Ironbark

  ‘Don’t . . . old phone . . . Dad is madder than a . . . after yourself . . . ring when you can . . . I . . . you.’

  Miss you? Love you? Hate you? The end is swallowed by static and the connection is broken. I move around the clearing, and although the bar flickers a couple of times it doesn’t linger. Kris would have had to go back to class anyway. I turn the phone off, sit down on the rock and light a cigarette.

  I feel better having talked to her. I even find myself smiling as I think about Kris going back into Miss Millner’s class and inventing something to explain the emergency. She’ll think of something good. Kris is very, very smart. A lot of people are surprised by that. They don’t see it coming. I guess because she likes wearing trashy clothes. Sometimes she’s nearly wearing them, if you know what I mean. So guys in particular assume she’s got nothing between her ears. I tell you. If they mess with her, they find out quickly. I said Miss Millner’s tongue was sharp. Kris’s is registered as a lethal weapon in four states.

  I think about having another ciggie, but the weather’s turning cold and, anyway, I still have to ration them. A wind is swirling over the summit and the sun’s gone AWOL.

  The treetops bend as gusts tug at them. Clouds clump together on the horizon and some of them look grumpy. Goosebumps stand up on my arms. Time to head back.

  Getting down is nearly as bad going up. There are some places when I scoot down banks like I’m snowboarding. The Etnies aren’t looking too hot, but they’re nearly five months old, anyway, so I figure I can afford to dish out a bit of rough treatment.

  I find plenty of clearings. The one thing I can say about this part of the forest is that clearings are not in short supply. Trouble is, I can’t be sure they’re my clearings. If you were to push me on this, I’d have to say that one clearing is pretty much like any other clearing. And most times, in most circumstances, it wouldn’t matter a rat’s ringpiece. But I do some quick calculations. Bear in mind that my geometry is nothing to get excited about, but even with a twig and a patch of dirt I can do a rough estimation. Just a small deviation from my original direction makes a huge difference the longer I go on. I could miss Granddad’s house easy. Real easy. And then what? With all these trees, I wouldn’t even know I’d gone past it. I’d be deep in the brown and smelly stuff, then, wandering further and further into the State Forest. Even I know those things go on forever. I regret not having marked some trees on the way up. It had occurred to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to do any of that cheesy Hansel and Gretel stuff. I have standards.

  A big splodge of water hits me right on the top of the head. One of those thuds that makes you think a bird has dumped on you from a great height. A big bird. It’s followed by another and then another.

  ‘Oh, man,’ I wail. I look up. I don’t know why. It’s not as if it’s gonna do any good. The sky, or at least what I can see of it through the tree canopy, isn’t so much angry as downright furious. I think I hear a rumble of thunder in the distance. Looking up seems to have achieved one thing, though. It must’ve been taken as a signal, because the clouds open as if my glance has slit them across the belly. Rain is not an adequate word here. Rain conjures images of water drops pattering gently against windows. What dumps on me is a continuous sheet of water, and it hurts. In seconds the sound drowns out everything else. The forest blurs. I can’t see more than ten metres.

  There are plenty of people who dribble on about the wonders of nature. My school’s full of them. Of course, they’re always singing its praises in climate-controlled surroundings. I’d love to have my Soc. Ed. teacher here, drenched and freezing cold. If his teeth stopped chattering long enough he could tell me what a great experience this is. I hate nature. In Melbourne, I’d duck into a Starbucks, wrap my hands around a latte and watch the show in comfort. I’m a million kilometres from a Starbucks. I’m soaked, freezing and lost.

  Part of me wants to make a run for it and get back to Granddad’s as soon as possible. Nothing to do with trying to keep dry. After ten seconds in this rain, the one thing I’m certain of is that it’s impossible to get any wetter. But it’s cold. And the constant beating of the rain is just miserable. I can’t see where I’m going. Even in good visibility I didn’t have a clue about the right way to go. Now, I’d be blundering in any random direction. I decide the best thing is to find somewhere more sheltered and wait for the rain to ease.

  I find a huge tree and the branches provide some protection. It’s not like standing under a waterfall, though when the wind blows the branches around, big splashes of water hit the back of my neck and roll down my back. I get a cigarette lit after a good few attempts. Then half a bucket of water, trapped in the leaves I guess, falls straight onto it after I’ve had a couple of drags. There’s a quick hiss and the soggy tube falls with a splat into the undergrowth.

  I can’t remember a time when I’ve been happier.

  There’s another rumble of thunder and I know I should get out from under the tree. Then I reckon that being hit by lightning might actually improve my mood, so I stay where I am.

  At least the wind eases. After another five minutes, so does the rain. Don’t get me wrong. It’s still fairly heavy, but at least I can see where I’m going. The cold has seeped into my bones and I’m shivering as I start back down the slope again, in what is hopefully the right direction. All I can hear, all around, is raindrops hitting leaves. It’s a comfortless drumming.

  The rain makes everywhere even more unfamiliar. Before, I could at least try to convince myself I’d seen certain clearings on my way up. Now, the rain has washed everything clean and it all looks new. I jump over a fallen tree trunk that I have no memories of having hurdled before and hit a patch of mud. My Etnies – buggered, worn and soaked – slip and before I know it I’m skidding down a muddy incline on my backside. I attempt to dig a heel in and succeed only in doing a flip, landing in a patch of scrubby brush face first. I get to my feet, touch my face with my fingers and they come away bloody. Instantly, I feel my blood pumping fast through my heart. It hammers in my ears. It drowns out the drumming of the rain.

  I concentrate on my breathing. That’s always the first step. Get the breathing deep and regular. Draw the air into the lungs. Concentrate on it. In. Out. In. Out. Only when I feel the breathing is under control do I start the self-talk.

  ‘It’s cool,’ I say. ‘It’s all cool. You’re all right. Stay calm. It’s cool.’

  I’m lost in a forest, soaked, muddy and bloody, talking to myself, trying to keep control. Because if I lose it out here, I don’t know what will happen, or if I’ll ever get back. I breathe and talk to myself. Talk to myself and breathe. Until I feel the demons retreating, slipping back into the shadows.

  I start walking, but I don’t stop talking. I keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead, watching for safe footholds, taking it slowly. Taking it easy. The rain has eased off almost completely now and the wind has settled. I glance up and the sky is still dark and threatening. It looks like it’s just having a break.

  It’s when I look back down that I see it. Down the slope and off to my right. And I don’t quite see it. Not really. It’s more a sense of something dark slipping into the trees, a shifting shape caught in the corner of my eyes. And when I turn my head it’s gone. If it was ever there in the first place.

  I stand still for a moment, listening to my heart beating and water trickling. Nothing else. Not even a rustle of lizards in the underbrush or the call of birds. I’m conscious of water dripping from my hair and down my neck. A shiver runs up my back and goosebumps gather. My forearm reminds me of chicken skin, plucked white and bumpy. I take another step and then another. The crunch of twigs under my feet sounds unnaturally loud. I want to hush them as if they might give my position away. This is stupid. This is childish. My mind is insistent. Trouble is, the eyes are out there. Somewhere nearby, unblinking eyes are trained on me. Doesn’t matter how firm my mind is, how insistent it is that this is all nonsense. The eyes are back.

 
I feel it is important for me to resist the urge to run. I don’t know why, but I know it. Running would not be good. But I increase my pace. I’m no longer so bothered about finding the right direction. I just want to get lower and I don’t know why I think that either. I have to trust my instincts. Even when I see movement off to my right, a swaying of branches that could be a gust of wind, I keep the pace consistent. If it’s a gust of wind it keeps an uncanny pace with me. The branches move as I move. It’s as if it’s linked to my movement. I’ve never heard of gusts of wind that move so slowly.

  Something crashes and I stop.

  There is no wind at all now. Nothing moves and the only sound is water dripping from leaf to leaf. I turn slowly in a circle, scanning three hundred and sixty degrees. There is a rustle in the undergrowth to my left. Behind me now. Nothing could move that quickly. Off to my right one moment, in front of me the next. I gaze out over a large clearing I’ve just crossed without ever being aware of having done so. A bird call rises. It is the moaning call I heard yesterday. It sounds unutterably sad and mournful. No other birds sing. The rustling gets louder. Large leaves sway at the far end of the clearing. Something is moving towards me. A line from a book comes to me. I don’t know why.

  By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

  I feel an incredible urge to stand and wait for it. I want to see it part the final branches and reach the clearing. I want to see its eyes, rather than just feel them.

  But that doesn’t happen. I turn and run, and this time I have no control, make no attempt to pick safe ground. Whatever is in front of me, I jump. I plough through brambles, get smacked in the face by branches. On a couple of steep inclines I fall again, slide down on my side or my rear end, spring to my feet, run without breaking rhythm. I keep looking over my shoulder, but I can’t see anything. I’m making too much noise myself and the forest is dense here. The swaying branches behind me are the ones I’ve pushed through. I have a stitch and my breathing is ragged. It’s the only time in my life I’ve regretted wagging so many Phys. Ed. classes. I slow.

  I don’t see the log. If I had I would have at least tried to jump it. My left foot smacks into it, but I don’t feel any pain. Not then. But it takes me down, on my back. I slide for a few metres and thump my head on something incredibly hard. Seeing stars is not just a sad cliché; it’s true. Fireworks go off in my brain. I don’t know how long I lie there waiting for my head to clear, but it can’t be more than twenty seconds or so. I sit up and listen. Nothing, except the sound of my own breathing.

  When my phone beeps, I scream. I swear. I don’t know what frightens me more, the sound of the incoming text message or my scream. I scrabble around in my pocket, pull out the phone and check the screen. My thumb chooses ‘read message’ automatically.

  Witetrees.

  What the hell? I stop. Witetrees? White trees? I check the screen again, but it’s gone dark. And when I look up there is a tree with a white trunk about thirty metres to my right. I cross to it. Why not? Another white tree – the only white tree around – is down a slope far to my right. I run the line between the two of them. My sense of being watched has eased, but I’m not taking any chances. I keep checking behind, but there is no untoward movement in the foliage. Past the second white tree there is a large clearing, down a dip in a ridge. I wouldn’t swear to it, but this one does look familiar. Maybe it’s wishful thinking.

  It isn’t. Three minutes later I see the roof of Granddad’s shack through the trees. Two minutes after that the sun is shining like a maniac and I’m in my room peeling off wet, muddy clothes.

  Listen, push me up against a wall, attach electrodes to my genitals and even then there aren’t many things I’d be prepared to swear to. Things I’m absolutely sure of: a) if I had continued in the direction I was going before the text message, I’d have missed Granddad’s place – missed it by a country mile; b) well, the second thing is really in two parts. One, there’s no way I could possibly get a signal that close to the shacks, and two, I’d turned my phone off on the top of the mountain.

  So I’m not really surprised when I check and find I haven’t had any messages since I left Melbourne.

  I love all that X-Files stuff on the television. I’m just not keen on living it. Do you know what I’m saying?

  I have a shower, but only because I’ve got no real choice. I’m caked in mud and stink like a septic tank.

  Granddad is sitting in his spot on the verandah and I call out to tell him I’m taking the plunge. He grunts something about dinner. Good. I don’t like the notion of him looming on a random horizon while I’m sudding my bits, particularly if he’s carrying the chainsaw.

  The water is surprisingly strong and unsurprisingly cold. Not sure what the go is with the solar panel. Maybe it’s just for show. I manage to work up a good lather and even wash my hair. I’ve got scratches all over my hands and legs and I suspect my face isn’t crash-hot in that regard, but there’s no mirror so I can’t check. My left foot is bruised and it hurts when I put pressure on it. Other than that, I’m in decent shape. Already I’m embarrassed by what went on out there in the forest. I mean, it’s fairly logical. Bad weather, panic about being lost, scuffles in the undergrowth from random Tassie critters, a strong imagination. Plus hyperventilating when I got angry and scared. It’s no wonder me and the plot parted company for a while.

  Still, rolling around in the mud, wild-eyed and scared of the bogeyman. Not a good look. I’m glad there were no witnesses.

  Mr Cool’s reputation remains intact.

  I wrap a towel around me and leg it back to my room quick smart. The temperature is doing another nosedive and I don’t want to play Russian roulette with pneumonia. I put on as many layers of clothes as I can find and give thermal underwear serious consideration. If I buy them down here and leave them when I go back to Melbourne, no one need ever know. Then again, these things have a habit of coming out. I Know What You Wore Last Spring. Now, that would be a horror story.

  Speaking of horror stories, when I finally front up to the verandah Granddad presents me with a plate of burned steak. Judging by the way he’s fossicking in his dentures with something sharp, I figure he’s finished his. There are some sorry mashed potatoes with green lumps, and gravy that’s thinner than a supermodel. I’m starving. I’d have to be to even consider eating this.

  ‘Gramps, my main man,’ I say, sawing for a quarter of an hour on the corner of the steak. ‘How about a different chef tomorrow? Bring a little variety into our diet. Whaddya say?’

  ‘You?’

  I think about slipping a piece of steak to the dog while Granddad isn’t looking. I don’t, though. The dog’s never done me any harm.

  ‘Yes, me. Who do you think I mean? The Naked Chef?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  I am going to cook, though.

  I don’t mention my wilderness experiences to Granddad. He doesn’t ask, anyway. Not even if I’d made it to the top of the mountain. Makes me wonder, if I had missed his place, how long it would have taken him to raise the alarm. Maybe he’d have remembered me after a couple of months. Maybe not. He glances at my face a few times, though, and I think he’s going to ask about the scratches. I probably look like I’ve gone a few rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. In the end, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps mining away in the fissures of his dental plates.

  The wallabies are back. They might even have brought reinforcements. I point towards the fence, off to Granddad’s left.

  ‘Is that a wombat?’ I say.

  While he’s looking, I fling the remains of my food off to the right. The potatoes splat on the dirt. The dog staggers over and sniffs at the pale mound. Doesn’t eat it, mind. A canine with standards.

  ‘It’s a wallaby,’ Granddad says.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I reply, and Granddad looks at me again like I’m a retard.

  I wash the dishes and when I get back there’s a cold beer waiting
for me. Granddad has stoked up the wood stove and the kitchen’s toasty. The overspill of heat makes it tolerable out on the verandah. Not cosy. Just tolerable. I light a smoke and unscrew the bottle cap. The glass is icy against my palm. I’m aware of something itching at the back of my mind. You know what I mean? Something you can’t put your finger on. The more you try to pin it down, the more elusive it becomes. Then it hits me.

  ‘Yo, Granddad,’ I say.

  He grunts.

  ‘What is it with the beer, man?’ Yeah, I know it’s cold at night, but that doesn’t explain the temperature of the stubby. This thing is chilled in a way that screams technology.

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  ‘It’s icy, dude. What have you got back there? A fridge with a serious solar panel?’

  Granddad wipes away condensation from his bottle with a gnarled old finger, takes a swig. I can hear the beer gurgling down his throat and wish I couldn’t. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ he says.

  ‘Are you kiddin’ me?’ I say. ‘What is this, a bedtime game? I might be an exceptionally sad person, but I haven’t sunk to those depths yet.’

  He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I’m not going to ask him again. It’s something to do with personal standards and him being an annoying fossil. Eventually, he speaks.

  ‘I’ll tell you this much. There’s no fridge with a solar panel.’

  ‘Gosh, Gramps,’ I say. ‘Well, it’s a real mystery then and no mistake. How am I ever going to sleep tonight?’

  But my sarcasm is either too low for his radar or he’s got a skin like a pickled rhino. The silence stretches out so much it’s impossible to resist the temptation to snap it.

  ‘Gramps,’ I say. ‘You know you were talking about guardian angels last night? And voices and stuff in the forest? What’s with that?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in it.’

  ‘Just curious. I have an open mind. Sometimes my mind is so open I worry my brains are going to drop out.’