by Karen Wyld
Tori and Maggie hugged him as he chuckled.
‘Come on,’ urged Louis, ‘or you’ll miss that bus.’
They left by the back door, and walked along the side of the gallery. As they neared the end of the street, Louis beckoned for Maggie and Tori to stop. Peeking around the corner, they saw Andrés talking to two police officers.
‘Thank you, but I don’t need any help,’ said Andrés. ‘I appreciate the gesture, but I’m sure that noise was nothing of concern.’
‘We need to check it out. The person who called also reported seeing someone climb through a window,’ one of the officers insisted.
‘I can deal with this,’ argued Andrés, just as the front door of the gallery opened.
‘Ah, this saves me ringing the station,’ said Eddie, as he walked outside.
Scowling, Andrés turned away from Eddie and noticed people-shaped shadows at the corner of the building. Louis grabbed Maggie and Tori by the hand, and started running. The police officers had followed Eddie inside, so no one noticed Andrés leave. Louis tripped over the lid of a rubbish bin. Andrés caught up to them, and hit Louis hard on the legs with his cane. As he raised his arm, preparing to strike again, Louis yelled at Maggie and Tori to keep running. Tori reached for Andrés’s cane, but Maggie pulled her away.
‘This way,’ she called, leading Tori towards the park.
Andrés turned, watching them escape. Louis got to his feet, and ran across the road. He soon caught up with Maggie and Tori.
‘This is the wrong way,’ insisted Tori, stopping to catch her breath. ‘We need to get to the bus station.’
‘Trust me,’ said Maggie, as she kept on moving.
She stopped in front of a narrow tree, close to their recently vacated treehouse. ‘This is the one.’
Puzzled, Louis and Tori examined the tree. With hardly any upper branches or foliage, it was bare at the top. At its base was a spiderweb of reedy roots and spiky branches.
‘Hide behind that bush,’ suggested Maggie, pointing.
With a shrug, Tori did as she instructed, with Louis reluctantly following. They watched as Maggie stood in front of the tree, facing outwards. Andrés appeared, panting from the chase.
‘Run,’ shouted Tori.
Maggie stood her ground, grinning at Andrés. When he was an arm’s length from her, Maggie jumped to the left. With an expression of disbelief on his face, Andrés tripped over a tree root. His foot was jammed in one of the snaky roots. He tugged on a trouser leg, trying to free himself, but instead became entrapped in the spiky branches that spread out at the tree’s base. Maggie, Tori and Louis watched with fascination. As if he was stuck in quicksand, any attempt Andrés made to free himself resulted in further entanglement. Sounds of annoyance soon became muffled panic, as he disappeared in a web of tree roots.
‘I was right,’ remarked Maggie.
Louis looked at her with a puzzled expression. ‘About what?’
‘He’s the type of man a tree like this would eat.’
‘What?’ asked Tori.
‘Ever since Cetan told me that story about man-eating trees, I’ve been wondering what type of man they eat.’
Andrés had stopped moving, but the sound of muffled swearing could still be heard.
‘Do you think he’s okay?’ asked Tori.
Louis responded, ‘He’s swearing, so he’s obviously still breathing. I’ll tell Brother Eddie where he is, so the police can fetch him.’
‘Don’t forget to do that before you catch your bus home in the morning,’ suggested Tori.
‘Or, maybe not. That skinny tree sure looks hungry.’
‘Maggie!’ laughed Tori and Louis together.
As the bus drove west, into the eventide, no one noticed the snake of many colours emerge from the landscape. If any of the passengers had looked out the left window, really looked, they’d have noticed that the undulating, barren ranges were moving ever so slightly.
Tori peered out the window and caught the last of the sun’s light. Looking at the hills in the distance, for a moment she imagined they were a large snake, moving across the land. Tori smiled to herself, remembering the story her mother had told them about the gigantic serpent that had protected her as she’d walked through the desert, before giving birth on her father’s Country. As the bus moved west, Tori felt an uncomfortable mix of sadness and hope. She pulled back the sleeve on her left wrist, but stopped herself before scratching her skin. Instead, she pulled a chain out from under her shirt and held the pendant tightly.
‘Where’d you get that necklace,’ asked Maggie.
‘I found it on the ground outside von Wolff ’s studio.’
‘It’s the one Mum always wore.’
Tori nodded, letting the pendant lie on her chest.
‘I’ve not seen you wear it before.’
‘I wasn’t ready until now. You don’t mind I have it?’
‘Mum would’ve wanted you to wear it.’
Tori smiled, and closed her eyes, giving in to the soothing motion of the bus.
Her sister said, ‘I packed us some food. Do you want an apple?’
‘Sure.’
Maggie handed her sister the reddest of red apples, keeping one for herself.
Tori took a deep breath of the apple. ‘I’ve always loved that smell,’ she remarked.
‘Then you’re probably not going to mind living in an apple orchard.’
‘Not going to mind at all,’ she said, grinning.
Raising the fruit to their lips, they both took the biggest of bites.
‘I have to follow that bird, Mother. I promised Granny Maeve.’
Brigid closed the suitcase, and looked around her bedroom. She’d packed almost everything she owned; there wasn’t much she was leaving behind.
Margaret said, ‘I’ve been reflecting on a few things since Granny died. I used to be angry at her, thinking she took over raising you, but that’s not true. She stepped in because I wasn’t there for you. Your brothers took up so much of my time, but that’s no excuse. I should have been more attentive to your needs. More understanding of how hard it was for you, having neighbours and peers who wouldn’t accept difference. I didn’t know how to teach you to withstand that type of hate. That’s something your father would have shown you. Still, I saw what he’d gone through. How much people hurt him with their prejudices. I should have wrapped you in love. I regret not having properly prepared you for the world you’re about to venture out into.’
Brigid put on Granny Maeve’s apple-seed necklace, and picked up her suitcase. Margaret remembered that suitcase. She’d carried it with her own hands, when saying farewell to her own mother.
‘I will be back, Mother,’ Brigid said. ‘I promise.’
* * * THE END * * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Where the Fruit Falls is a work of fiction. Before this story was written, the characters, places and events existed only in my imagination. There are, however, a few cryptic references to historical events and policy eras embedded in the narrative. The Aboriginal characters I have conceived are not intended to portray any specific First Nations peoples. The characters’ affiliation to Country and kin do not depict real places or peoples. Aspects within the narrative are not based on actual Aboriginal cultures, practices or knowledges, such as Songlines. Due to past roles, which involved frequent travel, this novel was imagined and written in every state and territory of Australia. The places I’ve been to may have influenced me to create realistic settings, but the fictional geography exists only in my imagination.
I respectfully ask readers, reviewers and educators to be aware of how they read and respond to this work. I invite non-Indigenous readers to reflect on perceptions, myths, biases and worldviews that often unconsciously filter how we read and respond to works of fiction. And to uncover the truth and call for action that often lies hidden in fiction. I purposely applied elements of magic realism to this narrative; to assist readers in understanding our collectiv
e pasts in a different way, and to perhaps reimagine a more just and truthful present and future.
I started writing this story in 2012. I’ve been through a lot of life events since then, both enjoyable and challenging. To have completed the manuscript, and watch it become an actual book, feels incredible. I realise that dreams, persistence and hard work are not the only factors that made this happen. As acknowledged on the following pages, I had support.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I acknowledge First Peoples, and their Country and histories, that inspired me to write this book. I live and write on unceded Kaurna land, so specifically express respect to Kaurna people. I give my respect to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders and change-makers – past and present. Particularly Martu matriarchs within my own family, now gone but not forgotten, whose lives and visions continue to inspire me to keep walking and never give up.
I’d like to thank my family, especially my three children and my mother, for tolerating the writing process and all the times I was mentally absent whilst physically present.
I wish to thank Kate Pickard, Eleanor Hurt and Nicole van Kan at UWA Publishing, a small but mighty team. And express my admiration for Terri-ann White, who helped grow UWAP into a treasured Australian publisher. Thanks to Nicola Young for editing my manuscript and Alissa Dinallo for the cover design.
I’m grateful to the judges of the 2020 Dorothy Hewett Award who selected my manuscript; thank you Terri-ann White, Elfie Shiosaki and James Ley. And to the Copyright Agency for funding this vital pathway for writers.
Thanks to First Nations Australia Writers Network for ongoing support, including selecting my manuscript for the 2018 FNAWN/ ACT Writers Centre First Nations Writers Scholarship, to participate in Hardcopy. Both this scholarship and the Hardcopy masterclass program were funded by the Australia Council for the Arts.
Much thanks to Jessica Alice from Writers SA for sending me to Ceduna for a residency in 2018. The Writers SA’s Writers and Readers in Residence program, funded by the Australia Council for the Arts, gave me space to finish my manuscript.
A shout-out to the SA First Nations Writers group. Especially Dominic Guerrera, photographer of my author bio shots, taken at Living Kaurna Cultural Centre.
Much gratitude to Sally Morgan for reading my manuscript and gifting me a perfect quote for the book’s cover.
Thank you to the numerous people, including respected authors, who encouraged me to keep writing – even when giving up seemed the sensible option. And to the doubters left in my past, who expressed the view that I’d never be a real writer – revenge is much sweeter eaten cold.
Lastly, thanks to reviewers, librarians, booksellers and readers. A story doesn’t truly exist until it is read and heard. Readers breathe life into books.
