Land of Fences

by Mark Smith

  Kas stops inside the gate and looks along the fence line. ‘We should bury him next to Rose,’ she says.

  I go to get a spade from the shed. The grass has begun to reclaim the ruins of Ray’s house, the long grass runners snaking through the blackened timbers and roofing iron. A shudder passes through me when I think of everything that happened here: Hope being born, Rose dying, the house burning to the ground, and Kas killing the two Wilders at the shed. I don’t dare look to see if their remains are still there. I grab a spade and hurry back up the paddock. The afternoon is wearing on and we’ve got a lot of digging to do.

  It takes the best part of two hours to dig the grave. My shoulder is weak but somehow the pain feels good, like it should hurt to bury someone you love. We take it in turns, resting against the fence in between, though JT and Danka do most of the work. In between turns with the spade, Kas cleans up around Rose’s grave.

  The sun is low by the time we’ve finally got the hole deep enough. Sea mist rolls up the valley and, all through the bush behind us, birds sing. A mob of kangaroos has found its way through gaps in the boundary fence to graze in the open paddock.

  We ease Ray into the grave, then shovel and push the dirt in on top of him until the hole is filled. All the digging and sweating has been a distraction, but now there’s time to stop and let it sink in. The last of the sun filters through the stringybarks, giving the mist a warm glow. We stand in silence for a while, Kas holding my hand, Danka, JT and Daymu leaning into each other.

  ‘You knew him best,’ Kas says to me. ‘You should say something.’

  You’d reckon I’d know a bit about grief by now, losing Dad and Mum and Rose. But it still strangles the breath out of me, pulling at me, trying to confuse my thoughts. Just crying and leaving it at that would be easy, but Ray deserves more so I wipe away the tears and search for the right words.

  ‘First time I saw Ray after the virus was over at that fence,’ I begin, pointing to where the kangaroos came into the paddock. ‘He told me to bugger off!’

  The others smile.

  ‘But that was Ray—tough on the outside, kind and gentle on the inside. I wouldn’t have made it through that first winter without him. He saved me, and he never asked for anything in return. He did everything he could to help Rose and Hope.’

  Kas has looped her arm around my waist and now she squeezes me closer.

  ‘Somehow, with the virus, and everything that came with it, Ray stayed the same—straight-up, no bullshit, always there to lend a hand or say the right thing when you needed it most. Thanks for being our friend, Ray. And thanks for taking our side when no one else was there to help. We love you. Rest in peace.’

  Autumn creeps towards winter—the days are getting shorter and the nights cooler. We haven’t had any big storms yet, but it’s only a matter of time. It’ll be tough when they come, limiting our hunting options and forcing us to rely more on our stores. We’ve reinforced the house as best we can to prepare for the battering it’ll take when the weather turns. JT and Daymu have been up on the roof, double nailing the corrugated iron, while the rest of us have scoured the town to find shutters for the windows.

  There’s a hole in every day where Ray used to be. His chair at the kitchen table is empty, and when I go to the store for supplies, my heart aches at the sight of his lists, written in that familiar scrawl and pinned to the wall. I keep thinking I’ll walk out into the yard and find him propped in his usual spot against the shed wall, his arms and legs covered against the sun, his hands working grease into the springs of a rabbit trap. Last summer, when it was just Kas and me here with him, he always found something to do, even when we were relaxing—tending to the garden, pumping water into the header tank or laying out our weekly provisions from the store. Life was work for him—he didn’t know any other way. Mostly I miss his voice. I miss the way he called me son and the blokey conversations we’d have, talking rubbish and never saying what we meant.

  Rowdy misses him, too. He still sniffs around Ray’s room and follows his scent out to the shed. He’ll sit by Ray’s chair in the sun, waiting for him to come down the stairs on those bowed legs, take a seat with a pot of potatoes to peel and reach down to scratch his ears.

  It’s a windless day and the sun still has some warmth in it. Kas and I are sitting on the bench at the lookout. My eyes are drawn to the break at the river mouth. It’s a small swell but the waves wrap themselves around the bar and I surf them in my mind: taking the drop and bottom-turning into the steep section, looking for a little cover-up before shooting out onto the open wall. I can almost feel the spray at my back.

  ‘Hey,’ Kas says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. ‘Remember me?’

  Her face glows in the afternoon light. Her thick hair is tucked behind her ears and her knees are pulled up to her chest. Her skin is cool where our shoulders touch. She picks at the scab on the back of her hand. We’ve hardly spoken about what the future holds for us. There are no guarantees the virus won’t find us. In some ways though, it forces us to live for every moment, to hang on to days like this, knowing they’re precious.

  The one thing Kas has decided is she’s going to search along the coast for Yogi and Bess. She reckons they’ll have found feed in a paddock somewhere this side of Devils Elbow.

  We’ve settled back into a comfortable routine. Angowrie is our home in the way nowhere else could be. We’re connected to this place—to every grain of sand, to the twisted boughs of the tea trees and the smell of the moonahs after rain. To the pigface that clings to the dunes where nothing else will grow. We breathe the salt air into our lungs, and it spreads through every artery and vein.

  Out at sea, a storm is brewing and we watch it push away to the east, rumbling and dark, but small, with one steeple of coal-black cloud and blue sky either side. It’s shot through with the arc of a rainbow.

  ‘This is where it all began,’ I say. ‘When Rose ran onto the beach. I remember the look in her eyes and even what she was wearing—baggy shorts and a way-too-big jumper. And she swam like a fish when we jumped in the river to escape.’

  Kas stares at the horizon but I feel her edge closer. ‘What was the first thing she said?’ she asks.

  ‘You gotta help me.’

  ‘And you did.’

  ‘Yeah, I did.’

  We sit with this for a while before Kas gets to her feet and leans in to kiss me. ‘We should make the most of the sun while it’s still here,’ she says.

  She jumps off the platform and follows the track leading to the beach. Halfway down she turns and looks at me.

  ‘Come on,’ she calls.

  I haven’t tested my shoulder in the surf yet, and it still aches from the digging when we buried Ray. Now I roll it in half-circles. It catches a little but feels okay.

  Below me, Kas hurls herself at the white water and lets out a squeal.

  I run down to join her.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A heartfelt thank you to all the people who have invested their time and energy in the Winter series, in particular my first readers, Lynne Batson, Nicole Maher and Kerrie Sirotich. Thanks to Lynne, for looking at the first raw draft and letting me know I was on the right track. Thanks to Kerrie for highlighting the gaps in the narrative and yet still being supportive and affirming.

  To Nicole, special thanks for casting a discerning professional eye over later drafts and making so many constructive suggestions for improvements. You are every writer’s dream—a ruthlessly honest critic and friend whose love of reading and writing shines through. I can’t thank you enough for the support you have given me from the beginning.

  To my young readers, Matilda and Harriet Lohrey, thank you for your comments, suggestions and ideas—and for not being afraid to tell your uncle when he was getting off-track or missing an important point.

  To Jason and Anna for the use of my writing home-away-from-home at Falmouth. Every writer should be so lucky as to have supportive family and friends with houses in
beautiful places.

  To the whole crew at Text who believed in the Winter series from the beginning. Thanks to Michael Heyward for your passion for publishing Australian writers, to Imogen Stubbs for another stunning cover, to Shalini Kunahlan and the marketing team for leaving no stone unturned in getting my books into the public eye, and to Jamila Khodja for managing the publicity so efficiently.

  To Jane Pearson, who manages to make my books infinitely better than they otherwise would be. You are patient, encouraging and professional on every level. You know when to push hard and when to let things pass through to the keeper.

  To my writing network (from all genres), I am blessed to have so many creative and supportive friends among the writing community. To the staff and leadership team at St Bernard’s for their support and for allowing me the time away from regular duties to promote my books.

  And finally, to my family, near and extended, for coming along for the ride. To June Monica, for her enduring love and support—and for imbuing in me a love of reading and writing. To Oliver, Maddy and Harley for being the most loving, honest and supportive (in the very best taking-the-piss fashion) human beings a father could hope for.

  And to Lynne. Because you’re the one.

  Also by Mark Smith

  The Road to Winter

  Wilder Country

  Land of Fences

  Mark Smith lives on Victoria’s Surf Coast with his family. His first book, The Road to Winter, was published in 2016. The second book in the Winter trilogy, Wilder Country, won the Indie Book Award—Young Adult, 2018.

  PRAISE FOR THE WINTER TRILOGY

  ‘An unmissable series.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘I couldn’t put it down. Mark Smith creates this dangerous, lawless new world and manages to champion the decency of youth. Very timely. And what makes it so powerful is that it’s frighteningly believable.’ Robert Newton

  ‘Mark Smith writes in a taut style that keeps the pages turning… Absorbing entertainment.’ Magpies

  ‘The superb pacing, natural dialogue, and vivid descriptions of a country and people ravaged by disaster make this a pulse-pounding read.’ Kirkus

  ‘It’s easy to see why Mark Smith’s dystopian thriller has been compared with John Marsden’s Tomorrow When the War Began. I barely came up for breath as the pages flew. So strap yourself in for a high action ride.’ Kids Book Review

  ‘A riveting story of survival that questions the prices of freedom and safety as well as the value of an individual life…A breakout new series full of romance, danger, and a surprisingly engaging world.’ Kirkus

  ‘Whenever I put the book down, I felt as if I’d been holding my breath…The world Smith creates is convincing, perhaps because he takes real-world scenarios and kicks them up a notch.’ New Zealand Listener

  ‘A beautiful and intimate story…Like the best YA fiction, The Road to Winter is sure to appeal just as much to an adult audience.’ Otago Daily Times

  ‘One of those novels that once you start reading, it is nearly impossible to put down again…an unforgettable novel about survival, honour, friendship and love.’ South Coast Register

  ‘Thought-provoking…insightful and heartbreaking.’ Reading Time

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © Mark Smith 2019.

  The moral right of Mark Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Published by The Text Publishing Company, 2019.

  Cover and text design by Imogen Stubbs.

  Cover images from iStock and Shutterstock.

  Typeset by J&M Typesetters.

  ISBN: 9781925773583 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781925774399 (ebook)

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.