Hope Farm

by Peggy Frew

  Miller roared and spun, swiping at his legs. He staggered away from the fire, which lay like a rug patterned hot white and orange, its edge curling at the timber coffee table.

  ‘Move the table!’ someone called.

  ‘Get some water!’

  The crowd milled and jabbered. Somebody stumbled, fell to the ground. They were like bees drowning, uselessly buzzing at the foot of the porch, caught in the twin pools of darkness either side of the spilled fire.

  ‘Tip beer on it!’ called a voice, followed by a slow, rattling laugh.

  Somewhere among the stoned dithering I caught sight of Dan, still at the car, grimacing as he tried to walk.

  Miller hunched and moaned, batting at his leg. Then he straightened. He heaved a great sigh, and tipped his head back as if appealing to the stars. His fists went up and I saw them shake as he squeezed them. ‘That,’ he growled, ‘was my baby, mine!’ He rammed at his own temples. His burned leg twitched as if of its own accord. Like an enormous toddler distracted from a tantrum, he appeared to have completely forgotten about Dan. Heavily, he rotated his vast body and began to shamble in the opposite direction, along the row of cars. ‘Ishtar,’ he grunted. He stopped and put a hand on the bonnet of his brown station wagon, like a rider greeting his horse.

  A fresh jolt of fear hit me. He was going to the hut. I couldn’t stop him, and how could I warn her — how could I possibly get there first? I looked again for Dan, but there was something else catching at my attention, a sound, rustling below the voices — a busy, papery sound — and from the direction of the house there came a flaring of bright light. I saw it gild Miller, dancing in the raw-looking skin at the back of his leg where his pants had been burned away. I turned.

  The little carpet of burning wood and coals that Ian had spilled was still there, licking at the table, which no one had moved. But the light, and the heat I was beginning to feel now, building, rolling outwards, were coming from the house, from one of the front windows and the front door. The house was on fire.

  My mind dashed back to Miller and Dan on the ground, the panicked retreat of onlookers, some jumping up onto the porch. The open windows and candle-lined sills. I pictured the candle knocked, tipping, falling inside the room, lying there unnoticed, the crawl of its flame at the base of the curtain, its steady climb and creeping growth, feeding on the perished fabric, the aged, porous timber floor and walls.

  But this fire was not creeping now. This fire was big already, shockingly, frighteningly big, and growing as I watched — bank after bank of orange blooms unfurling. At first I could see the open window, with the flames coming up from inside, and the beginnings of flames only at one side of the front door; then within moments the flames were filling both spaces, tearing upwards in vigorous sheets, the window’s curtain showing only as a strip to one side, exploding into liquid white and then gone. Then the frames of both window and door were not visible any more either — there were just two holes, one vaguely square and one vaguely rectangular, with the flames rushing from them, pouring out, and up.

  There was a sudden, frenzied stirring in the middle of the small crowd, and then first Val’s shout — ‘Jindi!’ — followed by gibbering from Willow.

  ‘The kids!’ someone yelled.

  ‘Quick!’ came another voice. ‘Round the back!’ There was a rush down the side of the house, leaving a few people stomping at the small fire and milling round in the glare of the big one, calling to each other.

  ‘Where’s the phone? Someone call triple-oh!’

  ‘Get the hose.’

  ‘Buckets!’

  Dan was still near the other car. He didn’t seem able to walk, but I could hear him shouting directions, pointing to the tap.

  I knew I should help; I knew where buckets were, in the laundry and the shed. I knew there was a hose round the back. But Miller — and Ishtar. Teetering on my toes, I hung in an agonised moment that felt like forever. The sound of the fire stretched and warped in my ears. Miller’s steps thudded in slow motion; his hand reached for the door of the station wagon.

  And then I saw the movement behind the windscreen, the wisp of a figure sitting there. Dawn. I saw her lean across, her pallid face staring out at Miller as he tugged uselessly at the door handle. I saw the bunch of keys dangling from her finger, then swallowed by her closing fist.

  Miller pulled at the handle. Again, hard. Then he tried the back door. Slowly, disbelievingly, he circled the car, going from door to door, rattling uselessly at each.

  The engine started and, with Miller howling and slapping uselessly at its exterior, the car backed — wobblingly, almost stalling — out from between those parked either side and then around in a semicircle. There was a scraping of gears and it leapt forward, almost hitting Miller, and with a triumphant blast of the horn started up the driveway, gathering speed. Just before it reached the gate, the headlights went on, and the bright beam lapped at the opening in the band of trees, the sandy surface of the road. Then, its one working tail-light bobbing, the car exited the gateway, turned, and disappeared in the direction of the main road.

  Miller, out on the packed dirt, had dropped to a crouch, hands to his temples.

  Dawn. I couldn’t believe it. Even as I turned and began to run towards the back of the house, calling, ‘I’ll get the hose,’ I had a fleeting urge to laugh, to whoop out loud. Dawn!

  Hot air rippled the stars overhead, and one of the side windows already showed flickering, the weatherboards pocking with pink, black-edged splotches. It was amazing how quickly the fire had taken hold. The kitchen was full of yelling, and people running in and out; as I tried to marshal the hose into loops neat enough to carry I caught sight of Sue trying to hold onto Willow, who was swaying like a spooked animal, bleating wordlessly.

  I was almost back to the porch, half dragging the hose, when Ian appeared by my side.

  ‘He’s walking,’ he said, low and terse.

  ‘What?’

  Someone — Gav; the light slashed across his glasses and I caught a whiff of patchouli — took the hose from me and hurried off with it.

  Ian nodded towards the track that led up to the main gate. ‘Miller. He’s gone off on foot. If we’re quick we can go the back way and beat him there.’

  Once we were at the bottom of the hill and out of earshot it was as if the fire didn’t exist. But when we crossed the road and entered the bush, the moonlight turned everything to shades of ash, and it was so still it felt as if all the air had been taken, dragged away.

  We plunged along the path, the creek beside us silvered and silent. Scratches stung on my bare legs, and my chest ached from the smoke.

  Ian led, made the turn-off at the big wattle — but when we got to the cleared area and the hut revealed itself, a dark rectangle, no light showing anywhere, he slowed and waited for me to draw level. We paused. There were no noises other than insect ones.

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Ian, but he didn’t move.

  I went first, my breath hitched up short, edging across the clearing and then around the side of the building.

  The front door was open, showing dark space. I froze, motioned to Ian. Waited. No sound. I inched closer, reached the bench, which stretched — a pointing arrow — to the open door. I could feel Ian right behind me, his breath on the back of my neck.

  At the doorway I put my ear to the opening. Nothing. I poked my head in, stared into the darkness until shapes began to form: the fireplace, the couch, Ishtar’s bed — empty.

  Slowly we stepped in.

  ‘Ishtar?’

  No answer. It was hard to see properly — things looked different in the dark; puddles of shadow like black liquid; shapes squatting, still and sinister. I went to the bench and found the torch, clicked it on.

  The bed with the sheet thrown back. Dirty plates in a pile on the table. The bag of ap
ples, dull red in the torch’s beam. Cobwebs, dust. Everything shabbier, uglier in the weak cone of light, but no more than the usual mess — and no blood, no signs of struggle or force.

  Ian’s whisper was barely audible. ‘Are we too late?’

  I shrugged. Went to my room, shone the torch all round it. Nothing. My bed, my own dank, kicked-off sheet. The apple core on the mattress.

  ‘Ishtar?’

  The room sang its emptiness but still I knelt and reached with the wand of light under the bed, glaring on balls of dust and more cobwebs.

  ‘We’re too late,’ whispered Ian behind me.

  I looked up at him. ‘Or maybe she’s already gone? Maybe she —’

  He raised a hand. Someone was coming.

  I got up.

  It was him — the heavy tread outside, the low, sonorous voice coming into earshot, spooling out.

  I switched off the torch.

  Even though the main door was open already he rammed into it, sending it back against the wall with a clap. He moved so quickly into the room he hit the couch, and it went scraping over the floor. He reeled back and collected himself, standing with that loose-armed, ready posture, head swivelling.

  All this I saw in silhouette, against the moon-bright rectangle of doorway.

  ‘Ishtar?’ said Miller thickly, and then resumed his humming, his breath-sucking. His black form bent over her bed, great paws fumbling. ‘Ishtar?’

  Ian took my arm, pulled. Together, as if one merged body, we lowered ourselves to the floor, began to climb into the space under my bed. Ian was halfway under, his arm unhooking from mine, when I dropped the torch. It banged to the floor and rolled noisily. I froze.

  Miller’s humming stopped and I saw him straighten and swing round.

  ‘Ian.’ I mouthed the word; it hardly sounded. My pulse hammered in my ears. We were small, we were quick — we could slip past, dash by him. I reached for Ian, pulled at his shirt. I began to get to my feet.

  But Miller was there, he was charging towards us, he was filling the tiny doorway, his big arms were out — he had me, his fingers a vice above my elbow. He tugged, and pain rang through my shoulder. My feet left the ground; I bent my knees and landed on the mattress.

  He held me like that, kneeling on the bed, my head level with his so I couldn’t avoid the hot, rotten breath that spurted from his beard as he ran his hands over my hair and face.

  ‘It’s the kid,’ he muttered. He paused for a moment but didn’t let go. The light from the window behind me caught the surfaces of his eyes, the wetness of his open mouth. Then, so close I felt his beard touch my chin, he shouted, ‘Where is she?’

  I pulled back as far as I could, angling my head away.

  ‘Where’s Ishtar?’

  Spit landed on my cheek. He shook me and my teeth clattered. He pushed me down on the bed and then wrenched me up again. I heard a frail mew, then realised I was the one who had made it.

  ‘I know where she is.’

  It was Ian. He had crept past Miller to the doorway and was just visible, a slight dark figure against the lesser shadows.

  Miller looked round. I felt his fingers slacken slightly. He reeked. That rank, creature smell that had been in his room, but ten times riper.

  ‘I know where she is. She’s hiding.’ Ian’s voice was level. ‘I can take you to her. But you have to let go of Silver.’

  Miller’s huge head shook, slowly, from side to side. His fingers stayed clenched around my arm. His breaths were loud and wet, like a baby’s.

  ‘Well, she can come too, then,’ said Ian pleasantly, as if suggesting a picnic or some other benign activity. ‘We can all go together.’

  Miller’s arm swept back to his side and I was pulled from the bed, scrambling to land on my feet. One of my shoes caught on the edge of the mattress and went flying. Miller stepped towards Ian and I was dragged along. Then, gradually, his fingers unlocked, and I felt the air on my damp skin. He took a fistful of my t-shirt at the back.

  ‘No running,’ he said.

  I could just see Ian’s eyes — they were fixed on mine. I gave him a tiny nod.

  He turned for the door. ‘This way.’

  We went slowly this time, along the grey path, through the shadow-dappled bush. The moon wasn’t yellow any more — it was high and white, its light cold. Ian led again, followed by me, lopsided in my one shoe, and then Miller, his heavy grip at my back, the heat of his knuckles through my top, his bare toes every now and then colliding with one of my heels. Along to the bridge and over, and then up the avenue of sparser growth that marked the old miners’ trail.

  Miller resumed his broken humming, and panted loudly. Once, he stumbled, pulling me down with him, my elbow sliding against the wet mat of his chest-hair, revulsion jamming my throat. We got to the two trees, and Ian went between their luminous trunks. I hesitated; Miller barged into me and we came to a clumsy halt.

  Ian turned. The pinkish branches between us hung like human limbs bent at impossible angles. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Almost there.’

  I tried to see past him into the clearing but everything was shadows. I blinked and the shadow shapes seemed to wobble and drift, resettling in a slightly different formation. Where was it, exactly? Was it even visible — maybe Ian had left it covered, set up as a trap. ‘Ian …’ My voice sounded very small. My pulse was loud in my ears.

  ‘Come on.’ Ian turned back, and took a step.

  I strained again to see into the darkness. Watch him, I told myself. He knows where it is. But I couldn’t see him any more.

  Miller’s fist gave a shove between my shoulder blades and I propped like a panicked horse, head thrown back. ‘Ian!’

  ‘Come on,’ came the call.

  Miller gave one of his breathy, sighing moans, and began shunting me along before him as if I weighed nothing. Then something caught at my ankle and I fell forward with him on top of me.

  It was the fence. The collapsed fence — I felt its slack lines, the grit of rust on my fingers as I untangled my foot. My heel slipped out of the second sandshoe and I let it go, kicked it away. Miller had climbed off me, to one side, and was on his knees.

  ‘What …?’ he said.

  Then Ian was beside me, pulling me up, and I grabbed his arm and squeezed it, one sharp squeeze to send a message. ‘You go first,’ I hissed, pushing him, and we were running, and behind was Miller’s roar, the heavy sounds of him getting to his feet.

  Ian’s back, Ian’s legs, the soles of his shoes, one-two, one-two. I knew it was only a short distance, only a few steps, and I watched for him to swerve or jump, staring so hard my eyes felt like they would pop out of my head, every muscle in my own legs electric. One-two, one-two, and there it was — uncovered, a bigger, darker patch of shadow among the other shadows — and Ian jumped. I saw him hurdle, the arc of him through the air, and Miller was coming with his crashing feet, right behind me, Miller’s fingers bumping at my back, just missing, and I only had two more steps to go, one more step, and I was on it, I was leaping, the burning split of my legs opening, the pull of every tendon, the desperate reaching, reaching for length.

  Landing, the shock of real, hard ground, jarring my ankles, slamming my knees. But not stopping, shoving up and forward, half crawling, scrabbling across the dirt, away from the feeling of falling, the cold, stale-breathed drop. And behind me, Miller went down.

  We heard him, the yelp he gave. We heard the two bumps he made as he hit the sides, one almost straight away, and then another, not as loud, after a long, slow, couple of moments. And then we heard, floating up from very far away, very deep, a final, heavy, wet thud.

  I reached for Ian at the same time as he reached for me, and we grabbed onto each other. I bent my head and pressed one ear to his chest, and jammed my shoulder up to block the other one, so all I cou
ld hear was the rabbit race of our two hearts running in double time.

  We went up, higher, further into the bush. We just walked together, without talking, following mining trails feathered with saplings and bracken, which offered easier passage between the trees.

  We passed other shafts with fences hanging, half collapsed, signs blank-faced in the dim light.

  I got cold. My feet hurt, and my ankle where I’d scraped it on the fence wire.

  Slower and slower we walked, and then we stopped and sat down at the base of a big tree. Side by side we stared into the sifting shadows. The moon was no longer visible, although its white light still filtered through the branches. The stars in the patch of sky above were bright and hard-looking. I couldn’t stop shivering.

  After a while we lay down, back to back, pressed close for warmth. I curled up my knees and tucked in my arms.

  I don’t know if I slept but when I opened my eyes the sky had a wash of pink in it. I thought I’d heard noises. I lay still, feeling Ian breathing behind me. Light was creeping into the scrub around us. A bird hopped through the leaf litter, then disappeared under an archway of fern fronds. Other birds called, and when I looked again the pink in the sky had turned to gold.

  Then I did hear it. Voices, calling. Not close — down on the other side of the creek. They were calling us.

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Listen.’

  He sat up, and I did the same.

  Everything hurt — every muscle in my over-stretched legs, my scraped, cut feet, my shoulder where Miller had yanked it. I ached with thirst and my tongue felt thick and strange. I eased my legs straight. ‘We should go.’