Lonesome Howl Page 3

  Patch drops his new toy at my feet, again.

  The three of us in the sunshine,

  on holidays.

  Lucy: dinner

  It’s the last time

  I do anything for my stupid brother.

  He didn’t have to tell everyone what I did,

  and bullshit about

  how he was going to hit Stokes himself,

  if I hadn’t done it first.

  Sure, Superman, sure.

  And all the time he’s talking

  I know Dad’s watching me,

  waiting for the chance . . .

  ‘So, your sister can fight back, Peter?’

  I shovel in the food,

  quick as it’ll go.

  I just want out of here.

  And Peter says,

  ‘I would have punched him, Dad.

  Not just a slap.’

  I bite down hard on my food

  to keep from reaching across the table

  to shut him up myself.

  ‘Only girls slap, Dad.’

  I can’t take it anymore.

  ‘Yeah, and only boys are cowards with fists.’

  As soon as the words are out,

  I know I’ve said too much.

  I carry my plate to the sink, to rinse,

  sure his eyes haven’t left me.

  I hear him get up

  and slowly walk around the table

  to stand behind me.

  He says,

  ‘These hands work this farm, girl.’

  He’s waiting.

  If I turn to face him he’ll hit me,

  so I wash my plate,

  keeping my head down,

  my shoulders stiff,

  hands shaking under the flow of the water.

  He says,

  ‘She’s not so tough now, Peter.’

  Peter

  My dad, he gets angry sometimes.

  I don’t know what for.

  Maybe it’s because of the farm

  and not having no money and stuff.

  Or maybe it’s ’cause he wishes

  he was a truckie,

  which was his job before he met Mum.

  He was just driving through town,

  delivering stuff.

  When he told me that

  he snapped his fingers and said,

  ‘Like that, from truckie to farmer.’

  And he clicked his fingers again

  to prove how quick things change.

  Then he goes quiet for a real long time

  as if he’s back driving across the country,

  with no one around and nothing to worry about.

  I try and cheer him up by telling him

  I’ve made the cricket team at school,

  and asking about the farm

  and whether we should plant some crops

  and hope for better luck this year.

  I reckon I’ll be a farmer one day.

  Only I’ll try and not get too angry,

  even if we don’t make money

  or have much to do way out here.

  Jake: chasing ghosts

  This morning I boil the eggs,

  and wait for Mum and Dad

  to come in from the bottom paddock.

  Dad chucks his hat on the table

  and wipes his sleeve across his forehead.

  He swears under his breath.

  Another sheep is dead.

  I put the toast on his plate

  and an egg in the cup, ready.

  Mum sets the old kettle on the stove.

  ‘Second sheep this week, Jake.

  If this keeps up,

  there’ll be no shearing this season.

  None.’

  ‘It’s a fox, Dad.’

  ‘No way, Jake.

  The sheep was ripped to bits.

  Foxes eat their fill and leave.

  This animal’s bigger.

  I followed his paw prints down to the creek.

  He’s a smart animal, this wolf.’

  I don’t answer.

  I know Dad and his endless search for the wolf.

  ‘Are we spotlighting tonight, Dad?’

  He sighs.

  ‘I spend my days burying sheep

  and my nights chasing ghosts.’

  Jake: spotlighting

  Patch and Spud jump on the ute

  as Dad loads his gun,

  flicks on the safety switch

  and carefully places it along the rack

  behind the seat.

  I climb on the back

  and grip the spotlight on the roof.

  My knees press into the old mattress

  wedged against the cabin

  so the bumping and shaking

  over the paddocks won’t toss me.

  Dad starts the engine

  and the dogs start barking.

  It’s a clear crisp night with hundreds of stars

  and I can smell the smoke

  from the Hardings’ fireplace.

  Dad drives slowly and keeps to the tracks,

  his hands tugging the wheel

  to miss the potholes.

  The ute bounces along

  as I direct the spotlight,

  this way and that.

  Its murderous stare

  stabs deep into the scrub.

  We both see something

  reflecting from the bush,

  glinting in the beam.

  Dad reaches for the rifle,

  eyes never leaving the light,

  until he sees it’s a kangaroo

  dazzled by the brightness.

  Dad could take him out with one shot.

  Patch and Spud bark,

  but their leads hold firm.

  The roo bounds through the bush

  and Dad drives on.

  Jake: midnight

  After an hour of searching

  and rattling over sheep tracks

  Dad parks by the creek

  and kills the engine.

  I let Patch and Spud off their leads.

  They jump from the ute

  and dash for the creek,

  tails flipping like wild antennae.

  Dad and I sit on the warm bonnet

  as we unwrap the sandwiches.

  He pours tea into the tin mugs

  and we look up at the stars.

  ‘I used to count them

  when I was your age, Jake.

  I could never keep tally.

  There’s just too many.’

  ‘Like possums, rabbits and roos,’ I reply.

  ‘Lucky they live here.

  Harding would use them for target practice.’

  Dad has no time for the Hardings

  and their farm with overgrown weeds

  and stock that run wild,

  knocking down fences

  and fouling the creek.

  Dad never kills anything,

  except foxes and snakes.

  Foxes kill sheep.

  Snakes kill people.

  So Dad kills foxes and snakes.

  Simple as that.

  But here we are spotlighting,

  gun loaded,

  hunting.

  ‘If it’s really the wolf, Dad,

  what are you going to do if we see it?’

  ‘What do you want me to do, Jake?

  Let it kill my sheep?’

  ‘I couldn’t pull the trigger,’ I say,

  ‘not if it’s really a wolf. I mean,

  they don’t live . . .’

  Dad interrupts. ‘Yeah, I know.

  They don’t live in Australia.

  So, maybe all the more reason to shoot it.’

  ‘You’d kill it?

  To prove it’s here? That’s crazy.’

  Dad slides off the bonnet

  and packs the esky,

  screwing the lid on the thermos so tight

  I can hear the thread scraping.

  ‘I don’t know,
Jake.

  Let’s find the bloody thing first.’

  ‘What do we do then?’

  Dad ignores my question,

  chucks the esky in the back,

  whistles for the dogs

  and starts the engine.

  He winds down the window.

  ‘You coming?

  Or staying out here with the wolf?’

  Lucy: Christmas

  It was Christmas Day

  last year

  and we were in the back yard

  after lunch.

  For the first time

  in a long while

  he hadn’t raised his voice all day

  or complained about the food

  or said anything nasty to me.

  He was sitting under the tree

  polishing his gun

  and taking pot shots

  at the shed

  and Peter’s drawings.

  A kookaburra landed on a branch

  a few metres above him

  and let out a thrilling laugh

  that seemed to echo off the hills

  and fill the valley.

  I was so happy watching the bird

  and marvelling at its noise,

  I didn’t see Dad raise the gun

  and fire.

  All I saw

  was the bird fall at his feet.

  He looked at me and said,

  ‘He’s not laughing now.’

  I’ve never heard the valley so quiet.

  The moment after he killed the bird.

  Dead quiet.

  When he went inside,

  I walked across to the kookaburra,

  picked it up and

  took its body behind the shed.

  I dug a deep grave

  and buried him

  where the dogs can’t get him.

  FOUR

  Lonesome howl

  Jake: the lonesome howl

  It’s a lonesome howl,

  echoing across the valley.

  I jump out of bed,

  eager,

  opening the window wide

  so I can lean out into the chill night.

  Darkness.

  The gum tree scratches against the window.

  The faint light of the moon

  reflects off the iron of the chook shed

  and another howl floats across the valley,

  long and lonely.

  It’s so mournful I can feel it on my skin.

  He’s searching for a mate,

  marking his territory.

  I close my eyes.

  He’s high on Beaumont Hill,

  his head cocked arrow-straight at the moon

  as he lets loose this deep wail

  over the forest

  and the winter paddocks.

  Both of us, the wolf and me,

  under a half moon,

  waiting for a reply that never comes.

  Lucy: wild dog

  Years ago, Grandma told me

  the story of the dog turned wild.

  I was at school when it happened.

  One of our dogs, Shadow,

  was sleeping under the stairs

  when Dad walked down

  and trod on his tail.

  Shadow woke in fright

  and bit Dad on the leg

  and wouldn’t let go.

  Grandma was smiling

  as she told me about Dad shouting,

  lashing out at the dog,

  but Shadow locked onto his leg

  growling,

  as if possessed by ancient blood.

  Grandma said Dad beat that dog

  over and over across his back

  until he let go,

  growling still,

  circling him in the dirt.

  Shadow was boss of the yard

  until Dad fled inside and got the gun.

  He raced back outside,

  swearing, calling the dog’s name

  and trying to load the gun,

  all at the same time.

  Shadow was too quick.

  He ran across the paddocks.

  Dad chased him for hours

  and never got close.

  Grandma told me she loved that dog

  and she was sure Dad heard Shadow’s howls

  and remembered being defeated

  in his own back yard.

  Lucy: my friend

  I hear the howl

  and close my book.

  My friend, the wild dog.

  He’s up on Beaumont Hill, I reckon,

  looking for a mate,

  or just howling because he can.

  He’s not scared of anything

  because he’s the boss

  and every other animal hears that call

  and keeps out of his way.

  Like at school,

  when Jim Bradley swaggers across the oval.

  Everyone moves aside

  because he’s bigger and meaner

  and he likes to fight.

  We all just back off

  and let Jim go where he wants.

  It’s no skin off my nose.

  He can bully all he likes,

  so long as he leaves me alone.

  Only Jim Bradley is not like the wild dog.

  He’s not nearly as smart.

  There’s the call again.

  I go to my window

  and see the heavy clouds over Beaumont Hill.

  I’d like to be up there now,

  looking down on everything

  in the forest night,

  where no one can touch you.

  Jake: breakfast

  ‘I’d rather he howled all night

  than ripped apart my sheep.’

  That’s what Dad says in the morning

  while we eat breakfast on the verandah,

  looking up at the dark clouds

  covering the rocky hills

  all around our valley.

  ‘I haven’t heard him for ages, Dad.’

  ‘Me neither. But now we know he’s still around.

  I’d hoped he’d move north for winter.’

  ‘What, like a surfie wolf?’

  Mum chuckles into her toast.

  ‘Very funny, Jake.

  I don’t care what he does,

  as long as I have the same number of sheep

  each morning.’

  Dad tosses the tea-leaves into the garden

  and goes inside.

  I shiver, pull my jacket tight

  and watch the chickens pecking at the scraps.

  One day, I’ll find the wolf.

  Face to face,

  we’ll see each other across Wolli Creek

  and he’ll know I’ve been waiting,

  searching for him all my life.

  I’ll hold out my hand,

  tell him I understand his howl

  echoing through the night.

  Then he’ll be my wolf.

  Lucy: breakfast

  Dad walks into the kitchen,

  carrying his .22 and a box of bullets.

  He drags out his chair

  and starts loading the magazine,

  looking up,

  waiting for someone to ask where he’s going.

  I finish my cereal and stand to leave.

  ‘Your wild dog better watch out, Lucy.

  I’ve had enough of that mangy animal

  keeping me awake.

  Today he’s dead.’

  I wash my bowl in the sink

  and imagine Dad scrambling up Beaumont Hill,

  searching and swearing.

  He’s got as much chance of finding the dog

  as he has of finding a job.

  As I walk out, I say,

  ‘Yeah. Good luck.’

  He sits at the table

  snapping the magazine into the rifle

  and yells after me,

  ‘Nothing to do with luck.

  He’s dead. You mar
k my words.’

  I walk into the back yard

  where Mum is hanging the washing.

  She looks up as he shouts some more,

  then suddenly becomes real interested

  in the wet clothes in the basket.

  Anything to avoid my eyes.

  Mum and me,

  sometimes we go for days

  not looking at each other.

  Peter

  Dad’s gonna kill the wild dog today.

  No worries.

  I reckon the dog deserves it,

  howling all night

  like a ghost.

  I’m not scared or nothing.

  I just don’t like being woke up.

  Dad polishes his cool gun

  and I wanna go with him.

  I got good eyes

  and I reckon I could spot the dog

  a mile away, easy.

  I could point and let Dad have a free shot.

  I was gonna ask,

  but he was in one of his moods

  and Mum said I shouldn’t.

  She didn’t want me chasing Dad all over the hills,

  getting in his way when he’s got his gun.

  She don’t know nothing.

  I’d help.

  I’d find that wild dog.

  Lucy: bad luck

  I don’t remember when it started.

  Honest.

  One day I was a normal kid,

  chasing the chooks,

  chucking rocks at the crows,

  running about the farm

  without a care . . .

  The next?

  I was bad luck.

  I was the cause of the drought,

  the bushfire,

  the floods.

  He was stuck here because of me.

  Wasting his life.

  Every day he laid into me

  with his words,

  as though blaming someone else

  made it easier for him.

  And what he said stung

  like a nest of bull ants,

  but I’ll tell you what hurt more.

  Every day while this was going on,

  Mum did nothing to stop him.

  She kept cooking,

  mopping the floor,

  hanging the washing.

  She seemed to work harder,

  to keep quieter,

  as I got older.

  Maybe she thought the same as him?

  That I’d brought them both bad luck,