Howl Down the Moon (Pt 1)

It sure was a hellishly hot and unseasonably early summer that had gripped the countryside by the throat. Even the old red rattler was struggling. She watched listlessly out the window but even the scenery didn’t seem to be in any hurry to pass by. Acres of parched paddocks, sheep huddled under the shade of a lone gum. Inside the carriage she waved a folded newspaper fanning herself in the hope of finding some relief. None was forthcoming, just hotter air raised by her efforts.

In front of her the Wangaroon Ranges began to appear, she hoped they would bring relief, if only the train could make it. She resigned herself to a slow and gradual respite as, in a series of switchback bends, the train climbed the steep gradient. Eventually the tracks would take her through the heavily treed and soothing mountain air before another gentler incline would take her into Millburn Village, her home now for the next several months.

Reluctantly she heeded the medical advice that she needed time out of the city, and through some friends of friends found the small homestead perched atop a hill overlooking a valley below. Yes, she thought, this sounded perfect and would do the trick in no time flat; peace, quiet, rest, solitude. Plenty of time to reflect and consider. Plenty of time to re-knit broken nerves.

Stepping down onto the platform she was enveloped by the heat even at this altitude. Her cotton dress clung to her willowy frame. The straw hat seemed inadequate. She waved at the intolerable flies circling her face, neck and shoulders as she looked up and down the platform. A small boy kicked at the dust while his mother and father struggled with a child in a pram. One other lone figure alighted. From where she stood it looked like an elderly lady, unseasonably cloaked in a grubby winter weight coat, clutching a fabric carry bag with oversize cane handles.

At the rear of the train she could see her two small cases already offloaded onto the platform. She started a slow walk to them when the train blew noisily into life and shunted off down the hot steel tracks lazily wending its way into the slow decline to the next town fifty miles further down the range. It was obvious no one wanted to be stationary for long. Keep going, seek respite.

He stepped purposefully through the station’s overhang, grabbed her bags and turned to face her. The sundowner hat shielded his eyes, but she could detect a strong country face bathed in beads of sweat. He smiled and laconically nodded to the exit gate indicating, she guessed, to a mid-sized sedan sitting at the curb. This would be her lift to her farmhouse. He popped the boot and loaded her cases. She heard some yelling and growling across the road. The young mother was cradling the baby and telling her husband how to release the locking mechanisms on the pram. The small boy meantime was punching his boot into the dirt raising clouds of dust. The father struggled to collapse the pram and growled and swore. Looking around it seemed the old lady had simply vanished in the haze.

She eased into the hot vinyl seat, wound down the window, and fanned herself with the newspaper. Again, same result, more hot air. She laughed, tossed her hat into the back seat. He thumbed the dial on the radio and settled for a station playing a Slim Dusty song. They both agreed it was going to be a bugger of a summer.

Millburn Village was pretty, even under a blazing sun.  The main street was narrow and long, hedged by the bluestone cottages and double storied shop fronts, an echo of when it was once a bustling town with a gold exchange. There was not much of it left anymore. Two world wars had cleared the district of young farming men, taking the towns businesses with them.

It had slowly revitalised itself with an army base and training camp built hastily to respond to the call for troops, this time to a theatre of war in Korea. And now once again people were on the move to Melbourne where the promise of the Olympic Games would mean jobs.

He angled the car nose to kerb outside the Cooperative Store, stepped outside, rolled a smoke and leant up against the car while she grabbed her handbag and hurried inside.

“You’re staying out at the Beecham farm? By yourself? Really?” inquired a time wearied Owen Bennett who’d been serving in the store since day one. “You’re a brave little sheila then.”

“Don’t bother the lady Dad. It’s too bloody hot to be standing around jawing with you all day. Just let her get on her way.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” she replied. “I’m going to be here a while so no big rush today. It’s a pretty town isn’t it? I’m sure the Beecham place will be just as lovely.”

“Don’t count on it love,” Owen snorted.

“Why’s that?” she asked.

“Pay him no heed. It’s just nobody’s been there for ages now. Well not since she was… Well look at me running off at the mouth. You just get on your way now. Next time you’re in town come and we’ll chat some more eh?”

As she stepped out onto the pavement he stubbed his smoke and helped her with her bags of groceries.

“You really are planning to be there a spell aren’t you?” And he laughed as he loaded the brown paper bags into the boot to sit among her suitcases. She bristled a moment then got back into the car and before he could even slip it into reverse asked him what he meant by that.

They felt awkward with each other after he explained he was talking about the load of provisions she’s stocked up on and the next ten minutes were driven in silence, just wistful country and western music coming from the radio.

One look at the farmhouse was enough to mollify her. Her barely concealed delight at what would be her solace giver stood bold and proud under the mid-afternoon sun waiting for her to take occupancy. After assisting her into the farmhouse he tipped his hat, mumbled a “see ya later” and left with a powder of dust swirling in the air.

Standing on the veranda she watched the car fade from view, the last bars of music playing from the radio drifting away with it. As the dust settled she opened her eyes and ears to her surrounds; a constant humming of insects that came and went in waves on the air, the house was alive breathing and moaning as the timber expanded in tune with the heat. A sudden flash of dun colour passed on the roadway and caught her attention. Momentarily she swore she’d seen the old lady in her heavy topcoat from the railway station hurry by. That was impossible, tricks of light and heat haze no doubt. A community of sulphur crested cockatoos squabbled in the stand of red gums shading the house’s western aspect that looked away down across the valley. They flew shrieking into the sun and then wheeled left disappearing in flashes of yellow under wing into the bush.

She was alone. “Yes,” she sighed. “It is right coming here.”

Evening presented no relief from the heat. Sleep eluded her. Listlessly she moved from room to room hoping to find one corner cooler than another in which she might get a decent night’s rest. Her body craved it. Dampening a face cloth under the tap over the kitchen sink she patted her forehead and temples before she wrapped it around her neck. Making her way through the house and out onto the wide sweeping back veranda she was taken by the abundance of light. She felt she could see for miles and for the first time noticed that as the land dropped away into a valley she clearly could see what must have been an orchard. The moon was so perfectly round and bright she could see the colour of the fully leaved trees and what she knew to be apricots.

“Jam. I’ll make apricot jam from you,” she called to the trees. “I can’t imagine why someone hasn’t been out here to pick you little beauties.”

She moved towards the orchard to pluck a ‘cot and heard it. A deep chuckle. Not loud but a deep throaty chuckle for sure. Rooted to the spot she held her breath and listened for it again. Unmistakable now; it was coming from somewhere further down the incline, perhaps at the bottom of the orchard. Hard to tell if it was man or woman, but human it was. It seemed to creep through the silence. She couldn’t imagine what on earth was down there at this time of night. It must be past midnight she reckoned. It was someone laughing. A funny sort of laugh, yes a chuckle, and it seemed to crawl up through the trees disjointedly. It came in little fits and starts. Even with the moon full she’d be dashed if she could see anything through the rows of fruit trees.

The sound stopped but she kept peering down into where she believed the sound emanated, looking for signs of movement. For a moment she cursed her imagination and prayed the awful sounds that drove her here in the first instance hadn’t returned once more to play tricks in her head.

But then it started once more, only louder. It was no longer a chuckle anymore; it was a real gut busting belly laugh and it seemed to be a woman’s laugh. It rang through the night. She was confused as she felt certain she’d been told there was no one else near the property. What did the girl in the shop say, there had been no one here for years? Another wave of raucous laughter, and this time closer, and clearly whoever it was must be roaring drunk.

“Who’s there?” she offered the night.

Her answer was a wilder roar of laughter which only served to annoy her. She considered striding through the orchard knowing she would be well able to see by the moon’s light the person kicking up such shenanigans. She was not going to let some drunken hussy, and lord knows who else was in her company, kick up such a row in the middle of the night.

And then suddenly there came a yell. Then cries. Though at first her laughter had been deep, like a man’s, these cries were shrill almost like an animal having its throat slit.

“Oh God,” she cried. Forsaking her own safety, she ran into the orchard and down to where she thought the distressed sounds were being made for she truly thought someone was being murdered. Then there was silence and then one piercing shriek.

After that sobbing and moaning. To her it sounded for all the world like someone at the point of death. There was a long groan then nothing. Silence. She ran from place to place; the low hanging branches scratched and tore at her face and hands. Her nightgown ripped but still she kept looking. She couldn’t find anyone.

At last she clambered back up the hill and sat huddled on the back veranda searching the night for something, anything that would make sense.

The truth came crushing down on her; she was not alone.