The Curlew's Eye

by Karen Manton

  ‘Who’s first?’ asked Brynn.

  ‘I am,’ said Greta. If she waited she might lose her nerve. Come to her senses.

  Brynn nodded, then pointed to Greta’s torch. ‘Keep that off unless you want his dogs after you.’

  Greta switched off the torch and grabbed the boltcutters. The lace stuck to her legs as she climbed over the fence. She gave Brynn a thumbs-up and followed a line of rocks up to the cages. Above her the Milky Way was a chalky curve, the smudged arc of a wing bone.

  The cages were bathed in moonlight, and Trapper’s demountable, too, at the top of the slope. The cages were about thirty metres from him. As Greta came to the first one the stench made her gag. She couldn’t see what was inside though she could hear shuffling. She switched on the torch, shielding the light with her hand. A mangy wallaby stared back at her, its tail was an infected sore. The next cage was tall and narrow. Inside a cockatoo huddled over a shallow bowl of greenish water. One scaly leg was manacled to a metal post.

  A fuel drum banged loudly at Trapper’s. One of his dogs started growling. Close by a twig snapped, and another. Greta ducked behind the cockatoo cage. There was a whistle like a bird then a twang of wire, the rattle of a chain.

  The girl came into view, cast in full moonlight at the next enclosure. She took something from her pocket and pushed it through the wire. Greta thought she heard a quiet singing.

  The cockatoo began squawking. Trapper’s dogs barked and pulled on their chains. Heavy footsteps shuddered inside the demountable and the door swung open with a bang.

  The girl fled, a flash of white through the trees. The dogs were in a frenzy. Trapper roared at them. They quietened. Greta heard him pissing into the grass.

  As soon as his door slammed shut she made her escape. She was almost at the fence when she tripped and fell. The dogs were wild again, chains clanging as they pulled against them.

  Trapper’s door swung open. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  She scrambled to her feet and ran.

  ‘I know you’re out there!’

  Any second Trapper might turn the dogs loose. Greta leaped over the stile. The hem tore on the barbed wire. The boom of a rifle punched through the air. She reached the water and waded downstream to Brynn and Tori, who were waiting where the fence crossed the creek. Tori snorted laughter.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Brynn.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Greta whispered. ‘I nearly got shot!’ She sat down on a rock and tugged at the torn skirt of the dress, which had wrapped around her legs. She yanked harder, tearing it off, so only the bodice remained and a frill of the lace below it.

  Tori laughed, ‘That’s a look! You’ve got new swimmers.’

  ‘So much for you two taking up the dare.’ Greta caught her breath. ‘It’s like you said, Brynn. The animals. Though I didn’t see a white lizard or a three-horned goat.’

  ‘Where’s the boltcutters?’ asked Tori.

  ‘I must have dropped them when I tripped.’

  ‘He’ll be findin’ them tomorrow,’ said Tori.

  You idiot, Greta said to herself and ducked under the metal flap at the fence. She hoped to feel safer, here on the other side. The water quickly became deeper and she could feel a current. She was level with the dark pool under the footbridge and the rainforest around it. Tori and Brynn joined her.

  She shivered. ‘Are you sure there’s no crocodiles?’

  ‘Never seen one here.’ Tori let herself be carried downstream.

  Greta followed her with Brynn close behind. She held the torch in her mouth. At the next gathering of rocks she hauled herself up and shone the torch beam across the water, looking for red eyes.

  ‘That girl was there. Feeding the animals.’

  ‘Who’s this girl you keep seein’?’ Tori asked, finding a rock to sit on. ‘How old?’

  ‘Early teens,’ said Greta. She left the torch on the rock and slid into the water. ‘Hard to tell. I think she visits the old meatworkers’ hut.’

  ‘That’ll be a McKinny. They squat round here. Your place, my place, anywhere they don’t get caught. McKinny’ll be out stealin’ cattle.’

  Greta wondered if the girl was hiding among the trees, watching the women float down the creek. In the distance Trapper’s dogs started up their barking.

  ‘Listenin’ to those hounds, maybe the McKinnys’re campin’ on Trapper’s,’ said Tori.

  Greta left her rock and floated down to a series of boulders where the water gushed loudly, forced through unseen channels. All three women stood and balanced their way to where the creek flowed smoothly again.

  They’d reached the hut. It was an eerie lean-to in the moonlight. The iron roof shone bright. The mango tree was a dark shape. The pandanus stood around like wise old ones with their grey-silver beards.

  ‘There it is,’ said Tori. ‘Devil’s camp.’

  ‘Really?’ Brynn cut a sharp laugh. ‘What a name.’

  ‘Before your time.’ Tori looked over to Greta. ‘Does Joel ever mention him?’

  ‘Just in passing.’

  ‘Came and went, old Devil. Used to shack up here with Sal. God knows what she saw in ’im. Evil bastard. Twisted.’ She smacked a mosquito on her neck. ‘Sal was the only one could keep him on a leash. And only some of the time.’

  She floated to a fallen tree and grabbed one of the roots sticking out of the water to hold herself there. Brynn and Greta joined her. They were all three in a row up to their necks to escape mosquitoes. The creek tugged at them.

  ‘Devil and Joel’s uncle Vadik were mates,’ Tori was saying. ‘Vadik used to be down here too, till him ’n’ Devil’d fight an’ Vadik’d go back up to the homestead, take his chances with Fedor.’

  ‘Joel mentioned Devil had a son,’ Greta said.

  She tried to imagine him here in the hut with Devil, Sal, Vadik—the boy with the beautiful smile, surviving.

  ‘Lennie.’ Tori sighed. ‘Lennie wasn’t cut out for this place.’

  Lightning glimmered behind clouds, far off. A curlew’s wail rent the quiet. Tori released her hold and drifted to a boulder peeping out midstream. Her arm hooked onto it. She was half in, half out of the water, staring down the rolling line of the current.

  ‘Things turned bad for Lennie.’

  There’s a sharp crack from the burning log, a flurry of sparks up into the night. Joel adjusts one of the jaffle irons in the coals. Four faces shimmer in the firelight, and behind them the dark boulders are allies.

  Magdalen sits close to Lennie, twisting a bracelet on her wrist. It is hand-forged, black steel with a gentle twist in the metal, and charms dangle from it, little metal curls, shards of bone. A matching heart pendant hangs around her neck on leather cord. Danny is leaning against a tree, pressing tobacco into a paper. He twists the end and lights it. The sound of the creek, the dance of the flames mesmerise them into quietness. Until a shuffling in the dark startles them, and a face appears out of the shadows.

  Devil’s razor laugh clips the air. He steps closer and takes shape in the wavering firelight. His belt is in his hand and his trousers are loose on his hips, buttonless. Danny’s torch shines on him but he ignores it.

  What’re you doin’ ’ere, boy? he barks at Lennie. I told you to stay away from that girl.

  He points at Magdalen. The belt dangles from his hand like a snake.

  Fedor don’t want it! He clears phlegm from his throat and spits on the rock between him and his son.

  Not me either. She’s fuckin’ loopy.

  The belt sways beside him.

  Sal moves in out of the night. No one has heard her.

  Leave ’im, Devil. Come on, we’re goin’.

  Fuck off! Devil raises his arm but she’s too quick for him tonight.

  He turns back to Lennie. Y’know what you are, boy? A weak fuck. A lazy fuck. Ya wanna stay with me, ya fuckin’ work. An’ not with yer fuckin’ fire an’ tongs. It’s time you was pullin’ yer weight in the meat house.

  He whips his belt on
the rock. The boy jumps. Magdalen is frozen, staring at the fire as if in a trance. Her breath is laboured, frightened. Devil is slightly unsteady. His breath is whisky-drenched. His words start off quiet this time.

  Y’know what I’m thinkin’? I’m thinkin’ you’re a fuckin’ fake! Ya don’t even look like me! Ya sick fuck. What do ya take me for, huh? Stupid?

  He laughs softly and his eyes wander to fix on Magdalen.

  How is ’e for ya, girl? Does ’e do it good for ya, huh?

  Fuck off, Devil. Danny comes over to the fire, shining the torch in Devil’s eyes.

  The older man laughs. Ya wanna see how it’s done, do ya, Magdalen? You come with me, girl. Get yerself a turn with a real man!

  There’s a smack of glass on a rock. Joel is on his feet with a longneck bottle sliced off halfway.

  Sal’s voice comes from the other side of the fence.

  I’m crossin’ this bridge, Devil. Better hurry up if you wanna cross it with me!

  Devil stalks towards the fence. Come ’ere, ya fuckin’ bitch! He stoops awkwardly to go through the gap and catches his shirt on a barb. Wait! Wait up!

  The shirt tears when he pulls himself free. A little piece is stuck on the fence.

  Magdalen’s gaze is on the fire. A tremor runs through her. Lennie grasps her hand and holds it tight. Tight like he’ll melt both their hands together.

  20

  The starter gun cracked. The boys dived in. A surge of voices cheered. Greta edged alongside the pool, urging Griffin on. His fingertips touched the wall first. A sea of blue flags waved madly. He emerged from the water shivering. She handed him a towel.

  ‘Well done,’ the woman next to Greta said to him.

  It was Eileen, the policewoman. She was thin and neat in her dark blue uniform, with a strawberry blonde plait.

  Griffin smiled at her and went to collect his ribbon. The next race started.

  ‘Swimming was never my thing,’ Greta said to Eileen. ‘Griffin takes after his father.’

  Eileen smiled. ‘As long as you can stop yourself from drowning.’

  Greta took her chance to ask about the girl. ‘She seems to be alone, I’m not sure where she’s living.’

  ‘I haven’t heard of her,’ said Eileen. ‘Let us know if you see her again.’

  She excused herself to answer her mobile phone. Greta moved away. Tori waved from a bain-marie where she was serving chicken wings. Greta recognised some faces from the Halloween party, but not many. That was already a couple of weeks ago, she realised, hard to believe.

  ‘Greta!’ Miss Rhianna held out a tray of orange quarters. ‘Do me a favour and pass these around?’

  They chatted briefly, about an upcoming gig Rhianna had in Darwin and a story Griffin had written, until a girl with a cut foot drew Rhianna away. Greta moved through the crowd as hands darted at the tray with calls of, ‘Thanks!’ Raffy and Raymond appeared and took the last three quarters.

  They ate one each and, with Greta following, headed over to Nanna Agnes on the mobility scooter. She was parked in the shade of a rain tree growing on the other side of the fence, the toddler Greta had seen with her on the first day of school was asleep on her lap. A group of girls huddled around her. Raymond gave her the last piece of orange and gestured to Greta with his peel.

  ‘This is Raffy’s mum.’

  Agnes smiled. ‘Ray’s keen for your place again.’

  ‘You’re welcome any time, Ray.’

  The boy smiled shyly and stuffed his lunchbox into the bag hanging off the back of the scooter. Lanie arrived with a fifth winner’s ribbon to pin to Agnes’s shirt. Water from her hair dripped on the toddler. The child woke and flung her hands up to Agnes’s neck. The starter gun cracked again. The girls rushed off to watch the race. Raffy and Raymond wandered away.

  ‘Lanie’s taking home a few ribbons,’ Greta said.

  ‘Yeah, she’s sporty that one. Ray says she’s headin’ for the Olympics!’ She had a deep laugh.

  The cheering became too loud for them to hear each other. As the race finished, Agnes said, ‘Well, I gotta take this one back home for a feed.’

  It was time to go herself, Greta thought. She looked for her boys among the children milling outside the change rooms. They eluded her. Red hair, black hair, brown hair, blond hair. She couldn’t see them. Instead, she noticed a white-blonde ponytail drift through, now seen, now obscured. Greta went after her, but when she entered the girls’ change rooms the group had dispersed. There was a smell of chlorine. A wooden bench along the wall was strewn with towels, wet bathers, thongs. The cubicles were empty. She went outside again.

  Where are you, where are you?

  Griffin tugged her arm. ‘Who are you whispering to?’ He had a way of appearing.

  ‘Myself.’ She smiled at him and found some icy-pole money in her purse for him to share with his brothers and friends. ‘I’ll see you after school. You’re catching the bus this afternoon, remember?’

  He nodded. ‘Our bikes are at the front gate.’

  She wanted to hug him. He knew and edged away.

  ‘I’ll see you later then.’

  He gave her a sideways glance, a quick nod. She looked once more for the girl and went to the car. Over the road, one of the old church’s bowed doors was jammed open. She might be hiding there, Greta thought, and hurried across.

  There was a hush inside, an unusual stillness. The loudspeaker and surge of cheers from the pool sounded far away. Like the school, the church had louvres down both sides. Several were missing or broken. A panel had fallen from the ceiling and split across the font. Greta walked down the aisle between wooden pews. Broken glass crunched under her boots. The altar still had its once-white cloth and a candle in a jar at each end.

  She looked through the louvres for any movement in the bushland. A blue-winged kookaburra flew through the quiet up to a branch. Had she really seen the girl?

  Once home Greta decided to go to the hut and put her question to rest. If the girl is there, she told herself, I’ve been mistaken. If not, she’s possibly wandering around town. And what did that mean? Did she have a home, relatives, friends in Lightstone?

  The children wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours. She had just enough time. She emptied Raffy’s basket of feathers, seeds and cicada shells and lined it with a red tea towel. Then she filled it with two of her home-baked bread rolls, snake beans from her garden and a pawpaw from Brynn.

  She set off with her camera and the basket, taking a shortcut by stepping down from the cycads just below the shack, to the cleared hill that went straight down to the outcrop. It amazed her how quickly the land rejuvenated. Greenery was sprouting through ash and stubs of burned gamba. New fronds waved from the blackened trunks of sand palms and cycads.

  In no time she arrived at the rock formations overlooking the valley. The air around them shimmered. She found the passageway she’d walked along before and entered unafraid. But once she turned the corner into that narrow corridor she again felt its walls were too close, as if the stone might unexpectedly shift, reconfigure, lock her in. She scuttled through to the archway that opened onto the valley.

  Immediately she breathed easier. Birds called and the creek sounded friendly. The fire hadn’t reached here, everything was as it had been. She wound her way down between rocks and the silvery blue-green cycads.

  The hut was still there beyond the mango tree. For some reason she was always ready for it to have disappeared. Upstream she heard a slap, slap. It came from where the water gushed fast between boulders; where she, Tori and Brynn had been on Halloween night. She followed the sound and saw the girl knee-deep in the water, her dress hitched up to her undies. She wore a belt and had a net bag slung low across her back. Two fish were already in the bag, glinting in the sunlight. She was bent over, hands invisible under the rollicking flow. The water was noisy, rushing between rocks.

  You should call out to her, Greta thought, so you don’t give her a fright.

  But the su
nlight and spray from the foamy water made an aura around the girl, and Greta knew she must capture it now or miss the image forever.

  She put down her basket and took up the camera, wishing she could see the girl’s hands under water. They would be open like traps. Click, click. The girl drew out another fish and whipped it on a rock before slipping it into the net bag. Then she waded ashore. Her hair hung in long, wet strands. She didn’t see Greta until she stepped onto the sand. Immediately she flung the fish to the ground and grabbed the knife from her belt, aiming it at Greta. Sunlight flared from the blade.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Greta took a step back. ‘I came to see if you’re all right.’

  The fish were laid out on the sand, popping air. The girl crouched low and slit the first fish through the gills. Blood leaked onto the sand.

  ‘You’re clever the way you catch them,’ Greta said.

  ‘I don’t like hooks.’

  She killed the others with her knife and picked up one to scale. She worked the blade down the body, scratching away at it. Scales flew in all directions. One stuck on Greta’s shin. When she was done, she slit the fish along the underbelly and delicately scooped out the guts with her fingers.

  A kite landed in a tree close by and whistled.

  She stood up, smiling at the bird. ‘Every day she visits.’ Her eyes flashed blue at Greta. ‘I leave her treats.’

  The girl tossed the liver upwards. The bird flew to catch it mid-air.

  ‘See that?’ she laughed and cut off a fish head for the bird as well. Then she gutted the other fish, and washed them all in the creek before returning them to her bag. She glanced at Greta, as if to say, ‘Come on,’ and headed down a narrow track leading to the hut.

  Greta stepped in behind her. They were almost there when the girl moved to a cluster of rocks and a dead bush, all twigs and no leaves. A bowerbird’s arch was under it. The entrance was decorated with snail shells, delicate bones, mica and a string of diagonal mirrors. Three of Raffy’s blue chalks lay there too. ‘Evidence!’ Toby would shout. Mean mother I am, Greta thought, not believing a boy about disappearing chalks. She took a photo for her confession.