by Andy McQuestin
I had the idea somewhere in those hazy first months after Dad died. It took a while to convince Katherine.
‘A cabin, really Sean?’
‘Come on, babe, think about it. Nature. Long nights by the fire.’
‘And what about the work? It sounds like a lot of work.’
‘I’ll do all the work, babe. You can chill out. Put your feet up.’
Those kinds of conversations. The back and forth you do out of respect for the process, knowing full well it is happening. Once I make my mind up about something…
I drove out a week earlier to check out some potential spots. Through the humps of planted pine, on into the sopping greens of man fern and hulking swamp gums. The land had belonged to Old Shearer. His kids inherited it when he died last year, but the word at the pub was they were living overseas with no plans for the land other than to run some sheep through it. Uncle Nick took care of that for them. It was Uncle Nick who gave me the tip.
The neighbouring state park was flatter, easier land to clear, but sooner or later some do-gooder would spot the place and the government would give us the boot. Here, nobody would say nothing. We’d get a few years, at least.
When I found the spot, I knew straight away. Close to the creek, sheltered from southerlies. I stood with my hands on my hips and turned in a circle, taking it all in. ‘Whadaya reckon, Dad?’ I said aloud. I grabbed the chainsaw from the ute and spent an hour safely bringing down two mature pines. They made an arrow shape where they fell, marking the spot for when I returned. I’d have to clear quite a few more to create a safe perimeter around the cabin. The beauty of it was each tree I cleared could be used for the stumps, or on the fire. So I would save on waste, which was good for the environment.
‘You bloody ripper, son.’ I could almost hear him say.
The next week I loaded all my tools, a tent and Katherine into the Hilux. Katherine was quiet on the way out. I like that, a quiet drive.
I set her up with a hammock between two radiata pine. She was happy enough to lie there and read a book. It was called Heart Songs. A romance, I suppose. You ask Katherine if she’s enjoying a book, any book, and she goes, ‘It’s okay.’ I can never figure that out. Fucked if I’d spend all day reading something that was just ‘okay’.
I tapped one of the trees holding up the hammock with the head of the axe. ‘I’ll warn you before I cut these down,’ I said. She didn’t get the joke. Although, I probably would cut them down eventually: There was a heap of radiata around the plot and they’re versatile for building. They’re also a weed so it’s good for the land to get rid of them. I knew to cut them last because they piss sap all over your tools and blunt them.
I spent the day clearing. Hard work. Sweating. Feeling closer to nature with every tree I felled. Katherine made up some sandwiches for lunch and afterwards she disappeared for a long walk. I towed the trunks I wouldn’t need into the scrub and set down to work with the chainsaw, making the first cut at what would become the foundations of the cabin. When Katherine returned the plot was almost completely cleared. She stood on the fringe of the tree line with her lips parted, looking a bit stunned at what I’d achieved in the time she was gone.
I earned my beers that day. I started hooking into them just as it became too dark to work safely. To mark the first day on our new land I loaded the fire up huge with timber and stood back, looking up at the javelins of flame, how they illuminated the clearing from ground to treetop.
When the fire subdued, we settled around it in our chairs. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ I said to Katherine.
‘The fire?’ she asked.
‘Well, yeah, the fire. But the bush, ya know? This place. It’s ours now.’
‘Stolen,’ she said, quietly, but I heard it.
‘Stolen? Off who? The Shearer kids? Fuck, if they come back they can have it.’
‘Not them.’
‘Who then?’
But Katherine didn’t answer. I let it go, went and fetched another can.
Katherine cried later, silently. We both stared into the fire, seeing, I guess, different things.
I pretended I could see Dad’s face in there, but I couldn’t really. I just saw elusive shapes, like foreign alphabets, forming and dispersing where the blue flames licked the timber. Timber is an incredible thing, with all its different properties. How it can give heat and light, shade and shelter. And life, for birds and that.
Andy McQuestin lives in Melbourne. His short fiction has appeared in, or is scheduled to appear in, publications such as Overland, Right Now, Curiouser Magazine and Hawai’i Pacific Review. His work examines human relationships through the lens of environmental issues and societal trends.
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