The Hunting

The bush was eerily quiet that day. It was thick from the years which had chiselled it, carving

the tall eucalyptus with every smouldering fire, unfurling the grand waratah with every

deluge of rain. The density was insistently curated, untouched by the harsh hands of

humanity.

William geared up at the wild foot of the fire trail, the clay road malleable and wet from the

rain the night before.

The roar of his ute’s engine was all that could be heard for miles. Tires screeched against the

wet dirt, digging up mud as his bull bar forced its way. As he entered the fire trail, he passed

the dilapidated sign: ‘Old Rawbelle Firetrail’.

He stopped his truck as soon as he was further into the bush, out where the scrub was

clouding over the track. A flash of movement out here. His old legs quivered with age and

excitement, carefully stepping out into an unnatural quietness so as to not startle his prey.

There was a gunshot, loud against the stillness of the bush.

A young kangaroo lay dead in the mud, his blood streaming in a pool against his still body,

lifeless.

It wasn’t exactly what he had been looking for, but he smiled to himself, proudly, trudging

over to collect his kill with his own blood throbbing in his ears.

There was a guttural scream.

William was thrown to the ground, landing against a tree and curling around it.

His vision clouded. A trickle of blood streamed from a gash in his forehead.

William looked down; his movements too slow. He felt something burning under his ribs; a

stubborn branch prohibited his escape.

He looked up. A figure was watching him from the distance, an ugly face concealed by the

bark of the trees, or a shadow left behind by the sun. It watched him until all was quiet, and

then until the quietness was overtaken by the hisses and creaking of an ordinary bush

afternoon.

The only way to get to town was on the long dirt road that was hidden off the side of the main

highway. People often bypassed it opting for the Main Town instead. This used to be the main

town, years ago.

A tiny church sat in the centre of The Town. On Sundays, people would move swiftly from it

to the wooden pub which remained open during church and then late into the night; remained

open late every night, really. Everyone knew everyone, all their secrets and stories – they

would tell you if you asked.

The stifling atmosphere was a purgatory. Summer brought a fire-ridden heat; the winter a

blistering chill which caused your skin to dry and crack. Both were dry, and getting drier.

The area around the squat houses and shops used to be teeming with bush, plants growing

blue under the haze of the cold, but since they broke ground on The Town, the foliage has

grown more bare, year after year, and now the tendrils of the tangled undergrowth grow in

other directions.

Everyone in Town knew to not venture into the beckoning arms of the bushland. Every now

and then the drunken old men at the bar would describe a figure in the tree line, watching.

‘Eight feet tall’, they would say.

Nobody listened. Just bush tales forgotten and encapsulated in the mist of time. But nobody

headed into the bush, either.

The Town was plain during the day, but sour and barren in the early hours of the day and the

late hours of the night. The houses were quiet and still, bar the stray barks or howls of a dog.

Anyone walking the street after dark could be heard by all.

The labyrinth of roads inside The Town were little more than strings of potholes which no

one bothered to fix, tarred edges fading to drying Buffalo grass and patchy dirt. It was the dirt

that would creep its way into your life, first attaching itself to your car, then finding its way

into your home. Those who tried to fight it soon gave in. Anyone who lived there was born

there; most born there urged for an escape at the soonest chance.

That Tuesday, though, the newcomers showed up.

The knuckled mass of the moving truck hammered through the dilapidated dirt roads with

such velocity that it stirred up the dust, clouds plumed at the edges. The Town hardly got any

visitors, never mind new residents.

They were different to what The Town was used to. A new family. From along the main

street, people stepped out of shops to see them rolling in.

‘They’re probably moving into Old Stick’s property’, some speculated.

Old Stick had died a few years prior. To get to his house you had to take an unsealed side

road through the back of town, past the unmaintained cemetery and empty pastures. From the

property, you could see the threads of smoke ascending from chimneys, but no houses.

It was relatively isolated compared to the rest of The Town – this was Old Stick’s domain.

Since he’d been gone, most people left well enough alone.

The moving truck was bright and loud compared to the rest of The Town. It didn’t help with

impressions.

‘They’re probably some touristy fuckers looking to turn our town into a holiday’, some said.

But for the most part, the new family kept to themselves over the first few weeks. That didn’t

stop people from watching though. There were two parents, perhaps in their 40s. They looked

like they were into the whole hiking thing. Brand name jackets, in solid colours. They also

had two kids, one boy who was a teenager, and seemed uninterested to be moving, and a

younger girl whose eyes filled with wonder as she clutched onto her mother’s hand.

‘We inherited this property’, someone heard the mother say to her complaining teenager in

the general store one afternoon. ‘You should be grateful we have such a beautiful property to

spend time in while your father checks out the mine’.

Most people felt satisfied with that. Any family of Old Stick would work out the ways of The

Town soon enough. If they were taking over his mine, they promised prosperity.

The Town felt content with the new family until they began trying to assimilate themselves. It

started with the man. Only weeks after their arrival, The Town was reminded of his presence

with his sudden entry into the wooden pub.

Everyone fell silent as the doors opened. It was late on a Friday night, and they were used to

the regulars, the older men who strolled in slowly in mid-afternoon, and the family men who

got in, desperate and tired after cutting off work at five. Not many came in after that on a

Friday. It was their routine, and the man was disrupting it.

He walked towards an empty barstool, aware of the eyes on him. It was a hot and sticky

night. The moon peeked through the clouds and refracted through a glass of water like a

mutilated animal.

‘Just a schooner, thanks.’

He didn’t sound right. Speaking too fast, and something about the vowels. Too high.

‘The name’s Richard.’

He extended his hand towards the man sitting next to him. Under the sour odour of yeast, the

pub smelt of stale hay and rotting wood, earning its name of the Old Rock Inn. There was a

story to go with the name; the only people who knew the stories now were the elders. This

Richard definitely didn’t know, with his plummy voice and his too-clean shirt. No doubt he

only knew about the kinds of far-off things that none of them wanted to talk about.

‘Yeah, we just moved into that old property out the back, you probably know the one I’m

talking about.’

His pitiful attempt at connection was stonewalled, the old men in the dimly lit room not

interested. ‘Theres a real nice fire trail off the side of the property actually, I think I’ll take the

kids up there tomorrow.’

Each of the old men sank a bit deeper into his beer. The problem with newcomers was that

they weren’t accustomed to the ways of The Town. In other places, this may not prove to be

an issue, but in this isolated community it was the difference between the living and the dead.

Now someone would have to tell him. They weren’t monsters.

‘Listen mate,’ spoke the old man sitting next to Richard finally. ‘If you know what’s best for

youse, ya won’t be going into the forest.’

Richard paused, smiling awkwardly. He’d known it might be tough to break into the

community, even expecting a bit of hazing. He would listen though, take some advice.

‘I take it no one’s told youse the story of Old Stick?’

Richard shook his head. The man’s voice was nasally and gruff; you could tell from speaking

to him that he was a smoker.

‘William Jones was his name, but we all called him stick. Lived on that same property that

youse moved onto, fire trail and all that. He inherited it from his father, always said he’d pass

it onto his kids.

The old man had a moment of realisation.

‘I guess that would be you then. Well, his father never let him into the bush alone.

“There are creatures in there,” he would tell us lot, “Creatures that don’t care about the good

or bad you’ve done.”

‘Come to think of it, he never told us what exactly was in there, but we all knew better than to

find out. Not Stick though, and when his father passed, there was nothing we could do to tell

him otherwise.’

The old man coughed again, his hand shaking against his beer.

He chuckled to himself, reminiscing.

‘After his father passed, Stick went on a sort of frenzy... He was convinced that whatever was

in there did something to the old fella. We couldn’t do nothing to stop him when he told us he

wanted to find it.

‘One day, he finally cracked. His wife finally had enough with his paranoia... we think he

was getting violent. She was pregnant too; it was a shame.

Richard considered this with a mysterious pang of dread and nostalgia, an unforetold history

of his parents.

‘Anyways, about a decade ago, our old mate James went missing. Stick decided it was time

to find this thing. He got all his gear together and went off without telling any of us. I was

lucky enough to find his note a week later when I went to return his old fishing poles.

Richard nodded along.

‘No one knows what exactly happened to him, the police report says it was just an accident,

but an accident couldn’t leave his body the way I found it. Some say they can still hear him

muttering to himself when they venture up there...’

The man took a long sip from his beer. ‘What you say your name was?’

‘Richard.’

‘The names Alf,’ said the old man, extending his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Dickie.’

Written by (anonymous).

‘This piece is an extract of my submitted year 12 English Extension 2 piece 'The Hunting', exploring the Australian Gothic through a reevaluated perspective, privileging the often oppressed voice of the land rather than that of the colonised.’