Not Your Average Monster, Vol. 2: A Menagerie of Vile Beasts

by Pete Kahle

  Get Off My Land

  I signed the consignment slip and handed it back to the driver. From the trailers came the sound 965 head of fat yearlings off to the 'works. The string of good seasons had paid off in stock. I turned back to the pens. The jackaroos were lined up on the fence, smoking and laughing. Lacey came over, his arm still in a sling. "Not bad. I was going to send the boys off for the weekend. You okay with that?"

  "Sure. Take the weekend off yourself. Nothing needs doing for a day or two."

  "Righty-o. See you Monday, Paul."

  I stepped away from the semi-trailer as it rumbled to life, hauling money off to the meatworks. Lacey shouted at the stockhands, who were fighting over who had to stay behind for a couple of hours to bring in the horses. To my surprise, Matt and Chris volunteered immediately. The rest of the team slapped them on the backs and promised to 'have a beer for them', before mounting up and heading back to the station in a dusty mob.

  When the dust had settled Steve was standing there, holding the reins of his horse, his eyes on Matt. Matt glanced over at him, just for a second, then turned his back. Matt's gaze met mine.

  Heat rose in my cheeks. I felt like a peeping tom, caught watching someone undressing. To hide my embarrassment I reached into the back of the ute and pulled out my toolbag. I walked over to the three of them, Matt and Chris talking easily, Steve standing slightly apart, looking like... ? There was an odd, hungry expression on his face.

  "Hey," I snapped. I was sick of this childish shunning. "I need someone to have a look at the windmill in paddock five. One of you jokers needs to stop in on the way back." I wanted Matt to do it, not just because he was competent, but because I felt a lingering pity for Steve. What was it about the stringy boy that had Steve so worked up?

  "I'll do it," said Steve. He jerked the toolbag out of my hand and flung himself into the saddle. I watched him go. When I turned back, Matt and Chris were already in the saddle, gathering the remaining horses to bring back to the home paddock.

  # # #

  No one missed Steve until Monday. The boys in town assumed he was on the station having a grump, and those of us left on the station assumed he was in town. Lacey confirmed we were one horse down. Fearing another health insurance claim and more dreaded paperwork, I went looking for him myself.

  I drove the Landy through three small washouts before I came in sight of the windmill. Steve's horse was tied to the fence.

  I pulled up and got out. The wind had died, and the setting sun cast strange, deep shadows under the scrub. I could hear the clonking sound of a broken feed, but there was no sign of Steve. I stumbled, kicking my toe on something hard. My bag of tools lay open, contents spilling out into the sand.

  Steve's horse was fussing and I moved over to it. It shied, eyes rolling, hooves drumming as it fought to get free.

  "Easy." I reached for the reins which snapped taut as he reared. "Steady on, boy." Had he been tied up all weekend? I managed to put a hand on his nose, feeling the sweat and saliva pooling there, attracting hordes of flies.

  Branches snapped behind me. The horse flung himself backwards and slipped, falling heavily. I dodged away from the paddling hooves as it squealed and kicked out.

  Another crackle of scrub and the dark body of a wild pig pushed its way out of the mulga. The thing was huge. I could hear the branches scraping across the damp hide. Pig musk, rank and sickening, filled my nostrils. We stood there for a moment, staring at each other, not moving. Then the horse squealed again and the mood was broken.

  I bolted for the truck, pig hooves thundering behind me. The horse shrieked once, a high, human sound, like a child. I grabbed for my rifle, swung around and brought it to my shoulder.

  The pig was gone. The horse lay still in the mud, blood pooling beneath its neck.

  # # #

  The police came with a horde of volunteers, but all they found of Steve was some mangled, bloody clothing and his wallet. By the time I got back to the horse half the carcass was gone, eaten by wild pigs. I winched the remains on to the back of the ute, rifle close at hand the whole time.

  Everyone on the station went to the service in Pinjar. Chris stood beside me, his face sad. I glanced across at Matt, under cover of reading the prayer book. He was watching Chris, his gaze direct.

  I lowered my head as the minister spoke. They had been in town, hadn't they? Both of them. With all the rest of the boys. The police had spoken to everyone, but Steve had been alone at that windmill.

  Sweat ran in a stream from under my arms, to soak into the waistband of my pants. Even mid-July, the sun beat down on the tin roof and heated the inside of the church to a sauna. I wiped my brow. That pig had to be found, and shot. If it would take on a horse, and Steve, it could take on anyone, and Ellie and Ashley were smaller. I glanced across at Ashley. She liked riding around the station, had been doing so since she was twelve years old.

  I swatted a fly and tried not to think about Ashley confronting that pig, while the minister said kind words about a young man who died too soon.

  # # #

  I sent Matt and Chris out to windmill five, to look for the huge boar that had killed Steve's horse, and possibly Steve. They came back empty handed night after night.

  I went up to the long paddock myself with a gun, telling people I was going to check on the late calves. I found traces of pigs, but nothing challenged me from the brush. The best I did was shoot some rabbits for dinner.

  August brought more dust storms, and the occasional group of Yawuru crossing the property. There was a sacred site across the river somewhere, hidden away where the hills became tumbledown piles of rock, and the tribesmen made the journey there at certain times of the year.

  John wandered across, and wandered back, as he always did. Chris told me over dinner one night that Matt had been asking about it, wanting to know about aboriginal gods and land and the different tribes. I grunted. "I hope you told him to leave them alone."

  "Of course I did." He mopped gravy from his plate with a piece of bread. “He wouldn't do anything."

  But when I met Lacey in the yards later that week, he told me Matt hadn't turned up for breakfast. "One of the boys said they'd seen him riding towards the river."

  Surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to ride across, stomp his white feet over a sacred site. I cringed internally. Too late now to go after him.

  "When he gets back, let me know."

  I was angry, but I couldn't kid myself that there wasn't a touch of relief there. If Matt annoyed the local aborigines, I had a great excuse to send him packing.

  # # #

  I banged on the door of Matt's room. He had come back last night, according to Bob. Everyone knew I was looking out for him. It was early, the dew still sitting on the long grass, the mist pooling in the low areas. I shivered, wishing I'd brought my jacket. I hammered on the door again, not caring if I woke Matt up.

  The door opened. I charged in past Matt, almost knocking him down. I swung around, letting my temper give me momentum. "Did you go across the river?"

  Matt stared at me, leaning on the wall. His eyes were bloodshot, but there was no smell of alcohol in the room. He was shirtless and his chest shone damp with sweat.

  I grunted, "Are you sick?"

  A long moment, as if he came from a long way to talk to me. "I'm fine."

  "Did you go across the river?"

  A smile twisted his lips. "What if I did?"

  "You were told not to."

  Matt shrugged one shoulder, as if being told not to do something didn't matter.

  "What did you do? Did you interfere? Were you spying on them?"

  "Interfere?" Matt's voice seemed to come from a long way away. "No. I didn't touch them. I was just--" His eyelids drooped, then jerked open. "Testing."

  "Testing what?"

  "Myself." His eyes closed. "It's an old land, Paul. Old power." His voice faded so I could barely hear him. "You've got to put your shoulder to it, but it's tricky. Old gods." He slumpe
d, sliding down the wall to land in a heap before I could do anything sensible.

  I was over there in two strides, and picked him up with my hands under his shoulders. His skin burned with heat. I dragged his body to the bed and dumped him on it, then went looking for Jules.

  I found her in the camp kitchen, up to the elbows in flour, making bread.

  "Matt's sick," I said, before she could say a word. "Some sort of fever." That would explain the strange babbling about lands and old gods.

  Jules pursed her lips in disapproval, but wiped her hands and hurried off. I played Matt's words back through my head, trying to make some sense of them, trying to work out if he had done anything or offended anyone. It was no good. John might know, through that strange bush telegraph that seemed to bring him all the news.

  # # #

  I knocked on John's door a lot more politely than I had knocked on Matt's, and waited patiently for the shuffle of feet. John opened the door, blinking a little in the morning sun, his curly hair and beard streaked with grey, the skin around his eyes as wrinkled as the land around us, deep gullies and rounded hills.

  "What's up, Paul?" he said in his quiet voice.

  I blurted out the words. "Did Matt go across the river? Did anything happen?"

  John looked at me for a moment, then stepped aside. "Come in."

  I stepped through the doorway. The curtain was still drawn on the window, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust.

  I had been there a couple of times, and the room always looked the same. Newspaper and magazine cutouts papered the walls, pictures of his son who'd gone to Melbourne years ago to play football. A couple of dusty trophies sat on a shelf, next to an album stuffed to bursting. Periodically a thick package would come for John, full of more news and clippings and other things I knew nothing about. When they piled up by his door we knew he was off again.

  But today the walls were bare. Clear spots in the dust showed where the trophies had sat. I turned in a slow circle, rudely examining the room. John's duffel lay in the corner, the normally sagging shape stuffed to bursting.

  I bit back the words before I could ask him where he was going. But John saved me the trouble. He held out his hand.

  "What…"

  "I'm leaving, Paul."

  I gripped his hand, feeling unsteady. "Did something happen? At the site? John, I'll fix it. I'll send Matt away..."

  John shook his head. "Too late for that, Paul. That boy has got into the land, got in good and proper." He bent down and picked up his duffel. "Don't you worry about what's across the river. He can't touch that. But here?" He shook his head. "Should never have let him come on."

  "Why?" I wanted to grab the old aborigine and shake him.

  John stared at the curtain, as if he could see through the thin fabric to the land outside. "Steve's still here, Paul," said John.

  My stomach writhed. "If you know where he is-"

  "He's running around eating your cattle."

  "What?"

  Old John jerked his head towards the station quarters. "That boy turned him into a pig."

  I rubbed my face. I had lived here all my life, had employed aboriginal stockmen for twenty-five years. I knew about sacred sites and walkabout and about not asking personal questions. Old John was a long-time hand, and I owed him the courtesy of not telling him he was crazy.

  "You get him out of here before he corrupts that boy of yours, if you can. He's doing bad things to the land, Paul." He picked up his hat, then paused. "Better still, you take your wife and kids and you run."

  "John, come on…"

  But John turned and walked out, shaking his head. I stood in the empty room and felt like the bottom had fallen out of the world.

  # # #

  With John gone I took over the maintenance of the windmills. No one else really wanted to do it, not after Steve, and while I knew Matt would if I asked, suddenly I didn't want to.

  I got up early to take the long drive around the paddocks and check the windmills. August was fading into September and the dust storms sucked the morning dew off the grass before it had a chance to reach the soil.

  The homestead was deserted when I returned. Lacey was back in the saddle and had taken the stockhands up to the long paddock, to clear the pens ready for the late muster. I saw a fresh pig carcass hanging from the Wandoo. I hadn't realised Matt and Chris had been out pig hunting. I chewed on my lip, John's words about corrupting my boy coming back to me. I looked around. Matt's ute wasn't in sight. Had they gone with Lacey? I jumped back in the ute and followed the track out of the homestead.

  There was a collection of old, falling down sheds at the bottom of the home paddock, relics of the days when sheep ran on the station and the settlers had made their fortunes in wool, before synthetics had killed the market and the livelihood of thousands. Matt's ute was parked next to them.

  I pulled up and got out. A sound caught my attention, a rhythmic creaking and grunting. I couldn't make sense of it. It was coming from the shed. There was no door, I simply stepped through from the bright day into the dim interior.

  The scene before me made no sense. I don't know how long I stood there before I realised what I was seeing. There was a wild pig in a makeshift pen. Matt stood at her head, talking into her ear. And Chris... His hands grasped the rump of the pig, and he was moving...

  I retched. Both of them looked up, caught in the act. I took one look at Chris's stricken face and staggered out into the sunlight.

  I leaned on the bonnet of the ute, pushing the bile back down. Old John had warned me, told me to get Matt off my land before he corrupted my boy. But this… I couldn't get the scene out of my head. I wanted to scour my brain, scrub my eyeballs until I could no longer see.

  I heard footsteps.

  "Dad."

  I didn't answer. I couldn't.

  "Dad, I…" I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry you saw that."

  I shook off the hand and turned to face him. "So am I. What the hell…" Matt came out of the shed and I turned away. "For God's sake, Chris!"

  "I can explain."

  "I don't want to hear it!"

  "Dad, please…"

  "Just…” I flung myself into the ute, started it up and drove back to the house. My hands shook on the wheel and I swallowed convulsively to stop myself being sick.

  # # #

  I waited in the house until I saw Matt's ute come back to the homestead. Ellie and Ashley were in town, and I was so grateful for that. I didn't want to speak to anyone.

  When they went inside I got my gun and went back to the shed.

  The pig had been released and was nose deep in a pile of veggie peelings. She froze when I came in, retreated to the back of the pen with a warning squeal.

  This was no tame pig. Her sharp eyes glared at me. There was straw on the floor and a pile of pig droppings out the back, fermenting in the sun. She had been here for a while.

  How long had my son been down here, fucking pigs?

  I raised the rifle to my shoulder. My hands shook, and it took two shots to kill her.

  When I drove back to the homestead, Chris was nowhere in sight. Matt was walking away from the house.

  I felt my fists curl. Matt liked a fight, and I desperately wanted to smash my fist into that freckled face.

  I got out of the ute, slammed the door and strode over to Matt. "You're fired," I said. "Get your stuff from quarters and go."

  Matt nodded, thoughtfully, and turned back towards the house.

  I grabbed him and spun him around to face me. "Where are you going?"

  "I need to talk to Chris."

  "You keep away from my son."

  "That's not for you to decide, Paul." He shook me off and took another step.

  I grabbed him and threw him into the dirt. "Go now before I throw you off my land! And keep the hell away from my son!"

  Matt looked up at me from the dirt, colour rising in his face. "That's three times you've defied me, Paul."

&
nbsp; "Well, tough boots to you. Now pick yourself up and get off my land!"

  Matt rose and straightened, his gaze meeting mine.

  I took a step back. I don't know why. For a moment the sky seemed darker, the air still, as if a storm was brewing. My chest constricted.

  Then he blinked, and I could breathe again.

  "You're right, Paul. This is your land. But I will return for what's mine." He stepped past me.

  I swung around, watched him walk to the men's quarters. When he disappeared through the door, I headed for the house. I was short of breath like I had just run down to the dam and back.

  I stood at the window, gun gripped in my hands which were slick with sweat, until Matt emerged with his duffel bag over one shoulder. He threw his bag into the ute, hopped in and drove off down the rutted drive, the horse's tail streaming behind him. I watched until the dust of his passing had settled. I kept watching until the light faded from the sky.

  Chris came in and flipped on the light.

  "Dad…"

  "Go clean up your mess in the shed."

  He waited a moment, then I heard the door close behind him.

  I felt a moment of satisfaction. John was wrong. I had no trouble getting Matt off my land. I realised I was still gripping the rifle, and leaned it against the wall. I just wish I had gotten rid of him sooner.

  I'll Be Back For What's Mine

  I didn't speak to Chris. I couldn't. Every time we met, in the house, out in the yards, we would look at each other and look away. I struggled to find words, to start a conversation with my son. But the memory of him and Matt in the shed closed my throat so nothing could get through.

  And I needed him now. Matt had only been gone a day when we noticed the pigs around the station. They would pop out of the scrub and watch, just watch. If someone moved in their direction they would slip back under the branches and disappear, as if they had never been there. Normally a feral pig would keep away from the house, with all the people and the cattle dogs around. I wanted to dismiss my fears, but Old John had put the seed in my head.