Wilder Country

by Mark Smith

  There are voices. Close.

  Jack inches his way up to look over the log, and Kas and I follow.

  There are three of them. Wilders. They’re standing above someone lying on the ground, someone curled up in a ball, protecting themself. The Wilders are laughing.

  A voice rises above the noise of the bush—a girl’s voice, high pitched and angry. ‘Bastards,’ she screams. ‘Bastards.’

  Kas crawls back and grabs her rifle. She doesn’t hesitate, even when Jack tries to grab her and pull her down. She moves fast, keeping herself hidden until she’s within a few metres of them. Jack has picked up his rifle and hands me mine. We jump the log and hurry after her.

  Before we can get to her, Kas steps out and shows herself, her rifle raised to her shoulder and pointed at the Wilders.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ she says though gritted teeth.

  The Wilders are startled. They back away, looking at Kas then at each other.

  ‘Well, look at this,’ one of them says. A crooked smile shows nothing but black gums. But his eyes widen when Jack and me step out of the bush behind her.

  ‘You got them covered?’ Kas asks.

  ‘Yep.’

  She kneels down beside the girl and gently touches her shoulder. The girl looks up, her body uncurling.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Kas says.

  The girl braces herself on her hands as she tries to stand up. Kas helps her to her feet. It’s hard to tell how old she is. Her face is bruised and swollen. She has a cut above her right eye and blood trickles down her cheek. Her clothes, or what’s left of them, are torn. She does her best to hitch her dress onto her hips and pull the frayed straps over her shoulders. She’s shorter than Kas, and her skin is a lighter brown. Her hair is pitch black and straight, her arms and legs thin and, strangely, she wears a pair of green sneakers.

  ‘She’s ours,’ one of the Wilders says.

  ‘Yours?’ Jack asks. ‘Or Ramage’s?’

  The three of them look like all the other Wilders I’ve seen, hair long and matted, clothes dirty but warm, and solid boots. Well fed.

  ‘Ours. Ramage’s. What’s it to you? Either way I reckon you’d better fuck off.’

  The girl is standing behind Kas now, her arms folded tight across her chest. ‘I’m not yours, not anybody’s,’ she says, her voice defiant.

  The Wilder with the sneer and the black gums takes a step towards us but stops when we both aim at his heart.

  ‘You’ve got no idea,’ he says. ‘Ramage’ll hunt you down, especially when he hears about the ugly sister bein’ alive.’

  Kas steps up to him and jams the barrel of her rifle under his chin, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes.

  He smiles and licks his lips. ‘You as feisty as your sister, girlie? I heard she was all right.’

  Kas moves quickly, bringing her knee up into his balls. His legs buckle under him and he collapses to the ground. Kas stands over him pointing the rifle at his head. I’ve seen this look on her face before, anger and hate—and something else I can’t explain. Her jaw is set hard and she’s breathing heavy.

  ‘I remember you, Sweeney. I remember what you did in Longley,’ she snarls. ‘I’d kill you but you’re not worth the bullet.’

  Sweeney tries to roll away but Kas follows him.

  I reach over to her and slowly pull the barrel away from Sweeney’s head. He crawls backwards, swearing loudly.

  The other two Wilders back away.

  Jack has them covered. ‘On your knees,’ he shouts. They cower in front of him. ‘Finn,’ he says. ‘Check their bags for some rope.’

  ‘They have cable ties.’ It’s the girl. I notice her accent. She sort of clips the end off each word.

  She’s right. I find half a dozen short ties and one long one. While I cover the Wilders, Jack forces them to stand back to back. Sweeney can’t hold himself upright yet but Jack yanks him to his feet. He uses the shorter ties to fasten their wrists, then he runs the long tie through all the shorter ones.

  ‘We won’t be able to keep up with you like this,’ Sweeney says.

  ‘You’re right,’ Jack says. ‘That’s why we’re leaving you here.’

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ Sweeney spits.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Jack says, rummaging through their bags, looking for anything useful. ‘But, just in case’—he gets to his feet and stands in front of them—‘we might make it a bit harder for you.’ He smiles and thuds his rifle into the side of their legs. They fall on top of each other. Then, one foot at a time, Jack takes off their boots, checks them for size against his own and pushes them into his pack.

  ‘I know some people who’ll appreciate these,’ he says.

  The girl has moved away towards the trees, ready to run. Kas lowers her rifle and approaches her. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks.

  The girl hesitates, still unsure of us. ‘Daymu,’ she says.

  ‘She’s a Siley,’ Sweeney yells. ‘A runaway. We’ve tracked her from Longley. She’s ours.’

  Kas looks back at him. I’m worried she’ll kill him if he keeps this up. I place myself between them and point my rifle at Sweeney. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I say, trying to sound vicious.

  But Sweeney just laughs and makes a barking noise.

  ‘You think you scare me, boy? Look at you, weak as piss. Ramage has a price on your head for what you done to him. He’ll make an example of you.’

  ‘Weak as piss?’ Jack says, getting to his feet and standing over Sweeney. ‘I’ll tell you who’s weak as piss. Grown men who take advantage of young kids. You ought to be ashamed.’

  ‘The world’s different now, or haven’t you noticed?’ Sweeney says. ‘There are no rules. No one can tell us what to do.’

  ‘Ramage tells you what to do,’ Kas cuts in. ‘And you’re stupid enough to follow him. That’s weak as piss. You’re pathetic.’

  ‘Least I’m not a freak.’

  ‘That’s it?’ she says, smiling now. ‘That’s the best you’ve got?’

  ‘All right,’ Jack says. ‘We gotta get going.’

  ‘What about them?’ I ask, pointing at the Wilders.

  ‘Them?’ Jack says, laughing, ‘They’ve got a long day ahead of them, probably a long week. And even if they do survive, I’m sure Ramage will be impressed they lost their prisoner.’

  The Wilders have only the one weapon, a useless old shotgun with no ammunition as far as we can see. Just the same, Jack smashes it against a tree, warping the barrels and breaking the stock into pieces. Then we leave them and make our way into the bush. Daymu is uncertain about this new situation, but Kas encourages her. Before we go too far we stop and watch as the three Wilders try to get to their feet. They scrabble at the ground, swearing and cursing at each other. They won’t be going anywhere for a while.

  ‘What are we going to do with her?’ Jack asks, looking at Daymu.

  The girl shifts her gaze from one of us to another. ‘I won’t hold you up,’ she says.

  ‘What were you doing out here?’ Kas asks.

  ‘I didn’t know where to go.’

  ‘Where did you come from? Originally.’

  ‘Wentworth.’

  ‘You’re from Wentworth?’ I say. She looks at me strangely.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Kas says, ‘he talks like that all the time. You get used to it.’

  Daymu nods. ‘I lived there for a while, until it got too dangerous. My owners both died.’

  I remember what the No-landers said about what was happening in Wentworth. I wonder if it was dangerous for everybody or just for Sileys.

  Kas takes Daymu’s left hand and turns it over to see the familiar lump under her skin. It’s then we notice a large welt on the inside of her forearm. She tries to pull away, but Kas holds her. There is a dark ‘R’ burnt into her skin.

  ‘What’s this?’ Kas asks.

  Daymu looks at the ground. Her voice is almost a whisper. ‘It’s what they’re doing at the feedstore, now.’

  ‘Branding!�
�� Kas says through clenched teeth. ‘The bastards.’

  Jack walks off a little, surveying the country ahead.

  ‘You were in Longley?’ Kas asks Daymu.

  ‘Only for a few days,’ she says. ‘Things were happening there. They were getting ready to send raiding parties out once the weather cleared. I took my chance one night and escaped. I’d heard the kids in Longley talking about some Sileys who’re fighting back. I was trying to find them.’

  Before Kas or I can say anything about the No-landers, Jack says, ‘We don’t have time to talk. You can come with us or not. It’s up to you. But we’re leaving now.’

  Daymu doesn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll come,’ she says.

  We make good time, even though the terrain is rough. The bracken has been replaced by sword grass that slices at our bare arms. Daymu keeps up easily, though her legs below her dress are crisscrossed with cuts from the grass. She’s small, but there’s strength in her body. She doesn’t push at the undergrowth, she turns sideways and seems to slip through the gaps.

  After an hour or so, we stop to rest. Kas offers Daymu water. She takes a long drink then spills some of it into her hands and splashes her face, rubbing at the cut above her eye. She sits back against a log and draws her knees up to her chest. From a pocket in her dress she pulls a small length of baling twine, bunches her hair in her hands and ties it back into a ponytail.

  Kas sits next to her. ‘Where are you from?’ she asks.

  Daymu doesn’t hesitate. ‘I am Karen,’ she says.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Not where, what. My people are from Myanmar.’

  ‘You came through the camps?’

  ‘Yes, with my brother.’

  ‘Where’s he?’

  Daymu hesitates, looking past us into the bush. ‘We were separated. Then I was caught. I don’t know where he is.’

  I break up the last of the bread. Daymu wolfs hers down.

  Without having to speak about it Kas and I have made a decision—not to tell her about the No-landers, not yet.

  Before long, we turn south into the foothills, leaving the plains behind. A road winds through the thickening forest, rising with the ridges and falling away into little valleys with ruined farmhouses and open paddocks that are slowly being reclaimed by the bush. We move at an easy pace, Jack and me out in front, keeping our eyes peeled, especially in the open country, and Kas and Daymu following behind. The storms must have been less severe here. There are a few smaller trees across the road but mostly the way is clear.

  It’s approaching midday; the sun is high behind my left shoulder, when we reach the top of a hill and get our first view of Swan’s Marsh. A couple of hundred metres ahead of us the road meets a larger one, coming from Longley.

  Jack waits until Kas and Daymu catch up. ‘Swan’s Marsh,’ he says, pointing towards the cluster of buildings sitting low in the valley. ‘That’s it. I’m heading back. Be careful. The Monahans are a rough mob. And they’re in with Ramage. If they don’t kill you, they’ll hand you over to him. And you heard what the Wilders said: Ramage’ll do anything to catch you two.’

  I’d hoped Jack would stick around a bit longer.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, his voice softer. ‘I’ve got to get back to the valley before Ramage gets there. It’s going to be a tough fight—we can’t afford to be a man down.’

  He shakes my hand and wishes me luck. There’s an awkward moment when he stands in front of Kas, not sure whether to shake her hand too, or even hug her. Kas just nods and gives him a half smile.

  ‘Stay off the roads,’ he says. ‘Another couple of days and the place could be swarming with Wilders.’ He hitches his pack onto his back. It bulges with the Wilders’ boots.

  ‘Right then,’ he says. ‘I’m off.’

  The three of us watch Jack disappear over the crest of the hill. It’s been a while since we’ve been on our own. I don’t know whether I’m relieved or worried.

  We drop off the side of the road and find a protected spot in a stand of wattles. We have a clear view down to the town about half a kilometre away. The whole place looks deserted. There’s no smoke rising from chimneys, no noise of chopping wood or hammering nails.

  ‘What do you remember about coming through here on the way to the coast?’ I ask Kas.

  ‘Not much more than what Rose would’ve told you.’

  ‘She said there was a general store on the main street,’ I say. ‘That’s where the Monahans were.’

  Daymu has been listening, trying to understand what I’m saying and follow the conversation.

  ‘We need to get closer,’ I say. ‘Maybe in those trees behind the houses on the right.’ Beyond the buildings on the left of the main street there’s nothing but open paddocks, but on the right the bush pushes down from a small ridge to within twenty or thirty metres of the houses and shops. From Rose’s description, the largest one of these, a weatherboard place with a bull-nosed verandah and an open yard next to it, is the general store.

  Kas says, ‘Daymu, can you stay here with the gear for a few minutes?’

  Daymu nods.

  Kas and I take the rifles and make our way down through the trees to the top of the paddock above the road. I’m not sure why she’s brought us here. ‘Do you remember the directions the No-landers gave us about getting to their place?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah. But why do we need to go there? If we find Hope, we can take her straight to the valley.’

  ‘Not us. Daymu. We could tell her where to find the No-landers.’

  It seems like a good idea. We don’t have enough food for three and we don’t need another person to look out for.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But if she tells them about us, they’ll know we lied to them back at Pinchgut.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought of that, too, but so what? We’ll be on our way back to the valley before she even finds them.’

  We climb back up to Daymu. I’m pretty sure she knows we’re still suspicious of her.

  ‘There’s something we haven’t told you,’ Kas says. She recounts our meeting with the No-landers, without mentioning anything about them looking for Rose.

  Daymu listens quietly, probably trying to figure out whether we’re telling the truth or just trying to get rid of her. ‘So, how can I find their farm?’ she says.

  We walk to the side of the paddock, looking to the northwest. I’ve been trying to get my bearings while Kas’s been talking. ‘I reckon you’ll need to follow the road towards Longley for an hour or so. That’ll be super dangerous, so be careful. There should be a creek flowing down off the ridges up there,’ I say, pointing to the hills that rise to the blue-grey range that’s catching the afternoon sun. ‘Follow the creek upstream. You’ll see a fire tower at the high point above the valley. Head towards it and you should find the No-landers, though they’ll most likely find you first.’

  Daymu is wide eyed. I’m not sure how much she understands of what I’m saying.

  Kas opens her pack and pulls out the dried meat. She breaks some off and gives it to Daymu. ‘It’s not much, but…’

  Daymu looks as though she’s going to cry. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  ‘Hey,’ says Kas. ‘We Sileys have to stick together.’ She rummages in the pack again and pulls out some clothes, a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. ‘These’ll be a bit big but they’ll be warmer than that dress.’

  Daymu takes them, feeling the material and holding them against her chest like they are the most precious things she’s ever held. She hides behind a tree to change.

  When she steps back out it’s hard not to laugh. She’s taken the baling twine out of her hair to loop around her waist and hold the shorts up and the shirt is a couple of sizes too big. She hitches the shorts and shrugs.

  She bundles her dress up and wraps the meat in it, while we hide the packs in the branches of a fallen tree.

  We walk parallel to the road until we come to the T-intersection. Moving is easier without the packs, but t
he rifles are awkward. We cross the road as quickly as we can and hide in the trees along its south side.

  Daymu takes a few steps, then turns and says, ‘Good luck. I won’t forget you.’

  Kas lifts her left hand, turning it to show her implant. Daymu does the same, then moves off warily, scanning up and down the road. When she’s satisfied it’s clear, she steps out onto the bitumen and starts running.

  It takes Kas and me about ten minutes to reach the first building, a burnt-out brick house. From here we have some cover until we’re within sight of the general store. Then we head uphill into the trees and find a spot that gives a good view of the yard and the back door.

  We sit, watch and wait. Kas fidgets, her leg jerking up and down. I put my hand on her knee. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ve never been good at sitting still. Hope could be down there.’

  I’m battling to keep my own nerves under control. After the peaceful days in the valley this is serious again.

  After about an hour, Kas has had enough. ‘I think we should go down,’ she says. ‘We would’ve seen something by now if they were here.’

  The old familiar adrenaline starts to pump through my body. Carrying the rifles in front of us, we run and slide down to a paling fence at the back of the yard. Somewhere off to our right a dog barks, the first sign of life in the town.

  Kas signals for us to make a run to the back of the store. I pull a couple of the palings aside to open a gap. Kas slips through but my jumper gets caught when I try to follow. She comes back to unhook me, looking over her shoulder at the house. Just as I get loose, we hear the back door open. The flyscreen bangs against the side of the house.

  It’s Bridget Monahan.

  She freezes when she sees us, dropping the washing basket she’s holding and looking back over her shoulder. Kas and I stop dead in our tracks and there’s a moment when all the sound around us seems to die.

  Bridget steps out and closes the door carefully behind her, holding a finger to her lips. She shoos us around the corner of the house. We’re caught between turning and running or following her signal. Kas is the first to move—towards the house. I follow and we crouch under a big bush growing against the back wall. Bridget picks up her basket and walks past us to the washing line.