Ironbark (6 page)

I feel it is important for me to resist the urge to run. I don't know why, but I know it. Running would not be good. But I increase my pace. I'm no longer so bothered about finding the right direction. I just want to get lower and I don't know why I think that either. I have to trust my instincts. Even when I see movement off to my right, a swaying of branches that could be a gust of wind, I keep the pace consistent. If it's a gust of wind it keeps an uncanny pace with me. The branches move as I move. It's as if it's linked to my movement. I've never heard of gusts of wind that move so slowly.

Something crashes and I stop.

There is no wind at all now. Nothing moves and the only sound is water dripping from leaf to leaf. I turn slowly in a circle, scanning three hundred and sixty degrees. There is a rustle in the undergrowth to my left. Behind me now. Nothing could move that quickly. Off to my right one moment, in front of me the next. I gaze out over a large clearing I've just crossed without ever being aware of having done so. A bird call rises. It is the moaning call I heard yesterday. It sounds unutterably sad and mournful. No other birds sing. The rustling gets louder. Large leaves sway at the far end of the clearing. Something is moving towards me. A line from a book comes to me. I don't know why.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way
comes.

I feel an incredible urge to stand and wait for it. I want to see it part the final branches and reach the clearing. I want to see its eyes, rather than just feel them.

But that doesn't happen. I turn and run, and this time I have no control, make no attempt to pick safe ground. Whatever is in front of me, I jump. I plough through brambles, get smacked in the face by branches. On a couple of steep inclines I fall again, slide down on my side or my rear end, spring to my feet, run without breaking rhythm. I keep looking over my shoulder, but I can't see anything. I'm making too much noise myself and the forest is dense here. The swaying branches behind me are the ones I've pushed through. I have a stitch and my breathing is ragged. It's the only time in my life I've regretted wagging so many Phys. Ed. classes. I slow.

I don't see the log. If I had I would have at least tried to jump it. My left foot smacks into it, but I don't feel any pain. Not then. But it takes me down, on my back. I slide for a few metres and thump my head on something incredibly hard. Seeing stars is not just a sad cliché; it's true. Fireworks go off in my brain. I don't know how long I lie there waiting for my head to clear, but it can't be more than twenty seconds or so. I sit up and listen. Nothing, except the sound of my own breathing.

When my phone beeps, I scream. I swear. I don't know what frightens me more, the sound of the incoming text message or my scream. I scrabble around in my pocket, pull out the phone and check the screen. My thumb chooses ‘read message' automatically.

Witetrees
.

What the hell? I stop. Witetrees? White trees? I check the screen again, but it's gone dark. And when I look up there
is
a tree with a white trunk about thirty metres to my right. I cross to it. Why not? Another white tree – the only white tree around – is down a slope far to my right. I run the line between the two of them. My sense of being watched has eased, but I'm not taking any chances. I keep checking behind, but there is no untoward movement in the foliage. Past the second white tree there is a large clearing, down a dip in a ridge. I wouldn't swear to it, but this one does look familiar. Maybe it's wishful thinking.

It isn't. Three minutes later I see the roof of Granddad's shack through the trees. Two minutes after that the sun is shining like a maniac and I'm in my room peeling off wet, muddy clothes.

Listen, push me up against a wall, attach electrodes to my genitals and even then there aren't many things I'd be prepared to swear to. Things I'm absolutely sure of: a) if I had continued in the direction I was going before the text message, I'd have missed Granddad's place – missed it by a country mile; b) well, the second thing is really in two parts. One, there's no way I could possibly get a signal that close to the shacks, and two, I'd turned my phone off on the top of the mountain.

So I'm not really surprised when I check and find I haven't had any messages since I left Melbourne.

I love all that X-Files stuff on the television. I'm just not keen on living it. Do you know what I'm saying?

I have a shower, but only because I've got no real choice. I'm caked in mud and stink like a septic tank.

Granddad is sitting in his spot on the verandah and I call out to tell him I'm taking the plunge. He grunts something about dinner. Good. I don't like the notion of him looming on a random horizon while I'm sudding my bits, particularly if he's carrying the chainsaw.

The water is surprisingly strong and unsurprisingly cold. Not sure what the go is with the solar panel. Maybe it's just for show. I manage to work up a good lather and even wash my hair. I've got scratches all over my hands and legs and I suspect my face isn't crash-hot in that regard, but there's no mirror so I can't check. My left foot is bruised and it hurts when I put pressure on it. Other than that, I'm in decent shape. Already I'm embarrassed by what went on out there in the forest. I mean, it's fairly logical. Bad weather, panic about being lost, scuffles in the undergrowth from random Tassie critters, a strong imagination. Plus hyperventilating when I got angry and scared. It's no wonder me and the plot parted company for a while.

Still, rolling around in the mud, wild-eyed and scared of the bogeyman. Not a good look. I'm glad there were no witnesses.

Mr Cool's reputation remains intact.

I wrap a towel around me and leg it back to my room quick smart. The temperature is doing another nosedive and I don't want to play Russian roulette with pneumonia. I put on as many layers of clothes as I can find and give thermal underwear serious consideration. If I buy them down here and leave them when I go back to Melbourne, no one need ever know. Then again, these things have a habit of coming out.
I Know What You Wore Last Spring
. Now,
that
would be a horror story.

Speaking of horror stories, when I finally front up to the verandah Granddad presents me with a plate of burned steak. Judging by the way he's fossicking in his dentures with something sharp, I figure he's finished his. There are some sorry mashed potatoes with green lumps, and gravy that's thinner than a supermodel. I'm starving. I'd have to be to even consider eating this.

‘Gramps, my main man,' I say, sawing for a quarter of an hour on the corner of the steak. ‘How about a different chef tomorrow? Bring a little variety into our diet. Whaddya say?'

‘You?'

I think about slipping a piece of steak to the dog while Granddad isn't looking. I don't, though. The dog's never done me any harm.

‘Yes, me. Who do you think I mean? The Naked Chef?'

‘Who?'

‘Forget it.'

I
am
going to cook, though.

I don't mention my wilderness experiences to Granddad. He doesn't ask, anyway. Not even if I'd made it to the top of the mountain. Makes me wonder, if I had missed his place, how long it would have taken him to raise the alarm. Maybe he'd have remembered me after a couple of months. Maybe not. He glances at my face a few times, though, and I think he's going to ask about the scratches. I probably look like I've gone a few rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. In the end, he doesn't say anything, just keeps mining away in the fissures of his dental plates.

The wallabies are back. They might even have brought reinforcements. I point towards the fence, off to Granddad's left.

‘Is that a wombat?' I say.

While he's looking, I fling the remains of my food off to the right. The potatoes splat on the dirt. The dog staggers over and sniffs at the pale mound. Doesn't eat it, mind. A canine with standards.

‘It's a wallaby,' Granddad says.

‘Oh, right,' I reply, and Granddad looks at me again like I'm a retard.

I wash the dishes and when I get back there's a cold beer waiting for me. Granddad has stoked up the wood stove and the kitchen's toasty. The overspill of heat makes it tolerable out on the verandah. Not cosy. Just tolerable. I light a smoke and unscrew the bottle cap. The glass is icy against my palm. I'm aware of something itching at the back of my mind. You know what I mean? Something you can't put your finger on. The more you try to pin it down, the more elusive it becomes. Then it hits me.

‘Yo, Granddad,' I say.

He grunts.

‘What is it with the beer, man?' Yeah, I know it's cold at night, but that doesn't explain the temperature of the stubby. This thing is chilled in a way that screams technology.

‘Whaddya mean?'

‘It's icy, dude. What have you got back there? A fridge with a serious solar panel?'

Granddad wipes away condensation from his bottle with a gnarled old finger, takes a swig. I can hear the beer gurgling down his throat and wish I couldn't. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.

‘That's for me to know and you to find out,' he says.

‘Are you kiddin' me?' I say. ‘What is this, a bedtime game? I might be an exceptionally sad person, but I haven't sunk to those depths yet.'

He doesn't say anything for a long time. I'm not going to ask him again. It's something to do with personal standards and him being an annoying fossil. Eventually, he speaks.

‘I'll tell you this much. There's no fridge with a solar panel.'

‘Gosh, Gramps,' I say. ‘Well, it's a real mystery then and no mistake. How am I ever going to sleep tonight?'

But my sarcasm is either too low for his radar or he's got a skin like a pickled rhino. The silence stretches out so much it's impossible to resist the temptation to snap it.

‘Gramps,' I say. ‘You know you were talking about guardian angels last night? And voices and stuff in the forest? What's with that?'

‘I thought you didn't believe in it.'

‘Just curious. I have an open mind. Sometimes my mind is so open I worry my brains are going to drop out.'

He sits for a while and I think he's fallen asleep. Turns out he's just mulling things over.

‘You won't remember your gran. She died when you were . . . How old are you?'

‘Sixteen.'

‘When you were five years old.'

‘And what? She's out there somewhere in the forest? Guest-starring as a guardian angel?'

‘If you're not gonna speak with respect . . .'

‘Hey, Gramps, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I'm serious. It's just the way I talk, man. No offence.'

There's another long silence and I'm beginning to think my big mouth has blown it yet again. When he does speak, it's not really to me at all. It's more like he's talking to himself, reciting words that are echoing in his head.

‘She loved it here. Loved the forest, the waterfalls, the wild orchids. Now, when I'm walking, I can feel her all around. Taking care of the place. Taking care of me.'

‘You don't suppose she's got a mobile phone, do you?' I throw in.

How cool would that be? A ghost with a Nokia.

I'd given that weird text message some thought and come up with a logical answer. Maybe all that rolling around during the descent had turned my phone back on, scrambled some random message, set off a ring tone. Then I read what was probably gibberish and, in my panic,
thought
it said something about trees.

Another possibility is that I'm going mad. Only a day off my medication and it's already playing with my head.

That works as well. I tellya. I am a miracle of modern scientific reasoning.

Having said that, I
prefer
the idea of Gran using Bluetooth to either of those explanations.

Luckily, Granddad doesn't hear my crack about the phone, 'cos I don't reckon he'd be amused. So we sit there, the two of us. Lost in our own worlds. I finish the beer, but he doesn't offer me another. That reminds me.

‘Hey, Gramps,' I say. ‘When are we going shopping? I need to buy stuff. Beer, for example. Plus I've got to report in to the local constabulary as soon as possible. Did Dad mention that?'

Granddad thinks this over for a few years, weighing the question from all angles, before coming to a considered verdict. I watch the wallabies and the wallabies watch me. It's like someone has hit the pause button.

‘He mentioned it. I reckon we could go tomorrow,' he says just when I'd given the conversation up for dead.

‘Cool.'

The silence stretches out yet again. I get the feeling it could stretch forever. So, when it finally becomes absolutely clear that Granddad is not going to leap up and press another cold one on me, I say goodnight and grope through darkness to my room. The journal awaits.

I pace my room for about two minutes before I realise I've trodden in the pile of discarded mashed potatoes on my way over here and spread it across the floor.