Goldenscale

Sunday 19 March

40

Fivepence Lane beckoned. Beth took the intersection and walked along the gravelled verge. After a few minutes she stopped, crawled beneath a dense row of hawthorne bushes, climbed through a fence and walked through dry grass to a low granite outcrop dotted with shallow pools of water. Lizards scattered and she lay full length on a flat patch of rock.

The sky was a big empty blue bowl. Beth waited. She sat up and read back through her diary, trying to understand her mother’s reaction.

February 22: What does D want me to think? He must have experienced a thousand things in his life. He will leave, perhaps soon, and I’ll regret it if I haven’t asked him enough good questions.

February 23: Does D make up his emotional responses? Sometimes it seems he has learned to feel like a human.

February 24: Why do I believe D? Why don’t I ask more questions? Because of him I have lied to my friends and my parents. I can’t tell anyone. I know he doesn’t want me to.

Beth turned to a blank page and began writing.

No wonder she thinks I’m up to no good. Now that she’s read it, anything I say will just convince her the opposite is true. ‘D’ could be a boy. How could it be anything else?

She put down her pen for a few moments, then began again.

All that world and space, but so few choices. I can’t tell my friends, I can’t run away. I can’t go against D, and I can’t let Henry in on the secret, either. Only two choices really: to accept it all and do whatever comes next, or to be difficult and ask questions. Am I merely D’s servant, or some kind of ally? It usually feels like the former.

A car horn sounded and she jumped. She looked around but the meadow was empty. A voice in the distance?

‘Are you out there, Beth?’

She waited several heartbeats. She slammed her diary shut and slid it into her backpack.

‘Henry?’

‘C’est moi.’ He emerged from the hawthorn hedge and walked towards her. ‘Ah, the sweet air. There was so much coal dust in Russia.’

‘Did you really go there, Henry?’

‘My word I did. Flying back and forth like a blue-arsed fly.’

Beth squinted up at Mount Acute. ‘Did Mum send you to look for me?’’

‘No, not really.’

‘Ha. And how did you know to come out here?’ Beth asked, letting her irritation show.

‘Your mama again, I’m afraid. She knows you better than you’d think. Said you’d go bush rather than go to town. And that you always went in this direction. And I saw footprints leading away from the roadside …’

‘Am I under arrest?’ she asked.

‘Mais non! No arrests on a Sunday.’

They walked back across the paddock.

‘Mum thinks I’ve been seeing a boy. I haven’t, Henry, ever. I’ve looked and thought a bit, like all the girls, but I haven’t done anything. I’m not ready for that sort of stuff.’ She sighed loudly. ‘And she shouldn’t have read my freaking diary.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t bother too much about sordid private lives … since my divorce, I haven’t even had one.’ He picked up his mobile and dialled away.

‘Mission accomplished,’ he said. ‘She’s fine — thought I might take her for a drive, let things cool down — OK, check in later.’ He shut off the phone and stretched. ‘You’re off the hook, kid. Where do you want to go?’

‘Ooralloo,’ said Beth, making what felt like the biggest decision of her life. ‘Some research for a school report.’

I want to know the truth, she told herself. And I’m going to fight for it.

41

Ooralloo township was almost deserted. Birds had picked litter out of an open bin and a few free-range dogs were squabbling in the dust. Two aboriginal men sitting on a verandah glanced over as Henry’s car rolled to a halt and disgorged its occupants. The men were watching test cricket on a small portable television.

‘That’s Mr Netcher,’ said Beth, looking at the elder of the two. ‘Met him the other day.’

‘You were with the tour,’ Netcher said, recognising her. ‘Didn’t ask any stupid questions, far as I can remember. This yer dad?’

‘Uncle,’ said Beth.

‘Meetcha,’ said Mr Netcher. ‘Name’s Jack.’

Henry shook hands, introduced himself.

‘Where is everyone, Mr Netcher?’ Beth asked.

‘At the football, eh!’

‘But it’s summer!’

‘Hey. We practise a lot, have friendly matches even when it’s hot. The boys are down at Tarakarak today, and the whole mob’s gone down to watch. We won the league last year — aimin’ to do it again this time too. Only way to do that is trainin’.’

‘Is Mara here? She said she might help me out with a school project.’

Mr Netcher thought about this for a while. ‘She might be … or she might not. Who can say with that one?’

‘Can you tell me where she lives, then?’

He thought about this at even greater length, sucking his front teeth. Eventually he relented, and gave Beth walking directions.

‘Do you want to come, Henry?’

‘Might stay here and watch the cricket. You go, Beth. Haven’t watched a game in years.’

\

Beth picked her way through the quiet streets. Seeing the township for a second time was strange. The houses seemed shabbier, some windows broken, lawns unwatered and weedy, signs of poverty manifested in cheap toys and plastic bags flattened against fences. She had been struck by the novelty of the township when she had visited with the school, but now she was able to see another aspect. The people here were once free to roam, and were now free only to stay. For a moment she sensed the boredom and lack of opportunity that must be part of life in the settlement.

She turned off the footpath and walked towards a turquoise fibro cement shed surrounded by roses. Beth knocked on the half-open door. She waited for almost a minute.

‘Who is that? Hello?’

Beth stood facing a dark, fly wire-covered doorway. She felt nervous.

‘I visited with a school group last week. My name is Beth. Is that Mara?’

‘I remember you. You said you were gonna come up and talk to me.’

‘Yes. Well, here I am.’

‘Here you are.’

Mara stepped out, shading her eyes. ‘You know, I didn’t expect you to come back, not on your own, anyway. And without an appointment.’

‘My uncle’s here. He stopped to watch cricket with Jack.’

‘That lazy old bugger!’ said Mara. ‘The only bit of him that’s permanently employed is his bum. Anyways, you’re wearing out the welcome mat.’

‘Oh!’ said Beth, starting.

They went into the house. The first room was an office, spare but functional, featuring a plain wooden desk with a fold-up chair, an antiquated computer and a surprisingly modern laser printer.

‘I put all my orders on that computer,’ said Mara. ‘Have to watch my nephews though, eh? They come and play their games on it.’

Mara took her on a quick tour. Three of the four original bedrooms were now storage areas for her native food business. The place smelled strongly of eucalyptus oil. Mara made two cups of strong white tea and they sat down at a small linoleum-covered table in the kitchen.

‘I saw you takin’ notes last week,’ said Mara. ‘Almost like you was interested. No-one else was. Not much, anyway. Just a curiosity for them, going up to see real live aborigines.’

‘We all liked it,’ said Beth defensively.

Mara raised an eyebrow.

‘So, why are you in Ooralloo?’

Beth took a very deep breath. She could not disguise her nervousness. ‘Um. We have a cellar under our house. My dad built it to store wine.’

‘This doesn’t sound like a research project,’ said Mara.

‘Actually — it isn’t.’ She waited for Mara to object, and when she didn’t, went on. ‘The cellar has begun to collapse. Every few days the house shakes like crazy.’

Mara smiled, exposing even white teeth. Suddenly, she seemed much younger.

‘Sounds like you should be havin’ serious words with the builder, not me.’

Beth took another breath. ‘It’s not just the bricks, Mara. There’s a smell. The strangest smell. Everyone in the house notices it.’

‘Mildew?’

‘No, nothing like that. People say it’s a good smell, mostly. My uncle thinks it’s grapes, the next-door neighbour said it reminds him of the sea …’

‘What does it mean to you, girl?’

‘Everything. All my memories, when I was a little girl.’

Mara gazed at her, cup cradled in her large hands.

‘I think people smell the things they love,’ Beth went on. She took a noisy swallow of her tea.

‘So why tell me?’

‘Well, that’s it. The smell comes out of the earth. It must have been there a long time, perhaps. I thought your people might have legends about a strange scent. Down at Goolgoorook.’

‘That’s not our country down there, you know. Another mob. We were the highlanders. Anyway, we don’t really have legends, girl. My people tell stories about the dreaming. To us they are true, not just made-up legends.’

‘I know that,’ Beth said, ‘but is there any story …’

‘About your magic scent? I can’t recall one.’

‘It’s not just a smell,’ Beth said. ‘I found this.’

She placed the scale on the table. Even in the dim kitchen it glowed. Mara looked at it, then tentatively extended a hand.

Her nostrils flared. ‘That is the smell?’ she asked.

‘Yes. It’s much stronger in my house.’

‘I can smell rock, and taste it too. Crushed ochre, and the stone we use for axe-heads. Seeds, Bunya pine nuts.’ She leaned back. ‘Put it in your pocket. I mean it. If you had showed that to Jack, he’d hurt you …’

‘He’d what?’

‘I have seen one of these things before. One of these golden flakes. Bit more scratched up, a touch duller, but the same thing. For sure.’

Beth’s eyes widened.

‘That thing is man’s business. Top secret — no women allowed.’

‘How do you know about it, then?’

‘Old Jack, he fancied me when I was young. Showed me secrets. He showed me something just like that flake to impress me. Didn’t work too well, eh?’

‘Where did he get the … flake?’

Mara shook her head. ‘Stop talking about it. Don’t ever bring it back here again. Hide it good. Too dangerous.’

Beth’s mind was still aflame with the notion that Jack had a dragon scale. ‘I—I’m sorry. Why would Jack go after me?’

‘You don’t want to know, girl. I don’t want to know, either. I’m sayin’ this because you seem like a decent type. You’ve got a bit of respect and all that.’

‘He’d come after me?’ Beth persisted.

‘If you were a Gugamai, certainly.’

Mara stood and guided Beth back out towards the street. The afternoon sun was hot and bright.

Beth shook hands with Mara. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t be,’ Mara said. Her expression softened. ‘Look, girl, I’ll ask around, on the sly. Can see that this matters to you.’

‘It really does,’ said Beth. ‘It’s ruining my life in lots of ways.’

At that moment a bus full of shouting children crossed the intersection at the end of the street.

‘Everyone’s back,’ said Mara.’ So much for bloody peace and bloody quiet.’

Tea had been called in the test match and Henry was ready to leave, bidding farewell to the four older men and an assortment of recently returned boys and girls who were looking at him as if he had just landed in a flying saucer.

Henry played a Purple Haze CD on the way back down to Hemming Heights. He knew Beth had a bit of a thing for music from the ’60s and ’70s.

‘Jack’s an interesting bloke,’ said Henry. He was a boxer way back when, did you know? Lightweight champion of the state. Went to the Nationals, but lost on points. Says he was robbed.’

‘Um,’ said Beth, absently. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘Did you get what you were after?’

‘Sort of.’

On the way back, and after tapping Henry for a non-refundable loan, Beth bought four more bags of dog food.

Henry gave her one of his more speculative looks. ‘That hound of yours goes through this stuff like nobody’s business.’

42

Dinner was already on the table.

Sam listened to Henry’s description of Ooralloo village.

‘Why didn’t you take me?’ he asked.

‘Spur of the moment,’ said Henry.

Abbie ate quietly, passing food to Beth, but not otherwise acknowledging her. Nick said little, examining his glass of white wine.

Eventually Henry excused himself, taking a glass with him.

Beth caved in.

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to say anything unkind.’

‘We give you a lot of freedom,’ said Abbie. Nick nodded.

‘I know. But there is no boy,’ she said, as calmly as possible. ‘My diary is like a story. Some things are true and some aren’t. Some of it’s kind of … metaphorical. Not literal.’

‘How would we know one way or the other if there is a boy? That diary, Beth, is the only glimpse we’ve had of the real you for a very long time,’ she said.

Beth began to cry. Rarely used, but a sneaky, low-down and very effective trick. ‘It’s hard at school,’ she sobbed, ‘thinking about Len … and Jo’s mum.’

‘What’s wrong with Sylvia?’ asked Nick, alarmed.

‘Ah — Mr Aarons is in jail in Fiji. For carrying drugs. Mrs Aarons has to help him. I thought you knew already.’

Her parents exchanged looks, and Beth knew she had distracted them.

After a barrage of questions about Jo and her mother, Beth began a retreat to her room.

\

This time, she waited until she was sure Henry was asleep. Down into the cellar she went, dragging a bag of Alpo in each hand. The hole was now the height of a man, running from the floor to the roof.

‘I’m almost there,’ the dragon said, ’almost alive. ‘I’d forgotten what life feels like, Beth. Now, I dream of looking at the moon.’

The cellar was warmer.

‘This kindred of yours …’ he hissed.

‘Henry? My uncle.’

‘Uncle, mmm. He. is unusual … knows something is happening. Something beyond his experience. It amuses him, interests him. He craves novelty.’

‘How could he know?’

‘Think, Beth. He sees it in you. You’ve changed. You have knowledge now.’

Wind eddied around her, damp and gritty, smelling like fresh-pulled potatoes.

‘He is dangerous,’ said the dragon. ‘If he found me, perhaps he would not sympathise.’ Beth took a breath to defend Henry. Perhaps he is right. Henry might do something to spoil all of this.

‘Do everything you can to distract him,’ the dragon urged her. ‘It is vital. This may be my last awakening. There is so little space in the world for me.’

‘No,’ said Beth, her emotions bleeding, mingling. ‘There must be other people like me — who can help. I’m sure of it.’

‘Precious few. I know what humans can do. And there are so many of you now. I doubt there is any part of the world free of your kind.’

‘Some places are still empty.’

‘Aye. The dry and the cold places. Empty for a good reason. Unlivable.’

‘Can you not live with people? Co-exist?’

’That is all I can do, Beth. Persuading people they need me is my calling. But now: wherever I go, everyone will know of me, with your television. I cannot convince a whole planet. I have not the strength or cunning. People will fear me, and lash out.

‘We’re not all like that.’

‘Yet I have heard of terrible weapons — able to destroy entire cities. If humans are able to use them against each other, do you think they would hesitate to do the same to me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Beth said, but she knew in her gut there would be little hesitation. She felt shame at belonging to a species to which death and destruction came so easily.

Beth sighed. ‘We’re not good,’ she said after a long pause. ‘We’re small and weak, we have to overcompensate.’ She fiddled with the top button of her shirt. ‘I’m just crapping on, you know. Would you ask one bee what the purpose of the hive was?’

‘I suppose not. Thank you for your honesty.’

‘I’ll try and think of something,’ Beth said. ‘You need some kind of public relations person, I think.’ She laughed aloud at the thought. She felt giddy and strange.

It’s the scent — don’t forget the scent. Beth tried holding her breath, to hold out the dragon’s aroma for just a moment. No use; the smell was all over her, a thick coating distorting her senses.

‘I’ve got that book for you,’ she ground out. ‘It’s called Climbing Mount Improbable. Sums up how scientists see life, I guess. Perhaps it would be a good distraction.’

In the teeth of a long silence, she cleared her throat and picked up the book.

As an introduction, she told him about the great Charles Darwin and Alfred Russell Wallace, the men who first guessed why and how living things change in form and function over time. She was fairly good on evolutionary theory — it was her favourite topic at school.

‘Most mutations are useless or harmful, but a few will give a particular organism a small advantage, allowing it multiply faster and create viable copies of itself. Better adapted creatures were able to produce more offspring, and their offspring in turn were often successful.’ She stopped and took a breath. This is pretty freaking absurd, she told herself. Pity Dawkins is not here to talk to him.

’New species arise through natural selection, and many older species die out. Nature is always changing — an endless competition for light, space and food.

She went on at some length, gesturing, regurgitating everything she had read on the topic, until she felt like a Christian televangelist preaching the word of the Lawd.

Then she began reading Dawkins’ essays. Her mouth was dry by the end of the first chapter, but in some way she couldn’t quite put her finger on, she was proud of her effort.

‘More, tomorrow night. About genetics.’ Beth looked at the dark hole and wondered if the dragon had genes, or even DNA. Was he a part of life, or something different?

‘Oh,’ the dragon said, voice muffled. ‘There is no more?’

‘Not tonight. What did you think?’

‘Time stopped … do you believe this, Beth? It’s not just a story?’

‘No. It is real.’

‘I do not want to believe,’ said the dragon. ‘Yet there is something in it that I cannot deny.’

‘Don’t expect you to just believe this,’ said Beth. ‘It’s not a religion. You have to think about it yourself.’

‘That I will do. Be assured. We dragons have never seen life in such a light. I find it disturbing.’

Beth’s sense of euphoria faded. Now, I’m affecting him — it’s not just one way traffic. Enough for now.

She stood to leave.

‘Good night.’

‘Wait … a moment. Was this a test, Beth? Have I used you unfairly?’

‘No.’ Beth stopped. ‘Not at all.’

An odd sound rose, then fell, as if the dragon was talking to himself. ‘What is it? What is it … ?’

Beth took the stairs two at a time and was back in her room and in bed in record time, Henry unseen and the house empty and quiet in the night. She drew down sleep like a blanket and snuggled into its folds.