Lonesome Howl Page 4

just by being born.

  Maybe she was glad it wasn’t Peter

  being picked on.

  I was the easy target.

  I don’t remember when it started.

  I don’t know why it started.

  But it’s never stopped.

  I grew my hair long

  and let it fall in front of my face,

  to hide my eyes from his hate.

  To hide my hate from his eyes.

  Lucy: crash

  I don’t want to think about him

  hunting the wild dog

  so I gather up a bunch of rocks,

  golf-ball size.

  I take a bucketload

  to the far side of the yard.

  In the cold sunshine

  I chuck them, one at a time,

  as high as I can

  so they land on the old shed roof

  with a loud crash

  that makes Mum look up

  as she sits on the verandah.

  She wants to say something,

  but she won’t.

  I pick up another rock

  and throw with all my strength,

  watch it arc high over the shed

  and land on the house roof

  above the verandah.

  It rolls down

  with a satisfying thump

  at the foot of the steps,

  not far from Mum.

  She doesn’t say a word

  and I say nothing back.

  Lucy: beside the creek

  Jake and Peter

  are on the other side of the creek

  so I ignore them.

  I read my book,

  listening to the magpies

  and the distant bleat of sheep.

  I haven’t heard a gunshot yet.

  That makes me smile.

  I picture my useless father

  struggling through the lantana

  all around the hills,

  swearing and sweating.

  He’ll get cut by the bushes

  and he’ll swear some more.

  After hours of this,

  he’ll sit on a rock and drink his warm beer,

  hoping the dog will just walk by.

  No chance.

  Something on Beaumont Hill

  has a brain

  and it’s not the one drinking beer.

  I read my book

  and bask in the sun.

  I’ll stay here all day.

  I don’t want to be around

  when he gets home.

  Warm beer, hot sun

  and no dog.

  Jake: my dad and your dad

  Peter says, ‘My dad says your dad is a flake.

  Wolves don’t live in Australia.

  It’s a wild dog, that’s all.’

  He picks up a flat stone

  and skims it across the calm surface of the creek.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the howl last night?’ I ask.

  ‘Dogs can howl too, you know.

  Our dogs howl all night ’cause they’re hungry.

  My dad says he’s going to shoot it,

  no questions asked,’ Peter boasts.

  He never shuts up.

  ‘Your dad is weak.

  He don’t even shoot rabbits.

  My dad says if something is on his farm

  and it ain’t a sheep or a human,

  well, it’s dead.

  Nothing’s taking our sheep.

  Nothing.’

  Jake: Lucy Harding

  Lucy Harding is still and quiet,

  nothing like Peter.

  She sits on the bank opposite,

  reading, ignoring us.

  Her long black hair

  falls in front of her face,

  like she’s hiding from the world.

  She wears jeans every day,

  even to school.

  And brown riding boots

  with worn heels and cuts along the toe.

  I wade across Wolli Creek,

  stepping from rock to rock,

  getting wet up to my knees,

  and sit beside Lucy.

  She doesn’t look up.

  I close my eyes,

  enjoying the sun,

  and the silence away from loudmouth Peter.

  ‘It’s not a wolf.

  It’s just a wild dog.’

  She hasn’t lifted her head from the book.

  She spoke so softly

  I’m not even sure I’ve heard right,

  so I say,

  ‘The wolf?’

  ‘It’s not a wolf, okay.’

  She lifts her head and looks at me.

  Then she says,

  ‘Hell. I don’t care.

  Call it a wolf, if you want.’

  Peter

  Geez, I hate that Jake Jackson.

  Him and me stupid sister

  talking about the wolf.

  It’s like fairytales and Santa Claus

  and dumb Easter bunnies

  and stuff that’s not even real.

  I hate them because they smirk

  like they’re smarter than me.

  And his dad don’t even shoot pests.

  He lets them live and breed and cause trouble

  when this land is for sheep

  and nothing else but us farmers.

  One day I’m going to find the mangy old hound

  that howls at the moon

  and drag its dead body

  down to the creek here.

  Then let’s see if Lucy and Jake look so smart,

  when they see it ain’t nothing but a mangy dog.

  Nothing but a dead dog.

  Jake: one day

  Peter gets bored skimming stones

  with no one to babble to,

  so he wanders home.

  Lucy stays.

  I watch the dragonflies

  hover above the water.

  Crazy helicopters, Dad calls them.

  Trout live in the creek, for sure.

  And turtles, yabbies,

  eels - slippery and dark with oily skin.

  Once, when I was fishing,

  I dragged ashore an old shoe

  full of sand and weed.

  It’s a good creek though – no carp, or catfish.

  The water is filtered clean

  in the swamp upstream.

  It’s deep enough for swimming

  and sometimes, in spring, fast enough

  to lie on a tractor tube and float for miles

  downstream to the Pattaya River.

  Sometimes I dream of getting a canoe

  and just drifting along,

  turning into the great river

  and paddling until I reach the coast

  hundreds of kilometres away.

  Mum once told me that’s how the farmers

  who lived here during the war

  went to the coast to enlist.

  It took them two weeks of hard paddling,

  but they made it.

  They signed on and went overseas to fight.

  Some never returned.

  Jake: where the wolf lives?

  ‘I know where your wolf lives.’

  ‘What?’

  Lucy doesn’t say much,

  but she sure knows how to get my attention.

  ‘Where?’ I ask.

  ‘Near Balancing Rock

  on Sheldon Mountain.

  About twelve kilometres from here.’

  I know the place.

  Bare rocks, rounded by time,

  and one balancing,

  ready to roll off the mountain

  and crush whatever is below.

  The bush is thick

  and it’s dark and creepy.

  I shiver just thinking about it.

  Dad and me went there once

  searching for stray sheep.

  We wandered around for hours

  and found nothing but huge boulders,

  stinging ne
ttles and a rotting carcass.

  ‘How do you know he lives there?’ I ask.

  Lucy brushes her hair behind her ear

  and looks up from her book.

  ‘I just do, that’s all,’ she replies,

  her eyes steady on me.

  ‘I’ll show you,

  if you promise not to tell anyone where we go,

  especially Peter.’

  I think about it for a while.

  What if it’s true?

  I’d want to tell Dad.

  Twenty years he’s been searching.

  ‘Well?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘Okay. I promise.’

  ‘Good. We’ll go tomorrow.

  I’ll meet you here, early.

  Bring food and water.’

  I stand to leave.

  How can I not tell Dad?

  Lucy grabs my arm.

  ‘We keep it quiet. Okay?

  Just you and me, Jake.’

  I look into her eyes.

  ‘Okay, Lucy.

  We find the wolf,

  but then I tell Dad.

  Deal?’

  She shrugs and says,

  ‘We find a wolf,

  you can tell the bloody world.’

  FIVE

  The deep silence

  Lucy: the deep silence

  I don’t really know

  where the wild dog lives.

  I’ve decided I’m getting away from this farm.

  So I tell Jake about the rock on Sheldon Mountain.

  It’s the sort of place a wolf would stand

  looking over the whole valley,

  looking for a mate,

  looking for food.

  If I was Queen of this Valley

  it’s where I’d live.

  High above everything

  where no one ever goes,

  where the cloud lingers,

  where I can hide away;

  where on cold foggy nights

  I can sit near the rock

  and howl long into the deep silence.

  Jake: Dad’s wolf

  I pick apples

  from the wild tree near the track

  and take them to our horse, Charlie.

  He trots across his yard

  and takes an apple from my hand.

  I pat his thick mane

  as he crunches the fruit.

  Lucy and me and the wolf?

  All those years of talking about it

  and searching for it.

  I rub Charlie’s smooth back

  and listen to Patch and Spud.

  Dinnertime.

  They always bark

  when they smell Mum’s cooking,

  even if they only get leftovers.

  Dad’s wolf?

  Or mine?

  Tomorrow, on Sheldon Mountain,

  I’m going to find out.

  Jake: roast

  ‘You’ll love dinner tonight, Jake.

  It’s a roast.’

  ‘Great, Mum. My favourite!’

  Better than Dad’s Chicken Surprise,

  which is just scrambled eggs.

  Dad says, ‘It could have been a chicken.

  That’s the surprise.’

  ‘It’s a special anniversary, Jake,’ Mum says.

  I’m struggling to remember.

  ‘Eighteen years ago today,

  your dad and I got married.’

  Mum laughs at the memory.

  ‘We couldn’t afford a honeymoon,

  so we cooked a roast.

  We moved the table onto the verandah,

  opened a bottle of wine,

  lit candles,

  and had the best dinner.’

  I go to one end of the kitchen table,

  lift and say,

  ‘Come on, Mum.

  It’s not too cold for dinner outside.’

  Jake: dinner on the verandah

  ‘Everyone in town says a wolf

  couldn’t survive out here

  without being shot, or captured,’ Dad says.

  He leans back in the old wooden chair,

  rubbing his fingers into his forehead.

  ‘They may be right, Dad.’

  I‘m tempted to tell him about Lucy

  and Sheldon Mountain,

  but I promised.

  ‘Peter says his dad thinks it’s a wild dog.

  When he finds it, he’s going to shoot it.’

  Dad frowns and pours another beer.

  ‘He’s a rotten shot.

  The day I start listening to a Harding . . .

  well, that day will never come.’

  I don’t want to talk about the wolf

  since Lucy told me her secret.

  ‘Great dinner, Mum. I’ll wash up.

  After all, it’s your anniversary.’

  Dad looks at me, laughs, and says,

  ‘I knew there was a reason we had you, Jake.’

  Lucy: every step I take

  When Peter asks Dad

  if he shot the wild dog,

  I think Dad’s going to choke.

  All day on Beaumont Hill,

  struggling through the bush for nothing.

  He shoves back his chair

  and burps loudly.

  That’s his way of saying thanks for dinner.

  Mum clears the plates

  as Dad storms into the lounge,

  calling over his shoulder,

  ‘Lucy, do the dishes.’

  As if I didn’t know.

  As if him, or precious Superman,

  would ever get their hands wet

  doing a household chore.

  Mum stands by the sink,

  holding a tea towel, waiting.

  Dad calls for another beer

  above the noise of the television

  and she hurries to the fridge.

  I’m left alone with the dishes.

  That suits me fine.

  When I finish

  I stand outside looking up at the glowing moon,

  rising over the hills.

  A newspaper blows across the dirt

  and catches on the wire fence.

  I’m glad he had such a hard time today.

  And tomorrow,

  Jake and me are heading

  in the opposite direction,

  tracking through the swamp

  to climb Sheldon Mountain.

  Jake will be looking for paw prints,

  listening for sounds,

  searching the bush,

  hoping to catch sight of his wolf

  so he can tell his dad.

  I’ll be walking ahead of him,

  whistling

  with every step I take

  away from this farm.

  Lucy: the wish

  I want the dog to howl tonight.

  To tell everyone who’s boss.

  I want my dad to hear

  and know that it’s not afraid of him.

  Dad can sit in his chair,

  dirty feet on the footstool,

  gripping his beer,

  staring at the stupid television,

  and know that he’s a loser.

  He can’t even find a dog.

  Howl, dog.

  Howl in his face.

  A cold breeze blows down the valley

  and the Jacksons’ rooster starts crowing.

  I once read a book

  about these American Indians

  who could imitate animal noises.

  They would lure their prey in close

  by calling it.

  What I’d give to do that.

  Dad would go crazy.

  The wild dog, right outside his window.

  Laughing at him.

  Laughing in his face.

  Jake: late at night

  Tonight I googled ‘Wolves in Australia’.

  I got twenty listings

  for the Wollongong Wolves Soccer Team

  and thirty-six for the movie Wolf Cr
eek.

  But no wolves in Australia.

  No wolves ever in Australia.

  Someone should tell Dad that,

  but it won’t be me.

  The website said wolves don’t attack humans

  and their average lifespan is twelve years.

  Dad’s wolf is long dead,

  unless, as Dad thinks,

  he had a mate and a litter,

  which means tomorrow Lucy and I

  may be looking for more than one animal.

  Or we’ll spend all day on Sheldon Mountain

  looking for a ghost dog that doesn’t exist.

  In bed, I listen to the night sounds:

  a tree branch rustling against the roof,

  the crackling wood in our fireplace,

  the dogs on Hardings’ farm barking for food.

  Our silly rooster starts crowing in the darkness

  and then all is quiet.

  No howl.

  Not a sound.

  Lucy: tomorrow

  I lie awake most of the night

  thinking about me and Jake

  searching.

  I just want to get as far away from here as I can.

  I couldn’t care less if we find the dog.

  I’ve got to leave before they wake up,

  or else Superman will complain about being bored,

  like he does every morning,

  and I’ll be stuck with him for the day.

  Mum will say,

  ‘Go on, Lucy, take him with you.

  He won’t be any trouble.’

  I wonder where she’s been

  for the last twelve years

  if she doesn’t know that Peter

  is nothing but trouble.

  All I want to do is keep moving

  in a direction away from this farm.

  And when it comes time to turn around,

  I’ve got to say to Jake,

  ‘You go back.

  But not me.

  Not ever.’

  Lucy: before dawn

  It’s still dark out.

  Dad burps loudly

  as he sleeps in the lounge chair.

  He rolls over,

  knocking the bottle of beer.

  It dribbles across the floor,

  making a pool at his feet.