The Curlew's Eye

by Karen Manton

  The last room in the house was gone, sheared off. A row of concrete stumps made a line through the grass.

  The most fascinating space is one that’s disintegrating.

  She could hear her mother’s voice, see her walking through sunlit dust motes in a derelict warehouse and her own little red boots following.

  Watch your step, or you’ll disappear.

  Retracing her way she stopped again at Magdalen’s room. A glimmer caught her eye through the hole in the wall. A set of chimes was curled up on the exposed noggin. She drew them out. They were like the ones Griffin had found, except the triangle at the top was made of three metal pipes. The strings were knotted with miniature bones, rusted nails, a snail shell, diagonal mirrors.

  The sound of Joel’s quad bike pulling up interrupted. She laid the chimes on the mattress and hurried out through his mother’s room.

  He pushed the hat off his head. His shirt was soaked and his hair was wet, except for a few strands that stood upright in the breeze.

  Greta handed him her water bottle. He gulped and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  ‘Careful in there.’ He nodded to the homestead.

  ‘I know.’ Something like guilt wrapped around her.

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ He noticed the camera hanging from her neck.

  She looked back to the house. ‘Must’ve been some fire.’

  ‘It was.’

  He squinted at the sunlit roof, arms folded. Then he smiled wearily at her and she sauntered with him to the edge of the old garden where the ground began its descent to the lake. A stony incline led down to a belt of turkey bush dusted with pink flowers. After that it was mostly rocks and trees down to the water. Woolly butt, stringybark, ironbark. The trunks were like poles. The lake shimmered in between.

  Joel kicked one of the empty forty-four-gallon drums next to him. It tipped and somersaulted, shuddering down over stones until it banged against a gutted station wagon. The car had nosedived into a red bead tree. A tussock of gamba fountained through the roof.

  ‘Magdalen was born in that car,’ he said.

  ‘Your sister?’

  He nodded.

  His sister’s birth was a panic, he’d told her once, not long after they met. She remembered snippets. A father sleeping off his vodka, two older brothers out pig hunting. Another one playing darts. The younger children unsure what to do. Except for six-year-old Joel, kneeling on the kitchen bench to reach the car keys kept in a jar at the back of the cupboard, with the salt his uncle had spilled across the bench biting into a cut on his knee. And his mother’s dress was wet, clinging to her, which had puzzled him—was it from the shower, or from the rain hammering the roof? Afterwards, he used to dream the roof had disappeared and rain was pelting on him and his mother inside.

  Greta had assumed they’d found a doctor, a hospital.

  Wrong, wrong! a white cockatoo shrieked overhead.

  She saw that little boy again, kneeling in salt and holding the keys out to his mother.

  ‘I have to go,’ Joel said, though he lingered. ‘I’ll see you late afternoon.’

  ‘The kids want to eat at the pub tonight. For a treat.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He took another swig of water then held out the bottle.

  ‘Take it,’ she said.

  His fingers brushed her wrist.

  She watched the quad bike buzz down the hill. The shack was a small nut, closed in on itself.

  Now a flock of white cockatoos screeched out of the blue sky. Their wings flapped white light as they landed in the branches above the stopped car. The lake gleamed. The ground creaked in the heat.

  Greta turned back to the homestead. The sun had recast the light and shadows around the building. A portrait of a ruin was taking shape in her mind.

  The shutters moved on their hooks. Tappety-tap-tap.

  To take them or leave them—Magdalen’s chimes.

  Who would care? She went in. They were on the mattress where she’d left them. She snatched them up. A tremor shivered through her as she stepped out across the sunken verandah. She was a thief.

  She wove her way quickly between the rocks and sand palms, heading for the shack. There was a strange ringing in her ears. The saplings’ leaves rattled at her. The stones were singing. They had seen.

  7

  They pulled up outside the pub on sunset to a cloud of flying foxes rising from the castle’s forest. Their wings beat softly through the air, shadows against the gold and pink clouds. A mother flew low over Greta’s head; she could see the baby clinging to its chest. Toby was impressed by the gothic show. He wanted to know where they were going.

  ‘To feed,’ said Joel. ‘They’ll be back at three a.m., making a racket to wake the dead.’

  He took the children across the road for a quick visit to Uncle Pavel’s castle. Griffin was amazed at his great-uncle’s talent, the size of the model, the unlikely salmon colour. He dawdled behind the others and Greta had to call him away.

  The pub had a verandah with bar stools and a bench that overlooked the street. It seemed the store and the pub were designed for everyone to watch everyone else.

  As soon as they entered, three men at the bar turned to stare. One nodded at Joel. For a moment no one said anything. Then the woman behind the bar straightened up from leaning on the counter. She had dyed blonde hair with a jet-black streak on one side.

  ‘Well, look who’s back, after a couple of sweet decades.’ Her mouth was a sarcastic twist.

  ‘Not that long, is it?’ Joel’s smile was quick.

  She kept her hands on her hips as if she might not serve him. Then she snatched his ten-dollar note, filled a schooner and set it down hard. ‘Thought you must be dead.’

  Foam slid to the counter. The change clinked against the glass.

  Toby begged for money for the arcade machine he’d spotted. Joel let him take some coins and the boys disappeared.

  The woman tilted her chin at Greta to ask what she’d like.

  ‘G and T, thanks.’ She’d treat herself for the end of the week.

  Joel introduced Erin who’d already turned to the spirits shelf. An elaborate J snared in Celtic knots was inked across her shoulder blades. The low-scooped back of her t-shirt seemed designed to show it off. She took her time to find the bottle.

  ‘Where’s your brother Danny?’ Tonic hissed from the bar gun into the glass.

  Joel shrugged. ‘Who knows? Says he’ll turn up to give me a hand.’

  Greta passed him a menu to order fish and chips, and reminded him to bring some glasses.

  She took her drink and a jug of water. An older man at the bar nodded to her as she headed to the table. One or two others watched her go.

  Joel ordered the meals then crossed the room to join her. On his way a burly man stepped in front of him. Joel’s glass tilted, spilling beer.

  ‘Back then, are ya? Thought you lot were gone for good.’

  After a long stare the man pushed past. Joel sat down opposite Greta. He was silent. She wished they’d ordered takeaway. She hadn’t considered that the reason they’d not yet visited town together might be that Joel was avoiding it.

  ‘Must be strange to be back,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He sipped the beer.

  The music was too loud for conversation. Joel focused on the giant TV screen. Nearby, Toby was behind the wheel of a racing car arcade game, with his brothers either side.

  Suddenly a boisterous laugh cut through the music. A woman’s arm snaked around Joel, trapping him in a headlock. ‘Who says you’re allowed in?’

  ‘Cyclone Tori!’ Joel’s frown disappeared.

  ‘This yer missus?’ She shook Greta’s hand and sat between them at the head of the table. ‘Dee said you were in town. Aunty Hazel too, outside the store there—let’s me know the latest.’ She nodded at the arcade machine. ‘That your lot over there? Mine’ll be the ones pushin’ in.’ She grinned at Greta. ‘Axel’s a real life junior sedan racer. Th
e younger two are Barnie and Skye. Trouble with a capital T. God love Miss Rhianna, I say.’ She thought for a moment and said, ‘Your kids go to school on the bus, do they? Ride their bikes to the road gate?’

  Greta nodded.

  ‘I can pick ’em up and drop ’em off with mine on Wednesdays—it’s my Darwin supplies day. Our troopy’ll fit ’em all in. Chance to have a cuppa.’

  Greta thanked her and offered to help with children and car pooling too.

  ‘Us women have to stick together,’ Tori answered.

  After a while the buzzer on the table vibrated and blinked red lights. Greta called Griffin over to help collect the meals. When she returned Tori was still talking.

  ‘What’s up with Schmick Mick? Livin’ the flash life in Sydney, I heard.’

  Joel offered chips to her children, against her protests.

  ‘Done nothin’ to that place all these years. No burn-off, no cattle, nothin’. I thought he said he was managin’ it.’ She sucked air through the gap in her front teeth. ‘That’s what happens when people go down south. Don’t give a shit. Weeds, gamba. It’s a fuckin’ fire risk, Jed reckons.’

  ‘Ronnie’ll slash it,’ said Joel.

  ‘He’ll have his work cut out for him.’

  ‘I’ll burn it with the first rain.’

  ‘You’ll be waitin’ a while, if it’s like last year. Latest, shortest wet ever. People are sayin’ it’s the climate change.’

  ‘You’re still with Jed then?’

  ‘Bad habits die hard!’

  Joel offered her a piece of fish.

  ‘Nah, I’m all good, mate. I’m just here to drink and sing karaoke.’ She smiled at the singer on stage, whose voice was full of passion and slightly off-key. ‘You could get me a beer, though. And one for your missus.’

  ‘Not for me,’ smiled Greta. ‘I’ll drive.’

  The air vibrated with music, Greta could feel it passing through her feet.

  ‘I grew up with Joel,’ Tori said, ‘swimmin’ in that lake, till we knew it was poison. We all loved it. So clear, you know? The new doc couldn’t believe it when she found out what was in it. I’m waitin’ for a cancer.’ She half laughed. Her fingers tapped the table in time to the music. ‘Joel’s sister Magdalen hated it, creeped ’er out y’know.’ She glanced at Greta. ‘Maria too—his mum. She was real superstitious. “If you stand too close, it’ll take you,” she’d say.’ Tori stopped suddenly, as if another thought had taken hold. When she spoke again it was with a kind of reverence. ‘I’ve wondered since if she was one of those people who can see things, y’know? Like second sight. I reckon she had it.’

  Joel came back with a drink for Tori. ‘Complimentary for you, they said.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She thanked him, and explained to Greta, ‘I used to work here so they look after me. I’d like to still work here,’ she continued, ‘but the farm I run with my brother keeps me too busy. What are you doin’ here?’ she said to Joel then. ‘Go and catch up with the fellas at the bar.’ She gave Greta a knowing look. ‘It’ll do him good.’ She took a gulp of beer. ‘So the old place is still there, the one that got burned?’

  ‘Only just.’

  ‘A huff an’ a puff an’ you’d blow it down, eh?’ Tori swivelled to face the stage and whistle at the singer, then turned back. ‘We lived there half the time, us kids. Maria’d feed us till we dropped. She loved people, you know, always huggin’ you breathless, singin’, tellin’ stories. It was all good if Fedor and Vadik weren’t around, thumpin’ fists and ravin’ on.’ Her hand swept over the table as if to clear it of unseen crumbs. ‘She could really sing, Maria. Deep voice. Real deep. Like some kinda weird angel.’

  Greta saw Maria creeping into the night to sing softly across the valley, and little Joel sneaking through one of the casement windows to follow her.

  ‘She came here for karaoke once.’ Tori’s fingers turned her glass. ‘Sal persuaded her—Sal from down the meatworkers’ hut. Loved ’er karaoke, our Sal. But Maria, God! She killed it. They turned the machine right off. Just listened to her voice. Sent chills down yer spine.’

  The children finished eating and moved on to the pool table, counting the coins left between them. There was a call for more talent up on stage.

  Tori yelled out, ‘You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!’

  A few onlookers chuckled and someone called out, ‘Go, Tori!’

  She laughed and turned back to Greta to continue her story. ‘Yeah, that was a legend night, Maria singin’ at the pub. Never happened again, but. Old mate Fedor hit the roof.’ She sucked in her breath. ‘You could see the blood clots along her hairline.’ She traced her finger along her own forehead.

  The music cranked up louder. Tori stood and drained the last of her beer. ‘He could be a brute, Joel’s dad.’ She made her way to the stage.

  Raffy came to sit on Greta’s knee. ‘It’s too loud!’ he said.

  She would have liked to stay and hear Tori sing, but Raffy complained that his ears were hurting, so she signalled to Joel, who was at the pool table with Toby. He took the cue for a last turn. The ball hit another with a sharp crack and both shot into the pocket.

  Outside the flying foxes were gone, though the smell of them hung in the air. The moon had eased above the rain trees. The rest of the sky was dark with only a few stars peeping through. A semitrailer carrying a digger was parked in the street. The driver was checking the tyres.

  ‘Ronnie!’ Joel called and went to shake his hand.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Toby, ‘there’s a giant from Uncle Pavel’s castle.’

  Raffy punched his brother’s arm.

  Ronnie stood under the streetlight, feet wide apart. He was much taller than Joel, and wore a yellow high-vis shirt and blue overalls. His grey hair stuck up in tufts.

  The boys peered inside the open door of the truck. A pit bull sat on the passenger seat, pink tongue lolling.

  Joel called his sons over to shake hands and Greta followed.

  ‘We’ll visit Big Ronnie’s place tomorrow after school. He might let you ride the grader.’

  The boys stayed close to hear about a slip-on water tank and pump Ronnie would lend Joel to bolt onto the red ute if there was a fire. The conversation then turned to the cabin.

  ‘He’s a schemer that Mick,’ Ronnie chuckled softly. ‘You’ll be buildin’ a resort before you know it.’

  Raffy was captivated by a movement inside Ronnie’s shirt pocket. A little face poked out, pink nose quivering for air.

  ‘That’s me little possum,’ said Ronnie. ‘Poor bugger lost its mum.’ His forefinger pushed the little head down. ‘Don’t tell ’em inside or they won’t let me have m’ Guinness.’ He winked at Raffy.

  The possum wriggled up again.

  Ronnie gently took it out for Raffy to see.

  ‘Don’t worry, she doesn’t bite. Just sniffin’ for food.’

  He waited for Raffy to bravely touch the possum’s head, and then let it hide in his pocket again.

  ‘Some rocks’ve come up with the gradin’ today,’ he said, reaching into the truck’s cabin. ‘You boys might like ’em.’

  He dropped one into Raffy’s palm. It was chunky, purple with a partial tan coating.

  ‘Amethysts.’ Ronnie also gave a stone each to Toby, Griffin and Greta.

  The boys huddled under the streetlight to see them better. Ronnie stepped up onto the truck’s tray to open an esky, pulled out a large frozen fish, wrapped newspaper around it and passed it to Joel.

  ‘Barramundi,’ he said to Greta and stepped down.

  Joel whistled his thanks. Ronnie smiled and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Griffin measured his own height against the fish. He’d never seen such a big one.

  Inside the pub Tori was belting out ‘Bow River’. Ronnie looked over that way. Joel shook his hand again.

  ‘Do you think anyone will see it?’ Raffy asked his mother in a low voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The possum.’
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  The road away from town felt narrower on the way back, in the darkness. Greta wound down the window to keep alert. The noise of the karaoke and Tori’s voice were still with her. She shuddered to think of Joel and Tori and other children swimming in the lake, while up at the homestead Maria with the beautiful voice tried to warn them about the poison water. The woman with second sight. The singer who’d been gagged.

  Things unravelled, Joel had told her.

  She saw the turning wheel of Fedor’s moods, Vadik’s drunkenness and Maria trying to protect her children. And Pavel building his castle.

  The air blowing by the window was a relief, and the shadows of the trees and hills too.

  In the back seat a tussle brewed. Griffin wanted to hold the barramundi. Toby wouldn’t give it up. She waited for Joel to intervene but he was distracted with his own thoughts and not interested in their battle. She glared at the rear-vision mirror. ‘Stop it!’ She said.

  Her eyes clicked back to the road. A bovine shape loomed. She swerved. The car skidded towards a ditch. She swerved again, and the car fishtailed between reflector posts, clipping each one. Her hands argued with the wheel. The vehicle was possessed. Suddenly she was hurtling into the bush, with Raffy calling out behind her in a frightened voice, and light bouncing ahead onto saplings, termite mounds and leaves.

  ‘Greta!’ Joel cried.

  She heard them in a strange way, as if she were travelling underwater. All she could see was the broad white trunk of a eucalyptus heading straight for her. She slammed her foot on the brake. The car lurched to a stop just before impact. The engine idled, light streamed up the tree. The whiteness of the bark dazzled her senses.

  ‘I thought we were goners!’ Joel’s eyes shone post-fright.

  ‘There was a cow on the road—we were about to hit it.’

  ‘Could’ve been a buffalo!’ Toby suggested.

  ‘Scrub bull more like,’ said Joel.

  Greta stepped out and peered through the children’s window. ‘Are you all right?’

  Griffin blinked at her, silent.

  ‘Sorry for fighting,’ mumbled Raffy.

  She walked to the front of the car. The bull bar was jammed with gamba. She yanked the stalks free. Joel crouched to drag grass from the chassis. Above them the branches of the tree glowed white.