Marngrook and Other Award-winning Stories from the Stringybark Australian History Award

by David Vernon

  Historical note: During the 1950 -51 Victorian bush fire season my family was trying to scratch a living from a small farm at Monbulk. My father was working at the then famous Monbulk Jam Factory, The fire did come, as described, and I did try to harness the terrified horse. Several houses were burnt but fortunately not ours.

  Frank Stubbs was born during World War 2, the only child of a soldier. His life has encompassed a great many activities from shooting kangaroos in Central Australia to running his own building supply company in Melbourne. When he was a boy Frank’s family used a horse and buggy as a means of transport, yet during his life he saw man land on the moon and he regularly uses a computer during everyday life. As a writer, Frank believes that his boyhood in Victorian country towns gives him a unique perspective from which to write. Frank has previously been published in the Stringybark anthology, The Bridge.

  Retribution

  — Kate Komoll

  For Juliet

  The lizard basked in the heat of the tarred surface. Sensing an alien vibration, it lifted its head slightly to look around, but saw nothing.

  The road sliced cleanly through the bush. Where it cut deeper, red earth bled in small landslides on either side.

  The car came from the west. Its driver stepped on the accelerator to swerve towards the lizard. He smiled when he felt, rather than heard, the dull thump as the wheels ran over it.

  He slowed, pulling over beside a broken-down post and barbed wire fence, relic of times long forgotten. Stepping out of the air-conditioned car, he looked around. As the heat rose in waves, he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. He looked longingly at the esky on the back seat. No, not now... afterwards.

  Once this land had been cultivated. Now thin saplings jostled together, making way for the occasional mature gum from an earlier forest. Tinder-dry leaves and scattered grass sparsely covered the ground. The bush had reclaimed its own. It was omnipotent, vulnerable only to bush fires from which it would always rise in continuing re-birth. Some trees indeed needed fire to regenerate themselves.

  He looked both ways, but nothing approached. This road was almost disused. Opening the car boot, he removed a spade. Stepping over the broken fence, he scratched his ankle deeply on a twist of barbed wire, his blood soaking into the earth. Cursing, he dropped the spade, stooping to tie his handkerchief around the wound, staunching the bleeding.

  Walking some way into the bush until the road could no longer be seen, he stepped into the small clearing between two large trees. Scraping away leaves, he began digging a trench.

  It was hard going. Although not stony, the earth had baked dry through a long hot summer. When he had last been here, the ground had been soft.

  Occasionally he paused, wiping away sweat, standing still for a while till his breathing slowed. The esky awaited him in the car; now he was parched. Yet he persisted until he had dug a metre down. It would have to do.

  He rubbed his right shoulder; he seemed to have pulled a muscle. He needed to rest for a while until it passed. And he needed to take an antacid tablet. Why had he eaten those two steak sandwiches at the truckstop? They still hadn't gone down.

  The doctor had told him he might develop diabetes, if he did not alter his diet. But he was only in his late thirties. They said that diabetes usually didn't hit until fifty.

  He sat down on the ground, leaning his back against the trunk of the larger tree, fumbling in his top pocket. Yes, the tablets were there. He took one, then another, chewing them slowly. Closing his eyes, he drowsed a little, waking with a start when a twig snapped. It was the hottest time of day.

  In the stillness, the bush was alive with sounds, despite the extreme heat. Dried out foliage and twigs crackled, ready to ignite. Small creatures made their way purposefully beneath the ground cover; birds occasionally flew to feed on them; while larger nocturnal creatures drowsed high in the trees.

  Overhead a wedge-tailed eagle kept vigil, swooping and soaring high towards the burning sun, never settling.

  It was shady where he sat under the spreading canopy of the tree. He felt much better now. Resolutely, he rose to his feet. Walking back to the road, the distance seemed twice as long. He flinched when he opened the boot again, its surface burning to the touch. He dropped it closed as he heard a car in the distance. Walking to the fence, he unzipped his fly, surprised that he actually needed to urinate.

  The car passed as the stream stopped, but he neither moved, nor turned until its sound faded completely.

  Returning to the car, he took a beer from the esky, pouring it down his throat, tossing it to the edge of the road. He smoked the cigarette he had rolled earlier, tossing the match to join the beer can. It briefly ignited a dry blade of grass before extinguishing itself, but he had already turned away.

  He opened the boot to remove his burden. It was heavy. He strained to lift it, sweat running into the collar of his shirt.

  “Christ!” he said.

  Suddenly he felt an impending sense of doom. He shook his head. No, nothing would go wrong. It never had.

  Moving slowly, he again approached the fence, Again, rusty barbed wire caught at his ankle, slashing his trouser leg. But he could not stop now. Another car might come. Wrenching his leg free, staggering a little, he headed back into the bush.

  He froze as a tiger snake slithered slowly across his path, indifferent to his presence in its territory. When it passed, he shifted his burden slightly before going on. Another car might come.

  It seemed even hotter now. All his senses were heightened. He was conscious of the sound of twigs crunching under his feet. With relief, he finally reached the clearing. Letting down his burden, he propped it up against the tree under which he had sat before.

  He walked to the trench. It was not deep enough.

  “Jesus!” he said aloud.

  He picked up the spade. This time, he tired more quickly, stopping frequently to rest and regain his breath. He was a heavy man, running to fat around the middle, his unshaven face red with unaccustomed exertion. Eventually he needed to sit down again, under the other tree.

  Now he had a raging thirst. He had meant to bring another beer.

  Despite his parched throat, he needed a cigarette. Pulling the tobacco pouch from his pocket, he rolled one, his hands trembling; whether from exhaustion or excitement, he did not know. Finally he lit it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs . Again he tossed the match aside. He coughed. He took another draw.

  His eyes closed gratefully as the tobacco took effect. The cigarette dropped from nerveless fingers as he again drifted into a doze. Fumbling in the leaf litter, he found it. Smoking it down almost to the butt, he stood to stamp it out on the ground.

  He was ready to go on again. Taking the spade up, he resumed digging. He felt worse by the minute, but there was no stopping now. His empty car might attract attention.

  Sweat ran down his face, his back, his arms. He stopped several times to wipe his hands on his trousers; to swipe his sleeve across his face. His breathing became more laboured. Things were going wrong this time. That strange sense of impending doom had returned. He shook his head again, trying to dispel it.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes again, but still he could not see. Bending to untie the handkerchief on his leg, he tied it round his head. Standing still for a moment, he tried to slow his breathing.

  Suddenly he knew.

  No, he thought. He could not speak. No! There was still so much to do.

  Abruptly, the excruciating pain knifed up his right arm, rising through his shoulder to his jaw. A band tightened around his chest.

  He fell like a stone, crumpling backwards into the waiting earth, his bowels and bladder voiding in this final moment.

  Propped against the larger tree's trunk, the dead girl's sightless blue eyes stared at him. She was young and pretty, perhaps fifteen. Her long blonde hair spread about her shoulders, a cord still around her neck, her hands still tied. Her lips curved in a seeming smile, although it could
not be.

  He did not feel the tiny ants crawling over his hands, searching relentlessly through the coarse black hair on the backs of his hands and fingers. They explored his thick dark hair; they entered his ears, his slightly open mouth, tasting the vomit trickling from one corner. They crawled inside his collar, his sleeves, his trouser legs. They had already asserted their rights to his body. They ran over his dark brown eyes, now dry and staring, as the blazing sun evaporated his sweat to salt.

  The bush watched impassively. They would remain there, both man and victim, forever linked in death. Gradually, they would be consumed, until only their bones and hair remained. They had joined his other victims, four of them, covered by low mounds of earth, scattered around the clearing.

  The sun slowly sank towards the horizon.

  High in the sky, the eagle hovered, to swoop in a graceful arc, to feed on the dead lizard.

  In the clearing, high up in the bigger tree, an interloper had watched all that had happened. The large feral cat with black tiger stripes would wait for night to fall. She could eat for days.

  The tiger snake nestled against his still warm body, waiting for her.

  The endless cycle of life and death continued, as it always would.

  As darkness cooled the earth, the bush sighed with relief.

  Historical note: The original (now lost) version of Retribution was written in 1978, accepted for publication by a women's magazine, but returned marked ‘rejected’ a year later. In hindsight, this probably happened because this fictional story uncannily mirrored the unfolding real events of the Truro Murders, one of Australia's first set of serial murders. Publication of the story might have been deemed rather insensitive for victims’ families and perhaps have presented potential legal problems if linked to real-life. The first two bodies were discovered in 1978-9, followed by a further five — seven young women aged 15-26 who had disappeared in Adelaide between 23 December 1976 and 12 February 1977. Five were buried in close proximity at Truro, the others at Wingfield and Gawler. Juliet Mykta, aged 16 years, the third Truro victim, represents all the seven young women whose lives were so tragically and brutally cut short.

  Kate Komoll lives in a small rural town beside Lake Albert, in South Australia's Coorong region. She has two dogs, and a visiting neighbour's goat to mow the backyard. She need only walk a couple of hundred metres to enter the bush she loves! Kate has previously been published in the Stringybark anthology, The Bridge.

  Water Rights

  — Kate King

  Cissie was carrying the third load of water from the well when she noticed the woman squatting in the dust beside David. He listened to her as he continued scoring the earth with a stick. Cissie set the buckets down and pushed the damp hair back from her forehead. The grey blanket on the stranger’s shoulder was one of the cast-offs she’d sent down to the camp with Molly.

  “Hello there. What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Hello, Missus. Jus’ come along for some water,” the black woman replied, her head bent.

  “Take some from my bucket there and get along. And don’t bring back any of the others,” Cissie said.

  “No water left at the camp, Missus.”

  “Not much here either. Off with you.” Cissie’s heart thumped against her swollen belly. Next thing they’d all be down for water with their billies and dippers, the picaninnies trailing behind with their snotty noses and knotted hair. They knew the house was off limits. The cheek of the woman to even try the waterhole. She watched her meander off down the creek bed. They were getting thin. Probably not much left to hunt. The roos were like scarecrows, too. You could walk right up to them. They barely had the energy to stand, let alone hop away.

  The men weren’t due back from Narromine for a month yet. She hoped the Murris’ tucker would hold out till then. “Don’t talk to blackfellas like that, David,” she ordered as she hauled the buckets up the slope to the garden. He dawdled after her, dragging the stick behind him.

  The seedlings were wilting already and the sun was barely over the horizon. She splashed the water around the marrows and beans, avoiding the spinach leaves. The winds burnt any leaves she wet. She’d soon learnt that gardening in the north was all about protecting the plants from the sun, not exposing them to it.

  She leant against a box tree and let the honeycombed bark press into her aching back. No clouds again. The sky lightening to metallic brightness just like every other dawn sky in the last three years. Would she ever be able to lie in and listen to the rain on the iron roof doing her morning chores for her?

  Molly arrived from the camp while she was kneading the dough for the day’s bread. Cissie gave a start. Molly appeared, apparently out of thin air each morning. Even when Cissie wasn’t absorbed in kneading dough or writing a letter she got a fright.

  “Good morning Molly. Give your face and hands a wash and we’ll sit David up to the table for breakfast.”

  “Good morning, Missus. Another hot one, eh?” Molly splashed in the basin at the end of the verandah. David ran to her and she swooped him up with a laugh.

  While Molly spooned porridge into David, Cissie covered the dough with a tea towel and poured two cups of tea. “Strange woman down here this morning, Molly.”

  “Things pretty bad at the camp, Missus. Only water is what I take back. Waterhole as dry as a kookaburra’s cackle.”

  “Not much left here either.”

  “Old fellas thinkin’ ‘bout moving on I think. Dunno where. Some Myalls come in last night from further out. No water out there either.”

  Cissie’s chest tightened. Myalls were wild Murris not used to white ways. They had few words of English and wore little to cover their nakedness. If they caused trouble before the men got back she’d have to use that rifle Ned left loaded for her. Stories of the pioneer women out this way were fresh in her mind. Old Mrs Wright had kept a loaded gun beside her wherever she went — leant against the tapestry hoop, on the kitchen mantle, above the mangle — and used it too, by all accounts.

  “Drought’s not so bad further on,” Cissie said. “Perhaps they could all move up river.”

  The three of them napped through the afternoon. The crackling of the cooling roof woke Cissie. No more rested than when she lay down, she turned into the sweat soaked sheet. What were the Murris going to do? What she should she do? The baby fluttered in her belly, oddly comforting, as she tried one scenario after another. No whites had been killed for over a decade now. That was some comfort. But there hadn’t been a drought like this for that long either. Not one that dried up all the waterholes west of Roma. The Murris could move up into the ranges. Some of the springs would still be flowing. One of the shepherds from up on the Warrego had said as much when he passed through only a few weeks ago.

  She had no more to share with the poor creatures. Without the men to catch and dispatch a killer she had no meat. The peaches had withered before they had ripened and she was relying on a dwindling pantry, the vegetable garden and her own preserves from last summer until they came home. Before the spring winds had come up and burnt the last of the winter vegetables she had sent flour, cabbages and potatoes down with Molly most days. Now she barely had enough for herself and David, though she made a point of feeding Molly, and the dog, for safety’s sake.

  Finally she heaved herself up onto her swollen feet. She pulled on Ned’s old boots, the only footwear that fitted her in the heat, and clumped out onto the verandah. A column of Murri were strung out along the bank of the river. At their head were the young men, stronger than the rest, carrying nulla nullas and spears. The young women followed carrying round-bellied babies and chivvying along apathetic children. Bigger children weighed down with possum rugs and the scant paraphernalia of nomads dragged after them. Dogs with ribs as plain as the logs on a corduroy road skulked around the last of the mob, the old, the sick and the most emaciated.

  They were quieter than Murris moving on usually were. No chattering children, no barking dogs, no
high pitched calls from lead to tail of the mob; just a shuffling line of hungry humanity. Cissie was sorry she had no more to give them. If the men didn’t come home soon she would have to join the march up river herself.

  “None of them Myalls there, Missus.” Molly had crept up on her again. Cissie’s stomach lurched. With the camp Murris gone there was nothing between her and the wild ones.

  “Better stay here with me, Molly,” she offered.

  They watched the last of the mob disappear into the dust. A pink haze hung from the trees, the dust glowing in the last of the day’s sun.

  While Molly played with David out on the verandah Cissie made up some onion sauce for the last of the corned meat. The heat in the kitchen was almost unbearable even though the lean-to was open at both ends. She pushed the flap of hessian back further hoping a breath of air might penetrate the stifling space. A flash of lightning cracked the eastern sky. After a few seconds she heard the rumble of a dry thunderstorm. Perhaps a cool change would come up in the night.

  Just as she turned back to the stove she glimpsed something between the outhouse and the scrub. She stood stock still. Had she imagined a shadow flitting across the paddock? Beside her the dog stiffened. Another figure moved down to the river. The well cap was padlocked. It would only be a matter of time before they came up to the house. She laid a hand on the dog to calm it, shifted the pan off the hotplate and crept through the house.

  “Molly! Come inside. The Myalls are down at the waterhole. They’ll be up here in a minute,” she whispered. She rushed around the house fastening the shutters. Molly bolted the doors and pulled David onto her lap, her eyes saucers in the gloom. Cissie took the rifle down from the mantlepiece, pulled back the bolt and nosed it through a partly open shutter.