by Lee Murray
She teetered on the edge, too scared to step into the open, too scared to turn back. She turned left and pushed back a little, hit a line of trunks too solid to pass through and there, there she found a crack in one, big enough for her. She threw her pack in first and then slid between the rough edges of the tree and into the space between.
All sound disappeared. She was cocooned so completely that it was like entering another world. One in which the Grounded didn’t exist. One in which she barely existed.
Sarah inhaled the scent, musky and wooden, that sweet-not-sickly smell of softening fibres and earth, as she sank to the ground, her hands scrubbing aside fallen leaves and sticks and finding the earth.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry we were so useless. I’m sorry that even now there are those who can’t see. They should know better. They should have learned.’
The leaves whispered in response and the earth warmed against her fingers. She reached into her backpack and pulled out the bottle of vodka she’d been saving, thinking perhaps she could trade it for something along the way. But now that they were looking for her, and she was here inside a tree, probably the perfect place for the earth to swallow her whole, she needed a drink. Needed not to feel it when the ground smothered her and dragged her under.
Sarah uncapped the bottle and knocked back a greedy slurp. It wasn’t her favourite drink, hell, not even on her top five, but desperate times … She took another pull, the liquid spilling out of her mouth, dribbling down her chin as she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wood. ‘This is the life,’ she said to herself. ‘A life.’
She took a third drink before capping the bottle and digging around in her pack. She found some old beef-jerky and a bottle of unlabelled pills. Like the alcohol, it didn’t really matter what they were for. She shook a few onto her palm and chased them down with more vodka before slowly chewing the jerky.
What came next? She didn’t really want to contemplate it. She’d ruled out becoming one of the Grounded, and maybe the Tangata Whenua would be more of the same. Crazies, thinking the world owed them something. She was better off alone.
Her nose tingled and she squeezed it, not wanting to let loose the tears. But there was no stopping them. They ran down her face in thick streams, dripped off her chin and soaked into her jersey making her shiver in the night air. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, letting the alcohol and pills settle into her system. The earth shifted now and then, but it wasn’t the bad kind, just the drugs. She swallowed a few more, hoping that maybe the combination would put her to sleep forever.
And then the earth really was moving. Rumbling beneath her, the dirt shaking loose, swallowing her feet and binding her to the ground. Sarah dropped the bottle and it too was swallowed as she clawed at the walls of the tree, trying to hold on. Actually, no, she didn’t want to die, not like this. The dust filled her lungs and she couldn’t breathe. She screamed, not caring who heard her now.
‘No, no! Please, no.’ The rumble of the earth stopped, only the sway and creak of the trees filling the air. It was like Papatūānuku had paused, for her.
You wish to live, child?
Sarah couldn’t be sure it was the goddess, but then, what could she be sure of these days? They weren’t spoken words, weren’t heard, but there all the same.
‘I don’t want to die,’ she whispered back.
Not wanting to die, and wanting to live are not opposites. Do you wish to live?
‘Yes,’ she said, more firmly this time, the word giving her clarity, or as much as she could hope for in this drug-fuddled state.
You are not like those others. You do not wish to own me.
‘It’s not my right. No one can own you. If we’d just been better—’ Her voice broke and she sobbed again. ‘Maybe if we’d just been better, none of this would have happened.’
Do you wish to be Tangata Whenua?
Sarah’s head snapped up, though there was no one to look at, no eyes to act as the mirrors of the earth’s soul. ‘Yes. Yes I do. But what will it cost?’ She had learned something from her time with the Grounded.
Destroy them, then return to me and I will protect you until the world is reborn.
‘You mean … kill the Grounded? But they can’t pose a real threat to you, surely?’
As long as such as those roam the earth, I can never truly be safe. Choose wisely.
The ground released, retreated, leaving her shaking. Shaking, and wishing that she had some stronger drugs.
*
Sarah spent the next days prowling the land, gathering tools; wire cutters and knives and explosives, anything that could be used. The things she needed seemed to surface wherever she looked. It was a strange thing to move with confidence. To know the earth wasn’t going to take her at any instant. The fact that she wouldn’t be dead, but awaiting rebirth, gave her all the solace she needed.
Each night she would retreat to the tree, warmth rising from the ground below, and some gift of the land waited for her to consume, to keep her strong.
But now it was time to take her tools and lay waste to the camp. Time to take a life. She sipped some water from a bottle she’d found and wondered what it would feel like to actively kill someone. These people would have happily taken her eye or leg or nose, would have raped her the same way they’d raped the land. So it was fair, it was right, and just, and she would do it. She just couldn’t promise that she would do it well, or do it right, or survive the night.
And it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She would do this thing because she knew it was her only hope, and hope was a precious thing. Even hope coupled with despair and violence and blood.
The moon was waning now, less full and round and fat. She was glad of the new shadows it created. It was fitting that the moon would be devoured by the sky, that she would be devoured by the earth.
Her pack was full of petrol and lighters and ropes. She’d strapped knives to her thighs, covered her face with soot, and she held a gun. She’d never fired one before, and probably couldn’t hit anyone with it, but it looked good, felt good. Heavy in her hands, full of menace. And maybe it was the thing that did the killing, and not her. Maybe after, she could bury this all, burn it to the ground, and forget it was something she’d been part of.
Or maybe not.
The dirt was smooth and flat, stretching out before her. The trees seemed to bow out of her way as she passed, and her footprints disappeared back into the ground as she moved. The leaves whispered at her and for the first time in days, birds of all colours and sizes lined her way, calling to her even though it was night. The stars swam in the sky, and then she was on the border of the forest, the concrete street lying before her.
This was it. Her moment. And yet she couldn’t move; it was as though the concrete had cemented her to the spot. The gun in her hand twitched. The birds fell silent. It was up to her.
She took the first step, gathering her anger, her sorrow, using it to focus her mind on the task at hand. She wouldn’t think of the bodies or the spilled blood. She wouldn’t think of lives lost, rather of the lives saved. Her life, Papatūānuku, other Tangata Whenua.
It was a simple enough thing to sneak around the edge of the town, setting small fires in buildings as she went. These were all empty, as if even the Grounded were still not certain of their safety, and didn’t want to tempt the earth into coming for them.
Soft snores alerted her to a presence when she entered a house, one in from the edge of town. He lay on the couch, his arm flung out, fingers scraping the floor, feet dangling over the end. She thought about screaming, but the sound might wake him, make him attack his intruder. Maybe she would feel better if this was self-defence, but it wasn’t.
Sarah tucked her gun into her belt and stepped lightly toward the man. Grey spattered his temples and beard. He had a kind face, at least in repose. His
other hand was tucked under his chin. It was missing all its fingers. She drew her knife, held her breath. She shoved her palm against his mouth, shook her head as her whole body trembled, and slashed his throat. Blood splashed over his fingerless hands. His eyes, deep, deep blue, shot open as he screamed. His hands reached for her arm, too weak to push her away. The wound in his neck gaped, spluttering air as he tried to draw breath, tried to speak. And then he was dead and she was dripping. She rubbed her fingers together, trying to get the sticky, warm liquid from them, brushed them frantically on her pants, but a part of him had leaked into her now, and she couldn’t get clean.
There were sounds outside, sounds of people. How many would come? She grabbed her knife tighter, wiped the blade clean on her pants and looked for the back door, throwing a stick of dynamite as she did. Not waiting, not watching for the explosion behind her, keeping her eyes ahead, her ears attuned to every sound.
The first was the hardest. The first was always the hardest. She told herself that over and over again as she rushed into houses, burned things, threw more dynamite. No one would be sleeping now, not after the wompf of the house being demolished. She’d set a trail of fire behind her, and it was only a matter of time before they overtook her.
There was a commotion ahead, so she switched tack, heading for the middle of their camp, for the bonfire.
‘Hey! Hey, help me!’ came a cry from the cage. Sarah crossed to it, slicing through the rope with ease, but pausing before she cut the wire.
‘Do you want to conquer the world? Enslave it to mankind?’ She watched the other woman’s eyes waver, liquid and limpid in the firelight. ‘Answer me!’
‘I want to survive.’
‘Surviving isn’t enough, not now. But run, and maybe you will.’ Sarah cut the wire and moved on. The other cages were empty, but footfalls filled the air and she turned to the fire, the Grounded swelling from the flames, the heat distorting their faces.
‘You came back,’ Oak called.
Sarah nodded. ‘But not to become one of you.’
He tilted his head to the side, a smug look on his face. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Damn sure.’ She didn’t wait for the ambush, didn’t care to see who was behind her or whether there were guns trained on her. She removed her pack and flung it into the fire, then dove behind the cage and hoped it would be enough.
The explosion rocked the ground, lit the sky so bright that afterwards she couldn’t see. But she could hear the groaning, the screams, their fear cutting through the night.
Sarah pushed herself to her knees and crawled from the noise. Her ribs ached and breath was hard to come by, but it didn’t matter. She’d done what was needed.
*
Morning filtered through the leaves as she neared the tree. Everything hurt. Her mouth was parched, her body bruised inside and out. Blood still covered her hands and she could smell it, was sure she would no matter how well she cleaned herself.
Finally, she collapsed in the cocoon of the trunk. Warm air folded around her, and she closed her eyes and waited.
Rest, child. You have done enough.
The ground moved, and she wasn’t afraid this time. It was warm and damp, soft like flesh, wrapping her in an earthy embrace.
‘I killed them.’ Sarah coughed, tried not to cry. She dragged in another breath, let it slip from her body. ‘I killed many.’
Papatūānuku took her into herself.
You killed for something worthy, child. For me. And now you can sleep in my flesh, to be reborn into a new world, a better world.
She didn’t struggle as the earth sucked her down, shrouded her eyes, filled her lungs.
Seven Excerpts from Season One
David Versace
I open my editing software and start pulling video files down from the libraries. Jan has just left with the rough cut of the final episode. Whatever she thinks, the review panel will refuse to grade us after what happened. I don’t care. That’s not what I’m working on now. Anyone can look online to see what we did. I’m more interested in why we did it.
Excerpt from Episode One: ‘Pilot’
‘My name is Jan Parry and I want to welcome you to the Wattle Park Spook Hunters Club.’
Jan is in her element right out of the gate. Straight teeth, bright eyes, hair blown into waves and then tied back into an oh-so-casual ponytail. We recorded this in her living room straight after school, the first week of semester. In a way, I’m glad she insisted on hosting. The ambient lighting was more conducive to filming than anywhere outside a studio. This episode looked great.
The frame stays tight on Jan for her introduction. Her teeth claim the screen as their own. ‘My friends and I are Year 10 students at Wattle Park High School in Ashburnham, Victoria. For our core Media Studies project, we’re making this web series to explore our town’s rich and varied history, which is steeped in supernatural bloodshed.’
The shot pulls back to include Naomi Lautner, our arts and communications teacher, whom Jan persuaded to remove her cardigan to affect a ‘casual look’. Her hand wanders up to straighten her glasses, tuck a stray hair behind her ear and adjust how her earrings hang. She coughs, twice. She says, ‘For this assignment, a panel of teachers including myself will assess the students on their presentation, research and production skills.’ She pauses, making a small movement with the corner of her mouth.
Jan smiles and steps past Ms Lautner as if she’s faded from view. Jan knows the camera will stay with her. ‘This is my co-host Greg Simmons. Greg, what’s Spook Hunters all about?’ She passes the microphone to tall, blond centre-forward Greg and descends toward the couch like she’s being lowered on stage wires.
Greg gives a fist-pump wave like he’s just kicked a winning goal, ignoring my instruction to avoid sharp movements with the mic. ‘Thanks, Jan. Fans, Spook Hunters is going to be a great series. Our town’s famous for murders and all that. Like those sisters who went crazy with an axe a few years back? Or those bikers who turned out to be werewolves? Like that. There’s some crazy juice in the water around here. Seriously.’
In the background, Ms Lautner begins a frown that will probably never straighten out. The camera moves away from her to a teenage boy wearing three long-sleeved layers in the middle of February.
‘This is … um – oh, Nathan.’ I freeze the playback on Nathan Dreyfuss’ barely-there wince, unsure of what I’m looking for. In that moment, was he even aware of the minute adjustment of his stance that shifted him closer to Greg? I can’t tell just by looking. I resume the playback with a sigh. ‘Nathan’s our resident history ner— buff. He’s full of amazing stories about Ashburnham, like you would not believe.’
Nathan’s wide brown eyes are magnified by dense prescription glasses. He blinks slowly. His smile is a bit forced but this rare beam of Greg’s attention goads him into life. ‘There is more to Ashburnham than its bloody notoriety suggests. Each episode we’ll talk about important historical events, the people involved, and their impacts on our community.’
Greg pulls a sour face and then leers to camera. ‘Yeah, and we’ll talk about who put an axe through whose brain. Jimmy Caulder smothered his father. Grace French shot two cops. Paul McPherson dug a well on his farm, bricked it, sealed it, filled it with hydrochloric acid and dumped in eleven trespassing mountain bikers. Not to mention—’
As he delivers the longest speech he’s ever more or less memorised, he moves sideways toward the second couch, despite our long discussion on marks and blocking. The camera pulls back to take in the whole room; I remember giving up on my fancy tracking shot right then and there. Greg drops into the gap between the two girls.
Michelle snatches the mic and elbows him in the ribs. ‘Good on you, Greg. We’ll look forward to hearing the gory details of every murder ever in each episode.’ She turns to camera, one eyebrow rising over her dark freckled face l
ike birds in formation. She cut her hair short just before we filmed. She thinks it makes her look more professional. ‘I’m Michelle Glass. I came up with the idea for the project. I’m doing the sound production. All the footage you’ll see in this project was filmed in the traditional country of the Jardwadjali people.’
Over in her corner, Jan makes a sour face. She made the argument to anyone who’d listen that Spook Hunters is ‘not a political project.’ Tough. I respect Michelle’s activism more than Jan’s concern for her marks. I left Michelle’s intro in the broadcast episode, and I’m leaving it in here.
Jan recovers and flashes a broad smile. Her eyes find the camera like a snake fixing on its prey. ‘And finally we have Charles Vanh, on camera in the field and editing back at school.’ The picture wobbles very slightly, which was all the acknowledgment I felt like making at the time.
I cut it. Irrelevant.
‘Spook Hunters will be available for download every second Monday on all the usual places, or subscribe to Club dot Spooks at Wattle Park dot edu dot au. Thanks everyone, and right now, here’s a taste of what you can expect from upcoming episodes.’
I cut the entire montage. I’m not interested in pre-recorded mock footage this time.
I hold the picture on the group and look at it for a long time.
The Other Girl was perched on the arm of Michelle’s couch the whole time. She never said a word. Nobody else looked at her.
Who is she?
Excerpt from Episode Three: ‘Goat Sucker’
‘Farmer Bryan Ponsford has over two hundred head of angora goats on his farm just north of Ashburnham. That is, he did until this happened.’
The camera pans away from Jan’s serious-journalist pout to Greg and Nathan standing ankle-deep in bloody carnage. Even in the middle-distance shot, Nathan’s discomfort is obvious, while Greg’s grin is broad and smug. ‘Jan, we estimate that as many as two dozen animals may have been slaughtered right here, but these bodies have been ripped apart so bad we just can’t be certain.’
