Lonesome Howl

I creep to the kitchen

  and pack my schoolbag with fruit,

  a half-loaf of bread and some cheese.

  A pack of stubbies is on the top shelf.

  Do I dare steal his only beer?

  He’ll freak.

  My hand is shaking as I take it.

  He can drink water, like the rest of us.

  I open the back door very quietly

  and the dogs start to growl

  so I quickly throw them some biscuits.

  There’s mist over the far paddocks

  and the faint rays of first light breaking through.

  The dew is shining on the grass

  and I can hear the crows in the trees.

  Soon Jake will be awake

  ready for his big adventure.

  Jake: just a bushwalk

  This morning I boil two extra eggs

  and let them cool while we eat breakfast.

  I peel and place them in a bowl,

  add a small amount of milk,

  lots of cracked pepper,

  and mash them all up.

  Then I pack the sandwiches into my schoolbag

  with water and apples.

  ‘Me and Lucy are going for a bushwalk today.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Dad looks uncertain.

  ‘Lucy Harding!

  You’re kidding.’

  ‘It’s just a bushwalk, Dad.’

  He says,

  ‘I don’t trust them.

  I never will.’

  He pours himself another cup of tea,

  slopping the milk on the bench,

  and slams the back door

  as he goes to the verandah

  where Mum waits.

  No one can argue with him when he’s like this.

  He’s right, and that’s all there is to it.

  Or so he thinks.

  I shrug into my oilskin jacket.

  I don’t want to be stuck on Sheldon Mountain

  shivering with cold.

  I carry the pack outside

  and stand on the step.

  I want to tell him he’s wrong.

  That he doesn’t know everything.

  He doesn’t know where the wolf is.

  I do.

  Dad swills his tea-leaves into the garden.

  ‘Don’t think you’ll be spending all holiday

  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 h
ard 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.

  Jake out here in the mist,

  alone on Sheldon Mountain.

  Lucy: stupid

  Stupid.

  Why didn’t I turn back when Jake wanted?

  Why did I only think of myself,

  wanting to go on and on forever

  to get as far away as I could?