Crow Shine

by Alan Baxter

  Josh nodded, looking young and terrified.

  Annie’s mum looked stricken. “Bill, it’ll take you ten hours to ride to Bradley’s!”

  “What else am I going to do? I can do it in eight.”

  Josh grunted. “You’ll kill the horse. Our nags aren’t built or trained for that.”

  “So be it.”

  Without another word he headed out, Josh running to catch up.

  “It’s all right, mum,” Trent said, setting his jaw. “We’ll look after you.”

  “You’re a good boy, Trent. Help your father.”

  *

  Annie’s restlessness became unbearable. “I’m going to feed the ponies.”

  Her mother looked up, nodded. “Don’t go any further than that.”

  “Okay.”

  In the yard her brothers were arguing, trying to jury-rig an antenna. Only a year apart in age, everything became more about competition than cooperation. Annie’s stomach felt like heavy water. Anger had driven her to hold her tongue. It felt like a terrible mistake. She had to solve this.

  She reached the shed and heard scuffling as she pushed the door open. She froze on the spot. Holding her breath, straining her ears, she stood still for close to a minute. Nothing.

  She pushed the door wide, walked cautiously in. Everything seemed as it had before. What had she heard moving? It had sounded too big for rats. She stalked through the bales and bags, looking into corners and gaps. As she got deeper into the shed, away from the flood of sunlight through the open door, the shadows grew denser. Gaps in the shed walls here and there still cast bright slashes across the floor and feed, everything in between a soft, dusty twilight. Enough to see by, too dim for detail. Maybe she should open the doors at the other end, let more light in.

  She pushed between two stacks of bales and something whipped past with a hiss. The sound like someone in sudden pain, sucking air in through their teeth. A smell of burning hair drifted through the gloom. Annie’s heart hammered. She turned in a circle, trembling. Low panic gripped her as she retraced her steps, trying to look everywhere at once.

  Outside, the hot day seemed as refreshing as a mountain stream.

  *

  Her brothers looked at her disdainfully. “Something in the feed shed?” Josh asked.

  Annie nodded.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. It rushed past me.”

  The brothers exchanged looks of derision. “Did you get scared by a big, old rat?” Trent asked.

  Annie ground her teeth. “What’s wrong with you two? Don’t you care about all our stuff being ruined? Something’s going on!”

  Josh barked a humourless laugh. “Yeah, of course. Dad’s pissed someone off again and they’re fucking with us. He probably owes someone money and all that stuff last night was “a message”.”

  Annie frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Trent sighed. “Dad’s in big debt. This whole station is in trouble. We reckon he’s got caught up with a loan shark and they’re scaring him into paying up.”

  Annie looked back over her shoulder. “But what about the thing in the shed?”

  “What thing? You’re just spooked.”

  “No! I saw men last night, in the dark. They were smoking cigarettes and doing something over there!”

  Josh and Trent’s eyes widened in shock. “What?” Josh sounded incredulous. “Why didn’t say anything before?”

  “Because dad pissed me off and I wanted to figure it out myself to prove I’m not a kid!” Annie looked at the red, dusty ground.

  Josh threw his shifter down. “Fuck me, Annie. You are a little kid. You should have told dad! When he gets back, you tell him.”

  She nodded. “What about that?” She pointed at the feed shed. “Someone’s in there!”

  “Why would someone hide in there, Annie? You’re spooked. Go inside.”

  *

  Her brothers fought and argued over the radio and eventually gave up. Her mother coped as she always did, making too much food, baking, roasting, boiling things down to jam. Annie worried. Her dad would be furious when he got back.

  Her mother ran out of things to cook as the sun began to set. She sat at the kitchen table, hands tormenting a tea towel, staring out across the yard. Annie put an arm across her mother’s shoulders. “Dad’ll be back soon. It’ll be all right.”

  Her mother smiled, though it did nothing but move her lips. “Sure, honey.”

  The sun dipped below the horizon, dusky twilight turning everything to deep brown shadows. “It’s not really dark yet,” Annie said.

  Her mother shrugged. “Twilight or dark, same thing.”

  “Dad’ll be back any minute.”

  “Where are your brothers?”

  Annie looked out. “Trying to fix up Josh’s bike last time I saw them.”

  “Call them in for me?”

  Annie headed around the house towards the big garage where the ute, bikes and quads were kept. Something whooshed past her in the gloom. With a gasp and a swell of nerves she stopped dead. She saw Trent walking towards her. “Was that you?” she called out.

  “What?”

  “Something just brushed past me really fast.”

  Trent shook his head. “Stupid kid.”

  “Mum wants you two inside.”

  “Whatever.”

  A crash and yelp of pain sounded from the garage. Another crash, then a cry cut short. “What the fuck . . . ?” Trent turned. “What are you doing in there, Josh, ya dickhead?”

  Annie felt a wave of foreboding spread up her body. “Trent, don’t . . . ”

  He frowned at her. “Don’t what?”

  She felt fixed to the spot. Trent pushed open the side door of the garage. With a yell like he had been burned he staggered backwards. Annie started to cry.

  Trent turned and ran for the house. “Annie! Get inside now!”

  “What’s happening?”

  Trent ran, pumping his arms, face white. “Run inside, Annie!”

  A dark blur shot from the shadows beside the garage. Trent arched forward as the shadow hit him in the back, legs still running as he lifted into the air. He screamed, high-pitched like a girl. Annie cried out. Trent hit the ground and a tall, pale man knelt beside him, one hand pressed into Trent’s chest, holding him down. The man had blood over his face, dripping from his chin.

  Annie screamed again as her mother came running around the house. Her mother’s scream mingled with Annie’s as the man fell upon Trent, shaking him by the throat like a dog with a rabbit.

  Annie’s mother skidded in the dust, raising something dark and shiny into the night. “Get off him, you bastard!” Thunder and fire burst out.

  Annie winced, closing her eyes against the sound. She opened them as her mother fired the second barrel, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Trent lay still, his throat a shiny black mess in the gloom, his eyes staring wide into the darkening night.

  Annie screamed. “He was in the shed!”

  Her mother dropped her gaze to stare at Annie. “What? Do you know . . . ?” She whipped away from Annie’s side like a sheet of paper caught in a sudden gust.

  Tears flooded Annie’s vision. Through the haze she saw her mother land near the chicken pens, legs twisted beneath her, mouth crooked in a snarl of pain, unseeing eyes staring at the ochre sand. The shotgun was nowhere to be seen.

  Annie fell to her knees, sobbing and gasping. A sucking, slurping began to her left, where Trent lay in the dirt, but she refused to look. Her mind trembled. She wanted to curl up and sleep, never to wake again.

  Another sound came distantly to her ears. A chattering rumble drifting on the hot night air. She jumped to her feet, running as fast as she could, waving her arms. “Daddy! Daddy, turn back!”

  She saw her father’s face behind the wheel, leaning forward, eyes narrow in concern. The ute skidded to a halt and he almost fell from the door, dragging a .303 with him. “Annie, what’s happened?”

 
Annie sobbed, trying to speak. “Men last night . . . someone in the shed . . . Trent and mummy . . . he’s coming . . . ”

  Her father grabbed her, looking hard into her eyes. “Where is everyone?”

  Annie cried so hard she couldn’t speak. Her entire body shook, her knees threatened to fold up. She felt vomit rising.

  Her father picked her up, put her into the passenger seat. “Stay here. Lock the doors and don’t open them for anyone.”

  He ran off into the darkness. Annie shook her head, whispering, “No, no, no.”

  A howl of soul-tearing anguish echoed back to her. She heard shouts, then gun shots. As her crying hitched to a quiet trembling, everything around the station fell to silence. Complete darkness settled over the ute, impenetrable. She could only see her reflection, gossamer faint in the windows.

  Movement outside made her hold her breath. A shuffling, a slight cough. She dropped into the foot well as the passenger’s door jiggled, locked shut. The scuffling retreated around the ute. She looked up, eyes widening as she saw the driver’s door closed, but not locked.

  The door opened and the pale man slipped in, smiling at her. Two teeth extended long over his bottom lip, sharp and shiny white. His face was clean but his shirt front and collar stained a darker blue than the rest. “Hi Annie.”

  She stayed down, curled as tightly as possible, shaking so much her teeth chattered. He leaned across and unlocked the passenger door, pushed it open.

  “I’ve been watching you, trying to figure it out.” He laughed. “I’m too full for more. Even a little one. But I’ll see you again . . . one day.”

  Annie stared, frozen.

  “Get out.”

  She uncurled her legs, sliding off the footplate and dropped to her knees in the dirt. The ute shuddered into life, big engine roaring. With a spin of tyres it drove into the night, leaving Annie kneeling in a cloud of dust. Within moments the darkness and silence had settled over her again.

  The Fathomed Wreck To See

  If Dylan thought about it, he could still feel the sting of the slap across his palm. As if it happened only moments ago. He could see the shock on Catelyn’s face, before her eyes creased up in pain. Tears, screaming, accusations. He’d deserved a lot of it. But his rights were out the window after he’d struck her. He couldn’t believe he had done it. Like someone else’s hand drawing back, slicing through the kitchen’s angry air, pinning a red palm print to her cheek.

  Next, silence as she packed and refused to meet his eye. Wouldn’t say a word. Walked out, slammed the door and made a full stop in his life. An absolute point, unchangeable. And it was his fault. The rock in his chest threatened to choke him again and he knew it wasn’t just emotion. He gasped for breath.

  He stared at a half-inch of scotch, swirled it around the bottom of the glass, swallowed it. As he rose to get a refill the gentle swell of the ocean under the boat made him stagger. Or perhaps it was the whisky. Either way, he ignored it and drank more. Same as every night for two weeks since she had left. Drinking away his shame. His remorse. His fear.

  You love that fucking boat more than you love me! Freedom Spray, my arse!

  He slumped back at the small, plastic-coated table, glass held in both hands, and stared into the tumbler as though answers swam in the amber liquid.

  You’d rather fish than work on this. On us.

  It was easier to let her think that. How could he tell her the truth? After her father died so young, lungs blackened and ruined by cancer, and all her haranguing of Dylan to quit. And he had, now. Too late.

  Why won’t you fight for us? For me? What happened to the man you used to be?

  And the scared, broken, angry part of him reacted, slapping at the truth she unknowingly spoke. That he wasn’t the man he had been. He was no longer strong nor vibrant. He wasn’t her oak any more, always there for her. He trembled, struggling for breath, his lungs thickened and half their size. She would never know the real reason he had become so distant.

  With his muscular frame wasting by the day, he couldn’t help thinking it was for the best. Better she think him a dick and get on with her life, than continue to love him and watch him die.

  Soft music drifted in through the open windows of the cabin, perfect tones lifted in song. Dylan blinked, swallowed the dregs of the whisky. He strained to hear over the sound of water lapping at the hull. The most beautiful melancholy he’d ever heard, floating on the night air. He listened for a while, paralysed. It took him long moments to realise that he wept.

  He staggered out onto the foredeck of his fishing boat, scanned the black water. A half-moon dappled the wavelets in shimmering silver. Specks of light on shore dotted the horizon behind him. Dizzy, he held the railing, knelt to steady himself. The voice was clearer, almost crystal, but he saw nothing. A subtle splash and he spun on one knee. Still nothing.

  He couldn’t understand the words; a fluid language, melodic and gentle, but the sadness was unmistakeable. Longing clawed at him.

  “I hear you!” he cried out, his voice ragged, slurred.

  Then silence.

  “Please, where are you?”

  For more than an hour Dylan knelt and wept, but neither song nor singer returned.

  *

  The doctors had said maybe one year. The internet said anything from a few months to twenty years, with stories of miraculous recoveries peppering the sobering truths. Believe in Jesus and you’ll be saved, said some. Allah, said others. Meditate, eat raw food, sleep ten hours a night. A swamp of conflicting information.

  He rubbed his eyes hard and drank coffee, frowning against the harsh light of day. Perhaps he could drink himself to death first and avoid the indignity of wasting away in someone else’s care. He imagined Catelyn nursing him, making him comfortable as he died, all the while hating him for putting her through it all again. Sometimes he resented her for the damage she bore already, which stole the opportunity of care from him. Then he imagined her smile. Her softness. He saw the warmth in her eyes when she looked at him, and wondered if he did her a disservice. He remembered that warmth banished by a slap.

  He should have told her, trusted in her strength, even as his waned.

  He packed up and set the boat towards shore to buy supplies, check in with the real estate agent. Once the house was settled and all the goods and chattels divided up, he planned to bank whatever he had left and live on Freedom Spray. Catelyn had always hated that name, sneered at the implication. He understood why, but he’d had the boat before they met. She never seemed to get that. Regardless, a mooring was far cheaper than a mortgage, and he didn’t have twenty five years.

  As he secured ropes at the wharf, something caught his attention, a sensation like a fishing hook lodging in his soul. For a moment he shuddered, once more assailed by thoughts of rotted lungs and dying coughs. But it wasn’t just his fear. He looked up and saw a woman leaning against a scored wooden post, hand shading her eyes as she looked out to sea. Her long hair reflected gold in the sunlight. Like Catelyn’s. He took in the curves, breasts, hips, thighs, but images of Catelyn overlaid what was in front of him, surpassing her in every detail. The blonde smiled, stopped him in his tracks. Curious at first, her expression softened, head tilting to one side. One eyebrow rose. “You okay?” she called.

  Dylan shook his head, looked away. “No, not really.” He closed and locked the boat, grabbed his bag and strode off to buy more food and alcohol, feet slapping the white painted wood of the wharf. Every footstep sounded like his palm across Catelyn’s cheek.

  *

  Dylan took the boat out again that night. Would he do this once it was his only home? In truth, he had never really needed anything more. Offers were coming in on the house already, so he’d find out soon enough. It would be so easy to leave the shore and never return.

  He sat in the vast black expanse of ocean, the lights of land far behind, and ate cold beans. And drank. “What’s the fucking point?” he yelled, as indifferent stars wheeled overhea
d.

  His leave from work would run out soon and he had no idea what to do then. When he finally gave in and started treatment, he would need more time off. His six foot form would stoop and weaken with the chemo, his hair would fall out. How could a person work through that? His chest tightened, his hands shook, but whether from the sickness, the fear or the drink, he didn’t know or care.

  The song rose once more, achingly beautiful.

  Dylan jumped up, ran to the prow. “Where are you?” His voice struck away the calm stillness. The melody moved through the dark, sank into his heart. “Please,” he called, throat constricted. Did this song cause his tears? The booze? Was he just pathetic? “Where are you?” He was so tired of crying.

  The music floated nearby and stopped and he turned, glimpsed a beautiful, slim face, long blonde hair spread across the ocean like a fan, then a splash and nothing.

  Dylan stared at the empty space. He hadn’t drunk that much, not yet. Though he had every intention of drinking a lot more. Had he really seen that? No sight or sound disturbed the night again and he went back below to hide in twelve year old malt.

  *

  Dylan wasn’t surprised to see the blonde on the dock the next morning. For a moment he almost convinced himself it was Catelyn. Could she forgive him? He could be honest with her. But it wasn’t his wife. Her position by the post, the direction of her gaze, even her clothing, unchanged. As he tied off she sauntered over, a half smile tugging her lips. “Hi.”

  Dylan swallowed then nodded, not trusting his voice.

  “Do you fish at night?” she asked.

  Dylan licked his lips. “No,” he said eventually. “I just like it out on the water.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  She smiled, knowingly. She said nothing more, simply stood and almost gloated. As the moments passed Dylan became uncomfortable. “I need to . . . ” He gestured vaguely at the boat.