Dead Tree Forest (4 page)

Ray was never one to take an Aboriginal’s word as gospel, but both Sammy and Chris had told the same stories about the forest—so there must be some grain of truth to the legend.

There had to be.

Ray was counting on it.

* * *

Chris could sense death and pain all around him.

The screaming had grown louder the closer they got to the forest. When they had rounded the bend in the meadow, it was like Ginnumarra herself was inside his head. The screaming had eased the moment they entered Dead Tree Forest. It became more of a pained weeping, and it was all around the forest, like someone had placed a hundred speakers throughout, high in the lifeless branches.

He was certain Brian and Nathan couldn’t hear the weeping; he wasn’t so sure about Ray. Chris had a feeling Ray would be able to hear the crying if he listened closely—but the other two, they would never hear the forest’s pain.

As Chris continued to be forcibly led through this barren wilderness, the rope rubbing against his wrists, burning the flesh, his stomach empty, he thought back on what his elders used to tell him about
Boolool Kiambram
. He knew the story of Ginnumarra and her family; every black kid in Tasmania knew that story. But it was the stories of the forest itself, the curse that had been placed on it, that used to keep him awake at night.

Because no one had travelled into
Boolool Kiambram
and returned to tell about it; no one knew for sure what curse Ginnumarra had placed on the forest. People had stood at the edge and told of the black death that seeped from the mass of withered, leafless trees. They told of the screaming, the pain. But that was all anyone knew about Dead Tree Forest.

Chris’s Uncle Walter, dead fifteen years, had once made the trek up to
Boolool Kiambram
. He recounted the story one day during a summer barbecue, when Chris was in his late teens. After sinking back more than a few beers, the afternoon sun high and hot, the two of them sitting on the patio, his uncle had told Chris about his trek up to Dead Tree.

Chris had listened to his uncle tell of the long journey up to the forest and how, from the lush green meadow, Dead Tree had hit him like a brick to the face. He told of how he had heard the screaming, and then, standing just on the edge of the forest, how the screaming had changed from a wailing to a floating weeping that seemed to permeate the woods: every tree, every dead branch and twig. He said it was like Ginnumarra herself was calling to him, and he took a few steps into the dark woods. He saw flashes of the past—white men on horseback, a headless man, he tasted dirt and blood—and then, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he turned and fled.

He said he had never felt so much pain and anger in his life. That he could literally feel his life slipping out of him the moment he stepped into the forest. And that, if he had continued, he would surely have perished.

But, he had also said that he felt the call of Ginnumarra; that, along with her pain and anger, there was a longing. He couldn’t be sure—there were so many other emotions running through him—but he thought that maybe Ginnumarra wanted help, wanted someone to come and rescue her.

That’s when Uncle Walter had told Chris about tree between heaven and earth.

The thing that Chris remembered most from that summer day fifteen years ago was how vehemently his uncle had warned him never to go up to
Boolool Kiambram
. It was a bad place—only death was there.

Only a fool would willingly enter the forest. Only a fool with the strongest, blackest heart, a heart so full of blind courage and rage, could withstand Dead Tree. Only a person with a death wish would ever willingly enter
Boolool Kiambram
. Because the place is cursed, of that there is no doubt.

The last thing his uncle had said to Chris before the subject changed to football, was this: “If you ever feel the need to go up to
Boolool Kiambram
, if you ever want to see that accursed placed for yourself, don’t get sucked into the forest. No matter how much you want to help Ginnumarra, no matter how much pain you feel pulsating from within, don’t give in to Ginnumarra’s cries. Not unless you have a heart of steel, the determination of a bull, and no longer care whether you live or die.”

Chris had never been particularly intuitive; he certainly didn’t have his uncle’s gift. At least, he never realised he had such a gift until he stepped into the forest and heard the screaming and felt the call of Ginnumarra.

He also felt the death. Above all else, he felt the black touch of death’s hand, and he was powerless to stop it. Like his uncle had described, it was like Chris’s life-force was being sucked out of his body. He was feeling short of breath, his energy seemed to decrease with each step.

These three men didn’t know what they were in for. They laughed at Chris’s insistence that this place was cursed, that death was the only certainty—they were too foolish to heed his warnings. But Chris could definitely feel something happening to him; he didn’t know what exactly, but he knew it wasn’t good.

One thing Chris was sure they would listen to was his knowledge of how to get to the lake. If he chose to, he could lead them straight to it. All he had to do was listen to Ginnumarra’s cries. They would lead him to her.

That’s unless death claimed them all first.

Chris considered leading the men in the wrong direction, but decided against doing so, because there was the possibility of helping Ginnumarra. Chris wasn’t sure if he could help her, but since he was in this forest anyway, he figured he may as well try. If he was going to die anyway, he may as well try and put an end to the dead girl’s pain.

Then there was Ray. Chris felt there was something inside him—a pain, a darkness that was almost equal to Ginnumarra’s. There was also a fierce determination—a determination so strong that at times Ray did remind Chris of a bull.

He didn’t know why Ray wanted to reach the lake so badly to retrieve the sunken treasure. He knew it wasn’t for monetary gain. There were only dollar signs in the other men’s eyes; but with Ray, there was darkness: darkness with the slightest hint of hope.

Chris looked around at the forest, at the tall trees like grey withered old men, arms outstretched, waiting for someone to give life back to them; at the black haze that seemed to hover between worlds, not quite fog or mist, but still present, invading the air like termites in the walls of a house. He listened to the wavering, almost ethereal cries, like the howl of a wind. Except there was no wind in here; there was nothing—no birds, no snakes, not even flies or mosquitoes. This was a place of death.

Ginnumarra,
Chris thought.
Please, stop your crying. I will try and help you. I am sorry for what happened. But please, if there is any way you can put an end to this curse, I implore you to do it.

Chris waited; he got no answer.

Just more crying.

And he wondered—what was going to happen to them? What curse had Ginnumarra placed on this forest?

Chris was considering these questions when another cry rang out. One very real and very human.

* * *

“Holy shit, would you look at this!” Nathan cried.

Ray stopped and turned around. About a metre back, Nathan, a thick tree branch wedged between his thighs, was fixated on something he was holding in his right hand. His expression was frozen between dumbstruck and fear.

“Well? What the hell’s the matter?” Brian said and coughed.

Nathan dropped the branch to the ground and then he jogged over to Ray and Brian. “I was thinking how cold and dark it was in here,” he said breathlessly, “that it would be good to have some light, you know? A torch, like in them old movies when the villagers are chasing some monster through town. So I stopped and picked up a branch, thinking I could set it alight and then we’d have more light and warmth.”

“Brilliant idea,” Brian said. “You’d not only burn yourself, but probably set the whole goddamn forest on fire.”

Nathan frowned at his brother.

In the shadowy confines of the forest, Nathan’s eyes held a maturity that Ray had never seen before in the young dope. Also, the shadows made him look older, like he had aged five years in the last five minutes.

“So, what’s the problem?” Ray prodded.

“Well, when I tried to light Brian’s lighter, I couldn’t.”

Brian cackled. “That’s it? You stopped to tell us you’re too stupid to light my Bic? Hell, I could’ve told you that.”

“No, no,” Nathan said. “It’s not that I
couldn’t
light it, the Bic
wouldn’t
light. See?” He brought up his right arm. Clasped in his hand was his brother’s red Bic lighter.

Nathan flicked the spark wheel with his thumb. A flame burst alight, but a moment later, it was snuffed out.

He repeated the act three more times; each time the flame was vanquished the moment it appeared.

“Well now that is weird,” Brian said, voice unusually soft. “There’s no wind. Here, let me try.”

Nathan handed Brian the lighter.

“I always get a flame,” Brian said, but when he didn’t, he muttered, “Fuck,” and tried again. Same deal. He flicked the lighter about ten times, each attempt more aggressive than the last, each flick producing the same result—there was a brief flash of flame, then, like someone was standing next to the lighter, it blew out.

“Useless piece of shit,” Brian spat and hurled the lighter.

The red Bic smacked into a tree, disintegrating the bark like it was dust.

The rope was suddenly slippery in Ray’s hand.

“Why do you think it’s happening?” Nathan asked no one in particular.

“Beats me,” Brian said. “Bad air? Who the fuck knows.”

Ray turned around. “Why can’t we get any flame?” he asked Chris. “Is there something wrong with the air in here?”

Chris looked at the three men. Even in the dim light Ray could see how red with tiredness his eyes were. Lines around his eyes and mouth made him look older.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice croaky. “She has put a curse on this forest, that’s all I know.”

“Who has? The Abo girl?” Brian said with a huff. “When did she kill herself? Two hundred years ago?”

“One hundred and eighty,” Chris corrected him. “And she didn’t kill herself—she was murdered.”

“I thought she committed suicide,” Brian said. He turned to Ray. “Isn’t that what you told me? That some Abo girl threw herself into a lake sometime in the 1800s?”

Ray drew in breath. “I may have left out some details. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no curse. Let’s just get moving.”

Ray turned and started walking.

Brian stayed close to Ray; Nathan ambled a little way behind.

“Now you’ve got me curious,” Brian said. “I wanna know what happened to the girl.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ray said.

“You lied to me about it; that matters.”

“I didn’t lie,” Ray said, starting to feel the effects of all the walking they had done today. His muscles, particularly the ones in his legs and back, ached and he was feeling a little short of breath. “There didn’t seem any point in telling you the whole story. We’re here for one reason and one reason only—to get the treasure. Why it’s down there isn’t important; the fact that it’s there is.”

“Yeah yeah, I know. I would just like…” Brian started coughing; a wet, full-bodied coughing that erupted from him like an angry volcano.

They all stopped again. “You okay?” Ray asked.

Once the raucous coughing had finished, Brian nodded and said, “I guess all those years of smoking have finally caught up with me. Hey Nathan, get me a beer, would ya?”

Nathan set down the Esky, opened the lid and pulled out a can of Victoria Bitter.

Brian grabbed the can, cracked it open and took a long drink. “Much better,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Right, where were we? Yeah, about that Abo girl. Now, what’s the real story?”

There were no surreptitious reasons why Ray hadn’t told Brian and Nathan the full story—it was laziness, pure and simple. There had seemed no point in telling them what had happened; or at least, what he had heard from Sammy while in prison, and had been corroborated by Chris last night. Saying that a young Aboriginal girl had committed suicide in the lake, taking with her some precious treasure, seemed suffice.

Now concerning what that treasure actually was: that small detail Ray had purposely withheld from the brothers—and for good reason. If they knew the truth, Ray was certain they wouldn’t have come along.

“Okay, if you really wanna know, I’ll tell you,” Ray said.

“No, I want the Abo to tell the story. I don’t trust you any more.” Sporting a sly grin, Brian winked his one real eye. Then he slugged back more beer. “So Abo, what’s the real story with this forest?”

When Chris spoke, he sounded weary. “It happened in 1830. There was this girl, Ginnumarra, who was twelve years old. She was of the Big River Tribe who used to inhabit this forest and surrounding area. The European soldiers were in the process of rounding up all the Aborigines on the island. They had orders to arrest or, if necessary, shoot on sight, but of course, many of the soldiers and settlers who had been called upon to help took this as an excuse to rape and butcher the Aborigines, regardless of whether they were perceived as a threat.” Chris paused. His voice, already dry and husky, sounded close to breaking.

“The girl was at the lake with her family when three colonists came upon them,” he continued. “Instead of arresting them and taking them back to the settlement like they were supposed to, the men murdered them. Supposedly the three men, who were ex-convicts, raped Ginnumarra before killing her, and afterwards, they shot her and dumped her body into the lake. Shortly after the murder, the trees and vegetation started dying. The soldiers and colonists thought it was just bad soil or some other ridiculous reason, but it was a curse, not only revenge for the murders, but to stop any other soldiers or settlers from going through the forest and capturing any more Big River people. The forest continued to drain of life and anyone who went in never came back out. Soon people stopped going through. And as you can see, the curse remains to this day. All local indigenous people know about the legend and know never to come into this forest.”