just by being born.
Maybe she was glad it wasn’t Peter
being picked on.
I was the easy target.
I don’t remember when it started.
I don’t know why it started.
But it’s never stopped.
I grew my hair long
and let it fall in front of my face,
to hide my eyes from his hate.
To hide my hate from his eyes.
Lucy: crash
I don’t want to think about him
hunting the wild dog
so I gather up a bunch of rocks,
golf-ball size.
I take a bucketload
to the far side of the yard.
In the cold sunshine
I chuck them, one at a time,
as high as I can
so they land on the old shed roof
with a loud crash
that makes Mum look up
as she sits on the verandah.
She wants to say something,
but she won’t.
I pick up another rock
and throw with all my strength,
watch it arc high over the shed
and land on the house roof
above the verandah.
It rolls down
with a satisfying thump
at the foot of the steps,
not far from Mum.
She doesn’t say a word
and I say nothing back.
Lucy: beside the creek
Jake and Peter
are on the other side of the creek
so I ignore them.
I read my book,
listening to the magpies
and the distant bleat of sheep.
I haven’t heard a gunshot yet.
That makes me smile.
I picture my useless father
struggling through the lantana
all around the hills,
swearing and sweating.
He’ll get cut by the bushes
and he’ll swear some more.
After hours of this,
he’ll sit on a rock and drink his warm beer,
hoping the dog will just walk by.
No chance.
Something on Beaumont Hill
has a brain
and it’s not the one drinking beer.
I read my book
and bask in the sun.
I’ll stay here all day.
I don’t want to be around
when he gets home.
Warm beer, hot sun
and no dog.
Jake: my dad and your dad
Peter says, ‘My dad says your dad is a flake.
Wolves don’t live in Australia.
It’s a wild dog, that’s all.’
He picks up a flat stone
and skims it across the calm surface of the creek.
‘Didn’t you hear the howl last night?’ I ask.
‘Dogs can howl too, you know.
Our dogs howl all night ’cause they’re hungry.
My dad says he’s going to shoot it,
no questions asked,’ Peter boasts.
He never shuts up.
‘Your dad is weak.
He don’t even shoot rabbits.
My dad says if something is on his farm
and it ain’t a sheep or a human,
well, it’s dead.
Nothing’s taking our sheep.
Nothing.’
Jake: Lucy Harding
Lucy Harding is still and quiet,
nothing like Peter.
She sits on the bank opposite,
reading, ignoring us.
Her long black hair
falls in front of her face,
like she’s hiding from the world.
She wears jeans every day,
even to school.
And brown riding boots
with worn heels and cuts along the toe.
I wade across Wolli Creek,
stepping from rock to rock,
getting wet up to my knees,
and sit beside Lucy.
She doesn’t look up.
I close my eyes,
enjoying the sun,
and the silence away from loudmouth Peter.
‘It’s not a wolf.
It’s just a wild dog.’
She hasn’t lifted her head from the book.
She spoke so softly
I’m not even sure I’ve heard right,
so I say,
‘The wolf?’
‘It’s not a wolf, okay.’
She lifts her head and looks at me.
Then she says,
‘Hell. I don’t care.
Call it a wolf, if you want.’
Peter
Geez, I hate that Jake Jackson.
Him and me stupid sister
talking about the wolf.
It’s like fairytales and Santa Claus
and dumb Easter bunnies
and stuff that’s not even real.
I hate them because they smirk
like they’re smarter than me.
And his dad don’t even shoot pests.
He lets them live and breed and cause trouble
when this land is for sheep
and nothing else but us farmers.
One day I’m going to find the mangy old hound
that howls at the moon
and drag its dead body
down to the creek here.
Then let’s see if Lucy and Jake look so smart,
when they see it ain’t nothing but a mangy dog.
Nothing but a dead dog.
Jake: one day
Peter gets bored skimming stones
with no one to babble to,
so he wanders home.
Lucy stays.
I watch the dragonflies
hover above the water.
Crazy helicopters, Dad calls them.
Trout live in the creek, for sure.
And turtles, yabbies,
eels - slippery and dark with oily skin.
Once, when I was fishing,
I dragged ashore an old shoe
full of sand and weed.
It’s a good creek though – no carp, or catfish.
The water is filtered clean
in the swamp upstream.
It’s deep enough for swimming
and sometimes, in spring, fast enough
to lie on a tractor tube and float for miles
downstream to the Pattaya River.
Sometimes I dream of getting a canoe
and just drifting along,
turning into the great river
and paddling until I reach the coast
hundreds of kilometres away.
Mum once told me that’s how the farmers
who lived here during the war
went to the coast to enlist.
It took them two weeks of hard paddling,
but they made it.
They signed on and went overseas to fight.
Some never returned.
Jake: where the wolf lives?
‘I know where your wolf lives.’
‘What?’
Lucy doesn’t say much,
but she sure knows how to get my attention.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘Near Balancing Rock
on Sheldon Mountain.
About twelve kilometres from here.’
I know the place.
Bare rocks, rounded by time,
and one balancing,
ready to roll off the mountain
and crush whatever is below.
The bush is thick
and it’s dark and creepy.
I shiver just thinking about it.
Dad and me went there once
searching for stray sheep.
We wandered around for hours
and found nothing but huge boulders,
stinging ne
ttles and a rotting carcass.
‘How do you know he lives there?’ I ask.
Lucy brushes her hair behind her ear
and looks up from her book.
‘I just do, that’s all,’ she replies,
her eyes steady on me.
‘I’ll show you,
if you promise not to tell anyone where we go,
especially Peter.’
I think about it for a while.
What if it’s true?
I’d want to tell Dad.
Twenty years he’s been searching.
‘Well?’ Lucy asks.
‘Okay. I promise.’
‘Good. We’ll go tomorrow.
I’ll meet you here, early.
Bring food and water.’
I stand to leave.
How can I not tell Dad?
Lucy grabs my arm.
‘We keep it quiet. Okay?
Just you and me, Jake.’
I look into her eyes.
‘Okay, Lucy.
We find the wolf,
but then I tell Dad.
Deal?’
She shrugs and says,
‘We find a wolf,
you can tell the bloody world.’
FIVE
The deep silence
Lucy: the deep silence
I don’t really know
where the wild dog lives.
I’ve decided I’m getting away from this farm.
So I tell Jake about the rock on Sheldon Mountain.
It’s the sort of place a wolf would stand
looking over the whole valley,
looking for a mate,
looking for food.
If I was Queen of this Valley
it’s where I’d live.
High above everything
where no one ever goes,
where the cloud lingers,
where I can hide away;
where on cold foggy nights
I can sit near the rock
and howl long into the deep silence.
Jake: Dad’s wolf
I pick apples
from the wild tree near the track
and take them to our horse, Charlie.
He trots across his yard
and takes an apple from my hand.
I pat his thick mane
as he crunches the fruit.
Lucy and me and the wolf?
All those years of talking about it
and searching for it.
I rub Charlie’s smooth back
and listen to Patch and Spud.
Dinnertime.
They always bark
when they smell Mum’s cooking,
even if they only get leftovers.
Dad’s wolf?
Or mine?
Tomorrow, on Sheldon Mountain,
I’m going to find out.
Jake: roast
‘You’ll love dinner tonight, Jake.
It’s a roast.’
‘Great, Mum. My favourite!’
Better than Dad’s Chicken Surprise,
which is just scrambled eggs.
Dad says, ‘It could have been a chicken.
That’s the surprise.’
‘It’s a special anniversary, Jake,’ Mum says.
I’m struggling to remember.
‘Eighteen years ago today,
your dad and I got married.’
Mum laughs at the memory.
‘We couldn’t afford a honeymoon,
so we cooked a roast.
We moved the table onto the verandah,
opened a bottle of wine,
lit candles,
and had the best dinner.’
I go to one end of the kitchen table,
lift and say,
‘Come on, Mum.
It’s not too cold for dinner outside.’
Jake: dinner on the verandah
‘Everyone in town says a wolf
couldn’t survive out here
without being shot, or captured,’ Dad says.
He leans back in the old wooden chair,
rubbing his fingers into his forehead.
‘They may be right, Dad.’
I‘m tempted to tell him about Lucy
and Sheldon Mountain,
but I promised.
‘Peter says his dad thinks it’s a wild dog.
When he finds it, he’s going to shoot it.’
Dad frowns and pours another beer.
‘He’s a rotten shot.
The day I start listening to a Harding . . .
well, that day will never come.’
I don’t want to talk about the wolf
since Lucy told me her secret.
‘Great dinner, Mum. I’ll wash up.
After all, it’s your anniversary.’
Dad looks at me, laughs, and says,
‘I knew there was a reason we had you, Jake.’
Lucy: every step I take
When Peter asks Dad
if he shot the wild dog,
I think Dad’s going to choke.
All day on Beaumont Hill,
struggling through the bush for nothing.
He shoves back his chair
and burps loudly.
That’s his way of saying thanks for dinner.
Mum clears the plates
as Dad storms into the lounge,
calling over his shoulder,
‘Lucy, do the dishes.’
As if I didn’t know.
As if him, or precious Superman,
would ever get their hands wet
doing a household chore.
Mum stands by the sink,
holding a tea towel, waiting.
Dad calls for another beer
above the noise of the television
and she hurries to the fridge.
I’m left alone with the dishes.
That suits me fine.
When I finish
I stand outside looking up at the glowing moon,
rising over the hills.
A newspaper blows across the dirt
and catches on the wire fence.
I’m glad he had such a hard time today.
And tomorrow,
Jake and me are heading
in the opposite direction,
tracking through the swamp
to climb Sheldon Mountain.
Jake will be looking for paw prints,
listening for sounds,
searching the bush,
hoping to catch sight of his wolf
so he can tell his dad.
I’ll be walking ahead of him,
whistling
with every step I take
away from this farm.
Lucy: the wish
I want the dog to howl tonight.
To tell everyone who’s boss.
I want my dad to hear
and know that it’s not afraid of him.
Dad can sit in his chair,
dirty feet on the footstool,
gripping his beer,
staring at the stupid television,
and know that he’s a loser.
He can’t even find a dog.
Howl, dog.
Howl in his face.
A cold breeze blows down the valley
and the Jacksons’ rooster starts crowing.
I once read a book
about these American Indians
who could imitate animal noises.
They would lure their prey in close
by calling it.
What I’d give to do that.
Dad would go crazy.
The wild dog, right outside his window.
Laughing at him.
Laughing in his face.
Jake: late at night
Tonight I googled ‘Wolves in Australia’.
I got twenty listings
for the Wollongong Wolves Soccer Team
and thirty-six for the movie Wolf Cr
eek.
But no wolves in Australia.
No wolves ever in Australia.
Someone should tell Dad that,
but it won’t be me.
The website said wolves don’t attack humans
and their average lifespan is twelve years.
Dad’s wolf is long dead,
unless, as Dad thinks,
he had a mate and a litter,
which means tomorrow Lucy and I
may be looking for more than one animal.
Or we’ll spend all day on Sheldon Mountain
looking for a ghost dog that doesn’t exist.
In bed, I listen to the night sounds:
a tree branch rustling against the roof,
the crackling wood in our fireplace,
the dogs on Hardings’ farm barking for food.
Our silly rooster starts crowing in the darkness
and then all is quiet.
No howl.
Not a sound.
Lucy: tomorrow
I lie awake most of the night
thinking about me and Jake
searching.
I just want to get as far away from here as I can.
I couldn’t care less if we find the dog.
I’ve got to leave before they wake up,
or else Superman will complain about being bored,
like he does every morning,
and I’ll be stuck with him for the day.
Mum will say,
‘Go on, Lucy, take him with you.
He won’t be any trouble.’
I wonder where she’s been
for the last twelve years
if she doesn’t know that Peter
is nothing but trouble.
All I want to do is keep moving
in a direction away from this farm.
And when it comes time to turn around,
I’ve got to say to Jake,
‘You go back.
But not me.
Not ever.’
Lucy: before dawn
It’s still dark out.
Dad burps loudly
as he sleeps in the lounge chair.
He rolls over,
knocking the bottle of beer.
It dribbles across the floor,
making a pool at his feet.
Lonesome Howl Page 4