He eased the spider back onto the wall, and trained the torch beam against the roof of rock high above their heads. The painted likeness of a striped animal stared down at them, surrounded by handprints, concentric rings and mysterious dot designs.
‘A thylacine.’ Sarah’s awed voice returned to them in mocking echo.
She backed up to take in the paintings, and pulled her phone from her pocket.
Matt covered it with his hand. ‘No pictures, for cultural reasons.’
Sarah resisted for a few moments, then put her phone away.
It felt strange to be at Last Stand Cave with anyone other than Penny. What would she think of him hijacking the day’s carefully planned itinerary, of him bringing Sarah to this special place? In bed that morning, half asleep, Penny had embraced him. His body had responded, but his mind made him tense and shift ever so slowly out of reach.
Sarah touched his shoulder and Matt tried to put thoughts of Penny aside. He aimed the torch at the ground, revealing an engraved memorial plaque. ‘There’s quite a story attached to this cave,’ he said. ‘You want to hear it?’
Chapter 8
Penny watched Fraser work the blade with the precision of a surgeon and the delicacy of a lover. She’d never seen such a large animal skinned before, and was both squeamish and fascinated. It made no difference to the stag whether Fraser mounted its head or not, destined as it had always been for the butcher. But vegetarian Penny was still sad for its death, for its once graceful body now dangling from the gallows. She was still shocked when, after flaying down as far as he could, Fraser severed the stag’s head with a meat saw. He used the antlers as handles, struggling to thump his gory prize onto the workbench. The deer had been dead long enough for rigor mortis to stem the free flow of blood, though it still congealed in occasional resinous pools. Fraser idly scraped them away.
‘A head,’ he said, ‘should be skinned all in one piece, including the ears, eyelids and lips.’
He sawed across the top of the skull, using a screwdriver to prise stubborn skin from the base of one antler. Next, he made a cut along the neck, intersecting the first incision. When he sliced the ears, he expertly left them attached to the skin. Penny murmured in admiration, then grimaced as Fraser removed the eye and jammed his forefinger deep into the empty socket.
‘The skin grows close to the skull here, Penelope,’ he said without looking up. ‘Which makes the eyelids tricky. But if you poke your finger into the back of the eye … just so … you’ll feel where skin meets bone.’ Penny held her breath. ‘Done. Now for the nose.’ Fraser’s blade pierced the soft muzzle. This time he used his thumb, shoved hard into the deer’s mouth, felt for the bulge and cut around it. Fraser deftly slit the lips and removed the fleshy interior, miraculously leaving the thin dark skin attached to the head. ‘Save as much of the lips as you can. You’ll need them later.’
He finished by splitting the nostrils, separating flesh and cartilage as he went. ‘Fingers crossed.’ With meticulous care Fraser peeled hide from head, inside out and all in one piece. The bloody skull remaining bore no resemblance to the noble-eyed, velvet-muzzled stag of an hour ago. With gaping sockets, flayed face and an incongruous crown of blood-spattered antlers, the head looked like something straight out of a horror movie.
‘I tried to skin a wombat head last week and made a complete hash of it,’ said Penny. ‘If only I’d known that trick with your finger.’
‘I have lots of tricks I could show you,’ said Fraser, winking.
Penny lightly punched his arm. ‘Behave yourself and show me how to do the ears.’
Fraser made two cuts and turned each ear inside out. ‘Get the salt.’
As Penny reached for a jar on the top shelf, the earth rumbled.
‘Here comes another one,’ said Fraser.
The floor shifted beneath their feet, windows rattled and shelves shuddered. Penny caught the salt jar as it fell. Furniture clattered. The studio creaked and groaned, then everything was still again.
Six weeks ago, a violent quake had rocked Hills End. Houses shook. Windows broke. The verandah of the Royal Hotel collapsed, along with half a dozen inebriated patrons. Since then, a series of aftershocks had plagued the town.
Penny retrieved a screwdriver that had rolled off the table. ‘Did that first quake cause you any problems?’
‘It certainly did. It spilled a perfectly good glass of red.’
‘Down your mine, I mean.’
‘Nothing that can’t be fixed,’ said Fraser. ‘Earthquakes happen.’
Penny gave Fraser a searching look. ‘Matt says that blasting down the mine triggered the earthquake.’
‘Does he? Well, I can assure you that Matt is quite wrong.’
Penny wasn’t convinced. Plenty of people in Hills End blamed the mine.
A flicker of something like sadness crossed Fraser’s usually impassive face. ‘Tell me, Penelope, are you going to stand around and recite the gospel according to Matthew or shall we get on with it?’
‘Get on with it,’ said Penny.
Fraser nodded approval. He opened the salt jar, coated the stag’s head and placed it in an empty sink to drain. He then washed his hands and arms in a basin of hot, sudsy water.
‘Now, what do you have for me?’ he said to Penny as he dried his hands. She pointed to a sack on the floor by the door, and Fraser opened it with an appreciative sigh. He covered an empty work table with thick layers of newspaper, and then lifted the limp body of the eagle. ‘When did this bird die?’
‘Last night.’ Penny showed Fraser its shattered, swollen left wing. ‘He didn’t respond to antibiotics. It’s happening a lot lately – wildlife just not healing.’ She could have said more, but bit her tongue. Matt wasn’t the only one who held Fraser’s forestry practices responsible for the odd spike in ailing animals. Their vet did too, and some of the farmers, those with unusually high numbers of aborted and deformed lambs. They blamed herbicides like atrazine and triazine, sprayed from helicopters to prepare clear-fell sites for pine plantations. Herbicides banned in Europe for their links to birth defects and cancer.
Fraser examined the eagle’s gunshot wound. ‘I think we can disguise this under the feathers.’
‘What about his missing talon?’
‘Thermoset resin claws are most lifelike.’ Fraser fixed his hawk-like gaze on her. ‘Does Matthew know you’ve brought this bird here?’
Penny couldn’t meet his eyes. She’d lied to Matt that morning. A day talking to school groups, she’d said. ‘He thinks the vet cremated it. But I couldn’t let that happen, Fraser. I just couldn’t …’
Fraser held up his hand. ‘Thanks to you, this splendid eagle will live forever in the hearts and minds of all who view him.’ Fraser stroked the tawny head. ‘An immortal ambassador for his kind. A bird of such beauty, such rarity.’
‘Matt wouldn’t agree,’ said Penny.
‘My son is a stubborn fool, like his father,’ said Fraser. ‘Worse, he has a hero complex. Where is he today? Capturing a ring of international poachers? Single-handedly replanting an entire forest? More likely reading the riot act to some poor tourist who took a wrong turn.’
Sometimes Penny hated Fraser, but he was like Matt in so many ways. His tongue protruded ever so slightly when he concentrated. He could hold opinions in dogged defiance of reason. They were both handsome, despite Roman noses and thin mouths. Fraser still had a full head of hair, now tinged with grey. Would Matt look as distinguished at sixty? But Matt certainly didn’t have his father’s arrogance, nor his sharp tongue. Fraser took such pleasure in finding fault. ‘Matt’s taking a scientist on a tour of the devil traps,’ she said. ‘He won’t be back until late.’
‘We have some hours then. Shall we begin?’
Penny hesitated. ‘I haven’t done a bird before.’
‘Birds are the easiest of all,’ said Fraser. ‘They have such thin skins. You can mount a bird in one day, even a large raptor like this, and then leave it to
cure on the model.’
‘I don’t have a model,’ said Penny.
Fraser disappeared into the next room and returned with a polyurethane eagle form under one arm. ‘He’s bigger than I imagined, but I suspect we can build this up with some cottonwool.’ From a drawer, Fraser produced a knife and a box of borax. He laid the eagle on its back and handed Penny a needle and thread. ‘Sew up that wound before we start.’
Penny took a deep breath and began.
Chapter 9
Matt began his story. ‘In 1887, the richest bloke in Hills End was a man named Henry Abbott.’
‘Any relation?’ asked Sarah.
‘I’m afraid so. Abbott pretty much owned the town. He owned the richest farmland, the most valuable timber, the most profitable businesses – and he owned the goldmine. One day an earthquake caused the mine to flood. Underground streams run deep around here. Dozens drowned, but a young miner known as Adam McCleod rescued seven men, including Henry Abbott’s own son.’
A possum crept from a crevice above them and darted into the darkness, startling Sarah. She moved closer to Matt.
‘Even though Adam was badly hurt himself, he collected as many injured men as he could, hauled them into a mine car, and ran them through rockfalls and rising water to the main shaft. They escaped just in time. Adam was the town hero.’
‘What’s that got to do with this cave?’ asked Sarah.
‘Well, apparently Adam wasn’t who he said he was. He was really an escaped convict named Luke Tyler, jailed for assaulting none other than Henry Abbott himself, years before.’ Sarah raised her perfect brows. ‘It gets better. Not long after that, Luke murdered Henry Abbott. Set his dog on him, so the story goes. Then Luke and the dog took off. The police hunted them down to this cave, but since Luke was such a hero, nobody wanted to shoot him.’
‘He’d just murdered a man.’
‘Maybe so, but apparently people hated Henry Abbott and were glad he was dead. So the local sergeant went into this cave and tried to get Luke to surrender. A few minutes later the police outside heard an explosion. The sergeant raced out, running for his life. Said a demon came out of the walls and attacked him. Then the back of the cave collapsed.’ Matt paused for effect, aware of Sarah’s rapt attention. ‘No trace of Luke or his dog was ever found.’ Matt pointed to the roof. ‘Legend says those rock paintings mark a door to the spirit world, and that the two of them passed through. Whenever the earth trembles, Hills End locals call it the Abbott curse.’
Sarah looked around uneasily. ‘What’s on that plaque?’ Matt shone the torch down and she knelt to read the words etched in stone-set brass. ‘In loving memory of Luke Tyler and his loyal dog Bear. My heart is forever yours. Bluebell.’ Sarah tilted her head, trailing fingers over the cold brass. ‘Who put this here?’
‘Nobody knows.’ Matt peered into the murky depths of the cave, almost saw the desperate young man, almost felt the shudder of the cave collapse. Then, the ground beneath him really did shift. He grabbed Sarah’s arm and pulled her to her feet. ‘Aftershock.’ They darted for daylight, followed by a cloud of dust.
‘That’s pretty creepy,’ said Sarah, gasping for breath. ‘… just after that story.’
Matt looked up. Threatening grey clouds were gathering fast, piling high in the sky. His phone rang, a crowing cock. ‘Matt here. Pallawarra? I can be there by five.’ He put his phone back in his pocket. ‘There’s trouble in the Tuggerah. We’d better head back.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ve had just about enough of your Australian bush for one day.’
* * *
The road home offered unparalleled views of the forest in breathtaking sweeps from the crest of the cliff. Sarah stared out the window until the forest closed back around them. She looked in the glove box, found a copy of the local newspaper and started to read. Time slipped away.
‘Is it true,’ asked Sarah, ‘that people don’t need permits for logging?’
‘A uniquely Tasmanian idea, courtesy of my father. You need a permit to put up a new letterbox, but if your land is declared a private timber reserve, you don’t need a permit for anything. Not for clear-felling, access roads, firebombing …’
‘Firebombing? Why on earth would somebody firebomb their own place?’
‘It’s all the rage around here. First they woodchip the trees, then they drop a sort of napalm from helicopters and burn what’s left. To top it off, they drop poisoned carrots to finish off the wildlife.’
‘It sounds like war,’ said Sarah.
‘That’s exactly what it is.’
A pause. ‘Can I come with you to the Tuggerah.’
Matt turned to look at her. Dark hair escaping from its clasp, face and clothes smudged with dirt. She looked more alive than he’d seen her. ‘Okay, but don’t get in the way.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of the war.’
Sarah reached into her bag, extracted a lunch box and passed him a ham sandwich. Penny didn’t buy ham. He’d forgotten how good it tasted.
* * *
They passed Binburra and turned left at Kingston Track. Their way dipped deep into the valley, crossed the wooden bridge over the dark, swift-running Charon River and led to a fork in the road. The left track climbed back to the park. They took the right fork leading down to the vast Tuggerah valley, whose forests stretched south for five hundred kilometres. Binburra’s jagged quartzite peaks, iced with snow, stood in firm command of this place – a place little changed for fifty million years. Mountain ash, Eucalyptus regnans, ruled the mixed, temperate rainforest. The Tuggerah lay within a mountainous ring of World Heritage national parks, but it didn’t share their protected status – it was classed as public land, nothing more. And now Matt’s father had the go-ahead from Premier Logan to move industrial-scale woodchipping operations into the valley.
Matt had watched the decision polarise the previously peaceful Hills End community. Local sawmillers objected to the new clear-fell policy. It destroyed the precious rainforest understorey, which took hundreds of years to reach commercial size: celery top and Huon pine, sassafras, leatherwood, myrtle, native olive and cheesewood. Mountain ash trees regenerated quickly after fire, but the pockets of rainforest nestled at their feet did not. The last jungles of Gondwanaland were fast disappearing, along with people’s livelihoods.
And it wasn’t just the millers who were up in arms. Local furniture and instrument makers, wood-turners, sculptors and shingle splitters – all their jobs depended on sustainable harvesting of the Tuggerah and the few remaining places like her. They viewed with despair the neat rows of pine and eucalypt monoculture – the green deserts – that replaced the rainforest. Conversely, loggers and truck drivers like Uncle Ray saw these specialty timber workers as turncoats, betraying their own and throwing their lot in with the hated greenies. Matt loathed how his father had set worker against worker, friend against friend, brother against brother. Fraser had a lot to answer for.
Sarah craned her neck out the open window. ‘Stop the car,’ she said, pulling Matt out of his worries. He killed the motor in the middle of the track and they got out. There was something deeply primeval in the air.
‘So this is the Tuggerah.’ Sarah slowly spun around, taking it in. ‘It’s magnificent.’
Matt smiled. ‘I thought you’d had enough of the Australian bush.’ He’d seen it before, the effect this place had on first-timers. Like a fine piece of music or poetry, it moved people in profound and unusual ways. Matt pointed to a little seedling, weaving skywards from beneath leaf litter by the side of the road. ‘A baby myrtle. It could live for a thousand years.’
Mist held them in a moist embrace. Filtered song, twitters, whistles and chirps betrayed invisible birds in the upper canopy: parrots and pardalotes, currawongs and cockatoos. Whipbirds whistled in stereo. Golden fungi and green moss clothed fallen logs on the forest floor, while orchids and ferns burst high on branches. Mountain ash trunks towered so high, their canopies were lost in t
he clouds.
‘The tallest flowering trees in the world,’ said Matt.
Sarah stared skywards for the longest time. ‘I’m an ape in an earth odyssey.’ She trailed her finger along a tree’s rough bark. ‘I should dance naked around the monolith.’
‘You should get back in the car,’ said Matt with a smile. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
Sarah gasped when they rounded the next bend. To the left, the same soaring stands of ash interspersed with tree ferns and shady southern sassafras. But to the right? A splintered bombsite of woody debris, churned earth and shattered roots. Levelled pedestals of giant trees, broad as billiard tables, dotted the devastated scene.
‘Look,’ said Sarah. ‘What’s that?’
A pale animal, about the size of a small dog, crouched on a stump near the road. Matt stopped the car and they picked their way towards it through the carnage. The dazed creature didn’t move. Its long whiskers and large ears were covered in mud, as was its blond coat. Its furry flaxen tail hung limp.
‘A golden brush-tailed possum,’ said Matt. ‘A big one.’
‘He’s beautiful,’ said Sarah. ‘Why is he just sitting there?’
‘He’s in shock.’ Matt kicked the broad stump. Sweet sherry-scented water still bled from its heart. ‘This would have been his home tree. He shouldn’t even be awake in daylight, but his hollow is gone. His whole bloody forest is gone.’
‘We have to help.’
Matt swept his arm wide, indicating the ruin all around. ‘Possums are territorial. I can’t relocate a traumatised old male like him. I’ve tried it before. They never survive.’
Sarah stroked the possum’s soft head. It was too far gone to care, barely noticing her touch. ‘What will happen to him?’
‘If we do nothing? He’ll sit there until he dies, or burn when they torch the place.’
The Memory Tree Page 6
