Dead Tree Forest

FIRST DIGITAL EDITION

Dead Tree Forest
© 2011 by Brett McBean

Cover Artwork © 2011 by Daniele Serra

All Rights Reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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For Michelle

It was a fine summer’s day when Ginnumarra and her family stopped at the lake.

They had been walking all night and long into the morning, and though Ginnumarra liked walking, she was happy to rest. It was hot and besides, Grandma looked tired, her jet-black skin was teeming with sweat, her heavy eyes red and puffy.

Ginnumarra knew, even at the age of twelve, that Grandma’s fatigue had less to do with the walking and more to do with having to leave their home. All of her family were sad about leaving—Dad, Mum, her older sister and little brother. But especially Grandma. Grandma hadn’t wanted to leave, had told Dad and Mum not to worry about her, that she was too old, just leave her behind. She had said this even with gunfire and screaming filling the distant night air. But, Dad hadn’t taken no for an answer and so, taking only the meagre weapons they owned, and whatever meat they had (and Ginnumarra’s amulet—she couldn’t leave that behind), they had fled through the night, Grandma in tow.

It had been slow going. Grandma couldn’t walk very fast. Her little brother, Moodoo, who was only five, spent most of the time either on Dad’s back, or in Mum’s arms. They trekked through the forest, not talking, scared; scared that the white men with the guns and horses would catch them. Ginnumarra didn’t know what was going on, other than the men who looked like ghosts wanted to catch them—they had already captured a lot of her people—and wanted to hurt them.

Dad had assured them that such a thing wouldn’t happen; that as long as they kept moving, they would be okay.

Ginnumarra believed her dad—he had always looked after them, provided for them, kept them safe and warm.

Still, Ginnumarra had noticed the fear in Dad’s eyes, as well as in Mum’s and Grandma’s. Moodoo thought this was all just an adventure; her older sister Truganini looked as confused as Ginnumarra felt.

And so, as the night ended and morning broke, they continued through the forest, everyone tired and hungry. Dad said that when they came to some water, they would stop, rest, and have something to eat and drink.

It was early in the afternoon when they came across the lake.

A short time later they heard the sound of horses nearby.

* * *

Chris Long had just taken his first sip of Carlton when a voice said, “Mind if I sit here?”

Chris swallowed, swivelled his head to the left and eyed the large man hovering over him. Chris shrugged. “Go right ahead.” He turned back to his beer.

The tall white man sat down with a satisfied sigh.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“Jack, on the rocks.”

Chris shifted on his stool. He didn’t mind people sitting next to him—hell, they did it every night when he stopped off at the Royal Arms after work—but there was something about this bloke that radiated “talker.” People not interested in having a chat didn’t bother to ask if it was okay if they sat down. They just sat. No, Chris had a feeling this guy wanted to talk.

Chris wasn’t an antisocial guy. He joked with his fellow workers at whichever construction site he happened to be working at; he enjoyed sinking back a few ales at the Royal Arms with his mates on the weekends. But when it came to strangers, Chris wasn’t as forthcoming. He was a quiet guy. He wasn’t one for small talk. And besides, he was tired. He’d put in a hard day’s work. He was sore, his clothes were grimy; all he wanted was to down a few coldies and then head home to his wife and daughter.

Chris had polished off his glass of beer when the man beside him said, “Can I buy you another beer?”

Chris groaned internally. He turned to the man sitting beside him.

The stranger, who was cradling his second, or maybe it was his third, glass of whisky, looked to be around six foot, and was built like a heavy-weight fighter. He had short spiky hair and his skin looked like it could smooth a block of wood as good as any sandpaper. He made Chris nervous.

“Well…” Chris’s mouth was dry. He did want another beer; his body was crying out for a second, but he knew the moment he said yes, he’d be in small talk hell.

But then Chris didn’t fancy pissing this fellow off. He didn’t come across as a hateful bigot, but Chris figured if the man was a borderline racist, a black fellow saying no to an offer of a free beer might just tip him over the edge.

“Sure, thanks.”

The man smiled, and Chris saw silver glint among the sea of off-white teeth.

Chris also saw sadness in that smile, as well as in the big man’s eyes.

“What’ll you have?”

“Another Carlton,” Chris told the bartender.

“Make that two.”

The bartender nodded, and went about pouring the drinks.

The stranger downed the rest of his whisky, wiped his hands on his shirt and then stuck out his right hand. “Name’s Ray.”

Chris licked his cracked lips. He reluctantly offered his right hand. Ray took it and Chris’s hand was like an infant’s clasped in the white man’s claw-like grip. “Chris.”

They shook, and Chris thought he felt, just for a second, the grip tighten, before loosening.

“Nice to meet ya, Chris.”

The beers were placed on the strip of towel that ran the length of the bar, Ray paid for the drinks, and then he raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Chris said, “Cheers,” and he gulped half the drink, wiping his lips afterwards.

“Thirsty,” Ray said.

Chris nodded.

“Where do you work?”

“On a construction site.”

“You’re a builder?”

Chris nodded.

“Well, no wonder you’re thirsty. Tough work.”

“What do you do?”

“So you live around here?” Ray said, ignoring the question. He took a large mouthful of beer.

Chris nodded. “You?”

“I’m new in town.”

This didn’t surprise Chris. He knew most of the people that frequented the pub; if not by name, then by sight. Hobart wasn’t exactly a small town, but most of the patrons of the Royal Arms were locals.

“I’m from Melbourne, I’m on my yearly holiday. I’m a bit of a history and ghost buff.”

“Well then you’ve come to the right place,” Chris said.

Ray nodded. “I’m also interested in Aboriginal legends, and I was wondering if you might be able to help me out.”

Chris finished his beer. When he placed down the glass, he noticed his hand was shaking.

“Another?”

Chris shook his head. “No thanks. Two’s enough for me.”

“Driving home?”

“Yeah,” Chris said.

“Well then I don’t want to keep you. But I’d really appreciate it if I could talk to you, just for five minutes.”

Chris hesitated. He got the sense this man was hiding something; that this friendly act was a front. Chris wasn’t psychic, he didn’t have ESP or anything, but he was good at reading people, and his gut was telling him there was something dangerous about this guy. Along with the sadness, Chris also detected anger and violence.

“Come on, mate. I’d really appreciate it. Just five minutes, I promise.”

“Well, I don’t really know all that much about history and Aboriginal legends.”

Not entirely true, but Chris liked to be guarded at the best of times; with this guy, he felt like building an entire fort.

Ray slapped his prominent forehead. “Jeez, you must think I’m some kind of racist, huh? Assuming all Aborigines know about the native history and myths. I’m sorry mate, really, I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Chris gritted his teeth. Felt he might regret doing this. “What is it you’re after? I might know something about it.”

Ray, in the process of standing up, sat back down. The stool groaned under his weight. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Go ahead.”

That smile again; that wide, cunning smile. “Great. Okay, like I said, I’m into history and myths and legends, that kind of stuff.”

“And ghosts.”

“Right, and ghosts. So anyway, I heard there was this legend down in Tasmania, in the wilderness about an hour’s drive from Hobart...”

Chris’s gut went squirmy; his mouth once again became dry.

“...something about a forest that was supposedly haunted. A place called Dead Tree Forest. Do you know anything about that?”

Boolool Kiambram
, Chris thought with a heavy heart.

Chris ached for a third pot of beer. “Yeah, I know something about that.”

Ray’s eyes widened; they glinted with happiness, then relief, and finally something else, something darker, like a storm cloud passing across a clear blue sky. “You do? That’s great. So you know where this forest is?”

Chris shifted on the seat. The air in the pub was suddenly too thick, too cloying, too hot. “Yeah, I know where it is.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No,” Chris answered. “No, I’ve never been there. You would have to be crazy to go there.”

Ray frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s an unnatural place. I’ve heard of people trekking up there, and never coming back.”

“Ghosts?”

“Death.”

Ray was silent. He finished off his beer. “They say some girl was murdered there a long time ago, near a lake, and that she haunts the forest, right?”

“Not just haunts—she placed a curse on the forest.”

Poor Ginnumarra. What those men did to her and her family…

“So it’s true? The legend is true?”

Chris Long—Joharri, to give his Aboriginal name—looked long and hard at Ray. He didn’t know what this man wanted. He didn’t know how much Ray truly knew about Dead Tree Forest; Chris was surprised this white man even knew about the legend—as far as he was aware, no one except the locals knew about Dead Tree Forest—but whatever Ray was after, Chris didn’t want any part of it.

“Yes, it’s true,” Chris said. He got to his feet. “Thanks for the beer. I really should be getting home.”

Ray raised his nearly empty glass. “Thanks for your time, mate. You’ve been a big help.”

Chris took one last look at those sneaky eyes, and then, with a sharp nod, turned and walked out of the Royal Arms.

The evening air was crisp, like a cold slap to the face. Chris breathed in the mid-winter air, tried to shake the bad feelings from his body, and then he headed around the back of the pub to the car park.

Dead Tree Forest
, he thought with a shiver. Why would anyone be interested in that cursed place?

And then he remembered. He had forgotten about that part of the legend; to him,
Boolool Kiambram
meant pain and death. But to outsiders, the story that the girl, Ginnumarra, had been wearing a necklace when she was thrown into the lake, a necklace containing a sacred amulet, one that was said to have powerful healing properties, was probably more exciting, more inviting, than the idea of a cursed forest.

That’s what he had seen in the white man’s eyes—greed.

That’s why he really wanted to find out about Dead Tree Forest
, Chris thought as he made his way towards his Ford Ute.

Like the pub, the car park was characteristically empty for a Thursday evening, and with the meagre lights casting a feeble glow over the few parked cars, Chris arrived at his Ute.

He heard footsteps behind him; took no notice of them until a voice said, “Hey Abo.”

Chris turned. Faced three men: one of them was Ray, the other two were unfamiliar. He only got a brief look at them before a crowbar was smacked across his face.

Stinging pain, bright flashes, and then…

* * *

He awoke inside a van, arms tied behind his back, legs tied at the ankles. The left side of his face felt sore and puffy—it felt like he had a cricket ball stuffed under his cheek. The van was moving, and through the windows he saw hazy light outside.

“Morning Abo,” a man said.

Chris raised his head and saw one of the men who had accosted him in the car park last night (
or was it two nights ago? How long have I been out of it?
). Aside from a multitude of scars crisscrossing the man’s face, Chris noticed that one eye appeared to be still and looked at him with a deadness that sent chills through his body. The man had a tattoo running under each ear, both tats coming to a point just above the jaw line—two tails, like those of a cartoon devil. He had a harsh, mean face, with an equally harsh voice to match. He looked like a thug, a redneck, a jail-bird.

The other man sitting in the back of the van was young, no older than twenty, and he was distractingly ugly and incredibly thin. Everything about him was thin—his frame, his arms, his nose, even his eyes. He looked like a pencil with greasy, shaggy hair.

“He awake?” said a familiar voice from the front of the van.

“Yeah, he’s finally come to.” The mean-looking man fired up a cigarette. He blew smoke in Chris’s face. “Though he’s gonna wish he hadn’t.”

The younger man laughed.

“You two just keep watch over him, don’t do anything stupid,” Ray said.

“Wha…what do you guys want?” Chris mumbled, finding it difficult to talk with one side of his face swollen.

“What do you think we want, Abo? We’re gonna fuck you over, big time.”

“Yeah, big time,” the younger man echoed.

“Shut up, the both of ya,” Ray said. “Hey, Chris,” he called. “Apologies for the rough treatment. But there was no other way of getting you into the van. You wouldn’t have come voluntarily.”

Chris sighed. The jostling of the van, the cold, hard floor, was making him ill. “Ray, please, you don’t have to do this.”

The younger man cackled.

The mean-looking man stuck out a painted arm. He breathed out smoke. “I’m Brian. Nice ta meet ya.”

Chris gazed up at the hand. He wanted to bite it off.

The tattooed man, Brian, chuckled. “Not very friendly are ya?” He took back his arm, took out his cigarette and stubbed it out on Chris’s forehead.

Chris shrieked.

“Brian! Enough!” Ray bellowed. “I told you, we need him. Don’t be going all crazy on me, man.”

Once the pain of the burn had eased, Chris swallowed and said, “Need me for what?”

Via his reflection in the rear-view mirror, Chris saw Ray grin, and that familiar hint of anger mixed with sadness mixed with greed revealed itself. “We need you to take us up to Dead Tree Forest.”