by Brett McBean
“Maybe it is haunted,” Nathan said, voice flat.
Brian turned to his brother, tattooed hands on skinny hips. “Fuckin’ creepy, yes; fuckin’ haunted, now that’s kid’s stuff.”
“Well then how do you explain all them dead trees?” Nathan asked.
There was no snideness behind Nathan’s comment; it was an innocent and perfectly reasonable question. The same question sprung to Ray’s mind, but he decided it was best not to think about the why—he just needed to concentrate on getting what he had come here for.
“Bad soil,” Brian said, and despite the fact they were surrounded by lush mountain greenery, it seemed as good an explanation as any.
“Whatever the reason, we’re going in,” Ray said, and started forward.
Chris held steady.
He was a wiry fellow, slight of build, but he was strong, determined.
Ray turned around. “Come on, don’t make it hard on yourself.” Ray saw the absolute fear radiating from Chris’s wide stare, and it unnerved him.
Brian, just about to enter the forest, stopped and looked back. “What are you afraid of? There’s nothing in there but wood and dirt.”
Chris’s chest heaved like a Li-Lo being continually inflated and deflated. “We go in, we’re never coming out.”
Brian cackled. It was a harsh sound—a ruined laugh caused by too much cigarette smoke and booze. “You’re a riot, you know that?”
“You don’t understand,” Chris said.
“I understand all right. It’s all bullshit. Tell me, have you ever been in this forest?”
Chris, already looking defeated, bowed his head and shook it gently.
“Have you ever seen anyone go into this forest?”
Another shake.
“Then how the fuck do you know it’s haunted? What is it you people say about a tree falling in the woods? Something about it not making a sound?”
“That’s Zen,” Ray said. “And it doesn’t matter, because we’re going in, haunted or not.”
“You don’t believe…?”
“I believe in going and getting what we came for. Now everyone stay close. We don’t wanna have to waste time searching for someone just because they’re too stupid to keep up with the group.”
“He means you, Nathan,” Brian said.
Ray continued forward, pulling on the rope with all his considerable strength.
Chris practically leapt forward. He stumbled and was only barely able to remain on his feet.
Brian followed.
Nathan trailed, hunched over from the weight of his rucksack.
When Ray stepped into the dark wasteland, it was like stepping through the doorway into another world.
The temperature immediately dropped about ten degrees and the breeze ceased, like it had been switched off. And though it was a clear day, hardly any sunlight penetrated the forest.
“Christ it’s cold in here,” Brian said. “And it stinks.”
There was an unpleasant stench in the air—like dampness and mould, coupled with something unidentifiable.
The forest was made up of a seemingly endless sea of tall straight trees; Ray figured mostly pines, due to the scaly bark on the trunks. However, there was no green in sight. It was like all pine needles and leaves had been stripped off, leaving only naked branches behind.
The forest floor was also devoid of life and colour. What should’ve been a carpet of bushes, ferns and moss-covered rocks was just flat colourless black earth with the occasional bare boulder.
No wonder it’s called Dead Tree Forest, Ray thought.
“So,” Brian said, walking beside Ray. “Do you know how to get to the lake?”
Brian’s voice sounded flat, dead; there was no echo.
“No,” Ray said, noting how his own voice died the moment it passed by his lips. “I don’t.”
“Great, that’s just great,” Brian said. “How ‘bout you, Abo? Do you know?”
“No,” Chris said.
Brian laughed; its deadness was eerie. “Well does anyone know how big this fuckin’ forest is? I mean, we could be walking around here for days, weeks even, and never find the lake.”
“We’ll find it,” Ray said.
“How?”
Ray didn’t have an answer. How could he expect Brian to understand that it was imperative they find the lake; that he had a gut feeling they would be led to it? That somehow, he knew they would find it?
“I dunno,” Ray said. “But we’ll find it.”
“Well I say if we don’t find the lake by this time tomorrow, we turn around and get the fuck outta here.” Brian frowned, and it creased his face like a shirt in desperate need of an iron. “Say, how will we even get back?”
Ray sighed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we ain’t exactly following a trail here, and last time I checked none of us were leaving bread crumbs. So...how will we find our way out?”
Ray gritted his teeth. He wanted Brian to shut up, to stop pummelling him with all these questions. He couldn’t think about the answers to such questions right now—all he was concerned about was getting to the lake and retrieving the treasure that lay buried within its waters. Once he had achieved that, then he’d worry about getting back.
“We’ll worry about that when we need to,” Ray said. “For now, let’s just try and find the lake.”
“Fuck that,” Brian huffed. “I wanna know how we plan on getting outta here. Shit, I’m beginning to regret coming on this trip.”
“So then why did you?” Ray said.
“You promised me treasure. Untold riches, you said. Well fuck, how could I say no to that?”
“You didn’t,” Ray reminded him.
“Yeah, well, I assumed whichever Abo we got would know all about how to get to the lake and back.”
“You know what they say about assuming,” Nathan said from behind.
“Nathan, shut the fuck up or else,” Brian growled. To Ray: “But you had to go and get us a nig-nog that doesn’t know his arsehole from his mouth.”
“No Aborigine knows this forest,” Chris said solemnly. “They know about it, how to get here, but nobody has been in the forest itself—at least, none that have come out alive. What did you expect? A tour guide?”
Brian stopped.
Ray stopped too, followed by Chris and Nathan.
“What is it?” Ray said.
“I don’t know man, I’ve suddenly got a bad feeling about this,” Brian said.
“It’s this forest,” Chris said. “You can feel Ginnumarra’s pain.”
“No, it’s called being worried about getting lost in this fuckin’ forest,” Brian said, eyeing Chris. “Are you sure you don’t know how to get to the lake?”
Chris nodded.
“Look, don’t worry about getting lost, okay?” Ray said. “We’ll be fine.”
Brian dug into his pocket and pulled out his Nokia. He flipped it open. Grimaced. “Just as I expected, no coverage.” He folded the phone and stuck it back into his pocket.
“This forest isn’t supposed to be all that large,” Ray lied. “Hell, we may even reach the lake before it gets dark.”
The truth was, nobody knew exactly how big this forest was. No one had ever surveyed the area. All Ray knew about this forest came from the accounts written by the British settlers back in the nineteenth century, and they all talked about huge stretches of forest that took days to ride through. Of course, he couldn’t tell Brian this. He just hoped Chris kept his mouth shut.
“You think we’ll get to the lake by nightfall?” Brian asked.
“It’s possible.”
Brian sighed. “Christ, this treasure better be worth it.”
“It will be,” Ray said. “It will be.”
They continued walking. As they wound through the maze of trees, it seemed to Ray that the deeper in they went, the more drained of life the trees appeared to be, their bark pale and withered. Compared with these, the trees on the edge of the for
est were bursting with life.
Creepy forest, Ray thought. Chris was right—there is a bad feeling in here. But I have to do this; I have to get that amulet.
His mind turned again to his wife and kids; in particular Gemma and how she had looked when he left home yesterday morning—pale and sad. He thought about what was supposed to be lying at the bottom of the lake; how, if the legends were true, it could be her salvation. It would be the treasure of all treasures.
It could also be all bullshit and then this trip would be for nothing.
Chris seemed to think the stories about why the forest was cursed and, more importantly, about the girl and the treasure she had taken with her to her watery grave were true.
Ray was never one to take an Aboriginal’s word as gospel, but both Sammy and Chris had told the same stories about the forest—so there must be some grain of truth to the legend.
There had to be.
Ray was counting on it.
* * *
Chris could sense death and pain all around him.
The screaming had grown louder the closer they got to the forest. When they had rounded the bend in the meadow, it was like Ginnumarra herself was inside his head. The screaming had eased the moment they entered Dead Tree Forest. It became more of a pained weeping, and it was all around the forest, like someone had placed a hundred speakers throughout, high in the lifeless branches.
He was certain Brian and Nathan couldn’t hear the weeping; he wasn’t so sure about Ray. Chris had a feeling Ray would be able to hear the crying if he listened closely—but the other two, they would never hear the forest’s pain.
As Chris continued to be forcibly led through this barren wilderness, the rope rubbing against his wrists, burning the flesh, his stomach empty, he thought back on what his elders used to tell him about Boolool Kiambram. He knew the story of Ginnumarra and her family; every black kid in Tasmania knew that story. But it was the stories of the forest itself, the curse that had been placed on it, that used to keep him awake at night.
Because no one had travelled into Boolool Kiambram and returned to tell about it; no one knew for sure what curse Ginnumarra had placed on the forest. People had stood at the edge and told of the black death that seeped from the mass of withered, leafless trees. They told of the screaming, the pain. But that was all anyone knew about Dead Tree Forest.
Chris’s Uncle Walter, dead fifteen years, had once made the trek up to Boolool Kiambram. He recounted the story one day during a summer barbecue, when Chris was in his late teens. After sinking back more than a few beers, the afternoon sun high and hot, the two of them sitting on the patio, his uncle had told Chris about his trek up to Dead Tree.
Chris had listened to his uncle tell of the long journey up to the forest and how, from the lush green meadow, Dead Tree had hit him like a brick to the face. He told of how he had heard the screaming, and then, standing just on the edge of the forest, how the screaming had changed from a wailing to a floating weeping that seemed to permeate the woods: every tree, every dead branch and twig. He said it was like Ginnumarra herself was calling to him, and he took a few steps into the dark woods. He saw flashes of the past—white men on horseback, a headless man, he tasted dirt and blood—and then, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he turned and fled.
He said he had never felt so much pain and anger in his life. That he could literally feel his life slipping out of him the moment he stepped into the forest. And that, if he had continued, he would surely have perished.
But, he had also said that he felt the call of Ginnumarra; that, along with her pain and anger, there was a longing. He couldn’t be sure—there were so many other emotions running through him—but he thought that maybe Ginnumarra wanted help, wanted someone to come and rescue her.
That’s when Uncle Walter had told Chris about tree between heaven and earth.
The thing that Chris remembered most from that summer day fifteen years ago was how vehemently his uncle had warned him never to go up to Boolool Kiambram. It was a bad place—only death was there.
Only a fool would willingly enter the forest. Only a fool with the strongest, blackest heart, a heart so full of blind courage and rage, could withstand Dead Tree. Only a person with a death wish would ever willingly enter Boolool Kiambram. Because the place is cursed, of that there is no doubt.
The last thing his uncle had said to Chris before the subject changed to football, was this: “If you ever feel the need to go up to Boolool Kiambram, if you ever want to see that accursed placed for yourself, don’t get sucked into the forest. No matter how much you want to help Ginnumarra, no matter how much pain you feel pulsating from within, don’t give in to Ginnumarra’s cries. Not unless you have a heart of steel, the determination of a bull, and no longer care whether you live or die.”
Chris had never been particularly intuitive; he certainly didn’t have his uncle’s gift. At least, he never realised he had such a gift until he stepped into the forest and heard the screaming and felt the call of Ginnumarra.
He also felt the death. Above all else, he felt the black touch of death’s hand, and he was powerless to stop it. Like his uncle had described, it was like Chris’s life-force was being sucked out of his body. He was feeling short of breath, his energy seemed to decrease with each step.
These three men didn’t know what they were in for. They laughed at Chris’s insistence that this place was cursed, that death was the only certainty—they were too foolish to heed his warnings. But Chris could definitely feel something happening to him; he didn’t know what exactly, but he knew it wasn’t good.
One thing Chris was sure they would listen to was his knowledge of how to get to the lake. If he chose to, he could lead them straight to it. All he had to do was listen to Ginnumarra’s cries. They would lead him to her.
That’s unless death claimed them all first.
Chris considered leading the men in the wrong direction, but decided against doing so, because there was the possibility of helping Ginnumarra. Chris wasn’t sure if he could help her, but since he was in this forest anyway, he figured he may as well try. If he was going to die anyway, he may as well try and put an end to the dead girl’s pain.
Then there was Ray. Chris felt there was something inside him—a pain, a darkness that was almost equal to Ginnumarra’s. There was also a fierce determination—a determination so strong that at times Ray did remind Chris of a bull.
He didn’t know why Ray wanted to reach the lake so badly to retrieve the sunken treasure. He knew it wasn’t for monetary gain. There were only dollar signs in the other men’s eyes; but with Ray, there was darkness: darkness with the slightest hint of hope.
Chris looked around at the forest, at the tall trees like grey withered old men, arms outstretched, waiting for someone to give life back to them; at the black haze that seemed to hover between worlds, not quite fog or mist, but still present, invading the air like termites in the walls of a house. He listened to the wavering, almost ethereal cries, like the howl of a wind. Except there was no wind in here; there was nothing—no birds, no snakes, not even flies or mosquitoes. This was a place of death.
Ginnumarra, Chris thought. Please, stop your crying. I will try and help you. I am sorry for what happened. But please, if there is any way you can put an end to this curse, I implore you to do it.
Chris waited; he got no answer.
Just more crying.
And he wondered—what was going to happen to them? What curse had Ginnumarra placed on this forest?
Chris was considering these questions when another cry rang out. One very real and very human.
* * *
“Holy shit, would you look at this!” Nathan cried.
Ray stopped and turned around. About a metre back, Nathan, a thick tree branch wedged between his thighs, was fixated on something he was holding in his right hand. His expression was frozen between dumbstruck and fear.
“Well? What the hell’s the matter?” Brian said and coug
hed.
Nathan dropped the branch to the ground and then he jogged over to Ray and Brian. “I was thinking how cold and dark it was in here,” he said breathlessly, “that it would be good to have some light, you know? A torch, like in them old movies when the villagers are chasing some monster through town. So I stopped and picked up a branch, thinking I could set it alight and then we’d have more light and warmth.”
“Brilliant idea,” Brian said. “You’d not only burn yourself, but probably set the whole goddamn forest on fire.”
Nathan frowned at his brother.
In the shadowy confines of the forest, Nathan’s eyes held a maturity that Ray had never seen before in the young dope. Also, the shadows made him look older, like he had aged five years in the last five minutes.
“So, what’s the problem?” Ray prodded.
“Well, when I tried to light Brian’s lighter, I couldn’t.”
Brian cackled. “That’s it? You stopped to tell us you’re too stupid to light my Bic? Hell, I could’ve told you that.”
“No, no,” Nathan said. “It’s not that I couldn’t light it, the Bic wouldn’t light. See?” He brought up his right arm. Clasped in his hand was his brother’s red Bic lighter.
Nathan flicked the spark wheel with his thumb. A flame burst alight, but a moment later, it was snuffed out.
He repeated the act three more times; each time the flame was vanquished the moment it appeared.
“Well now that is weird,” Brian said, voice unusually soft. “There’s no wind. Here, let me try.”
Nathan handed Brian the lighter.
“I always get a flame,” Brian said, but when he didn’t, he muttered, “Fuck,” and tried again. Same deal. He flicked the lighter about ten times, each attempt more aggressive than the last, each flick producing the same result—there was a brief flash of flame, then, like someone was standing next to the lighter, it blew out.
“Useless piece of shit,” Brian spat and hurled the lighter.
The red Bic smacked into a tree, disintegrating the bark like it was dust.
The rope was suddenly slippery in Ray’s hand.
