The Memory Tree (14 page)

When she was in grade six, Cassie’s mother rang Hal to ask if she could take his daughter away for a few days in the coming school holidays.

‘A trip around Gippsland,’ she said. ‘Walhalla, Buchan Caves, Ninety Mile Beach. We’ll take them out on my brother’s boat at Lakes Entrance.’

‘Sounds terrific.’ Hal was pleased for Sealie. ‘Just the thing,’ he told Mrs Mac. ‘Better see what she needs to take.’

Each night, Sealie came home with new information. ‘Walhalla is a ghost town,’ she informed them. ‘Cassie and I are going to learn how to steer the boat. Mrs Pearce says I can bring a game for quiet time.’

‘Quiet time,’ Hal chuckled. ‘You and Cassie? Can’t imagine that!’

Then, two days before she was due to leave, Hal became quiet himself. She was dismayed when her news about panning for gold was met with an absent smile, ‘Gold. Yes.’

As usual, Hal operated reasonably well at one level. He went to the office, subdued but competent enough. After work, he greeted the family briefly and headed for his study. Godown exchanged a glance with Mrs Mac as Sealie followed her father and closed the door.

The next morning she came down to breakfast in her pyjamas. ‘I don’t feel very well this morning,’ she told Mrs Mac, who was rinsing the men’s breakfast dishes. ‘I think I should stay home.’

Drying her hands, Mrs Mac felt Sealie’s forehead. ‘You don’t seem to have a fever,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong? A tummy bug? A headache?’

‘A headache,’ Sealie decided. ‘And it hurts to swallow.’

‘You’re going away tomorrow. Perhaps you’d better stay home and see if you can shake it off.’

But Mrs Mac wasn’t convinced. When Godown came home from work, she met him at the door. ‘Sealie didn’t go to school today,’ she whispered. ‘Said she’s sick, but I’m not sure. It’s so unlike her . . .’

‘Hal home yet?’

‘No. You don’t think . . .?’

‘Yes I do. That poor little girl thinks she has to be with her daddy.’

Godown knocked on Sealie’s door and went in to find her reading in the chair by the window. ‘Not too well today?’

Sealie affected a raspy throat. ‘Might have to miss the holiday,’ she said, refusing to meet his eye.

‘That’s too bad. I was going to tell you I’d keep an eye on your daddy while you’re gone. But if you don’t need me . . .’

‘I might feel better in the morning.’

‘You very well might.’

8

A
S MY FATHER NEGOTIATED THE
perilous footbridge between childhood and manhood, a new face began to emerge from the rounded boy-features. His jaw lengthened, and sharp cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose arranged themselves in uncompromising angles and planes. He was tall, vigorous and fit, but for those who cared to notice, his eyes would sometimes betray the twelve-year-old child who had wept in the cupboard under the stairs.

Not many people did notice. Godown did, but Zav resisted his efforts to help. Mrs Mac did, but then she had all but been his mother since Paulina died. To his friends, he was a leader— to girls, a charming and loyal daredevil.

And what of Sealie? She who once knew him best? Well Sealie was busy growing up herself and the age difference meant that she had become something of a nuisance.

‘Why can’t I come with you and Lisa (or Natalie or Belinda)?’ she’d whine. ‘Mrs Mac, (Dad,) Zav’s being mean.’

Mrs Mac would give her short shrift but Hal would try to explain. ‘Zav is much older than you are. He has to be able to see his friends without his little sister tagging along. Tell you what. This afternoon we’ll go to the museum (or the cinema or to buy a milkshake).’

‘No,’ she’d pout. ‘I want to go with Zav.’ And Hal would promise her an outing on Zav’s behalf.

Zav found this insufferable and refused to cooperate. ‘She’s got plenty of friends of her own. I don’t ask to go out with them.’

Hal would sigh then, and shake his head. ‘Very disappointing, Zav. That’s all I can say.’

Zav had been a boy of bruises and scabby knees. He had a scar where he split his chin in a fall from his bike and among a pile of junk in the round room he kept a signed plaster cast from when his arm was broken in a rollerskating accident. A twice-broken right collarbone left one shoulder slightly higher than the other and he’d once been concussed after diving into a roiling pack of under-twelve footballers. All these incidents may suggest that he was clumsy, but this was far from the truth. Rather, he was always pushing boundaries, trying to be the best, the fastest, the most daring.

It was this attitude that nearly cost him his life. When he was sixteen, he attended a school bush-camp in the mountains. Zav relished the thought of a new physical challenge. Not to mention a whole week without books.

Camp activities included orienteering, abseiling and white-water rafting. The last two particularly appealed to Zav. The adrenalin rush from swinging out into space or hurtling through the rapids had left him on a high that culminated in a solo attempt to climb the nearby escarpment known locally as Satan’s Slide.

Formal activities finished at three o’clock and while his mates kept watch, Zav prepared for his climb. Mozzie Morris looked up at the small cloud in the otherwise pristine blue sky then doubtfully at Zav. ‘My gran lives around here,’ he said. ‘Weather sets in pretty quick. Might be better to wait till morning.’

Squinting, hands on hips, Zav appraised the steep ascent.

‘Looking for an excuse to pike out, Rodriguez,’ Bill Packard sneered.

‘Go! Go! Go!’ the pack chanted. ‘Go! Go! Go!’

So Zav went.

He set out along a clearly marked track and made good time before stopping for a drink. He was round the corner from the camp site now and the path had become more difficult, with steep steps carved into the rock and places where he had to scramble up on his hands and knees. He reached a wide, flat outcrop that overlooked the valley and searched in vain for the continuation of the track.
Shit
. From now on he had to find his own way but he’d need to hurry if he was to make it back before rollcall.

By his reckoning, he wasn’t far from the top and he grinned as he imagined the teachers’ reaction when they saw the school flag and Packard’s underpants planted on the ultimate ridge. Replacing his water bottle, he set off along a narrow ledge that became suddenly steeper. He reached up and grabbed a tree-branch, testing its strength gingerly as he pulled himself across to a wider shelf of rock. It held firm and he stretched for a sturdy-looking shrub with more confidence. Holding it tightly, he found a foothold and began to pull himself up to the next outcrop. A small clod of earth hit his upturned face, but his other hand was working its way to a cleft in the rock.

Soil and stones rained on him as the shrub gave way. His feet scrambled to find a foothold but found only air. He was sliding now, hands clawing, at one with the crumbling face of the escarpment. He heard a scream that stretched thinner and thinner, and his eyes, filled with grit, had a brief glimpse of the sky before he was knocked unconscious by the rock that arrested his fall.

A currawong perched on the rock and looked at the prone body with bright eyes. Wandering beetles, scuttled over and around him. The mountain swallowed the sun and in a short time, the mountain itself was swallowed by the mist. By the time Zav regained consciousness, there was nothing to be seen but white.

Back at the camp, the boys were uneasy. There was no flag yet and a curtain of clouds obscured the rapidly falling sun. When the mist began to roll in, Mozzie made a decision.

‘He
what
?’ Tom Franklin, the physical education coordinator, stared at Mozzie in disbelief. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He hasn’t come back, sir,’ the boy replied.

By the time they were able to contact Zav’s family, the escarpment was shrouded in mist and the damp air was heavy with cold.

Meanwhile, Hal and Bob were speeding through the gathering night, Bob doing his best to comfort his distraught friend. ‘The SES are there. They’ve probably found him already.’

Hal ignored him, so Bob tried another tack. ‘Zav’s a sensible young bloke. He’ll find shelter.’ He glanced over at his friend. ‘What the—’

Hal was gabbling into the night. ‘Out of the depths I have cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice . . .’

‘What was that, Hal?’

‘Nothing. Nothing.’ Hal’s head sank into his hands. ‘Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication . . .’

‘Hal! That’s the prayer for the dead! For God’s sake, man— pull yourself together.’

Hal shook a weary head. He did everything for God’s sake. And he was asking God for just one thing.

Zav knew better than to attempt a descent. He felt blood on the back of his head and a sharp pain in his side. He tried to move but the pain bit at him with a savagery that took his breath away. He knew that cold was his greatest enemy, so he pulled down his beanie and adjusted the hood of his parka. Checking his backpack, he found that he had an apple, a near whole block of chocolate, half a bottle of water and three cigarettes. He’d have to ration everything. There was no hope of rescue before morning. Propping himself against the rock, he draped himself in the flag for extra warmth and with grim resolution, wrapped his gloved hands in Bill Packard’s underpants.

The night rolled out a cold, black curtain. There was not one star to show where the earth finished and the sky began. Zav tried to stay awake so that he could keep his blood circulating. He rotated his feet and rubbed his arms and swore that if he came out of this alive, he’d never be so stupid again. To his horror, he found himself snivelling like the frightened child he was. What if he died here, on the mountain? He tried to picture himself dead but imagination failed him. Would his father mourn a dead Zav? There was some comfort in the thought of Hal weeping over the loss of his son. The boy saw Hal and Sealie planting another tree.
It’s not enough. A tree is not enough.
He didn’t want to be a tree, rooted in one place forever. He wanted to see the world, do things. His things. Like captaining the school football team. Playing for the Magpies. Taking Suzanne Downing to the school formal. Owning an MG. He began to cry again at the unfairness of it all.

Zav wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. What was happening down at the camp? If help was on its way, there’d be a light. His eyes strained to pierce the blackness and he felt himself choking on the viscous air. Was this what it was like to be buried in the ground? He returned to thoughts of death, but this time, it was not how other people might feel, nor the life he would miss out on, but the moment itself. Would there be pain? They said his mother felt no pain. But he would feel everything—the creeping cold, the hunger, the thirst. How long did it take to die of thirst? His tested his mouth and throat. They felt ominously dry, and panicking, he swigged at his water bottle, regretting it immediately.

Have to stay awake and keep moving as much as I can. I could drift off to sleep and never wake up.
His mind, which a few minutes before had begun to think rationally, spiralled once more into fear.
Never wake up.
He saw the school chapel and the sad faces of his mates. What would they say about him? He began to compose his own eulogy. It was exceptionally flattering (and why not?). He felt a bit more cheerful as phrases like ‘fearless adventurer’ and ‘sporting hero’ presented themselves. But what then? When the service and the songs and the eulogies were finished, they would go back to their lives, and he would face the blackness alone. He felt his dick harden as this realisation sent an unexpected thrill through his body—an orgasm born of fear. At sixteen, Zav experienced the awful seduction of oblivion.

Now he was almost depleted—his body infinitely weary and his mind, tested to the limit, sagged like a deflated balloon. Curling up under his rock, he finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

In his catalogue of the future, Zav didn’t mention a child. I suppose I should be hurt by that oversight, but as you probably know by now, I don’t bear grudges. Even so, it’s a bit confronting to think that if my father had died on that mountain, I would never have existed. That one sperm required to meet with that one ovum would never have been produced. And the Rodriguez story would have been quite different from the one I’m bound to witness.