by Anna Romer
By my calculations, I was about forty kilometres west of the New England Highway. The road I stood on was single-lane, eroded by potholes and flanked by bushland – obviously nothing more than a forgotten back-way. There were no signposts, no branching side streets, not even a distinguishing landmark. I could be anywhere, stranded on a deserted stretch that no one ever used.
Thunder grumbled in the distance.
I saw lightning flicker on the hills, and briefly it illuminated a curiously shaped ridge. It snagged my attention, and as I pondered it, recognition trickled in.
We used to call it the Spine because, on misty mornings when the bush turned white, it looked exactly like a stegosaurus scratching its back against the sky.
All at once, I knew exactly where I was. Beyond the ridge, on the rim of a valley overlooking the river, was the farmhouse of my childhood. It was quite a distance; I estimated ten kilometres, which, even if I stuck to the roads, would still take me the rest of the afternoon. But as I walked back to the car to collect my belongings, the first few spots of rain began to fall.
‘Oh.’
The bushes along the verge twitched and rustled. The rain grew heavier. Within seconds it had become a deluge. A thunderclap exploded directly over me. Racing back to the car, I leaped in and closed the windows, then sat glaring through the windscreen, shivering as my sodden clothes dripped into the footwell.
I thought about Esther, cosy and warm in the farmhouse; she would hear the rain on the tin roof and smile to herself. It was dry country out here and rain was always welcome. She would probably go out to the kitchen and make herself a cup of tea, grab a couple of biscuits. Maybe even light the old Warmbrite, the way Mum used to when it rained, to take the damp out of the air.
I looked out at the sky. It had turned the colour of porridge, and the clouds hung in dark clusters overhead. Rain battered the car roof, each droplet like a hammering fist. Thunder cracked overhead and the car shook. A moment later lightning speared across the horizon.
Reaching into the back seat, I grabbed the picnic rug, then unzipped my overnight bag and dragged out jeans, T-shirt, woolly cardigan. Peeling off my wet clothes, I struggled into the dry ones, then pulled the rug over me. Resting my head back on the seat, I closed my eyes.
Damp air wafted through the vents, bringing with it the scent of the bush. Eucalyptus, settling dust, earth and granite and wallaby dung. And the sharp, deliciously spicy scent of wildflowers.
I began to drift.
The sound of rain dimmed, the air grew warm. I was no longer in my car on a deserted road – but in a cosy room filled with the scent of buttery scones and hot chocolate, where a grandmotherly woman sat in a patch of sunlight bowed over a well-thumbed volume of fairytales.
‘Once upon a time . . .’
Despite the rain, Granny H’s little cottage was cheery and dry. Candles burned in the corners of the room, and she had lit a fire in the potbelly. She chose a book of fairytales from the cluttered shelf, and settled onto her chair. Opening to the marked page, she began to read.
‘Once upon a time there lived a sheep farmer, whose greatest treasure was his lovely daughter. Beauty was her name, and her father worked hard to provide her with every comfort. They lived in a roomy house and dined on seed cakes and rabbit stew, and Beauty always had pretty clothes to wear. But one unfortunate day, wool prices bottomed out and the farmer found himself penniless. Beauty wanted to help her father, and so she accepted the proposal of a wealthy landowner who lived in a faraway part of the country. One fine morning, she set out for her new husband’s estate . . .’
I was sitting cross-legged beside the Wolf on a thick rug at Granny’s feet. Her latest instalment sent a ripple of goosebumps across my arms and up into my scalp. I looked at the Wolf from the corner of my eye. He was motionless, his gaze fixed on Granny H, his boy-mask hiding his true, fearless nature.
Granny turned the page and continued her tale. ‘Knocking on the manor door, Beauty waited for her new husband to greet her. But when the door swung wide, she found herself staring – not at a handsome husband, but at a hideous creature. He wore a man’s clothing but had the shaggy head of a bull and shoulders like boulders. His eyes burned hot-poker red. Curling back his lips to bare long yellow fangs, he spoke in a surprisingly genteel manner, which Beauty found most disconcerting.’
Here Granny paused, and then said in a deep gravelly voice, ‘“Welcome, dear Beauty. Welcome to my humble abode.”’
I gasped, then giggled.
The Wolf caught my eye and winked.
We’d heard this same story a million times, but with each telling the Beast grew uglier and scarier. Sometimes he turned out to be not the handsome prince under a witch’s spell, but the evil witch herself in a beast’s disguise, tricking Beauty into a life of sorrow and slavery. Granny H knew all the fairytales, but she never told them properly. They always seemed darker and more thrilling than the ones we read in books.
Granny sat back in her chair and shut her eyes, signalling that the story – at least for today – was over. The roof creaked, and outside the wind swished in the treetops, but no one moved. The tale might be told, as Granny liked to say, but its spell lingered, laying claim on our hearts and making us yearn to find our way back into the magic.
I woke with a start. Lightning flickered around me, and rain continued to hammer the car roof. I’d been dozing, but the woman reading from the book of fairytales had not been a dream.
Granny H – the woman I now knew as Esther Hillard – had been our neighbour. Her husband was dead, and she lived alone in a little settlers’ cottage a couple of kilometres upstream from our farmhouse, on the other side of the river. It was an easy thirty-minute hike, over a natural bridge of stepping stones and up into the trees.
She’d been a kind lady – a baker of scones, a champion brewer of hot chocolate, and a skilled storyteller. Her voice was reedy and expressive, and her stories had never failed to fill me with excited dread. In fact, now that I thought about it, her stories had tweaked my young imagination, lingering with me into adulthood, eventually inspiring me to open a bookshop.
I imagined her now, sitting in the lounge room at Lyrebird Hill, her glasses balanced on her nose, a paperback in her lap. She might read late into the night, like I was often prone to doing, finally trundling off to bed in the wee hours, bleary-eyed and replete.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
I was gripped by a desperate longing to warm myself in our wood-fired kitchen, sipping tea with the woman I’d once known as Granny H. Suddenly there was nowhere else I wanted to be: just there, in my old home, nestled in the valley surrounded by bushland . . . listening to Granny’s tales and spinning a few of my own, basking in the company of a woman who had, during the difficult years of my childhood, shown me much kindness.
Another drum roll of thunder vibrated the car. Seconds later, a dazzling starburst of pure light tore open the sky. As it soared upwards then swept past me, I realised it wasn’t lightning – it was car headlights. I flashed my own headlights, but I was too late; the other car had passed.
Throwing open the door, I stumbled out into the rain and ran after the retreating tail-lights, waving my arms and yelling. As quickly as it had appeared, the vehicle vanished along the road. I stared after it. Rain pounded me. Within moments my clothes were sopping, my hair plastered over my face; my hopes of rescue sluiced away.
Getting back in the car, I slammed myself inside and then sat for a damp eternity listening to the water drip off my jeans legs and puddle in the footwell. The dashboard clock showed 10.30pm. There was no point trying to walk anywhere; it was too dark, too wet.
I pulled a warm jumper and track pants from my overnight bag, then climbed into the back seat. Manoeuvring myself to almost horizontal, I pulled the picnic rug up around my neck and stared through the misty window. My stomach grumbled. Thunder boomed in the distance. I pictured myself at home, burrowed under the covers of my queen-sized bed; I tried to imagin
e that the din of the rain was actually the ocean outside my bedroom window, pulling its waves back from the beach then rushing them in again.
For a moment it worked.
Then from somewhere drifted the spicy golden scent of bush flowers.
All of a sudden I was no longer in my own imagined bed. This new bed was narrow, the cotton sheets tucked tightly around me. Moonlight shone through tall windows, and on the far wall was a bookshelf crammed with antique dolls. With a jolt I realised I’d stumbled from one daydream into another – because here I was in the cramped room I’d once shared with my sister. I looked at the other bed.
It was empty.
I shivered. Dragging the rug up over my head, I squeezed shut my eyes.
Midnight finally came around. Mum and Jamie were asleep, even the rats in the roof were quiet. Climbing out of bed, I stripped off my pyjamas and replaced them with the old nighty.
The nighty was threadbare and reached nearly to my ankles. The neck and cuffs were trimmed with pearl buttons and lace. I’d found it in one of the upstairs bedrooms, crammed into a cardboard box with a bunch of other old-fashioned clothes. There were boxes everywhere up there, packed along the walls and piled to the ceiling, all covered in dust and grot. Upstairs was out of bounds to Jamie and me, but I loved sneaking up there and escaping into the dusty darkness, working my fingers under the box lids and pulling out the treasures packed tightly inside. Tattered books and jars of hairpins and moth-eaten silk hankies with embroidered flowers, even some little pans of dried-up watercolour paint.
And the nighty.
Sliding open my bedroom window, I climbed outside and ran to the woodshed where I kept my bike. Barefoot, I rode towards the Spine.
The track was dark, and as my bike rattled over stones and fallen sticks, my insides were like a milkshake. I was shivering, too – but not from cold. My shivers were from Granny’s story. It made me want to run willy-nilly into the dark, to throw back my head and laugh like kookaburra.
But I kept quiet. That was Rule Number Three. I was allotted one shriek at the end of the game, but even that must be carefully disguised to sound like the bark of a fox. Until that moment, nothing was allowed to pass my lips, not even a sigh.
Leaving my bike at the bottom of the Spine, I entered the tea-tree forest and clawed my way through the brittle branches, stopping occasionally to free my hair or drag the nighty from the clutches of a sharp twig. I moved stealthily, rolling heel-to-toe then bounding for a step or two, trying to sound like a wallaby.
The Beast was near. I couldn’t see him or hear him or smell him, but the skin on the back of my neck was crawling and I wanted to stop and wee. I didn’t dare. The Beast was near, and soon he would find me.
I stopped, looking up through the network of tea-tree branches. The sky was black velvet, the stars flaming match heads. All around me, the grey midnight world of the bush was coming to life. Gum leaves rattled in the treetops, bats twittered as they swooped for moths and beetles. Cicadas, bullfrogs, the scuttle of a lizard in the leaf dross—
And the quiet crunch of approaching footfall.
My heart kicked once, then began to gallop. I stared over my shoulder, licking my dry lips. Darkness like a wall. The moon was a fingernail, shedding no light. Only the stars shone, picking out the frilly beards of moss that grew from the branches, making the ribbon gums glow white. Looking east I saw the knobbled Spine, arching against the sky like a dinosaur’s backbone—
A crash of motion. A dark mass loomed. Twigs crunched, a branch splintered away from its trunk. I lurched sideways but the creature grabbed me, pinning me against his shaggy body. I twisted and tried to throw myself away from him. His grip faltered, his stranglehold loosened, and I tasted a moment’s freedom . . . but then the Beast’s claws reclaimed me and dragged me back against him.
The momentum of our struggle pulled us over and we hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. I took the opportunity to sink my teeth into his arm. His skin was hairy and as tough as elephant hide, tasting of salt and old leather. The monster grunted in surprise, then rolled on top of me. He was heavy, I couldn’t breathe. Through my eyelashes, I braved a look at my captor. He was staring down at me, a hideous monster with the head of a bull, and eyes that burned like fiery embers.
I gave another token struggle, but my heart wasn’t in it. The Beast pinned my wrists over my head and bent closer, his face a finger-span from mine. I could smell his rank breath, feel the heat of his huge deformed body through the thin fabric of my nighty. I shivered. The night seemed suddenly too dark, too close. My position was hopeless, so I fell back in surrender.
This only seemed to excite the Beast. Lowering his muzzle, he pressed his lips to my ear.
‘Welcome, dear Beauty,’ he rasped. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’
When I woke, the storm had passed. Throwing off the rug, I struggled my feet into my soggy runners and got out of the car. For the longest time I stood on the wet road, drinking in the sweet, damp air, thinking about the dream.
I’d been racing through the bush at night, my arms and face scratched by tea-tree branches, my heart thudding wildly. A dark presence bounded after me, a hulking creature that ran stealthily, not wanting me to know it was there.
It was an old, recurring nightmare; I’d had it for as long as I could remember. I knew its cause: childish anxieties that had taken root after my father’s death, occasionally returning to haunt me. Right on cue, the scar on my shoulder began to pang – a painful, twitchy itch down deep near the bone that no amount of rubbing could ease.
Ignoring it, I repacked my overnight bag; it was heavy, but I’d rather get blisters than do without toiletries and clean clothes. I’d have to leave my car here until I could arrange for a wrecker to pick it up; I had no delusions about getting it repaired, the faithful old girl was clearly un-revivable.
As I set out along the road, I surveyed the landscape.
Mist rose up from the muddy ground, and raindrops glinted on the trees as the sun began to emerge. The road was littered with fallen leaves, and puddles of water reflected the clouds.
I had no phone reception, no food, and the prospect of several hours’ walk ahead of me – not exactly my idea of a good time. And yet I was surprisingly calm. It was seven o’clock, Saturday morning; in a couple of hours, Earle would be opening the shop, stacking books on the specials table, tidying up the antique postcard display. Rob would be in the gym, pumping iron to get the endorphins firing before a busy morning of consultations, and then an afternoon of chapter rewrites. My mind raced ahead, wondering what he had scheduled for tonight. A cosy nightcap in the spa with his new love; the slow removal of her slinky dress that reeked of ‘Poison’; the seductive running of his hands over her gym-toned body to unclasp the tiny black lace bra and reveal pert, perfect breasts—
My heart shrank into a knot, and I gritted my teeth on a sob. What had I done wrong? Neglected to adore him enough? Forgotten to hang off his every word, or laugh at his feeble jokes? Disappointed him in bed? Rob had seemed to enjoy our intimacy, but how could I ever know for sure? I’d heard of women faking passion. Were men guilty of the same deception?
Maybe, I thought ruefully.
They were certainly capable of other lies.
Stopping, I placed my bag on a patch of gravel and scrubbed my hands over my face. I wouldn’t cry, I decided. That would mean admitting the depth of my hurt. Rob was an arse; I had wasted three years of my life, and I wasn’t going to waste a second more by dissolving into sobs whenever I thought of him. In fact, now might be a good time to swear off love for good; that way, I’d never have to risk feeling this shitty ever again.
I dabbed my eyes, blew my nose, and then picked up my bag. Mud squelched under my feet as I walked, and after a while the cool moist air lifted my spirits. A flock of cockatoos startled from a nearby red gum, shrieking away into the sky. I tracked their path, watching them soar across the washed-out blue, winging towards the distant line of hills.
/> That’s when I saw the ridge.
It had come back into view, a knucklebone-shaped hillock against the horizon. The sight of it made me shiver. Somewhere out there, in the shadow of its flinty spine, was Lyrebird Hill.
Breathing deeply, I savoured the cold, sweet taste of rain-washed air. The mist was breaking up. Hazy clouds banked around the distant ridge then ebbed away, obscuring it one moment and parting to reveal it clearly the next. The ridge seemed to inhale, like an ancient creature unhurriedly stirring from a long sleep.
Locking my sights on its bony outline, I picked up my pace and hurried along the road towards it.
6
Brenna, April 1898
My wedding day was overcast. Drab clouds veiled the autumn sun, and the atmosphere was muggy and oppressive. My head was dull, full of my conversation with Fa Fa in his study last night; my eyes were red, and I felt somehow unravelled, my legs unsteady, my heart beating out of kilter.
I wore a fitted jacket of fine grey wool over my best walking skirt, my good kid boots, and a layer of nervous perspiration. The small bouquet Millie had helped me pick that morning wilted long before I set foot inside the Armidale Town Hall, but I kept raising it to my nose, clinging to the fragile wisp of scent that linked me to my home.
The dank foyer was cool; its heavy walls had trapped the smells of the street – horse dung and pipe smoke, and the human odours of the other people who congregated here to do official business. The ceremony was simple: a celebrant recited the vows from his book, Carsten and I muttered our promises, and when the pronouncement was made he kissed me hastily, on the cheek. Fa Fa and a man unknown to me signed the witness statements, while Owen looked on in silence. No glad tears were shed, nobody hugged me. I felt lost without Aunt Ida and Millie, but Carsten had pointed out that in light of my aunt’s recent funeral, a small wedding party was more respectful, and so Millie had stayed at home.
When it was over, the four of us boarded the train to Newcastle. I sat by the window next to Carsten, who ignored me and instead engaged my father in a debate about the precarious position of local banks in a floundering economy.
