by Trent Dalton
The earth is swallowing up Hollow Wood Cemetery. The dirt below it has eaten the dead and now it chews on the evidence of their living.
Molly breaks the silence. Molly always breaks the silence.
‘Is my grandfather down there?’ Molly asks.
Violet takes a moment to answer.
‘Some of him is down there,’ Violet says.
‘Where’s the rest of him?’
Violet looks up at that blue sky the bull ant hasn’t noticed yet.
‘Up there.’
Molly flips her head back and takes in the sky, her eyes squinting in the Darwin sun at full height.
‘The best of him is up there,’ Violet says.
Molly readjusts her footing, shifts her right foot back, never turns away from the sky. There’s a single dry season cumulus cloud on the left side of Molly’s sky, a fluffy and heaped floating metropolis of warm rising air that looks to Molly like the foam that forms when Bert Green drops a scoop of ice cream into a tall glass of sarsaparilla. Everything to the right of that cloud is blue. Violet Hook follows her daughter’s gaze to the sky and she stares up there for almost half a minute, then she turns back to stare at something equally expansive: her daughter’s face. Dirt across her left cheek. A blotch of breakfast egg yolk hardened at the left corner of her lips. Molly’s eyes always on the sky.
‘What is this place, Molly?’
Molly knows the question and she knows the answer. ‘This place is hard, Mum.’
‘What is rock, Molly?’
Molly knows the question and she knows the answer. ‘Rock is hard, Mum.’
‘What is your heart, Molly?’
‘My heart is hard, Mum.’
‘How hard is it?’
‘Hard as rock,’ Molly says, eyes still on the sky. ‘So hard it can’t be broken.’
Violet nods, breathes deep. A long silence now. Then four simple words. ‘I’m going away, Molly.’
Molly shifts her bare left foot and turns her head to her mother. ‘Where ya goin’, Mum?’ she asks, her right hand driving Bert’s blade haphazardly into the dirt. ‘You goin’ to Katherine again, Mum?’
Violet says nothing.
‘You goin’ to Timber Creek again, Mum? Can I come, too?’
Violet’s eyes turning up to the sky now. Another long silence.
Molly banging her right heel into the dirt, waiting for her Mum to respond.
And Violet seems lost in that sky. Then she closes her eyes and reaches her right arm out to her daughter and Molly watches that hand come all the way across to rest upon her left shoulder. Her mother’s fingers are shaking. And Molly can see now that her mother’s arms are thinner than she’s ever seen them. Her skin, paler.
‘Why are your fingers doing that, Mum?’
And Violet opens her eyes and studies her shaking right hand, close up, then hides it once more behind her back. She turns her eyes again to the sky. ‘I’m going up there, Molly,’ Violet says. ‘I’m going up there to be with your grandfather.’
Molly smiles. Turns her head back to the sky. Eyes alight. ‘Can I come, too?’
‘No, Molly, you can’t come, too.’
And Molly feels thirsty now and her belly turns inside her and the toes of her right foot dig into the red earth beneath her and she makes nervous fists with her hands and the longest nails on her fingers dig so deep into her palms that they dig through the skin. Turn again to the sky. Turn again to Mum.
‘I’m not coming back down again, Molly.’
Molly shakes her head. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I can’t stay down here anymore.’
Molly raises her eyes to the sky again. She searches for a town up there. She searches for the house her mum will stay in up there. She searches for streets in the sky and lolly shops and liquor stores. The town beyond the clouds. The town beyond the sky.
‘This is the last time you will see me, Molly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m going away.’
Molly drops her head. Toes digging deeper in the dirt. And she wants to know how her mother pulls this magic trick, how she turns so quickly from the light and into the dark. She’s daylight switching straight into night-time, Molly tells herself. Day sky to night sky, with no living done in between. No time in between. No chores. No afternoon tea. Day sky blue with dolphin clouds to a night sky only black.
‘What are you feeling inside, Molly?’ Violet asks.
‘I feel like I want to cry.’
Violet nods her head.
‘Then cry, Molly,’ Violet says. ‘Cry.’
And the gravedigger girl’s eyes squint and her body shudders like it wants to vomit and her neck jolts forward and she sobs. Two brief sobs and her eyes have to open wide for a river of tears that turn to tributaries that split through the dry dirt and dust on the girl’s face, and these new water lines on Molly’s cheeks look to Violet like the creek systems she would see on her father’s gold fossicking maps as a girl.
‘Keep going,’ Violet says. And the girl cries harder and she puts her hands to her face and fluid runs from her nose and saliva drips from her lips and her mother does not touch her. Does not hold her. Does not reach for her.
‘Cry, Molly, cry,’ Violet says, softly.
The gravedigger girl howls so loud that Violet turns her head, instinctively, towards the cemetery house beyond a cluster of trees, just in case that sound is loud enough to wake her husband from a long daylight liquor sleep.
‘Good,’ Violet says. ‘Good, Molly.’
And Molly cries for a full minute more and then she swallows hard and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. She grips a fistful of her dress and lowers her face to wipe it clean.
Violet stands in front of her child now, hands still behind her back.
‘Are you finished?’
Molly nods, snorting fluid back up through her nose.
‘Did you get it all out?’
Molly nods.
‘Now look at me, Molly,’ Violet says.
Molly looks up at her mother.
‘You will never weep for me again,’ she says. ‘Not a single tear will you shed for me from this moment on. You will never feel sorrow. You will never be afraid. You will feel no pain. For you are blessed, Molly Hook. Never let a single person tell you any different.’
Molly nods.
‘What is this place?’
‘It’s hard, Mum.’
‘What is rock?’
‘It’s hard, Mum.’
‘What is your heart?’
‘My heart is hard, Mum.’
‘How hard is it?’
‘Hard as rock. So hard it can’t be broken.’
Violet nods.
‘No one can ever break it, Molly,’ Violet says. ‘Not your father. Not your uncle. Not me.’
Molly nods. She watches her mother look back to the cemetery house. There is fear on her face. There is worry.
Violet turns back to her daughter. ‘Now is there anything you want to ask me before I go?’
Molly’s head down, staring at the dirt. Staring at a platoon of ants marching towards her grandfather’s grave.
‘Will I still be able to talk to you?’
‘We can talk any time you want to talk,’ Violet says. ‘All you have to do is look up.’
‘But how will I hear you?’ the girl asks.
‘All you have to do is listen.’
Molly’s head stays down.
‘No, you can’t be doing that,’ Violet says. ‘You can’t be keeping your head down like that, Molly. You must look up. You must always look up.’
Molly looks up. Violet nods, half-smiles.
‘Is there anything else you want to ask me?’
Molly scratches her face, twists her left foot in the dirt, something on her mind.
‘What is it, Molly?’
Molly’s screwed-up face.
‘You’re gonna miss my birthday,’ Molly says.
‘I’m gonna
miss all of your birthdays, Molly.’
Molly drops her head.
‘I won’t get any more gifts from anyone,’ Molly says.
‘You’ll still get gifts from me.’
‘I will?’
‘Of course you will.’
Molly points to the sky.
‘But you’ll be up there.’
Violet smiles.
‘That’s where the best gifts come from.’
Violet looks at the sky again.
‘The rain, Molly,’ Violet says. ‘The rainbows. The dolphin clouds. Elephant clouds. Unicorn clouds. The great big bolts of lightning. The sky gifts, Molly. I’ll send them all down for you.’
‘The sky gifts,’ Molly says. She likes those words. ‘Just for me?’
‘Just for you, Molly. But you have to keep your eyes on the sky. You have to keep looking up.’ Violet points at the sky. ‘There’s one falling now.’
‘Where?’ Molly gasps, scanning the blue sky.
Violet points to the sky again.
‘There,’ she says. And Molly squints her eyes and shades her face with her hands to block the glare.
‘It’s a gift from your grandfather, Molly. It’s something he wants you to have.’
Molly bouncing on the spot now. ‘What is it? What is it?’
‘It’s how your grandfather found his treasure,’ Violet says, staring at the sky.
‘Treasure!’ Molly says.
‘We all have our own treasure to find, Molly. He wants you to find yours.’
Molly stares harder into the sky, but she can’t see the falling sky gift.
‘Keep looking up, Molly,’ Violet says. ‘Just keep your eyes on the sky, Molly. Don’t look away or you’ll miss it falling.’
Molly stares harder into the sky but she can’t see the falling sky gift.
‘Keep looking up, Molly,’ Violet says. ‘Just keep your eyes on the sky, Molly. Don’t look away or you’ll miss it falling.’
Molly feels her mother move closer to her. Molly feels her mother’s arms wrap around her shoulders. She feels her mother’s lips against her temple.
‘I’m going now, Molly,’ Violet says. ‘But you must not watch me go. You must keep looking up. You must keep your eyes on the sky.’
And Molly looks at the sky and looks and looks and she wants to turn her eyes away but she listens to her mum, she believes in her mum, she believes her, and she never takes her eyes off that high blue roof and she feels her mum move away from her, hears her mum’s sandals crushing leaves and grass shoots behind her, and she wants to look away from the sky and turn her eyes towards those sounds but she listens to her mum because her mum is always right, always true, always graceful.
‘You can write your own epitaph now, Molly.’ Further away.
‘It won’t be written for you. You can write it yourself. Just keep your eyes on the sky, Molly.’ Further away.
‘Keep your eyes on the sky, Molly.’ Further away.
‘Keep your eyes on the sky, Molly.’ Too far away.
Molly keeps her eyes on the sky and she stares up at that sky for so long she tells herself she will only stare at that sky for sixty more seconds and she counts sixty seconds in her head and when she has only five more seconds to count she vows to count another sixty seconds and she does. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
She still can’t see the sky gift, so she turns her eyes away from the blue and she sighs, her belly still turning inside, and she whips her head round to where the last sounds of footsteps came from. She looks for her mother. But there are only trees and graves and weeds and mounds of pebbled clay covering the dead, nothing else. And she stares into that still cemetery space waiting for her mother to walk back into it. But she does not.
An image enters the gravedigger girl’s mind. A bull ant crawling across a curse. A single word carved in stone. Bad magic for someone who might deserve it. She turns to read her grandfather’s epitaph and resting upon the slab of stone by her twig-thin shinbones is a flat, square cardboard gift box. It’s wrapped in a ribbon tied in a bow. The colour of the ribbon is the colour of the sky.
Molly leaps on the sky gift and shakes it in her hands. She rips at the ribbon and her belly isn’t turning anymore. Her dirt and sweat fingers claw at the sides of the box. At last, an opening, and her fingers rip the thin, cheap cardboard roughly across the bottom edge and something metal – something hard – slides out of the box and into her hands.
She holds it up to the sky. A round metal dish. Solid copper. Old and caked in dirt. She thinks it’s a dinner plate at first. Maybe a serving dish for sandwiches. But the dish has raised, sloping sides and a flat base, and it’s not much smaller than a car’s steering wheel. And Molly’s seen one of these before. In the back tray of her Uncle Aubrey’s red utility truck, in the old metal box where he keeps his fossicking tools. It’s not a plate, she tells herself. It’s a pan. A pan for finding gold. A pan for finding treasure. And Molly Hook, aged seven, knows not what to say back to the sky for such generosity, so she looks up to it and says what she can only hope is graceful. ‘Thank you.’ And in the silence of the cemetery the gravedigger girl waits patiently for the sky to say something back.
The gravedigger girl by the water, four days later. Molly Hook kneeling on the muddy bank of Blackbird Creek, which runs along the eastern edge of Hollow Wood Cemetery. She holds the sky gift. Earth, dirt and silt have turned the copper pan to a dark mud-brown colour. She fills the pan with dry creekbed gravel and duck-waddles without standing into the shallow creek water. With two steady hands, she submerges the pan and the cleaner parts of its edge bounce sunlight off copper and Molly mistakes these magic tricks of the light for early and miraculous strikes of gold.
Gold, Mum, gold. And she turns her head to the sky. Is this you, Mum? Are you doing this? Can you hear me, Mum?
And it makes sense to Molly in this moment when she is so close to her eighth birthday that the god of minerals, that miserable and selfish spirit god of gold, that son of Zeus, Khrysos – whose grave her father and her uncle say they’re always pissing on when they’re liquored – would grant her a gold strike on this day. This strange day of all strange days, this dark mood of a day when her father, Horace, and her uncle, Aubrey, are over there by the black rock frog rock beneath the sprawling milkwood tree digging a deep dirt hole to rest another human body in for eternity.
She watches them digging. Aubrey Hook is two years older than Horace Hook and half a foot taller. The brothers are aged in their mid-thirties but too much toil and too much Darwin sun have dragged them prematurely into their forties. Both brothers wear wide-brimmed black hats that shadow their hands as they break to open their rectangular and rusting Havelock tobacco tins and roll their smokes, silent as always. The men wear white cotton shirts and black trousers and black work boots covered in dirt. Their spines bend sharply at the top, as if their shoulder blades are pushing their heads over, like they were born disfigured, but it’s all because of the shovel work. Digging graves for the dead and all those years they spent digging eventual graves for themselves in the sorry rear end of the Northern Territory gold rush. It takes decades for a spine to assume the dig position, but it catches on eventually, starts curling into a comfortable place, the way Horace and Aubrey will one day curl gratefully into a mud-cake brown-dirt hole just like the one they’re digging beside the black rock frog rock.
Aubrey has a moustache but Horace does not. Red kerchiefs round their necks for sweat, white handkerchiefs in their trouser pockets to wipe dirt off their foreheads. Men of bone and skin and work and broken sleep and worry. Men who Molly believes might have been born in dirt. Men who did not come from the place she came from. Men who emerged from the earth they’re always digging up. The girl knows if she drove Bert into her father’s belly and stomped on the blade shaft with her right boot, she’d find the same red, yellow and brown earths she keeps finding beneath all these old black cemetery gravestones lining Blackbird C
reek. She’d find the Darwin kandosols her dad has told her about, those hard Top End soils that hold little water, the sandy and loamy surface soils, inside her own father. Then she’d dig deeper and she’d find no innards in the man, no gut tubes, no organs, no heart, just the vertosols, the same cracking clays and black soils found beneath the Top End’s vast floodplains. She can’t picture Uncle Aubrey’s insides, thinks he’s hollow like the dead, termite-ravaged trees that gave this cemetery its name. All he has inside is shadow.
‘Black rock frog rock,’ Molly mumbles to herself as she pans.
The black rock frog rock beneath the milkwood tree looks to Molly like the black rock frogs she always sees hopping through Hollow Wood. The frogs remind her of burnt damper. Hopping lumps of burnt bread.
She likes those words. ‘Black rock frog rock.’ She sounds like a croaking creek frog when she says those words fast. ‘Black rock frog rock. Black rock frog rock.’ And she laughs.
Molly shakes the pan from side to side, vigorously enough to turn the gravel, gently enough to keep the gravel in the pan. She takes the larger gravel rocks from the pan, washes them clean in the water, discards them. Circular pan movements now, revolutions of gravel and water as dirt and clay dissolve. The gravedigger girl’s fingers working lumps of dirt and clay, working smaller rocks to the surface, letting the heavier minerals – the gold, Mum, the gold – settle at the bottom of the pan. The pan goes up and the pan goes down and the dirt spins like the earth spins beneath Molly Hook’s dirt-brown bare feet. And she searches for those flashes of gold for forty-five minutes and she never finds them.
But after all the searching, all the sifting, she finds that the sky-gifted pan has been washed clean on both sides. The wet copper shimmers in the Darwin sun and she turns the pan in her hands and she guides a reflecting beam of the sun onto her left palm and she wonders if the beauty of that light on her skin is prettier than any large nugget of gold she could ever find, anyway. Maybe this was the kind of treasure her grandfather hunted across every corner of this land. The treasure of pure golden light.
