The Memory Tree

by Jennifer Scoullar

  As Matt stumbled to his feet he saw the full chaos surrounding him. It must have teemed overnight. The camp was drenched. Sodden people sat shackled to tree trunks. Some were firmly ensconced in the buried cars, their hands chained through holes in the floor to concrete blocks below. Others were clambering up trees or fleeing into the bush, defying the shrill orders of police and forestry officials. Half a dozen dragons – old bombs minus wheels – blocked the rough road into the forest, preventing effective pursuit. We Shall Overcome sounded in harmony from a group sitting cross-legged, arms linked, under the Camp Clementine sign. Swarms of police wandered the camp, some threatening, some cajoling. Matt didn’t recognise any of them. He checked his watch. Nine o’clock already. The folly of yesterday filtered into his hangover-fuddled head. Where were Drake and Sarah? He couldn’t see them.

  ‘Name, address and driver’s licence,’ said the policewoman, pen and paper at the ready. She wasn’t a local. Must be part of the Hobart force. All around him, charges of trespass were being read out. Sheepishly, he produced his ID. The policewoman examined it without comprehension.

  ‘It’s a park ranger’s licence,’ he said. She still looked puzzled. ‘It means I’m allowed to be here.’

  Matt sank into a soggy chair and put his head in his hands, while the woman called another policeman over to look at the licence. The wind had shifted north, warmer now, almost humid. He pulled back his hood and glanced skywards. A curious cloud bank was building in the north-east, boiling higher and higher.

  Matt glanced about and saw Nick Byrne wend his way through the throng towards him. He flashed his badge and waved off the doubtful officers. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  Matt shrugged. His tongue lay thick and foul against his lips. Somewhere a chainsaw roared to life, then another. Over by the sign, muddy protesters were being dragged to paddy wagons, one by one. Matt’s instinct was to help them.

  Nick must have sensed trouble. ‘It’s not your fight,’ he warned.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Matt. Perhaps his father had made it his fight.

  ‘Interfere with this, your job’s as good as gone, mate.’

  Nick was right, of course. Matt pulled himself together. ‘I’m out of here,’ he said, holding his palms in an open-handed sign that he was done. Nick nodded and marched off to help process the ever-growing queue of arrestees.

  Matt looked about for his jeep, searched the lines of vehicles. It was gone. Bit by bit the realisation hit him. Drake had taken off with his jeep, and with Sarah, and left him stranded in the middle of a rout. Some friend. Matt groaned. Aquila’s mate, Woorawa, was arriving this morning. And what about Penny? He flicked a leech from the soft skin of his wrist and explored his trouser pockets for his phone. Nothing but a few coins, some gum and a used tissue.

  Matt racked his brain about the night before, disgusted with himself. He had little recollection of anything after arriving at the camp. The evening had vanished into a slab of Bundaberg Rum. For all he knew, he’d left the phone in his jeep or lost it altogether. Had he called Penny? He hoped so. Well, no use worrying about it. Right now he needed to find a lift home and some Panadol.

  Ignoring the surrounding mayhem, he lurched to the kitchen tent and hunted around until he found a box of headache tablets. He swallowed three of them, along with some orange juice, and felt strength returning to his dehydrated body. He slapped a cold, fried egg between two slices of stale bread. Better than nothing. Matt pulled his coat tight around him and buried his hands in its pockets. At least the rain had stopped. He sat down to watch and wait. His best bet might be to cadge a ride back with Nick at the end of it all.

  It soon became evident that this wasn’t quite the rout he’d imagined. For one thing, dozens of cars full of protesters were still arriving. Film crews were arriving too, one from the national broadcaster and two more from commercial channels. They parked behind the police contingent, hemming them in. The silver Save Tassie’s Forests banners would show up well on TV.

  Police and protesters swarmed between the recently arrived vehicles and the camp site. Some people escaped back along the track, pursuable only by police on trail bikes. The city coppers seemed disorganised and out of their comfort zone, reluctant to slide through wet clay and roots to follow people into thick forest, or to struggle through the spiky barriers of branches around the camp perimeter.

  The local police knew to soak their socks in salt water before scrambling through the bush. In contrast, the Hobart coppers stopped constantly to pick off leeches, and faltered at each mischievous cry of tiger snake or copperhead. Only a small proportion of activists seemed to be ending up in paddy wagons, and the roaming television crews were putting a dampener on the Forestry Department’s famous enthusiasm for arrests. A petite elderly woman slipped over as they led her away, and the cameras were right there. A constable helped her to her feet. She leaned heavily on his arm, clutching a beaded handbag and looking dazed. Matt stood up. It was Margaret Murphy, Ken’s grandmother. He moved within earshot.

  ‘Are you okay?’ a reporter asked her.

  ‘I’ve hurt my ankle,’ said Mrs Murphy. ‘But it’s my heart I’m worried about. My heart is sore.’

  The alarmed constable called for first aid and the reporter found her a chair.

  ‘Can you tell us your name?’

  ‘Margaret Murphy.’

  ‘And why are you here, Margaret?’

  ‘I think these trees should be preserved. They’re our grandchildren’s heritage, after all.’

  The reporter nodded. ‘Are you a local?’

  ‘Oh my word, yes,’ said Mrs Murphy. ‘I’ve run the tearooms in Hills End for forty years, with a little bed and breakfast attached. And now when tourists come, they ask me, “Why do you people let them cut down these lovely forests? It’s what we come to see.” And I thought to myself, they are entirely right. So I came out here to help.’

  More press crowded around. Someone wrapped a blanket about Mrs Murphy’s shoulders. A few drops of rain and someone else found her an umbrella. Matt smiled, enjoying himself now. Reporters loved a human angle, and his father would hate this little piece going to air. Sweet, silver-haired old ladies like Mrs Murphy hardly fitted the stereotype of ratbag mainland greenies. He guessed the police had only detained her because the able-bodied had fled. Another television crew joined the scrum.

  ‘And what does this forest mean to you, Margaret?’

  ‘Life,’ she said simply. ‘This forest has meant life to my family ever since I was a girl. My father owned the sawmill then and my grandson owns it now. My mother said Dad’s occupation was a blessing, because during the war Hobart shipwrights built supply ships and minesweepers for the Pacific campaign. Sawmilling was a protected industry and timber workers weren’t allowed to enlist. “This forest saved Dad’s life,” Mum would say to us kids. But he didn’t chop down every tree in sight, not like they do now. He only logged what he needed, and he used everything. Swamp gum for hulls. Back then a single log could build an eighty-foot keel. Huon and celery top pine for decks. “Celery top needs to be at least two hundred years old,” Dad used to say. “If you saw it under that, you’re wasting it.” We were the original greenies, I suppose, during the war. We had to preserve things, conserve things, make things last. My father would turn in his grave to see them chip all this wonderful wood.’

  A young officer came over with a steaming mug of coffee. She wrapped her stiff fingers around the warm mug.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Now, where was I?’ Her voice, though low, commanded the attention of all those nearby. ‘Sometimes my mother and brothers and me, we’d join Dad out here at the bush camp. We had marvellous times, absolutely marvellous. We just ran wild. Mum took us for picnics to the fairy tree and told us stories. That was my favourite place. A tree so tall its top was lost in cloud, so old its roots were lost in time. Dad carved make-believe animals and elves and goblins into its bark for us, and we believed it was enchanted. When I was grown, my hu
sband carved our names in it as well. “As long as this tree stands strong, so will our love,” he told me, and he was true to his word. You could never have met a finer husband and father than my Bob.’

  ‘Your Bob sounds like quite the romantic,’ said the officer with a smile.

  ‘Oh, we weren’t the only ones. Local sweethearts have been carving their names into that tree for over a hundred years. I remember one particular carving. Belle and Luke, etched inside an angel. A beautiful angel, very old and engraved with great care. I always prayed that those two lived a life as happy as mine and Bob’s.’

  ‘And do you know what happened to the fairy tree, Margaret?’ asked a reporter.

  ‘Of course I do. It’s the same tree those young people have climbed today. They are very brave to risk themselves, defending their principles like that. I think they are the very best young people we have.’ Margaret sipped her coffee. Nobody spoke. A medic arrived, helped her to her feet and guided her away.

  ‘Matt! Matt, over here!’

  He turned to see Penny, frantic, trying to push past an officer who had hold of her arm. Her copper hair lit the grey-skied morning. Matt’s heart beat faster, and a rush of warmth washed over him at the sight of her. Yet fear lurked beneath his pleasure; fear of telling Penny about Lazarus and of the pain it would cause.

  He hurried over. ‘This is my wife.’ Matt showed his ID, and the officer let Penny’s arm go. Matt pulled her to him, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her lightly on the lips. She yielded at first, leaning into him, then stiffened.

  ‘Come on.’ She led him to the edge of the camp and into the forest, away from the shouting and milling people. Penny brushed a leaf and cobwebs from his hair. ‘I know about Lazarus.’

  Her words sent a raw jolt through his throbbing head. ‘I found him yesterday,’ said Matt. ‘Beside the road, high in the park.’ He licked his lips, which were rough and dry as sandpaper. ‘Sorry Pen. It broke my heart, too. I don’t remember hitting him, but no one else was up there this week.’

  He saw no blame in Penny’s eyes, and for some reason that made him feel worse. He deserved her anger.

  ‘Is Lazarus the reason why you didn’t come home last night?’ He pressed his fingers to his temple. She gently pried them away, keeping hold of them. ‘Listen to me. You had nothing to do with what happened.’ He squeezed her hands, then dropped them and turned away. She pulled him back to her. ‘Matt, I mean it. You didn’t kill Lazarus. A dog did.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘The vet will confirm it later today. It was a large dog, definitely a dog.’

  Matt struggled to make sense of it. There were no dogs in the park. Then a second, stunning possibility dawned in his foggy brain.

  ‘I thought you’d be happy to know you weren’t responsible.’

  Matt said nothing, looked at his boots, and Penny shook him by the shoulders. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. We can’t go on like this. Do you realise you missed Woorawa coming? And what’s with the new chest freezer that arrived yesterday out of the blue. How much did that cost? Don’t we talk about anything anymore?’

  Matt burned with words that wouldn’t come.

  ‘Aargh, I give up.’ Penny stamped her feet and marched off.

  He followed her, weaving his way through the police throng, dodging timber workers who were sawing through the stumps of camp buildings and hauling down canvas and tin.

  Nick waylaid him. ‘They’re going up after Lisa and Lucky,’ he said.

  ‘Who, the city coppers?’ Matt snorted. ‘They couldn’t climb a ladder.’

  ‘Nah, the state search-and-rescue boys. Those blokes know what they’re doing.’ Nick looked after Penny, stomping her way to the jeep, shoulders squared, fists tight by her side. He offered Matt some gum. Matt popped it in his mouth, but peppermint couldn’t disguise the rank taste on his tongue. ‘I reckon they’ll be a lot safer going up that tree than you will be going home with her,’ said Nick.

  Matt grinned ruefully. ‘I reckon you’re right, mate.’

  Chapter 18

  By the time he reached the jeep, Penny was already sitting in the driver’s seat. Pursed lips, stiff back, knuckle-white hands in charge of the wheel.

  Matt climbed in beside her. ‘Did Woorawa come? Does Aquila like her new boyfriend?’

  Apparently it was Penny’s turn not to talk. She took off, grinding gears, wheels hurling mud behind them.

  ‘Remind me never to listen to Drake,’ he said. ‘Or drink Bundy and coke.’ A tight smile this time, as though she was happy he had a hangover. He tried again. ‘Hobart search-and-rescue are going up after Lisa and Lucky.’

  Now he had her attention. ‘Up where?’

  ‘Up Pallawarra.’

  Penny’s eyes grew large. ‘Nobody would dare cut down Pallawarra.’

  ‘Not if Drake’s mob can help it.’

  The jeep emerged from the track into the flattened logging coupe. Penny stopped for a moment, grim-faced, unable to get her bearings in a forest so utterly changed. ‘Our names are on that tree,’ she said.

  Matt let out a long breath, remembering their first date. It had been on the anniversary of her parents’ death in a road accident. In a way, he and Penny were both orphans. They’d visited Pallawarra to look for her mother and father’s name on the trunk. Matt had added their own, engraved within a large heart. When she saw what he’d done, she’d blushed and scolded him. But she hadn’t meant it; she’d been happy. She wasn’t happy now.

  An officer stopped them when they reached a wide cordon set up around Pallawarra. Matt showed ID and they were through, with Nick and several news crews following close behind. They parked behind the high-angle search-and-rescue vehicle. It overflowed with equipment: nylon kernmantle ropes and lines, an array of anchoring and belaying devices, pulleys, harnesses, a capstan winch on a light aluminium frame. Paramedics stood by with stretchers and first aid supplies.

  Matt hung his binoculars round his neck, leaned against the jeep and grinned at Nick as he got out of his own car. ‘I don’t think they’ve got enough gear.’

  ‘Why don’t they just climb the bloody tree, like you did?’

  Penny turned to face Matt. ‘You climbed Pallawarra?’

  ‘I had to get Drake down,’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘Nick, is this true? Matt could have died, and nobody thought to tell me?’ Penny looked close to tears as Nick and Matt mumbled apologies.

  Pallawarra stood framed by an anvil of cloud. Minus the protection of his centuries-old companions, the tree looked as hurt and sad as Penny did.

  ‘Two Hobart coppers from southern command have gone up first,’ said Nick. ‘Some sort of a turf war, I reckon. They wanted to beat the local search-and-rescue fellers up the tree. I tell you what, they’re making it look like bloody hard work.’

  Matt went for his binoculars. The two officers were barely ten metres above the ground, inching up the trunk, supported by lanyards and harnesses. They’d take forever at that rate. The tree-sitters’ platform was a good sixty metres high.

  The men wore vicious-looking tree spikes strapped to their boots. Matt flinched each time the blades pierced Pallawarra, injuring the living tissue beneath his bark, making entry points for rot. It was like multiple stabbings. The wounds would bleed sap for days.

  Now a member of the local search-and-rescue crew began his ascent with a sling. He was a first-rate lead climber who didn’t use spikes. Those on the ground went quiet, backing up to take in the man’s progress, ignoring a sprinkling of hail. When he overtook the Hobart team, a brief cheer rang out, before a sudden fierce rain squall forced everyone under the hoods of their jackets. Matt offered Penny the scant shelter of his hat, and she accepted without a word.

  * * *

  Ten thousand metres above the forest, warm winds were melting hail into solid shafts of rain. A narrow column of air chased after the downpour, plummeting earthwards, gathering momentum on the way. Thunder rumbled and Zeus himself might ha
ve been massing the clouds.

  The tired climber reached a broad branch only fifteen metres beneath the platform. He fixed an anchor rope, known as a belay or top rope, and rappelled back down. Now two fresh men geared up, attaching their harnesses to the belay rope.

  Matt was sweating. The air felt clammy and lightning streaked across the wine-dark sky. Wisps of virga hung like torn drapes beneath the thunderhead.

  ‘We should head home,’ said Penny.

  Matt nodded, but neither of them moved. The news crews lay in wait, doing the occasional live-cross. Margaret Murphy sat in the front seat of the Channel 9 truck, running commentary. With the belay rope in place, the two new search-and-rescue men soon passed the Hobart team and reached the anchor branch. Matt peered through the binoculars. Metres above them, Lisa and Lucky stood braced and strapped together against the trunk running through the middle of the platform. Lucky had lowered a stout top rope to assist the climbers below, and the local boys now used it to reach the platform. Nobody wanted any accidents.

  Matt checked his phone. Eleven o’clock, but the day felt older, worn through. He gave Penny the binoculars, then crossed his arms above his head against the rain: fat plopping drops, like Queensland rain.

  ‘Will Lisa and Lucky try escaping?’ asked Penny.

  Matt had also noticed the swaying escape cable disappearing off into the canopy, but he shook his head. ‘Too dangerous in this weather. What’s happening now?’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Penny handed the binoculars back to Matt.

  The city coppers, who’d almost reached the anchor branch, were still using tree spikes, even though they had a top rope and branches to climb.

  Lightning stabbed the peculiar grey-green sky, followed by close volleys of thunder. A violent wintry blast threatened to knock everyone off their feet. Above them, Lucky would be checking his straps, holding tight to the top rope, shouting encouragement to the climbers. Stay calm and check your harness, your locking triggers. Keep your buckles tight, your carabiners secure. Don’t worry, I’ve held plenty of falls. But the wind would whip his words away, and what about this bloody weather?