Goldenscale

Tuesday 7 March

25

For the second day in a row she walked to school without bumping into Irene. She carried on a conversation with herself, half muttered, half aloud. How old is he? Where does he come from? When did he learn to speak? How long has he been listening to us?

During French, a class populated by near-strangers, she wrote out all of her questions, constantly glancing around to make sure no-one was watching.

After the last syllable of French she traipsed into Art — a good place to make a mess and to mix unfamiliar substances. Hoping to achieve an interesting spontaneous effect, she started with a large sheet of recycled paper, ripping it into dozens of rough-edged ovals. Beth dipped these in wood glue and scattered them over a square of linen. Gold flecked paint followed, dripped and dribbled Pollock-style. Enjoying herself, she fell into an easy rhythm, stopping after an hour or so to survey her work.

She stopped breathing. Her random textural piece had become a structured series of accurately formed overlapping scales, each marked with a complex fingerprint-like pattern, in the middle of which was an unmistakeable eye, red and perfectly circular with a great golden pupil. She couldn’t look away. I don’t even remember putting those details on the scales.

‘That’s very interesting,’ said Mrs Hirschner, and Beth jumped, clutching at a chair.

‘I’m trying to do something gestural,’ said Beth, remembering something the H-Bomb had said a few weeks earlier.

‘Hmphh. Looks more Oriental to me,’ said Mrs Hirschner. ‘Maybe you’re channelling a Song Dynasty painter.’

Beth smiled. Just channelling one of the critters they liked to paint.

At the end of the lesson she rolled up her half-dry construction, tied it with string and carried it with her. She slouched across to the oval where the rest of the Phys Ed class were waiting. Beth took a seat on the grass next to Jo.

‘Sar’s away somewhere,’ said Jo. ‘Bullamanka. Out bush somewhere. Sports stuff. God knows which one. Underwater hockey? Cross country tennis?’ She was a lot friendlier today, gently ribbing Beth about Hanford, and sharing a few squares from a block of chocolate.

Ms Larundel led the class out to the tennis courts. ‘Play,’ she commanded loudly, handing out equipment. ‘No dropping or scraping the racquets, and find the ball when it goes out of bounds.’

Beth knew how to hold a tennis racquet, but not much more. Despite Ms Larundel’s frantic mini lessons, the two of them put on a display of anti-tennis, where the ball hardly ever stayed in and racquets seemed to be all hole and no string. They missed so many balls and double-faulted so often that Jo could hardly serve for laughter.

‘Bloody futile,’ said Beth as they retrieved their bags from change-room lockers. ‘Might as well teach a cockroach to tango.’

‘You come up with the weirdest sayings,’ said Jo. ‘And right now I’m saying goodbye. Catch you in the a.m.?’

‘Earth to Jo. Like, of course.’

She hadn’t thought about the dragon for at least an hour.

Beth hurried home and began searching for a specialist nursery. Surprisingly, there were a large number of them, but only one was close enough to reach on her bike.

She dialled, her heart thudding.

‘Hello? I was wondering if you sold tree ferns. How much? Are there any smaller ones? Do I get a discount if I buy three?’ She took seventy five dollars from her cash tin, almost exhausting her reserves.

She pedalled into town as if she was leading a breakaway group in the Tour de France. Her lungs felt raw. When she arrived, skidding to a stop in a spray of gravel, she took a minute to bring her breathing under control.

As she rested, she glanced up and down the street. She could see grassy paddocks, factory buildings and a big concrete silo that one day would probably be perfect for conversion into warehouse apartments. Green Thumb Nursery occupied an entire block along Newbegin Road, opposite a long row of pastel shaded cottages.

She entered the nursery through an archway made of intertwined rose bushes and vines. A small, middle-aged man with tanned skin, dye-dark hair and an elfin face looked up from a line of potted seedlings. He smiled and wiped his hands.

‘I know that face. You’re Nick’s daughter, ain’t ya?’

Beth nodded. Everyone knew her dad. No secrets in a small town.

‘I’m Serge Golokov. I remember when you was knee high to a grasshopper. Worked with y’dad. Hydro project up in the hills. Y’d be at high school now, yeh?’

Beth agreed.

‘Town’s changed since then, eh?’ he said. ‘She used to be such a quiet little place.’ He scratched his forearm ruminatively. ‘More business for me, though.’

Beth nodded and looked around. There were only a few other customers, silver haired couples inspecting begonias and azaleas. I can’t do small talk, she thought. ‘I called just before. Have to buy some things.’

‘Right-oh! About the ferns, right? Follow me.’ They eventually stopped under an expanse of shade-cloth. Serge mopped his forehead.

‘Hotter’n a shearer’s armpit in here.’ Pointing at a dense wall of greenery, he smiled. ‘Say hello to my children. That beauty over there, she’s the basket fern. Fishbone, eh?’

‘What’s that?’ Beth pointed to a large spreading fern with a thick trunk. ‘I’ve seen it everywhere in the Jugamai hills.’

‘Dicksonia antarctica,’ he said proudly. ‘The soft tree fern. Good specimen, that one. One hundred dollars for you.’

She held up her hands. ‘A little bit much, I’m sorry. I don’t have a job yet.’

‘Right then. We’ve got some smaller Dicksonia.’

‘That’s fine. It doesn’t have to be fancy.’ She bargained him down to forty dollars for a Dicksonia stump, a prickly, rust-coloured lump covered with a mat of fibres.

‘Wait right there,’ he said, as she hefted the stump. He returned with two more. ‘Take these as well. On the house.’

Serge tied the three trunks together with coarse orange twine, and helped her secure them crosswise to the bike’s rack. She hopped aboard and almost tipped the bike over.

‘Oof. They’re heavy.’

Serge stood back and looked dubious. ‘Maybe y’dad could pick it up, eh?’ he said. ‘Bit too heavy.’

‘It’s a present,’ she said. ‘So I’ve got to keep it quiet.’

‘If I get any cheaper ferns, I’ll let you know,’ he called after her. ‘Don’t forget — lots of shade and water.’

Beth nodded. The ferns would get plenty of shade, but water wasn’t likely to be a part of the plan.

26

By cutting through the primary school and crossing Golf Links Road, Beth was able to sneak into Hemming Heights without attracting attention. She arrived at the house red and perspiring. Climbing the hill back to Hemming Heights with her fern-laden bike had been torture. She pushed the bike the last few hundred metres, dropping it once and cursing the unwieldy fern trunks. She quickly unlatched the side gate and pushed bike and cargo into the back yard. ‘Now what do I do with it?’ Freddy barked softly. Shut up, she mouthed.

She didn’t have a cover story for her sudden interest in tree ferns, so she really wanted to hide them away before attracting any attention. ‘Here boy! Here Freddy Fred!’

Beth drew a scale from her pocket and held it out. Freddy yelped and fled to the far end of the garden. She went into the house, called for Sam and sighed with relief when no answer came. Beth had an idea that he and Nick were off fishing or some boys-only thing that she sneered at but really wanted to join. She grabbed several garbage bags, returned, slid the fern trunks into them and took them to the cellar door. As she had expected, the lock was open and the door slightly ajar. About to descend, she heard a key turning in the front door. She jerked to a halt, the bagged ferns falling from her arms and bouncing down the stairs before thudding to a halt on the cellar floor.

‘What was that noise? Is someone here?’

Beth fumbled the cellar door closed, shakily pressed the padlock together and raced for the lounge. ‘It’s me, Mum,’ she squeaked, out of breath. ‘I dropped a book.’

‘Oh,’ said Abbie, peering around the corner. ‘Gave me a start. The side gate’s open, Beth. And your bike is in the way. Show some care!’

‘Sorry Mum.’ Beth couldn’t help smiling. Sam was right, their mother did sometimes talk in bullet points. ‘When are they back?’

‘They might have gone to the coast. Could be a while. Dinner’s in the freezer. I’m out for a little while,’ called Abbie from the parental bedroom. ‘Giving a talk to a business group.’

Just go already, Beth thought. A minute later the front door slammed and she was alone again. She thought about going down to the cellar, but delayed that in favour of a snack. She couldn’t face the dragon on an empty stomach.

The phone shrilled just as Beth took her second mouthful of a peanut butter sandwich.

‘My parents aren’t home, and nor is my brother.’

‘You’re coming tomorrow night, aren’t you? I mean, do I have to remind you again?’ Jo, tone icy.

Beth squirmed. She had indeed forgotten. ‘Of course I am. I don’t forget everything, do I?’

‘Well, we thought … you might be losing interest in your friends.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Boys. What do you think? Or a boy, anyway.’

‘My mother’s beating the same dog. It’s not that,’ she said.

Beth wondered if the faint scrabbling she could hear was the dragon somehow consuming the ferns.

‘Look, Jo. It’s not a boy. Not a girl, either, or a fixation on shop mannequins or women’s magazines or anything else.’

In the background, Beth heard Jo called to dinner. She exhaled. ‘Catch you tomorrow, Jo. And don’t forget the blinking excursion!’

Abbie walked in just as Beth hung up. ‘Jo, was it? Say hello to her mother when you see her next. Two hours?’

‘Mum, it’s only a local call, anyway. Five minutes.’

‘Oooh. That was the shortest conversation you’ve ever had with Jo.’

‘Right. What about your business talk then? You were only gone for half an hour.’

‘I went on the wrong night. It’s next week. Losing my grip.’

Beth didn’t have an answer to that. She made a mental note to thank the dragon for halting his earthquake schedule. Abbie had enough to cope with.

27

After dinner, Beth felt paralysed. She worried about the dragon, her friends, her mother. She watched Horatio for a while. He in turn seemed to be watching her. Did every animal under the control of humanity yearn for a wild life? The dragon was surely the wildest of all creatures and his desire for the open sky must be fierce indeed. Unstoppable, perhaps.

Coiled and cramped in his lair beneath their house, listening to them (he must be able to hear everything), learning their language, observing, waiting. For me. Maybe he’s been listening to me for years. My whole life. He needs help, and he asked me. Just me. He needs me more than anyone else. Without me, he would be trapped forever.

‘Gotta do some homework, Mum,’ she said.

‘Have to,’ Abbie said automatically.

‘OK. I have to do some homework. We’re going to see the elders up on the plateau tomorrow, and I want to ask some good questions.’

Abbie nodded. Her face was unusually pale, eyes shadowed. She looked away from Beth, as if disturbed by scrutiny. ‘Go on then,’ she said.

An idea had just come to Beth, one that would require research. The dragon might pre-date European settlement, but surely he had arrived after the arrival of Aboriginal people. Fifty thousand years was just too great a gulf of time for him to cross. He had therefore been observed by people.

She opened Aboriginal Cultures of Eastern Australia on her tablet. She scanned the table of contents until she found the Gugamai. The Gugamai people spoke Pijanti, one of a group of similar languages found along the east coast. They had been in the area for at least ten thousand years, probably longer. They ate starchy foods, bitter fruits, nectar, lizards, snakes and the occasional kangaroo.

A small patch of text leapt at her. ’One of the favourite winter foods of the Gugamai was the core of the soft tree fern, Dicksonia antarctica. After removing the outer covering, a core of white starch was revealed. Early settlers described the taste as ‘like a bad turnip’, but Aboriginal people were rather more positive. The starch could be eaten raw, but was usually roasted.’

Was this a hint that the dragon had been in contact with Aboriginal people? After all, the creature’s favourite food was also a traditional indigenous staple.

Beth re-read the whole chapter and took notes.

From within the bubble of her concentration, she noted the return home of her father and brother. Sam knocked at her door a few minutes later and went away after she had ignored him long enough.

She went back to her reading. An hour passed and the house grew quieter. Beth lay on her bed and tried to be calm, but found she couldn’t stay still any longer. ‘Here I come,’ she muttered, and left her room.

The smell inside the cellar was ever more pungent. Beth upended a box, and sat a little to the side of the chasm. Bricks melted and split by the dragon’s flame lay scattered around her.

When it finally came, the voice rose like a hot February wind. ‘I’m not going to eat you.’

Beth swallowed on a dry throat.

Silence, then a low clicking like two small stones striking one another.

‘You are beginning to accept me, I hope. You really have nothing to fear.’

‘Did you like the ferns?’

‘They were adequate. Not particularly fresh, though. Desiccated.’

She flushed. ‘It cost me eleven dollars. I can’t afford that every day!’

‘You purchased it? Is it possible to purchase a plant?’

‘Of course! Do you expect me to snatch them from national parks? That’s illegal, you know.’

‘You cannot obtain food there?’

‘It’s illegal,’ she said primly. ‘You can be imprisoned.’

‘Well. I can eat other foods, if it is more convenient.’

‘Such as?’ She imagined giant mushrooms from deep in the forest. Whales. Marinated tree bark or sap … 

‘The dry food you set aside for the wolf.’

‘Wolf? What wolf … Oh. Freddy, you mean!’ She smiled. ‘You’d eat dog food?’

‘I ate three bags of it when first I awoke. Stored in the room in which you sit. High in protein, even if very stale. I drew it in with my breath.’

‘He’s not a wolf.’

‘He smelled like a wolf. At times I have enjoyed hunting with wolf packs.’

‘Oh.’ said Beth. How would they communicate?

Dry pet food wasn’t that expensive … particularly the no-name stuff … but if the dragon ate too much … 

‘I’ll see. I’ll need money. Mum only buys one bag every two weeks.’

Hearing her voice, Freddy yelped, and scrabbled at the cellar door.

‘Your dog smells me. Perhaps he is trying to save you.’

‘I’d better go.’

‘Indeed. I thank you,’ came the sonorous voice. Beth stood still, not really seeing, just contemplating. After a while she turned and trudged up the cellar stairs. How am I fitting this into my life so easily? How can I eat dinner with my family, talk to Jo, then go and chat with an imprisoned magical beast? If she was crazy, she hoped it was only a partial madness.

Freddy backed away from her as she emerged, his muzzle wrinkled into a snarl. After a moment, he rubbed against her leg like a cat.

‘You don’t like me, then you do. Make up your mind, wolf.’

Beth lay on her back, gazing at the shadowy ceiling. He can unlock the cellar without touching the lock. He can see me without seeing me. I’m helping him without any thought of possible consequences.

After scribbling a mess of thoughts into her diary, she entered sleep like a canoeist arrowing over a waterfall.