It was a fine summer’s day when Ginnumarra and her family stopped at the lake.

They had been walking all night and long into the morning, and though Ginnumarra liked walking, she was happy to rest. It was hot and besides, Grandma looked tired, her jet-black skin was teeming with sweat, her heavy eyes red and puffy.

Ginnumarra knew, even at the age of twelve, that Grandma’s fatigue had less to do with the walking and more to do with having to leave their home. All of her family were sad about leaving—Dad, Mum, her older sister and little brother. But especially Grandma. Grandma hadn’t wanted to leave, had told Dad and Mum not to worry about her, that she was too old, just leave her behind. She had said this even with gunfire and screaming filling the distant night air. But, Dad hadn’t taken no for an answer and so, taking only the meagre weapons they owned, and whatever meat they had (and Ginnumarra’s amulet—she couldn’t leave that behind), they had fled through the night, Grandma in tow.

It had been slow going. Grandma couldn’t walk very fast. Her little brother, Moodoo, who was only five, spent most of the time either on Dad’s back, or in Mum’s arms. They trekked through the forest, not talking, scared; scared that the white men with the guns and horses would catch them. Ginnumarra didn’t know what was going on, other than the men who looked like ghosts wanted to catch them—they had already captured a lot of her people—and wanted to hurt them.

Dad had assured them that such a thing wouldn’t happen; that as long as they kept moving, they would be okay.

Ginnumarra believed her dad—he had always looked after them, provided for them, kept them safe and warm.

Still, Ginnumarra had noticed the fear in Dad’s eyes, as well as in Mum’s and Grandma’s. Moodoo thought this was all just an adventure; her older sister Truganini looked as confused as Ginnumarra felt.

And so, as the night ended and morning broke, they continued through the forest, everyone tired and hungry. Dad said that when they came to some water, they would stop, rest, and have something to eat and drink.

It was early in the afternoon when they came across the lake.

A short time later they heard the sound of horses nearby.

* * *

Chris Long had just taken his first sip of Carlton when a voice said, “Mind if I sit here?”

Chris swallowed, swivelled his head to the left and eyed the large man hovering over him. Chris shrugged. “Go right ahead.” He turned back to his beer.

The tall white man sat down with a satisfied sigh.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“Jack, on the rocks.”

Chris shifted on his stool. He didn’t mind people sitting next to him—hell, they did it every night when he stopped off at the Royal Arms after work—but there was something about this bloke that radiated “talker.” People not interested in having a chat didn’t bother to ask if it was okay if they sat down. They just sat. No, Chris had a feeling this guy wanted to talk.

Chris wasn’t an antisocial guy. He joked with his fellow workers at whichever construction site he happened to be working at; he enjoyed sinking back a few ales at the Royal Arms with his mates on the weekends. But when it came to strangers, Chris wasn’t as forthcoming. He was a quiet guy. He wasn’t one for small talk. And besides, he was tired. He’d put in a hard day’s work. He was sore, his clothes were grimy; all he wanted was to down a few coldies and then head home to his wife and daughter.

Chris had polished off his glass of beer when the man beside him said, “Can I buy you another beer?”

Chris groaned internally. He turned to the man sitting beside him.

The stranger, who was cradling his second, or maybe it was his third, glass of whisky, looked to be around six foot, and was built like a heavy-weight fighter. He had short spiky hair and his skin looked like it could smooth a block of wood as good as any sandpaper. He made Chris nervous.

“Well…” Chris’s mouth was dry. He did want another beer; his body was crying out for a second, but he knew the moment he said yes, he’d be in small talk hell.

But then Chris didn’t fancy pissing this fellow off. He didn’t come across as a hateful bigot, but Chris figured if the man was a borderline racist, a black fellow saying no to an offer of a free beer might just tip him over the edge.

“Sure, thanks.”

The man smiled, and Chris saw silver glint among the sea of off-white teeth.

Chris also saw sadness in that smile, as well as in the big man’s eyes.

“What’ll you have?”

“Another Carlton,” Chris told the bartender.

“Make that two.”

The bartender nodded, and went about pouring the drinks.

The stranger downed the rest of his whisky, wiped his hands on his shirt and then stuck out his right hand. “Name’s Ray.”

Chris licked his cracked lips. He reluctantly offered his right hand. Ray took it and Chris’s hand was like an infant’s clasped in the white man’s claw-like grip. “Chris.”

They shook, and Chris thought he felt, just for a second, the grip tighten, before loosening.

“Nice to meet ya, Chris.”

The beers were placed on the strip of towel that ran the length of the bar, Ray paid for the drinks, and then he raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Chris said, “Cheers,” and he gulped half the drink, wiping his lips afterwards.

“Thirsty,” Ray said.

Chris nodded.

“Where do you work?”

“On a construction site.”

“You’re a builder?”

Chris nodded.

“Well, no wonder you’re thirsty. Tough work.”

“What do you do?”

“So you live around here?” Ray said, ignoring the question. He took a large mouthful of beer.

Chris nodded. “You?”

“I’m new in town.”

This didn’t surprise Chris. He knew most of the people that frequented the pub; if not by name, then by sight. Hobart wasn’t exactly a small town, but most of the patrons of the Royal Arms were locals.

“I’m from Melbourne, I’m on my yearly holiday. I’m a bit of a history and ghost buff.”

“Well then you’ve come to the right place,” Chris said.

Ray nodded. “I’m also interested in Aboriginal legends, and I was wondering if you might be able to help me out.”

Chris finished his beer. When he placed down the glass, he noticed his hand was shaking.

“Another?”

Chris shook his head. “No thanks. Two’s enough for me.”

“Driving home?”

“Yeah,” Chris said.

“Well then I don’t want to keep you. But I’d really appreciate it if I could talk to you, just for five minutes.”

Chris hesitated. He got the sense this man was hiding something; that this friendly act was a front. Chris wasn’t psychic, he didn’t have ESP or anything, but he was good at reading people, and his gut was telling him there was something dangerous about this guy. Along with the sadness, Chris also detected anger and violence.

“Come on, mate. I’d really appreciate it. Just five minutes, I promise.”

“Well, I don’t really know all that much about history and Aboriginal legends.”

Not entirely true, but Chris liked to be guarded at the best of times; with this guy, he felt like building an entire fort.

Ray slapped his prominent forehead. “Jeez, you must think I’m some kind of racist, huh? Assuming all Aborigines know about the native history and myths. I’m sorry mate, really, I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Chris gritted his teeth. Felt he might regret doing this. “What is it you’re after? I might know something about it.”

Ray, in the process of standing up, sat back down. The stool groaned under his weight. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Go ahead.”

That smile again; that wide, cunning smile. “Great. Okay, like I said, I’m into history and myths and legends, that kind of stuff.”

“And ghosts.”

“Right, and ghosts. So anyway, I heard there was this legend down in Tasmania, in the wilderness about an hour’s drive from Hobart...”

Chris’s gut went squirmy; his mouth once again became dry.

“...something about a forest that was supposedly haunted. A place called Dead Tree Forest. Do you know anything about that?”

Boolool Kiambram, Chris thought with a heavy heart.

Chris ached for a third pot of beer. “Yeah, I know something about that.”

Ray’s eyes widened; they glinted with happiness, then relief, and finally something else, something darker, like a storm cloud passing across a clear blue sky. “You do? That’s great. So you know where this forest is?”

Chris shifted on the seat. The air in the pub was suddenly too thick, too cloying, too hot. “Yeah, I know where it is.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No,” Chris answered. “No, I’ve never been there. You would have to be crazy to go there.”

Ray frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s an unnatural place. I’ve heard of people trekking up there, and never coming back.”

“Ghosts?”

“Death.”

Ray was silent. He finished off his beer. “They say some girl was murdered there a long time ago, near a lake, and that she haunts the forest, right?”

“Not just haunts—she placed a curse on the forest.”

Poor Ginnumarra. What those men did to her and her family…

“So it’s true? The legend is true?”

Chris Long—Joharri, to give his Aboriginal name—looked long and hard at Ray. He didn’t know what this man wanted. He didn’t know how much Ray truly knew about Dead Tree Forest; Chris was surprised this white man even knew about the legend—as far as he was aware, no one except the locals knew about Dead Tree Forest—but whatever Ray was after, Chris didn’t want any part of it.

“Yes, it’s true,” Chris said. He got to his feet. “Thanks for the beer. I really should be getting home.”

Ray raised his nearly empty glass. “Thanks for your time, mate. You’ve been a big help.”

Chris took one last look at those sneaky eyes, and then, with a sharp nod, turned and walked out of the Royal Arms.

The evening air was crisp, like a cold slap to the face. Chris breathed in the mid-winter air, tried to shake the bad feelings from his body, and then he headed around the back of the pub to the car park.

Dead Tree Forest, he thought with a shiver. Why would anyone be interested in that cursed place?

And then he remembered. He had forgotten about that part of the legend; to him, Boolool Kiambram meant pain and death. But to outsiders, the story that the girl, Ginnumarra, had been wearing a necklace when she was thrown into the lake, a necklace containing a sacred amulet, one that was said to have powerful healing properties, was probably more exciting, more inviting, than the idea of a cursed forest.

That’s what he had seen in the white man’s eyes—greed.

That’s why he really wanted to find out about Dead Tree Forest, Chris thought as he made his way towards his Ford Ute.

Like the pub, the car park was characteristically empty for a Thursday evening, and with the meagre lights casting a feeble glow over the few parked cars, Chris arrived at his Ute.

He heard footsteps behind him; took no notice of them until a voice said, “Hey Abo.”

Chris turned. Faced three men: one of them was Ray, the other two were unfamiliar. He only got a brief look at them before a crowbar was smacked across his face.

Stinging pain, bright flashes, and then…

* * *

He awoke inside a van, arms tied behind his back, legs tied at the ankles. The left side of his face felt sore and puffy—it felt like he had a cricket ball stuffed under his cheek. The van was moving, and through the windows he saw hazy light outside.

“Morning Abo,” a man said.

Chris raised his head and saw one of the men who had accosted him in the car park last night (or was it two nights ago? How long have I been out of it?). Aside from a multitude of scars crisscrossing the man’s face, Chris noticed that one eye appeared to be still and looked at him with a deadness that sent chills through his body. The man had a tattoo running under each ear, both tats coming to a point just above the jaw line—two tails, like those of a cartoon devil. He had a harsh, mean face, with an equally harsh voice to match. He looked like a thug, a redneck, a jail-bird.

The other man sitting in the back of the van was young, no older than twenty, and he was distractingly ugly and incredibly thin. Everything about him was thin—his frame, his arms, his nose, even his eyes. He looked like a pencil with greasy, shaggy hair.

“He awake?” said a familiar voice from the front of the van.

“Yeah, he’s finally come to.” The mean-looking man fired up a cigarette. He blew smoke in Chris’s face. “Though he’s gonna wish he hadn’t.”

The younger man laughed.

“You two just keep watch over him, don’t do anything stupid,” Ray said.

“Wha…what do you guys want?” Chris mumbled, finding it difficult to talk with one side of his face swollen.

“What do you think we want, Abo? We’re gonna fuck you over, big time.”

“Yeah, big time,” the younger man echoed.

“Shut up, the both of ya,” Ray said. “Hey, Chris,” he called. “Apologies for the rough treatment. But there was no other way of getting you into the van. You wouldn’t have come voluntarily.”

Chris sighed. The jostling of the van, the cold, hard floor, was making him ill. “Ray, please, you don’t have to do this.”

The younger man cackled.

The mean-looking man stuck out a painted arm. He breathed out smoke. “I’m Brian. Nice ta meet ya.”

Chris gazed up at the hand. He wanted to bite it off.

The tattooed man, Brian, chuckled. “Not very friendly are ya?” He took back his arm, took out his cigarette and stubbed it out on Chris’s forehead.

Chris shrieked.

“Brian! Enough!” Ray bellowed. “I told you, we need him. Don’t be going all crazy on me, man.”

Once the pain of the burn had eased, Chris swallowed and said, “Need me for what?”

Via his reflection in the rear-view mirror, Chris saw Ray grin, and that familiar hint of anger mixed with sadness mixed with greed revealed itself. “We need you to take us up to Dead Tree Forest.”

The wind was knocked out of Chris. “No,” he breathed.

“The fuck you aren’t,” Brian growled. “We’re gonna get us some treasure. We’re gonna be rich. Right, Nathan?”

“Yeah, rich,” the younger man, Nathan, repeated.

“It’s cursed,” Chris said. “It’s a bad place.”

“It’s cursed,” Nathan mocked. “It’s a bad place.” He laughed. “Fuck that. It’s gonna make us rich.”

“Yeah,” Brian said, firing up another smoke. “You got a problem with that?”

Chris placed his head down on the floor and stared up at the van’s ceiling.

We’re going to Dead Tree Forest? May the Lord help us…

“There’s a servo coming up. We should stop off, get some food and drink,” Ray said.

As the van slowed and pulled off the road, Chris thought he could hear the cries of a young girl.

A young girl in pain.

Ginnumarra…

* * *

Standing in line at the service station, Ray Lambert glanced out the window, to the rental van, and hoped Brian and Nathan weren’t hurting Chris too badly. He had given them explicit instructions not to—at least, not until the Abo had led them to Dead Tree Forest.

He wasn’t worried about Nathan. Brian’s younger brother was as lazy as he was ugly. He lived with Brian and Claire—Brian’s current girlfriend—in Coburg. He had no job, content to sponge off of his older brother. He was a quiet kid, but he wasn’t a violent person. Sure he liked to steal and had a bizarre fetish for fire; but violent? No. Strange, yes; but when compared to his brother, he was a pussycat.

Brian Gleeson was Ray’s closest friend. He was a year younger than Ray, a few inches shorter, thin as a whip, and had done time for armed robbery. He had lost his left eye during a brawl outside a Melbourne pub eight years ago (some bastard had concealed a shard of broken glass between his knuckles and had used it to aerate Brian’s face), and subsequently had a glass eye put in, which he loved, thought it made him look crazy. With his heavily scarred face and heavily tattooed arms, neck and back, he was the kind of guy most people crossed the street to avoid. Still, some women, like Claire, loved his badass look; even thought his glass eye was “sexy.” Sexy was the last word Ray would use to describe Brian. Crazy was a word that immediately came to mind. Sadistic was another. Not that Ray was a saint—far from it—but still, sometimes Brian scared even him. But he was a loyal friend, someone who wouldn’t be content to merely stand behind you in a fight; he’d be out front, swinging the hardest.

When Ray had decided to go to Tasmania, he knew he would need help retrieving the sunken treasure, which was why he had called up Brian, who jumped at the chance to go “fuckin’ around in the woods.” When Nathan had learned of the expedition, he also wanted to come along. Ray figured they might need another hand when it came time to kidnap an Aborigine, so he didn’t get too bent out of shape about Nathan tagging along.

But Christ, I hope they’re not fucking the guy up. Maybe I should’ve stayed in the van while Brian got the…

“Hey, buddy, get a move on.”

Ray snapped out of his reverie.

He turned and gazed at the bespectacled man standing behind him. The man took one look at Ray, swallowed, and took a step backwards.

“Next,” the bored-sounding woman behind the counter intoned.

Ray glared at the man before turning around and stepping up to the counter.

He paid for the pre-made sandwiches and rolls, the doughnuts, bars of chocolate and bottles of drink, then strode out of the service station.

At the van, he dumped the bag of goodies on the passenger seat, then he walked around to the driver’s side, heaved himself inside and started the engine.

“You get me a can of Mother?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, I got your can of Mother,” Ray said, flicking his eyes up to the rear-view mirror.

Brian and Nathan were leaning against the sides of the van. Nathan was staring intently at the cigarette lighter he was holding; he was flicking the flame on, off, on, off. Brian’s feet were resting on Chris’s chest.

“Get your damn feet off him,” Ray said.

With a wicked smirk, Brian swung his legs onto the floor. “Always spoiling my fun.”

Ray gunned the accelerator and sped the van out of the service station, back onto the road.

“You okay back there, Chris?” Ray asked.

The Aborigine didn’t answer. Ray frowned. “Oi, Chris. You okay?”

“He’s fine,” Brian said. “What, you think we killed him or something?”

“Shut up. Chris?”

Silence. Then: “Yeah.”

Ray breathed with relief. “Christ man, you had me worried. You answer me when I talk to you, understand?”

“Whatever you say,” answered the tired voice.

“So,” Brian said. “What’s the plan?”

“We drive to the mountain, park the van, then hike up to Dead Tree. Simple.”

At least, it was simple in theory.

“And you’re sure you know how to get to the mountain?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Ray said. “That’s the easy part. It’s getting to Dead Tree Forest that’s gonna be tough. But that’s why we brought along our very own tour guide. Isn’t that right, Chris?”

“You don’t want to go to Dead Tree. Trust me, it’s a bad place.”

“Oh boy,” Brian sniggered. “Here he goes with his fuckin’ Abo mumbo-jumbo.”

“What’s bad about it?” Nathan asked, still idly playing with the lighter.

“Nothin’,” Brian said, snatching the Bic from his brother.

“It’s cursed,” Chris said. “Anyone who goes in, never comes out.”

Brian cackled. “Christ, sounds like some tag-line from a bad ‘80s horror movie.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Just a load of native superstition,” Ray said. “Don’t worry about it. Brian, there’s a map back there somewhere. Find it and tell me how to get to Forbes Mountain.”

“I thought you knew how to get there?”

“I know that Dead Tree is in the Forbes Mountain Range, and I know in which general direction the mountains are, but I still need directions on how to get there.”

Ray heard Brian mutter, followed by a lot of banging and cursing. Finally, Brian said, “Found the fucker. Here, you look Nathan.” Brian tossed the map over to his brother. Then he rested back against the van and lit up a cigarette.

After a spell, Nathan said, “Okay, keep on this road for a while. There’s a turn off to Bucket Road about fifty ks from here.”

“And that’s the road to the mountain?”

“Nah, there’s still a ways to go before you get to the road leading up into the mountain.”

“Fuck me,” Brian huffed. “You mean we still have to hike to the forest once we get to the mountain?”

“Yep,” Ray said. “And then we have to find the lake in the forest. God knows how long that will take.”

“We could be out there for days,” Brian shrieked.

“Possibly. What did you think all that camping equipment beside you is for?”

“I dunno. For show? Just so we can laugh at Nathan carrying it all?”

“Very funny,” Nathan said.

“Well, this treasure better be worth it,” Brian said, sucking hard on his cigarette.

Yeah, it’ll be worth it all right.

Ray looked up into the rear-view mirror. He searched for any recognition on Chris’s face. But Chris was lying flat on his back.

Ray wondered whether Chris knew about the treasure that was supposed to be lying at the bottom of the lake. He certainly seemed to know about the legend, the massacre at the lake of the girl and her family by the British colonists. Surely he must know about the treasure, too.

Thinking about the treasure, Ray’s mind drifted to his wife and three daughters, waiting for him back on the mainland, in their crappy weatherboard in Brunswick. In particular his twelve-year-old, Gemma, who had been diagnosed with leukaemia a few months ago.

In his head he heard crying: his wife’s, which was a nightly occurrence, and Gemma’s, upon starting the drugs and the sickness that followed.

And his own, in private; always in private.

“…tunes.”

Ray shook his head. “Huh?”

“I said turn on the radio and find some fuckin’ tunes,” Brian said.

Ray flicked on the radio, found the oldies station, and sat back and listened to John Lennon sing about instant karma.

* * *

Standing in a small clearing at the base of Forbes Mountain, Ray stretched his hands to the cloudless blue sky and breathed in the clean forest smells. Then he walked around to the side of the van, just as Brian slid back the door and jumped out. “Outta my way. I need to piss something shockin’.”

While Brian scurried off to take care of business, Ray peered into the van. Nathan was sitting against the side, asleep. Chris was sitting opposite Nathan, eyes glazed with fear. “Nathan, wake up.”

Nathan snorted awake. “We there?”

“Uh-huh. Now grab your rucksack and the Esky. I wanna get moving.”

Nathan grabbed a hold of his bag and tossed it out the door. Then he picked up the Esky and stepped out of the van. “This thing’s heavy, Ray. You don’t expect me to carry it plus my rucksack?”

“Fuck yeah,” Brian said, strolling back, zipping up. “And you won’t whinge about it, neither.”

“We all have to carry shit. So Nathan, you’re stuck with the Esky.”

“What’s Brian gonna carry?”

“My dick,” he said, grabbing his crotch. “That’s plenty big enough for one man to carry.”

“Brian’s carrying the sports bag, which is heavier than the Esky.” Ray hopped up into the back of the van, picked up his rucksack and tossed it out, then he did the same with Brian’s rucksack and the sports bag containing, among other things, equipment such as ropes. Unsheathing the hunting knife from around his waist, Ray cut the rope binding Chris’s legs. “Okay, out you get.”

Chris stared at Ray. “Please, don’t do this. I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t have a say in this. We’re going to Dead Tree, and that’s that.”

“But why? There’s nothing there except death.”

Ray eyed the Aborigine. “There’s more than death in there; there’s life.”

“Are you talking about the treasure?”

Ray drew in breath. He glanced back at Brian and Nathan. They were busy arguing about who was going to be carrying what. He turned back to Chris. “Not a word about the treasure to the others, you got me?” he growled. “They don’t know the truth. Now, get out. Don’t make me hurt you.”

Chris didn’t move.

“Fine, have it your way.” Ray reached over and grabbed the rope that bound Chris’s wrists. He pulled hard. Chris was dragged sideways across the hard, bumpy floor of the van. He cried out. Ray let go of the rope. “See, it’d be easier if you simply obeyed.”

“The nigger causing problems?” Brian said, stepping up to the van.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Ray said.

“Get out, Abo,” Brian sneered, pulling out his knife. It was a flick-knife, smaller than Ray’s, but still lethal. “Stop fuckin’ around and do as we say, got it?”

Chris swivelled his body to a sitting position. He stuck out his legs, scooted forward and then set his feet on the ground. He stood up.

“Good. Now, don’t go doing anything stupid like trying to run away,” Ray said. “You wouldn’t get far, anyway.” He slammed the side door shut, walked up to the passenger door, yanked it open and took out the bag of goodies. After he locked the van, he walked back over to Brian, Nathan and Chris. “Okay, Nathan, you carry the Esky, Brian, you take the sports bag.”

“What about you?” Nathan said.

“I’ve got Chris,” Ray said. He opened the lid of the Esky and placed in the food and drink he’d bought at the petrol station, placing it on top of the beer he bought last night at the bottle shop adjacent to the Royal Arms, before he scouted the pub for prospective “tour guides.”

“We’re not gonna eat and drink first?” Brian asked.

“No,” Ray said. “We may not be surrounded by people, but the road isn’t that far away. Someone might see us, and then we’d be screwed.”

“But I’m fuckin’ starving,” Brian said. “And I could really do with a beer.”

“Once we reach Dead Tree Forest, then we’ll stop and have lunch. Okay guys, get your gear on.”

While Brian and Nathan struggled with their rucksacks, Ray stepped up to Chris. “Now, don’t play games with us. Don’t lead us in the wrong direction. We won’t hesitate in killing you and leaving your body in the mountain if you dick us around. Understand?”

Chris, looking at the gravel, nodded.

“Good. I knew you were a smart man.” Ray turned around. “Okay, you guys ready?”

Nathan, dwarfed by the rucksack and sleeping bag on his back, mumbled, “Yeah, I’m ready.” He picked up the Esky with a groan.

“Let’s get this show on the mother-trucking road,” Brian said, bulging pack looking like it could snap his skinny body like a matchstick. He held the long, heavy sports bag with both hands.

Ray picked up his rucksack and sleeping bag and slipped them onto his back with relative ease. Then he took a hold of the rope. “Okay, lead the way to Dead Tree,” he said to Chris.

“It won’t be easy,” Chris said. “There are no walking tracks up to Dead Tree Forest. It’s a long trek through thick wilderness.”

“Don’t you worry about us,” Ray said.

With a deep sigh that seemed to call to the spirits, Chris started walking, and the three men followed.

* * *

Without walking tracks or markers, the trek through the mountains was tough going. The day was far from hot, but it didn’t take long before all four of them were sweating rivers and panting like dogs in heat. Still, they managed to traverse thick tree roots, slippery moss, walk up and down steep gullies, and wind their way around monstrous King Billy pines without anyone getting injured.

By the time they reached a wide, flat clearing, Ray’s legs were aching, his lungs felt ready to burst and his clothes were drenched.

“Can we stop and have lunch now?” Brian breathed, looking tired and sweaty.

“How far is it to Dead Tree?” Ray asked Chris.

“Not far.”

Ray nodded. “Okay.”

Nathan and Brian dropped their respective hand-luggage to the ground, followed by their rucksacks. “Remind me to start going to the gym when we get back,” Brian said.

Ray let go of the rope and told Chris to sit down. Chris sat, and Ray shrugged off his rucksack and then opened the Esky. “Beer or Mother?” he asked Brian.

“Mother, then beer,” he panted, and collapsed to the ground.

“We haven’t got a lot of drink,” Ray said, “Aside from your can of Mother, we have only a six pack of beer, a few bottles of Coke and some bottles of water.”

“And your point is?” Brian said, lying on his back.

“There’s still a long way to go before we get to the lake. And then we have to get all the way back to the van. You might want to go easy on the liquid.”

“Okay, point taken. Give me the Mother.”

“Nathan?”

“Hmmm? Oh, a Coke.”

Ray tossed the drinks to Brian and Nathan, followed by two chicken rolls. Then he sat on the grass with a can of Coke and a ham and salad roll.

He had taken a few bites of the roll, taken a few slurps of the drink, when he noticed Chris staring at him. “You hungry? Thirsty?”

Chris nodded.

“Sorry, you’ll get some food and drink once we’ve found the lake. That’s the deal.”

Chris shut his eyes and turned away.

Ray saw Brian grin; Nathan was staring at the ground, vacantly picking at blades of grass while he ate his lunch. “Hey Brian, pass me your lighter,” Nathan said.

“Why? So you can flick the flame on and off like you always do?”

Nathan shrugged. “Yeah.”

Brian sighed and with a shake of his head, pulled out his lighter. “You can have it until we’ve finished eating, or until I crave a smoke; whichever happens first. I don’t want it to run out of lighter fluid—I didn’t bring another lighter or any matches.” He tossed the lighter to his brother.

Ray thought, Weird fuckin’ kid, and continued eating.

* * *

“Okay, we all done?” Ray asked as he tossed his empty Coke can to the grass.

Brian flicked a half-smoked cigarette to the ground, then got to his feet; Nathan also stood up and stamped out the small fire he had lit on a dry patch of grass and had been watching trance-like for the past ten minutes while he finished his lunch.

“Okay, up you get,” Ray said and tugged on the rope.

Chris was pulled to his feet.

Brian belched. “That hit the spot,” he said, grinning lazily. “All that walking really gave me an appetite. How ‘bout you, Abo, I bet you’re hungry?”

“No,” Chris said softly.

“Maybe he had some of them witchetty grubs while we weren’t looking,” Nathan said, snorting with laughter.

Chris closed his eyes and started speaking quietly.

“What are you saying?” Ray said.

Chris continued muttering to himself as a tear slid down his cheek.

“What the fuck are you mumbling about?” Brian said and stepping forward, he punched Chris in the face.

Chris grunted. Another tear slithered down his cheek, under his chin and down his sweaty neck. He swallowed. “I don’t want to continue. I don’t want to go to the forest,” he said. “It’s a bad place. I have a bad feeling.”

“Here we go again,” Brian said. “You’re fucking going whether you want to or not.”

“I want to get as much walking done before it gets dark,” Ray said. “So come on guys, put on your packs and let’s haul arse.”

While Ray slipped on his rucksack, Brian and Nathan struggled with theirs.

“I tell ya, I’m gonna get mighty sick of this thing before the trip’s over,” Brian muttered.

Once they were all ready, Ray said to Chris, “Okay, lead the way.”

Chris didn’t move.

“I said get going. Take us to the forest. You said it was close.”

“It is close,” Chris said. “I can feel its pain.”

“Then get moving.”

“No,” Chris said.

“The fuck you mean, no?” Brian said. “Want us to cut off your balls, Abo?”

“Don’t make this hard on yourself,” Ray said. “Just do as we say, and you won’t get hurt.”

Chris laughed. “I’ll get hurt if I do do as you say. You all will. It doesn’t matter if you kill me—we’re all going to die anyway if we go into Boolool Kiambram.”

“Into what?”

“It’s the Aboriginal name for Dead Tree Forest,” Ray said. To Chris, he said: “I’ll be forced to drag you by your wrists if you don’t start walking. You’re going in there no matter what, so it’s your choice. What’ll it be?”

Chris shivered, glanced at Ray with fearful eyes, and then started walking.

“That’s more like it,” Brian said, and they all continued through the field.

They trekked through the lush open field for about ten minutes. Bell birds sung their sweet song, the wind whistled through the leaves of the surrounding woods.

Then, all at once, the world fell quiet. It was like a “mute” button had been pressed on the mountain.

Ray noticed it; Chris did too—he started looking around at the woods, grave fear etched on his face.

Nathan and Brian seemed unaware of the sudden absence of noise.

Then, rounding a bend, they saw it.

They stopped and stared at the hideous visage before them.

Brian spoke first. “Ugly fuckin’ forest.”

Ray swallowed, felt his gut tighten and his balls shrivel. “I’ll say.”

He had thought maybe the “dead tree” part was an exaggeration; that some of the trees in the forest simply weren’t as healthy as the rest. But the name was as accurate as anything Ray had ever known. Darkness hovered over the forest and radiated from its bowels like a thick black soup. But it was the trees that really gave Ray the creeps—and he didn’t unsettle easily. With their grey trunks and leafless branches, the trees looked like rows of skeletal soldiers guarding a shadowy castle.

“I’m guessing this is Dead Tree Forest,” Brian said, chuckling, but there was an underlying unease that was uncommon for Brian.

“Maybe it is haunted,” Nathan said, voice flat.

Brian turned to his brother, tattooed hands on skinny hips. “Fuckin’ creepy, yes; fuckin’ haunted, now that’s kid’s stuff.”

“Well then how do you explain all them dead trees?” Nathan asked.

There was no snideness behind Nathan’s comment; it was an innocent and perfectly reasonable question. The same question sprung to Ray’s mind, but he decided it was best not to think about the why—he just needed to concentrate on getting what he had come here for.

“Bad soil,” Brian said, and despite the fact they were surrounded by lush mountain greenery, it seemed as good an explanation as any.

“Whatever the reason, we’re going in,” Ray said, and started forward.

Chris held steady.

He was a wiry fellow, slight of build, but he was strong, determined.

Ray turned around. “Come on, don’t make it hard on yourself.” Ray saw the absolute fear radiating from Chris’s wide stare, and it unnerved him.

Brian, just about to enter the forest, stopped and looked back. “What are you afraid of? There’s nothing in there but wood and dirt.”

Chris’s chest heaved like a Li-Lo being continually inflated and deflated. “We go in, we’re never coming out.”

Brian cackled. It was a harsh sound—a ruined laugh caused by too much cigarette smoke and booze. “You’re a riot, you know that?”

“You don’t understand,” Chris said.

“I understand all right. It’s all bullshit. Tell me, have you ever been in this forest?”

Chris, already looking defeated, bowed his head and shook it gently.

“Have you ever seen anyone go into this forest?”

Another shake.

“Then how the fuck do you know it’s haunted? What is it you people say about a tree falling in the woods? Something about it not making a sound?”

“That’s Zen,” Ray said. “And it doesn’t matter, because we’re going in, haunted or not.”

“You don’t believe…?”

“I believe in going and getting what we came for. Now everyone stay close. We don’t wanna have to waste time searching for someone just because they’re too stupid to keep up with the group.”

“He means you, Nathan,” Brian said.

Ray continued forward, pulling on the rope with all his considerable strength.

Chris practically leapt forward. He stumbled and was only barely able to remain on his feet.

Brian followed.

Nathan trailed, hunched over from the weight of his rucksack.

When Ray stepped into the dark wasteland, it was like stepping through the doorway into another world.

The temperature immediately dropped about ten degrees and the breeze ceased, like it had been switched off. And though it was a clear day, hardly any sunlight penetrated the forest.

“Christ it’s cold in here,” Brian said. “And it stinks.”

There was an unpleasant stench in the air—like dampness and mould, coupled with something unidentifiable.

The forest was made up of a seemingly endless sea of tall straight trees; Ray figured mostly pines, due to the scaly bark on the trunks. However, there was no green in sight. It was like all pine needles and leaves had been stripped off, leaving only naked branches behind.

The forest floor was also devoid of life and colour. What should’ve been a carpet of bushes, ferns and moss-covered rocks was just flat colourless black earth with the occasional bare boulder.

No wonder it’s called Dead Tree Forest, Ray thought.

“So,” Brian said, walking beside Ray. “Do you know how to get to the lake?”

Brian’s voice sounded flat, dead; there was no echo.

“No,” Ray said, noting how his own voice died the moment it passed by his lips. “I don’t.”

“Great, that’s just great,” Brian said. “How ‘bout you, Abo? Do you know?”

“No,” Chris said.

Brian laughed; its deadness was eerie. “Well does anyone know how big this fuckin’ forest is? I mean, we could be walking around here for days, weeks even, and never find the lake.”

“We’ll find it,” Ray said.

“How?”

Ray didn’t have an answer. How could he expect Brian to understand that it was imperative they find the lake; that he had a gut feeling they would be led to it? That somehow, he knew they would find it?

“I dunno,” Ray said. “But we’ll find it.”

“Well I say if we don’t find the lake by this time tomorrow, we turn around and get the fuck outta here.” Brian frowned, and it creased his face like a shirt in desperate need of an iron. “Say, how will we even get back?”

Ray sighed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we ain’t exactly following a trail here, and last time I checked none of us were leaving bread crumbs. So...how will we find our way out?”

Ray gritted his teeth. He wanted Brian to shut up, to stop pummelling him with all these questions. He couldn’t think about the answers to such questions right now—all he was concerned about was getting to the lake and retrieving the treasure that lay buried within its waters. Once he had achieved that, then he’d worry about getting back.

“We’ll worry about that when we need to,” Ray said. “For now, let’s just try and find the lake.”

“Fuck that,” Brian huffed. “I wanna know how we plan on getting outta here. Shit, I’m beginning to regret coming on this trip.”

“So then why did you?” Ray said.

“You promised me treasure. Untold riches, you said. Well fuck, how could I say no to that?”

“You didn’t,” Ray reminded him.

“Yeah, well, I assumed whichever Abo we got would know all about how to get to the lake and back.”

“You know what they say about assuming,” Nathan said from behind.

“Nathan, shut the fuck up or else,” Brian growled. To Ray: “But you had to go and get us a nig-nog that doesn’t know his arsehole from his mouth.”

“No Aborigine knows this forest,” Chris said solemnly. “They know about it, how to get here, but nobody has been in the forest itself—at least, none that have come out alive. What did you expect? A tour guide?”

Brian stopped.

Ray stopped too, followed by Chris and Nathan.

“What is it?” Ray said.

“I don’t know man, I’ve suddenly got a bad feeling about this,” Brian said.

“It’s this forest,” Chris said. “You can feel Ginnumarra’s pain.”

“No, it’s called being worried about getting lost in this fuckin’ forest,” Brian said, eyeing Chris. “Are you sure you don’t know how to get to the lake?”

Chris nodded.

“Look, don’t worry about getting lost, okay?” Ray said. “We’ll be fine.”

Brian dug into his pocket and pulled out his Nokia. He flipped it open. Grimaced. “Just as I expected, no coverage.” He folded the phone and stuck it back into his pocket.

“This forest isn’t supposed to be all that large,” Ray lied. “Hell, we may even reach the lake before it gets dark.”

The truth was, nobody knew exactly how big this forest was. No one had ever surveyed the area. All Ray knew about this forest came from the accounts written by the British settlers back in the nineteenth century, and they all talked about huge stretches of forest that took days to ride through. Of course, he couldn’t tell Brian this. He just hoped Chris kept his mouth shut.

“You think we’ll get to the lake by nightfall?” Brian asked.

“It’s possible.”

Brian sighed. “Christ, this treasure better be worth it.”

“It will be,” Ray said. “It will be.”

They continued walking. As they wound through the maze of trees, it seemed to Ray that the deeper in they went, the more drained of life the trees appeared to be, their bark pale and withered. Compared with these, the trees on the edge of the forest were bursting with life.

Creepy forest, Ray thought. Chris was right—there is a bad feeling in here. But I have to do this; I have to get that amulet.

His mind turned again to his wife and kids; in particular Gemma and how she had looked when he left home yesterday morning—pale and sad. He thought about what was supposed to be lying at the bottom of the lake; how, if the legends were true, it could be her salvation. It would be the treasure of all treasures.

It could also be all bullshit and then this trip would be for nothing.

Chris seemed to think the stories about why the forest was cursed and, more importantly, about the girl and the treasure she had taken with her to her watery grave were true.

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.”

Once Chris had finished, a heavy silence fell over the group. Ray realised then just how quiet the forest was—there were no birds calling, no wind blowing.

He then heard a sound rolling around the forest. It was faint, almost like wind whistling through the leaves, but...different.

It almost sounded like someone was crying, but it was an all-encompassing sound. It was as if all the trees in the forest were weeping. The crying sounded like a girl; it sounded a lot like...

Gemma?

No, he knew that wasn’t possible.

The sound had to be in his mind.

“So this treasure that’s supposed to be in the lake, the girl had it because…?”

This one Ray made sure he answered. He heard Chris draw breath, but before Chris could utter a word, Ray said, “She stole it from some settlers. The three men who murdered her didn’t know she had it, or else they would’ve taken it from her before dumping her body. Lucky for us they didn’t, huh?”

“Yeah, lucky,” Brian said, sounding suspicious, and also out of breath.

Strange, Ray thought.

He felt out of breath, too.

And Chris had sounded short of breath while recounting the story.

Perhaps there was something wrong with the air in the forest after all.

Makes sense, Ray thought. Take a look around; there is obviously something wrong with this forest—and if it isn’t the soil, then it has to be the air.

I just hope it’s not toxic.

“Come on, we’d better get going,” Ray said, and as they continued through the dead forest, their footsteps silent on the soot-like forest floor, that sound, like a ghost’s cry, seemed to grow louder in Ray’s head.

* * *

At the lake, Ginnumarra and her family had eaten some of the tiger that Dad had caught the previous day, and drank from the water container. Moodoo went swimming while Mum looked after Grandma, who looked exhausted. Truganini sat and stared at the lake, not speaking. Dad sat on a nearby rock, spear in one hand, looking out at the forest.

Ginnumarra was sitting by the edge of the lake, feet in the water, lazily wondering about her friends and extended family, if they had gotten away safely, when the sound of horses shocked her to her feet. She turned around and saw Dad standing, spear raised and ready for attack.

From out of the forest came three horses, and sitting on top were three ghosts.

The three white men stopped and pointed their guns at Dad.

Dad drew back his spear. Three shots rang out.

Grandma screamed, Mum shrieked, Moodoo remained in the shallow part of the lake, crying, Truganini sat staring, as Dad was hurtled backwards, landing on the ground, spear falling nearby.

The white men dismounted their horses, still with their guns pointing at Dad, who was groaning.

“Nicholas, grab that older girl, Bill, deal with the old lady and the woman.”

The two ghosts nodded and took off, while the man who had given the orders stayed with Dad.

Ginnumarra noticed that one of Dad’s shoulders was red, as was the hand clutching at the wound.

As one of the white men grabbed Truganini, who barely put up a struggle, the other one stopped by Grandma and Mum. He casually raised his gun, aimed it at Grandma’s head and fired.

Her head exploded and she went down like a strong gust of wind had knocked her backwards.

Mum screamed, but her scream was silenced when the white man smacked her across the face with the end of his rifle. She dropped to the ground.

“No,” Dad whimpered.

Ginnumarra remained standing by the lake; behind her Moodoo had stopped crying.

She watched as one of the ghosts carried Truganini over to one of the horses. There he grabbed a thick loop of rope and began tying her up.

“You’ll make a nice love slave, my dear,” the white man said and laughed.

“Don’t move,” one of the ghosts said as he stepped towards Ginnumarra. She didn’t want to be taken by these white men, so she picked up a stone and hurled it at the man’s head.

She didn’t wait to see if the stone hit. She turned and started running.

“Grab her, Nicholas!” the man by Dad screamed.

Ginnumarra ran hard through the forest, but she didn’t get far.

A great weight was soon on her and it drove her face-first into the forest floor of small stones and leaves and twigs. Pain flashed through her skull, then bright lights, and then she fell unconscious.

* * *

“Guys, I need to take five,” Ray said. “Have to catch my breath.”

It was just over an hour since the incident with the lighter, although it felt like they had been walking for at least three times that long.

“You feeling okay?” Brian asked.

Ray bent over at the waist, braced his hands on his legs, and sucked in the thin air. “I’ll be fine. But I think there’s something wrong with the air in here.”

Once he had drawn enough air into his lungs, Ray straightened and turned towards Brian. His gut went icy cold. “Brian?”

“Of course. Who else do you think it is?”

“But...but you...”

Ray wanted to say ...look about twenty years older, but he didn’t have the breath to finish the sentence.

He figured it had to be a trick of the light. It was, after all, gloomy in the forest, even though it was only around three o’clock in the afternoon.

Yes, that’s all it was. The shadows were making Brian look older than he was. Or perhaps it was the strain of all this walking causing a temporary meltdown in Ray’s brain. Or a combination of the two.

“But I what?” Brian said.

Ray shook his head. “Nothing.”

Brian frowned. He took a few steps towards Ray. “Ray?” he said, voice low and shaky.

Up close Ray saw that it was no trick of the shadows. It wasn’t simply a case of exhaustion altering his perception: Brian had definitely aged. His face was wrinkled and his once reddish-brown hair was dusted with grey, like someone had sprinkled ash over his head.

“Ugh,” Ray breathed.

Looking equally as shocked as Ray, Brian dropped the gym bag. The bag dropped to the forest floor with a dull thwamp. A cloud of dark grey dust rose into the air. Eyes wide, he took a few more steps towards Ray. “Jesus Christ, man...you...you look like your old man!”

Ray’s father had always been old. Even when Ray was ten and his father only thirty, Charles Lambert had looked more like a grandfather than a father: hair almost completely grey; face hard with lines; lips thin; eyes hollow. By the time Charles dropped dead of a heart attack at forty-five, he looked like something out of a Romero movie.

“Brian, what’s going on?” Nathan said.

“Be quiet,” Brian said.

“But Brian…”

“Shut up I said!” Brian shouted, then he doubled over in a fit of coughing. His coughing was deep and hard; it sounded like he was trying to expel a demon lodged deep inside his gut. He coughed so hard he vomited, but what came out wasn’t a horned beast but black phlegm.

Nathan, looking forty years old, sobbed, “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell’s going on?” He dropped the Esky and then threw off his pack.

Still in mild shock, Ray turned to Chris. Chris now had streaks of white through his once jet-black hair and his eyes were dark and heavy with fear. “What the hell’s going on?”

Chris opened his mouth to speak, but instead he exhaled a breath and cast his gaze to the black earth.

“If you know something, spill it,” Brian said.

Chris whispered, “I don’t know for sure, but I think...”

“Yeah?”

“I think...it’s this forest. It’s making us older.”

There was silence. Then:

“Bullshit,” Brian said. “Bullfuckingshit. How can a forest…?” He left the sentence hanging in the dead forest air.

“It’s Ginnumarra,” Chris said. “Can’t you hear her?”

“All I can hear is a load of bull,” Brian said. “There has to be a logical explanation for all this. Maybe the air is fucked in here; maybe it’s got something to do with the imbalance of oxygen and carbon diwhatsis.”

“I don’t wanna die,” Nathan cried. Jerky sobs rattled his skinny body.

“We’re not going to...die,” Ray said, voice breaking. He dropped the rope—keeping a hold of Chris no longer seemed all that important. “But we do have to decide what we’re going to do.”

“We should get the fuck outta here,” Brian said. “Like we should have done earlier.”

Ray’s body tensed. He shook his head. “No, we can’t leave.”

Brian cackled. “Why not? Because of the treasure? Well fuck that shit. I’m leaving before anything else happens.”

“I wouldn’t,” Chris said.

All three men looked at Chris.

“Why not?” Brian said.

“You don’t know what could happen.”

“What do you mean?” Ray said.

Chris swallowed. “We’ve all aged around twenty years since entering this forest. So if walking forward through this forest has aged us, there’s no telling what will happen if we turn around and head back.”

“It’d probably be reversed,” Brian said.

“Yeah, reversed,” Nathan echoed, wiping his snotty nose with the back of his hand.

Chris shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t think Ginnumarra would’ve made it that simple.”

“I say we head the fuck back,” Brian said. “No treasure is worth this.”

Ray could see it all slipping away; all his time, research, and most importantly, his hope. And all because of what...a cursed forest?

Damn it!

“I have to get out of here!” Nathan cried and started running.

“Nathan!” Brian shouted.

Brian started after his brother, but Ray managed to grab a hold of him. Brian struggled fiercely, but Ray had always been the stronger of the two.

“Let me go,” Brian growled.

“We don’t know what will happen,” Ray said. “Best to just let him go.”

“But he’s my brother!”

Ray hated keeping Brian captive; felt like a bastard for doing so. But he had to do it.

“Ray, if anything happens to...”

Nathan barely made it ten metres when it happened.

His hair started growing at an alarming rate. What just seconds ago had been moderately short and messy with silver sprinkled through, now sprouted into long flowing whiteness that first reached his shoulders, then moments later his back; then, just as it reached his backside his hair started breaking away.

Screaming, Nathan raised his arms, presumably in an attempt to stop his hair from falling out. Ray saw that his hands were now bone, with bits of skin flapping off the skeletal remains.

Nathan’s running slowed to a jog, which soon became a lumber as his body started to shrink and curve.

Finally, his back hunched and all sorts of strange noises burbling from his body, he dropped to the forest floor, as dead as the trees that surrounded them.

“No,” Brian whispered after a tense silence.

Ray turned to his friend.

Brian blinked tears from his eyes; his chin trembled.

Without warning, Brian broke free from Ray’s hold.

“Brian!” Ray cried and managed to tackle Brian to the ground before his friend got too far.

“Get off me!” Brian screamed. “Nathan needs my help!”

“Nathan’s dead, there’s nothing you can do,” Ray panted, fighting hard to keep Brian under control.

“Let me up! I have to go to Nathan!”

“You’ll end up the same way if you go over to him.”

“I don’t care!”

“Yes, you do,” Ray said. “Think of Claire; she needs you. I need you.”

He had never said such a thing to another man before.

Brian stopped struggling.

“So you cool?” Ray said.

Brian nodded.

Ray let go and stood up.

Brian got to his feet, brushing dirt off his jeans and shirt.

“I’m sorry about Nathan,” Ray said.

Brian looked over at his brother’s corpse: a skeleton wrapped in Nathan’s clothing.

“Brian?” Ray said, softly. “Hey, mate, you okay?”

Brian’s face started twitching, like a million tiny bugs were scurrying just under his skin. Finally his face split and he screamed an almighty scream. In any other place, the sound would’ve reverberated for miles. But in Dead Tree Forest, the scream that spewed from Brian’s throat—loud and raw—stopped the moment it left his mouth, like an invisible wall had stunted the scream.

But the emotion that brought forth the scream wasn’t stunted; Brian’s rage was unleashed in full force.

He picked up a branch lying on the ground nearby and, still screaming, started hitting the branch against any trees within reach. Yelling, tears flying off his cheeks, he slammed the branch against tree after tree, disintegrating both the branch and the trunk with each violent hit.

After a few minutes of stomping through the woods, Brian threw away what little there was left of the dead branch and then he fell back against one of the trees and, choking back tears, slid down the trunk until his arse met the ground.

Then he put his head between his legs and remained locked in that position.

Ray breathed in deep; winced as some of the blackened soil was sucked down his throat. It tasted like old musty books, coupled with ash.

He turned to Chris. “I think we should stay here for the night. Will you help me set up the tents?”

Chris nodded. He raised his arms. “Though it’s going to be difficult with my hands tied.”

Ray knew there was no point in keeping Chris bound. They were all trapped in this forest. “Okay,” Ray said and he stepped forward and started untying the rope.

* * *

Nights in the mountains were cold enough; but without any heating, it was like they were covered by a sheet of ice.

Ray was lying in his one-man tent, nestled in his sleeping bag, staring up at the shadows of the slanting tent roof. His belly was still rumbling—the can of cold baked beans had done little more than give him gas—but the beers had been good, comforting.

It had taken them a while to set up the tents. Because of the strange chalky soil, it was a bitch to keep the pegs imbedded in the ground—they just kept pulling out. It was like trying to stand a needle up in a pile of dust.

They eventually got the tents to remain upright by using branches and stones to anchor the pegs—although Ray half-expected the tents to come crashing down in the middle of the night, smothering them.

Brian had stayed sitting against the tree, head between his legs, while Ray and Chris erected the three tents. He only moved from his spot to gobble down his bowl of baked beans. He had refused a doughnut for dessert, instead taking a can of VB and shuffling back over to the tree, where he had sat, silent, drinking, while the gloomy evening turned to pitch-black night.

Along with the darkness came the bitter cold.

The forest had already been chilly, but the moment the light left the sky, it was like they had been locked inside a meat locker.

After eating and drinking, Ray had retired to his tent, taking with him all his shirts, jumper and woollen jacket he had brought with him, and together with his sleeping bag, tried as best he could to get warm.

Chris elected to stay outside. Why, Ray didn’t know. There was no bon-fire to sit around and toast marshmallows; just the black night and the bone-crunching cold.

Brian had still been sitting against the tree when Ray headed into his tent; but he had heard rustling in the next tent down a short time ago, so Ray figured Brian had decided to slink in and try and get warm.

Poor bastard, Ray thought. Seeing his brother die like that...

The two Gleeson brothers had been close, in a strange sort of way. Even though they had constantly bickered, even though both had all the emotional warmth of a lead pencil, Ray knew how much Brian cared for his younger brother.

They had grown up in a tough environment, not dissimilar to Ray’s upbringing: rotten, abusive father, and caring but weak-willed mother. When Brian left home in his late teens, unable to deal with his father any longer (the two had often fought, but when Brian knocked his old man unconscious one night after walking into the house to find his old man beating on seven-year-old Nathan, that had been the final straw: Brian had sent a stinging left hook at his father’s face, which not only broke his dad’s cheek, but also his mum’s collection of Franklin Mint plates), Brian had wanted Nathan to come with him. But their mother was adamant that he stay, that he was simply too young, too sweet, and too naive to be out there on his own.

So Brian had left, leaving his younger brother behind. Then one night, six years later, there was a knock at Brian’s door and there was Nathan, carrying a suitcase and two black eyes.

Ray had been there the night Nathan arrived at Brian’s house; they had been close to blind drunk. That was only a short time before he got pinched for rape and assault and was thrown in the clink for seven long years.

He had been out only a month, and now here he was again, trapped in a place he couldn’t escape from.

He tried to get his head around what was going on, but it didn’t bend that far.

It was too unreal to believe.

A curse. A fucking curse.

After everything he had read about Dead Tree in books and on the internet (which amounted to precious little, just speculation about where it was—the majority thought it didn’t even exist—and whether or not the curse was real), after everything Sammy had told him, he never once believed it to be true.

Sure, he believed a young Aboriginal girl was killed and thrown in a lake a long time ago. He believed (hoped) the stories about what she had with her were also true. But as far as there being a curse—he filed that under B for bullshit.

I guess I can now file it under F for fucking real.

Ray drew an arm out from the cosiness of the sleeping bag and raised his hand in front of his face.

The wrinkles weren’t pronounced, the liver spots more like shadows, but there was no denying it—his body had aged rapidly in just one day.

Christ, Ray thought and he had just sunk his arm back into the warmth of the sleeping bag when he heard singing coming from outside. It was soft, almost a whisper.

Ray unzipped the sleeping bag, kicked himself free and grabbing the Eveready Dolphin, unzipped the tent flap and crawled outside.

The cold seized him like a swift kick to the groin: sudden and painful.

He got to his feet and in the harsh glow of the torchlight, saw Chris sitting cross-legged on the ground a few metres away. He was drawing in the dirt with an index finger while singing gently in some foreign language. “What are you doing?” Ray said, his breath a puff of white fog. “It’s freezing out here.”

“Asking Ginnumarra for forgiveness,” Chris replied. “Pleading with her to lift the curse and save the rest of us from death.”

With a sigh, Ray stepped over to Chris. “What the hell’s going on? What exactly is this curse?”

Chris turned his eyes upwards. They were heavy with fear. “The same force that sucked the life out of this forest is sucking the life out of us.”

Ray swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know the exact nature of the curse. People speculated, but no one knew for sure. I’ve been listening to the spirits, trying to understand. Now, I do. Or at least, I think I do. The curse—or I should say Ginnumarra—is sucking the life from our bodies. The deeper we go into the forest, the more our life is drained from us and the older we get, until we eventually become the forest.”

“You mean until we eventually become like the forest.”

Chris shook his head. “Become the forest.” He motioned with his head towards Nathan’s body.

Ray aimed the torchlight at Nathan’s corpse.

Or at least, where Nathan’s corpse had been.

There was no longer a body, just a pile of clothes on the ground.

Ray took a few moments to digest what he was seeing. “Jesus,” he whispered, and a hundred icy spiders scurried up and down his back.

He spun the light back to Chris. “Why is this happening?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but maybe it’s Ginnumarra’s way of trying to resurrect herself. Maybe she figures that by feeding on life she can be reborn. Perhaps that was the real reason for the curse. I thought it was for revenge, but maybe I was wrong.”

“You think you can stop the curse?”

“Her power is strong. I don’t hold much hope.”

Ray’s shoulders slumped. He thought of Gemma. “Shit,” he muttered. He gazed at Chris, at the man he had helped kidnap. A man now looking older than his years. He was shivering and his breath fogged in quick bursts.

“You’re freezing,” Ray said.

Chris shrugged.

“You know you can use the other tent. I put all of Nathan’s gear inside; you’re welcome to use it.”

Chris nodded.

Silence fell between them. “Look, I’m sure you hate us for what we’ve done,” Ray finally said. “And...well, shit, you gotta understand why I did what I did.” Ray took a deep breath, and it felt like ice cubes were rolling down his throat and into his lungs. “My youngest girl, Gemma, she has leukaemia. I only found out about a month ago. My wife found out a month before that, but she didn’t tell me, because...well, she didn’t think it’d do me any good. I couldn’t have done anything anyway, that’s what she said.”

“Because you were in jail?”

Ray, hugging himself against the cold, nodded. Then he frowned. “How’d you know?”

Chris shrugged. “Just a hunch. What were you in for?”

“Rape and assault with a deadly weapon. I was paroled from Barwon after seven years, for good behaviour. Anyway, my wife told me the night I was released from prison. My little girl’s got cancer. Fuck. They were doing all they could, the drugs and all that, but it wasn’t helping. I first heard about Dead Tree Forest from Sammy, an Aborigine doing time for manslaughter. I thought it was all mumbo-jumbo at the time, but when I got out of the joint and learnt of Gemma’s illness, the part about what supposedly lay at the bottom of the lake started playing on my mind, and it soon grew into an obsession. I read all I could about the legend, and every book and internet site mentioned the healing amulet that the girl supposedly had with her when she was thrown into the lake. I was desperate. I was sure it was all bogus, I thought I would never even find the forest, let alone the lake. But, I had to try. So that’s why I came down here. I knew I could never find this forest by myself, so I figured I would need a local, an Aborigine, to help me. But, knowing what I did about the legend, I knew no Aborigine would willingly travel to Dead Tree, which is why we...well, you know...”

Ray stopped talking. He wiped his runny nose, followed by his eyes.

The forest around them was still. It was like some ash-covered post-apocalyptic land where nothing had survived.

“I see,” Chris said. “I knew there was something about you; I could tell you weren’t doing this simply for greed. Your friends, you never told them the real reason for the trip, did you?”

Ray sighed. “No.” He glanced back at Brian’s tent. “Brian still doesn’t know,” he said, turning back around. “He still thinks there’s real treasure at the bottom of the lake.”

“Will you tell him?”

“I guess. Tomorrow maybe. I dunno. We’ll see.”

“So you’re still trying for the lake?”

“I have to.”

“I understand.”

“So you think there’s any way to stop this curse? Any way to reverse it?”

Chris stared long and hard at the dark ground in front of him. “I’ll try.”

Ray nodded. “Well, I’m going back to my tent before my nuts turn to ice.”

He turned away.

“Ray?”

Ray swivelled back around. “Hmmm?”

“You hear her cries, don’t you?”

Ray frowned. “Huh?”

“Ginnumarra. You can hear her in the forest. It’s probably faint for you, but you can hear her, am I right?”

“I can’t hear anything,” Ray said, and that was the truth—the forest was silent.

“Yes, Ginnumarra has stopped for the night. But you heard her today, I know you did. Don’t be afraid, her screams might help to guide you.”

With a nod, Ray stepped back over to his tent.

* * *

With Ray back in his tent, the world was once again blacker than the devil’s soul. But that was okay. Chris didn’t need light. All he needed was his ears and the light that was in his head.

Ginnumarra was silent, and that was understandable. She knew they weren’t moving tonight, there was no need to call to them. But other voices were in fine tune tonight, ones only he could hear.

Chris had never believed in the old beliefs of his people. He knew about his people’s history, knew how to do Corroboree, knew about Dreamtime. But he was ultimately a pragmatist, a non-believer. He worked hard to provide for his family; he liked drinking beer, watching the footy, and spending time with his wife and daughter. That was about the extent of his life. It wasn’t anything special—but he was content with that.

But he couldn’t ignore the voices he was hearing now. He accepted that Ginnumarra was trying to communicate with them, but he hadn’t readily accepted that his ancestors, all of whom were long dead, were also speaking to him.

Chris knew he was a descendant of the Big River Tribe, but other than a brief history lesson from older family members, he had never given the matter much thought.

But he couldn’t deny it—his ancestors were talking to him. And sitting here in the pitch-black forest, unable to see his hand in front of his face, he saw and heard more clearly than he ever had in his life.

He sang with them.

He asked them questions.

He prayed to the restless spirit of Ginnumarra for forgiveness.

He saw past events as clearly as if he was watching them on the TV, visions that both shocked and saddened him.

He was certain he would find the answers to the questions he sought; he knew that the man who had orchestrated this whole ordeal, the man who had kidnapped him and abused him, was the one to bring salvation.

Chris was surprised to learn this, but he knew not to question the spirits.

He was just sorry his wife and daughter would never know his newfound connection with the spirits.

Or maybe somehow, someday, they will.

Despite the bitter cold, Chris continued to sing with the spirits.

* * *

When Ray stepped out of the tent and into the gloomy morning light, he saw that Brian was already up.

He was standing beside a mound of soil that had a long thin branch standing askew in the middle. He was gazing over at what was left of his brother.

Feeling sleepy and achy, Ray strolled over to him.

“Take a look at that,” Brian said, voice hoarse. “Take a look at what’s left of my baby brother.”

“I know,” Ray said. “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“Chris reckons the forest, the curse, whatever, sucked him into the earth.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?”

“Well fuck this forest and fuck the curse.” Brian spat a clump of black phlegm to the ground.

“So what did you bury?” Ray asked.

Brian offered a sad smile. He still looked as old as yesterday—maybe even older. “My Bic. Stupid, I know, but that’s all I could think to put in there. I couldn’t go back and get his clothes, so the lighter seemed the next best thing. Stupid kid liked my Bic.” Brian shook his head. “Stupid kid.” His eyes glistened.

“Chris still in bed?” Ray said, scanning the forest.

“I guess so. Shit man, why’d you let an Abo sleep in Nathan’s tent, with Nathan’s sleeping bag? It’s an insult to my brother’s name.”

“Relax,” Ray said. “No harm, no foul. It was like an Antarctic winter last night. I told him he could use the tent and bag.”

Brian sneered. “He could fuckin’ freeze for all I care.” He wandered over to the tents. “Oi, Abo, wakey wakey.”

Ray winced. “Keep it down, man. I got about two minutes sleep last night. I got a bitch of a headache and I need coffee something shocking.”

Brian glanced over his shoulder. “Fuck your headache, man. Think I don’t have one?” He turned back, slapped at the folds of the tent. “Hey, get the fuck outta there.”

“Let him sleep,” Ray said.

“You going all soft on the Abo?” Brian said. “Shit, let’s all bow down and kiss his dirty nigger feet while we’re at it. Let the master sleep in till noon and then we’ll cook him some eggs and bacon and brew him a nice pot of...”

“Knock it off,” Ray said.

With a shake of his head, Brian unzipped the tent and stuck in his head. He ducked back out moments later. “He ain’t in there,” Brian said, getting to his feet.

Ray frowned. “Whaddya mean he’s not in there?”

“I mean he ain’t in the fuckin’ tent.”

“But...” Ray scanned the surrounding forest.

“Dumb fuck probably tried to escape. You shouldn’t have untied him. He’s probably lying dead out there somewhere.”

Ray almost said, He wouldn’t do that, but he kept quiet.

Maybe Chris had taken off in the middle of the night. Figured trying his luck in the forest was better than staying with Brian and Ray.

“Now you’ll never get to the lake,” Brian said.

Ray was just about to tell Brian to shut the hell up, when a figure came strolling out of the woods behind the tents.

“Morning gentlemen,” Chris said.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Brian said. “Off taking a dump?”

Chris ignored Brian and turned his tired eyes to Ray. “So, what’s going on? What are our plans?”

“Wait a minute,” Brian said. “Nathan’s sleeping bag was still rolled up, it hadn’t been slept in. So where the fuck did you sleep last night?”

Chris turned and pointed the way he had come.

“You slept in the forest?” Ray said.

Chris nodded.

“But it was freezing last night.”

“I know. But I had a lot of catching up to do with my ancestors. It was okay, they kept me warm.”

“What are you talking about?” Brian huffed.

“Can we talk about this later?” Ray said. “I want to try and get to the lake today. So let’s start dismantling the tents.”

“Get moving?” Brian laughed. “What’s the point? We can’t go forward, or we’ll die; we can’t go back, or we’ll die even quicker.”

“We have to go on,” Ray said. “We have to get the treasure.”

“Treasure!” Brian cried. “What the fuck good is treasure if we’re dead?”

“We have to at least try,” Ray said.

“What for?” Brian said. “What the hell does it matter? Say you do manage to get to the lake and somehow retrieve the treasure, then what? You won’t be able to make it out of the forest alive to make use of it anyway. Nah, I say fuck it. Let’s just stay here, drink what’s left of the beer and wait to die.”

Ray spun around and shot Brian a piercing stare. “That’s not an option. I need at least one other person with me to locate and bring up the treasure. I’ll take Chris with me if I have to, but I’d rather it be you.”

“Why do you care so much about the damn treasure?” Brian said. “Sure it would’ve been nice to be rich, but that ain’t gonna happen now.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “All thanks to you, you dumb fucking Abo bitch! Thanks a lot for fucking us over for something we didn’t even do! We didn’t fucking kill you!” The shouting caused Brian to cough violently.

When he was finished, red bile dripped from his lips.

Jesus, Ray thought. Brian’s dying right before our eyes.

“What makes you think you would have gotten rich?” Chris remarked, and then, remembering, closed his eyes and shook his head.

Thanks a lot, Ray thought, glaring at Chris.

“What do you mean?” Brian said. To Ray: “What the fuck does he mean?”

Ray sighed. What did it matter now anyway? He would have to tell Brian eventually. Ray looked at Brian. Blood smeared his mouth. “I’ve been lying to you. There is no treasure; well, not the gold or diamonds type, anyway.”

Brian’s one real eye, dark and heavily wrinkled, squinted. “No treasure? You mean you brought me and Nathan out here for nothing? Nathan died for nothing? We’re all going to die for nothing?”

Ray had seen that look and heard that tone many times in Brian; it was always right before he exploded with a flurry of fists and kicks. But that kind of anger had always been directed at other people.

“You fuckin’ lied to us?” growled Brian.

“I had to lie,” Ray said. “You guys wouldn’t have come otherwise. But this treasure is important, more important than diamonds or gold. It could save Gemma’s life. You see, what’s lying at the bottom of the lake is, hopefully, a healing amulet.”

Brian’s nostrils flared; he looked like an old bull about to charge. “Healing amulet? What the fuck’s a healing amulet?”

“According to the legends, the girl had been wearing an amulet when she was thrown into the lake; some stone that’s supposed to contain incredible healing powers. Supposedly it can cure anything from a cold to a terminal disease. Isn’t that right?” he asked Chris.

Chris, eyes now open, nodded. “It was given to Ginnumarra by the local medicine man—apparently she was inflicted with some disease. Her people thought it was the spirit of a demon, so the medicine man gave her the amulet to rid her of the evil spirit.”

“I thought if I could get it, I might be able to save Gemma,” Ray finished, holding Brian’s gaze.

Some of Brian’s aggression had seeped away. “Nathan died because of some rock?” He shook his head. “Christ.”

“Well according to…”

“According to who?” Brian spat. “According to Sammy? According to this fuckin’ Abo? According to the internet? Fuck Ray, if you really believe some rock can cure Gemma’s cancer, then you’re dumber than Nathan ever was.”

“This is why I didn’t tell you,” Ray said. “I knew you would think it was all a load of shit. Well maybe it is, but I had to come and see for myself. I have to do everything I can to save my daughter, and if that means trekking through this godforsaken wilderness only to find there is no amulet, or that the amulet doesn’t have magical powers, then so be it. At least I tried.”

“Well fat lot of good it does you. Now you won’t get to spend what little time you had left with your daughter; you’ll be too busy lying dead in here.”

It was a cold, harsh thing for Brian to say; but it was the truth.

As much as Ray didn’t want to admit it, now it was out in the open, the fact that he would never see his family again hit him hard.

Ray had never cried in front of anyone before; not his wife, nor his kids; certainly not in front of any man. But he couldn’t help it this time.

He dropped to his knees, buried his head in his withered hands and wept.

He wept softly at first, but soon his crying snowballed into a ferocious outpouring of grief, grief that had been pent up inside him like a tightly coiled spring.

It was all his fault. Both Sammy and Chris had told him about the curse of Dead Tree Forest. Both had warned him not to go—told him it was a haunted place. But he ignored them and went anyway, and now he would never see Sharon, Tabby, Shaun and Gemma ever again. His youngest daughter was going to die without her daddy, wondering why he had abandoned her when she needed him the most. His whole family would think him a coward, someone who couldn’t take the pain of seeing one of his children succumb to the devil cancer, and so had left and never returned.

Ray cried long and hard. He only stopped when Chris said: “There might be a way of stopping the curse.”

Ray choked back the tears, wiped his face and gaped up at Chris. “How?”

Chris swallowed, winced and then licked his arid lips.

“Brian, get Chris a beer.”

Brian, who was standing closest to the Esky, said, “Fuck wastin’ a beer on this Abo.”

“Get him a fuckin’ beer,” Ray growled and with a deep sigh, Brian stepped over to the Esky, pulled off the lid and took out a can of beer. He walked over to Chris. “Here, enjoy,” Brian said and thrust the beer into Chris’s hand.

Chris popped open the can and took a long drink. He smiled thinly. “Much better.”

Ray struggled to his feet. “So, what’s the deal?” he said, eager to hear what Chris had to say.

“Well, as I said, I was speaking with my ancestors last night. And they reminded me of an old burial rite. It’s a tradition with Aboriginal tribes that when someone dies, their soul has to be given the proper send off. One way is to place the body inside a hollow tree or log, stand the log upright and then that person’s soul is able to ascend to heaven and be at peace. It’s called tree between heaven and earth. It’s better than trapping a soul inside a box in some hole in the ground, as the person’s spirit is able to roam free and visit loved ones to say their final goodbyes before moving on from this world.”

“What has that got to do with lifting the curse?” Ray asked.

“Maybe nothing,” Chris said. “But Ginnumarra wasn’t given a proper burial; her soul wasn’t able to move on from this world. She’s stuck between worlds. That’s why she’s able to curse this forest. But if she was given a proper send off, maybe that would lift the curse.”

Brian huffed and mumbled, “Fuckin’ Abo mumbo-jumbo.”

“You think that would work?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s worth a try.” He took another gulp of beer.

“We’re never gonna make it to the lake,” Brian said. “So what’s the point in speculating about the proper send off and all of that shit?”

Ray turned and glared at Brian. “The point is we may as well try. I have to try and get that amulet and get it back to Gemma. I don’t give a shit if you think this is all bull, but saving Gemma isn’t. So are you with me or not? I’ll leave you here to rot if I have to—all that matters to me is Gemma.” Out of breath and feeling giddy, Ray closed his eyes and drew in deep breaths.

After a short silence, Brian said, “Okay, I’m with you. Hell, I’ve got nothing better to do, right?”

Ray opened his eyes. He turned to Chris. “You still wanna come? You don’t have to.”

“I’ll come,” Chris said. “I have a little girl, too.”

Ray nodded. “Okay, let’s pack up our shit and get going.”

* * *

Shortly after they set off Ginnumarra started crying.

She had been silent all night, and so far all morning. But now, not long into what was sure to be their final journey, her ghostly voice began weeping and wailing, floating through the trees like a haunted breeze.

Chris, Esky heavy in his hand, listened, and soon tears started creeping down his wrinkled cheeks.

Hopefully we can put an end to your suffering.

As he trudged along, he glanced at the two men who only two nights ago had knocked him unconscious and then kidnapped him. Brian was walking with plodding steps and was breathing heavily; Ray, however, walked with purpose. His steps were still heavy, the rucksack on his back looked like it weighed about a thousand pounds, but his strong determination was keeping him going. Also, it appeared that he too was hearing Ginnumarra. He occasionally glanced up at the tree tops, eyes pooled with a mixture of fear and awe.

The three of them walked in silence for close to an hour. Then, like the dying of the wind, the crying started to fade before stopping altogether.

Chris and Ray stopped walking.

It took Brian a few steps before he noticed that both of his companions were no longer moving. He turned around. The wrinkles on his face were deeper, his hair now almost completely grey. “What is it?” he breathed.

“She’s stopped,” Ray said.

“Who has?”

“The crying, Ginnumarra.”

Ray faced Chris. His deep-set eyes were creased with worry. “What does it mean?”

Chris set down the Esky. “I think it means we’re heading in the wrong direction.”

“Wrong direction? What the hell are you two talking about?”

Brian even sounded older; his voice was weak, rusty, like someone who had been smoking for sixty years or more.

“I know you don’t hear her, but Ginnumarra’s been crying ever since we entered this forest.”

Chris noticed that his own voice sounded like his seventy-year-old uncle.

“Crying? You’re fuckin’ nuts.”

“He’s right,” Ray said. “I’ve heard it too.”

Brian huffed. “You’re serious?”

Ray nodded. “I guess I didn’t want to believe it, but I can’t ignore it. Her spirit is definitely here.”

“She’s been guiding us,” Chris said. “She wants us to find the lake. But we’ve gotten off course, so she’s stopped.”

“So what do we do?” Ray asked. “We can’t go back; we’d die within thirty seconds if we did that.”

“We try and get back on the right path. We were walking in the right direction for a while, but then we either veered left or right.” Chris turned around and gazed at the endless rows of dead trees. The forest looked the same no matter which way he turned. He sighed. “The problem is, I don’t remember; I was just concentrating on walking. Do either of you remember?”

Ray shook his head.

“Brian?”

Brian chuckled. “Great, so now we’re following a ghost through a fuckin’ dead forest? Perfect.”

“I guess that’s a no,” Ray said.

“I think the best thing to do is for you and Brian to head one way, and I’ll head in the other. Hopefully one of us will hear Ginnumarra’s voice again. Whoever does, stop and call out to the other. Sound like a plan?”

Ray nodded. “Me and Brian will head to the left, you go right?”

“Hey, I ain’t letting the Abo go off with the Esky. It’s still got some food and drink in it.”

“Never mind that,” Ray said. “Come on.”

“No, fuck that. Give the Abo the gym bag.”

“Chris,” Ray said. “His name is Chris.”

“Fine. Give me the Esky, and you take the gym bag...Chris.”

Chris thought: You fucking racist shit, as if I’d want to take any of your rotten beers and junk food. But he nodded, walked the short distance to Ray and dropped the Esky in front of him. Ray, looking old, handed Chris the bag. It was heavy and cumbersome.

“You happy now?” Ray said, picking up the Esky.

“Peachy,” Brian said, giving Chris the evil eye.

“Okay, let’s go. See you soon—hopefully.”

Chris watched as the two men started walking forward, but in a leftward direction. Chris also started walking, but headed towards the right. The gym bag was more awkward and heavier than the Esky.

Arsehole, he thought, but soon all thoughts about Brian left him and he concentrated on listening out for Ginnumarra.

* * *

“You really hearing some dead Abo’s voice?”

Ray was beginning to wish he was by himself. Brian was starting to get on his nerves. “Yes, I hear her,” Ray sighed as they trudged side-by-side through the woods. “Go on, laugh. I don’t give a shit any more whether you believe me or not. I just want to get to the lake and find the amulet.”

“Hey, doesn’t matter what I think. After all, you lied to me about why you wanted to come here, so why should I believe you about anything else?”

“Fuck man, we back to this? I thought I explained it to you: I needed manpower to help get the treasure, but I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you the truth. You would’ve laughed and told me to get fuckin’ real.”

“You think I’m that shallow? You think all I care about is money? You don’t think I care about Gemma too, and would’ve come if you had told me the truth?”

Ray glanced at Brian, now looking around sixty, maybe even older. His breathing was loud and harsh, his body shorter, more stooped. “You would’ve come even if you thought this whole legend was bogus?”

“Hell yeah. Jesus, it sounded like fun regardless of what lay at the bottom of the lake. The treasure was just the icing, man.”

Ray faced the front. “Well shit. I apologise then.”

“Doesn’t matter now. We’re both gonna die. Shit, I’m gonna miss Claire. What do you think our families will think happened to us?”

“I dunno,” Ray said, voice shaky. “I guess they’ll assume we got lost and froze to death.”

“If only they knew the truth.”

“Yeah,” Ray said, panting, legs feeling weaker with every step.

“Wonder how the Ab...Chris is doing. He wasn’t looking too good back there.”

Neither do you, Ray thought, but then he supposed he wasn’t looking his best either. Without a mirror, he had no idea what he actually looked like.

But maybe it was best he didn’t see himself.

Ray held up the hand that wasn’t holding the Esky; his skin was saggy with wrinkles and dotted with liver spots.

Knowing he was aging rapidly and seeing it happen were two very different beasts.

It was bad enough seeing his best friend aging before his eyes; he didn’t need to witness it happening to himself.

Ray lowered his hand.

Come on Ginnumarra. Where are you?

They walked through the deathly silent forest, their breathing the only sound. Brian’s was the loudest: a wet wheezy noise that made Ray think of a balloon filled with phlegm.

It’s all those damn cigarettes.

But his breathing didn’t sound much better.

Ray wasn’t sure how long they walked for; it felt like hours, but was probably only around twenty minutes. Ray feared they would never find the right path again, that Ginnumarra’s voice was lost forever and they would eventually get too old and collapse to the ground, dead.

And then get sucked into the earth, like Nathan and however many other poor souls had wandered into this forest, whether by chance or curiosity; sucked down into God knows where.

But then Ray’s ears twitched and through the heavy silence he heard the faint sound of a girl crying.

“I think I hear her,” Ray said, and was shocked to hear the old man that spoke.

Breathlessly, Brian said, “’Bout fuckin’ time.”

They trudged along in a straight line and the crying grew louder, like a great howling wind sweeping through the forest.

“We’re on the right track.” Ray stopped. He drew in a deep breath. “Chris!” he shouted. The shout was weak and raspy. “Chris, hey, we’ve found her!” His shouting didn’t echo, and he hoped Chris could hear him, wherever he was.

Out of breath, Ray turned to Brian. “I hope Chris...”

His friend of twenty-two years was on the ground.

Ray dropped the Esky and stepped over to where Brian lay. He shrugged off his rucksack and gritting through the pain in his old joints, knelt on the ground.

Brian was lying on his side, hands clutching at his chest.

Ray gently rolled Brian onto his back.

“Oh Christ,” Ray muttered.
He didn’t know what was more shocking: the frozen expression of pain on Brian’s face, or how old he looked. Age spots and wrinkles coated his saggy face and his whiskers were as white as his hair. His eyes were sunken and lifeless and his teeth, tucked inside his grimacing mouth, were yellow and black. He looked at least eighty.

Ray knew Brian was dead, yet he still went through the motions of shaking Brian’s body and begging him to wake up.

When he didn’t, Ray let out a shaky breath.

No tears flowed; he was either too tired or too drained of life to cry.

At least he went quickly.

Ray closed Brian’s eyes and was in the middle of pulling Brian’s hands from his chest when the body started melting.

Ray let go, struggled to his feet, and watched as Brian’s skin, flesh and bone dissolved. It was like watching fat bubble and melt over a fire, except instead of dripping and turning to liquid, Brian’s body seeped into the earth.

Soon only his jeans, shirt, backpack and glass eye were left.

Ray gazed down at the remnants in disbelief.

He stared at the dead soil for a good length of time, before a cry slapped him out of his daze.

“Ray!”

The voice was distant.

“Ray, Brian!”

“Over here!” Ray shouted.

Before Chris arrived, Ray bent down and picked up Brian’s glass eye. He pocketed Brian’s pride and joy. He didn’t know what he aimed to do with it; maybe give it to Claire, if he made it out of here.

Soon he heard the deep, wet breathing of an old man who had overexerted himself.

Ray turned and faced the man he had helped capture.

Chris’s hair was completely white; his face fleshy and drawn and thick with lines.

Chris stopped in front of Ray and looked around. “Where’s Brian?”

Ray pointed down at all that remained of his best friend.

Chris looked down at the clothes on the ground. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, we have to keep going.”

“Yes, her voice is definitely stronger,” Chris said. “We must be getting close to the lake. But I don’t think I can continue,” he said, looking pale and sleepy. “I’m tired, my back’s sore and, well…” He coughed, wiped his fingers against his lips and held up his hand. His fingers were smeared with blood. “I’m dying.”

“We’re both dying,” Ray said. “Fuck that, you’re coming with me. I need someone to help retrieve the amulet and bury the girl.”

Chris was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. “Just let me sleep for a little bit.”

“No. We have to keep going.”

“You go. You brought me here against my will; the least you can do is let me die with some dignity. You know what to do. Just follow Ginnumarra’s crying and soon you’ll get to the lake.”

“But didn’t you say that once we give the girl a proper burial, then the curse will be lifted? So we’ll be able to walk back through the forest without worry. So come on.”

Ray turned around and zipped open the gym bag. He dug through the junk contained within until he found the only item needed to retrieve the amulet (the other stuff was just props to make the story about buried treasure more believable to Brian and Nathan).

He hung the snorkel around his neck and turned back around. Chris was now sitting on the ground, head bowed.

“You’re not quitting on me now,” Ray said. “Get up.”

“I can’t,” Chris said wearily. “You go. Find the amulet and lift the curse. Once that’s done, I’ll be okay.”

“No, you can make it.”

“I’m too tired.”

Ray turned back to the bag and took out one of the coils of rope. He stepped over to Chris and started binding his wrists together.

“You’re coming with me, no excuses,” Ray said. “I’ll help you walk, okay?”

Chris lifted his head. When he saw what Ray was doing, he smiled thinly. “I see we’re back to this again.”

Once the rope was tied, Ray gripped the loose end and pulled.

With a heavy sigh, Chris got to his feet. “Okay, let’s go, master.”

Ray started walking.

It was hard going; not only did Ray’s weary body protest, but he had to contend with Chris lagging behind. Chris staggered, stumbled, and it wasn’t long before he fell over. Ray stopped and using all his strength, pulled the old man to his feet.

“Come on, just a little longer,” Ray said.

Chris, thick white beard covering his face, deep wrinkles etched into his hard, weathered skin, nodded. Ray turned back around and continued.

Ginnumarra’s crying was loud; so loud it was like her cries were swooping in and out of Ray’s head.

Though he felt like giving up, collapsing to the ground and sleeping; though his ears started ringing and his eyesight started deteriorating; though his joints felt like they were aflame, he ploughed on.

Exhausted to the point of agony, sweat teeming down his face, Ray soon became oblivious to the world around him. All he concentrated on was Ginnumarra’s weeping; he became stuck in a trance-like state—his only thought was getting to the lake.

On and on he lumbered. When Ginnumarra’s crying started fading, Ray thought he had once again gone off track. But then he saw the lake in the distance, and Ginnumarra’s weeping stopped altogether. Though Ray had lost all his hair and he had pains in every one of his muscles, none of these things mattered.

He had made it. He felt a tide of emotion rush through his tired old body.

If he had the energy, he would’ve cried tears of joy.

“We made it,” Ray said, voice sounding ancient. “Fuckin’ hell, we made it!”

Chris didn’t respond.

Ray turned around and saw Chris about three metres away, lying face-down in the black dirt, arms splayed, one leg bent at an odd angle.

Ray dropped the rope and walked the short distance back to Chris, feeling himself aging rapidly as he did.

He turned Chris over; fell backwards at the sight of the raw face, stripped of flesh and grimy with blood and dirt.

His stomach clenched and he puked.

When he was empty, he wiped his mouth and got to his feet.

He wondered: how long had he been dragging the lifeless body behind him like a kid with a rag doll?

Ray shivered and could only think to say, as redundant and empty as it sounded, “I’m sorry, Chris.”

He turned away, not wanting to see the ruined body melt into the earth.

Without looking back, Ray walked the rest of the way to the lake.

* * *

Ginnumarra awoke to a nightmare.

She was sitting against a boulder near the lake, hands tied behind her back, feet bound by rope. Her head hurt, and sticky blood was caked in her hair.

She looked around; saw Truganini sitting atop one of the horses, also tied, face blank, eyes staring at nothing. Next she saw Dad. He was tied to the trunk of one of the trees. He was naked, and Ginnumarra saw, with a rush of nausea, that his penis had been hacked off. Only a purplish-red stump remained. Dark blood sheathed his thighs and legs. He was still breathing, but his breaths were shallow.

Choking back tears, Ginnumarra looked down at her amulet. The brown rock was smudged with dirt, the healing light inside muted. But she could still feel its power—it had helped her fight off the demons when she was ill, and now she was sure it would be able to help Dad, if only she could give it to him. But her hands were tied, so that made it impossible. She looked around for the ghosts. One of them was on top of Mum, pants down at his ankles, hips quaking; the other two were standing around watching, grins on their bloody faces. “That’s it, Bill, give it a good one.” “Make sure that Abo knows her place.”

Not wanting to watch, Ginnumarra turned away, and wondered where Moodoo was. Her little brother had been in the lake when the three white men arrived. She looked over her shoulder at the clear, pristine lake, but couldn’t see any sign of her five-year-old brother.

She wanted to call out for him, but her throat was too tight with fear. She scanned the forest around the lake, but she couldn’t see him.

She heard a loud groan and then the white man hopped off Mum and standing, pulled up his pants and wiped an arm across his mouth. “Not bloody bad, chaps,” he said, and they all laughed.

The three men left Mum. They stepped towards Dad. “Hey Roland, we got time for some target practice?” one of the men said.

The white man who appeared to be in charge nodded. After loading their rifles, all three ghosts took aim and fired at Dad.

His body jerked as bullets smacked into his chest and stomach. One of the bullets hit him in the head and one side of his face caved in.

When the firing stopped and the echoes faded, smoke filled the afternoon air.

Dad leaned forward, as far as the ropes allowed, now very much dead.

Ginnumarra cried out; Truganini started weeping.

“Look chaps, the young girl’s awake.”

“Moodoo,” Ginnumarra shouted. “Moodoo, where are you?”

She struggled against the ropes, desperate to find her brother.

“I think she wants her little brother,” one of the ghosts said.

The three men stopped in front of Ginnumarra. One of them squatted in front of her. She stopped struggling and, breathing deeply, looked at the ghost. She took in his thin face: stubble like black moss covering his bottom half; blood and sweat mingling with the dirt; thin, bloodless lips; and thin, narrow eyes. She spat in that face. The ghost’s face widened with rage and he lashed out and slapped her across the cheek. “Wench,” he growled. “You want to see your brother? Okay, I’ll take you to him.”

The ghost straightened and grabbed Ginnumarra by the arm. She was pulled to her feet and dragged along the ground. She was dragged near to where Mum and Grandma lay and she couldn’t help but notice Grandma’s head and how it was like a blooming flower of blood. Mum was lying naked on the ground, alive, conscious, but badly beaten.

Ginnumarra was taken to a log. Her hair was grabbed and with force, her head was turned to the thing on the log.

It took Ginnumarra a few moments to comprehend what she was seeing. To her, it looked like a tiger or a rabbit that had been gutted.

But then she saw an ear, some jet-black hair, and finally, once her vision completed the scene, the tiny naked body sitting against the log.

Tears blurred Ginnumarra’s eyes; she shook her head. A scream swirled in her belly, rose up through her chest and then exploded out of her mouth.

“NNOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” she screamed, and the scream stripped her throat raw.

“Take a good look at your little brother,” one of the ghosts said over her cry. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see him.”

Ginnumarra closed her eyes, but she could still see Moodoo’s head, covered in blood, with bits of brains and jagged shards of skull exposed; his hands, tiny, clenched, resting on the ground; and his stubby legs jutting out.

She tried not to think about what had happened, but her mind played the scene over and over. In her mind, Ginnumarra saw them take Moodoo out of the lake, him screaming, crying for Mum and Dad. They probably told him everything was going to be okay as they carried him over and sat him against the log. They didn’t bother tying him with ropes: he was so small, so weak, he wouldn’t have posed any problem for these men. They probably said lay your head back and look up at the blue sky. Ginnumarra saw her little brother, tears streaming down his pudgy black face, lay his head back, and then she saw one of the ghosts raise his rifle and…

Ginnumarra was mercifully shocked out of her thoughts when she was pulled away from her brother. She was dragged back over to the lake. Her clothes were ripped away, and then the first ghost mounted her and ripped her open.

After the first had finished, the next hopped on top and grinning, smelling like a dead beast that had spent too long out in the sun, he pumped.

The last was the roughest of all, and Ginnumarra, eyes tightly closed, felt like her whole body was being torn open.

Throughout it all, she tried to block out the laughing, the grunting, the pain; but instead she saw her little brother’s ruined head; Dad hanging forward against the ropes; Mum, body bloody and bruised; and Grandma, lying dead on the ground.

Finally the pain went away, the weight lifted off her body.

Lying dazed, the sun pressing down on her, she heard strange sounds; lots of huffing and puffing, shouts of joy, ecstasy...or maybe it was pain—they all sounded the same to her.

Then a single ear-piercing scream jolted her eyes open and she sat up.

It had been Mum screaming, and sweeping her eyes towards the crowd, Ginnumarra saw the reason for Mum’s earth-shattering scream. Two of the ghosts had a hold of her; the third was standing back, arms folded, a proud expression on his red and white face.

Sitting in Mum’s lap was a head.

Ginnumarra blinked, thought for a moment it was Moodoo’s head; but then she remembered his head had been bashed in. This head, while painted in blood, was intact.

Still half dazed, Ginnumarra turned towards Dad.

She vomited at the sight of her headless father. A red axe lay by his feet.

“Pretty as a picture,” one of the ghosts said.

Mum thrashed about; the head rolled off her lap and onto the ground.

“Okay men, about time we got going. We’ve had our fun. Let’s take the older girl and head on back.”

Though she was dazed, Ginnumarra thought: leave, yes, leave. Go away and never come back.

At least she still had Mum. Yes, Mum was still alive. It would be hard: would they ever get over this? They would just have to try.

Ginnumarra was thinking these thoughts when a single gunshot shattered her world.

Flicking her head, she saw Mum on the ground, lying still.

And then, as two of the ghosts strolled towards their horses, the third strolled towards Ginnumarra.

He raised his rifle.

Ginnumarra sucked in breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited.

Hoped the amulet that old Mandu the medicine man had given her years ago would protect her.

The gun went off with a crack and it felt like fire shooting into her chest.

All air was sucked out of her body as she tumbled backwards.

Water enveloped her.

As she fell through the lake, feeling water enter her lungs, she thought:

I can’t die like this.

Mum, Dad, Grandma, Moodoo—they will be found and given a proper burial; but what about me? I’ll be stuck in this lake. My soul will be trapped…

Those men, they need to be punished…all ghosts need to be punished...

And as she felt her life draining away, she saw a light, then darkness, then red…

* * *

The closer Ray got to the lake, the more the blurry mess of colour grew clearer, until finally the lake and its surrounds snapped into focus.

The lake was brimming with life. Scores of green bushy trees and striking plants blooming orange, red and yellow sprouted out of the muddy water.

Seeing such life in the midst of death was beautiful, invigorating.

It almost didn’t seem real; it was like an oasis in the middle of a desert.

Ray knelt by the edge of the lake. The water had a foul odour, like rotten meat.

He touched the rust-coloured water; definitely real. It was also surprisingly warm.

How is this possible? Ray wondered.

The girl?

It had to be.

Ginnumarra was somewhere at the bottom of the lake, so it made sense that all the life she had drained from the forest had been dumped into her watery home.

All he had to do now was find the body; hopefully the amulet would be with it. If not, then it was going to be especially difficult finding a necklace that had been under water for over a hundred and fifty years.

Ray slipped on the goggles, but left the mouthpiece hanging; where he was going he wouldn’t need it.

He stepped forward and waded into the murky lake. When the water was lapping at his chest, he dived forward.

He paddled around trees and plants and when he was roughly in the middle of the lake, he sucked in fetid air and then dove under.

He feebly kicked his legs and with his frail arms scooped at the water. With a great deal of effort, he plunged deeper, his hands knocking into submerged tree trunks on his way down. When he touched something slimy, he panicked, drew in a mouthful of water and scrambled through the murkiness back towards the top.

When he broke the surface, he gasped in air and moments later, vomited up the water he had swallowed.

Once he had gotten his breath back, he dived back under, the thick reddish-brown water enveloping him. He slapped his hands against the tree trunks again and this time when he touched the slimy object, he told himself it was just an underwater plant.

The water was less cloudy the deeper he went and soon he was able to see the bottom of the lake.

It was worse than he had imagined.

The bottom was a maze of tree trunks and thick roots snaking along the sand; locating the amulet—or even the body—was going to be difficult.

Topping off the strange underwater scene was an unusual similarity with the trunks—they all had a large split at their base, most large enough to fit a person inside.

Ray swam over to the closest trunk. Gripped the edges of the large opening and tentatively ducked his head inside the tree.

The rancid stench of the lake was multiplied ten-fold. Looking up, he could see a round disc of afternoon light.

Completely hollow.

Were all the trees in the lake like this one?

With the light spilling down the shaft, Ray noticed that the interior walls of the tree trunk were coated with a thick, slimy red and yellow paste. The glistening goo was smeared everywhere.

The goo was like nothing he had ever seen: it certainly wasn’t sap, nor was it a rich golden colour. Instead it was like a dirty mixture of tomato sauce and mustard.

Ray noticed something poking out of the wall of slime, something thin and white.

Curious, he pulled it out.

Icy-cold shivers swam through his body as he realised what it was.

It was a sliver of bone.

He let go of the bit of skeleton.

Something foul and acidic burned in his throat.

He now knew what the goo around him was, why the trees in the lake were so full of life; they had a special kind of nutrient keeping them blooming. Blood and bone of the human variety.

His lungs starting to burn, Ray swam back up and made it to the surface before his chest exploded.

He took another few moments to catch his breath before going back down.

He repeated the cycle again and again. Soon each dive blurred into one another. As he feared, having to swim up and down continuously, dodging the rotted tree trunks took its toll on his body. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue.

It was late in the day, he had searched half the lake, when, kicking through the water, his foot was caught, jerking him to a stop. Ray thought he had caught his foot in the crack of a tree or got it tangled up in one of the plants.

He ducked his head under the water and looked down. Through the murk he saw a plump, greyish hand clasping his ankle. He screamed a wet, bubbly scream, and then lifted his head out of the water, gasping for air.

Ray had only managed to suck in a few gulps of air when he was pulled under the water with frightening ease. He clawed at the water, trying desperately to break free from the thing that had a hold of him. But it was no use; either he was too weak or the hand’s grasp was too strong. Peering down, he saw the owner of the hand.

The body was bloated, its skin grey and slimy; it looked like a chicken that had been left boiling in a pot for about thirty years. Yet even with all the years of decay Ray could tell it was a girl.

Her long black hair floated around her head like a halo of seaweed. Her face was puffy, her eyes bulged in its sockets. She seemed to be grinning at him, revealing teeth like black pebbles.

Ginnumarra?

It had to be—but how could she still be alive? And why was she intent on killing him?

He had no answers for either question.

Ray struggled feebly, his lungs crying out for air.

In the struggle his snorkel was knocked off his face.

He knew he was going to die. He was surely going to drown.

And that’s when he saw it. Like a lighthouse beacon flashing on a cold black night, he saw something glint around Ginnumarra’s neck.

He stopped struggling. Gazed down at the slimy, distorted face of a girl dead over one hundred and eighty years. He saw the necklace looped around her fat neck, but his eyes were drawn to the dark stone at its centre, and the glowing light contained within.

The hand released its grip on his ankle.

He realised then that Ginnumarra wasn’t smiling at him out of spite, but welcoming him to come and get what he had come for.

Even though Ray’s lungs felt like two balloons blown up to the bursting point, even though all his energy was close to being used up, he still managed to find the strength to swim down towards Ginnumarra. Soon he was face-to-face with the long-dead Aboriginal girl; it was as horrid a sight as he had ever seen.

He reached out and gripped the necklace. With time running short, he simply yanked on the cord and the necklace snapped in half like a dry twig. With the amulet clasped in his right hand, he swam back up towards the surface.

He broke through the water, gasping and spluttering, his lungs as desperate for air as he had been for the amulet.

I have it. I actually have the amulet.

Lethargically treading water, he turned his eyes to what he held in his hand. Tied to the soggy and broken cord was a metal plate, into which was imbedded a brown stone. The stone was jagged and quite unremarkable, but the small sparkling rock housed within was breathtaking. It was bright, yet the glow didn’t hurt his eyes. It was colourful, like a rainbow as seen through a diamond.

He closed his eyes and pictured giving the amulet to Gemma.

With his eyes closed, he felt like sleeping, but he knew he couldn’t. He had too much to do. Now he had found Ginnumarra, he needed to bury her. If he was to have any chance of making it out of this forest and give the amulet to his daughter, he had to give Ginnumarra the proper burial and, hopefully, lift the curse.

He remembered what Chris had said about the Aboriginal tradition of burying their dead in hollow logs or trees, and then standing the log upright so the soul could ascend to heaven.

Ray thought about the submerged trees. If he placed Ginnumarra in one of the hollowed-out trunks, would that be enough to assure her soul would finally be at peace?

Only one way to find out.

The trouble was, he was so tired. The thought of swimming back down and dragging the corpse into one of the hollow trees filled him with dread.

But if it meant putting an end to this curse, then he had no choice but to do it.

He pocketed the broken necklace, and with an effort born from pure will, and with his body beyond the point of exhaustion, Ray dove back under the water. It didn’t take him long to locate Ginnumarra’s body. She was resting on the lake bed. She was no longer smiling; her face held a passive, almost relaxed expression.

I must be out of my mind. Two-hundred year-old corpses can’t change expressions.

Ray reached out and grabbed a hold of Ginnumarra’s arm. It felt like a balloon covered with seaweed. He fought the urge to take his hand away.

Holding onto Ginnumarra, Ray kicked and paddled fast with his one free hand, heading towards one of the broken trunks. Pulling Ginnumarra along wasn’t as difficult as he had thought; it was like dragging a hunk of wood.

When he arrived at the tree, he poked his head inside and saw it was hollow, its walls slathered with the red and yellow goo. The fading afternoon light was a round ball high above.

He ducked out and looked back at his rotten cargo.

Needing to act quickly before he ran out of air, he pulled the body towards the tree trunk and then pushed it into the crack. The bloated body was a tight fit, and for a panicked moment Ray worried that he wouldn’t be able to get Ginnumarra all the way inside the tree. He pushed and finally, with a sucking noise that sounded like a wet fart, the body popped into the tree.

The body hovered within the hollow, gently rolling around in the flesh and blood-walled tomb like a foetus inside a womb.

So is that it? Do I have to say a prayer or something?

Ray wasn’t a god-fearing man. He had never gone to church, and he didn’t pray. His wife prayed for Gemma, but he had never bothered. He figured any god who could inflict the big C upon a child wouldn’t care about a few measly prayers.

Fuck it. I don’t think the Aborigines would’ve said a prayer—at least, not of the Christian kind.

Ray just had to hope that simply placing the body inside the hollow tree was enough for Ginnumarra’s soul to be able to ascend to heaven.

With his lungs starting to burn, Ray turned away from Ginnumarra’s coffin and swam back up to the surface.

He broke through the water. He sucked in much-needed air.

Immersed in the dirty water that stunk of old flesh and salty blood, he waited.

He hoped that whatever was going to happen would happen soon; he didn’t fancy swimming to the shore and he could only tread water for so long.

Just as he was beginning to fear nothing would happen, he began feeling a change. It was like bags of stones were being ripped out of him. With each pulsation, he felt lighter, healthier—younger.

His exhaustion lessened and his arms and legs began to feel strong. His eyesight improved, as did his breathing. It was an amazing sensation, like the sun shining after a sudden dark storm.

The water around him also began to change. The muddy brown colour seeped away, like it was being sucked down an imaginary drain, leaving only clear water. The smell changed from horrid to a fresh, earthy smell.

But perhaps most incredible of all, the surrounding forest began to alter.

Immersed in the clear lake, treading water with ease, Ray watched as the dead trees started to fill with life once again. The trunks went from a lifeless grey to various shades of brown; green pine needles and other types of leaves sprouted from the once naked branches with brilliant speed. It took only a minute or so for the forest to become a healthy and vibrant sea of colour and life.

“Wow,” Ray said, and then he swam freestyle back to the shore.

He hopped out of the lake and stood tall, relishing the feeling of being young and healthy again.

“I’m alive!” he cried.

There was now a scent of fresh pine in the air, along with freshly dug soil; the smells seemed strong to him. It was like his senses were heightened. Maybe coming back from the brink of death does that to a person.

He turned and looked back at the lake. He noticed that one of the trees was dead; it sat among all the other trees that grew out of the lake—grey and lifeless, without any foliage.

Ray said a silent Thank you, and then he turned around and gazed out at the now unfamiliar forest. It hit home then just how difficult it was going to be finding his way out. He had no idea which way to head.

The sense of relief and wonder of the curse being abolished vanished and was replaced by a sense of overwhelming hopelessness.

Just relax. Find your bearings, and then walk straight. You’ll get out of this forest eventually. You have to.

Even if he couldn’t find the meadow again, and then the way back down to the van, surely he would find some kind of civilisation. Eventually.

He scanned the area. None of it seemed familiar. He couldn’t even remember which direction he had arrived at the lake.

Ray shivered.

The afternoon was rapidly fading into evening. It would get very cold very quickly, and he didn’t have any change of clothes or anything to help build a fire.

I have to find one of the rucksacks...then I would have a change of clothes, as well as a tent and a sleeping bag.

The realisation of just how alone and vulnerable he was buzzed around him like the mosquitoes that had suddenly appeared. If only he had Chris here to help guide him.

He chuckled, but the laughter quickly died.

Fuck it. Better start walking before it gets too dark to see. I need to find one of those rucksacks.

And the Esky, too. His stomach was rumbling and the thought of a beer and a sandwich made his mouth salivate.

Figuring heading straight was as good a direction as any, he started walking.

The wet clothes chilled against his skin; there was a mild breeze that he hoped wouldn’t get any worse. He glanced at the moss-covered rocks and various newly-arrived plants as he strode through the forest, but he didn’t stop to admire them. He couldn’t.

As he walked through the forest, he looked for any sign of the bags they had dropped earlier. He knew it was a long-shot, but he had to assume he would find one—the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

On and on he walked. The light faded, the moon was only a quarter full and only sporadically visible due to the clouds that had drifted over the forest.

The night air grew colder, and Ray’s hopes grew dimmer.

Without a torch, he knew he could walk right past one of the rucksacks and not even see it.

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

He pulled the amulet from his pocket. Unfortunately the light wasn’t particularly bright.

Cold, his bearings completely out of whack, Ray clutched the amulet to his chest. He welcomed the small bit of warmth it offered him.

Please, help me reach salvation. Guide me towards safety. Or shit, let me at least find one of the rucksacks. Whatever you do, please let me live through the night. I have to survive. I have to give Gemma the amulet. She deserves that much. I don’t deserve any rewards, I know that, but please, give my kid a break.

He knew the amulet wasn’t a magic lamp; there was no genie inside eager to grant him three wishes.

But he was desperate.

He listened, thinking that maybe Chris’s spirit would guide him out of the forest, just like the spirit of Ginnumarra had guided them to the lake.

But all he heard was the wind howling through the newly sprouted leaves.

Christ it’s cold.

Christ I’m hungry.

Christ I’m lost.

And that last thought was never more evident than when he broke through a line of trees and saw the lake.

He stopped.

Thought—hoped—that it was a different lake. But he saw the lone dead tree sitting among the live ones, and he collapsed to his knees.

“No,” he sobbed, and all at once he felt eighty years old again.

The exhaustion, the pain, the sense of wanting to sleep, it all came crashing back down on him. He had spent the last hour walking, and for what? To end up at the same place he had started.

It was hopeless.

He was never getting out of this forest.

And without something to keep him warm, he knew he wouldn’t make it through the night.

I’m sorry Gemma. I tried. I have the amulet, but I won’t be able to give it to you.

Then a voice, soft, like the breeze whooshing through a shock of pine needles; maybe Chris’s, quite possibly his own:

You can still give your daughter the amulet; remember tree between heaven and earth.

Ray looked up. He thought he might be able to see Chris in the darkness, but in the shadowy moonlight all he saw were trees swaying.

Remember tree between heaven and earth? How would that help me get...?

And then he remembered.

When Chris told him about the sacred burial rite, he talked not only about the soul being able to ascend to heaven, but also about how the soul is able to visit loved ones to say their final goodbyes before they moved on from this world.

Would that work? Could I give Gemma the amulet if I...

A cold chill passed through Ray.

He had no choice but to believe it would work.

The forest wasn’t going to let him leave.

There was no doubt he would die before morning broke, and if there was any chance of helping his daughter, then he had to take it. It’s what this whole trip was about.

Besides, he was cold and tired and just wanted to sleep, and he was sure this was what Ginnumarra wanted.

So Ray got to his feet, drew in an icy breath, and with the amulet clutched against his chest, he walked towards the inky lake.

* * *

In the dream, Daddy was in a forest.

Daddy was walking through it, smiling, and she had never seen him smile like that before.

Daddy held out his right hand and sitting in his palm was a necklace. Attached to the end was a small brown rock, with a pretty coloured rock in the middle.

She took it from Daddy and as she did, Daddy nodded, winked, turned around and walked back into the forest.

She watched him disappear among the tall leafy trees.

When Gemma Lambert woke up, she saw it was still dark outside, but the nightlight was on, so she could see Mummy sitting in the chair beside her bed. She was snoring.

Gemma threw back the covers, and in her hand was the necklace from her dream.

She clutched it to her chest, felt warmth spread through her small, frail body. The queasy feeling immediately started to fade. She smiled; wondered what she was going to tell Mummy about how she got the necklace.

Gemma shrugged, lay back down, muttered, “Goodnight Daddy,” and soon drifted back to sleep.