Tipping Point Read online

  What do you do when your soul’s desire eludes you? The ideas were all there, the threads of the plot apparent to her. The complex characters . . .

  There was an explosion of growling and scuffling in the spare room.

  “No, Spud! Come on, get out of there.”

  When Annie reached him, he was trying to dig through the floorboards.

  “I agree, there really shouldn’t be a wombat under the floor. But there is. Get over it.” How could she explain to a dog that they were lucky to have found somewhere to live so close to home? Two days after Black Saturday had devastated the community a local acquaintance had offered her the use of this house that was due for renovation. It was basic, but it meant Annie did not have to rent in the suburbs, a long way from home, while she tried to rebuild her life.

  When she had shut the door firmly and returned to the computer, her idea was gone. How does the door keep coming open again, anyway? The animals had disrupted the agony of constipated words.

  She shut down the computer. It was still light outside - the washing needed to come in off the line. On the back doorstep she stopped and listened.

  Birds were fussing about in nearby treetops, rustling and chirping as they settled for the night. Towards the dam a tree began laughing, kookaburras noisily proclaiming their territory. Annie chuckled to herself, knowing that in a few minutes they would quietly fly to another roost, hoping instinctively that their aggressive ruse would keep them safe for the night.

  The horizon to the west was scored by welts of lava, clouds glowing as the sun set. A faint waft of cow manure came from the paddocks around the house. Spud was running about the yard, chasing the persistent rabbits; he enjoyed this game. Annie was glad he had never actually caught one, even if they were vermin.

  The laundry was all in the basket. Stars were beginning to twinkle into existence as Annie took a deep breath, letting the peace of the rural evening soothe her.

  Sometimes, in a fanciful moment, Annie would contemplate the earth on which she stood. The soil was the skin, rocks the skeleton that gave shape to this living being. When she stood on a beach and watched the waves pulsing onto shore, she knew the water was the blood of this planet: cycling through cloud and rain, river and wave, the heartbeat that gives life.

  And no matter where she was, she could find that sense of connection. The wind gusting through the trees made waves of the leaves, singing of the water that gave life to the Earth.

  “Let it live,” she prayed, as she often did with sand under her feet.

  Her words were her hope that the strong beat of the waves would continue. That rain would fall and plants grow. That life would endure.

  Annie took another deep breath and gazed around her; dusk had settled over the paddocks. She called Spud, and together they went inside.

  The dog now sat and watched her, rattling around the kitchen, trying to ignore the nagging voice (Why did you buy something that will end up choking wildlife?) when she removed packaging from food as she made dinner.

  “ ‘Let us go then, you and I . . .’ ” she informed Spud, and continued reciting poetry to help her control the distressing internal complaints as she chopped and stirred a meal together.

  Although the poetry baffled Spud, this was familiar behaviour. His interest was focussed on what he did understand – food.

  Chapter Two: Moon Night

 

  It was the same dream, although it was different every time. Always, Annie found herself surrounded by apocalypse. Flames surrounded her, doom and destruction battered her in tempest-driven floodwaters. She struggled to save and protect. To survive.

  When she woke she was glad. The giant mutant cane toad that was breaking into their flimsy shelter was scaring the shit out of her. She thought she was going to die.

  As the chilled morning air about her face revived her, she opened her eyes to see the ceiling patterned by the moonlight beckoning from beyond the blinds. The scuffling sound of her dreams brought Spud from his bed to stand at the door. Then “Boomph?” he asked.

  Possums again.

  “I really need to get those repairs to our house finished, don’t I Spud?” He came over to the bed and leaned into her hand as she scratched his ear. “I want to go back home.” Annie was surprised by the ache which seized her chest. It spread through her body, moving upwards to melt into tears and a sob. “I just want to go home,” she whispered.

  After the long day at work she did, stopping to grab Spud and a picnic dinner: cheese, biscuits, avocado, tomato, a carrot and some lettuce. The original residents of her temporary home remained quiet for a change. The mouse traps were empty.

  When she reached home, the real thing, she remained sitting in the car for a moment. “It looks as if we could just step inside and everything would be normal again,” she remarked to Spud, who was becoming restless in the back of the station wagon.

  The damage and the blackened trees still surprised her, and the fires had been so long ago.

  Spud catapulted from the back of the car and she walked to the door, hesitating before stepping inside. Standing in the middle of the house, ladders and stacked timber where her furniture had once been, Annie felt a surge of optimism. She looked around, noting the progress that had been made, wondering how soon she could return home.

  Annie could remember how excruciating it had been to stand in the doorway that Sunday, glass crunching underfoot, and see the burnt-out shell. The acrid air swarmed with blowflies seeking a cool corner. There was no roof, charred furniture exposed to a ceiling of eerie red sky. It should have been her home, but it was not any more. There was a sense of wrongness, corrupted normality.

  An odd odour remained, occasionally prompting her to look for smoke.

  Her task tonight was outside. Moira had lent her expertise to help rebuild the fence around the veggie patch, but the neglected beds were a riot of weeds. Annie gloved up and began pulling out weeds and stacking them in the compost heap. When the soil was mostly clear she began digging it over, turning the earth and burying the small weeds that had been left.

  “This is better than painting, eh Spud,” she commented when he came into the fenced area to inspect her work.

  It was helping her to heal, she knew – helping her to believe that life could be reliable, normal. Digging, planting, tending; nurturing. She had missed her gardener’s sense of being connected to the seasons of life. It was good to have her hands in the dirt.

  When the weeds had given way to freshly-dug earth, Annie collected her picnic, a chair and a stool to use for a table. Out on the new fire-proof decking, she poured herself a glass of wine and listened to the rustling and bird song that was so much a part of home. All around the forest sighed.

  By the time her meal was finished, it was dusk. Frogs were calling from the gully and the breeze had calmed to a still evening. Stars began to softly appear and a mopoke was calling, mournful in the dim light.

  Annie breathed deeply, letting the peace of the place wash through her. The living bush always calmed the voices of fear and doom.

  A sputtering to her left turned into the steady thrum of a generator. Although it was not loud, it was at odds with the peacefulness of the evening. Her neighbours’ self-contained solar power system did not always meet their needs.

  “Guess Davo needs to do some laundry, eh Spud?” said Annie, scratching his chest.

  Somehow it seemed right that she should hear the genny, reminding her that life wasn’t perfect.

  Even the most dedicated worker needs to spend some time relaxing with friends, but as she drove through the hills, winding along dirt roads, Annie had unwelcome company.

  This is wasteful. All this petrol for one person to travel, just to visit friends. You’re polluting the world, releasing unnecessary carbon into the atmosphere. Look at that house! Do people really need houses that big?

  Spud shuffled about in the back of the car. He woul
d be pleased to see his friends, too.

  The world is being killed! Pollution, over-consumption, over-population; it’s a wonder we haven’t nuked ourselves yet.

  What are you doing to stop it? Gadding about the countryside for your own entertainment?

  “This has to stop!” yelled Annie, startling Spud as she turned up the volume on the radio and began singing along. The voices silenced, they continued their journey to Moira’s.

  Annie stepped from the car onto the open hillside, breathing in the view. In front of her the land dipped away before the next rise in the dish that curved towards low mountains, ten kilometres away. Over the ridge behind her, she knew, the land began to slope down to the coastal flats. Here, halfway to the hills, the land paused in a leisurely valley before the final climb to the top of this end of the Great Dividing Range.

  The sun was setting over the valley and laughter erupted from the small, lighted structure that was Moira’s home. There was a brazier out front, with the makings of a fire, ready to light against the cool evening.

  Spud leapt ahead of Annie, into an orgy of bum-sniffing; greeting his friends, Salt and Pearler and Banjo, and circling stiff-legged, tail wagging, around a strange dog who had joined his pack for the night.

  “Annie. You made it! The sun hasn’t gone down this time.”

  “And the moon’s not up yet. How are you, Rhea? And Cathy . . .”

  The women hugged and greeted each other, then introduced Mary.

  “So you’re the famous Mary.”

  “Oh, infamous I would hope, darling. It’s good to meet you, too.”

  When Annie went into the house to deliver her share of the meal, she was astonished to find a young man, of definite Mediterranean lineage, in conversation with Beth.

  “What is “dacking”? You explain, please?”

  “Oh, it’s just an Australian tradition,” said Beth.

  “Maybe you should show him,” suggested Laurel with an evil chuckle. “Hello Annie!”

  “Oh, hello Gorgeous!” Moira, blonde mane and witching eyes, embraced Annie vigorously.

  “It’s good to see you too, Moira.”

  After the greeting rituals, Annie was introduced to the backpacker. He had been staying at Mary’s, but his holiday was nearly over.

  With the vodka stored in easy reach, and a drink in her hand, Annie found a chair in front of the verandah and gazed at the valley stretching out to the east, softer now that the sun was gone, still hesitating in the magic moment, a calm breath of beauty before the dark.

  Her position gave her a good view as Beth crept behind the unfortunate young man, who had joined the gathering outside. He did not understand the need for the party to be exclusively women.

  “I’m Italian. I love women . . . Aargh!”

  His exclamation of surprise preceded laughter from the women as he found himself with his pants around his ankles.

  “I think the time it is for me to leave,” he said as he retrieved his dignity and his trousers.

  “Thanks for giving me a lift here,” said Mary. “I hope my friends haven’t upset you.”

  “No. Good joke. I know dacking is now.” He laughed. “I have good story to tell back home!”

  “You’re a good sport,” approved Beth, who came up to farewell her victim, shaking his hand and allowing him to pull her closer, kiss both cheeks and hug her.

  “Woohoo! Beth, you sly old dog!” crowed Laurel.

  By the time the moon began to rise, Annie had drunk enough to feel at peace with the world, and the women had eaten. The latest personal news had been discussed: how was work; how were various offspring doing; what’s the latest gossip?

  Laurel had the others laughing as she described the latest “adventure” of her wild boys.

  “So then I turned to Manny and said, ‘You’re their father. You explain it to them.’ He just shook his head and said, ‘How can I explain it when I don’t understand it?’”

  “Poor bloody man,” commented Moira as they laughed.

  “Is Zach still juggling?” Rhea asked Cathy.

  “Is he what! He’s been picking up enough money, busking at the market, to pay his tuition fees at the circus school. He’s such a clever kid.”

  “He’s got a good mum,” suggested Annie.

  “Maybe . . . But Annie, what do you think of these reforms to the education system they’re talking about? Will they make schools better?” asked Cathy, changing the subject.

  Annie took a deep breath and fought the urge to scream.

  “Which ones in particular?” Annie tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice as she thought of the various changes schools had been required to implement over the years – most unnecessary, many taking her time away from her precious job of teaching.

  “Look out,” warned Beth.

  “It’s all about politicians making promises when they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about and they’ve got poor advice,” exclaimed Annie.

  “Politicians have meddled because it sounds good in an election campaign rather than because they actually have sensible ideas that would improve our education system. And they don’t give us time or pay for the extra work we do to make all their useless changes.” She held her arms up in despair.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I love my job; but that’s because of the kids, not the bosses. Although,” Annie paused, remembering an incident earlier in the week, “there are times when the kids are a bit of a worry. More and more of them just don’t want to work.

  “They expect to be entertained. After all, the media have groomed them to expect entertainment. They don’t “get” the idea of school work. Not all of them, mind you; in fact, most of them are pretty good – but that makes it more frustrating. I waste so much time on managing the behaviour of a few nongs instead of helping kids learn.” The last three words were Annie’s mantra. It was what she did. But some days it was so hard. “Most kids do the right thing, but that disruptive minority makes it tough for everybody.”

  “Must give you the shits,” observed Cathy.

  “Sometimes,” laughed Annie.

  “I think you work too hard,” commented Moira.

  “And care too much,” added Beth. “I reckon those kids you teach are lucky to have you.”

  “Maybe,” said Annie rising from her chair, “but I think this is getting all too serious.” She went into the house and began scuffling through the pile of CDs on the bench. “How about some Pogues!” she yelled through the open door.

  “I love this one,” called Rhea, bopping onto the clear ground between the house and the veggie patch. Annie joined her and soon the women were dancing, stamping in the dirt and bouncing to the music.

  “The moon!” yelled Cathy, and they all turned to the east as a slice of light winked over the horizon. It rapidly grew and they watched the full moon ease itself into their night.

  Beth threw her head up and began howling, a wild Australian she-wolf, and was soon joined by the others. They howled and they danced under the open sky with the moon.

  Spud, lounging on the verandah, sat up when he heard the women howling. This was an odd noise, but practise might make them better. He watched Annie, face lifted to the moon, and sensed the emotion she poured into the night sky. It was a strange pack, this group of women; but it was good.

  A white horse, ghostly in the moonlight, ambled through the gate, nickering as he sought out Moira among the women sitting around the cheerful flames in the brazier. He thudded up to her and nudged his muzzle into her shoulder.

  “Thanks mate!” said Moira as she shook off the drink he had caused her to spill.

  “He loves you,” suggested Cathy.

  “And such a handsome fellow to be smitten with you!” Mary moved over and began patting the horse’s neck.

  “Yes, you do love me, don’t you Sam?”

  “Hang on, Mozz. Should he be here? After all, he’s a bloke, not a sheila.” A
nnie was smiling.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a horse! Anyway, you brought Spud!”

  “Aah. I see. Horses and dogs don’t count.”

  “Especially when they’ve had their nuts off!”

  Moira reached into a nearby bin and distributed carrots.

  “You know, he looks like he could almost talk, the dear thing,” said Mary as she fed a carrot to the gentle visitor.

  “You’ve had too much to drink!” said Moira, ever the sensitive host.

  “She probably has,” agreed Laurel, “but look at him. I think he wants to party.”

  “No. He just wants to be with Moira,” offered Rhea.

  “It’s all that animal magnetism!” added Beth.

  “He is possibly the world’s most gorgeous horse!” Mary stroked Sam’s neck and rubbed his nose as he looked for more carrots.

  “The other day I’d been working in the veggie patch,” said Moira. “I wanted to rest a bit, so I lay down on the grass just outside the fence. Sam came over and snuffed around a bit, then he ever-so-carefully lay down to sunbake next to me.”

  “You big softie, Sam.” Mary was in love.

  “He’s a hero, though. Remember, he saved that horse that was agisted here during the fires,” Laurel contributed.

  “Samwise the brave,” commented Cathy.

  “His name is not Samwise!” Moira said theatrically. This was an old argument.

  “Well it should be,” responded Annie. “He looks like he walked out of a tale of elves and moonlight.”

  “Did he really save that horse, Mozz?” asked Rhea. “They might just have got lucky.”

  “That’s why he was still stamping out burning patches when I went to check on him? That poor young horse was shaking, terrified, huddled in the middle of the unburnt patch that Sam had saved. It wouldn’t let me near it . . . anyway, Sam took care of him. I needed to be back at the house – there were spot fires half the night. But I had to know if Sam was okay.” She paused. “I didn’t find the cow and the sheep that were burned until the next day.”