‘How about we see your devils now?’ Dale suggested.
Miki tried to conceal her anxiety as he led the way to another pen. ‘Here we are,’ he said, leaning over the fence. ‘This is your female. She’s doing well. Come and see.’
Miki advanced slowly and peered in. There was her devil, stretched belly-down on the grass, busily gnawing the bloodied rib cage of a dead animal. Her coat was thick and glossy—better than it had been at the tip. And when she squinted up at them, blinking in the light, Miki felt a surge of relief. The devil’s face wasn’t blank, and she didn’t seem frightened.
‘I have some good news,’ Dale said. ‘Her tests were clear and she’s nearly finished quarantine, so we’ll pair her up with a mate soon.’
‘When will she have babies?’ Miki asked.
‘Once we put her in with the male it might take a few weeks. The young are tiny when they’re born—little kidney beans that have to climb into her pouch. They won’t emerge for a few months.’
‘Would it be okay if I go in with her?’
‘Sure. I’ll open the gate.’
Moving quietly so as not to frighten the devil, Miki crept into the pen and perched on a flat log. The devil paused from eating to glance at her then went back to the food, apparently unperturbed. Miki slithered off the log, squatted low and shuffled closer. The devil raised her head and stopped chewing, testing the air with her nose then blinking before returning to the business of eating. Miki listened to those strong teeth grinding on ribs and crunching through bone. The devil focused on her again as Miki crabbed further forward. She could smell the devil now: not the rank odour of anger, but the musty scent that she loved. The devil was not afraid; Miki could see her whiskers twitching, the moist shine of her eyes. She was healthy—no wounds on her face.
This was all that was needed. Miki’s devil was safe; it was fine to go home.
She was about to retreat when the devil dropped the carcase and stepped towards her. Miki extended her hand, and the devil walked up and snuffled it. Out came the pink tongue to lick Miki’s fingers: three short swipes.
Miki couldn’t see through the blur of her tears, but she knew she’d made the right choice. Her devil would be cared for here, and she would make babies that didn’t have the disease. This justified the cost of giving up the devil’s freedom.
Dale was smiling as Miki came out of the pen and he closed the gate behind her. ‘She knew you,’ he said. ‘No one’s been able to get that close since she arrived.’
They visited the young devils next, who were in a smaller pen near the entry, on display with two other little devils. They were all running around together like wind-up toys, their stiff tails cranking.
‘You might not believe this,’ Dale said, ‘but devils make good pets when they’re young. Not so good when they’re older though—they become less tame and more unpredictable. But sometimes the staff have to hand-raise little orphans, and they fall in love with them.’
Miki didn’t like the sound of devils as pets; they had wild temperaments and deserved to be free. ‘Being here is a good step on the way back to freedom,’ she said. ‘This is a nice place, but it’s not where devils belong.’
Dale regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Having healthy wild devils is what we’re working for.’
On the way home, Leon wanted to discuss the wildlife park and the breeding program, and Miki was happy to go along with it, weighing up the costs and benefits. Leon was convinced the devils would eventually be restored to the wild, but Miki wasn’t so sure. ‘I’d like to see them all free again,’ she said. ‘But how will we get rid of the disease?’
‘Vaccination.’
Leon was confident humans could solve the problem, while Miki hadn’t the same faith in humankind. ‘Have we managed to eradicate all human diseases?’ she asked.
‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to be optimistic. I don’t want devils to stay in zoos and sanctuaries forever.’
Neither did Miki. This led to a discussion about zoos. Leon told her about the trade in wildlife to supply zoos around the world and how this had led to pressure on wild populations. Miki found this abhorrent. ‘Why do people even go to zoos?’ she asked.
‘Because it’s easy. They can take their kids and see wild animals close up.’
‘Can’t they just look in books?’
‘These days you can buy a David Attenborough movie or look up YouTube clips.’
‘I don’t use the internet,’ Miki said.
Leon glanced at her sideways. ‘Because Kurt won’t let you?’
She let the question slip by. Leon was right, of course, but this wasn’t a discussion she wanted to have, and fortunately he didn’t press. He was a good listener, and she was enjoying herself. It was the most she’d spoken to anyone since Mother died.
As they drove along, Leon cast a quizzical look at her.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Have I said something funny?’
His mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. ‘It’s interesting to hear you talk about devils and captivity. Has it occurred to you that maybe you’re a bit like that devil running circles in his pen? Don’t you feel like that in the shop?’
‘I do get out,’ she defended, unnerved by his perceptiveness. ‘Like today.’
‘But you have to sneak out, don’t you? What if Kurt finds out and stops you?’
Miki didn’t have an answer to that. It was her greatest fear.
‘What do you want for yourself?’ Leon asked. ‘What are your hopes and dreams?’
‘What are yours?’
He paused, as if considering. ‘It’s a big question, isn’t it? I think about it a lot. A few more months in this job and I’m hoping they’ll give me more responsibility. I want to take tour groups into the park—teach them about nature … But longer term? Maybe I’ll do some more study. Get married, have a family.’ He laughed. ‘Not that I’m in a hurry for all that. It can wait till after I’m thirty. How about you? You must have plans.’
Miki’s throat locked.
‘I get the feeling you want to finish school and go to uni,’ Leon said. ‘You’re bright enough … so maybe you need to leave. Kurt doesn’t let you be yourself. He doesn’t let you live.’
‘I can’t leave,’ Miki said, tightly. ‘I don’t have any money.’
‘Kurt must owe you something. You work harder than he does.’
‘But where would I go?’
‘There are options. How about Geraldine? She might have a spare room.’
Miki thought about this. It was one thing to dream about going, another to actually do it. And the hardest step on any journey was the first. Kurt would never release her—so would she always remain in his cage?
‘He doesn’t own you, Miki,’ Leon said. ‘You are your own person.’
She stared at the white lines flicking beneath the car, the grainy texture of the tarmac, the blur of fence posts flashing by, the looming presence of clouds, cars whizzing in the opposite direction. She thought of the accounting books and the strange cash deposits, and her eyes shimmered with tears. ‘Money is coming into our bank account from somewhere,’ she told Leon. ‘It’s not our regular income. I can’t work it out.’
‘Doesn’t Kurt have business in Hobart? That’s what you told me.’
‘Yes, but there’s a regular payment coming in from another bank.’
‘Maybe he has a separate account to make transfers.’
‘Maybe … That does make sense …’
‘Perhaps you have to ask him,’ Leon said. ‘You’re entitled to know.’
But Miki wasn’t entitled to anything where Kurt was concerned. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, already knowing she wouldn’t.
40
On the day of the loggers’ rally, cars poured into town while Leon escaped in the opposite direction. He knew he wasn’t welcome at the rally, but he had come up with a plan, and now he was enacting it. He swung the curves down to t
he water then drove along it, past farms and green paddocks on the way to the old people’s home.
Grandpa was waiting in the foyer in collar and tie, an uneven attempt at a Windsor knot clasped at his throat. Leon helped him into the car, and they retraced the journey. By the time they landed at the bottom of the main street, the rally had begun.
The way was blocked by Robbo’s log truck, skewed from one footpath to the other. Leon parked downhill from the truck and ushered Grandpa up the footpath. The old man obliged like a puppet, willing to accept assistance when it was needed. But Leon knew Grandpa had a will of iron, even though he was physically fragile. You didn’t cut trees all your life and burn down a timber mill to protect your wife unless you had plenty of gumption.
Just beyond the log truck, Robbo was standing on the tray of a smaller truck with a microphone clamped in his hand. Further uphill, the road was packed with loggers and their families from all around the region. Everyone associated with the industry would be here. This was their chance to protest against the government for locking them out of the forest. It was an overreaction, Leon thought because, in truth, the government was only resuming a small patch of land.
He led Grandpa up behind Robbo’s truck where they remained concealed by one of the wheels. Robbo was announcing the morning’s agenda. He and Toby would speak first, he said, to outline general concerns about recent local developments, then the microphone would be opened to the public. After that, everyone would vote, by show of hands, on a strategy to achieve the best outcome.
It was clear that Robbo liked the sound of his own voice. He started banging on about how loggers had cut trees since time immemorial, and how there wouldn’t be any forest at all if it wasn’t for them, because the land would have been cleared for farms. Loggers, he concluded, were the ultimate conservationists. This triggered cheers and laughter from the crowd. Leon wasn’t laughing—since when had loggers been conservationists? Even his dad would find that amusing.
Robbo was becoming louder, shouting into the microphone as if he was addressing the footy team. ‘This is our town and these are our forests, right? And these are our jobs under threat. Bob Brown might waltz in here and say we’re doing it wrong, but what would he know? Has he worked in these forests? We’re the ones who know about trees. And we should be able to use them however we bloody well want.’
The crowd chanted hear, hear like politicians in parliament. Leon noticed Robbo’s disciples were mostly big-bellied men in checked flannelette shirts, and women supporting their husbands.
‘What Bob Brown and the greenies don’t understand,’ Robbo went on, ‘is that this industry is our livelihood and our future. It’s our jobs and our homes. It’s food on the kitchen tables. We’re not going to sit back and let them have their way—we’re going to make noise and let them know what we think. And we won’t be giving up any more forest. Not without a fight.’
He made a fist and raised it high, and the crowd copied him. Then they began punching the air and hooting like baboons. Robbo was grinning as if his team had just won the football premiership.
He offered the microphone to Toby, who monkeyed onto the truck to take his turn, sleeves pushed up as usual. ‘Thanks, Robbo.’ Toby’s voice was surprisingly smooth over the microphone. ‘I’m Toby Carter from the local mill, and I just wanted to remind everyone that this town has suffered enough. Some of us remember when there used to be four mills around here—now there’s only one. The others were shut down because there wasn’t enough sawlog. And everyone lost their jobs. That’s greenies for you—they lock up trees and don’t give a stuff about jobs.’
People murmured and shook their heads as if Toby was giving a eulogy.
‘None of us want to be on the dole,’ he said. ‘And for all of us to get work, our industry needs access to trees. The government stopped the boys from logging near here, and now they have to drive an hour and a half to get to work. It’s tough on the wallet and tough on families. This new reserve means more forest locked up, which is bad for our industry. And bad for jobs.’
‘Greens cost jobs,’ Mooney shouted over the crowd. ‘Greens cost jobs.’
Through the sea of heads, Leon saw him up near the takeaway with his fist in the air, punching out the rhythm of his chant. Other people joined in, a small group at first. Then it grew until everyone was shouting, ‘Greens cost jobs. Greens cost jobs.’ The voices were like a drum, beating out the words. Toby leaped down from the truck, and all the people kept shouting, ‘Greens cost jobs!’
Then Robbo declared an open mic, so anyone could speak. His wife Trudi was the first, and the audience quietened as she huddled on the back of the truck, wide-eyed as a rabbit. ‘I don’t know about all of you,’ she said softly, ‘but most people I know in this industry aren’t getting rich. It’s hard to make ends meet. Our men work long hours with high overheads. They’re away a lot. Many of us women have to work to keep food on the table. The greenies just don’t understand.’ She placed a tentative hand on her husband’s arm, and everyone cheered.
Other people took turns at the microphone, and all the stories were the same. Nobody was rolling in money; everybody was struggling. Each time someone concluded their speech, the crowd exploded with applause.
When the queue of speakers waned, Robbo took the microphone again. ‘We need to talk about what we should do,’ he said. ‘Anyone got any suggestions?’
People began calling out. ‘Burn down that old tree.’ ‘Shoot the eagles.’ ‘No, shoot the greenies!’ That made everyone laugh.
Robbo held up his hand and waited for the crowd to quieten. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘all good ideas. But now I want to hear something sensible. We don’t want a war.’
‘We’ve already got a war,’ Mooney shouted.
‘Not quite, mate,’ Robbo returned. ‘We’re trying to find a peaceful strategy here.’
A murmur ran up the street like leaves in the wind.
Leon grasped Grandpa’s arm, then propelled him around the truck and up to Robbo. ‘This old feller here wants to have a word,’ Leon said. ‘He’s my grandfather. Can you give him a hand to get up there?’ The disdain on Robbo’s face showed what he thought of this proposal, but Leon wasn’t backing away. ‘Come on, Robbo. I’m asking for help. I can’t lift him up there myself.’
Whispers swelled to a crescendo behind Leon’s back. He could sense everyone craning to see what was happening. The mumbles converted to words. ‘Who’s that?’ ‘Why’s he here?’ ‘He’s got a nerve.’
Mooney’s sneer was loudest. ‘What the fuck is Parkie doing here? I’ll fucking smash his head in.’
Leon waited, glaring daggers at Robbo, but the truck driver didn’t move.
Then Max emerged from the crowd. ‘I’ll help,’ the boy called out. ‘I’m strong.’
A hush descended.
Leon locked eyes with the boy and nodded. ‘Thanks, mate. That’d be great.’
He showed Max how to link hands to make a step for Grandpa and then, together, they tried to lift the old man onto the truck.
But Max’s hands gave way, and Grandpa slumped against the tray and hung there with his feet off the ground. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so desperate.
The crowd rumbled as Leon struggled to think of a solution.
Then a harsh voice rasped over the crowd. ‘Get out of the way. Let me through.’ It was Shane. He sounded angry, and the crowd sank away from him as though he was Moses parting the sea. He stood in front of Grandpa and stared at him, expressionless. Then he nodded at Leon. ‘Okay. Let’s give him a leg-up.’
They shot Grandpa skywards with so much momentum, Robbo had to stick out an arm to break the old man’s trajectory. Now Grandpa was up there, Robbo’s continued obstruction would look petty. His mouth turned down at the corners, and for a moment Leon thought he wasn’t going to let the old man speak. Then he slowly handed over the microphone.
Pride surged through Leon as his grandfather wrapped his warped hand around the mic and
peered out at all those unsympathetic faces. The old man looked as if his scrawny legs wouldn’t hold him for long. But Leon knew Grandpa had the strength of a tree, all on the inside. Now he had the stage, he would use it.
‘Sorry for barging in on you folk,’ Grandpa said, ‘but I’m an old logger from way back and I thought you might benefit from hearing my perspective. Name’s Thomas Walker, and I know the industry well as you do, probably better, because I’ve been around these parts since Jesus played fullback for Jerusalem.’
A few people chuckled.
‘I’ve lived most of my life in the forests. Close to forty years on a chainsaw. Mostly Bruny Island, but also around here. My father and grandpa and my great- and great-great-grandfathers were loggers too—you can see them in the history books. They worked the timber tramways on Bruny Island. Helped set it up right back at the start. Those are my credentials. Generations of my family working in forests.
‘I know there’s been some trouble round here lately. My grandson, here, Leon—he’s filled me in. And I’ve seen it in the newspapers. Front-page news! That’s got to make your knees tremble if you work in the industry. Fact is, I know your big tree. I remember it from when I was working down here. There’s no other tree like it. Thirty, forty years ago, we logged all around it. Could have cut it down, but we didn’t because it was the biggest tree for miles. When you’re working in the forest, and you find a tree that huge, you can’t help thinking about all the things it’s survived. And you respect it. Anyone who’s seen that tree and stood underneath it will know what I mean. It makes you stop and listen to the forest. Most days when you’re on the job, picking off leeches and trying to keep dry, you don’t even think about what’s around you. But when you get that rare perfect day, and you go into a patch of old-growth and the sun’s out and a breeze is blowing, there’s no better place.’
The Orchardist's Daughter Page 30
