Arcadia

by Di Morrissey

  He gestured to the hallway. ‘Third room on the right. But it’s mostly early local history. Maritime is in the second room, there’s a heck of a lot of that.’

  ‘Gosh, I could spend all day in here,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Me too. I’m going to look for some children’s books for Katie as well. Where are they?’ Sally asked the owner.

  ‘There’s collectibles in here, first editions of Enid Blyton and even some Australiana . . . Mary Grant Bruce’s Billabong series, for example.’

  Over an hour later, the girls sat down to coffee and buttered banana bread as they examined the pile of books they’d collected.

  ‘I reckon we’ve got a haul and a half. Fascinating. I could have gone crazy over those original May Gibbs Snugglepot and Cuddlepie books. But I’ve got Katie Marmaduke the Possum. She’s just the right age for it.’

  ‘Pixie O’Harris! I loved that. I have my mother’s copy,’ said Jessica.

  As they sipped their coffee, Sally pointed at the framed photographs for sale on the wall.

  ‘Look at these amazing photos by Peter Dombrovskis. That’s the Tarkine wilderness area. Even though it’s near us I’ve never ventured far into it.’

  The owner collected their empty plates. ‘See it while you can. Logging is raising its ugly head again. They want to clear some parts of the ancient forests for woodchips for Asia.’

  ‘I thought they’d restricted that to commercial wood plantations,’ said Sally. ‘Though they’re destructive, too.’

  ‘Let’s go see,’ said Jessica. ‘We can take the route over the mountains, can’t we?’

  ‘I don’t want to see cleared rainforest,’ said Sally. ‘It’s too depressing.’

  ‘Just take the route through the hills, it’s spectacular but rugged,’ suggested the shop owner. ‘Are you taking all these books?’

  *

  They put most of their final selection of books in the car, and Jessica settled herself behind the wheel. Sally kept several books on her lap.

  ‘I’m going to thumb through the botanical ones. And this one of Margaret Hope’s art. She was around in my grandmother’s time.’

  ‘Do you think Stella was influenced by her?’ Jess asked, glancing over.

  ‘My grandmother’s work is not as dainty, or quite so detailed in the botanical sense. She had a more romantic, poetic approach. You feel there’s a story within it, not just the reproduction of a plant,’ mused Sally.

  ‘And don’t forget Nyx, the owl.’

  ‘Yes. I hope we find out about the flower from the Botanical Gardens people.’

  ‘Do you think there’re still some growing on your property? In your woods, perhaps?’ asked Jessica. ‘The Far Forest.’

  ‘Yes. Mum says my grandfather was very English, even though he was born here. He always referred to that land as “the woods”.’

  ‘It’s a bit wilder than English woods, I imagine. Remember the late afternoon we were out there once and got scared by the bats swooshing around us and we ran for our lives?’ said Jessica.

  ‘Yes! Thousands of bats chasing those swarming insects. I had a bat tangled in my hair and I couldn’t stop screeching!’ Sally laughed. ‘Funny, though, they never came back in the same numbers. And the insects disappeared. We hardly ever went to those woods again.’

  ‘Well, we grew up and moved on, didn’t we?’ Jessica sighed.

  ‘Katie has only ever been down there once or twice. I guess we have plenty of other walks, trees and fields for her to explore. I wonder if she’ll be as adventurous as we were,’ mused Sally.

  ‘You should hope not. But give her a couple more years! C’mon, more music.’

  Sally searched for a track, announcing, ‘Missy Higgins. Love her stuff.’

  The road rose in twists as if it were lost and had to keep looking over its shoulder to find a way up the mountainside. On one side the trees stretched to the sky like a sheer green cliff above thick undergrowth, while from the other edge the hillside disappeared behind intermittent trees and giant clumps of ferns and saplings. A distant range of mountains, thickly forested, coiffed by wispy clouds, rose on the far side of nothingness, the valley too far below to be seen.

  Once they finally levelled out they saw a faded signpost reading Valley View Township.

  ‘Another coffee?’ said Jessica. ‘That drive was stressful.’

  ‘You bet.’ Sally looked at her phone to find directions. ‘Damn. No reception.’

  Jessica turned down the old road, barely wide enough for two cars. ‘Where the heck is this township?’

  ‘Was there another turn-off? Oh look, there’s a building.’

  ‘Looks like a café. Well, that’s a start.’

  They turned into the scruffy, overgrown car park beside the old wooden building where a thin trail of smoke floated into the sky. The girls shivered and glanced up at the thickening clouds.

  ‘Is it going to rain or is it because we’re up so high?’

  ‘Either way, I need a hot coffee to warm up and I want to stretch my legs,’ said Sally. ‘We have time, we’re not in any rush.’

  They climbed out of the car and crunched over gravel to the front of the building, where the café offered a view across the high hill. They stopped and stared at a row of cottages with neglected gardens lining a street, along with a church and a sort of fellowship hall.

  ‘Is this the township? No shops, no nothing? Looks deserted.’

  ‘There’s a park,’ said Jessica, pointing to the broken swings, rusting see-saw and leaning basketball hoop.

  ‘This place is sort of creepy.’

  ‘Someone’s in the café, though. Let’s go. It’s getting cold.’

  *

  A pot-bellied stove and delicious baked-muffin aroma gave the place an inviting warmth.

  It was simply decorated with wooden tables, bunches of flowers, a counter with takeaway food choices, and a small gift shop, with displays of woollen items and jars of homemade pickles and chutneys.

  A woman appeared, not much older than themselves, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Hi, are you eating, or just having tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please, and I think I’d like to eat something,’ said Jessica. ‘This is so cosy.’

  ‘Something smells good. Let’s call this a late lunch,’ Sally suggested.

  ‘There’s a fresh pot of pumpkin soup and homemade bread rolls.’

  ‘We’ll have that,’ Sally and Jessica answered in unison.

  Sally sat at a table overlooking the vast valley as Jessica went to the gift shop.

  ‘Hey, Sal, come over and look at these great hand-spun woollen socks and the soft pashminas. There’re some cute knitted animals too. I’ll get one for Katie.’

  ‘They’re lovely. I’ll buy Mum one of these shawls.’

  ‘Who makes these?’ Jessica asked the woman as they were served their food.

  ‘A friend of mine. She gets the wool from a local farmer and spins and dyes it and knits them.’

  ‘Fantastic. Tell me, what’s with the cottages down the road; are they for rent or empty? Do people live here?’ asked Sally. ‘It seems pretty quiet.’

  The woman gave a small laugh. ‘You might say that. This was once a busy little township, but it closed up when the hydro workers left. Some holidaymakers rent the cottages occasionally. But there’s not much to do up here.’

  ‘You mean for tourists?’ asked Jessica.

  ‘When they built the hydroelectricity facility, this was the workers’ township. You can see the pipes, pumps and powerhouse further down the hill there. The government is looking at the whole power situation at the moment.’ She shrugged. ‘Plans seem to change, though. Renewables and others are against the power station mob, and vice versa; the usual. I just think it a shame that this little town is empty. There’s a schoolhouse, a
general store, a small roadhouse, a church, a hall. They used to have great dance nights, and a good library. It’s closed too. All the books are still in there. Such a waste.’

  ‘What? You’re joking,’ exclaimed Sally.

  ‘So there’s no work here now?’ Jess asked.

  ‘No. People have had to move away to look for work. We have a small farm and rely on passing trade. No one stays. I’ll just bring your bread.’ She hurried back into the kitchen.

  ‘What a shame. Think what a bunch of refugees could do up here,’ said Jessica as they ate their soup. ‘Turn it into a thriving community.’

  ‘It seems a sad sort of place,’ said Sally. She shivered. ‘I think we should move on before dark and get settled somewhere else. Maybe we should have booked a hotel.’

  ‘Flying by the seat of our pants, living in the moment, as the mood takes us, no commitments, remember?’

  Sally sighed and drained the last of her coffee. ‘Let’s see if there’s any phone reception. I want to check in with Toby.’ She took out her phone and pressed his number.

  Jessica paid for the food and gifts. ‘How far to the next petrol station?’ she asked the café owner.

  ‘Not far, over the next hill, where the road divides at the junction. That way they get everybody before people take a different direction at the roundabout.’

  ‘Let’s take a photo before the sun goes,’ said Sally, re-joining them.

  ‘Would you like me to take one of you both?’ The woman took a shot with Sally’s phone then said, ‘There’s a good picture from the front too, and if you walk a hundred metres down that way, you can see the hydro station pump house and the pipes. The water is pumped up from the river below. It’s quite spectacular. There’s lots of great things to see around here.’ She paused. ‘Have you seen the Mountain Gallery?’

  ‘Ah, no, what’s that?’ asked Jessica.

  The woman chuckled. ‘Surprise yourself. Here, I’ll draw you a map.’ She pulled the notepad and pencil she used to write down orders from her pocket and drew a quick sketch. ‘Take this back road round behind here rather than going straight back down the mountain. It’ll take you cross country until you get back on the road to Livingstone, that’s the highway crossroads.’

  ‘What’s there?’ asked Sally.

  ‘It’s quaint. Scenic. Bit of a testimony to man’s ingenu­ity and appreciation of his surroundings,’ she said enigmatically.

  ‘Okay then. We’ll go and look at the pump station first. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Are we really going to take that back road? And what’s she mean by a “testimony to man’s ingenuity”?’ asked Sally after they’d taken in the pump house and massive pipes and were walking back to the car.

  ‘One way to find out,’ said Jessica cheerfully.

  ‘This is so interesting. I’m going to put these photos of the pumping station up on Facebook as soon as we get in range,’ Sally said as she took her turn in the driver’s seat.

  *

  The afternoon sun was being swallowed by clouds and spearing trees as the gravel road wound through the quiet light.

  ‘This is primordial; are we going to return to civilisation?’ wondered Sally.

  The CD had come to an end and putting on more belting pop music didn’t seem appropriate.

  ‘I think we should keep going,’ said Jessica. ‘We need to get to a town and find a bed for the night. And a large glass of something.’

  ‘This probably wasn’t a smart idea – it’s getting dark and it feels like a large glass of something could be a long way off . . . hey!’

  ‘What the hell . . .?’

  Sally slowed the car.

  ‘Was that a man . . .?’

  ‘Whoa. Stop. Pull over.’

  ‘There’s nowhere to stop, it’s a one-way road.’

  ‘Well, there’s no one else up here . . . except . . . them . . .’ said Jess.

  Both girls craned forward, peering into the green gloom.

  The figure of a man was silhouetted between the trees. And as they looked into the forest on either side of the car, a dozen or more people stoically observed them.

  ‘Are they . . . oh, God, look at the trees . . .’ whispered Sally.

  When they stared at the thick, towering trees they saw the writhing figures of sprites and animals, nymphs and children cleverly carved into the trunks, growing with the trees. Among them, standing, as if pausing to watch their car pass, were life-size figures. A woman’s bonnet strings, an apron, a man’s shirt, a kerchief, fluttered slightly.

  ‘They look so . . . life-like,’ whispered Jessica.

  ‘Are they carved? They look like they’re real people who’ve just been frozen. Like someone from space zapped them!’

  ‘Let’s go see.’

  ‘Jess . . . are you sure? I’ll wait in case I have to move the car off the road.’

  ‘Sally! We haven’t seen one car all the way up here! C’mon. Bring your phone, we definitely need photos of this!’

  The girls stepped out of the car in the middle of the road and turned in a slow circle, feeling dozens of eyes on them.

  Jessica strode over to the nearest wooden figure – and realised the stockman was actually larger than life-size. He had a coiled stockwhip on his shoulder, a plaited leather belt, moleskin pants and worn riding boots, and he peered at her from under his battered Akubra hat.

  ‘G’day, mate. We’re just cruising through,’ she said aloud. ‘Where’s your mob of cattle?’

  ‘Over here!’

  She jumped and spun around to see Sally standing on the other side of the road. Flinging her arms open, Sally called, ‘There’s cattle here! Cows and calves and even some sheep! Jess . . . look, they seem so real, but they’re all made of wood!’

  ‘So’re these guys! Has to be Huon pine. They’ll last hundreds of years out here!’

  ‘Ooh, come and see, there’s a pioneer woman, and kids with a milk pail,’ called Sally. ‘The detail is stunning. Who would’ve done this?’

  Jessica plunged into the forest past the carved trees and stopped in front of a World War One digger carrying a wounded mate, a masterful piece of realistic carving. Something about it brought a lump to her throat and she paused, tears springing to her eyes as she gently reached out to touch the young soldier.

  ‘Easy does it, girlie.’

  ‘Yikes!’ Jessica started, leaping backwards.

  Spinning around, she caught her breath at the sight of a stocky, thick-shouldered man standing before her, a small axe held loosely in one hand, various picks and chisels strung from his belt.

  ‘Hi, sorry. You startled me. Did you carve these?’ she stammered in a rush.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘They’re amazing. So life-like.’ She looked over her shoulder towards Sally but couldn’t see her.

  The man stared at her impassively, waiting, his hand on his axe handle.

  ‘Why did you make them? I mean, why isn’t this a museum? They’re all . . . incredible,’ said Jessica.

  ‘I consider it my own tribute; some might call it an outdoor museum. I did them for myself.’ He took a breath. ‘I wanted to tell our story . . . it’s a living story. The land, the people of the land . . . that is why I tell it in the wood of our land, so that it will not die for a thousand centuries . . .’

  ‘The Huon pine?’ asked Jessica gently, unsure about this strange man as she edged to one side, trying to see where Sally was across the road.

  ‘If we lose our stories, we lose who we are.’

  ‘How many people come here? I mean, who knows about this? Your work is unbelievable,’ said Jessica.

  ‘It’s here.’ He shrugged. ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘The lady in the café in town drew a map for us but didn’t tell us what was here,’ Jessica replied.

  H
e nodded. ‘She doesn’t tell everybody.’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve seen this,’ Jessica said quietly. She was about to say more when Sally walked over to join them.

  ‘Are you the artist? This is really amazing. I’ve just been looking at the group of Indigenous people over the other side.’ She looked at the enigmatic man. ‘Thank you. This is so . . . special. A museum, an art gallery, it’s like a . . . living history of these parts . . . where all these people and animals might have lived.’

  ‘Yes. There’s a lot of history here, good and bad. Some people don’t want to know, or care.’ He shrugged and hefted the axe lightly in his hand.

  Jessica leaned close to Sally, radiating caution, but Sally was starstruck and she nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right.’

  He stared at them intensely. ‘I feel we’re losing our stories, and the trees have always observed our history. I’ve just incorporated a bit from more recent times, as well. Taken me years to do this. Don’t want to harm the trees. I only carve individual pieces from fallen trees. I watch out for the forest. This can’t, shouldn’t, ever be logged. Got to keep our stories alive.’ He gave them a piercing stare. ‘When we ignore our past, we condemn our future.’ He paused, then turned away. ‘Travel safe, ladies.’ And he walked into the forest, disappearing among the shadows.

  Jessica and Sally watched him go, too stunned to say anything. A bird shrieked and they jumped.

  ‘I’ll take some photos too, no one will believe this,’ Jessica murmured.

  ‘If you weren’t here, I might have thought I’d imagined it. What a strange man.’

  ‘I was nervous about that axe, and the tools. Perfect murder weapons. We could’ve ended up carved into trees,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Jess! Stop that! Why do you always think the worst of people?’

  ‘Because I’m not as trusting as you. C’mon, it’s time to find that large glass of something.’

  *

  Settled in a modest motel at the edge of the river, the girls looked at their photographs of the tree carvings.

  ‘Like you said, people aren’t going to believe these. Makes the ones I posted on Facebook from the hydro station look a bit boring,’ said Sally.