Dead Tree Forest (8 page)

Arsehole
, he thought, but soon all thoughts about Brian left him and he concentrated on listening out for Ginnumarra.

* * *

“You really hearing some dead Abo’s voice?”

Ray was beginning to wish he was by himself. Brian was starting to get on his nerves. “Yes, I hear her,” Ray sighed as they trudged side-by-side through the woods. “Go on, laugh. I don’t give a shit any more whether you believe me or not. I just want to get to the lake and find the amulet.”

“Hey, doesn’t matter what I think. After all, you lied to me about why you wanted to come here, so why should I believe you about anything else?”

“Fuck man, we back to this? I thought I explained it to you: I needed manpower to help get the treasure, but I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you the truth. You would’ve laughed and told me to get fuckin’ real.”

“You think I’m that shallow? You think all I care about is money? You don’t think I care about Gemma too, and would’ve come if you had told me the truth?”

Ray glanced at Brian, now looking around sixty, maybe even older. His breathing was loud and harsh, his body shorter, more stooped. “You would’ve come even if you thought this whole legend was bogus?”

“Hell yeah. Jesus, it sounded like fun regardless of what lay at the bottom of the lake. The treasure was just the icing, man.”

Ray faced the front. “Well shit. I apologise then.”

“Doesn’t matter now. We’re both gonna die. Shit, I’m gonna miss Claire. What do you think our families will think happened to us?”

“I dunno,” Ray said, voice shaky. “I guess they’ll assume we got lost and froze to death.”

“If only they knew the truth.”

“Yeah,” Ray said, panting, legs feeling weaker with every step.

“Wonder how the Ab...Chris is doing. He wasn’t looking too good back there.”

Neither do you
, Ray thought, but then he supposed he wasn’t looking his best either. Without a mirror, he had no idea what he actually looked like.

But maybe it was best he didn’t see himself.

Ray held up the hand that wasn’t holding the Esky; his skin was saggy with wrinkles and dotted with liver spots.

Knowing he was aging rapidly and seeing it happen were two very different beasts.

It was bad enough seeing his best friend aging before his eyes; he didn’t need to witness it happening to himself.

Ray lowered his hand.

Come on Ginnumarra
.
Where are you?

They walked through the deathly silent forest, their breathing the only sound. Brian’s was the loudest: a wet wheezy noise that made Ray think of a balloon filled with phlegm.

It’s all those damn cigarettes
.

But his breathing didn’t sound much better.

Ray wasn’t sure how long they walked for; it felt like hours, but was probably only around twenty minutes. Ray feared they would never find the right path again, that Ginnumarra’s voice was lost forever and they would eventually get too old and collapse to the ground, dead.

And then get sucked into the earth, like Nathan and however many other poor souls had wandered into this forest, whether by chance or curiosity; sucked down into God knows where.

But then Ray’s ears twitched and through the heavy silence he heard the faint sound of a girl crying.

“I think I hear her,” Ray said, and was shocked to hear the old man that spoke.

Breathlessly, Brian said, “’Bout fuckin’ time.”

They trudged along in a straight line and the crying grew louder, like a great howling wind sweeping through the forest.

“We’re on the right track.” Ray stopped. He drew in a deep breath. “Chris!” he shouted. The shout was weak and raspy. “Chris, hey, we’ve found her!” His shouting didn’t echo, and he hoped Chris could hear him, wherever he was.

Out of breath, Ray turned to Brian. “I hope Chris...”

His friend of twenty-two years was on the ground.

Ray dropped the Esky and stepped over to where Brian lay. He shrugged off his rucksack and gritting through the pain in his old joints, knelt on the ground.

Brian was lying on his side, hands clutching at his chest.

Ray gently rolled Brian onto his back.

“Oh Christ,” Ray muttered.
He didn’t know what was more shocking: the frozen expression of pain on Brian’s face, or how old he looked. Age spots and wrinkles coated his saggy face and his whiskers were as white as his hair. His eyes were sunken and lifeless and his teeth, tucked inside his grimacing mouth, were yellow and black. He looked at least eighty.

Ray knew Brian was dead, yet he still went through the motions of shaking Brian’s body and begging him to wake up.

When he didn’t, Ray let out a shaky breath.

No tears flowed; he was either too tired or too drained of life to cry.

At least he went quickly
.

Ray closed Brian’s eyes and was in the middle of pulling Brian’s hands from his chest when the body started melting.

Ray let go, struggled to his feet, and watched as Brian’s skin, flesh and bone dissolved. It was like watching fat bubble and melt over a fire, except instead of dripping and turning to liquid, Brian’s body seeped into the earth.

Soon only his jeans, shirt, backpack and glass eye were left.

Ray gazed down at the remnants in disbelief.

He stared at the dead soil for a good length of time, before a cry slapped him out of his daze.

“Ray!”

The voice was distant.

“Ray, Brian!”

“Over here!” Ray shouted.

Before Chris arrived, Ray bent down and picked up Brian’s glass eye. He pocketed Brian’s pride and joy. He didn’t know what he aimed to do with it; maybe give it to Claire, if he made it out of here.

Soon he heard the deep, wet breathing of an old man who had overexerted himself.

Ray turned and faced the man he had helped capture.

Chris’s hair was completely white; his face fleshy and drawn and thick with lines.

Chris stopped in front of Ray and looked around. “Where’s Brian?”

Ray pointed down at all that remained of his best friend.

Chris looked down at the clothes on the ground. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, we have to keep going.”

“Yes, her voice is definitely stronger,” Chris said. “We must be getting close to the lake. But I don’t think I can continue,” he said, looking pale and sleepy. “I’m tired, my back’s sore and, well…” He coughed, wiped his fingers against his lips and held up his hand. His fingers were smeared with blood. “I’m dying.”

“We’re both dying,” Ray said. “Fuck that, you’re coming with me. I need someone to help retrieve the amulet and bury the girl.”

Chris was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. “Just let me sleep for a little bit.”

“No. We have to keep going.”

“You go. You brought me here against my will; the least you can do is let me die with some dignity. You know what to do. Just follow Ginnumarra’s crying and soon you’ll get to the lake.”

“But didn’t you say that once we give the girl a proper burial, then the curse will be lifted? So we’ll be able to walk back through the forest without worry. So come on.”

Ray turned around and zipped open the gym bag. He dug through the junk contained within until he found the only item needed to retrieve the amulet (the other stuff was just props to make the story about buried treasure more believable to Brian and Nathan).

He hung the snorkel around his neck and turned back around. Chris was now sitting on the ground, head bowed.

“You’re not quitting on me now,” Ray said. “Get up.”

“I can’t,” Chris said wearily. “You go. Find the amulet and lift the curse. Once that’s done, I’ll be okay.”

“No, you can make it.”

“I’m too tired.”

Ray turned back to the bag and took out one of the coils of rope. He stepped over to Chris and started binding his wrists together.

“You’re coming with me, no excuses,” Ray said. “I’ll help you walk, okay?”

Chris lifted his head. When he saw what Ray was doing, he smiled thinly. “I see we’re back to this again.”

Once the rope was tied, Ray gripped the loose end and pulled.

With a heavy sigh, Chris got to his feet. “Okay, let’s go, master.”

Ray started walking.

It was hard going; not only did Ray’s weary body protest, but he had to contend with Chris lagging behind. Chris staggered, stumbled, and it wasn’t long before he fell over. Ray stopped and using all his strength, pulled the old man to his feet.

“Come on, just a little longer,” Ray said.

Chris, thick white beard covering his face, deep wrinkles etched into his hard, weathered skin, nodded. Ray turned back around and continued.

Ginnumarra’s crying was loud; so loud it was like her cries were swooping in and out of Ray’s head.

Though he felt like giving up, collapsing to the ground and sleeping; though his ears started ringing and his eyesight started deteriorating; though his joints felt like they were aflame, he ploughed on.

Exhausted to the point of agony, sweat teeming down his face, Ray soon became oblivious to the world around him. All he concentrated on was Ginnumarra’s weeping; he became stuck in a trance-like state—his only thought was getting to the lake.

On and on he lumbered. When Ginnumarra’s crying started fading, Ray thought he had once again gone off track. But then he saw the lake in the distance, and Ginnumarra’s weeping stopped altogether. Though Ray had lost all his hair and he had pains in every one of his muscles, none of these things mattered.

He had made it. He felt a tide of emotion rush through his tired old body.

If he had the energy, he would’ve cried tears of joy.

“We made it,” Ray said, voice sounding ancient. “Fuckin’ hell, we made it!”

Chris didn’t respond.

Ray turned around and saw Chris about three metres away, lying face-down in the black dirt, arms splayed, one leg bent at an odd angle.

Ray dropped the rope and walked the short distance back to Chris, feeling himself aging rapidly as he did.

He turned Chris over; fell backwards at the sight of the raw face, stripped of flesh and grimy with blood and dirt.

His stomach clenched and he puked.

When he was empty, he wiped his mouth and got to his feet.

He wondered: how long had he been dragging the lifeless body behind him like a kid with a rag doll?

Ray shivered and could only think to say, as redundant and empty as it sounded, “I’m sorry, Chris.”

He turned away, not wanting to see the ruined body melt into the earth.

Without looking back, Ray walked the rest of the way to the lake.

* * *

Ginnumarra awoke to a nightmare.

She was sitting against a boulder near the lake, hands tied behind her back, feet bound by rope. Her head hurt, and sticky blood was caked in her hair.

She looked around; saw Truganini sitting atop one of the horses, also tied, face blank, eyes staring at nothing. Next she saw Dad. He was tied to the trunk of one of the trees. He was naked, and Ginnumarra saw, with a rush of nausea, that his penis had been hacked off. Only a purplish-red stump remained. Dark blood sheathed his thighs and legs. He was still breathing, but his breaths were shallow.

Choking back tears, Ginnumarra looked down at her amulet. The brown rock was smudged with dirt, the healing light inside muted. But she could still feel its power—it had helped her fight off the demons when she was ill, and now she was sure it would be able to help Dad, if only she could give it to him. But her hands were tied, so that made it impossible. She looked around for the ghosts. One of them was on top of Mum, pants down at his ankles, hips quaking; the other two were standing around watching, grins on their bloody faces. “That’s it, Bill, give it a good one.” “Make sure that Abo knows her place.”

Not wanting to watch, Ginnumarra turned away, and wondered where Moodoo was. Her little brother had been in the lake when the three white men arrived. She looked over her shoulder at the clear, pristine lake, but couldn’t see any sign of her five-year-old brother.

She wanted to call out for him, but her throat was too tight with fear. She scanned the forest around the lake, but she couldn’t see him.

She heard a loud groan and then the white man hopped off Mum and standing, pulled up his pants and wiped an arm across his mouth. “Not bloody bad, chaps,” he said, and they all laughed.

The three men left Mum. They stepped towards Dad. “Hey Roland, we got time for some target practice?” one of the men said.

The white man who appeared to be in charge nodded. After loading their rifles, all three ghosts took aim and fired at Dad.

His body jerked as bullets smacked into his chest and stomach. One of the bullets hit him in the head and one side of his face caved in.

When the firing stopped and the echoes faded, smoke filled the afternoon air.

Dad leaned forward, as far as the ropes allowed, now very much dead.

Ginnumarra cried out; Truganini started weeping.

“Look chaps, the young girl’s awake.”

“Moodoo,” Ginnumarra shouted. “Moodoo, where are you?”

She struggled against the ropes, desperate to find her brother.

“I think she wants her little brother,” one of the ghosts said.

The three men stopped in front of Ginnumarra. One of them squatted in front of her. She stopped struggling and, breathing deeply, looked at the ghost. She took in his thin face: stubble like black moss covering his bottom half; blood and sweat mingling with the dirt; thin, bloodless lips; and thin, narrow eyes. She spat in that face. The ghost’s face widened with rage and he lashed out and slapped her across the cheek. “Wench,” he growled. “You want to see your brother? Okay, I’ll take you to him.”

The ghost straightened and grabbed Ginnumarra by the arm. She was pulled to her feet and dragged along the ground. She was dragged near to where Mum and Grandma lay and she couldn’t help but notice Grandma’s head and how it was like a blooming flower of blood. Mum was lying naked on the ground, alive, conscious, but badly beaten.