‘You think he’ll really come?’ She meant Lachie.
Walter shrugged. ‘He said he would.’
They walked on in silence, their shoes squelching softly in the mud.
‘Look.’ Sadie pointed at a thicket of dead tree trunks poking up from the sediment. ‘The graveyard was practically in the bush back then.’
They halted, looking around at the flat expanse of mud. It was hard for Sadie to remember the landscape as it was before the dam choked the vegetation, drowned the buildings and swallowed up the old graves.
She stared down at the crooked crosses scattered over the ground. ‘None of these are attached to their graves any more. Jimmy could be anywhere.’
‘We’ll never know,’ said Walter.
Sadie grabbed his arm. They held their breath as a crow hopped toward them. It flapped and bowed as if it were dancing, then stopped and stared at them, as if to be sure they were watching. ‘Wah!’ It jabbed with its beak. ‘Wah!’
‘Here,’ breathed Sadie. ‘Jimmy’s here.’
Walter shrugged. ‘Okay.’
He slipped off his backpack and began to unload the things they’d brought: a slab of wood, a trowel, brushes and paint. ‘You want to dig the hole, or paint the sign?’
‘I’ll paint,’ said Sadie.
Walter stuck the point of the trowel into the baked ground. ‘Here?’ he asked the crow.
‘Wah!’ the crow agreed, and it folded its wings and watched as Walter began to dig a trough for the grave marker.
Sadie had got as far as painting Jimmy Raven, A Clever Man, when Walter paused and looked up. ‘Here’s trouble,’ he said.
They both watched silently as a lanky figure moved slowly toward them across the flat plain of mud. As he came nearer, Lachie removed his hat and wiped his brow. His fair hair flopped over the bandage on his forehead.
‘G’day,’ he said.
Walter nodded.
The crow cried, ‘Waah!’ and flapped a few paces away. It settled on the skeleton of a dead tree, where it watched them keenly.
‘Not riding your bike?’ said Sadie.
‘Giving it a rest for a bit,’ said Lachie.
‘How’s your head?’
Lachie fingered his bandage. ‘Twelve stitches here and four in my arm,’ he said with a touch of pride. ‘Got the results of the scan yesterday. It’s all good, they reckon.’
‘Lucky. For you and me,’ said Walter.
‘Yeah.’ Lachie turned his hat between his fingers. ‘Thanks for, you know, getting me to the hospital
and stuff.’
‘Sorry about going into your house,’ said Sadie. ‘We shouldn’t have done that. But we weren’t steal-
ing, we were trying to find some . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Some family history.’
Lachie gazed down at the scattered remains of the wooden crosses, at Sadie’s half-finished marker, and Walter’s half-dug hole. ‘What’s all this about? Some of my family’s buried here, they say. Who’s this Jimmy bloke? Not a Mortlock. One of your family, is it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Walter.
‘A distant relative.’ Sadie frowned, and kicked at a clod of yellow dirt. Now that the moment had come, she was finding it harder than she’d expected. ‘Jimmy Raven used to work for your great-
grandfather, Gerald Mortlock,’ she said in a rush. ‘But they had a fight, and your great-grandfather killed him. And my great-grandfather covered it up. He buried the body here and kept it a secret. And when Gerald made the dam, Jimmy’s grave got covered up with all the other graves. And the ring of stones was covered too. It was a sacred place. That’s what Jimmy and Gerald were arguing about when Jimmy was killed. Jimmy knew Gerald wanted to flood the valley, and he knew the sacred place would be destroyed. He was desperate to stop it, but Gerald wouldn’t listen.’
Lachie’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. ‘You calling my great-grandpa a murderer? That’s bull! He was a good man. He was a soldier in the First World War! He was a hero. We’ve got
his medals.’
‘I know,’ said Sadie. ‘My great-grandfather was a good man, but he did a terrible thing. Even good men make the wrong decisions sometimes.’
‘I don’t believe you. How do you know all this, anyway, if it was such a big secret?’
Sadie couldn’t help shooting a glance at the crow on the branch, its feathers gleaming in the
sun, its head cocked as it listened intently. ‘A – a friend told me.’
Lachie walked away a little distance, his hands on his hips. Sadie and Walter glanced at each other. Walter wiped his mouth.
‘Bethany reckons he killed himself. Our great-
grandpa,’ said Lachie. ‘Because of the war. Post-traumatic stress or whatever. It was years after he
came back. The family made out it was an accident. But Bethany thinks it was because of what he’d seen. What he’d been through.’
What he’d done, thought Sadie.
‘He was shamed,’ Walter said so softly that only Sadie could hear.
‘All this is going to belong to me one day,’ said Lachie. ‘You realise that, don’t you? Bethany doesn’t want it. But I do. I love this place.’
‘I know,’ said Sadie.
Lachie twirled his hat again. He squinted at the crow. ‘I had this weird dream, in hospital,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Must have been the drugs . . .’ Abruptly he crammed his hat back on his head. ‘Well, if you want to put up your cross or whatever, I guess you can go ahead. Dad’ll never know. He never comes here.’
Without looking at Lachie, Walter dug his trowel into the dirt. He began to whistle softly between
his teeth.
‘Okay,’ said Sadie. ‘Thanks.’
Lachie stepped closer, his hands in his pockets. He crouched, and picked up one of the fallen crosses. ‘Jane Mortlock?’ he read. He looked at Sadie. ‘Seems
a shame to leave them all lying round like this. Some-
one oughta tidy this place up.’ He paused, then asked Walter, ‘Can I borrow that, when you’re finished?’
‘Sure,’ said Walter, without looking, intent on his digging.
Sadie dipped her brush into the paint pot and wrote: Died 1933.
‘Looks good,’ said Lachie.
‘Yeah,’ said Walter. ‘Just needs one more thing.’
He took the brush from Sadie, and carefully painted a black feather beneath the words, like a flourish.
Together they planted the marker in the ground at the place the crow had shown them.
‘I should have brought some flowers or some-
thing,’ said Sadie.
‘Next time,’ Walter said.
‘Give us a hand?’ Lachie called.
The three of them moved around the tiny graveyard, straightening the fallen crosses, digging them more firmly into the ground.
‘That’s better,’ said Lachie at last, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. ‘Maybe we should build a fence round it or something.’
‘We’d help you,’ said Sadie.
‘Make a real headstone for Jimmy, too,’ said Walter.
‘Yeah,’ said Lachie.
‘We should try to find out more about Jimmy,’ said Sadie. ‘Where he came from. Then maybe one day we could take him back to his own country.’
Walter scratched his chin. ‘He’s been dead a long time, Sadie. How we going to do that?’
‘He was a soldier in World War I. There must be records and stuff. We could look him up.’
Slowly Walter nodded. ‘Yeah. Suppose we could try.’
‘There’s heaps of war records on the internet,’ said Lachie. ‘Me and Dad and Bethany looked up my great-grandpa. I could help you find Jimmy,
I reckon. If you like.’
‘Thanks, Lachie,’ said Sadie.
‘Yeah,’ said Walter.
The three stood in silence, gazing at their handiwork. At last Lachie glanced at his watch. ‘Better get going. The footy’s starting in an hour.
’
‘If we can beat Wycheproof, we’re into the grand final, yeah?’ said Walter.
‘Wycheproof’s star forward’s broken his leg,’ said Lachie. ‘So we’re in with a chance.’ He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Well, see you round.’ He began to walk away.
Sadie called out, ‘Lachie!’
He turned back.
‘Want to have another game of pool some time?’
Lachie flashed a brief grin. ‘Sure. And bring him, will ya?’ He nodded at Walter. ‘I want to whip him too, while I’m at it.’
‘In your dreams, mate,’ called Walter.
‘Yeah, we’ll see who’s dreaming!’
‘I could beat you with one hand tied behind
my back.’
‘I can beat you with stitches in my arm!’ yelled Lachie, pointing to his elbow.
‘Yeah, right!’
‘Right!’
Sadie was astonished to see the two of them grinning at each other.
Lachie gave his hat a final flourish and strode away, aiming a tremendous kick at a lump of mud. ‘Goal!’ he whooped, raising his arms in triumph as he received the applause of an invisible crowd, and jogged away.
‘He’s such a dag,’ said Sadie.
‘Yeah, he’s all right when he’s on his own,’ agreed Walter. ‘Want to go and see the stones?’
Sadie hesitated. ‘That friend of Auntie Lily’s said we shouldn’t go near them till Craig builds a fence round them.’
‘Just to look,’ said Walter. ‘Not to touch.’
‘I guess,’ said Sadie doubtfully.
They walked side by side across the yellow mud to the hidden dip in the ground where the stones stood in their crooked vigil. The rock that Lachie had partly dislodged had been nudged back into its former position.
‘You reckon Lachie came and fixed it?’ said Sadie.
‘Maybe his dad?’ said Walter. ‘Maybe he didn’t want to get into trouble with the Dja Dja Wurrung heritage guy.’ He slowly circled the ring, pausing behind each silent stone. ‘What did he say it might be?’
‘Something to do with the stars, maybe,’ said Sadie. ‘Lining up with different constellations at different times of year, so they’d know the right time for ceremonies.’
Walter nodded. ‘That’s what the carvings are about?’
‘Maybe. He’s not sure.’
‘Pity you can’t go back a few thousand years and ask them,’ said Walter. ‘The people who used to
live here.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sadie. ‘Pity.’
*
The crow that had followed them across the lake bed swooped up to perch on top of one of the tall stones. It watched as the girl and the boy stood back from the sacred place, showing respect, as they should. The crow preened its feathers.
The boy straightened up. ‘Better go, if we don’t want to miss the footy.’
‘I’ll follow you in a minute,’ the girl said.
The boy shrugged, hoisted his bag on his shoulder and walked away, his shadow wavering over the yellow mud and the tussocky swamp plants. The girl watched him go, then she turned to face the crow.
‘Hey,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I need to ask you something.’ She glanced back over her shoulder, but the boy was still walking. The girl took a step closer. ‘I went to the cemetery. I wanted to visit the other Sadie’s grave . . . but it was gone.’ She glanced over her shoulder again. ‘Clarry’s was still there, and Gerald Mortlock, and all the others, but Sadie’s – it just wasn’t there.’
The crow tilted its head. The girl pushed her hair behind her ears.
‘So – I went home, and I asked Mum if she knew anything about my great-aunt Sadie. And
she laughed at me. She said, of course she knew about her, otherwise she wouldn’t have named me after her. She said Sadie was an amazing woman who travelled round the world and had all these incredible adventures and lived till she was eighty-three. And I said, I thought she died when she was fourteen. And Mum said, where did you get that idea from? And I said, I thought I was called Sadie because I was born on Saturday. And Mum looked at me as if I’d gone mental, and she said, no! And I checked my birth certificate, and it’s true, I’m called Sadie – short for Sarah, not Saturday.’
The girl licked her lips, and glanced around again. ‘So what I want to know is – did Waa change history? Did I change history? Did Waa – I dunno – take back Sadie’s punishment, or something? Did he stop being angry with her? Is that why she lived?’
The girl stared at the crow, half-bold, half-
pleading.
‘Waaah,’ said the crow. ‘Waa-aaah.’
The girl shook her head. ‘I don’t understand . . .
I can’t understand you any more.’
‘Waah,’ said the crow, sadly.
‘Does that mean Walter’s right? It really is all over?’
‘Waaaah!’
The girl’s face crinkled in frustration. ‘Does that mean yes or no?’
‘Waah!’
The girl spread her hands. ‘Then I guess I’d better say goodbye.’
The crow shifted on its perch, and then it unfurled its wings and flapped lazily away, climbing into the empty sky.
Far below, Sadie flung back her head. ‘Goodbye, Crow! Goodbye, Waa! Only – this is your country, isn’t it? You’re not going anywhere.’
And from far above her, invisible in the wide blue sky, came the distant echo of a crow’s laughter.
With thanks to Gary Murray and the Dja Dja Wurrung people, for allowing me to tell this story.
Thanks to Ngarra Murray for the cover illustration; to Susannah Chambers, Eva Mills and Jodie Webster at Allen & Unwin for their unfailing help and encouragement; and to Michael, my personal First World War historian.
Kate Constable is a Melbourne writer who grew up in Papua New Guinea. She is the author of the internationally-published fantasy trilogy, The Chanters of Tremaris, as well as The Taste of Lightning. As part of the Girlfriend Fiction series, she has written Always Mackenzie and Winter of Grace (joint winner of the Children’s Peace Literature Award, 2009) and co-authored Dear Swoosie (with Penni Russon). Her novel Cicada Summer was short-listed for the 2010 Prime Minister’s Literary Award (Children’s Fiction).
Kate lives in West Preston with her husband, two daughters and a bearded dragon.
Table of Contents
Cover
Half title
Also by
Title
Imprint
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
About the author
Crow Country Page 15