tame horses to make their home. I’m so happy to see them. I bury my face into their furry necks, inhaling their scent and feeling fur itch my nose. Realising I don’t have food or treats for them, the horses quickly lose interest and go back to grazing, so I head back inside to find a meal for myself.

I raid the cupboard for non-expired food. There are half a dozen packets of pasta and a few jars of sauce, which I want to cook right away but know we cannot risk lighting a fire to boil water. Smoke could be spotted from a mile away in the daytime hours, and it would easily be scented in the evening. A nice hot meal would be lovely, though. I think about my mother’s roast lamb, the last dish I ate with my family, and almost drool.

In a fortnight, when we know Seiger has left the area for good, we will be able to start a fire and cook the eggs the chickens are laying. Perhaps the beef cattle will still be in the other paddocks and Whil can shoot one so we have proper food—I don’t think I have the heart to shoot one.

Hopeful, I open the fridge but find it empty. Then I look inside the top compartment where frozen goods were once kept. There are a few food items sitting in a shallow pool of tepid water. I figure my aunt and uncle had been stocking the freezer compartment with ice chunks fetched from the frozen river or dam to keep their perishables cool. I throw the bottle of chunky milk, a few slices of fuzzy cheese, and a nasty looking piece of greenish meat into the garbage and drag the bulging bag outside. The old rattling farm Ute is still parked in the garage by the house. I wonder if there is any petrol in it and whether Whil and I can drop the rubbish at the dump and then go for a drive around the property to see whether any cows have stayed.

Before I forget, I run up and close the front gate so the three horses, which will prove to be very useful, won’t escape. Hardly anyone came to this area when people
did
live here. Now, it’s completely deserted. I presume the vehicle we saw while walking was a government car, but surely they won’t notice one closed gate.

When I get back inside, Whil is standing by the bookshelf, browsing the collection of novels, and he looks up at me with a smile.

“Sleep well?”

“I slept on the couch,” I say. “But yes, I slept well. Whil, have you ridden a horse before?”

“No,” he says, and then he narrows his eyes. “Why?”

I grin. “Then today I will teach you. Three of the old horses are still here. I think we will be using them a lot from here on.”

Whil snorts. “There’s a perfectly good car sitting in the garage.”

“It will run out of petrol. I thought you would have ridden horses on a dairy farm?”

“We used quad bikes and once the petrol was banned just did things by foot and with cattle dogs.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn if we plan on staying here. The saddles will be in the garage so let’s tack up and go for a ride.”

It isn’t a suggestion.

We quickly decide that before we go riding, we should have some more to eat but as we sit down at the dining table to feast on an assortment of crackers, fruit and sultanas, my eyes wander over Whil’s face and eventually settle on his bandage. I only changed it yesterday morning, but he needs a fresh, clean one again. I can see he has been tugging at it and even as I watch while munching on my Sayo cracker, he absent-mindedly itches at the wound, wincing as he does so.

“Do you want me to change it?” I ask, diverting my eyes when he looks at me.

“It would probably be best if it’s changed every day for a while,” he tells me. “If you don’t mind doing that…”

I swallow. As a matter of fact, I do mind. It’s become very apparent that Whil’s wound unsettles me: not just because it is gory, but because it endangers Whil’s life too. After a moment, I shrug. “Sure.”

~

After changing Whil’s bandage, we set out to search the property.

Whil is a hopeless horse rider. He tries to listen to my instructions, “
heels down, toes up, hands down, knees in, back straight,”
but as soon as his piebald horse, Villain, steps forward Whil panics and simply grips hold of the saddle and hopes for the best. Villain is patient and quiet, lucky for Whil. I lead the way out into the paddocks riding the buckskin horse Barry. Buster, the roan horse, follows along, not wanting to be separated from his herd. As we plod along the dirt track that snakes around the border of the huge property, I look about lazily, feeling perfectly at home in the saddle and very content being warmed by the sun. Then I look at Whil, who is white as a slate of marble.

“Whil,” I laugh when I see how much he is struggling. “Just relax. He isn’t going to hurt you.”

“He’s enormous,” Whil says, ogling the ground. “I’m going to fall if I let go.”

“You will not. You’re not even trying. Just gather up your reins like this—”

As we continue, I direct Whil on how to ride, and after half an hour moseying along at a gruellingly slow pace, he settles down. I’ve noticed already that the gates between the paddocks are all open, even those bordering the main road. Whoever rallied up the people of this area must have done this: set all of the livestock free to fend for themselves.