Lonesome Howl (5 page)

Geez, I hate that Jake Jackson.

Him and me stupid sister

talking about the wolf.

It's like fairytales and Santa Claus

and dumb Easter bunnies

and stuff that's not even real.

I hate them because they smirk

like they're smarter than me.

And his dad don't even shoot pests.

He lets them live and breed and cause trouble

when this land is for sheep

and nothing else but us farmers.

One day I'm going to find the mangy old hound

that howls at the moon

and drag its dead body

down to the creek here.

Then let's see if Lucy and Jake look so smart,

when they see it ain't nothing but a mangy dog.

Nothing but a dead dog.

Jake: one day

Peter gets bored skimming stones

with no one to babble to,

so he wanders home.

Lucy stays.

I watch the dragonflies

hover above the water.

Crazy helicopters, Dad calls them.

Trout live in the creek, for sure.

And turtles, yabbies,

eels - slippery and dark with oily skin.

Once, when I was fishing,

I dragged ashore an old shoe

full of sand and weed.

It's a good creek though – no carp, or catfish.

The water is filtered clean

in the swamp upstream.

It's deep enough for swimming

and sometimes, in spring, fast enough

to lie on a tractor tube and float for miles

downstream to the Pattaya River.

Sometimes I dream of getting a canoe

and just drifting along,

turning into the great river

and paddling until I reach the coast

hundreds of kilometres away.

Mum once told me that's how the farmers

who lived here during the war

went to the coast to enlist.

It took them two weeks of hard paddling,

but they made it.

They signed on and went overseas to fight.

Some never returned.

Jake: where the wolf lives?

‘I know where your wolf lives.'

‘
What
?'

Lucy doesn't say much,

but she sure knows how to get my attention.

‘Where?' I ask.

‘Near Balancing Rock

on Sheldon Mountain.

About twelve kilometres from here.'

I know the place.

Bare rocks, rounded by time,

and one balancing,

ready to roll off the mountain

and crush whatever is below.

The bush is thick

and it's dark and creepy.

I shiver just thinking about it.

Dad and me went there once

searching for stray sheep.

We wandered around for hours

and found nothing but huge boulders,

stinging nettles and a rotting carcass.

‘How do you know he lives there?' I ask.

Lucy brushes her hair behind her ear

and looks up from her book.

‘I just do, that's all,' she replies,

her eyes steady on me.

‘I'll show you,

if you promise not to tell anyone where we go,

especially Peter.'

I think about it for a while.

What if it's true?

I'd want to tell Dad.

Twenty years he's been searching.

‘Well?' Lucy asks.

‘Okay. I promise.'

‘Good. We'll go tomorrow.

I'll meet you here, early.

Bring food and water.'

I stand to leave.

How can I not tell Dad?

Lucy grabs my arm.

‘We keep it quiet. Okay?

Just you and me, Jake.'

I look into her eyes.

‘Okay, Lucy.

We find the wolf,

but then I tell Dad.

Deal?'

She shrugs and says,

‘We find a wolf,

you can tell the bloody world.'

FIVE
The deep silence

Lucy: the deep silence

I don't really know

where the wild dog lives.

I've decided I'm getting away from this farm.

So I tell Jake about the rock on Sheldon Mountain.

It's the sort of place a wolf would stand

looking over the whole valley,

looking for a mate,

looking for food.

If I was Queen of this Valley

it's where I'd live.

High above everything

where no one ever goes,

where the cloud lingers,

where I can hide away;

where on cold foggy nights

I can sit near the rock

and howl long into the deep silence.

Jake: Dad's wolf

I pick apples

from the wild tree near the track

and take them to our horse, Charlie.

He trots across his yard

and takes an apple from my hand.

I pat his thick mane

as he crunches the fruit.

Lucy and me and the wolf?

All those years of talking about it

and searching for it.

I rub Charlie's smooth back

and listen to Patch and Spud.

Dinnertime.

They always bark

when they smell Mum's cooking,

even if they only get leftovers.

Dad's wolf?

Or mine?

Tomorrow, on Sheldon Mountain,

I'm going to find out.

Jake: roast

‘You'll love dinner tonight, Jake.

It's a roast.'

‘Great, Mum. My favourite!'

Better than Dad's Chicken Surprise,

which is just scrambled eggs.

Dad says, ‘It could have been a chicken.

That's the surprise.'

‘It's a special anniversary, Jake,' Mum says.

I'm struggling to remember.

‘Eighteen years ago today,

your dad and I got married.'

Mum laughs at the memory.

‘We couldn't afford a honeymoon,

so we cooked a roast.

We moved the table onto the verandah,

opened a bottle of wine,

lit candles,

and had the best dinner.'

I go to one end of the kitchen table,

lift and say,

‘Come on, Mum.

It's not too cold for dinner outside.'

Jake: dinner on the verandah

‘Everyone in town says a wolf

couldn't survive out here

without being shot, or captured,' Dad says.

He leans back in the old wooden chair,

rubbing his fingers into his forehead.

‘They may be right, Dad.'

I‘m tempted to tell him about Lucy

and Sheldon Mountain,

but I promised.

‘Peter says his dad thinks it's a wild dog.

When he finds it, he's going to shoot it.'

Dad frowns and pours another beer.

‘He's a rotten shot.

The day I start listening to a Harding . . .

well, that day will never come.'

I don't want to talk about the wolf

since Lucy told me her secret.

‘Great dinner, Mum. I'll wash up.

After all, it's your anniversary.'

Dad looks at me, laughs, and says,

‘I knew there was a reason we had you, Jake.'

Lucy: every step I take

When Peter asks Dad

if he shot the wild dog,

I think Dad's going to choke.

All day on Beaumont Hill,

struggling through the bush for nothing.

He shoves back his chair

and burps loudly.

That's his way of saying thanks for dinner.

Mum clears the plates

as Dad storms into the lounge,

calling over his shoulder,

‘Lucy, do the dishes.'

As if I didn't know.

As if him, or precious Superman,

would ever get their hands wet

doing a household chore.

Mum stands by the sink,

holding a tea towel, waiting.

Dad calls for another beer

above the noise of the television

and she hurries to the fridge.

I'm left alone with the dishes.

That suits me fine.

When I finish

I stand outside looking up at the glowing moon,

rising over the hills.

A newspaper blows across the dirt

and catches on the wire fence.

I'm glad he had such a hard time today.

And tomorrow,

Jake and me are heading

in the opposite direction,

tracking through the swamp

to climb Sheldon Mountain.

Jake will be looking for paw prints,

listening for sounds,

searching the bush,

hoping to catch sight of his wolf

so he can tell his dad.

I'll be walking ahead of him,

whistling

with every step I take

away from this farm.

Lucy: the wish

I want the dog to howl tonight.

To tell everyone who's boss.

I want my dad to hear

and know that it's not afraid of him.

Dad can sit in his chair,

dirty feet on the footstool,

gripping his beer,

staring at the stupid television,

and know that he's a loser.

He can't even find a dog.

Howl, dog.

Howl in his face.

A cold breeze blows down the valley

and the Jacksons' rooster starts crowing.

I once read a book

about these American Indians

who could imitate animal noises.

They would lure their prey in close

by calling it.

What I'd give to do that.

Dad would go crazy.

The wild dog, right outside his window.

Laughing at him.

Laughing in his face.

Jake: late at night

Tonight I googled ‘Wolves in Australia'.

I got twenty listings

for the Wollongong Wolves Soccer Team

and thirty-six for the movie
Wolf Creek
.

But no wolves in Australia.

No wolves
ever
in Australia.

Someone should tell Dad that,

but it won't be me.

The website said wolves don't attack humans

and their average lifespan is twelve years.

Dad's wolf is long dead,

unless, as Dad thinks,

he had a mate and a litter,

which means tomorrow Lucy and I

may be looking for more than one animal.

Or we'll spend all day on Sheldon Mountain

looking for a ghost dog that doesn't exist.

In bed, I listen to the night sounds:

a tree branch rustling against the roof,

the crackling wood in our fireplace,

the dogs on Hardings' farm barking for food.

Our silly rooster starts crowing in the darkness

and then all is quiet.

No howl.

Not a sound.

Lucy: tomorrow

I lie awake most of the night

thinking about me and Jake

searching.

I just want to get as far away from here as I can.

I couldn't care less if we find the dog.

I've got to leave before they wake up,

or else Superman will complain about being bored,

like he does every morning,

and I'll be stuck with him for the day.

Mum will say,

‘Go on, Lucy, take him with you.

He won't be any trouble.'

I wonder where she's been

for the last twelve years

if she doesn't know that Peter

is nothing but trouble.

All I want to do is keep moving

in a direction away from this farm.

And when it comes time to turn around,

I've got to say to Jake,

‘You go back.

But not me.

Not ever.'

Lucy: before dawn

It's still dark out.

Dad burps loudly

as he sleeps in the lounge chair.

He rolls over,

knocking the bottle of beer.

It dribbles across the floor,

making a pool at his feet.

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