Bush Burial

My brother had left this earth and was now within it. The preacher was trying to comfort my husband and child while my dog saw this as an opportune moment to gnaw at the hem of my skirt. There was a light drizzle in the air, but it was not cold, it was never cold here. We had decided to bury Jonathan in a clearing by the creek where he always used to fish. He never caught anything but he loved it all the same. The clearing was surrounded by old gum trees and leaf litter, there were cockatoos in the trees and tall grass at our feet. You could only see the creek through a gap in the clearing, and even then you had to walk for about ten minutes to get there, but the clearing was the only sensible place to bury someone that was anywhere near his favourite fishing spot.

Back at the cottage my husband sat down at the kitchen table, and stared into space. I put some of the water I collected from the creek that morning and put it in a pot over the fire. My daughter went out the back with the flint and continued to indulge her firebug habit. I put a comforting hand on my husband's shoulder as I served him tea. He stiffened at my touch but thanked me anyway.

"How could somebody do that?" he asked. He was referring to how my brother had died. He had been murdered. By whom, nobody knew. Whoever it was had hit him over the head to disorient him, then ran a knife down both arms from elbow to wrist. Both kneecaps had then been removed while he was still aware of what was happening to him. His eyes were gouged out while he screamed, before being disembowelled. The organs that once pumped his blood and digested his food were strewn around him. Some entrails had then been hung over trees for the birds to pick at.

"I don't know dear, it must have been an animal in the skin of a man," I said.

My husband shook his head sadly and continued to stare at nothing while my daughter continued her burning. I decided to go hunting.

I went to the shack out back and unlocked it. From there I could smell smoke but couldn't see any flames. My daughter was getting good at dowsing them quickly. I went inside and locked the door behind me. It was small, dank and smelled of raw ham. It wasn't much, but I liked it all the same. I opened up my hunting bag and began filling it. I grabbed two of the knives off the wall, one with a serrated edge and a thin, sharp one. I put in some rope and a few tent pegs for good measure. As a finishing touch I put in a large club that I had made out of an old gum tree that had fallen a few months back. I slung my bag over my shoulder and set out.

I awoke earlier than normal the following day and reminisced about my hunting trip the previous night. My husband came in. He looked paler than normal.

"One of those constables from Bendigo came round, the one who spoke to us about John. He said there was another murder," he finished.

"In Bendigo?" I asked.

"No, it happened in the bush, about half way between here and Bendigo, they found his horse first; it was tied to a tree."

Later that day I went into town and spoke to the constable. He questioned me and after assuming that I was the innocent sister of a murder victim, told me what had occurred. A bushranger had been passing through, he must have gotten off his horse and someone had struck him from behind. His wrists and ankles had been skewered to the ground with tent pegs, his torso was cut from neck to navel and his sternum was sawn in half and removed. What had finally killed him was the sawing of his skull and removal of his brain. His horse had been tied to a nearby tree to avoid alerting anyone while its master was being brutalised. The police believed that whoever had killed my brother had also killed this man and they told me to lock my doors and keep a lookout for strangers. I promised him I would and laughed incredulously to myself once I had left his company.

When I was back at the cottage I went round the back to my shack and saw my daughter setting the dog on fire. She had bound its legs and cut off its tail. She looked at me, horrified and guiltily. She probably thought I would strike her; instead I hugged her close and admired her handy work on the dog.

"You're not mad?" she asked.

"My girl, I've never been more proud of you."

I brought her into my shack and handed her a sharp, curved knife. Without need for words she took the knife, walked out of the shack and to the dog, she sliced through its throat as it gurgled and let it bleed out. I brought her back to the shack, cleaned the knife and handed her a bigger one. This one was for hacking, not for slicing. She smiled broadly at me and I grabbed some rope and a pickaxe. Together we walked into the house.

"Daddy, where are you?" my daughter called.

My husband walked out of the kitchen and looked at us, before he had enough time to react to what was happening, my daughter swung and sliced through her father's leg. I walked around and began driving the pickaxe into his back as my daughter bound his legs just as she had the dog. I stepped back and gestured for my daughter to go ahead, she picked up the knife and brought it down again and again, she stopped as the head was severed and looked up at me.

"Well done, my girl, how about we go hunting together?"

"I would like that Mama; I would like that very much."