Lyrebird Hill

by Anna Romer

  My own smile was shaky. ‘Join the club.’

  Pete wedged the ammo tin back in the crevice, making sure it was hidden under a sprinkling of leaves and twigs. Then he stood up and took my hand and led me over to the edge of the stone outcrop. We gazed across the rolling hills and valleys. Stretching in all directions was a sea of treetops, interrupted here and there by islands of bare stone. Closing my eyes, I leaned against Pete’s warm shoulder and tilted my face to the sun. The insides of my eyelids turned blood-red and I could see tiny arteries. In a nearby stringybark, a butcherbird sang its fluty song.

  Once, I had shown the Wolf my dog scar. And he, in return for the favour, had shown me his. He was kind even back then, I realised; even as a twelve-year-old foster kid from Newcastle. He had told me about crocodiles and snakes, and shown me the marks they had made; but now, in hindsight, I understood.

  He’d been a gentle boy – with a wild streak, but what boy didn’t? And yet someone had, judging by the scars on his legs and abdomen and arms, hurt him badly as a child. Was that why he now hid himself away in the bush with his dogs, living as far from other humans – Esther excluded – as possible?

  I floated for a while, trying not to think about the world that lay beyond Lyrebird Hill – not my little cottage on the coast, not my bookshop, not even Earle who was probably starting to wonder where I was. Most of all, I tried not to think about Rob; whether he missed me, or whether he was finding comfort in the arms of a woman who wore a doll-sized black bra. He seemed suddenly far away, both in distance and in my thoughts.

  Which suited me just fine.

  Pete unlinked his fingers from mine, and we turned and walked back along the trail, leaving behind us the crevice, and the time capsule hidden in its darkness. Maybe only fifteen minutes – half an hour, at most – had gone by since we’d arrived at the Spine, but it felt as though years had whizzed past.

  Maybe even a lifetime.

  After dinner, Pete grabbed a torch and we walked up the dark hillside into the trees. The moon was full and low on the horizon, illuminating the bush into a silvery sort of daylight. We navigated our way between boulders and prickly stands of tea-tree, until we reached a bare shoulder of stone. For a while we stood on the rock plateau and gazed at the trees below.

  ‘We used to meet up here,’ Pete said. ‘Mostly at midnight, which was pretty exciting. At least, it was for a twelve-year-old from the city.’ He sprang onto a boulder, then turned back and reached for my hand, hauling me up beside him.

  ‘It feels weird remembering,’ I remarked, gazing out across the moonlit hills.

  ‘Not too overwhelming, I hope?’

  ‘Hmm. At first it’s like having a dream come back, but then rather than fading like a normal dream, it becomes more concrete in my mind as time goes on. It takes some adjusting, but after a while it gets worn in, and I can’t see how it was never part of me.’

  ‘The memories have always been part of you. Just locked away out of sight.’

  ‘I wonder what else is in here.’

  Pete shifted closer and bumped his shoulder against mine. ‘Your brain had good reason for blocking bits out. You’ll remember in your own good time.’

  The warmth of his arm against mine was comforting, but his words niggled. For me, there was a rush. Nothing tangible, no reason to think that time was running out – rather, a feeling that past and present were converging, and that if I didn’t seize control soon, by remembering, then it’d be lost.

  Somewhere below us the river flowed through the darkness. I could hear the rapids surging over the rocks, and the muted roar filled me with a strange longing. Drinking in the cool air, I tried to empty my mind, tried to make room for just one more memory to rush in. I waited, only to discover that my senses were too full of the man standing next to me – his solid warmth, his nearness. We’d once been friends, I felt it strongly; yet I couldn’t help wondering why my brain had chosen to block him out.

  ‘What’s this amazing thing you said you wanted to show me?’ I asked, breaking contact and moving away.

  Pete pointed up the hillside. ‘There’s a cave up there. Are you game?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As we walked uphill, the slope grew steep. Huge crouching rock formations pushed up between the trees, freckled with pale circles of lichen the size of dinner plates which glowed faintly in the moonlight. The tall granite outcrop seemed to loom larger until it blocked out part of the sky. Nearing it, I noticed a black fissure of shadow between two huge boulders.

  Pete ducked into the gap, and I followed him into the cave, which was long and narrow, similar in size to the interior of a bus. Pete flicked on his torch, and shadows jumped around the beam. At the far end of the cave, at eye level, we found a shelf of rock from which jutted a tangled mess of sticks. It was some kind of nest. The outer twigs were large and loosely woven together, becoming progressively smaller towards the centre. The hollow core of the nest was lined with intricately woven thin twigs and root fibres.

  ‘Watch this,’ Pete said, then moved the torch beneath the nest so that its beam shone upwards through the knot of sticks. Prickly shadows leaped across the cave walls. The torch moved slowly, and bizarre shapes danced and shrank around us, intricate cross-hatchings of shadow and coin-like spots of light burst and spread, then contracted like a constellation of spider legs.

  ‘How beautiful,’ I breathed. ‘What sort of nest is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I like to think it was built by a lyrebird.’

  ‘I thought lyrebirds only inhabited rainforest areas.’

  ‘Mostly they do, although the Superb Lyrebird was very common all up and down the eastern mainland of Australia – even this far west, believe it or not. Sadly, there haven’t been any sightings on this side of the range for more than fifty years. Which makes me think that this can’t be a lyrebird’s nest. It’s not recent, but I don’t think even a nest as well constructed as this one would withstand the elements for fifty years.’

  ‘Why aren’t lyrebirds seen out here anymore?’

  ‘You know they’re clever mimics?’

  ‘Yeah. They can imitate other birds, barking dogs, human voices, car engines. Even chainsaws, I’ve heard.’

  Pete switched off the torch and plunged us into silvery gloom. ‘A lyrebird imitates the sounds it hears most often. And if that sound is a chainsaw, then it means someone in the vicinity is cutting down trees. The fewer trees there are, the fewer places the birds have to nest. And if they can’t nest, or forage or hunt, they can’t survive.’

  ‘Jamie and I saw one once. At least, we thought we did. It was just a glimpse, a dark shape dashing through the trees down beside the river. At first I thought it was an escapee from the chook pen, but it was bigger than a chook and had long legs and a trailing tail. Jamie insisted it was a lyrebird.’

  Pete shifted beside me. ‘It’s unlikely, but it might have been a female. They’re drabber than the male, and they don’t have the lyre-shaped tail feathers. That’s the great thing about this property – it’s big enough to provide a variety of habitats. But places like this are getting rare. That’s why Esther’s work here is so valuable. She was passionate about preserving habitat, as well as establishing the right environment to generate more.’

  A soft beam of moonlight pushed through an overhead crevice and fell into our darkness. It turned the nest into a woven mass of shadows – but rather than splashing about the cave walls as they had done under Pete’s torchlight, the shapes pulled tight, clustering among themselves, secretive and dark.

  Pete was studying the nest, apparently lost in his thoughts.

  I shifted nearer. In the stillness, I could feel warmth radiating from him. Shadows carved across his face, and I felt compelled to reach out and playfully tug a lock of his wayward hair or tickle my fingertips down the length of his arm. I thought about my reclaimed memories of us as kids: sitting in the shade of the shearing shed, or listening to Granny’s fairytales. Our time togeth
er had been magical, dreamlike; tonight, here in the dark stillness of the little cave, some of that magic trickled back.

  ‘So, if it’s not a lyrebird nest,’ I mused aloud, ‘then what is it?’

  Pete looked at me. ‘I was hoping you might know.’

  ‘Me?’ I snorted. ‘Yeah, right. I can just see the headlines. City-girl morphs into David Attenborough overnight and identifies a new species of . . . What did you say it was?’

  Pete laughed, or rather, did this husky coughing thing that made me blink and then break into a fit of giggles. He leaned nearer, and nudged me gently with his shoulder.

  ‘It’s good to hear you laugh,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed it.’ Then he took my hand and led me out of the cave, into the cool night air.

  It felt good to be outside at night, somehow forbidden, the way it had felt as a kid. I had a vague recall of sneaking out my window and running through the dark bush with the Wolf. Free and wild, as if the conventions that governed the rest of the world didn’t reach this far; as if the moonlit landscape was part of a secret realm that belonged only to us. Pete’s hand was warm, his skin calloused and his grip reassuringly firm. I wanted to lean against him, savour this enchanted moment for as long as possible.

  So, when I saw we were heading back down the hill in the direction of the farmhouse, I couldn’t stem a twinge of disappointment.

  I wasn’t ready to go back. Not yet.

  I stopped walking. Leaning back against a tree, I shut my eyes and let my thoughts slide backwards into the past. I saw a creature springing from the shadows behind the shearing shed, a wolf-like animal on its hind legs with a shaggy face and fangs and a mane of windswept hair. I saw it grabbing my twelve-year-old self, clutching me against its body as I wriggled around to face it. A scream bubbled out of me as I looked into its fierce black eyes – but then the eyes turned golden and then somehow they were blue. The fangs withdrew and the hair receded from the creature’s face. A boy appeared, and he was near, and then nearer still. Without meaning to, we bent our heads together and our lips touched, so briefly and so sweetly, it had taken a while – a day or two, at least – for me to look back without blushing and understand that we had kissed.

  Pete had doubled back and now stood in front of me.

  ‘I remember,’ I whispered, and reached for him, gathering handfuls of his shirt and drawing him closer. ‘I remember what you meant to me.’

  He didn’t smile, but the moonlight gleamed in his eyes and I thought I saw pleasure there. Sliding his hand under my hair, he cradled the back of my head and melted against me. Then his lips were on mine, firm and gentle all at once, his closeness intoxicating. Smoothing my hands across his shoulders, savouring the hard muscles of his back, I slid my fingers into the thick terrain of his hair and pressed fiercely against him. The silver moonlight transformed him into a creature of myth – part-flesh, part-dream. The thrill of our childhood escapades, and the strength of our young friendship acted as a magnet, drawing me inexorably to him. I became a river of desire, flowing around and through him. For a stolen handful of minutes there was no separation between us, no past or present, no other world than the one of darkness and starlight that we now inhabited.

  ‘I don’t mind that you forgot me,’ he murmured, his lips hot on my skin. ‘I never once stopped thinking about you.’

  His words reached through the haze and jolted me back to reality. Another man’s face came clearly and sharply into focus: Rob. And although Rob and I were finished, my heart was still bruised by the impact of his betrayal.

  Pulling back, I untangled myself from Pete’s arms and stepped away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said huskily. ‘It’s not great timing for me.’

  Pete searched my face. His lips looked bruised, and I felt a rush of possessive pleasure. I wasn’t sorry I’d kissed him. I’d simply fallen under a spell of nostalgia for the boy I’d been so fond of as a kid. We’d been close, and the shock of remembering had momentarily skewed the boundaries.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay.’ Pete attempted a smile. ‘Still friends, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  But as we straightened our clothes and gathered ourselves back into a semblance of normalcy, I sensed that a shift had occurred. A line had been crossed, a portal opened; a different type of dream had been recalled and was now fast becoming concrete. A dream from which I desperately needed to wake.

  We walked back down the slope in silence, the magic leaking out of us and draining away into the thin granite soil. All around us, eyes watched from the darkness: owls, possums, antechinus, wallabies, insects. The promise of frost chilled the air as we descended into the valley, and I shivered. My memory might well have been full of gaps, and big chunks of my childhood were gone forever, but after tonight one thing was certain: the kiss I’d shared with Pete in the shadows of that dark, silver-drenched hillside was now scored indelibly into my soul, and there was nothing – no injury, no passage of time, no amount of forgetting – that was strong enough to break me from its spell.

  14

  Brenna, June 1898

  For the next two days my gloom deepened. Whenever I shut my eyes, I saw Lucien’s face, stricken by my touch, his eyes dark with shock, and I cursed the recklessness that had compelled me to act unthinkingly.

  My memories of the woman I had known all my life as Mama were as insubstantial as wisps of dream. When I cast back in time to seek her, she lay on her bed in her darkened room, wrapped in a shawl, smelling of camphor and bitter herbs. Only one memory stood out from the others. She was in the kitchen, showing a teenaged Millie how to stuff a chicken. I had been getting under their feet, teasing one of the kitchen skinks with a twig, blocking its escape for my childish amusement.

  Mama stopped her lesson to kneel beside me.

  Why are you tormenting that little creature? she’d asked in her kind voice, gathering me to her. Don’t you know it has feelings just as we do? It might be trying to return to its little family, and your game is waylaying it. Have you forgotten that all of us – Fa Fa and Aunt Ida and you and me and Millie are under God’s eye? And that God also loves his little ones – his lizards and possums and finches and bush mice? Have a heart, my cherub . . . let it go.

  From that moment on, I cherished every living thing – not just the creatures, but the trees and gumnuts and flowers, and even the solid unmoving stone. Mama’s quiet words wove a spell on my soul, and I began to study my bush surrounds with new eyes. I befriended the skinks, and got to know their quirky traits; the beetles and cicadas and colonies of brown ants drew me into their busy worlds. I started noticing orchids and the red balls of glistening sap that trickled from the apple gums. My awe had grown until it had inspired me to capture my new friends in ink and paint.

  And yet, last night, I’d forgotten myself. I had overstepped the line of propriety. Lucien was not a wild creature to be toyed with; he was a young man with a full undercurrent of passions and fears and dreams. And I was a married woman.

  I burned with shame.

  But I could not find the will to stay away.

  The following midnight I knocked softly on the door at the back of the stables. Shifting from foot to foot, I waited, fearing that Lucien was already deep asleep and deaf to my presence. But finally I heard a shuffle and Lucien opened the door. He was dishevelled, his face rumpled and sleepy, his hair a wild mane about his shoulders.

  ‘Are you up for a challenge?’ I said, pushing past him into the candlelit gloom of his chamber. ‘I feel a lucky streak tonight, but in the unlikely event that you win, I’ve brought cake.’

  I crossed to the table. Rather than the fine chess pieces I’d been expecting, I found a book. It was old and tattered, the pages gaping away from their threadbare binding. It appeared to be a ledger of sorts, and when I bent to read a section, my suspicions were confirmed.

  ‘Why are you looking over a ledger?’ I asked. ‘It must be fifty years old. What use is it to you?’

  Lucien cleared the book
and began to set out his carved chess pieces.

  ‘I’ve got to read something.’

  ‘But a ledger?’

  He shrugged. ‘Books are a rare commodity. At least, they are for me. Besides, the old ledgers have their own fascination. For instance, did you know that in 1835, the garden produced fourteen barrels of white turnips? And that in 1847 the housekeeper placed an order for ladies’ handkerchiefs from Launceston, but they never arrived? I often ponder who acquired those fine lawn hankies, and what became of them. Perhaps they were used to impress the wife of a lowly dockworker?’

  My brow shot up. ‘Or perhaps a bushranger?’

  Lucien did not quite smile, but I saw the beginnings of forgiveness in his sea-green eyes. The kettle whistled softly and he hurried over to make the tea.

  I set my bundle of cake on the edge of the table and took my seat, revising the tactics I’d planned for tonight’s game. Since I had lost our previous game, I would use my apparent weakness to dupe my opponent; I would open with a folly, then strike hard and fast when he least expected.

  My instinct proved correct; within the half-hour, I had cornered his king and declared a checkmate.

  He looked at me. ‘What would you like to know?’

  I sat back in my chair, savouring my win. A little of my old self trickled back, and I allowed myself to smile into my teacup. At last I would uncover the secret of my husband’s silver locket, and perhaps even learn the identity of the woman whose portrait I felt certain resided within.

  But the question that sprang readily to my lips was very different to the one I had rehearsed, and it surprised us both.

  ‘Do you remember your mother?’

  Lucien’s eyes went to saucers. I bit my tongue and winced. There, I’d done it again; allowed my recklessness to have the upper hand and lead me straight into trouble.

  Lucien sat back in his chair and looked at me. ‘You could ask anything, anything at all – and you want to know about my mother?’