Sing Fox to Me

by Sarak Kanake

  ‘She’s a smart girl.’

  ‘I know, I know. Here, let me help you down.’

  Peering around the tree, Jonah watched as Murray lifted Tilda off the edge of the drive and down into the bush on the other side. Jonah stayed where he was, listening as Murray and Tilda moved further into the bush. He could follow them and keep listening. He might even get close enough to pat King again.

  Jonah looked up at the sky. The last of the strange late Tasmanian light was almost gone. How long had he been following them? He wasn’t sure, but it would probably take twice as long to get back, and his dad had been very clear about wandering off. Jonah came out from behind the tree, turned and started up the mountain. Darkness fell quickly, the drive all but vanishing in front of him.

  ‘Jonah?’ his dad called from somewhere towards the top. ‘Jonah?’

  He followed the voice and smell of smoke from the fireplace until he saw the lights of the house.

  ‘I said no wandering off, ’ said David, holding the gate open. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Jonah as he walked through it.

  ‘Shut that behind you,’ called Clancy from the verandah. ‘We don’t want anything else wandering in during the night.’

  Clancy waited on the verandah with Queenie until Jonah and David went inside. He wondered how the boys would handle falling asleep before nine. He was used to Tassie’s long days and didn’t mind going to sleep with the sun still in the sky, but they were Queenslanders. If there was one thing he knew about their lot, it was that they hated daylight saving. ‘Come on, girl,’ he said, and the old red dog stood, turned and stared up at him. ‘Time to turn in.’

  David was sitting in the living room with the thick drapes pulled shut behind the couch. He was staring at his feet as though any minute they would jump up and walk him somewhere better. All so familiar and foreign at the same time. Clancy coughed, and David looked up.

  ‘Have you got everything you need?’ asked Clancy.

  David glanced at the stack of guest linens that Clancy had laid out for him on the couch. ‘Those are Mum’s good ones.’

  Clancy couldn’t remember the last time someone had mentioned Essie.

  David eyed the black tapes piled up next to the telly. He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t mind what you watch … but, you know, the boys are still really young –’

  ‘They’re not dirty movies. They’re tapes of the bush. Surveillance.’

  David nodded slowly before turning back to the guest linens. ‘Sorry about the boys, Dad.’

  Clancy wanted to tell his son he ought to save his apologies for all his shit-stirring at dinner, but David never seemed to see when he was in the wrong. ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘Earlier. All that tiger business, in the room. The boys don’t know anything … I never told them.’

  ‘What’s to tell?’

  David looked at him carefully. His eyes narrowed like those of a cat about to pounce. ‘Plenty, Dad. I say there’s plenty to tell them.’

  ‘They honestly haven’t read your book?’ He imagined the twins bent in over his son’s poetry, devouring all the lies David had written about Clancy, River and his mountain.

  ‘Alice didn’t let me keep copies in the house. I had a few boxes at work, for interested students and signings, but the boys never came there. They’re kids. They don’t care about my work.’

  Queenie glared at them both from her place at the hearth. The red dog never slept in Clancy’s bedroom, preferring to twist into herself in front of the coals, but he suspected she moved to the couch in the cold early morning hours. She tucked her tail between her legs, away from the flames. She didn’t like having to share.

  The boys were silent. Clancy reckoned he’d given those poor lads the fright of their lives, bursting into David’s room and hitting the roof. It wasn’t their fault, not really. Truth was, he’d heard River’s voice shouting the same words. Sometimes he still heard it as he slogged his way through the scrub or laid his head down to sleep. ‘Tigers, Dad! Tigers …’

  One of Essie’s sheets billowed into the air, and David settled it into place over the couch. He was almost finished making up his bed.

  ‘How long you reckon you’ll be here?’ asked Clancy, thinking about the tiger and River. He’d have to keep his hunts short while they were staying. He might not even be able to go at all.

  David thumped a pillow into the arm of the couch. ‘Not sure … Does it matter?’

  ‘Didn’t take you long, did it?’ Clancy challenged.

  His son turned to face him, and Clancy saw something of the old David in his face. The selfish, bookish boy who made it clear every day that he thought Clancy was a thug and his life on the mountain was a waste. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Didn’t take you long to start giving me lip,’ said Clancy, and something of the old him returned as well. ‘I could still backhand some manners into you, son.’

  David turned away again. ‘You owe us, Dad,’ he said quietly.

  Clancy wanted to tell David that he didn’t owe him anything. He wanted to slap the boy’s face and tell him to sort himself out and get the fuck out of his house. But he’d already done that, turning David and his pregnant wife away when they’d come for help. Back then, his blood had still boiled at the thought of David’s book. The sight of his son had turned his stomach. Everyone in town seemed to have a copy, and not because anyone gave a shit about poetry – they cared about the infamous disappearance of River Snow Fox, and the implication of Clancy’s involvement.

  Clancy’d only read it once, but he remembered every word. There’s a Fox den stink to his tiger tale.

  Queenie growled like she knew what Clancy was thinking, and agreed with him.

  Clancy watched his son pull back the blankets and get into bed.

  ‘Goodnight, Dad.’

  Turning, Clancy went down the hall to what had been David’s bedroom. The twins had left the door ajar. He looked in. Jonah was in a ball, buried beneath his covers with a slice of his face and a few fingers showing. It reminded Clancy of Queenie sleeping in front of the fireplace. Samson was spread out like a starfish, one leg pressed up against the wall, the other dangling over the side of the bed. He wasn’t wearing socks.

  As babies, the twins had looked a lot like they did now. Alice and David didn’t know that Clancy had come to see them in the hospital.

  He closed the door. In his room, he dragged the curtains closed and switched on the lamp. He stepped out of his trackies, then ran his hand over his thigh. Even though he’d been sitting for most of the night, the veins still looked like dozens of bulging blue-black streams just beneath the skin. Clancy undressed and lowered himself onto his unmade bed. He’d forgotten how exhausting kids could be, not to mention his son.

  The wireless was on his side of the bed. He flicked it on.

  ‘– and more on the February election –’

  This was the time of day when Clancy missed his wife most. If she were still with him, Essie would have been washing her face or slipping into her nightgown. Instead of sitting buck-naked on their bed, Clancy would’ve been showered and dressed in a clean pair of pyjamas. That part of their routine was separate, but it always came together over the bathroom sink while they were brushing their teeth.

  Most nights, it stayed together until morning.

  Clancy pulled the covers over his naked legs. He heard a Tyto shriek and wondered how long owls lived. It hooted again. Some days, it seemed as though there was only an hour of the day when a bird wasn’t declaring ownership over his mountain. At night it was the owls, howling like ghosts in the bush, and in the morning the kookas took over, cackling together over some private joke.

  Clancy often wondered if he was the only living thing left on his mountain without a voice. Even though he’d not heard them since he was a very little boy, Clancy knew the tigers had the loudest voices of all.

  He had found proof of them once. A footprint, clear as anything. Not lon
g after River first disappeared. Clancy remembered rushing home. George and Clancy’s new pup, Queenie, were waiting for him. ‘Show us where,’ said George, and together they climbed his mountain as fast as either of them ever had.

  But by the time they got to the footprint, it was gone. Melted into mud or walked over by wallabies. ‘It was there,’ said Clancy. ‘Three long toes and a middle pad …’

  George touched his shoulder. ‘We’ll set bait and check again in the morning.’

  That afternoon they laid a trap using the head, legs and liver of a newly slaughtered sheep from town. George tied up the pieces and hung them over a shallow hole near where Clancy had seen the footprint. They dug the ground. Neither of them mentioned the last hole they’d dug together or what they’d filled it with. Once it was deep enough, Clancy covered the tiger trap with king fronds.

  Next morning, the sheep was gone but the trap was empty.

  It was the only trap they ever set, and even though Clancy kept searching, he never saw another print.

  Plenty of blokes still searched for tigers Clancy’s way. His da, Abraham Fox, had first told him about these hunts when Clancy was only a boy. And years later, Clancy had told Abraham’s stories to River. She asked him to show her, but Clancy hadn’t known how back then. Or maybe it was more that he didn’t have reason. Either way, he didn’t show her, but River was stubborn and resourceful in the months before her mother’s death. She made up her own rules for how tiger hunting was done.

  There’s a Fox den stink to his tiger tale.

  Clancy switched off the wireless and his room fell silent.

  two

  Samson Fox smelt the sandalwood of his dad’s shaving soap before David’s hands wrapped around his shoulders. The hands dragged his body up and rattled him.

  Samson yawned.

  His dad shook him again. ‘Wake up,’ he whispered.

  Sleepy, Dad, signed Samson, and the sign for sleepy was two pinched fingers on either hand swirling in front of his eyes.

  A louder whisper. ‘I said, wake up!’

  This time Samson opened his eyes.

  His dad was beside him. David’s face and eyes glowed in the half dark like white sand underwater. He held his finger to his lips and stood up. The bed didn’t creak. Then he gestured for Samson to follow as he crept through the door and out into the hallway. Slowly Samson pulled back his covers and, bit by bit, he bent his legs over the side of the bedframe and lowered his feet to the ground. The floorboards felt damp. The bed creaked when he tried to lift his bum off the mattress.

  David was waiting for him in the hallway, wearing his daytime clothes.

  Sleepy, Dad, said Samson’s hands again, but this time his voice followed, ‘I was sleeping.’

  David patted him on the shoulder, one, two, three. It was a sign only he used, and meant he was about to sign. Sometimes Samson wondered if his dad actually knew the difference between having Down’s Syndrome and being deaf. If he were deaf, he might need his dad to pat his shoulder, but David could just say, ‘I’m going to sign.’ Only, Samson wouldn’t have needed that either. He was always watching for words. In every flex of every finger, in each open hand, every point and gesture. He hunted for language in every silence.

  When he’d first started Special School, Samson would run home past the lawns and garden edging and mailboxes to show his family what he had learnt. Cat. Boat. Perspective. Indifferent. But his mum didn’t listen to things she couldn’t hear, and his dad only learnt enough sign to tell him to speak instead.

  Until now.

  Standing in the dark hallway of Clancy’s house, David started, please, or maybe it was beautiful. Next, he signed don’t, so Samson knew the first sign meant please. Please, and the sign for don’t was two hands facing down, then flipped over as though his dad was trying to show him that his hands weren’t dirty. Hate was next, and hate looked like a closed fist pressed up against the chin, then flung away from the face as if he was throwing something away. Me.

  Please don’t hate me.

  Samson shrugged, which was a sign everyone used and meant he didn’t understand.

  David grabbed his shoulders again and pulled him in against his chest and throat. Samson could smell sandalwood again, only this time he could also smell the familiar tang of pine air fresheners.

  ‘Are you okay, Dad?’

  His dad never hugged him. ‘You’ll understand soon, Samson. You both will.’ David stepped back and rattled him like a baby toy.

  ‘Okay.’ Samson tried to use his quiet voice, but his words still filled the hallway.

  David held his finger to his lips again.

  This time, Samson copied.

  His dad reached over and roughly pulled his hand from in front of his mouth. ‘I just can’t,’ he whispered. ‘You understand? It’s too much for one person. You wouldn’t begrudge me this … Would you?’

  Samson nodded.

  David rubbed his eyes as if he was very tired. ‘Jonah won’t understand,’ he said, ‘but you’ll explain it to him, won’t you? You’ll tell him what I said?’

  Samson nodded again.

  ‘Okay, back to bed,’ said David, his voice all of a sudden louder and no-nonsense. ‘It’s past bedtime.’

  Goodnight, Dad.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  After he was back in bed with the blankets wrapped up around him like woollen bat wings, Samson saw his dad’s hands again. They floated above him, weaving through the darkness and leaving streaks of warm vanilla light behind them. Please don’t hate me, the hands signed again and again.

  Jonah stood in the living room, staring at the pile of folded blankets and neatly stacked pillows on his granddad’s couch. It was morning, but outside the sky was still dark. The last embers in the fireplace were almost out, and Clancy’s dog watched him closely from the hearth.

  Jonah checked all around the living room first, then the bathroom, and then he looked outside. Deep grooves ran through the dirt, as though his dad hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. His dad was gone. His bags were gone, clothes, toothbrush, keys – all gone.

  Back inside, Jonah checked the coat rack at the back door. His dad’s shoes, coat and beanie were gone, but his leather satchel was still there. It was his teaching bag – Jonah and Samson weren’t ever allowed to go through it. Jonah looked around. Maybe his dad would come back for it? He lifted it over his shoulder, but the strap was sized for his dad, so the bag hung at Jonah’s ankles. He set it down on the table and looked through the house for a note explaining where his dad was and when he would be coming back.

  No note. His dad had just left.

  The dog, Queen Elizabeth, stirred in front of the hearth. She pulled her tail out of the way of the tumbling coals.

  ‘Hello, girl,’ he said, reaching out.

  The dog growled, and Jonah pulled back his hand as if she’d already bitten him. He wanted to move further away from her, but his legs didn’t know what direction to carry him in. This wasn’t his house. The dog growled again, as though she knew what Jonah was thinking.

  Gently, he backed out of the room and kept going all the way to the kitchen. He held his hand tight to his chest in case the dog decided to come after him and pounce. Then he hit the kitchen bench. ‘Ow!’ He held his breath, but Queen Elizabeth didn’t follow.

  The dinner dishes were still in the drying rack next to the sink, and the curtains were pulled back. Jonah doubted that Clancy ever closed them. He ran his hand over the benchtops. They weren’t smooth and plastic-coated like the ones in his mum’s kitchen. These felt like raw wood, mostly smooth but with rough patches. Something jabbed into the end of his finger. He looked down, but nothing was there. He turned his hand over and looked closely at his skin. There was a splinter at the base of his index finger. Jonah held the tiny bead of blood to his lips and pressed his tongue against the wound. The cut was too small to cause him any pain.

  What if Clancy didn’t want them to stay? Their dad often complained about th
e day Clancy threw him and their mum off the mountain when she was pregnant. If Clancy could do that to his own son, what was going to stop him from throwing Jonah and Samson out too?

  Jonah knew one thing for certain. If they did have to leave the mountain, Samson was on his own. Jonah wasn’t going to get stuck looking after his brother. No way.

  He poured himself a glass of water and drank it standing up, looking at the orange stain on the wall. The tail imprint, sticking straight out, was lighter than the rest of the shadow. Maybe it had been made by a huge wild dog? Nah, Jonah doubted his granddad would’ve had a dog skin on his wall with Queenie sleeping on his floor. A kangaroo skin, maybe.

  After finishing his water, Jonah replaced the glass on the drying rack without rinsing. He turned around and stared at his dad’s satchel on the table. Had David left the bag on purpose? He might even have left it for Jonah.

  There wasn’t much inside the satchel, just some loose papers, notebooks, a few novels and collections, an open packet of Fisherman’s Friends. Jonah combed through them all before he understood – his dad had been so desperate to get away, he’d left the bag by accident.

  Jonah tried to close it, but a bunch of papers got in the way. He pulled some of them out.

  Poems, in his dad’s handwriting. Usually Jonah didn’t care about his dad’s poetry, but today he found himself turning the pages over and taking a look. One seemed older than the others. He read it first. Pretty soon he had read them all. Most he didn’t understand. Some were about Tasmania or animals in the bush, and in many it was snowing or about to snow. Those were the parts Jonah really didn’t understand.

  After he’d finished reading, he sat twirling the papers mindlessly between his fingers. What did his dad’s words mean? Jonah had never liked poetry, even when David had tried to explain it to him. He liked novels where everything was laid out in front of him. He didn’t like puzzles – they were confusing. He stuffed the pages back inside the satchel and shut the flap. This time it stayed closed.

  Samson lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about his dad. He turned over. The bedsprings groaned. Jonah’s bed was empty. The sun pushed through Jonah’s window and across the floor towards Samson, like legs on a giant octopus.