by John Marsden
A dog howled again and I started wondering about the Hermit. Maybe that howl was the Hermit coming back to his violated house, coming to look for the people who'd trespassed into his secret sanctuary. I wriggled closer to Fi, feeling quite spooked. It had been strange, finding that little hut, so skilfully concealed. He must have really hated people to go to so much trouble. I'd half expected the place to feel full of evil, satanic powers, as though he'd huddled there for years holding black masses. What sort of man could do what he'd done? How could he have gone on with his life? But the hut hadn't felt all that evil. There had been an atmosphere there, but one that was hard to define. It was a sad, brooding place, but not evil.
As sleep crept up on me I turned my mind to my evening ritual, that I performed now, no matter how tired I was. It was a sort of movie that I ran in my head every night. In the movie I watched my parents going about their normal lives. I made sure to see their faces as often as possible, and I pictured them in all kinds of everyday situations: Dad dropping bales of hay off to sheep, waiting at the wheel while I opened a gate, swearing as he tightened the belts on the tractor, in his moleskins at the field days. Mum in the kitchen—she was a real kitchen person, Mum; feminism had made her more outspoken maybe but it hadn't changed her activities much. I pictured her looking for her library books, digging up spuds, talking on the phone, swearing as she lit the fuel stove, swearing that she'd change it for an electric one tomorrow. She never did. She claimed she was keeping the Aga because when we started taking tourists for farm stays they'd think it was picturesque. That made me smile.
I didn't know if I was making myself feel bad by trying to make myself feel good, thinking about my parents, but it was my way of keeping them alive and in my thoughts. I was scared of what might happen if I stopped doing that, if I let them start drifting away, the way I was drifting away now, into sleep. Normally I'd be thinking about Lee, too, at about this time, hugging him to me and imagining his smooth brown skin and firm lips, but tonight I was too tired, and I'd already thought about him enough today. I fell asleep and dreamt about him instead.
The couple of days with Homer and Fi and Lee had promised to be interesting and that's the way they were turning out. In fact they were almost too interesting—it was getting to be a strain on my emotions. We were all edgy anyway, wondering how the other four were getting on. But Tuesday started cooler and proved to be cooler in most ways. It was an intriguing day; a day I won't forget.
We'd agreed to get up early again. I'd noticed that the longer we stayed in Hell, the more we fell into natural rhythms, going to bed when it was dark and getting up at dawn. That wasn't the routine we had at home, no way. But here we gradually started doing it without noticing. It wasn't quite that simple. We often stayed up after dark to light a fire, to do some cooking for the next day or even just to have a cup of tea—quite a few of us missed our cups of tea during the day—but before long people would be yawning and standing and stretching and throwing out the dregs in the mug, then wandering away to their tents.
So, when it was still cold and damp on that Tuesday morning we gathered at the dead fire, talking occasionally, and listening to the soft voices of the magpies and the startled muttering of the chooks. We had our usual cold breakfast. Most nights now I soaked dried fruit in water, in a tightly covered billy so the possums couldn't get at it. By morning the fruit was juicy and tasty, and we had it with muesli or other cereal. Fi usually had powdered milk, which we also reconstituted the night before, to have it ready for the morning. We'd scrounged a few more tubes of condensed milk on our trip to the Grubers', but again they hadn't lasted long: all we diabetics-in-training sucked them dry within twenty-four hours.
Our major job that morning was to get firewood. We wanted to build up a big pile, then camouflage it. It sounds crazy with all the bush around us, but firewood was quite hard to get, because the bush was so dense. There were lots of little jobs needed doing too—chopping wood, digging drainage trenches around the tents, digging a new dunny (we'd filled our first one), making up tightly sealed packs of food that we could store around the mountains, as Homer had suggested. Because Lee was still not very mobile he got the last job, as well as the dishwashing, and cleaning the rifles.
The plan was to work hard most of the morning, have a break after lunch, then go out that night to bring more loads in from the Landie. And we did get a lot done before the day warmed up enough to slow us down. We got a stack of firewood that was about a metre high and three metres wide, plus a separate pile of kindling. We dug our trenches and dunny, then put up a better shelter for the chooks. It was amazing how much work four people could get through, compared with what Dad and I could achieve. But it did worry me that we were still so heavily dependent on supplies brought up in the four-wheel drives. That was a short-term solution. Even with our own vegetables, even with the hens, we were a long way off being self-sufficient. Suppose we were here for three months ... or six ... or two years. It was unthinkable—but it was very possible.
Over lunch, when the other two were busy for a minute, Lee said to me, in a low voice, 'Would you be able to show me the Hermit's hut this afternoon?'
I was startled. 'But yesterday, when the other two came ... you said your leg...'
'Yes, I know. But I've used it quite a bit today. It feels quite good. Anyway, I was in a bad mood with you yesterday.'
I grinned. 'OK, I'll take you. And I'll do a Robyn and carry you back if you need it.'
There must have been something in the air, because when I told the other two that if Lee's leg was good enough we'd be away for an hour or two, Homer gave Fi a swift wink. I think Fi must have given Homer some encouragement during the morning, because it wasn't the 'Ohhh, Lee and Ellie' type wink; it was the 'Good, we'll get some time together' wink. It was very sneaky of them. I'm sure if we hadn't given them the opportunity they would have come up with some lie to get away on their own. It made me feel jealous though, and I wished I could cancel our paddle so I could stay back and chaperone. Deep down in my heart I really didn't want Homer and Fi to be together.
There was nothing I could do though. I'd been neatly trapped. So, at around two o'clock, I set off towards the creek with Lee limping beside me. The journey was surprisingly quick this time, because I knew how to do it now and went there more deliberately and confidently, and because Lee was moving more freely than I'd expected. The water gurgled along, refreshingly cold, and we just went with the flow.
'It's the perfect path in,' Lee commented, 'because we don't leave any tracks.'
'Mmm. You know, on the other side of Hell is the Holloway River and Risdon. There must be a way through from here. It'd be interesting to try to find it, by following this creek maybe.'
We got to the hut but Lee's first priority was to talk. He sat down on a rather damp log by the edge of the creek.
'I'll just give my leg a rest,' he said.
'Is it hurting?'
'A little. Only an ache from being used again. I think exercise is probably the best thing for it.' He paused. 'You know, Ellie, I didn't ever thank you properly for coming to get me that night, from the restaurant. You guys were heroes. You really put it on the line for me. I'm not too good at big emotional speeches, but I won't forget that, for the rest of my life.'
'That's OK,' I said uncomfortably. 'You did thank me once already. And you'd have done the same for us.'
'And I'm sorry about yesterday.'
'What's to be sorry about? You said what you wanted to say. You said what you thought. Which is more than I did.'
'Well, say it now.'
I grinned. 'Maybe I should. Although I wasn't planning to say any more.' I thought for a minute, and decided to take the plunge. I was nervous, but it was exciting. 'All right, I'll say what I think I think, but just remember, it's not necessarily what I really think, because I don't know what I think.'
He groaned. 'Oh Ellie, you're so frustrating. You haven't even started and already you're getting me churned up
. This is the same as yesterday.'
'Well do you want me to be honest or don't you?'
'All right, go on, and I'll try to keep control of my blood pressure.'
'OK.' Having said that I wasn't even sure of where to start. 'Lee, I do like you, very much. I think you're interesting, funny, smart, and you've got my favourite eyes in Wirrawee. I'm just not sure that I like you in that way, you know what I mean. That day in the hayshed, my feelings got the better of me. But there's something about you, I don't know what it is, but you make me nervous a little. I've never met anyone quite like you. And one thing I wonder is, suppose we started going round together, and it didn't work out? Here we are, the seven of us, no, eight now, living in this out-of-the-way place in these really strange times, with the whole world turned upside down, yet we get on pretty well together—most of the time. I'd hate to spoil that by us two suddenly having a falling out and deciding we didn't want to see each other, or we were embarrassed to be together. That'd be awful. It'd be like Adam and Eve having a fight in the Garden of Eden. I mean, who would they talk to then? The apple tree? The snake?'
'Oh Ellie,' Lee said. 'Why do you have to reason everything through all the time? The future is the future. It has to take care of itself. You can sit here all day and make guesses about it, and at the end of the day, what have you got? A lot of dead guesses, that's what. And in the meantime you haven't done anything, you haven't lived, because you've been so busy reasoning it all out.'
'That's not true,' I said, getting annoyed. 'The way we got the truck and rescued you, that was all done with reason. If we hadn't figured out all the possibilities first, it never would have worked.'
'But a lot of it you were just making up as you went along,' he said. 'I remember how you told me you changed the plan about something, the route you took I think it was. And there were lots of things, like slamming the brakes on to catch the car behind: that was you going with your gut feelings.'
'So you think I should live life from the gut, not from the head?'
He laughed. 'Not when you put it like that. I guess there's a place for both. I'll tell you what it's like. It's like my music.' Lee was brilliant, Grade 6 piano already, the best for his age in Wirrawee. 'When I'm learning a piece, or when I'm playing, I've got to have my heart and my mind involved. My mind is thinking about technique and my heart is feeling the passion of the music. So I suppose it's the same as life. You've got to have both.'
'And you think I'm all head and no heart?'
'No! Stop twisting what I'm saying. But remember the guy who lived here. His heart must have gradually dried up, till it was like a little dried apricot, and all he had left was his reason. I hope it was a big consolation to him.'
'So you do think I'm all head and no heart! You think I'll end up in this little hut, the Hermitess from Hell, no friends, no one to love me. Excuse me, I'm going down the garden to eat worms.'
'No, I just think that for some things, for example liking someone, for example liking me, you're being too careful and calculating. You should just go with the feelings.'
'But my feelings are that I'm confused,' I said miserably.
'That's probably because your feelings are being confused by your mind. Your feelings might be coming through loud and clear, but before they get to the surface your brain gets in the way and muddles them around.'
'So I'm a sort of TV that's been put too close to a computer? I'm getting interference with my picture?' I wasn't sure if I believed all this or if it was just Lee spinning a line. Guys will say anything.
'Yes!' Lee said. 'The question is, what programme's showing on the TV? A debate on the meaning of life, or a passionate love story?'
'I know what you'd like it to be,' I said. 'A porno starring us.'
He grinned. 'How can I say I love you for your mind, after everything I've just said? But I do.'
It was the first time he'd used the word love, and it sobered me, a bit. This relationship could easily get serious. The trouble was, I was avoiding mentioning Homer, and one reason Lee couldn't understand me was because he didn't understand about Homer—although he'd had a guess, the day before. I think he'd have been less confused if I'd been more honest with him. But I knew about Homer, and I was still confused. I sighed, and got up.
'Come on cripple, let's go and look at the hut.'
This was my third trip to the hut, so it was losing interest for me a little. But Lee poked around for quite a while. There was more light in there this time; it probably all depended on the time of day, but there was some filtered sunlight that relieved the darkness along the back wall. Lee went to the hut's only window, a glassless square in the back wall. He put his head through it and had a look at the mint outside, then investigated the rotting window frame.
'Beautifully made,' he said. 'Look at these joints. Wait, there's some metal here.'
'How do you mean?' I came up beside him as he started wrestling with the window sill. I could see then what he meant—the sill was rotting through, and between the decayed splinters a dull black metal surface was visible. Suddenly Lee lifted the sill straight off. It was clearly made to do that, for underneath was a geometrically neat cavity, not much bigger than a shoe box. And fitting neatly into it was a grey metal cashbox, about shoebox size.
'Wow!' I was astonished and excited. 'Unreal! It's probably full of gold.'
Lee, eyes staring, lifted it out.
'It's pretty light,' he said. 'Too light for gold.'
The box was showing the early signs of rust, with some red lines starting to creep along it, but it was in good condition. It was unlocked, and opened easily. Craning over Lee's arm, I saw nothing but papers and photographs. It was disappointing, although as I realised later gold wasn't much use to us, living our guerilla life up in the mountains. Lee lifted out the papers and the photos. Underneath them was a small blue case, like a wallet, but made of stiffer material and fastened with a small gold clasp. He opened that, carefully. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper and resting on white linen cloth, was a brightly coloured short wide ribbon, attached to a heavy bronze medal.
'Fantastic,' I breathed. 'He was a war hero.'
Lee took it out. On the front was a relief of a king—I'm not sure which one—and the words 'He who would valiant be'. Lee turned it over. On the back was engraved: 'Bertram Christie, for gallantry, Battle of Marana', and a date which was too blurred to read. The ribbon was coloured red, yellow and blue. We handled it, felt it, wondered over it, then wrapped it back up carefully and replaced it in its box before turning our attention to the papers.
There were a few of these: a notebook, a letter or two, some newspaper clippings and a couple of official looking documents. There were three photographs: one of a stern looking young couple on their wedding day, one of the woman alone, standing in front of a bare wooden house, and one of the woman with a toddler. The woman was young, but looked sad; she had long dark hair and a slim smooth face. She might have been Spanish. I looked at the photos intently.
'These must be the ones he murdered,' I whispered.
'Funny that he kept their photos if he murdered them,' Lee said.
I looked at the face of the man in the wedding photo. He looked young, younger than the woman maybe. He gazed steadily at the camera, clear strong eyes and a firm clean-shaven chin. I could see nothing of the murderer in his face and nothing of the victim in his wife's or child's.
Lee started opening the documents. The first seemed to be a newspaper account of a sermon. I only read the first paragraph. The sermon was based on a verse from the Bible, 'A fool's mouth is his ruin, and his lips are a snare to himself. It looked long and boring, so I didn't read any more. The other newspaper clipping was a short article that was headlined 'Victims of Mt Tumbler Tragedy Laid to Rest'. It read:
A small group of mourners were in attendance at the Mt Tumbler Church of England on Monday last, where Revd Horace Green conducted a service for Burial of the Dead. Laid to rest were Imogen Mary Christie, of Mt
Tumbler, and her infant child Alfred Bertram Christie, aged three.
The Christie family were not well known, being newly arrived, living a goodly distance from town, and being apparently of reclusive disposition, but the tragedy has aroused considerable sentiment in the district, which was touched on most feelingly by Revd Green in his address, which had for its text 'Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery; he cometh up and is cut down like a flower'.
The deceased were then interred in the Mt Tumbler cemetery.
A public meeting will be held in the Mt Tumbler School of Arts on Monday next, under the chairmanship of Mr Donald McDonald, JP, to canvass again the possibility of obtaining the services of a medical practitioner for the Mt Tumbler district. The Christie tragedy has led to fresh agitation for the provision of medical services for the area.
An inquest into the deaths of Mrs Christie and her child will take place at the next visit of the magistrate to the district, on April 15. In the meantime Constable Whykes has cautioned against idle tongues making loose speculation upon the facts of the case; a sentiment most earnestly shared by this correspondent.
That was all. I read it over Lee's shoulder. 'It seems to raise more questions than it answers,' I said.
'Doesn't mention the husband at all,' Lee said.
The next item was a stiff formal card of cream paper, though yellowed now. It seemed to be the citation to accompany the medal. In ornate flowing writing it described the actions of Private Bertram Christie in running forward under enemy fire to rescue a wounded and unconscious 'corporal of another regiment'. 'In conveying his fellow-soldier safely back to his own lines Private Christie endangered his own life and displayed conspicuous gallantry, for which His Majesty is pleased to honour Private Bertram Christie with the award of the St George Medal.'
