Free Dead Tree Forest by Brett Mcbean Page B

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