by John Marsden
'Curiouser and curiouser,' Lee said.
'Sounds like you and Robyn,' I said. 'I reckon she should get a medal.'
There were a few odds and ends then: birth certificates for all three Christies, the marriage certificate of Bertram and Imogen, a postcard addressed to Bertram from his wife, and saying merely 'We will be on the 4.15 train. Mother sends her kind regards. Your devoted wife, Imogen.' There were some bank documents and a notebook containing lots of accounts and figures. I pointed to one item that said, 'To a double bed, £4/10/6'.
'How much is that?' Lee asked.
'About eight dollars I think. Don't you double the number of pounds? I don't know what you do with the shillings and pence.'
Then we came to the last of the formal documents, a long sheet of paper with a red seal on top. It was typed and signed at the bottom with a black flourish of ink. We settled down to read it, and found in the dry language of the coroner the story of the man who had killed his wife and child:
Be it known by all persons having business with His Majesty's Courts that I, HAROLD AMORY DOUGLAS BATTY, being duly appointed Magistrate and Coroner in the District of Mt Tumbler, make the following findings and recommendations with respect to the deaths of IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, aged twenty-four, married woman of this parish, and ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE, aged three, infant of this parish, both residing at Block 16A on the Aberfoyle track, forty-four miles to the southwest of Pink Mountain:
That both deceased met their deaths on or about December 24 last, at the hands of BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, as a result of bullet wounds to the head.
That both deceased lived with BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, farmer, in the relationships respectively of wife and son to the said BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, in a wooden cottage at the above address, this being a particularly remote part of the Mt Tumbler district.
That there is no evidence of marital disharmony between BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE and IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, and that on the contrary BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE was a loving husband and father, IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE a dutiful and even-tempered wife, and the child ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE a sweet child of good disposition, and that is the testimony of WILSON HUBERT GEORGE, farmer, and neighbour to the deceased, and MURIEL EDNA MAYBERRY, married woman and neighbour to the deceased.
That the nearest medical practitioner or nursing sister to the Christies was at Dunstan Lake, being a day and a half's ride away, and further
That severe bushfires were burning on and around the Aberfoyle track, the Mt Tumbler—Mt Octopus Road, Wild Goat Track and to the south of Pink Mountain, which had the effect of isolating the Christie property, and that this information was known to BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE.
That both deceased met their deaths EITHER as a result of bushfire consuming the Christie residence, during which both were terribly burnt, and that BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, believing their injuries to be mortal and unable to bear their suffering, and knowing also that medical aid was beyond immediate reach, killed both deceased with single shots to the head from a rifle owned by BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE; and that is the testimony of BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE
OR that both deceased were wilfully and feloniously murdered by BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE with the aforesaid rifle, and the bodies deliberately burned in an attempt to conceal the facts of the case.
That medical science cannot say as to which came first, the bullets or the burning, and that is the testimony of Dr JACKSON MUIRFIELD WATSON, medical practitioner and forensic scientist, of Stratton and District Hospital, Stratton.
That police inquiries have been unable to locate any other persons with evidence bearing upon the deaths of IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE or ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE, and that is the testimony of Constable FREDERICK JOHN WHYKES of the Police Station, Mt Tumbler.
That on the evidence before me I am unable to make any further findings as to the manner in which the deceased met their deaths.
RECOMMENDED:
That urgent consideration be given to the provision of medical services at Mt Tumbler.
That the Director of Public Prosecutions lays an information of WILFUL AND FELONIOUS MURDER against BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE.
Signed by the hand of me, HAROLD AMORY DOUGLAS BATTY, in the Mt Tumbler Magistrate's Court this day, the 18th of April.
Chapter Sixteen
There were two other documents in the box.
One was a letter from Imogen Christie's mother.
She wrote:
Dear Mr Christie, ('"Mr Christie!"' Lee commented; and I said, 'Well, they were very formal in those days.') I am in receipt of your letter of November 12. Indeed your position is a difficult one. As you know I have always stood by you and defended your account of the dreadful deaths of my dear daughter and my dear grandson, as being the only possible true one, and I have always believed and devoutly prayed it so to be. And I rejoiced, as you know, when the jury pronounced you innocent, for I believe you to have been a man unjustly accused, and if the Law does not know a case such as yours then more shame on the law I say, but the jury did the only thing possible, despite what the Judge said. And you know I have always held to the one point of view and have said so from one end of the district to the other. I cannot think that I could have done any more. No man, and no woman either, can still wagging tongues, and if they are as bad as you say and you will be forced to leave the district it is a shame but there is no stopping women once they begin to gossip, and I say it although I am a traitor to my sex, but there it is, that is the way of the world and no doubt always will be. And you know you will always be welcome under the roof of,
Imogen Emma Eakin
The last thing was a poem, a simple poem:
In this life of froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone.
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own.
When we'd read that, Lee silently wrapped everything up again and replaced it in the tin. It didn't surprise me when he put the tin back in the cavity and dropped the windowsill on top of it. I knew that we weren't necessarily leaving it there forever, to decay into fragments and then dust, but at the moment there was too much to absorb, too much to think about. We left the hut silently, and we left it to its silence.
Half way back along the creek I turned to face Lee, who was splashing along behind me. It was about the only spot in the cool tunnel of green where we could stand. I put my hands around the back of his neck and kissed him hungrily. After a moment of shock, when his lips felt numb, he began kissing me back, pressing his mouth hard into mine. There we were, standing in the cold stream, exchanging hot kisses. I explored not just his lips but his smell, the feeling of his skin, the shape of his shoulder blades, the warmth of the back of his neck. After a while I broke off and laid my head against his shoulder, one arm still around him. I looked down at the cool steady-flowing water, moving along its ordained course.
'That coroner's report,' I said to Lee.
'Yes?'
'We were talking about reason and emotion.'
'Yes?'
'Have you ever known emotion dealt with so coldly as in that report?'
'No, I don't think I have.'
I turned more, so that I could nuzzle into his chest, and I whispered, 'I don't want to end up like a coroner's report'.
'No.' He stroked my hair, then felt up under it and squeezed the back of my neck softly, like a massage. After a few minutes more he said, 'Let's get out of this creek. I'm freezing by slow degrees. It's up to my knees and rising.'
I giggled. 'Let's go quickly then. I wouldn't like it to get any higher.'
Back in the clearing it was obvious that something had happened between Homer and Fi. Homer was sitting against a tree with Fi curled up against him. Homer was looking out across the clearing to where one of Satan's Steps loomed high in the distance. They weren't talking, and when we arrived they got up and wandered over, Homer a little self-consciously, Fi quite
naturally. But as I watched them a little during the rest of the afternoon—not spying, just with curiosity to see what they were like—I felt that they were different to us. They seemed more nervous with each other, a bit like twelve-year-olds on their first date.
Fi explained it to me when we managed to sneak off on our own for a quick goss.
'He's so down on himself,' she complained. 'Everything I say about him he brushes off or puts himself down. Do you know,' she looked at me with her big innocent eyes, 'he's got some weird thing about my parents being solicitors, and living in that stupid big house. He always used to joke about it, especially when we went there the other night, but I don't think it's really a joke to him at all.'
'Oh Fi! How long did it take you to work that out?'
'Why? Has he said something to you?' She instantly became terribly worried, in her typical Fi way. I was a bit caught, because I wanted to protect Homer and I didn't want to break any confidences. So I tried to give a few hints.
'Well, your lifestyle's a lot different to his. And you know the kind of blokes he's always knocked around with at school. They'd be more at home hanging out at the milk bar than playing croquet with your parents.'
'My parents do not play croquet.'
'No, but you know what I mean.'
'Oh, I don't know what to do. He seems scared to say anything in case I laugh at him or look down my nose at him. As if I ever would. It seems so funny that he's like that with me when he's so confident with everyone else.'
I sighed. 'If I could understand Homer I'd understand all guys.'
It was getting dark and we had to start organising for a big night, starting with another hike up Satan's Steps. I was tired and not very keen to go, especially as Lee wouldn't be able to come. His leg was still stiff and sore. When the time came I trudged off behind Homer and Fi, too weak to complain—I thought I'd feel guilty if I did. But gradually the sweetness of the night air revived me. I began to breathe it in more deeply, and to notice the silent mountains standing gravely around. The place was beautiful, I was with my friends and they were good people, we were coping OK with tough circumstances. There were a lot of things to be unhappy about, but somehow the papers I'd read in the Hermit's hut, and the long beautiful kiss with Lee, had given me a better perspective on life. I knew it wouldn't last, but I tried to enjoy it while it did.
At the Landie we set about constructing a new hideaway for the vehicles, so that they'd be better concealed from anyone using the track. It wasn't easy to do, and in the end we had to be content with a spot behind some trees, nearly a k further down the hill. Its big advantage was that to drive in there you had to go over rocks, which meant no tracks would be left, as long as the tyres were dry. Its big disadvantage was that it gave us a longer walk to get into Hell, and it was a long enough walk already.
Fi and Homer were going to wait up there for the other four, whom we were expecting back from Wirrawee at about dawn, but I didn't want to leave Lee at the campsite on his own for the night. So, for that charitable reason, and no other, I filled a backpack to the brim, took a bag of clothes in my hand and, laden like a truck, put myself into four-wheel drive and trekked back into Hell on my own. It was about midnight when I left Fi and Homer. They said they were going to stretch out in the back of the Landrover for a few hours' sleep while they waited.
That's what they said they were going to do, anyway.
The moon was well up by the time I left. The rocks stood out quite brightly along the thin ridge of Tailor's Stitch. A small bird suddenly flew out of a low tree ahead of me, with a yowling cry and a clatter of wings. Bushes formed shapes like goblins and demons waiting to pounce. The path straggled between them: if a tailor had stitched it he must have been mad or possessed or both. White dead wood gleamed like bones ahead of me, and my feet scrunched the little stones and the gravel. Perhaps I should have been frightened, walking there alone in the dark. But I wasn't, I couldn't be. The cool night breeze kissed my face all over, all the time, and the smell of the wattle gave a faint sweetness to the air. This was my country; I felt like I had grown from its soil like the silent trees around me, like the springy, tiny-leafed plants that lined the track. I wanted to get back to Lee, to see his serious face again, and those brown eyes that charmed me when they were laughing and held me by the heart when they were grave. But I also wanted to stay here forever. If I stayed much longer I felt that I could become part of the landscape myself, a dark, twisted, fragrant tree.
I was walking very slowly, wanting to get to Lee but not too quickly. I was hardly conscious of the weight of the supplies I was carrying. I was remembering how a long time ago—it seemed like years—I'd been thinking about this place, Hell, and how only humans could have given it such a name. Only humans knew about Hell; they were the experts on it. I remembered wondering if humans were Hell. The Hermit for instance; whatever had happened that terrible Christmas Eve, whether he'd committed an act of great love, or an act of great evil ... But that was the whole problem, that as a human being he could have done either and he could have done both. Other creatures didn't have this problem. They just did what they did. I didn't know if the Hermit was a saint or a devil, but once he'd fired those two shots it seemed that he and the people round him had sent him into Hell. They sent him there and he sent himself there. He didn't have to trek all the way across to these mountains into this wild basin of heat and rock and bush. He carried Hell with him, as we all did, like a little load on our backs that we hardly noticed most of the time, or like a huge great hump of suffering that bent us over with its weight.
I too had blood on my hands, like the Hermit, and just as I couldn't tell whether his actions were good or bad, so too I couldn't tell what mine were. Had I killed out of love of my friends, as part of a noble crusade to rescue friends and family and keep our land free? Or had I killed because I valued my life above that of others? Would it be OK for me to kill a dozen others to keep myself alive? A hundred? A thousand? At what point did I condemn myself to Hell, if I hadn't already done so? The Bible just said 'Thou shalt not kill', then told hundreds of stories of people killing each other and becoming heroes, like David with Goliath. That didn't help me much.
I didn't feel like a criminal, but I didn't feel like a hero either.
I was sitting on a rock on top of Mt Martin thinking about all this. The moon was so bright I could see forever. Trees and boulders and even the summits of other mountains cast giant black shadows across the ranges. But nothing could be seen of the tiny humans who crawled like bugs over the landscape, committing their monstrous and beautiful acts. I could only see my own shadow, thrown across the rock by the moon behind me. People, shadows, good, bad, Heaven, Hell: all of these were names, labels, that was all. Humans had created these opposites: Nature recognised no opposites. Even life and death weren't opposites in Nature: one was merely an extension of the other.
All I could think of to do was to trust to instinct. That was all I had really. Human laws, moral laws, religious laws, they seemed artificial and basic, almost childlike. I had a sense within me—often not much more than a striving—to find the right thing to do, and I had to have faith in that sense. Call it anything—instinct, conscience, imagination—but what it felt like was a constant testing of everything I did against some kind of boundaries within me; checking, checking, all the time. Perhaps war criminals and mass murderers did the same checking against the same boundaries and got the encouragement they needed to keep going down the path they had taken. How then could I know that I was different?
I got up and walked around slowly, around the top of Mt Martin. This was really hurting my head but I had to stay with it. I felt I was close to it, that if I kept my grip on it, didn't let go, I might just get it out, drag it out of my begrudging brain. And yes, I could think of one way in which I was different. It was confidence. The people I knew who thought brutal thoughts and acted in brutal ways—the racists, the sexists, the bigots—never seemed to doubt themselves. They wer
e always so sure that they were right. Mrs Olsen, at school, who gave out more detentions than the rest of the staff put together and kept complaining about 'standards' in the school and the lack of discipline' among 'these kids'; Mr Rodd, down the road from us, who could never keep a worker for more than six weeks—he'd gone through fourteen in two years—because they were all lazy' or 'stupid' or 'insolent'; Mr and Mrs Nelson, who drove their son five kilometres from home every time he did something wrong and dropped him off and made him walk home again, then chucked him out for good when he was seventeen and they found the syringes in his bedroom—these were the ones I thought of as the ugly people. And they did seem to have the one thing in common—a perfect belief that they were right and the others wrong. I almost envied them the strength of their beliefs. It must have made life so much easier for them.
Perhaps my lack of confidence, my tortuous habit of questioning and doubting everything I said or did, was a gift, a good gift, something that made life painful in the short run but in the long run might lead to ... what? The meaning of life?
At least it might give me some chance of working out what I should or shouldn't do.
All this thinking had tired me out more than the work hiking up and down the mountains. The moon was shining brighter than ever but I couldn't stay. I got up and went down the rocks to the gum tree and the start of the trail. When I got back to the campsite I was disgusted to find Lee sound asleep. I could hardly blame him, considering how late it was, but I'd been looking forward all evening to seeing him and talking to him again. After all, it had been his fault that I'd been going through this mental sweat-session. He'd started it, with his talk about my head and my heart. Now I had to console myself with crawling into his tent and sleeping next to him. The only consolation was that he would wake in the morning and find he had slept with me and not even known it. I think I was still smiling about that when I fell asleep.
