Lonesome Howl (4 page)

what are you going to do if we see it?'

‘What do you want me to do, Jake?

Let it kill my sheep?'

‘I couldn't pull the trigger,' I say,

‘not if it's really a wolf. I mean,

they don't live . . .'

Dad interrupts. ‘Yeah, I know.

They don't live in Australia.

So, maybe all the more reason to shoot it.'

‘You'd kill it?

To prove it's here? That's crazy.'

Dad slides off the bonnet

and packs the esky,

screwing the lid on the thermos so tight

I can hear the thread scraping.

‘I don't know, Jake.

Let's find the bloody thing first.'

‘What do we do then?'

Dad ignores my question,

chucks the esky in the back,

whistles for the dogs

and starts the engine.

He winds down the window.

‘You coming?

Or staying out here with the wolf?'

Lucy: Christmas

It was Christmas Day

last year

and we were in the back yard

after lunch.

For the first time

in a long while

he hadn't raised his voice all day

or complained about the food

or said anything nasty to me.

He was sitting under the tree

polishing his gun

and taking pot shots

at the shed

and Peter's drawings.

A kookaburra landed on a branch

a few metres above him

and let out a thrilling laugh

that seemed to echo off the hills

and fill the valley.

I was so happy watching the bird

and marvelling at its noise,

I didn't see Dad raise the gun

and fire.

All I saw

was the bird fall at his feet.

He looked at me and said,

‘He's not laughing now.'

I've never heard the valley so quiet.

The moment after he killed the bird.

Dead quiet.

When he went inside,

I walked across to the kookaburra,

picked it up and

took its body behind the shed.

I dug a deep grave

and buried him

where the dogs can't get him.

FOUR
Lonesome howl

Jake: the lonesome howl

It's a lonesome howl,

echoing across the valley.

I jump out of bed,

eager,

opening the window wide

so I can lean out into the chill night.

Darkness.

The gum tree scratches against the window.

The faint light of the moon

reflects off the iron of the chook shed

and another howl floats across the valley,

long and lonely.

It's so mournful I can feel it on my skin.

He's searching for a mate,

marking his territory.

I close my eyes.

He's high on Beaumont Hill,

his head cocked arrow-straight at the moon

as he lets loose this deep wail

over the forest

and the winter paddocks.

Both of us, the wolf and me,

under a half moon,

waiting for a reply that never comes.

Lucy: wild dog

Years ago, Grandma told me

the story of the dog turned wild.

I was at school when it happened.

One of our dogs, Shadow,

was sleeping under the stairs

when Dad walked down

and trod on his tail.

Shadow woke in fright

and bit Dad on the leg

and wouldn't let go.

Grandma was smiling

as she told me about Dad shouting,

lashing out at the dog,

but Shadow locked onto his leg

growling,

as if possessed by ancient blood.

Grandma said Dad beat that dog

over and over across his back

until he let go,

growling still,

circling him in the dirt.

Shadow was boss of the yard

until Dad fled inside and got the gun.

He raced back outside,

swearing, calling the dog's name

and trying to load the gun,

all at the same time.

Shadow was too quick.

He ran across the paddocks.

Dad chased him for hours

and never got close.

Grandma told me she loved that dog

and she was sure Dad heard Shadow's howls

and remembered being defeated

in his own back yard.

Lucy: my friend

I hear the howl

and close my book.

My friend, the wild dog.

He's up on Beaumont Hill, I reckon,

looking for a mate,

or just howling because he can.

He's not scared of anything

because he's the boss

and every other animal hears that call

and keeps out of his way.

Like at school,

when Jim Bradley swaggers across the oval.

Everyone moves aside

because he's bigger and meaner

and he likes to fight.

We all just back off

and let Jim go where he wants.

It's no skin off my nose.

He can bully all he likes,

so long as he leaves me alone.

Only Jim Bradley is not like the wild dog.

He's not nearly as smart.

There's the call again.

I go to my window

and see the heavy clouds over Beaumont Hill.

I'd like to be up there now,

looking down on everything

in the forest night,

where no one can touch you.

Jake: breakfast

‘I'd rather he howled all night

than ripped apart my sheep.'

That's what Dad says in the morning

while we eat breakfast on the verandah,

looking up at the dark clouds

covering the rocky hills

all around our valley.

‘I haven't heard him for ages, Dad.'

‘Me neither. But now we know he's still around.

I'd hoped he'd move north for winter.'

‘What, like a surfie wolf?'

Mum chuckles into her toast.

‘Very funny, Jake.

I don't care what he does,

as long as I have the same number of sheep

each morning.'

Dad tosses the tea-leaves into the garden

and goes inside.

I shiver, pull my jacket tight

and watch the chickens pecking at the scraps.

One day, I'll find the wolf.

Face to face,

we'll see each other across Wolli Creek

and he'll know I've been waiting,

searching for him all my life.

I'll hold out my hand,

tell him I understand his howl

echoing through the night.

Then he'll be my wolf.

Lucy: breakfast

Dad walks into the kitchen,

carrying his .22 and a box of bullets.

He drags out his chair

and starts loading the magazine,

looking up,

waiting for someone to ask where he's going.

I finish my cereal and stand to leave.

‘Your wild dog better watch out, Lucy.

I've had enough of that mangy animal

keeping me awake.

Today he's dead.'

I wash my bowl in the sink

and imagine Dad scrambling up Beaumont Hill,

searching and swearing.

He's got as much chance of finding the dog

as he has of finding a job.

As I walk out, I say,

‘Yeah. Good luck.'

He sits at the table

snapping the magazine into the rifle

and yells after me,

‘Nothing to do with luck.

He's dead. You mark my words.'

I walk into the back yard

where Mum is hanging the washing.

She looks up as he shouts some more,

then suddenly becomes real interested

in the wet clothes in the basket.

Anything to avoid my eyes.

Mum and me,

sometimes we go for days

not looking at each other.

Peter

Dad's gonna kill the wild dog today.

No worries.

I reckon the dog deserves it,

howling all night

like a ghost.

I'm not scared or nothing.

I just don't like being woke up.

Dad polishes his cool gun

and I wanna go with him.

I got good eyes

and I reckon I could spot the dog

a mile away, easy.

I could point and let Dad have a free shot.

I was gonna ask,

but he was in one of his moods

and Mum said I shouldn't.

She didn't want me chasing Dad all over the hills,

getting in his way when he's got his gun.

She don't know nothing.

I'd help.

I'd find that wild dog.

Lucy: bad luck

I don't remember when it started.

Honest.

One day I was a normal kid,

chasing the chooks,

chucking rocks at the crows,

running about the farm

without a care . . .

The next?

I was bad luck.

I was the cause of the drought,

the bushfire,

the floods.

He was stuck here because of me.

Wasting his life.

Every day he laid into me

with his words,

as though blaming someone else

made it easier for him.

And what he said stung

like a nest of bull ants,

but I'll tell you what hurt more.

Every day while this was going on,

Mum did nothing to stop him.

She kept cooking,

mopping the floor,

hanging the washing.

She seemed to work harder,

to keep quieter,

as I got older.

Maybe she thought the same as him?

That I'd brought them both bad luck,

just by being born.

Maybe she was glad it wasn't Peter

being picked on.

I was the easy target.

I don't remember when it started.

I don't know
why
it started.

But it's never stopped.

I grew my hair long

and let it fall in front of my face,

to hide my eyes from his hate.

To hide my hate from his eyes.

Lucy: crash

I don't want to think about him

hunting the wild dog

so I gather up a bunch of rocks,

golf-ball size.

I take a bucketload

to the far side of the yard.

In the cold sunshine

I chuck them, one at a time,

as high as I can

so they land on the old shed roof

with a loud crash

that makes Mum look up

as she sits on the verandah.

She wants to say something,

but she won't.

I pick up another rock

and throw with all my strength,

watch it arc high over the shed

and land on the house roof

above the verandah.

It rolls down

with a satisfying thump

at the foot of the steps,

not far from Mum.

She doesn't say a word

and I say nothing back.

Lucy: beside the creek

Jake and Peter

are on the other side of the creek

so I ignore them.

I read my book,

listening to the magpies

and the distant bleat of sheep.

I haven't heard a gunshot yet.

That makes me smile.

I picture my useless father

struggling through the lantana

all around the hills,

swearing and sweating.

He'll get cut by the bushes

and he'll swear some more.

After hours of this,

he'll sit on a rock and drink his warm beer,

hoping the dog will just walk by.

No chance.

Something on Beaumont Hill

has a brain

and it's not the one drinking beer.

I read my book

and bask in the sun.

I'll stay here all day.

I don't want to be around

when he gets home.

Warm beer, hot sun

and no dog.

Jake: my dad and your dad

Peter says, ‘My dad says your dad is a flake.

Wolves don't live in Australia.

It's a wild dog, that's all.'

He picks up a flat stone

and skims it across the calm surface of the creek.

‘Didn't you hear the howl last night?' I ask.

‘Dogs can howl too, you know.

Our dogs howl all night 'cause they're hungry.

My dad says he's going to shoot it,

no questions asked,' Peter boasts.

He never shuts up.

‘Your dad is weak.

He don't even shoot rabbits.

My dad says if something is on his farm

and it ain't a sheep or a human,

well, it's dead.

Nothing's taking our sheep.

Nothing.'

Jake: Lucy Harding

Lucy Harding is still and quiet,

nothing like Peter.

She sits on the bank opposite,

reading, ignoring us.

Her long black hair

falls in front of her face,

like she's hiding from the world.

She wears jeans every day,

even to school.

And brown riding boots

with worn heels and cuts along the toe.

I wade across Wolli Creek,

stepping from rock to rock,

getting wet up to my knees,

and sit beside Lucy.

She doesn't look up.

I close my eyes,

enjoying the sun,

and the silence away from loudmouth Peter.

‘It's not a wolf.

It's just a wild dog.'

She hasn't lifted her head from the book.

She spoke so softly

I'm not even sure I've heard right,

so I say,

‘The wolf?'

‘It's not a wolf, okay.'

She lifts her head and looks at me.

Then she says,

‘Hell. I don't care.

Call it a wolf, if you want.'

Peter