by Tony Black
I wanted to take down the animal skin, to stroke the pelt and feel what was once a real creature. What was it? Where did it come from?
The pawnbroker caught me looking and put down Father’s pocket watch. “Like it, boy?”
I did not speak. I still could not look at the little man.
“Shot it myself,” he said, swiping away a blowfly with the back of his bony hand. “Do you know what it is?”
As I turned to face the pawnbroker my jaw clenched and there was a dry copper taste in my mouth as I wondered if I would fly at him with my fists. Why did he kill this beast? What harm had it done him?
“Myko,” said Mother. Her eyes prompted me to remember my manners – I did not want to see Mother frown on me – I turned to face the pawnbroker squarely and shook my head.
“Tiger!” he said. His face brightened; two full rosebuds flowered on his cheeks. “It’s a bounty kill, that’s why the ears and paws are cut off, so it can’t be claimed on twice.”
I felt as if a coil of hot iron twisted through me. It touched my heart first and then settled in my belly, where it turned and turned again. How could such an animal, which had once roamed free, be cut down like this? Why would any man want to kill it?
“Yes, that’s a Thylacine, the Tasmanian tiger all right,” said the pawnbroker, smiling to himself.
My heart beat faster; as I moved closer to the tiger skin the bosun’s words were in my ears again. I had seen my first Tasmanian tiger, but it seemed nothing like the fearsome creature he’d described.
As my eyes burned on the tiger I willed it to live again. I knew this tiger was gone forever – but I wanted to see it come alive, to right the wrong which had been done it. I hoped the bosun’s words were true – that this island was the tigers’ – that I would soon see them wherever they roamed.
I turned to see the pawnbroker remove his eyeglass. He counted out loud, touching the fingers of his left hand with his right forefinger, and then he announced loudly, “Five. I’ll pay five pounds for the timepiece.”
Father did not seem to understand; he shook his head at me.
“Five,” said the pawnbroker again, raising up five fingers to show what his offer was. As he began to count out the money to my father, I saw dark brown freckles moving on the pawnbroker’s hairless head. It was a small head, narrow and flat, and I wondered did it ever hold any thoughts other than the counting of money.
When he finished dropping the last of the slow trickle of coins into Father’s hand the pawnbroker looked suddenly into Father’s eyes. “Have you just arrived?” he said.
Father turned to me, as I had learned our new language faster than my parents, and I pointed back to the ship. “Yes,” I said. My voice was strong now, I felt I had the measure of the pawnbroker. “We are from the ship.”
He leaned forward and rested his elbow on the counter. “Well, have you people any place to stay?”
His words were the same as the bosun’s, but he formed them in a different way and I had to listen very carefully to understand.
I turned to my father. “He wants to know where we will be staying, since we have come to the island?”
Father shrugged his heavy shoulders and we turned back to the pawnbroker.
“Well, that’s just grand,” the pawnbroker said, parting the air with his hand, “just grand indeed.”
Father and Mother smiled at each other. I could see they thought the pawnbroker was about to welcome them to the island as a friend, as they would have done for strangers in their own home. But their smiles did not stay on their faces for long.
The pawnbroker snatched back the coins from Father’s hand and quickly dropped them inside his chamois pouch, fastening it tightly with a flourish of his wrist. “Yes sir, that’s just grand … I’m in a position to assist you good folks to find your way quickly, being as I am what you might call well connected hereabouts.”
The pawnbroker quickly leaned over the counter and grasped my father’s hand tightly. My father looked confused; his eyes widened as his arm was fiercely shaken up and down. Only the pawnbroker seemed pleased as he grinned widely, showing teeth like black-rotten fence staves, before dancing off to swipe again at blowflies with his ledger.
Chapter Three
We wended our way north, on the cart of a merchant haulier from Hobart. The bushcutters were still at work, clearing the way for the packhorse.
“These roads are no better than tracks,” said Father, staring into the wind as it blew through the weed-wreathed rocks.
The dry baked clay was hard-packed beneath the cartwheels and crackled as we went. “Be careful, Myko,” said Mother, as she reached above me to snatch at the dipping branches that were scratching at our heads, poking and prodding to keep us from rest.
The sky’s bone-white clouds, which followed us from the township, turned grey as stone as rain picked up. It was heavy rain, unlike any we had ever known, and I grew wet-through quickly. Lorikeets and orange-bellied parrots sheltered on the branches above us and cried out as we approached, flapping their wings in defiance.
“Myko, come here to me,” said Mother. She tried to draw me closer to her side in the back of the cart but I stayed by the edge.
“No, Mama,” I said, as I eyed the dark recesses of the forest, wondering what lurked within.
“Myko, come here …” Mother held out her arms to me, and she motioned me to huddle at her side.
I shook my head. I would not move and soon my mother lowered her reach from me. I saw brownish glints shining near her eyes as her long black hair sat flat upon her brow and around her face like a cowl.
“Father, where are we going?” I asked.
“To Woolnorth,” he said; his voice was flat and hollow.
“What is Woolnorth?” I asked.
My father shifted to face me. He raised his hat and shook out the rain before replacing it upon his head. “The Van Diemen’s Company sheep station is at Woolnorth.” His eyes looked dully before him. “I hope to find work there.”
My father pulled his hat’s brim over his face and he folded his arms across his chest, letting out a sigh. I knew there would be no more questions answered by him this day.
I watched the sky above turn the colour of an old skillet’s base. The rain continued to pound as constantly as a mill-wheel turns and the cold of the coming night’s chill settled all around us. I longed to be indoors and warm, by our homefire in the Sakiai perhaps, but we were far from such comforts now.
The rugged crags of the rock face towards the far blue hills soon came upon us. Rumpled grey paddocks drew nourishment from the hills’ lee and the weak sun placed a yellow lantern’s glow on the rain-washed summit.
The wet trees cut out along the horizon turned black against the purple sky. The trees’ roots, sparkling like silver buckles, looked as if they might run towards us and sweep us up above the waist-deep wattle, to I knew not where.
The haulier grunted and drew the cart to a halt. The packhorse stumbled, his legs continuing to rise up and down where he stood. “Whoa,” called out the haulier, lashing the packhorse’s back with a heavy stock whip.
The animal whinnied and was still; as the haulier turned, dark shadows drew the silhouette of his timber-black features on the canvas packs. “This is as far as I go,” he said.
Father tipped back his hat and a river of rain flowed from its brim and down his back. For a moment my father had no words, he merely scanned the pouring skies and the dark forest, but then he spoke.
“This is Woolnorth?” His voice carried disbelief.
The haulier coughed and spat a heavy gobbet of phlegm from his mouth. He leaned back towards us in the cart’s rear, then twisted long-necked to point out a muddy trail. “Up that track,” he said.
Dense black branches hung low above the dark trail. I felt the night’s breeze upon my cheek and my heart’s glass shell trembled. The smell of the cart’s sour oldness had grown to feel like a comfort to me.
“This is as fa
r as I go,” said the haulier, his voice rising above the pound of the rain. “Out … out!”
The packhorse seized the load and tried to make off once more as the haulier shouted, “Whoa, whoa,” and brought the stock whip down again, “stupid animal … now out the lot of you, this is as far as I go!”
My mother turned to look at Father. “Petras … this cannot be right.”
The cart swayed from side to side as my father stood up and moved towards the haulier. “Here?” he said, “are you sure?”
Father arched his back, leaning over the cart rails to face the haulier. He held open his hands as he spoke, his shoulders bunched tight under his wet coatfolds. “This is Woolnorth … this is where we will find the sheep station?”
The haulier puffed his cheeks as Father spoke. He looked ready to release a gale of wind from the tight slit of his mouth. “Out. Out. Out,” he roared, knocking away Father’s hands with the handle of his stock whip.
As we stepped down from the cart, we were forced to walk bent to the wind, deep in the wet mud of the track. Like a family of rats we were drenched black by the rain.
“Stay close, Myko,” said Mother. As she shuddered beneath her dark shawl each new gust of wind made her flinch and shiver and take a wheeze of indrawn breath.
“We cannot walk far like this.” Mother held up one of our chaff bags, which carried all our possessions. “Do you hear me, Petras? We cannot walk far like this … the wind could raise him from his boots.”
Father turned to me and looked down where I stood.
“Come, Myko …” he said, “climb on my back.”
My father sat down on his haunches and patted his shoulder, twice. His eyes were wide and white in the dark of the night.
“No. I will walk by myself,” I said.
“Myko!” said Mother.
“I will walk. I will walk,” I shouted to them, as I brushed past my father.
The track soon opened up and gave way onto flooded paddocks. The pasture land was hidden beneath trembling grey sheets that stretched as far as we could see.
Father shook his head; “I hope they have gathered the flocks,” he said. “Come, we will try the shearers’ cottages.”
At the first door Father knocked upon we were confronted by an unfriendly Irishman.
The Irishman’s eyes were vicious; a mix of red and yellow ringed the rusty pennies of their centres. As he squared his shoulders and walked out of his shearer’s cottage, his barrel chest pointed at us.
“Go back where ye came,” he said. When the Irishman spoke he pressed his tongue upon his teeth forcing out a clacking noise that was followed with a heavy breath of spittle.
Father stood his ground before the Irishman and we sunk behind his greatcoat like field mice avoiding the sweep of a plough.
“I said, go back,” said the Irishman. “Go, go away with ye!”
My father kept still and did not alter his stance. The Irishman had many years on Father; as he stepped forward I could see the grey wending its way through his hair like the ocean’s waves.
No words passed between the two men. I believed I heard the sound of the Irishman’s breath as my mother reached out her thin arm to tug at my father’s coattail.
The air was thick with threats and I was sure there would be conflict.
Soon the Irishman leaped into a jaunty stride and began to walk a circle around my father. I watched intently, I dared not move my eyes for one moment. The two men were like fighting dogs sizing each other before their attack – but neither man was willing to make the first lunge.
Only Father’s eyes moved with the Irishman’s steps. He watched him carefully, like a hunting bird watches its prey before sweeping and claiming its kill. I saw my father’s neck was tensed; long lines of muscle and sinew stood out like steel rods. He was ready to deflect blows – but they did not come – the Irishman merely hacked up a mouthful of spit and threw it on the ground.
As the Irishman eyed my calm father, his stare subsided; his temper was no more a threat than a damp powder flask. Suddenly, with great flurry, he threw up his hands and stamped indoors.
Behind us a voice called out above the wind and rain, “Fair play to you, sir! Fair play indeed!”
Beside a barn some men gathered, huddled at the gable end like worshippers beneath a church apse. The men wore shirtsleeves folded past the elbow, their thumbs tucked within dark waistcoats. Some wore stovepipe hats tipped far back upon their heads and they all stood firm in great heavy, thick-soled bluchers laced above the ankle.
“Best leave the old Irish alone,” called a man at the front. He was small with narrow shoulders; a neat scarf was tied around his neck like a bandage that was there to protect his throat. “He thinks he owns the station, been here man and boy.”
My father looked down at me in his usual way but I was too slow to convey the man’s words.
“Come in out of the cold, we have a grand fire roaring in the barn,” he called out again.
We followed the crowd inside. There were children playing on the hay bales and women boiling billycans by the fire. We were a great spectacle for all of a few minutes and then the curiosity subsided and we were just another one of the many dirt poor families who made the journey northwards, to seek work upon the land.
Chapter Four
The man who called us into the billet was known as Nathaniel.
“You must be hungry,” he said. He took a little wrap of flour from his swag and poured it in a pan. “I’ll cook up some Johnnycakes for you to eat by the fire … will make you feel quite at home.”
Mother tugged at my wet coat and in her hands she rung my heavy wet sleeves, which left a grey pool on the dusty floor. “Come, Myko … sit by the fire where it is warm, you must dry yourself.”
I did as I was told and sat upon the flat, warm hearthstone next to Nathaniel. A barefoot girl in long trousers came to sit opposite me, pulling in her legs and resting her chin on her knees before smiling broadly at me.
Where I sat the smell from the cooking rose in time with the steam from my wet clothes.
“So, why have you come to Woolnorth?” asked Nathaniel.
My father was slow to answer, his eyes dimmed and his few words thinned to none. I knew he thought little of the place we had set the last of our hopes upon.
“Well,” said Nathaniel, “I come from free-settler roots. My family farmed an isle in Scotland, ran sheep there for all their lives. But the owner cleared them to make way for more sheep and bigger profits!”
“How did you come to be here?” said Mother, “it is such a long way from your homeland.”
Nathaniel stepped back from the fireside. “Well, my forebears were packed off to the New World, weren’t they? So here I am,” he waved a long wooden fork as he spoke. The smell of the Johnnycakes made me hungry.
“I know nothing of my heritage, save a song or two my mother sang me as a child.” The screech of Nathaniel’s voice seemed to be at home in Tasmania, as much as the natter of crickets that filled the night air around us.
“I myself crossed the Tasman Strait to seek my fortune in a gold rush … but my claim was slow on paying, so here I now am!”
Father stood to face Nathaniel squarely. “There is work here?”
“Well, sir,” said Nathaniel, who was clear-eyed, his words coming easily to his tongue, “there is no shortage of work hereabouts. I’ve seen this billet packed tighter than this, I think the elements have seen many off. Do you know this work?”
Father said nothing in reply and Nathaniel’s eyes dug deep holes in him. “Do you know the beasts we run here, sir?”
My father’s brows levelled on his face for the first time in the listless night; “I am a shepherd,” he said.
Nathaniel returned to the fire and scooped up the Johnnycakes, they sizzled as he flopped them out of the pan and onto the plate. “All well and good, sir, all well and good.”
I grabbed my plate and devoured the food, as keenly as I did Nathaniel�
��s words.
“But let me tell you this, sir … I’ll wager none of your shepherding has prepared you for life on Van Diemen’s. No sir. We have flocks, that is true, among the mightiest yet seen, flocks by the thousand … but we have more besides.”
Nathaniel stood in front of the fire warming his thin legs in its glow; the dim light threw an orange band around his high-domed head. “Yes, we have more besides indeed.”
Father sat back and rested deeper in his chair; a brassy glare filled his eye as he finished chewing his small bite of food. “I have heard of your tigers,” he said bluntly.
The word sent prickles up my spine; as I looked at my father I felt his hot stare lower a web of shame over me.
“Your tigers do not frighten me,” said Father.
“Oh, you have heard of the tigers … have you, now?” said Nathaniel. He shook his head with doubt; it was as if he alone could question another on such a thing. He walked from the smoke-blackened hearthstone with his eyes raised all the way up to the roof’s arch.
“We have many wolves in my own country, I know how they are,” said Father.Nathaniel laughed. “Wolves … give me a pack of snarling, blood hungry wolves over a solitary one of Tasmania’s tigers on any day!” He shook his head once more and returned to face the fire. As he took a pouch of tobacco from his waistcoat he began to fill a long clay pipe. Nathaniel lit the pipe with a taper and the charred and aromatic smell of smoking tobacco leaped all around us. Dismissively, Nathaniel turned to my father. “What have you heard of the tiger?”
Father’s face was stern; as he opened his large hands their shadows played like marionettes upon the floor’s boards. “It is but a dog, a hyena with stripes,” he said.
Nathaniel laughed loudly, and suddenly more laughter echoed around the room as a group rose like an angry sea at Nathaniel’s side. He kept back the gathering with his outstretched palms, and then he held his breath before us for a moment and the room fell silent.
I could hear the night’s rhythm drumming beyond the window’s pane. Slow grey swirls rose from Nathaniel’s pipe and curled towards the roof’s dip. I could see the skin on Nathaniel’s face stretched tight by the sun. The tip of his nose set in a hook. “Let me ask you,” he said, as he pointed the end of his pipe at Father, “what dog, or even wolf for that matter, have you seen separate a mob of sheep in fifty different directions by merely being within a mile?”