Chapter 23: A Fickle Mistress

The weather is not something that can ever be planned for, at least not when its accuracy is required months in advance. An ideal year would consist of a warm-to-hot summer, interspersed with occasional summer storms and the odd cool day, gradually cooling across autumn until consistent showers set in from early May and continue through waves of cool to moderate temperatures until the start of October, before slowly warming and drying until the end of year. Of course within this pattern the weeks when the farmer wants it to remain dry it must remain dry, and the weeks that the farmer wants it to be cool and wet it must be so.

The weather is a fickle mistress. A winter may break early in April and send all and sundry out into their paddocks to plant their potatoes and onions in the hope of being able to fit that extra crop swing in before the rains end, only to have the rain clear up and stay away in any reasonable quantities for the remainder of the year and prevent any of the crops from flourishing; while in other years it may stay dry and hot right up until mid-May and then rain incessantly for 5 months, burying everything in mud and rotting the crops in the ground.

            A couple of years after Phillip and Beth were married the rain started falling early, and right on cue all the farmers took to their fields on their tractors to prepare for and plant their winter crops. However the rain just continue, it got heavier and heavier. It rained until the ground simply couldn’t hold any more water and rivulets started to scar the flesh of the hills. As the rain intensified the scars deepened and widened, sweeping sections of the crops downhill into the dam. Cows, calves, ewes and lambs got caught in the mud and the shallows of the waterholes, and their distressed bellows and bleats rang up to out of the valleys throughout the day and night.

My roots kept me safe on the side of the hill, spreading deep and wide to cling to the earth. I watched steadfast and immovable, unable to help, for all appearances a passive observer.

            While our valley lost a lot of its crops during this winter, as a mere upstream tributary we were protected from the worst. With the accumulation of waters from the many valleys just like ours the river transformed from its idyll into a swollen torrent. The river broke its banks and rose all the way up to within a couple of feet of the bottom of the dam wall. The force of its torrent picked up rotting logs from the forest floor, uprooted ancient elders and cleared the undergrowth from around its banks. Others died from the waterlogging over the following months. Farms lining the river were washed out, flocks were lost (although in one instance an entire herd was found a week later about 10 miles downstream), houses, sheds, machinery and bridges were damaged or destroyed, The one thing to be thankful for was that there was no loss of human life.

            The cleanup was a long and arduous task. Debris had to be cleared and mud transferred from the flats back up to the slopes. Those farmers that escaped largely unaffected pitched in with their time and machinery to lend a hand. The damage was so extensive in a couple of areas closer to the coast that some simply walked away from their farms, while others were claimed in the following months by depression.

Not long after the flood the Mayfield’s sold up to finance their buying of a larger farm closer to the limestone coast, where they would be amongst the first wave of farmers to transform their rolling pastures into vineyards, creating a dynasty of their own and a considerable fortune in the process. The Mayfield block had long been a thing of envy for my family, containing as it did the greatest area and quality of arable land in the valley. The hill rose steeply from the water’s edge to a crest, and then receded slowly towards the north- a fertile slope that caught the best of the sun. The rockier southern incline had long been established as an orchard containing varieties of apples, pears and nectarines that provided a great source of fruit for the kitchen table, as well as being a nice little extra money-spinner.

Only a couple of weeks after they had bought the Mayfield’s farm, Phillip and Beth announced to the family that they were expecting a child. They had known this information for several weeks and had successfully managed to keep it hidden, but now that the truth was out the cause of Phillip’s recent vagueness and Beth’s coy smile were only too apparent, and their mothers in particular berated themselves in private for not having put the pieces together before now, while simultaneously implying that they had known all along.

Of course everyone was overjoyed at the news. They had been married a couple of years and whispers had begun in the bedrooms and studies of their families as to why they hadn’t conceived by now, so the news caused a palpable ripple of relief across their faces. The grandmother’s set to work crocheting little boots, gloves, pants and jumpers, erring on the side of yellow since the sex of the little one was not yet known.

When she did arrive, little Olive was possibly the most doted upon baby in the world. Both grandmother’s would visit daily and developed something of a rivalry, which Beth tried to mediate by dressing Olive in clothes made by the two elders on alternate days. Meanwhile Dad, Albert and the Moriarty’s never tired of slapping Phillip on the back with a sly wink and bringing up stories of when Phillip was a wee one. Not one of them could disguise their pride.

The years following Olive’s birth were a time of great change for Karabup. The roads into the district were widened, and some of them sealed to give better access for the logging companies whose bulldozers, loaders and trucks cut their way deeper into the forest. With the improved infrastructure the school bus also extended a spur from the schools in Manjimup along the highway that serviced the districts and forests behind Karabup. The arrival of the bus heralded the closure of the school. Its two teachers were transferred to town, leaving the small wooden building to serve as the local children’s playgroup, before also being moved into town many years later as a historical relic of the failed Group Settlement Scheme.

The local store would battle on for another decade, but would eventually succumb to the greater range of goods available in town. The post office continued to receive and distribute the local mail for 20 more years until the postmistress Ms Giacomo finally died of old age. And so for all intents and purposes- other than for the local’s themselves- the district of Karabup was lost from the postal chain and so too the maps. The road signs notifying travellers of its existence still pointed the way from the highway and the old postcode remained, but these were now merely relics of an age lost but for the memory of a few.

Society was changing fast and hordes of young people from right across the globe set upon the world searching for some other meaning in life, and in order to find and fulfil this quest they needed money, work. My family welcomed in these young travellers- backpackers as they came to be known- with the promise of food, board and a small wage in exchange for their time working on the farm. For the first few years these backpackers, usually between 2 and 4 at a time, were put up in any of the spare rooms either in the house or the uninhabited cottages, until some bright spark had the idea to set up a business of her own accommodating, feeding and drinking these youth on an old tobacco farm out of town, finding them work on local farms and ferrying them to and from work as required. It took a lot of the obligation off the host farms, and strong bonds were developed between the locals, the hostel owners and the backpackers so that there was never any real shortage of workers or locals. So long as everybody treated each other well and with the right spirit, everything worked harmoniously.

From an early age Olive displayed tendencies not at all like those of a normal little girl. As soon as she could toddle she would follow her father around the yard and as he left the house in the mornings with the backpackers she would stand there, hands pressed against the wooden slats of the front gate, wailing. As a child she would prefer to sit for hours digging amongst the chook shit rather than play inside with the dolls that her grand- and great-grandparents insisted on buying her, and which sat barely noticed in a box of similar such toys in the lounge room.

Given Olive’s proclivity for hands-on work, by the time she had started school Beth had put her in charge of looking after the chooks and a small patch of the veggie garden. Just like her father and grandfather before her, Olive took to her tasks with verve. No sooner had she jumped off the school bus, ridden her bike down the track and dumped her bag in the corner of the kitchen, than she would be outside in the mud scratching away at the dirt pulling out the smallest of weed sprouts or searching for earthworms, so that by the time it came to clean up she would be caked in a heavy layer of drying mud. Phillip and Beth would joke at night about how this daughter of theirs seemed to think that it was the chickens that were her parents and not them at all.

Chapter 21: Dynasties

As Phillip grew older and approached the age at which his father had left school, the question arose as to what path in life he himself would follow. Just as his father had done before him, Albert granted his own son a patch of dirt to do with it whatever he wished. Phillip tended to it with the utmost care and diligence, and while things didn’t quite come as naturally as they had to his father, he compensated for this with graft, effort and the sheer force of his will.

For their part, Albert and Dad were absolutely chuffed that their life’s work would continue long after they no longer had the strength to do so themselves. Three generations toiled side by side towards a common goal, and a dynasty was propelled through the cycles of seeding, irrigating, fertilizing, tending, spraying and harvesting.

            Now that life was running exactly how they had always wished, Albert and Sarah slowly grew restless. They had all this land, their crops were consistently successful, their animals routinely achieved top price at the markets, and their personal lives were going gangbusters. Sarah was secretary of the local branch of the Country Women’s Association- or as Dad and Albert referred to it, the Chin-Waggers Association- and a jams and preserves judge at the Manjimup Show, and Albert, despite his natural shyness, was an influential member of the State Farmers Federation and a district football umpire. While he didn’t talk much, people who knew something of his history would sit up and pay attention whenever he did have something to say, and would carefully consider his words because he had so obviously considered his own.

And so it is through this prism of success that Albert and Sarah grew bored. They decided that something needed to change. And given that they still lived in Mr Elliot’s original Groupie house- just basic timber, weatherboard and rusting corrugated iron- they decided that building a new house was just the sort of project they needed to prevent them from growing fat and contented.

They began preparations in earnest, enlisting the services of an architect and surveyor. They chose a spot on top of the ridge just around a fold in the hill from the cottage with views across the lake to the front, the bush to the back, and down the valley to Dad and Ma’s house. The house itself would be dug into the crest of the ridge, with the excavated earth to be compacted and transformed into the walls. Floor to ceiling glass windows would capture the best of the winter sun and the veranda would shield them during the burning months and provide spectacular views of approaching summer storms. The framework would be of exposed jarrah salvaged from the farm, and the roof would be a gently sloping vegetable patch.

Sarah took charge of the project while Albert concentrated on the farm, allowing her to make the most of her organisational and managerial skills. She was in contact with the architect every couple of days with new tweaks and changes, and when the builders were on-site she rolled up her sleeves and pitched in with her own hands to build the bricks and erect the pillars and pour the concrete and put up the tank and guttering. Friends and neighbours noticed the new vitality and energy that overcame her- the flushed cheeks, the effervescent smile, the new lease on life.

The pad was rapidly dug into the slope and the earth compacted into cubes and stacked one on top of the other to reshape the hill. Finally the roof was laid out on top of a concrete and mesh slab with square holes cut through to allow the natural light to filter through into each of the rooms. Soil was shovelled on top and beds mapped out for vegetables and flowers. Plumbing and electricity were connected; the kitchen and bathroom were kitted out.

Nine months after the first clod was removed, Sarah, Albert and Phillip moved into the cool and musty air of their new home, moving their existing furniture, bedding and appliances on the back of the Bedford truck across the hill. Sarah stood on the threshold and directed her men like a drill sergeant- “That goes there”, “Move that in here”, “put that down over there”. She knew where she wanted everything and the best way to get it all done in the shortest possible time. It was all overseen with military precision. The change revitalised them- the build itself kept them busy, and the transformation of the space into a home filled them with a feeling of absolute contentment.

Once everything had settled into its new shape and the cooking smells melded into the walls to give off their lived-in smells Albert and Sarah started to pester my parents about rebuilding and moving themselves. The original Groupie shack, despite the continual maintenance and love that Mum and Dad put into it, was now looking well past its use-by-date, and to my brother and sister-in-law’s eyes the only logical conclusion to this was that they start again.

But to our parents this was nought but the vague notion of a new generation. They saw no real reason to leave their existing home regardless of the physical appearance it may present to an outsider. Together they had celebrated, mourned, toiled and loved within its humble confines. All their memories were papered into its cracks and flaws. So there they stayed, surrounded by their precious memories until frail and beloved in their old age they would die within 2 weeks of each other through pneumonia and heartbreak.

By the time they were settled in their new abode, protected from the chill of winter and heat of summer by the insulating earthen walls, Phillip has started courting the eldest daughter of another influential farming family from a district on the other side of the shire. They first met at the traditional barbeque after the annual meeting of the shire branch of the Farmer’s Federation. The State President Mr Heathcliffe tended to the sausages and steaks while the Shire President Mr Blakers served as his general. Beer flowed easily from the iced esky’s and in time honoured tradition scarcely a scrap of meat escaped the blackening tongue of the fire and the dogs went home well fed and comatose.

            Phillip had only recently begun to associate with the farmers from the neighbouring communities under his own steam. His father had challenged him to get to know what was happening on farms outside of his own cloistered little world, to call on neighbours and foster his own relationships with them rather than merely treading along idly in his father’s footprints.

            He had ventured across to the familiar homes of the Monroe’s and Mayfield’s to get a handle on the idea and technique of talking with farmers about the weather, their crops, their land, their habits and their ideas. It was a tradition intended not just to spy on what the competitors were up to, but also to foster a sense of community and an exchange of wisdom. Phillip listened intently to what his elders had to say, sifting for any grains of advice that his father and grandfather had either omitted or had not thought of before.

As with everything else he did, he was intensely focussed on all that was said and done so as not to miss out on anything. He naturally assumed the position of student, presupposing that his peers knew more about the topic that he did, and tried to absorb as much as possible so that he could put into practise all that he learnt. Sensing this naivety, his hosts, rather than using the occasion for opportunism, were actually more helpful and less guarded than they otherwise would have been with his father or grandfather. Here was a young man trying to live up to the reputation of his ancestors, living in their long shadows and searching for his own patch of light, and so they were empathetic towards him based on his clear earnestness and enthusiasm.

Now that he felt that he had learnt as much as he could from the Monroe’s and Mayfield’s Phillip felt it his duty to approach those farmers whom the Spring’s as a whole respected. He had met Mr Scott a few times before at similar events and the Manjimup Royal Show, and knew of his respected stature in the Farmer’s Federation and the basics such as where he was based and what he grew. So while his father was off acting as lieutenant to Mr Blakers and his grandfathers were larking about with old Mr Monroe, he summonsed all his courage to go up and join in Mr Scott’s conversation with his son Rodney, Oscar Monroe and old Henry Kelly. It was time to be an independent man.

Even though everyone knew exactly who he was, Phillip waited for a break in the conversation to make his introduction, and as duty dictates started up a new thread in the conversation, asking about the health of the poddy calves considering the early and cold start to winter. As with all conversations of this nature it was interspersed with much grunting, contemplation of the sky and prophesising that this would be the year that their respective districts would collapse into ruin. It was never in the farmers lot to be optimistic; no matter how good the weather or prices there would always be something to grizzle about.

The conversation drifted from stock to weather to crops, and through it remained fluid, with other farmers joining or leaving the huddle, Phillip remained the ever-present at Mr Scott’s side. As the cold wind again began to blow, Mr Scott’s eldest daughter Beth came up to him to ask him something or other on behalf of her mother. While she waited for a break in the conversation she scrutinised the interesting looking if not handsome young man at her father’s side. She watched the minimal yet succinct movements of his already rough and tanned hands, as though all his energies were invested in ensuring that his every movement suited the tone of the conversation perfectly so that no charge of indifference of misunderstanding could be levelled at him. She admired his all-too-apparent earnestness and his overwhelming desire to be welcomed into the company he was keeping; the way he presented himself as a proper young gentleman.

Phillip noticed her presence, but tried to focus instead on the topic at hand so as not to be distracted, or worse- to come across as other men his age were wont to. But try as he might his eye kept wandering to her deep black eyes, her strong cheekbones, her distinctly feminine figure accentuated by a red belt cinched around her waist, and her casual, almost flippant, stance. She smiled an introduction towards him and he forced a smile and nodded in reply. A distant rumble sounded deep in his stomach.

At this nod, Mr Scott looked from the young Mr Spring to his daughter, and acted as though he had only just noticed her presence at his side. He introduced the pair, and instinctively Phillip offered out his rigid hand. Miss Scott stifled a laugh and extended her hand to meet his. She shook his hand with the force of a farmer; the corners of her mouth curled into an involuntary smirk.

She persuaded him that he was pursuing her without ever letting on that it was her directing their relationship. She guided him through their first conversations, their first romantic touch and their first kiss behind the town hall on the night of the lunar eclipse.

Phillip was of the age that it was now expected of him to attend the farmers and town meetings and contribute to the running of the district. He put his name forward and was elected into various committees, so he was able to manoeuvre himself into positions of familiarity with Mr Scott. Beth on the other hand always had to find some excuse to go with her father to town, usually on the pretext of wanting to meet up with old high-school friends in town. Beth had recently finished her end of school exams, and was intending to move to the city and start her nurses training. Her parents had conceded to this on the proviso that she take a year off between school and college to work on the family farm. While she had initially begrudged this compromise, in her new situation it seemed almost serendipitous.

Her father would drop her off at a friend’s house, where she would stay for a time before leaving to walk to the town hall in time for the end of the meeting and the chance of again seeing Phillip. Once the meeting had adjourned there she would be waiting, and Phillip would try to disguise his eagerness to run straight to her by joining her father in conversation with whatever first (after Beth) came to mind as they descended the granite stairs together. Mr Scott pretended not to notice the plot.

As things developed between them Phillip would call upon the Scott house and they would appear together around town and at parties, and it transformed from an open secret to an open knowledge that Phillip Spring and Bethany Scott were an item. They were married a year after their meeting. The wedding was greeted with excitement throughout the Shire- the merging of two farming dynasties. A better match of breeding and spirit couldn’t be imagined.

A month before the wedding Phillip had moved back down the hill to the old Elliot cottage to prepare it as their new marital home. He furnished the house with new sofas, a new bed, new sideboards and new tables, and got a good deal on a refurbished slow-combustion stove. All this activity was conducted with precedence given to function rather than any matching colour or pattern scheme or finer touch, and upon moving into what would be her new home Beth set about rearranging those items she could salvage and ordering new furnishings with more tasteful and soft floral upholstery. Phillip accepted this in much the same spirit as he would throughout their lifetime together- with self-deprecation and gentle mockery of the roles of husband and wife within their marriage.

Phillip and his groomsmen readied themselves first at the old Elliot cottage, then put the finishing touches on up at the new house. Sarah fussed around them, making them take off their shirts so that she could iron them properly, and darning a small rip in the seat of one of the groomsmen’s trousers while he stood to the side awkwardly covering his front. When all was completed to her satisfaction she stood back and looked at them in turn, before settling her eyes on Phillip and bursting into tears. The men stood awkwardly scuffing their feet, taken aback by this sudden display of emotion from one considered so hard-as-nails. Up until that day Phillip had only seen his mother cry twice before in his life- at her sister’s funeral, and when she accidently spilled the mutton stew from the stove after a particularly long and sweaty day in the shearing shed. And each time he had been lost for words.

But what surprised everyone even more was that she did so without hiding her face, without fear. She bawled openly and proudly, and enveloped her son in a vice-like hug that threatened to collapse his ribcage. The groomsmen averted their eyes and shuffled off to the next room as Albert wandered upon the scene. Immediately summing up the situation he smiled to himself and followed the boys from the room.

Once Sarah had finished dressing her husband she loaded him into the drivers seat of the FJ Falcon and plonked herself in the passenger’s seat. As they headed off down the driveway Sarah bellowed final instructions out the window like a drill sergeant on the parade ground. Her words were lost to the wind and the crunch of gravel under the wheels, however the congregation had turned their heads in her direction so she felt that she had made her point and the car drove on.

Phillip Spring and Bethany Scott were married in the little Anglican Church nestled amongst the oak and weeping willows in the bride’s hometown. From what I’ve heard it was a joyous family affair, as all weddings should be. The immediate and extended families were all there, along with notable members of the community and a few select school friends. Phillip apparently had a barely contained and permanent grin on his lips from the moment his bride appeared through the glass-paned doors between the foyer and the aisle dressed in white lace, right through until the exhaust pipe of the lipstick-smeared Datsun shot the potato clear through the window of the town hall.

Chapter 19: Ghosts

No one was really sure just how, but Albert and Sarah managed to live an extremely contented and harmonious life together. Some people theorise that this came about through Sarah beating down on Albert, with him just accepting all her decisions and declarations out of fear of incurring her wrath if he were to do otherwise, but I think there was more to it than this. From my observations they were truly and mutually in love. Yes she was often impetuous and prone to outbursts of anger, but she would always return once she’d cooled off, apologise and concede ground that allowed them broker a compromise that suited them both. And Albert allowed her these flurries of emotion because he knew that in the end she would calm down and be able to approach the problem rationally and with commonsense. Each was the central figure in the other’s life. They drank of each other emotionally, spiritually and physically and yet their thirst was never quenched.

In June the year after they were married, two significant events occurred. The first: the birth of a son, Phillip. While their love confounded everyone, the fast following of a child surprised no one. The second event, while no less momentous, had a rather negating effect on the jubilation caused by the first. War had broken out in Europe the year before, and as a colony Australia had swiftly followed the emperor into battle. France had fallen to the Germans, and Albert, along with Pat and Eamonn Moriarty, Josh Craig, and Arthur Kelly, enlisted with the AIF to fulfil their duty and save their motherlands from the Nazi scourge. All five of them were enlisted into the 9^th Division and hurriedly packaged off into ships to undergoing arms and combat training in Egypt. Pat, Josh and Arthur never returned.

            Two and a half years after signing up Albert returned. He would come to me, unable to sleep; a silhouette against the blue-black sky, haunted by ghosts unknown. He backed even further into his own mind. There were things he would not talk about; things he would rather consign to the dustbin of his mind than to bring up. Sarah offered an open dialogue, but never forced the issue, allowing him to instead work through his demons at his own pace, at night, with me.

            Some nights he would stay for hours, standing, sitting, leaning against my naked skin. Often he would fall asleep amongst the rocks and bracken that sheltered my roots, waking to the soft padding of kangaroos heading down to the dam to quench their thirst.

            Many of the stories he told do not bear repeating, and nothing would be gained from me doing so in detail. It is perhaps suffice to say that Albert saw and went through things that no person should ever have the indignity or misfortune to go through. He survived shrapnel wounds and a bullet graze, but worse than these the mental scars of bombs exploding in the darkness all around, not knowing where the next one would land, where the next bullet would come from, the slow and protracted deaths of his mates in the trenches alongside him, and the constant gnawing thought that he could be the next one to go. He held his brother-in-law in his arms as blood bubbled from the hole in his lung. Hell populated his nightmares; ghosts of comrades stalked his dreams. If he didn’t sleep he didn’t have to confront them and explain to them how he had managed to survive and yet they had not.

            In public he and Eamonn would tell their stories of the siege of Tobruk, laughing at the comedy of Lord Haw-Haw, who extolled the virtues of surrender on their longevity and his derogatory dubbing of them as ‘Rats’, a tag which was immediately taken on as a badge of honour. They played chicken against each other as the Messerschmitt’s buzzed and fired on them with machine guns. They won the first major battle of the war for the Allies at El Alamein. They adopted stories of self-deprecating bravado as their truth, leaving their mythology unchallenged for fear of either appearing cowardly or causing offense.

Eamonn managed to successfully hide behind, or even find belief within, these tales and reacclimatise into everyday life. Yes he suffered as any man would have suffered, but he managed to disguise his pain from others, or else drown it with beer when things all became a little too much for him. While Albert also tried to hide, his veneer of triumph was much less convincing and people took to avoiding any reference- direct or not- to the war while he was around, preferring instead to limit the scope of their conversations strictly to farming, weather and the future.

But life continued, as it always does, in its own intractable way, and as they say, time heals all wounds. The scars would always bear testament to his pain, but through the slow and turbulent cycles of bleeding, clotting, infection, inflammation, suppuration, contraction, and remodelling Albert’s mind was gradually brought back from the brink of madness. The busyness of running the farm, loving his wife and getting to know his son diverted his focus from his memories and greatly aided his recovery.

And while he kept visiting my lonely vista across the dam, these visits became less frequent and less volatile. Around others there would always be that invisible wall blocking off any intrusion into his crippled psyche, but alone with me on the tender slope he could let it all go free without fear of judgement or recrimination.

In time Albert managed to reinstate some sort of routine back into his life. Scraping together his wages from the war and taking out a loan from the bank, he first bought the diesel tractor he had always wanted, and then bought the Craig’s farm when they left the valley out of grief for their lost son.

He set to work tidying up his three farms- slashing back the bracken, ploughing fertilizer and ash into the topsoil, replacing fenceposts that had started to rot- until the farms were restored to their past glory. And with the energy and distraction of this work, his sleep, his relationships and his general demeanour improved. Life was restored to something akin to what it had been like before the war.

Across this new decade, with its new and exciting opportunities, the land sprang back to life at Albert’s touch. No other farmer in the district was able to match the Spring’s produce- the sweetness of the corn, the richness of the tobacco, the yield of the spuds. Most contented themselves with one maybe two different crops with some sheep or cattle to supplement their income if times got tough (and they were always tough), however my father and brother would often have seven or eight crops, plus sheep and cattle, growing simultaneously and still be able to harvest just as much as anybody else. Nobody knew how they did it and it aggravated and awed them in equal measure.

Dad and Albert’s success was such that within just seven more years they had paid off the loan for the Craig’s farm, re-mortgaged it and bought the farm abandoned by Bob Enfield all those years before, which had since been run by a succession of English and Greek immigrants. In addition to the original block next to the dam wall they now owned the entire southern bank. Itinerant workers now had to be brought in from town, some of whom were put up in the old houses of the Craig’s and Mr Enfield, to help conduct the day-to-day activities that so much land demanded.

Unfortunately, while the addition of workers lightened their daily workload, it also had the unforeseen effect of reducing the efficiency of the yield. The overall size of the harvest was larger, however when this was averaged out over the total area being used it was quite a bit less than when Dad and Albert were doing all the work themselves. The quality of the produce also slipped back towards the pack. It was as if the extra hands diluted the magic in Albert’s fingers.

Even so, the profits kept on rolling in, and the extra time the use of workers afforded them gave them more time to spend with the family. Just as his father had done with him, Albert taught his son the ins and outs of running the farm- matching crops to soils, the art of fallow, improving the soil with fertilizer, ash and mulch, work in the shearing shed, the cattle yards.

From the time Phillip was 7 or 8 he would help his father mark the calves. He would help round the cows up into the stockyards and man the gate as Albert tried to separate the cows from their calves; chasing the stock around the larger yards in circles and yelling at Phillip to either close the gate in the face of a cow or keep it open to allow a calf to pass. As they moved the animals through the yards from the larger pens to the smaller ones, they gradually sieved the calves from the cows until they were left with a pen full of cows and a pen full of calves. By now father and son would be covered either in a fine layer of brown dust or thick black mud depending on the days weather. It was tough and dirty work, but theirs was a real sense of achievement at morning tea when all the stock had been separated. Phillip would spend the rest of the day making sure there was a constant supply of calves to be fed into the race, keenly watching the measured movements of his father and grandfather, and throwing lumps of wood for the cattle dogs to fetch. Working as a team Albert and Dad split the tasks of earmarking, tagging, injecting and neutering according to who was closer to what at that particular time.

As the years went by Phillip gradually took over more and more of the workload and responsibility from his grandfather. Dad was getting on in years, and the tough physical work of the stockyard was becoming a little much for his frame to handle. He also recognised the day for what it was- an opportunity for father and son to work together, to teach and learn and to develop the bonds that bind family together. And so he would head out to the crops and attend to whatever odd jobs needed doing with the pumps, pipes, plants and fences.

With the yards now the domain of father and apprentice son, Phillip took charge of the injections syringes and passing implements between the wooden railings to his father on top of the roles he had always played. Before too long he was also getting into the race with the calves, sliding his thin frame between the ribs of two poddy calves and pinning them against the wooden railings so as they couldn’t move about as his father rummaged around behind them with the Burdizzo’s.

It came to be a time of year that Phillip looked forward to with excitement- of getting out into the paddocks on the cold and wet winter’s mornings to chase cows and wrestle calves. Come evening they would come splashing into the house, drenched to the bone, bruises disguised beneath a layer of mud, only to be unceremoniously marched back outside at knifepoint to take off their ruined clothes and wash at least some of that mud off under the water tank before daring to set foot in Sarah’s house once more. But once they had, a scalding hot shower and a rich mutton stew would be awaiting them and all would be forgiven. On this day more than any other day of the year a real kinship developed between father and son, and the day became just as much about time spent together as about marking the calves.

But while everything was so perfect with the family they had, try as they might Albert and Sarah were unable to have another child. They could conceive without too much trouble, but a series of miscarriages crippled Sarah emotionally. With each passing pregnancy the pain of loss grew heavier, accumulating in weight until her mind could no longer move beyond its innate inertia. She would stay inside for weeks; neither visiting nor being visited. Her bed became her hideout. At night Albert would rock her to sleep as she gently sobbed in his arms. Ghosts sat upon on both their shoulders. 

Chapter 17: A Quieting Knack

            One summer’s day Margie left Karabup for life in the big smoke, and while she would return each season it was clear that her life was now elsewhere. She would talk of life huddled shoulder to shoulder with countless others, of indoor plumbing and new-fangled gadgets that made life so much easier. She would share stories of her classmates, her friends in the dorm, and of the lengths they would go to in order to break curfew and go out on the town. She insisted that she never took part in such behaviour, but the glint in her eye belied the innocent façade she presented to our parents. Still, they bought it (or at least chose to) and I suppose there is no harm in that. Men would always be attracted to a girl as mischievous as Margie.

            She did come home one winter with a certain young man in tow for the dreaded meeting of the parents. He was tall and gangly, with a mop of blonde hair that just would not cooperate, no matter how much Brylcream was combed between the strands. He was like the pet emu in the chook yard- the sort that lives in a state of jangled nerves, who apologise for every slight whether real or imagined. My family tried to make him feel welcome, waving away his apologies and reassuring him that his actions and words were indeed appropriate, but after a while it all felt somehow forced. There was that lingering feeling that Margie could do better. They left deflated; a void had opened up between them and it was clear to Margie that their relationship wouldn’t last, regardless of how pig-headed and obstinate she could be.

            Two years after first leaving the farm Margie graduated from teacher’s college and moved to her first posting in another Groupie community about 40 miles south. As happens in life, the children are raised to the best of the family and community’s ability, and then when the time comes they spread their wings and take those first faltering flaps and leave the nest for good. And while she would return from time to time, there would forever be that rift separating her old life from the new.

            Unsurpringly, Margie integrated into her new community with ease. It was after all a world she was used to and comfortable with. She delved into her teaching with the gusto of those not yet cynical. In her first year she groomed eleven kids between the ages of 6 and 15 towards life after childhood. She also fell in love with and married a fellow Groupie by the name of Martin Calloway. He earned his living from a hundred head of dairy cows, and every morning and evening Margie would pitch in with the milking. She was forever running between the school, the dairy and the house, while Martin spent his days clearing trees from the back paddocks and slashing the bracken that threatened to over-run the paddocks, poison the cattle and taint the milk. Theirs was a life of hard work and simple pleasures deep amongst the Karri, and it wasn’t long before their first bub was on the way.

            While Margie was off getting educated, Albert stayed back to work the farm. He never really excelled in any scholastic capacity, but what he lacked in book-smarts he more than made up with farm-smarts. It was as if he possessed an instinctual understanding of the earth. He somehow knew when the season would break, when was the best time to plant, and when it was best to leave a paddock to fallow. He was also in possession of a quieting knack with the animals. Tearaway horses were brought to him, and within a couple of days they were as placid as a house cow.

            Albert left the school when he was 15 to devote himself to the farm. Dad and Ma wouldn’t let him to leave before this age, believing in the benefits of a proper education. But still, before this they relented to his will and gifted him a small patch of the side paddock to call his own. Growing up he was an awkward kid and never the type to do things by the book, which often set him at odds with his teachers and parents, even though his unorthodox methods often resulted in the same conclusions. Even his plans for his first patch of earth came out of leftfield. Instead of treading the well-worn path with potatoes or onions, he convinced Dad to invest in seeds for tobacco. He had got wind of a rumour that nobody else took particularly seriously- that a cigarette company had approached the council with a proposal to set up a tobacco shed in the region. Now whether due to the brashness of youth or through some divine inspiration, he decided that if indeed these rumours were true it was best to get in ahead of the pack. If things didn’t work out, he could simply blame it on his youth and notch it up to experience.

            But any thoughts of the risks were soon put to rest. Albert’s patch of tobacco outgrew the bracken, their leaves unfurling like the pages of a broadsheet on a lazy Sunday morning. Every day after school he would walk amongst his crop, and with each passing day ever less of him was visible, until only his slouch hat could be seen above the praising green leaves. He tended them as he would his children; removing any weeds that dared attempt drink their water; crushing any slugs, snails or insects that tried to make a snack of his plants.

            Across the course of the season the tobacco shed gained council approval and building proceeded with haste. And while the factory wasn’t completed in time for harvest, the company behind the venture set up a tent on the farm and walked Albert, and anybody else who was interested, through the process of picking, stacking and drying the leaves. So impressed were they by this young kids efforts that they made him a priority grower for the following seasons, working for a wage plus commission, and paid him to liaise with other prospective growers in the region and advise them on the best methods with which to grow the tobacco. By the end of the season he had become something of a local legend.

            With Albert’s success every other farmer in the region rushed to get their own tobacco crops in the ground, but not even the most experienced farmer could match him. In light of Albert’s triumphant debut Dad gave him reign over the entire side paddock. But despite the extra land, he still only planted half his paddock into tobacco, leaving the rest- that which had been planted the year before- to be divided up between several other crops like beetroot, broccoli, turnip, Brussels’ sprouts and even a short row of rice down by the water’s edge. The sizes of these crops wouldn’t be commercially viable, but I’m sure that wasn’t his aim. He approached them diligently and scientifically; working out the precise conditions required for each. When confronted as to why he would do such a thing he merely shrugged and replied “why not.”

In effect Albert was sacrificing his short-term profits for long-term knowledge and experience. Whenever the popular crops failed, Albert always seemed to be one step ahead, as if having foreseen it, already focussing on what, to him, logically came next. He never seemed to be caught unawares by droughts or pests or rot, and if he did there was always some contingency in place.

It was no surprise to anyone that Albert had bought and started working on his very own farm by the time he was twenty. Matthew Elliot had sold up and moved to a nearby community to take over the running of his new wife’s father’s farm, and the two Groupie families that had taken up the land since had found the land so infertile and inhospitable that they had defaulted on their loans and moved away to the city in search of an easier life.

Dad had stumped up much of the money to get Albert started, and as a gesture of pride, love and goodwill told him unequivocally that not a cent was to be re-payed either now or in the future. Albert continued to work with Dad on the original farm, as well as setting up his own home at the far end of the dam. They effectively formed a business partnership. On paper it was split 50:50, but in reality Dad stood aside and allowed his son to take over the management of the farm- the crop selection and where and when they would be planted. Dad had learnt a thing or two over the years about deferring to the wisdom of his superiors, even if the inspiration behind such wisdom was beyond his comprehension. He knew when he was bested and took the hint with grace and integrity.

At about this time a new family of groupies settled on the farm beyond the narrow band of scrubby jarrah at the back of Albert’s. Their name was Moriarty; an Irish family of 7 that had been removed from their farm near the south coast that had been acquired by the government for the establishment of a mineral sand mine. They had reportedly had some success with their dairy farm on the saltbush flats, and now had to prove themselves all over again in a different environment. They had managed to either convince or force the Midland Railway Company to pay for their resettlement and the droving of their dairy cows the hundred miles to their new home. Their new block already had a house established in the lee of a ridge, and although it was perhaps too small to comfortably fit all seven of them, they made do and straight away started building an extension onto the back of the shack.

To make himself known to the newcomers Albert wandered over the back fence and through the bush to their house. He was greeted behind the workshed by the bark and snarl of a wolfhound. He stopped in his tracks and raised his hands in a gesture of submission and with a low voice started talking to it; to calm it down and convince it he was not a threat. The dog stopped barking but continued its stooped approach, teeth bared. Albert slowly, guardedly stretched out the back of his hand. Snout came within 6 inches of knuckles when suddenly the dog yelped and scampered off towards the shed with its tail bent between its legs. Albert gave a start, stood and scratched his forehead in bewilderment and relief.

A laugh peeled out from the young apple orchard behind the shed. Albert jerked his head around and caught a flash of flax through the new leaves. A short bullish young woman in a summer dress (despite the greyness of the day) strode out of the thicket; her head tilted back in laughter. He stood there, culpable and lost for words. Instead of introducing himself he merely shook her proffered hand while she introduced herself- Sarah Moriarty, daughter of the proprietor. She looked at him quizzically, confused by his silence.

He finally regained some form of composure and introduced himself- Albert Spring, from over the fence. She invited him in for a cup of tea while they waited for her father and brothers to return from inspecting the fences. He sat and made small talk with the matriarch for what seemed an interminable time, constantly fiddling and taking hurried glances around the kitchen for an escape or a chance glance of Sarah through the open doors as she walked about the house conducting normal house duties. He was captured by her ease of movement and innate confidence- his antithesis.

There in that foreign environment his mind began to wonder to thoughts hitherto untapped- of the future outside of work, of love, a wife, children. He was surprised by this sudden change in his train of thought and tried to shake it out of his head and concentrate on the conversation he was supposed to be involved in, but the thoughts kept coming to him. Even once Mr Moriarty and his teenaged sons had returned and engaged Albert in talk of his farm, his stock, his crops, his machinery these thoughts kept gnawing away at him. He resolved then and there that this girl, Sarah Moriarty, would be his wife.

It took 18 months to convince her, but he got there in the end. Albert used any chance or excuse he could to go over to the Moriarty’s, generally on the pretence of learning how some new tractor or diesel-powered crosscut saw worked. He would be there when the engines of these new machines were dissembled to learn how they worked, and apply this newfound knowledge to purchase his own new machinery. And all the while he kept his eyes peeled for any glimpses of Sarah. He would engineer himself into circumstances where he could talk to her one-on-one and his heart would race in anticipation of their meetings.

For her part, Sarah noticed Albert’s infatuation right from the off. She didn’t mind the attention and even kind of enjoyed the feelings his attentions stirred up in her. Something about this young man- so in tune with the earth and yet so at odds with the rest of humanity- captivated her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself also looking forward to the fleeting moments they would share. She brimmed with life and excitement, in possession of a passionate temper that could quickly give way to sorrow. She was not adept at keeping her emotions hidden; everything was writ large in her face and body.

And so it was that after all their unspoken and surreptitious courting it was Sarah who made the bold move of stating her attraction and intentions towards him. She pushed him into an apple tree and fair threw herself at him. What else was there for Albert to do but go along for the ride?

As devout Irish Catholics, the Moriarty’s insisted that Albert would have to convert to Catholicism before any marriage could take place. Despite his family’s initial doubts and criticism of this proposal, Albert duly accepted the terms without any real conviction other than it was what had to be done in order for his happiness to be complete.

They were married two months later in the little church in Sarah’s settlement in a ceremony attended by most from the surrounding communities. The church overflowed with loved one’s and onlookers curious about the union between the small, tempestuous Irish girl and the stocky, graceless Pom.

After the ceremony and the crying and fussing of the mother’s-in-law everyone migrated across to the Moriarty’s place for a dinner catered by the disparate dishes brought along by well-meaning wives. They ate and drank and after nightfall the barely coherent groom and his moonshine-fired bride clambered into their buggy and trailed spent paint tins, lit firecrackers and a scarecrow depicting them hung by the neck with rope over the ridge and into the matrimonial night.

Chapter 13: Life on the most unexpected scale

In the days before she left the valley for the city, Margie left me the pages of the meticulous chronicle she had kept of the history of our hidden valley, burying them at my feet- a grand monument to the people who transformed the landscape to eek out there lives in its loam. From its pages I discovered the story of my death and the effects of it on my family and the community. I think the best way of telling you the story is to start from the beginning, from where I left off. And for the most part I will rely on the voice of my sister. She was the one that was there, so she is the best one to tell it.

Dad was up on the hill, as he was every day, helping Mr Monroe clear his land. All of the men did this, moving from one property to the next while we waited for the crops to grow. Those of us not of age spent our days learning to read and write and helping our mother around the house- doing chores and staying out of the way.

One morning Albert and Henry disappeared. Mum and I couldn’t find them anywhere. Not even by Cooee-ing. Before they went missing I had been sure they were up to mischief. That something was going on. I often wonder, to the point of convincing myself it’s true, that I somehow knew what they were planning. But I am sure that I was just being an over-suspicious kid. Still there is something that nags at my mind. That if Mum had listened to me, or if I had been more adamant, things would have turned out differently. Or even that I should have watched over them more closely, or been more of a ‘good’ big sister. I know I shouldn’t blame myself, but I can’t shake the feeling that I am in some way responsible. Then again, everyone else in the community, Ma and Dad included, probably feel that they are the ones responsible, too. Especially poor Albert.

Anyway, it turns out that Albert and Henry had wandered off into the bush trying to reach the men who were working there. Dad says that the first he knew of it was seeing Henry standing there, in the bush, right beneath where the tree was falling. As far as I know, Dad was the only one to see him.

Mr Enfield and Mr Monroe were running away from the tree they had just felled, while the rest were milling around talking or eating lunch by the fire. Dad doesn’t know why he looked up when he did. He’d witnessed a hundred or more falling trees over the previous months. But he did look. He says the image of Henry standing there is burned into his mind, and that now, almost a decade later, he still wakes in the night to dreams in which his son is standing there beneath the falling tree.

Dad let out a shout- Mr Craig likens it to a curdling, cracking scream- heard way above the sound of the crashing tree. The men looked at him, standing there like a statue, staring towards the fallen eucalypt. He recoiled from the shock and charged off into the bush, shouting Henry’s name to the wind. Mr Craig says that the rest of them look around at each other confused. They thought Dad had lost his mind. They had seen him engrossed by the soap trees on the first journey in here, and that impression of Dad had stuck with them. To them it seemed like it would only be a matter of time before he lost his mind out here in the middle of nowhere.

They followed him, more curious than concerned. Dad was trying to lift a thick bough through sheer force of will. One by one they saw the small, thin frame pinned under the bough. With mouths open in horror they lent their shoulders, their chests, their legs to the effort, heaving at the monumental bough with all of their might to lift the mere inches required for Henry to be dragged clear.

No one noticed Albert until Henry was pulled clear. Only his head was visible above the log he had been hiding behind. He had turned white and his arms hung limp, in shock. Mr Craig doesn’t know how Albert’s legs were holding him upright. He came over slowly, tentatively. Mr Elliot intercepted him and prevented him from seeing the worst, but even now Albert cannot speak about what he saw. It’s as though those few moments have been completely erased from his memory.

Everyone there knew straight away that there was no chance of saving Henry’s life. Dad cradled and rocked him in his arms as he wept, and the men slumped against fallen tree trunks, holding their hats, holding their faces in their hands, or just staring off into the distance. As Dad kneeled in the dirt cradling his son the men came one by one to pay their condolences with a soft hand on the shoulder, before dispersing to pack away their equipment and prepare the cart, leaving him there to spend those final moments with his son in peace.

When the time came they huddled around my father, offering their sympathy and taking Henry’s body and placing it on top of a layer of shirts they had spread out over the deck of the cart. They made their way down the well-worn path towards the creek in silence. Mr Elliot held onto Albert as Dad held fast to Henry’s shoulder.

Back at the house, Ma and I had searched for the boys in all the usual places around the house. I heard the creak of the axles of the convoy before I could see it. I called Mum and we walked up the track towards the noise.

As they emerged from the bush, something about their demeanour told Ma what had happened. She dropped the apron from her hand into the mud and sprinted towards the bleak procession. I had never before seen her run, and I’m sure I’ve never seen her run since. It was a physical expression borne of fear and anguish. A mother’s intuition told her the worst; she already knew the outcome.

I cantered behind, still confused. I must have known something wasn’t right from her extreme reactions and the ashen faces appearing out of the undergrowth, however my child’s mind didn’t yet realise the full extent of this event.

The horses and carts stopped as Mum neared. The sad eyes of the men set upon my mother and they watched in mournful silence as she hurried past. No one said a word, but tears stung even the severest face.

She started sobbing. Great suffocating sobs escaped her throat, but she didn’t slow down. She collapsed against the wheel of the cart. Dad was huddled over the benign shape of their son. His eyes to meet those of his wife and they shared a moment laden with all of the misery in the world. Dad lowered Henry into Mum’s shaking arms, stepped down from the dray and held her tight. The broken heart of the world passed between their bodies as they cried; together, yet further apart than they had ever been before. They were their own universes of sorrow lamenting their cursed lot.

Mr Elliot lowered Albert from his horse and sent him towards me. Albert’s face was white and slippery streaks outlined his cheeks. He ran to me and buried his head in my armpit. I held him under my arm as I watched at our parents. It was at that moment I became aware of the world, and learned exactly what pain is.

Henry’s body was laid out on the table in preparation for its last rites. His wounds were cleaned-, the water stained forever red in the bucket- and his body clothed in his Sunday best. Once the adults had finished hiding his wounds as best they could, Albert and I were paraded past to pay our final respects. Albert, silent, placed his palm to Henry’s forehead in a simple act of grief and horror. Tears erupted around the room and Albert hid his in the crook of his arm, turning into the lap of our mother beside him. Something in Albert had broken and he would never be the same. I whispered my goodbye still numb with shock before rushing quickly out of the suffocating air of the room.

The whole community staged a silent vigil in their homes giving us time as a family to grieve. In bed Dad drank the tears of his wife and pleaded with the almighty that this act might soothe their pain and return the world to how it had been. The soft sobs of his wife coiled alongside him must have burned his heart to ashes. He must have felt powerless to soothe her broken heart.

So that is how I died.

But I was not buried in the anonymity of the cemetery in town, but on the slope of the ridge above the house in a humble mound overlooking the valley.

Albert was apparently the one to suggest a tree as a tombstone. He reasoned that as it was the death of a tree that took my life along with it, so it should be a tree that should find a new life in me and become my memorial. My resurrection. So, a week after my body was returned to the earth, my family took a morning off to traverse the ridge to the gully beyond to select a suitable memorial.

Amongst the grove of patina-skinned Karri, with the sickly sweet scent of Boronia saturating their pores, they retreated into their own worlds. With heads bowed and minds reflective they scoured the muddy floor in search of the perfect specimen.

            Mum called out through the undergrowth. She was obscured behind mossy logs and creepers. At her feet stood, unassumingly, a tender seedling. It was exposed, vulnerable in the heavy grey clay, on the fringe of an animal path along the foot of the gully. It appeared as though one errant footfall would put paid to its fight for survival. It trembled softly with the weight of eight feet sinking slowly into its mud as hey all craned in for a better look.

            With a decisive grunt Dad plunged the shovel into the grey clay. He repeated this ritual on each side of the sapling to loosen the hold of the earth before lifting it free from its bed. He placed it in a bucket and the four of them sidled back up the ridge lost in their own worlds. The usual incessant banter and nonsense was suppressed. Even Margie and Albert reached a truce in their sibling bickering.

            Dad placed the bucket alongside the mound that harboured my remains and etched out a divot directly above my heart. Gently he fondled the stem and leaves being careful not to damage its delicate frame. He wiped mud from its feet and lowered it into the earth. Together they all knelt and gently tamped the cool earth. Their fingers caressed the course dirt, burying their hands and turning the loam over in wonder. They wondered how they had never noticed its potency. Some mystic life-forced flowed through it. It gave life on the most unexpected scale. It connected us together, the tie that binds, the glue that holds.

            In their own time they rose to their feet and wiped the grit from their palms and from under their nails, embarrassed by the cloying spirituality of their actions. They stood in stoic silence as if waiting for some unforeseen magic to occur. Then as if ashamed by its failure, turned and sat on the semi-hollow husk of a log at the perimeter of the clearing.

Chapter 11: Mapping Their Veins and Flesh

I’m fairly sure I regained some form of consciousness after about 18 months. Before that there was nothing. No light, no sound, no taste, no smell, no pressure inside my nondescript box. There was no ticking of a clock to mark the time, no calendar to cross off the days. I have no memory- much like looking back on your infancy and childhood, trying to recall what happened. You know it happened, but you’re damned if you can remember. Then as you grow details begin to stick, memory fades in and out. You remember those random instances like drinking cordial on a summer’s day, or drowning your sister’s doll in a puddle, but important milestones slip your grasp. The order of events is jumbled. You can’t say with certainty if you first took a bite of an apple, or hit your head on a doorknob.

I cannot recall the exact order, but I remember the sensation of being cradled, like a child being held too tightly to its mother’s chest. I had an overwhelming feeling of comfort. I’m fairly certain that my first concrete memory amongst the jumble of half-thoughts was of being softly tickled. I remember thinking it a curious sensation.

I remember the taste of air. Sweet, glorious air flowed through the microscopic cables and pores of my body. The decay and fertiliser of my body, my atoms and ions, were siphoned through billions of miniscule pores by nano-pumps, delivered to the core, distributed and fed through the walls of trillions of cells. My carbon sequestered in cellulose and my remaining oxygen powered up the trunk, out the branches, through the leaves and into the atmosphere.

Weightless and at peace. I closed my eyes and soared.

I filled out leaves, mapped out their veins and flesh. I remember sunlight. I leaned back in glorious recline to bask in the healing glow of its radiation.

My education has continued since my death- through the whispers of the bush, the voices of the living as they pass, and the letters left buried at my feet. Even now I am sure I have but scratched the surface of the skin of all there is to know. I certainly wouldn’t be so gormless as to suggest that I know as much as those looming wistfully over the wires. Their wisdom is ageless and I am but their eager student.

Much of my learning has occurred in parallel with my siblings. As I was coming into consciousness they conspired to dig a cubby-house underground, a hide-away from the eyes of the other kids, their own secret club. They dug into the hill some meters across from my grave. With picks, mattocks and shovels stolen from the shed they dug down and into the gravelly hill until they reached the chunky sheets of ironstone barely 3 feet down. They lay scraps of corrugated iron over the top to act as a roof and piled sticks and branches on top as camouflage against invading forces. They toiled for weeks during breaks in their lessons and chores, digging first one room, then a passage leading to an another and a third separated from the others by a trapdoor made from a flattened drum. Alcoves were dug into the walls for stolen candles to lend an ethereal quality to the stale air of a thousand centuries. All the while Mum and Dad looked on bemused, yet thrilled by the ingenuity of their offspring.

The cubby-house became their personal library. They would secretly slip small pieces of paper into holes drilled into the walls, offering their thoughts and feelings up to the unjudging worms and microbes. They wrote down their feelings, the things they deemed too emotional, too obscure, to ever say out loud. These were their heartfelt words.

They did this while not even aware that the other was mimicking their own actions. When these- their heartfelt words- could be translated into words they would slip away from the house, peel the soiled hessian sacks from the doorway and burrow down on all fours into the darkness. Illuminated by parallel lines of light filtering in through nail holes in the roof, they would light the candles with the matches they stowed in their pockets and cast shifting shadows against the walls of their secret tomb. They would loosen the dirt at a non-descript part of the wall and burrow a small hole in which to bury their notes, then leave, sneak out as if the softest sound would reverberate through the earth and alert the world to this private act, never to return, surrendering them to the bugs and the germs.

I enclosed their hideaway in my loving embrace. I pined for them. As my embrace tightened, my roots discovered the abandoned parcels. My fingers wrapped around them and I devoured their very being, taking the ink up into my body and memorising their shape and form. Slowly I built a compendium of words and taught myself the conventions of the English language, piecing them together to form sentences of my own. It was from these notes and against their emotions that I learned to write.

My self-discovery was like a mirror of my childhood learning. At first I had no control over letters and words, just as I had no control over my new body. With time and practice I could reorganise the jumble of characters to form words. I could control which part of my body I inhabited. I learned to read, then to write. I could manipulate my limbs, my leaves, my pores. I could compose my own stories and treatises. My body and mind became perfectly aligned and I became myself.

I became attuned to the whispers and conversations of the spirits around me- sometimes whimsical, often wistful, always wise. I learnt the secrets and knowledge of the bush and became myself a part of that world. They rejoiced at the sight of life, and in time my voice would rise in unison. We hushed as one in reverence at the climax of death and mourned the loss of another friend.

As I grew, so too did the space surrounding me. My peers were removed by Progress and with each loss the silence of the spirits spread. In solidarity I grew that little bit more erect, spreading my limbs ever wider to compensate for the air cleft between our bodies. To compensate for this growth I diverted the energy from the maintenance of my canopy, so that with each loss a leaf would fall until I was but a standing skeleton, bereft of cover, alone on the hillside; a naked reflection to man’s world. My arms raised in alarm to the sky; my silhouette stark and disquieting above the bare ridge, a permanent reminder of the mortality of spirit. Men would stand and look and wonder at the omens I represent, wonder at their own transience before turning back to their work in fear of their grim reality.

I started engraving the stories of the past into the new bands of my growth as a permanent reminder of where we are from. Just as when I was a child my first attempts at writing in my new form proved jarring and uncontrolled. But as I learned to control my body my hand improved. I etch out this story between here and the sky- from the morning-edge of moss, all the way around my core until my prose reaches the end of its annual thesis. What start as microscopic pores spelling out my words transform into widening grooves as they are pushed outwards by the next year’s growth. As I grow taller my template increases, giving me license to outlandish bursts of poetry and prose, until I finish this story and move onto the next- the grand narrative of the land itself.

Now I stand here, stark against the sky waiting for the day- and it will come- that I shall die again. I shall lay there in wait for the day, the day that has already come, that you open me up and carefully separate the rings from my trunk, from my branches, and from the buds that never develop into leaves- the day the saw carves into my story, my life. If you do this for an entire forest you can read the stories of the spirit, the great, all-encompassing story of this land; this whole absurd conglomeration of life. It is a library waiting to be read. But be careful, for the spirits themselves will be lost and all that will be left behind will be their stories; and once they are told they cannot be taken back, cannot be edited, and cannot be finished.