I creep to the kitchen
and pack my schoolbag with fruit,
a half-loaf of bread and some cheese.
A pack of stubbies is on the top shelf.
Do I dare steal his only beer?
He’ll freak.
My hand is shaking as I take it.
He can drink water, like the rest of us.
I open the back door very quietly
and the dogs start to growl
so I quickly throw them some biscuits.
There’s mist over the far paddocks
and the faint rays of first light breaking through.
The dew is shining on the grass
and I can hear the crows in the trees.
Soon Jake will be awake
ready for his big adventure.
Jake: just a bushwalk
This morning I boil two extra eggs
and let them cool while we eat breakfast.
I peel and place them in a bowl,
add a small amount of milk,
lots of cracked pepper,
and mash them all up.
Then I pack the sandwiches into my schoolbag
with water and apples.
‘Me and Lucy are going for a bushwalk today.’
‘Lucy?’ Dad looks uncertain.
‘Lucy Harding!
You’re kidding.’
‘It’s just a bushwalk, Dad.’
He says,
‘I don’t trust them.
I never will.’
He pours himself another cup of tea,
slopping the milk on the bench,
and slams the back door
as he goes to the verandah
where Mum waits.
No one can argue with him when he’s like this.
He’s right, and that’s all there is to it.
Or so he thinks.
I shrug into my oilskin jacket.
I don’t want to be stuck on Sheldon Mountain
shivering with cold.
I carry the pack outside
and stand on the step.
I want to tell him he’s wrong.
That he doesn’t know everything.
He doesn’t know where the wolf is.
I do.
Dad swills his tea-leaves into the garden.
‘Don’t think you’ll be spending all holiday
with a Harding. We’ve got work to do.’
Mum raises her long fingers to her lips,
telling me not to bother arguing.
I walk away.
Jake: a creek apart
Lucy is sitting on the same rock as yesterday.
She’s slowly pouring beer into the stream,
one bottle at a time,
and arranging the stack of empties on the bank.
I don’t really know her at all . . .
I call across Wolli Creek and she waves back.
‘I’ll meet you at the bridge, upstream,’ I say.
I don’t feel like wading across
and getting soaked,
not with a long hike ahead.
Lucy and I walk along each bank,
glancing across every few seconds.
I feel like a real fool doing this,
separated by the creek.
We reach Hopkins Bridge
and I cross to her side.
She’s carrying a schoolbag, like mine.
‘Food and water,’ she says.
‘And I stole Dad’s beer.
I poured it all into the creek,
while I was waiting for you.
Do you think fish get drunk?’
Jake: the swamp
We follow the creek
for a few kilometres with Lucy leading.
I can see tiny fish darting through the water
as we walk along an old sheep track
overgrown with wild grass.
This leads us into the swamp
and almost immediately
the sun passes behind a cloud.
The path disappears
as we pick our way through the sand and mud,
feeling the ooze creep around our boots.
I remember the swamp stories at school.
‘Do you believe in the lights, Lucy?’
She scoffs,
leading the way through the marsh.
‘Yeah, it’s a wild pig with a torch.’
Black biting sandflies buzz around my face
and lodge in my ears.
I slap a bug off my arm.
‘This sand is really boggy,’ I say.
Lucy turns and says,
‘It’s mud and sand and water,
all mixed up and squelchy.
That’s what a swamp is, you know?’
She sure is prickly.
As she turns and strides away,
I imitate her words under my breath
while the sludge seeps into my boots.
Lucy: the swamp
It’s the arse-end of the world
and we’re walking through it.
I don’t believe in the lights
and I’ve never seen anything
that trickles down into Wolli Creek.
I’ve heard all the stories in town.
I’m not scared.
Let’s face it –
if you live in a crap town
and you’re going to be stuck there forever,
well, you find a place that’s even worse
and you make up stories
and run it down
to build up your own little place.
You’ll step on anything
just to get that little bit higher yourself.
Jake: firewood
Finally we leave the swamp behind
and start the slow climb to Sheldon Mountain
through the forest of paperbarks.
Lucy is way out in front,
forcing the pace.
I whistle for her to slow down.
‘Let’s stop up ahead,
for a minute.’
We sit under a tree to rest,
both leaning against the papery trunk,
looking back over the valley.
We take off our boots and socks
and dry them on a rock.
I can see the willows along Wolli Creek
and in the distance,
smoke lazily rising
from the rusted chimney at Lucy’s house.
I touch her arm
and point in that direction.
Lucy says,
‘Mum will be asking Peter
to go and get more firewood
and I know Peter will shout back,
“Get Lucy to do it, it’s her job!”’
‘Don’t they know you’re here?’
Lucy shrugs.
‘They know nothing
and that’s the way I like it.’
‘Will they do anything
when they find you’re gone?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, they’ll make Peter get the firewood.’
Lucy: good riddance
I stretch my legs out,
feel the tension ease from my body.
Jake passes me the water bottle
and I take a long swig,
thinking of Peter having
to do some farm work,
for a change.
And Dad,
stalking around the house
looking for his beer,
saying,
‘She’s probably run away.
One less bloody mouth to feed.
Good riddance.’
I reply, under my breath,
‘Good riddance to you.’
Jake: too many questions
When we start walking again
I ask Lucy,
‘Does your mum or dad
ever talk about my family?’
She keeps her head down,
treading carefully
along the path.
‘I wouldn’t know.
My parents don’t say anything to me,
unless it’s to tell me to do something.’
I can’t believe that.
‘Come on. Do they?’
Lucy stops and looks at me
through her hair.
‘I told you.
They don’t talk to me,
and I don’t talk to them.’
She walks ahead
and I follow slowly.
I say, to myself,
‘You must live in a quiet house.’
‘What?
’
‘Nothing. I was just saying . . .’
‘I live in a dump.
That’s where I live. A dump.
Are you happy now?’
I see the anger in her eyes
and hold up my hand.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy.
It’s just my dad . . .’
I stop.
This won’t help matters.
‘Your dad what?’
Lucy says,
‘Didn’t he want you coming with me?
Because I’m a Harding.
That’s probably enough reason for him.’
Lucy shakes her head.
‘If you want to go home,
and be with your know-all dad,
then go.
No one’s stopping you.’
Jake: the bush
Lucy walks deeper into the bush,
not turning around once.
I follow a few paces behind.
I’m not going back.
Not until I’ve proved Dad right,
or wrong.
I’m too old for wolf stories now.
The land gets steeper and rockier.
Lucy and I walk slowly,
scrambling over huge boulders
on our hands and knees.
We don’t talk,
aware of each sound in the forest.
Every snap of a branch
makes us stand silent and still,
straining to see what’s out there.
The paperbarks give way to tall mountain ash.
The air is cold and crisp.
A cockatoo screeches, high above,
and we both jump in fright.
Lucy almost smiles, for a moment,
then she turns and follows the track.
I check my watch – midday.
We’ve been carrying these packs for a long time.
‘Lucy. Let’s stop at those rocks ahead, for lunch?’
We scurry up the rough incline.
I climb first, stretching for each hold,
until I can pull myself onto a smooth rock.
Lucy passes both packs
and I help her up.
‘Egg sandwich, okay?’
‘You bet. I’m starving.’
She grins
and I can see she’s got crooked teeth,
just like me and Mum.
It makes me like her.
My dad always joked
when he talked about Mum,
‘Never trust anyone with straight teeth!’
I think my Dad’s wrong about her.
Even if she is a Harding.
Jake: knives
Lucy lies back on the cool stone.
‘My dad sat in front of the television last night,
sharpening his knives.
That means one of the old chooks
is going to get it today.
They’ll be eating a stringy boiler
for dinner, tonight.
Chicken soup tomorrow night.
The dogs get the bones.’
She closes her eyes
and pulls her jacket tight around her.
I look down at her smooth skin
with the slight wrinkles around her mouth
as if she’s smiling
or grimacing at the world,
I’m not sure which.
The wind is picking up.
Soon, Sheldon Mountain will be covered
in mist and cloud.
‘The weather’s closing in, Lucy.
Maybe we should turn back?’
‘No way, Jake. I’m going on.’
She lifts the pack and starts walking,
deeper into the bush.
I follow, thinking of her dad
and the sharpening knives.
Lucy: the groove
Sometimes when I walk
I get into such a groove
that my mind shuts down
and a rhythm takes over.
A sentence forms,
and no matter how much
I try to forget it,
the pace of my walking
keeps it coming back.
‘My dad is an arsehole.’
Before I realise it,
I’m keeping time with a beat
that pushes me on,
step by step,
to the trees ahead;
a slow steady climb.
‘My dad is an arsehole.’
I’m bouncing along
up this narrow track
not even aware of Jake
falling further behind
with every step.
‘My dad is an arsehole.
My dad is an arsehole.’
SIX
The mist
Lucy: the mist
I love the mist,
the way it drips off the leaves
and coats everything with a glistening skin.
It reminds me of my favourite fantasy novel –
the Lady of the Lake
standing on a boat
in the middle of a veiled pond,
like a ghostly dream.
I always pictured myself on that boat,
gliding, untouchable.
With a wave of my hand
I could disappear back into the fog
from where I came.
That’s the life.
Untouchable,
like a princess.
Like a wild dog.
Jake: the cold quiet
The mist closes in.
We can see ten metres
through the looming murk
and no more.
It’s coldly quiet.
A fog blanket has shrouded the mountain
and dampened every sound.
No bird calls.
No insect buzz.
We’re far from roads
and farms
and family
and loudmouth Peter
and the barking dogs.
Lucy and me,
creeping through this gloomy other-world.
The wallaby path gets narrower
and steeper
as we ready ourselves
for the last climb to the top.
Lucy waits for me to catch up.
She says,
‘I’ve never been this far before.’
I remember my trip here with Dad,
looking for lost sheep
and finding the ripped carcass.
Blood and fur,
matted together on the rocks.
‘I have. Once.’
Jake: the fall
It only takes one smooth rock,
a wet boot
and the memory of a dead sheep.
I slip
and the weight of the pack
spins me round,
backwards,
tumbling,
rolling down the hillside
unable to stop.
There’s no way to escape this crazy fall.
I keep my arms tight around my head
because all I’m thinking as I roll
is a rock and my face
coming together.
I close my eyes
as the blood rushes to my head.
Lucy is shouting out my name
so I dig my feet h
ard into the earth
and a bolt of pain
shoots through my ankle.
That’s when I stop falling
and scream.
Jake: fractured?
I close my eyes,
grit my teeth
and beat the ground with my fists,
trying to block out the pain.
I swear,
over and over,
at myself,
at the mist,
at the bloody wolf
and my dad for believing in it,
for telling me about it.
I feel totally, absolutely helpless.
Lucy slides down the hill,
saying ‘shit’ over and over
as if that’s going to help.
When she reaches me,
she kneels down,
unties the laces
and gently removes my boot.
‘Shit.’
‘Can you stop saying that?’
I’m shaking as I touch the lump
throbbing on the side of my ankle.
Fractured?
I have scratches on my arms and legs,
a rip in my pants,
and a cricket ball growing out of my ankle.
Lucy says, ‘Bloody hell!’
Despite the pain, I say,
‘Thanks, Lucy. That’s much better.’
Lucy: shiver
I stop swearing and hold Jake’s ankle
as he winces in pain.
I feel so useless,
cradling his swollen foot,
looking at his ripped clothes;
seeing him like this.
I let the weight of his foot sink into my lap
and I clutch his leg
to help him stop shaking.
We stay like this for a long time.
Neither of us know what to do.
Finally, Jake opens his eyes
and jokes,
‘Ring for an ambulance?’
I try to smile.
Jake says,
‘I think you’d better go back, for help.’
I shake my head.
‘No, not now.
I couldn’t make it home before dark
and there’s no way they’d find you until tomorrow.
You can’t stay here all night.’
I shiver at the thought.
Jake out here in the mist,
alone on Sheldon Mountain.
Lucy: stupid
Stupid.
Why didn’t I turn back when Jake wanted?
Why did I only think of myself,
wanting to go on and on forever
to get as far away as I could?