The Curlew's Eye

by Karen Manton

  Joel moved on to the homestead photos. The empty, burned-out rooms. The peacock chair. Magdalen’s jewellery box, the ballerina.

  He whistled softly at the enlargements of the bush stone-curlew. It had such an ethereal, other-worldly look, it could be the nightbird they’d seen at the lake.

  ‘Clever.’ He smiled at her. ‘I hope you’re not giving it away.’

  The photos from the meatworks silenced him. His fingers nudged the knocking box and skinning cradle.

  ‘What happened there, Joel, down at the meatworks? Not the other night—back in the past.’

  He frowned a little and kept his eyes on the photos. ‘What do you think happened? It was a slaughterhouse.’

  ‘Not that. Something else. You can feel it whispering around the walls.’

  He moved away from the carcass hooks to a corkscrew pandanus.

  ‘Did Lennie work there?’

  Lennie’s boyish, smiling face stared up at them both. It was one of the enlargements she’d had done up in Darwin.

  ‘Tori said he wasn’t cut out for here,’ she persisted.

  Thunder sounded overhead. Joel’s forehead was beaded with perspiration.

  ‘The meatworks was no good for Lennie.’

  He peered out the louvres. The sky was dark grey. You’ve done it now, thought Greta. He’ll tell you nothing.

  The pedestal fan whirred behind her. She could smell rain. As it came sweeping in he sighed and spoke without turning to look at her.

  ‘Devil sent Lennie into the meatworks to keep him from Magdalen. She hated the place, wouldn’t go near it. Fedor was sick at the time, so Devil was running the show. But my father had told Devil if he caught Lennie and Magdalen together that’d be the end of it—no hut, no work.’

  Thunder cracked nearby. The room dimmed. The rain settled into a steady rhythm. Joel became a shadow at the louvres.

  ‘Vadik reckoned he saw Lennie and Magdalen up at those rocks above the hut. Did or didn’t, doesn’t matter. Devil got wind of it and put Lennie on the killing floor. We all thought that was a bad idea. I tried to get Devil to let him do the hides outside. But no, Devil wanted sport.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Joel turned back to the table to find the photo of Lennie with his catch at the creek.

  ‘Lennie wouldn’t do his first kill,’ he said after a pause. ‘Or skin and gut. Vadik forced his hand. There was a fight.’

  ‘Lennie fought back?’

  She couldn’t believe it of the gentle-faced boy in the photo, proudly holding up his fish.

  ‘I did,’ said Joel.

  He’s a dog, a dog!

  Lennie’s voice is hoarse. He’s hurrying behind Joel through the grass, clutching his purple ear with bloody fingers.

  True, thinks Joel. Devil is a dog.

  He sees the mad scrum again, Devil’s teeth latched on to his son’s ear like a pit bull. Vadik dancing around them both with a meat knife. Slashing the air. Closer and closer to Lennie’s face.

  The meatworks is behind the boys now, out of sight, but another Vadik scream chases them.

  Joel can still feel the bone in his uncle’s arm. Twist, twist, snap.

  He’s dreading the return to the hill, the homestead, his mother. Vadik will get there first, wailing and dangling the broken arm. Maria will turn her head to look at her son. The way she does. Out of that tired pillow. Already he’s sick with shame.

  He tells Lennie to walk faster. There isn’t much time. They’ll only just make it to the highway for the bus.

  You’ve gotta get out of here, Lennie, he says. You have to pull yourself together. Get on that bus to Katherine or Tennant. Wherever.

  Lennie’s stumbling behind him, gasping or sobbing or both. This never would’ve happened if Sal was here.

  No, it wouldn’t have, thinks Joel, and he’s hoping Lennie won’t faint.

  Joel’s thinking about what he’ll grab when they get to the hut—a few tins of food, a change of clothes. He’ll have to raid Devil’s cash. There’s a slash in the mattress Devil sleeps on, Magdalen told him once. Put your hand in, you’ll find it. She can see in the dark, that girl.

  26

  No one was at the hut. The mango tree was a dark umbrella. Rotten fruit littered the ground underneath. Magpie geese were feasting there. They raised their pink faces and honked at Greta, and then dipped back to their food. The air smelled of them and overripe fruit.

  Greta slipped inside the doorway with a gentle ‘Hello?’

  The place was empty. The bowl on the table had no trinkets, and the fishbones on the sink had been picked clean. One of her homemade bread rolls was on the floor, half eaten, over by the clothes rack. Two dresses and a shirt were missing.

  She has run away, Greta thought.

  But when she looked around the curtain she couldn’t be sure. A small case was on the bed. It was old-fashioned, pale blue with crimson piping and a maroon handle. The rabbit was propped up against his pillow, staring at it. Greta clicked open the latches.

  Inside was a black shawl embroidered with blood-red tulips. She pulled it aside and found a sketchbook lying on a shoebox full of photos. A square biscuit tin held cassette tapes. Jammed behind it was a small icon, and a little glass salt shaker that smelled faintly perfumed.

  Greta opened the sketchbook to find every page filled with drawings. Wings, bird faces, eyes and beaks, children’s arms and legs. Hybrid bird children. The head of a bird, claws for feet. Wings instead of arms, feathered legs. The swan boy in different poses. Some of them were rough sketches, others were skilful drawings. No colour, all grey lead. She placed it on the bed for now.

  The tapes were labelled with story titles. The photos were in bundles tied with black ribbon. She undid one. There was Joel, showing off a fish. Maria with an armful of pawpaws. Joel, Gabe and Danny on the back of a ute, proud of their hunted pig.

  Between the shoebox and tin was a woven mat, wrapped around a crystal candlestick. It was for one candle, with a crystal column and prisms hanging from the candleholder’s dish. The foot was a swirl, like water.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. The room darkened, as if someone had moved to block a window. The clouds were hiding the sun, she knew. She’d seen them gathering earlier.

  You must go, she told herself.

  The wind picked up outside. She listened to it pass through the valley, rustle the pandanus fronds, stir the mango tree. A breath sighed through the doorway. On the walls the newspaper clippings murmured. Airy fingers picked at the roof.

  Greta returned the candlestick to the case with the photos and tapes. But she hesitated over the sketchbook. Her husband’s precious drawings. The shawl was soft in her fingers. A tremor ran through her. She’d found parts of a dead woman, of Joel’s family, of him. And the secret intent of whoever had smuggled these treasures away. Where had the case been all this time? Behind the clothes rack? Under the bed?

  The chimes at the doorway rang brightly with a gust of wind. It was a pretty sound, whirling, whirling, until they were suddenly jostled.

  Greta spun around. ‘Elena,’ she breathed.

  The girl was at the curtain looking in. Greta half expected her to seize the case and slam it shut.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Greta started.

  The girl wasn’t listening. Her eyes were a strange shining. She was like the Lady of the Lake, emerged from a watery underworld. Around the hut, the sounds of the magpie geese wings whirred. The girl looked up to the departing song of them, as if the roof wasn’t there and she could see them heading through the sky in their V formation. Greta waited for the slow honk, honk of their call.

  Instead there was a fierce thunderclap, an electric white-blue spark. The girl shrieked. Greta was thrown against the wall of newspaper clippings. Outside came the blistering tear of thunder, a searing light.

  Greta stood and searched the shadowed room. Elena had fled. On the floor was a bracelet. Only seven were left on the wall. This one was heavier, b
lack with gentle twists. Its charms were exquisite carvings in bone and wood, miniature emblems crafted in metal. A feather, the face of an owl, a bird’s claw.

  The hut shuddered; the roof lifted in the wind. Lightning flickered outside and inside. Light, dark, light, dark. The rain fell hard now, so that when Greta called after the girl, her voice was whisked out the door and lost. The creek was becoming a rush of water.

  Greta withdrew into the hut again. Joel’s sketchbook had slid to the floor and let loose a photo, face down. Magdalen, 14 years was penned in the corner. Greta flipped it over.

  The girl was pale, pale. White blonde. With eyes that were a vivid blue.

  Greta checked the name on the back again, and then flipped the photo once more to stare into the face she knew. She couldn’t believe it. Elena, Magdalen. One and the same.

  It’s all about the way you see things.

  Greta rushed to the door. The valley was shrouded in a silver curtain. The creek gushed white rapids, the rocks were disappearing, changing shape.

  The chimes swirled around her, spinning rainwater from their dance.

  Tricked! Tricked! they sang.

  Rain fell in steady lines from the roof, pelting down truths that had always been there.

  ‘My God—you’re not real,’ Greta breathed over and over into the wind, the rain, the laughing chimes.

  She slipped the photo of Magdalen inside her shirt to keep it dry.

  The air shook with thunder. Earth, sky, rushing water trembled light and darkness.

  I trust you.

  Inside the hut, water eased across the floor. A feather floated over Greta’s foot. She looked again at the photo, into those piercing blue eyes. The smile was alive.

  Another gust of wind pulled at the hut. The walls bled rust and water. The hanging bracelets gently tap-tapped. Greta stood on the mattress and unhooked them. She bound all eight bracelets with the black ribbon from the photos and tucked the bundle into the suitcase with the tapes. Then she slipped Magdalen’s photo inside the sketchbook’s back cover, placed it on top of the shoebox and draped the shawl over everything. She jammed the lid shut and clicked the latches into place.

  The rabbit stared at her. You fool, the little pink mouth said.

  Greta picked up the case and, on impulse, the one-eyed rabbit. At the doorway she hesitated. Rain flew in on the wind.

  The land had altered beyond what she knew. The creek was white, tameless, pulling at the dirt, flattening grasses, the green hair of mermaids. The mango tree was surrounded by a moat. The track to the footbridge had vanished. The sun had been carried away. The afternoon had fled, twilight was descending.

  The chimes rang loudly as she went out into the wind and the rain. Farewell, farewell.

  The boulders in the creek were sinking. She feared that the bridge would be gone, swept under not just by water but shifting ground.

  The track to the rainforest was disappearing. She hurried on against the wind and rain, dead fronds catching her ankles, mud sucking at her boots. The valley wanted to keep her. She gripped the handle of the case tight. The rabbit had slipped from her and gone.

  The bridge was still there, partly submerged. The vines and trees made a dark tunnel ahead. Before trying to cross it, she turned. A bolt of lightning dived into the valley and Greta fled into the rainforest. Rushing water pushed against her legs. She passed the hanging car. Vines grasped her wet hair. Her clothes were a second skin. She edged along to where the bridge had sunk. Beside her a rock peeped through. She stepped onto it and from there to a fallen tree that took her to the bank.

  She ducked through the fence, barbs picking at her shirt. Ahead of her the gentle paperbarks stood unfazed by their rising creek, and the giant boulders loomed with quiet surety.

  She came to the base of the hill. It was a weeping face of rivulets. Lightning spiked above, cycads and rocks flashed silver.

  It isn’t far, she told herself. It isn’t far.

  27

  ‘Where were you?’ two silhouettes called from behind a sheet that was pegged up on a makeshift line and backlit with a desk lamp.

  A dragon and a boy shadow puppet dropped. Griffin stood up. He made a strange figure, with his legs shadows behind the sheet and his upper half normal. He stared at Greta, her face streaming water, the suitcase by her side. She’d been dropped from a storm cloud.

  She felt stunned into a new corporeality. The solid floor under her feet was a comfort. Raffy shone the desk lamp on her.

  ‘You’re wetter than wet!’ He came out to see her more closely.

  Griffin touched her arm. She wanted to grab hold of him and never let go. Raffy held out his palm where a paper cut bled. She kissed it. The metallic taste of his blood was a relief.

  ‘There was wild thunder,’ he said. ‘The house shook and you weren’t here.’

  His eyes remembered their fright. She cupped the back of his neck with her hand.

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘Up at the graves,’ answered Griffin. ‘They’re sinking.’

  She slipped back out the door and looked up to see flashes of torchlight in the dark. It seemed no accident for it to happen this night. A mother rising to reclaim her child. A sister facing her brother. Take me with you.

  Toby emerged through the rainy darkness.

  ‘The ground’s caved in up there.’ He panted from his run down the hill.

  Greta wondered what Joel was seeing, if Toby’s fears were right and bones were still there.

  They went inside. Toby peered over the scrim to annoy his brothers. A shadow puppet appeared with his sword raised.

  ‘Where did you find these puppets?’ Greta asked. ‘The boy and the dragon?’

  ‘Miss Rhianna gave them to us, one for every kid in the class. From her trip to Bali.’

  ‘I cut out my own great feathered hunter,’ said Griffin. ‘I thought him up.’

  Toby’s shadow puppet had broken in the bottom of his school bag. He thought he might take Griffin’s dragon now. Greta wiped down the suitcase and listened to the squabble unfold.

  The children are mine, she told herself, they are my own flesh and blood.

  She’d had a thought while climbing out of the valley that perhaps the shack would never appear; perhaps it wasn’t even real. Maybe Joel and the children and herself were imagined.

  She put the suitcase on the lowest shelf in the pantry and went out to the shower. She hugged herself against the storm she’d passed through and the girl who had vanished.

  ‘She is gone, she is gone,’ she whispered.

  Greta felt a sudden absence; as if she’d lost someone. Her fists gently knocked at her skull. Is it related to the sickness? she wondered. Or is it me? And there was always the niggling question about who’d called her mother to the quicksand. Was it the depression everyone suspected? Or a vision like this girl? Did it run in families?

  She listened to the boys’ voices rising in the shack, a thud. She turned off the tap, tight, as if she might turn off the ghost of Magdalen too.

  Why had her husband’s sister, who she’d never met, appeared to her and not him? It didn’t seem right. Or fair. You’re an easy target, the voice in her said. Gullible.

  ‘We’re hungry,’ Raffy called from the back door.

  She wrapped a towel around herself and went to the cabin for clothes.

  It was a new moon again, the night felt very dark. The wind had returned and whisked away the rain to gather its own strength. The mahogany branches swayed. Lightning strobed through the clouds above them. She wondered if a cyclone was forming off the coast. Raffy was on the shack verandah shining a torch in her direction. The chimes spun outwards into the wind.

  ‘It’s a creepy night,’ he said as she joined him, and went back to the scrim. ‘Get ready for the puppet show.’

  Toby had been ousted for being bossy. He was at the bench slicing kangaroo meat. ‘Stir fry tonight,’ he said.

  A chef was merging with the astronaut lately
. She cut vegetables beside him. Every scent, every colour was more potent this night. The fluoro green tinge between a zucchini’s white flesh and evergreen skin; the bright orange of a sweet potato spotting white milk.

  Real, real! they sang out to her.

  When she went to the table with cutlery she found her father’s lantern. She must have walked right past it before. The glass cover was intact, not a scratch on it.

  ‘Did you kids find this?’ she asked, but none of them answered.

  She lit the wick. Her face was a long distortion in the glass.

  When she came back inside she was greeted by a giant bird shadow. Long-legged, hook-beaked. Vicious claws. It had knots for knees like a curlew, and a wild crest like a cockatoo.

  ‘Watch, watch!’ Griffin called.

  The bird and the boy with the sword were on a journey. She tried to follow the story but kept seeing other images. Magdalen’s shining face raised to sounds of flying geese. A thousand reflections in Maria’s candlestick. And the silhouettes of her father and aunt on the calico screen around her bed in the living room at Fishermans Creek. Greta had slept there after her mother died, for warmth and company, and because when her aunt came to help she slept in Greta’s bed. Her aunt’s shape had loomed larger than her father’s, and her voice spoke over his. Be careful what you dredge up. Let sleeping dogs lie.

  Outside the wind dropped. An ominous silence grew until a deep moan sounded beyond Greta’s garden. She went outside. The mahogany tree leaned forward. Suddenly a searing crack split the air. The tree’s arms flailed towards her. A mighty thud shuddered through the ground. Branches splayed up against the bus. Woody fingers slid into the verandah.

  Toby rushed out to his mother. She was frozen in shock. Joel’s quad bike zoomed down the hill. He pulled up where the tree met the shack. His face was a frightened mask.

  ‘God, I thought I might have lost you.’

  Griffin jumped down from the verandah to inspect the pizza oven nested among branches, miraculously untouched. Then he climbed onto the back of the tree and walked along it to where roots stuck out in a wheel of stiff tendrils. Toby’s torchlight flickered around them.